#CUTENESS AGGRESSION BEAM!!!!

[fatuismooches]

Can only think of reader and cuteness aggression with dottore... saying stuff like they just want to eat his cheeks while squishing the LIFE out of his cheeks. Doing this to different segments everyday, and saying they're so 'cute'...

What can you say? Dottore is just so cute. Yes, you really did just put that name and that word in the same sentence. Your husband(s?) are the cutest, so cute you can't handle it. From the way they glide their pointy teeth over their lips unconsciously when they're extra focused, to the way the older ones have to tuck back the long lock of hanging blue hair that hinders their vision, how the younger segments' laughs are so loudly unhinged, it fills you with glee. It's just too much - if you bottle it up, you fear you may explode. (Are you okay?)

Dottore and the segments still have yet to understand how you've come to that conclusion when you look at them. Yes, he knows you love him, but does that really necessitate such... strangeness? Even when he's covered head to toe, splattered with blood, you're still looking at him dreamily? Yet no matter how much he researches your brain he can't find the answer. No matter how much he tries to refute your sentiments, you always awe at him and proceed to attempt to squish his cheeks (to which he bats you away quickly). The biting, squeezing, and pinching of his and the segments' bodies while they're working has become the norm as well.

And Zandy loves it yet gets embarrassed by it after a while. Loves it because you're giving him attention but also you're hurting the poor kid's cheeks! And you're doing it in front of the others and they're silently making fun of him - please stop! His cheeks are red from embarrassment and your squishing!

[dailygihun]

day 14 || i miss his chipmunk cheeks so i drew him eating a bunch of shit. he eats like those kittens that plunge their ENTIRE face into their food bowl

[all-with-angel]

"Satoru."

"Mm."

"Get off me."

"No." Your boyfriend mumbled against your stomach, voice muffled by the fabric of your shirt.

You weren't sure how you got here, standing in the middle of the kitchen with only Satoru's shirt on, the man himself on his knees in front of you with his face shoved into your stomach- Mumbling declaration after declaration about his love for you and how perfect you are, all the while nuzzling into your warmth like a cat.

You tried to move- again, Only to no avail, not even budging an inch as Satoru's scarily firm grip kept you in one place.

"Satoru, I haven't even showered yet," You sighed. "And I look like shit." It was true really, you were fresh out of bed after a night of getting your world rocked by the man on his knees in front of you. Your hair was a mess, you were covered in bruises and hickeys with a mix of various fluids sticking to your skin.

Satoru promised to clean you up after round whatever-the-fuck but you were pretty sure that the man had collapsed on top of you after making you see the pearly gates for 15 seconds, kissed your forehead and said goodnight.

Which brings you here.

"Satoruuuuu-" You shoved his face away from your stomach, earning you a pout from him.

"Oh c'mon, let me love you!!" He complained, whining loudly as he nuzzled your stomach. Satoru couldn't help himself when it came to you really, you just looked so adorable walking around his kitchen, in his shirt, as his lover. The cuteness aggression he got from you was surreal.

"You've loved me a lot last night already, give it a rest!!" You tried to wiggle your way out of his death grip, which only led to him tightening his hold around your legs.

"A lot is not enough!"

"At least let me shower first-"

"Only if I can join you"

"Oh my god, fine." You relented, letting your arms go limp at your sides as Satoru beamed from below you. "Really?"

"Yes, really." In a second, you were raised up into the air as Satoru cheered in victory. He held you by the waist- And thank god for the high ceilings because you felt way too high up in the air.

You huffed in defeat as you were carried back to your shared bedroom, hopefully straight to the bath without any detours.

A.N. Listen. Gojo has been chewing at my brain recently.

[wonwunss]

–ᝰ.ᐟ✮ When Jeonghan panics and lies to his family about being in a long-term relationship, he only knows one person reckless enough to go along with it: you, his grumpy new neighbor who barely tolerates him. Now, you’re stuck on a weekend family trip, pretending to be the doting girlfriend of a man who once labeled his oat milk with a death threat.

The problem? You’re too good at pretending.

From shared rooms to fake backstories, suspicious siblings and lingering touches, the line between fake and real starts to blur… and neither of you are ready for what that means.

pairing: jeonghan x f!reader

genre: fake dating, enemies to lovers (but like.. flirty enemies), forced proximity, one bed, mutual pining (slow burn edition), romance, domestic fluff in disguise, idiots in love—literally

word count: 2.1k

a/n: my other jeonghan fic did so well, my shayla 😪😭so here’s another teasing jeonghan (maybe teasing jeonghan is up you guys alley🤪😛) anywaysss leaving it with a cliffhanger ending whilst i know what happens next 😈😈

“You’re kidding,” you said flatly.

Across the passenger seat of the very full, very overpacked family van, Yoon Jeonghan had the audacity to grin like this was all part of some grand master plan.

“Look, I didn’t think they’d actually ask to meet you, okay? It was just—my mom was getting nosy, and I panicked.”

“So your first instinct was to lie about having a girlfriend?”

“Not a lie,” he said, far too casual. “A preemptive relationship announcement.”

You scoffed. “With who?”

“Well, you live across the hall, and we already bicker like a married couple.”

“Because you steal my laundry slots and label your milk passive-aggressively!”

“And yet,” he said, adjusting his sunglasses with flair, “here you are, coming on a weekend family trip to save my ass.”

You glared at him. “Only because you bribed me with three months’ worth of your mailroom favors and cleaning up after your nightmare cat.”

“She’s not a nightmare. She’s emotionally complex.”

“She bit me.”

“Love bite.”

You opened your mouth to argue but were interrupted by his mom in the front seat turning back to you, beaming. “We’re so happy you could come, sweetheart! You’ve been dating our Jeonghan for over a year and we’ve never met you! Can you believe it?”

You smiled, the tight, polite kind. “Yeah. Time really flies when you’re in… love.”

Jeonghan tried not to laugh beside you. You jabbed your elbow into his side.

The cabin was cute.

Cozy.

Charming.

And had one bed.

You stood in the doorway, staring at the neatly made queen-size mattress that absolutely screamed “good luck, suckers.”

“Absolutely not,” you said.

“What?” Jeonghan walked in behind you, setting his duffel down with a dramatic sigh. “They think we’re together. Do you want to blow the whole thing up now?”

You turned to him. “Then you sleep on the floor.”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. You got us into this mess. I’m not sleeping on the damn floor.”

He raised a brow, arms crossing. “Do I look like someone who can survive a hardwood situation? I’m delicate.”

You pointed at the floor. “Delicate your way down there.”

But he just grinned, the kind that was all cheek and absolutely no remorse. He spread his arms wide like he was announcing a magic trick.

“It’s an adventure, darling.”

You rolled your eyes. “Congrats. In this adventure, you’re sleeping on the floor.”

The cabin creaked in the dark. Somewhere in the distance, a cricket chirped like it had a personal vendetta against your ears. The faint hum of Jeonghan’s mom watching a late-night drama drifted through the walls, barely audible.

And then—just loud enough to drive you insane—

Rustle.

Rustle.

You groaned. “Are you trying to be loud?”

Across the room, from the sad little nest of blankets and throw pillows he’d dramatically built on the floor, Jeonghan’s voice floated back at you.

“I’m adjusting my spine for optimal survival. You know, since I’ve been banished from the comfort of the bed.”

“You’re lucky you’re still breathing.”

“You’re lucky I have impeccable restraint,” he muttered.

You turned onto your side, scowling into the darkness. “You’re so dramatic.”

“I was forced to fake-date my neighbor because of a single panic lie. Forgive me for needing to emotionally process.”

You scoffed. “You’re not processing. You’re fishing.”

“…Did it work?”

“No.”

He exhaled a laugh, low and lazy. Then it was quiet again. For a moment, you thought maybe he’d finally fallen asleep.

Until—

“You… really didn’t have to say yes, you know.”

You blinked at the ceiling.

“I know.”

“I just mean…” His voice was softer now. “You didn’t owe me anything. Especially after the whole… hallway coffee incident.”

You bit back a smile. He remembers the coffee incident?

“You mean when you bumped into me, spilled hot latte all over my skirt, and then had the audacity to ask if I had a towel?”

“I panicked,” he mumbled. “Also, I still stand by the fact that the hallway is too narrow.”

“It’s a normal hallway, Jeonghan. You just have zero spacial awareness.”

Another laugh. This one sounded real.

Silence again.

Then, gently—

“…I didn’t expect you to help me.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Then: “I didn’t expect you to say ‘please.’”

He was quiet for a long moment. Long enough that you thought he might be asleep.

And then— “…Can I ask something?”

You turned to face his direction, even though you couldn’t see him. “What?”

His voice was small, almost teasing. “On a scale of one to ten… how convincing do you think we are as a couple?”

You hesitated. “…like… six.”

“SIX?” he cried in a whisper. “That’s barely passing!”

You grinned. “Maybe if you didn’t look so smug every time I touch your arm.”

“I do not— okay, fine, but you laughed when I kissed your cheek earlier!”

“You missed! You kissed my ear!”

A beat.

“…Right. Yeah. Six. Fair.”

And then—quiet laughter.

Yours.

Then his.

And before either of you knew it, the silence that followed didn’t feel so awkward anymore.

It just… was.

Two strangers.

Two liars.

Two people figuring out how to fall asleep in the same room without falling apart.

You stared up at the ceiling, sleep nowhere in sight. Your pillow was slightly too soft, the room slightly too warm, and your fake boyfriend slightly too annoying.

“Hey,” you whispered.

Jeonghan’s voice floated back from the floor, muffled and suspicious. “What.”

“Can we go over our ‘how we started dating’ story? Again. Just in case anyone asks tomorrow.”

There was a dramatic sigh. Fabric rustled.

“Seriously?” he groaned. “It’s a family trip, not an interrogation.”

“Yes, seriously,” you snapped quietly. “Your sister already asked how long we’d been together. What if someone wants details?”

“I gave you the details.”

“You gave me concept art, Jeonghan. You gave me vibes.”

Another dramatic sigh.

“Fine,” he muttered, like it was the greatest burden of his life to clean up his own mess. “Okay, so… we tell them it started after you tripped down the stairs, right?”

Your face immediately contorted in disbelief. “I’m sorry—what?”

“And I caught you at the bottom,” he continued, completely unfazed, “like a scene straight out of a drama. Your hair was glowing, the light behind you was all soft and golden, and you looked at me like I’d just saved your life.”

“I looked at you like I had a concussion.”

“Exactly! The impact of love.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “You want me to tell your entire family I fell in love with you because you caught me falling down a staircase?”

“Do you hear how good that sounds?”

“It sounds like I have zero standards and you have a hero complex.”

Jeonghan rolled over with a groan, now half-visible from the floor. “Fine. We’ll say it happened when I helped you carry your groceries up to your apartment.”

“That’s actually not bad.”

“And then I leaned against your doorframe all charming and irresistible—”

“Nope. There it is.”

“—and you said, ‘Wow, no man has ever carried my oat milk so tenderly before.’”

You flung your pillow at him. It hit the floor with a thump.

He laughed, low and pleased with himself. “Admit it. You’d fall for me.”

“Fall on you, maybe. Just to knock you out.”

“Romance.”

“Delusion.”

He smirked, voice trailing off into the dark. “I think you’re enjoying this fake dating thing a little too much.”

You turned back to your side, blanket pulled over your shoulder. “I think you’re confusing ‘enjoying’ with ‘surviving your dumbassery.’”

Silence fell for a moment.

Then—

“…Oat milk though. That was a good line.”

You threw the spare pillow next.

You woke to the sound of someone knocking—not on the door, but on your brain cells.

Jeonghan’s voice cut through the early light like a dull blade. “They’re making pancakes.”

“Why are you talking like that’s urgent news?”

“Because they’ll think we’re having morning couple time if we don’t show up soon.”

You sat up, hair wild, blanket wrapped around your shoulders like a cloak of regret. “I should’ve let you sleep on the porch.”

Jeonghan, already dressed and way too smug for 8AM, only winked.

When you stepped into the kitchen together, his hand found your lower back automatically. Warm. Light. Familiar.

You didn’t think about it. Until you did.

His sister, who was cutting fruit at the counter, didn’t miss a thing. Her eyes narrowed. “Well, well, well. Look who finally woke up.”

You smiled. The kind that didn’t reach your eyes. “We took our time. You know. Jeonghan’s a cuddler.”

He choked. “I—I am not.”

She gasped, mock horror on her face. “Jeonghan? Touchy? In the morning?”

“He mumbled in his sleep,” you said sweetly. “Called me his ‘oat milk angel.’”

He stared at you like you had personally just ended his whole career.

“I did not.”

“You did too. I was touched. Emotionally.”

His sister was cackling now. “I can’t believe this. My brother’s in love.”

Jeonghan rolled his eyes and grabbed a banana from the counter in retaliation. “We’re not doing this.”

“Oh, we are. We are absolutely doing this.” She pointed her knife dramatically. “Because you’ve never brought anyone home before. This is like watching a rare animal leave its den after twenty-seven years.”

You turned to him, mock-offended. “You told me I was special.”

“I did not say that.”

“Wow. First he forgets our anniversary, now this.”

You pouted, and for dramatic flair, he reached for your hand, dramatically clutching it with two hands like he was repenting for a sin he did not commit.

“My love,” he said solemnly, “forgive me. I shall make it up to you by massaging your shoulders later.”

“I demand breakfast in bed.”

“I’ll hand-feed you grapes.”

You snorted.

His sister stared between the two of you, suspicious. “You’re both awful actors.”

Jeonghan raised a brow. “Says who?”

She gestured with her fruit knife. “Says my intuition. And the fact that your hand’s still holding hers even though that whole bit ended a full thirty seconds ago.”

Your stomach fluttered.

Jeonghan let go like he’d been burned. “Oh.”

“Oh,” you echoed, barely above a whisper.

But it was too late.

The feeling had already curled somewhere in your chest.

Because his hand had been warm. His thumb had rubbed circles without thinking. You hadn’t wanted to pull away.

You looked at him.

He looked at you.

And something was there.

Not loud. Not obvious.

But there.

It started with Jeonghan’s mom saying, “We’re out of eggs,” and ended with the two of you in a cozy little convenience store five minutes from the cabin, pretending you weren’t sharing one brain cell and an alarming amount of chemistry.

You held the basket. He pushed the cart even though you only needed two things.

“Should’ve just made your mom send one of your siblings,” you muttered, scanning the shelves.

“Yeah, but then who would I fake domestic bliss with?” he said, casually tossing in a bottle of your favorite drink. You blinked at it. “What? I’ve seen you drink it, like, five times this month.”

“…Stalker.”

He grinned. “Observant.”

You stopped in front of the ramen section, head tilted. “They have your spicy one.”

He reached over your shoulder, grabbing the exact brand without hesitation. “We’ll get two. I’ll make it for you tomorrow.”

You stared at him.

“What?” he asked, shrugging. “Fake boyfriend duties. Let me cook for you so my parents continue to believe I’m a gift to the earth.”

You rolled your eyes and turned toward the snack aisle.

But your heart was… beating a little weird.

It didn’t help that somewhere between “we need eggs” and “ooh they have strawberry Pocky,” Jeonghan’s hand had somehow ended up on the small of your back again.

Like it belonged there.

Like it fit.

You tried not to think about it.

At checkout, he handed over his card before you could pull out yours.

“Jeonghan.”

“Relax, sugarplum. It’s like, $11. I can afford our fake life together.”

You shoved him lightly as the cashier laughed under her breath. He winked.

The walk back was quiet. But not uncomfortable. At one point, your fingers brushed. He didn’t pull away. And neither did you.

Back at the cabin, his mom peeked into the bag.

“Got everything?”

Jeonghan nodded. “Yep. Even her favorite drink.”

She smiled, just a little too knowingly. “You’re already acting like an old married couple.”

You opened your mouth to protest.

But Jeonghan beat you to it.

With the softest, most dangerous smile he’s ever worn—

“We’ve had practice.”

Your stomach flipped. Your fingers curled around the strap of the bag just to ground yourself.

Because god help you—

you weren’t sure where the lies ended anymore.

[boyfhee]

ㅤㅤHEARTSTOPPER⠀｡ㅤㅤ엔하이픈

𝗕𝗘𝗟𝗟𝗢 ─────𝗐𝗁𝖾𝗋𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗌𝗍𝖾𝖺𝗅 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗌 𝖺𝗇𝖽 𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗂𝗋 𝗁𝖾𝖺𝗋𝗍.

1897 ᛫ 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝒐𝒇 芸 𝖻𝖿 ! 𝖾𝗇𝗁𝖺 𝗑 𝖿 ! 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝖽𝖾𝗋 ᛫ 𝖿𝗅𝗎𝖿𝖿───𝗄𝗂𝗌𝗌𝗂𝗇𝗀, 𝗌𝗄𝗂𝗇𝗌𝗁𝗂𝗉 ꣼ ﹙𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐒﹚

HEESEUNG freezes for a good few seconds when he gets home and sees you all curled up on the couch, wearing his hoodie. your boyfriend can feel his heart melt into a puddle at how cute you look, your fingers peeking out from the sleeves as you scroll through your phone. “you look so cute,” he coos, barely giving you time to react before engulfing you in his arms. your cheeks are squished against his chest and he is showering your pretty face with sweet kisses before planting one on your pouty lips. “you can keep all my hoodies,”

JONGSEONG gasps out loud when you walk out of the bedroom in just his shirt that is barely reaching your thighs. your eyes are glistening with sleep and you offer him a soft smile, giving him a gentle kiss on his cheek. “you look good in that,” he mumbles through his shy expression, brain turning into a mush at the sight of your collarbones peeking from underneath the collar. you’re about to step away when his strong arms wrap around your waist, pulling you flushed against his chest. “you should wear my shirts more often, angel,” he smiles at the cute giggles escaping your lips when he nudges your nose with his. “my pretty baby,”

JAEYUN breaks into saccharine smiles when he catches you wearing his sweatshirt, the exact same one he has been looking for a while now. “so that’s where it went,” he wastes no time walking up to you and cupping your adorable face, making your lips morph into a pout. “i’ve been looking for this sweatshirt, you know?” and he says it so lovingly, admiring you up and down and basically getting a cuteness aggression at how you are literally drowning in his clothes. “i was cold,” you respond through the pout and it’s not good for his heart, really. he is about to explode out of love. he kisses your lips, squishing your cheeks even more. “you can keep it,”

SUNGHOON can feel himself salivating when he sees you in his jersey— literally. it hangs a little loose on your frame, fitting perfectly with your shorts and his gaze trails down to your exposed arms and thighs before your voice reaches his ears. “is something wrong?” his ears go red when he realises that you had caught him staring and his face heats up while he attempts to cover his face. “uh. . . nothing,” his poor heart only beats faster when you squit your eyes at him, words dying on the tip of his tongue. you didn’t even do anything and he is a stuttering mess. “y-you look nice in that,”

SUNOO left for five minutes, only to come back to the car and see you wearing his jacket, and it almost knocked the breath out of his chest. “oh my god,” he hands you the cups of drinks, beaming at your beautiful form enveloped in his black jacket. “you look so cute, baby,” you always end up in his clothes, not like he has any complaints. he lookes at you awe-struck and starry-eyed and you are blinking at him blankly because it’s not the first time but his reaction if always priceless. your beloved boyfriend grabs his scarf from the back seat and wraps it around your neck, chuckling heartily at the way your eyes squint shut. he lets out a proud exhale at how you look— impossibly beautiful and irrevocably his. “always so pretty, my darling,”

JUNGWON loses his mind when he sees you in his sweater, almost confused for a few seconds. “is that mine?” he asks rhetorically, noticing how the soft material compliments your feature. he doesn’t even pay attention to your reply, entranced by how gorgeous you look in a simple cardigan. your hands are peeking out from the sleeves like paws of a kitten and makes his heart do flips and cartwheels. “are you cold? do you want my hoodie?” he’s already ready to take off the hoodie he is wearing— anything to see you in his clothes, really. he nods when you refuse, brushing a few strands of hair off your face. “you can have my entire wardrobe,”

NI-KI pulls his favourite hoodie down on you before stepping back to see how you look, and he is trying so hard to hide the obvious blush on his face. it swamps you in completely and you’re basically drowning in them. he always knew you were cute but didn’t think you could get any cuter. “does it look okay?” okay would be an understatement because your dear boyfriend wants to wrap you in the biggest hug ever and pick you up and cuddle with you for a very, very long time. he’s smiling at you like a fool, eyes overflowing with adoration as he pulls you closer to himself. “why do my clothes look so much better on you?”

[rosemaryhoney27]

"Diplomacy for the Feral and the Damned"

Bruce had just sat down in the Batcave with his second cup of post-patrol coffee—black as his mood, strong enough to keep a Kryptonian awake—when his private line buzzed. Not the Batline. Not the board line. The one buried so deep in encryption and passive-aggressive threats that even Oracle called it “Extra-Paranoid Mode.”

He stared. [Incoming Call: Vladimir Masters]

Bruce blinked. “…Oh, this is going to be a day.”

He answered with the flat monotone that had driven Gotham’s underworld into therapy. “Vlad.”

The holographic screen flickered to life—and there he was. Vladimir Masters, looking every inch the eccentric billionaire and possibly more ghost than man now. Silver-haired, in a robe that screamed “I paid three million for this and regret nothing,” surrounded by classical art, levitating books, and the faint crackle of ectoplasmic interference. The whole aesthetic screamed “If Lex Luthor was haunted by a Victorian novelist.”

Vlad beamed. “Brucie!”

Bruce’s eye twitched. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s lovely to hear your voice, dear cousin. It’s been too long.”

Jason, eavesdropping from the shadows with popcorn, whispered, “Wait. Cousin? Since when do we have that brand of family drama?”

“Shh,” Tim muttered, scribbling something labeled Possible Interdimensional Ghost Cousins Conspiracy.

“I need your advice,” Vlad continued. “Something very personal. Deeply serious.”

Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “What now, Vlad?”

Vlad leaned forward, the screen staticking briefly. “How do you get your children to be civil with you?”

There was silence. Real, echoing, existential silence.

“…I wasn’t aware you had adopted children, Vlad,” Bruce said slowly, like trying not to scare off a rabid raccoon.

“I haven’t. Not technically,” Vlad said breezily. “But my godson is staying with me. Lovely boy. Has the appetite of a black hole and the sense of self-preservation of a rabid badger.”

“...Oh god,” whispered Dick, “he sounds like all of us.”

“Cute that Masters thinks we’re civil,” Damian sniffed. “How charmingly misinformed.”

“Wait. He said godson?” Tim asked, eyes lighting up. “Do you think—could it be—Phantom?”

Vlad didn’t notice the peanut gallery commentary. “The boy has caused four minor diplomatic incidents, bitten a baron, vanished into the ceiling during a formal gala, and accused a senator of being a reptilian. Which turned out to be accurate, but the delivery was unkind.”

Bruce squinted. “That sounds like… Dick, Damian, and Tim at the Wayne Foundation Spring Gala ‘19.”

“I know!” Vlad pointed at him like a man discovering fire. “That’s exactly what I said! He’s like your sons! In one small, glowing, vaguely feral body!”

“Glowing?” Steph mouthed. “Definitely Phantom.”

“So, cousin dearest,” Vlad purred. “How do you get them to listen? How do you parent the chaos incarnate?”

Bruce took a long, tired sip of his coffee and simply said, “I don’t.”

“…You don’t?”

“I survive it.”

“Bold of him to call this survival,” muttered Cass as Jason started texting Alfred for cookies and emotional support.

“Each one is an unpredictable event wrapped in trauma and tactical gear,” Bruce continued flatly. “They will not listen. They may occasionally pretend to. But only after chaos. Much, much chaos.”

Vlad sighed, running a hand through his hair. “So there’s no secret Wayne method? No clever strategy?”

“...Cookies?” Bruce offered.

From beneath the desk, something gnawed at Vlad’s ankle.

He glanced down and hissed, “Danny, stop that, I told you we don’t bite family!”

“He said that senator looked like a snake,” came the muffled voice. “And I was right.”

Vlad groaned. “Why couldn’t he just be one kind of disaster? Why all of them?”

Jason grinned. “I like this kid.”

“New cousin,” Steph agreed. “Absolutely chaotic. Ten outta ten.”

Vlad looked back up at Bruce. “So. No help?”

Bruce looked thoughtful. “Keep fire extinguishers on hand. Avoid hosting events near chandeliers. Always assume they have at least two hidden weapons. And get used to being called ‘Dad’ at the most inconvenient political moments.”

A pause.

“Also,” he added, “tell him you’re proud. Even when he’s a disaster. Especially then.”

Vlad blinked. “...That worked for you?”

Bruce glanced around the cave. Steph had stolen Tim’s notes and was writing “FERAL COUSIN CLUB” across the top. Jason was already planning a trip to Amity Park. Damian was silently judging the snack selection of this new relative. And Dick was on his phone already texting Danny memes.

“…Eventually,” Bruce muttered.

“Charming,” Vlad sighed.

From under the desk: crunch.

“Danny! Stop chewing my furniture!”

Danny peeked out, sharp-toothed grin gleaming, eyes flickering green. “Tell B-man I wanna go to one of those galas next time. I wanna meet chandelier boy.”

Jason fist-pumped. “YES.”

Bruce just sighed. “...I’ll warn the staff.”

[sixeyesonathiel]

call it first aid

pairing — underground boxer satoru x nurse reader

satoru gojo wins every fight under the lights—but somehow, he only ever shows up bruised and smirking at your door when he wants to lose. between your fussing fingers and his maddening grin, ointment turns into foreplay, tension coils tight, and soon enough, it’s the mattress doing all the talking while you forget who was supposed to be in control. wc — 2.3k

it starts with you threatening to break his nose.

not because of the bruises sprawled across his ribs or the split above his brow—but because he’s done it again. shown up unannounced, all bloodied and beaming, like a living, breathing disaster movie premiering in your damn hallway. your floor’s probably stained with his blood at this point, and he doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed.

"you have got to be the dumbest man alive," you snap, looming over him with a cotton pad soaked in antiseptic, knuckles tight with irritation. your fingers are steady, precise—years of nursing instinct—but your tone drips venom. "are you trying to die, or do you just like making my life a waking nightmare?"

satoru, infuriatingly unfazed, just grins. there’s a glint in his eyes—mischievous and stupidly fond—and the bruises blooming along his cheekbone only seem to accentuate it. he looks like he lost a bar brawl and liked it. silver hair damp, curling at the tips, streaked with red from the cut at his temple. his chest rises with slow, deliberate breaths, still flushed from exertion. the corner of his mouth twitches with every inhale, like he’s holding back another wisecrack.

“third option,” he says, fingers drumming along the mattress edge. his hand twitches between taps—restless, like he’s got something to say but would rather tease. “maybe i just like seeing you like this. bossy, scowling. real cute when you’re mad.”

“bite me,” you snap.

“maybe after i’m done being a good patient.”

“you are two seconds away from a lobotomy,” you grit out, brushing a thumb beneath the fresh gash. he winces, but the grin doesn’t budge.

“ooh. medical threats. my favorite.”

his grin stretches wider when you swat at his arm. not that hard, but enough to show you’re done playing nice. he lets out an exaggerated gasp and collapses back against the bed like you’ve just shot him point-blank. his legs flop dramatically over the edge, socks half-on and mismatched.

"abuse," he groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. “unbelievable. and after everything i’ve suffered.”

“what you’ve suffered,” you mutter, leaning in to clean the gash on his forehead. “you mean the injuries you got for fun?”

his voice is muffled by his arm. “for glory.”

“for attention.”

he peeks at you from under his lashes, pout dramatic. “maybe i just missed you.”

your hands pause. just a beat. then, you're back to dabbing, more aggressive than before. he hisses.

“good,” you say, clearly unapologetic. “serves you right.”

his fingers brush against your knee absentmindedly, tracing lazy circles against the fabric of your scrub pants. when you glance down, he’s watching you. less teasing now. a little softer. it makes your throat tighten.

"you’re staring," you murmur without looking up.

“yeah,” he breathes. “you’re hot when you’re mad.”

“i’m always mad when you’re around.”

“lucky me, then.”

you roll your eyes, shoving at his shoulder, but he catches your wrist halfway. the movement is fluid, instinctual—like muscle memory. your breath stutters just as he tugs, and you’re off-balance, toppling with a startled yelp.

“satoru, don’t you—!”

but you’re already falling, dragged into the mess of rumpled sheets and warm skin. he flips you with ease, laughing low in his chest, pinning you underneath him. your wrists are caught above your head in one of his large hands, his body caging yours like he’s done this a hundred times—and he has.

his grin is boyish, smug, the corners of his lips twitching, but there’s a flicker of focus in his eyes. the kind that knows every inch of you—every twitch of your lip, every breath you draw in before you mouth off. strands of white-silver hair fall into his eyes, glinting under the yellow bedroom light. his lashes flutter slightly as he leans in, nose nearly brushing yours.

“you done playing rough?”

“not even close,” you growl, twisting beneath him.

your thighs lock around his hips and you try to throw him off with a sharp jerk of your body—but he moves with you, shifting his weight, pressing down harder. he’s annoyingly strong, and way too comfortable like this. his breath fans across your cheek, warm and uneven. there’s a bead of sweat that trails from his temple down the curve of his jaw.

“fuck you,” you snarl.

“mmm,” he hums, eyes dropping to your lips, “later.”

his grip tightens slightly when you squirm again, testing his hold. your glare falters when his voice drops, low and teasing, with something hotter simmering just beneath it. “careful,” he warns, mock-gentle. “keep moving like that and i’m gonna think you like being under me.”

you flush, jaw tightening. “let go.”

he tilts his head. “say please.”

“drop dead.”

“already did. in love with you.”

that shuts you up. your scowl weakens, but your eyes are still fierce. your breathing is shallow now, and his is starting to match it, both of you caught somewhere between playful and perilous.

he leans in, nose brushing against your cheek, and whispers against your jaw, “you gonna take responsibility for roughing me up, pretty girl?”

his voice is low and rough around the edges, but his hand—resting beside your head—trembles just slightly. he’s holding back. always does with you. you can feel it in the way he���s hovering, not quite pressing down all the way, in the tension coiled in his back and the unspoken question in his eyes.

you want to snark something back. tell him off. but your words crumble, dissolve somewhere between the brush of his lips against your pulse and the way he’s looking at you like he’d bleed all over your floors a thousand times if it meant ending up right here.

his hips shift subtly, slotting neatly between your thighs. his cock presses against your core, hot and insistent through the layers of your clothes. he breathes through his nose sharply, jaw flexing as if trying to focus on anything else.

you squirm, expression twitching between indignation and something more vulnerable. your glare falters, lips parting. “satoru—!”

“what?” he murmurs, lashes fluttering, lower lip jutting in mock hurt. his eyes flicker to your mouth, and he swallows thickly. “you started it.”

you want to argue, really, but your retort fizzles when his mouth skims along your jaw. his breath ghosts hot against your cheek, uneven, and when his teeth scrape your neck, your lashes flutter, breath hitching as he whispers, “you gonna take responsibility for roughing me up, pretty girl?”

you’re about to say something smart—really—but his free hand’s already pushing up your nightdress, fingers grazing the damp lace of your panties before tugging them aside. suddenly your thoughts are gone, completely, as he drags the tip of his cock along your slick slit, teasing, lazy, grinning, smearing your arousal over his swollen head.

“still mad at me, nurse?” he murmurs, voice hoarse from the fight. “’cause i think i deserve a little reward for winning.”

“winning?” you snap, trying to sound angry, but your thighs are already trembling around his hips. “you came back with your eyebrow split open.”

“and you’re here,” he says, pinning your wrists again above your head like it’s nothing. “patching me up. touching me so sweet. kinda seems like i won, baby.”

you open your mouth to argue—but his cock’s already pressing between your folds, fat and heavy and searingly warm against your dripping cunt. it drags up your slit slow, deliberate, reverent—like he’s savoring every millimeter, like he knows exactly what he’s about to do to you. the head of him nudges your clit on the way up, sending a jolt through your hips, slick coating his shaft. your breath stutters. your back arches, toes curling. your eyes flutter shut, lashes trembling on your cheeks—

until his hand snaps around your jaw.

“uh-uh,” he murmurs, low and hot against your lips, thumb pressing into your cheek, pinky grazing your pulse. his breath brushes your skin like heat rising off pavement. “eyes on me. want you to watch when i split your tight pussy open.”

your lashes flicker. your pupils bloom wide. you open your eyes, dazed, heart hammering. he’s right there—so close you can count each pale lash stuck to his damp cheekbone. his gaze is locked on yours—ice blue turned pitch at the edges, pupils blown wide with hunger, reverence, need. you nod, slow, shaky.

then he pushes in.

you choke on a gasp. your entire body goes taut, back snapping into a high arch, thighs tensing around his waist. the stretch burns—hot and overwhelming, his thick cock forcing your walls to yield with a wet squelch. your cunt flutters, straining to take him. he’s thick. too thick. your heels dig into the mattress. his groan rumbles through his chest, lips parted, sweat beading at his temples. he bows his head, snow-white hair clinging to his forehead in damp, messy strands.

“shit,” he breathes, voice strained. his hips roll forward in small, careful thrusts, giving you time. his hands tighten around your wrists, knuckles pale. his lashes flutter, eyes half-lidded and glassy. your body squirms involuntarily under him, searching for relief, unable to speak—only soft, helpless whimpers fall from your lips.

“you feel that, baby?” he whispers, voice gone rough, as his forehead tips to yours. “feel how fuckin’ deep i am in your soaked little cunt?”

his thumb strokes over your temple, soothing, gentle. his lips brush the corner of your mouth, soft and warm, completely at odds with the way he’s stretching your pulsing pussy. he watches every twitch in your expression, every breath caught between your teeth.

“so pretty like this,” he murmurs, hoarse and reverent. “all folded up. all mine.”

“n-no—” you gasp, though your legs lock around him like chains. “i’m—still mad at you—”

the corner of his mouth ticks up, smug and wicked.

“yeah?” he says—then slams into you. your cry is strangled. the bed rocks beneath you. your spine bows off the mattress, fingers spasming in his grip. he pulls back, and does it again. harder.

“you sure?” he pants, voice thick with amusement. sweat glistens down his chest. his grin is feral now, wild and flashing. his hips snap forward, sharp and deep, punching the air from your lungs.

he finds a rhythm—brutal, perfect. each thrust hits deep, rocking through your core, dragging moans and hiccups from your lips. the headboard slams against the wall in time with his pace, and the room fills with the obscene sound of slick skin on skin, your wet pussy smacking around his cock.

you try to speak—really, you do—but each attempt shatters into whimpers. your back arches. your arms tremble in his hold. he watches you like he’s starving, like each flicker of your lashes feeds something primal inside him.

his hand leaves your wrist to grab your thigh, folding it tight against your chest. the new angle punches a cry from your throat—high, breathless. he groans, jaw flexing, as he slams in harder, his cockhead kissing your cervix.

“such a fuckin’ mess down here,” he growls, gaze devouring your face. “and we’re just getting started.”

it builds too fast. the tension in your belly coils tight, electricity crawling up your spine. you clamp down, thighs locking around him, whole body curling into the sensation—

and then it crashes. your orgasm hits like a riptide. your body convulses, thighs shaking, mouth falling open in a silent scream. your cunt milks him, spasming, wetness gushing around his cock in hot, sticky spurts. your toes curl. your vision goes white.

“fuck, there she is,” he moans, forehead pressing into yours, breath catching. “knew you were close. knew you’d break so sweet.”

but he doesn’t stop. doesn’t even slow. he wraps an arm under your back, hauling you closer. your cheek brushes his shoulder, nose buried against the salty curve of his neck. the other hand slips between you—his fingers find your clit, cruel and skilled, circling hard and fast over your swollen bud.

“one more,” he growls, panting. “gimme one more, baby. i know you can.”

you sob, shaking your head—your body says otherwise. your hips buck. your back bows again. tears spill down your temples, pooling into your hair. you’re babbling now, incoherent and trembling.

he drives into you harder. your body rocks with every thrust, pushed to the edge. every nerve screams. you can’t breathe. can’t think.

then the second orgasm hits—sharper, meaner. your thighs quake. your mouth drops open with a strangled wail as your body clenches around him. wetness splashes between you, drenching your thighs, his stomach, the sheets. you’re squirting—legs spasming, muscles seizing. your hands claw uselessly at the air.

he stills, stunned. “ohhh fuck,” he breathes, staring down at the slick mess between you. “you—baby—look at you. ruined. holy shit.”

your chest heaves, throat raw. your eyes are unfocused, lashes wet. every inch of you trembles, spent—but he’s not done.

he dips his head, tongue dragging up your throat. then he bites—a soft, possessive nip over your pulse point. his hands drag down your body, mapping every inch, claiming every curve. he thrusts through your aftershocks, slow but relentless, cock still hard in your pulsing cunt.

“gonna cum inside,” he groans, nearly slurring. “gonna fill your tight pussy up. fuck, baby, you want that, huh? want me to breed you? make you mine?”

you nod—no, sob, a desperate sound wrenched from deep in your chest. your nails scrape his shoulders weakly. he thrusts again, deep, punishing—

he cums with a broken groan. his hips stutter. his body locks above you, trembling. he buries himself to the hilt, twitching inside you as he spills hot, thick ropes deep into your womb.

his body slumps. his head drops to your shoulder. his breath fans over your damp skin in hot, uneven waves. his hair clings to your collarbone, soaked. inside you, he’s still pulsing, still impossibly thick.

he kisses your cheek—once, twice. barely there. “...still mad at me?”

you don’t answer. can’t. your mouth opens, lips trembling, but no sound comes out. your thighs twitch, stomach muscles fluttering.

his hand drifts between your legs, fingers brushing over your soaked, cum-slick slit. your hips jolt, breath catching. he laughs quietly against your skin.

“thought so,” he whispers, voice still rough. “good thing i’ve got stamina to spare.”

a/n: i wrote this with my legs crossed and my dignity hanging on by a thread. satoru gojo if you're out there, pls. i am but a humble citizen with a high pain tolerance and a very available schedule. take me to poundtown and leave no survivors 😭🙏🏻

[papayainsectorone]

Nothing Personal.

summary: you show up after a breakup, not really heartbroken, only to be met with Lando’s usual mix of sarcasm and comfort between teasing banter and shared fries, a way-too-smooth suggestion changes the dynamic

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, friends-to-lovers, fuck, oral (f!receiving + m!receiving), teasing, dirty talk

word count: 5.4k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader a thought: new series who dis i clearly cannot overcome my ln4 obsession so... guess who got his own series now lol. i hope you enjoy it!! feel free to hit me up if you wanna be on the taglist alsooo — new divider?? made it myself?? it’s cute right?? let me have my moment walls are way too thin - series

Lando’s couch is still too deep, too soft, and far too familiar. Your legs are flung over his like they always are—like muscle memory—and his hands rest on your shins, thumbs moving in lazy circles while you tear into a box of fries like they personally wronged you.

Somehow, this is the only place that makes sense tonight.

“It wasn’t even good sex,” you mutter, chewing aggressively.

Lando lets out a bark of laughter, tipping his head back. “That’s the worst part.” “No,” you say, pointing a fry at him like a gavel. “The worst part is wasting three months on a man who thought eating you out was some kind of annual treat.”

He groans, dragging a hand down his face. “You’re joking.”

You just glare at him. “I’m genuinely considering writing a Yelp review.”

“Leave a voice note,” he suggests, voice deadpan. “I’ll animate it. ‘Hi, I’d like to report a man for crimes against pussy.’”

You laugh, loud and short, and it echoes into the comfortable silence between you—the kind only years of knowing someone can earn.

Because this? This has always been you and Lando.

Since you were kids sneaking out of karting camps to buy energy drinks and snacks, since you watched his first podium in your pajamas screaming into his voicemail. Since your first heartbreak, when he brought you a single Ferrero Rocher and said, “I’m shit at feelings, but I know this one’s your favorite.”

You were the first person he told when he got his F1 seat.

He was the first person you called after losing your virginity—drunk on cheap cider, whispering into his voicemail like it was a state secret.

When he started getting morning boners, you were the one he told, beaming with this stupid, smug pride.

“Rise and shine, baby,” he’d said, holding up a hoodie in front of his crotch. “I’m a man now.”

You’d almost pissed yourself laughing.

People always assumed there was something more—always. Teachers, teammates, partners. But there never was. You were chaos and sarcasm and trust, not slow-burning desire. The kind of friendship built on late-night FaceTimes and brutally honest advice and knowing exactly how to make each other laugh when it really counts.

It had always been a problem in past relationships.

“Too close,” they’d say. “Too flirty.” But neither of you ever cared.

Because Lando had always been your person. Still is.

You’d crash at his place more often than not—after parties, after races, after long days that didn’t even need an excuse. Sometimes you’d show up with nothing but takeout and he’d just nod and slide over on the couch. No questions. No explanations.

The walls in his flat were thin—paper-thin. You heard the whispers, late at night, from the girls he dated. Their voices just sharp enough to cut through the drywall. "Why does she stay over so much?" "Why don’t you send her home?" "Are you sure she’s just your friend?"

Lando always told you about them. Not to make you feel bad. Just... because he told you everything.

And yeah, sometimes you felt sorry—guilty, even—for being the shadow in the corner of his relationships. But you never apologized. Because it was always Lando and you. You and Lando. Friends. Always friends. The kind who knew the worst and best of each other and stayed anyway.

You knew the way he took his tea. The way his knee bounced when he was nervous. The way his voice dropped when he was pretending not to care. And he knew the song that always calmed you down. The nickname only your dad used. The face you made when you were about to cry and didn’t want anyone to notice.

There was no one else. Never had been.

So it wasn’t exactly surprising that you ended up here—on his couch, legs draped over his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. Lando sat casually, one hand resting on your shins, the other stealing fries from the carton balanced on your stomach. Your head was tilted just enough to eat, the rest of you sprawled comfortably beside him. In the hallway, your hastily stuffed suitcase waited—silent proof that this was where you always landed when the rest of the world fell apart.

You sigh, flinging a fry into your mouth. “Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking. Three months and not one orgasm that wasn’t self-made.”

He looks personally offended. “You stayed with someone who gave bad sex?”

“I’m mentally ill,” you say, deadpan.

Lando groans, loud and dramatic, flopping his head back against the couch. “At least you were getting laid!”

You smirk. “Oh, poor baby Lando. Don’t tell me world-famous F1 driver isn’t getting any.”

He squints at you, skeptical. “I’m serious. It’s not like that.”

You arch an eyebrow. “What, the women throwing themselves at you just aren’t your type?”

Lando shrugs, dragging a hand through his hair. “I don’t have time.”

You tilt your head. “You make time to beat Max at sim racing at 2am, but you can’t fit in a blowjob?”

That earns a crooked grin, but it’s softer this time—almost sheepish. “I don’t want hookups. I don’t want it to be… awkward.”

You blink. “Hookups are literally meant to be awkward. That’s half the point.”

He laughs, but there’s something under it. A flicker of honesty. “I mean, yeah, but—I want good. Not weird silences and ‘this was fun, see ya.’ I want someone who knows me. Who won’t make it feel like a transaction.”

You sit with that for a second, caught off guard by the realness in his tone.

And then he looks at you.

And you’re already looking at him.

Something curls in your stomach.

“I mean…” you start, voice quieter now. “You could be getting laid.”

The words are light, teasing on the surface—but they land heavy between you.

Lando doesn’t smile. Doesn’t deflect.

He just blinks. Slowly.

His hand tightens slightly on your shin.

“Don’t fuck with me,” he says, voice low.

You blink at him. “I mean… I wouldn’t necessarily not fuck with you.”

Lando stares at you like you just offered to punch him in the face and hand him a trophy for it. Then he abruptly shoves your legs off his lap and stands, muttering, “I think you’re having a stroke,” as he walks toward the kitchen.

You twist around on the couch, tracking him with your eyes. “Lando. It’s not like I’m in love with you.”

He pauses.

“It would just be—convenient?” you say. “You need someone. I need someone. We know each other. Why not?”

He turns slowly to look at you, like you’ve just asked him to join a cult.

“Why not?” he repeats, incredulous. “I know about a million reasons why not.”

You scoff. “What, do you not think I’m hot?”

He laughs—really laughs. “I’ve known you since you had one front tooth at age seven and would only wear mismatched socks. How could that possibly be hot?”

You gasp, mock-offended. “Wow. Wow.”

He grins. “What? You think I’m hot?”

You shrug, a little too casual. “I’ve obviously had worse.”

That wipes the smirk off his face.

He stares.

You can see the wheels turning behind his eyes—quick math, risk analysis, moral breakdown. His brow furrows. His mouth opens, then closes again. You swear he stops breathing for a second.

Then he says it.

“Fuck… okay, I guess. But we need rules.”

You groan. “Oh my god, Lando.”

“I’m serious!”

“Fine. Rules,” you say, throwing your arms up. “What, like no spooning after?”

“No sleeping in the same bed.”

“No feelings.”

“No one finds out.”

“No drama.”

You point at him. “No falling in love.”

He mirrors the gesture. “No ruining the friendship.”

You reach out your hand and he takes it instinctively, falling into the rhythm of a secret handshake you made up when you were twelve, all palms and slaps and pinky swears.

Your fingers lock one last time and neither of you lets go.

Not right away.

And when he pulls you closer, it’s like gravity.

The smirk fades from his face. Yours too.

You don’t know who moves first, only that his mouth is on yours again and this time there’s no pause. No second-guessing. Just the sharp, charged click of teeth and breath and want.

He kisses you like he’s proving a point.

You kiss him like you’re trying to win.

There’s nothing slow about it. His hands grip your hips like he’s allowed to and yours tangle into his hoodie, yanking him closer as your knees press into the couch cushions. You’re already climbing into his lap when he groans into your mouth.

“Fuck,” he mumbles, lips brushing your jaw. “This is so fucking weird.”

“Shut up,” you breathe, nipping at his neck. “Less thinking, more undressing.”

“Bossy,” he mutters, but he’s already lifting your shirt over your head. You help, clumsy and rushed and laughing a little when you get stuck halfway.

“You’ve done this before, right?” you tease, breathless.

“Not with you.” His voice dips lower, eyes dragging down your chest like he doesn’t know where to land. “Not like this.”

It’s cautious for half a second—his hands smoothing over your waist, the slow drag of his thumbs just under the band of your bra—but the second you reach for the hem of his hoodie, it sparks again. Like pulling a match against the box.

Everything ignites.

Clothes come off in fast, impatient pieces. You laugh when his sock gets caught on the couch. He curses when your belt loops fight back. There’s a short, chaotic scuffle over who gets to be on top—until you push him down with a smug look and he just stares, breathless and flushed, like maybe this was a terrible, amazing idea.

“You’re gonna have to back up all that shit you’ve talked over the years,” you say, hovering above him. “Mr. ‘I’m so good in bed I should get Michelin stars.’”

He groans. “I literally never said that.”

“You literally did. Karting camp. Fifteen years old. You said—quote—‘I’ll be better than anyone she’s had before.’”

His hand slides up your thigh, grip tightening. “Fifteen-year-old me had ambition.”

“Fifteen-year-old you had a big mouth and was barely not a virgin anymore” you grin.

He smirks, eyes dark. “And you’re the one who raved about that guy who said you gave the best head of his life.”

You blink innocently. “It’s not my fault I’m talented.”

“Oh yeah?” he murmurs, dragging you closer by your hips. “Prove it.”

Your smile sharpens.

His laugh cuts off halfway when you grind down on him again, slow and deliberate. One of his hands fists in the fabric of the couch while the other roams up your side, touch hotter now—more confident. Still careful in flashes, like he doesn’t quite know what parts of you he’s allowed to touch, even now.

You lean forward, lips ghosting over his. “Nervous?”

He exhales sharply. “I just… didn’t think the best head of someone’s life would come with a pre-roast.”

“You get what you pay for,” you whisper, and then you slide down his body.

“Fuck,” he groans, tossing his head back.

You pause, breath hot against his skin. “What was that? I thought you were the one with ambition.”

His breath catches when your mouth touches his abs. And again when you look up and raise a single eyebrow—taunting, smug, completely in control.

He grits his teeth. “Okay. I deserved that.”

You hum in response, slow and deliberate. “Damn right.”

Your fingers tug at the waistband of his boxers, and Lando’s whole body goes taut beneath you. It’s subtle—barely a breath—but you feel it.

He’s nervous.

You pause, looking up from where you’re knelt between his legs, hands braced on his thighs. “You okay?”

His eyes snap open. “Yeah. Just…”

“Never imagined me here?” you tease, voice low and laced with a grin.

He huffs out a breath, shaky. “Not like this. Not ever. And definitely not while terrified I’m about to embarrass myself.”

You laugh softly, warm and fond despite yourself. “Relax, Norris. I already know all your worst secrets. One more won’t kill you.”

He rolls his eyes, but there’s gratitude in it—like your teasing steadies him more than reassurance ever could.

You hook your fingers under the fabric again, slower this time. “Let’s get this off, then. Time to see what you’ve been bragging about since puberty.”

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, throwing an arm over his face.

You pull the last piece of clothing down, inch by inch, deliberate just to watch him squirm.

And then your teasing falters—just a beat.

Okay. Maybe not all talk.

He peeks from under his arm, a smirk creeping back in. “You good?”

You clear your throat, recovering. “I’ve obviously had worse,” you echo back with a wink.

He groans like you’ve wounded him.

And then you lean down again—mouth brushing skin, warm and careful, letting him feel your breath before anything else. You start slow. You always do. One hand on his hip, the other anchoring you as your mouth finds him, slow and deliberate and way too confident for someone who’d been joking about this two minutes ago.

Lando’s hand jumps to your shoulder instantly, fingers twitching. “Holy shit.”

You hum, eyes flicking up—pleased, knowing, smug as hell. You’re good, and you know it. And now so does he.

He tries to keep quiet. Tries to breathe evenly. But it’s all unraveling fast—the shift of his hips, the way his mouth falls open with a soft, helpless sound that’s definitely not friendly.

He mutters your name once, like a warning. A plea.

You don’t stop.

You sink deeper, slow and practiced, using your hand when you have to, mouth when you want to. And you want to a lot.

“Okay,” he breathes, voice breaking. “Okay—Jesus—I get it, he wasn’t lying.”

You smile up at him, lips curling around him as you draw him deeper into your mouth. Your tongue flicks over the sensitive ridge just beneath the tip, teasing that delicate band of skin before gliding up to circle the slit. The reaction is immediate—his breath stutters, and he chokes on a moan, hips twitching as he struggles to hold still.

“Oh my god.”

He’s twitching beneath you, squirming, practically begging now—your name spilling from his lips in broken whispers. It’s fast, it’s messy, it’s too good.

Your name again, this time a warning “Fuck... I´m gonna—Jesus—don´t stop” And you don’t stop. You don’t even slow down. If anything, you push harder, chasing that edge with him.

And when he finally breaks—when his hands grip tight, back arching off the bed, curses torn from his throat like a prayer—it’s your name he chants, again and again. Shaky. Wrecked. Reverent.

You pull off slowly, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Then you crawl up his body, smiling like sin, like you know exactly what you just did.

He looks dazed. Destroyed. Wrecked in the most satisfying way.

“I told you,” you whisper against his ear. “Talented.”

Your body stretches over his as you settle on his chest, breath warm against his skin, heartbeat still pounding under your palm.

Lando's eyes are half-lidded, completely blown out, one hand resting on your lower back like he doesn’t quite trust gravity anymore.

He exhales hard. “Fuck.”

You smirk into his collarbone. “You lost all your other vocabulary, Norris.”

He laughs—short, breathless, still wrecked. “No seriously, that was… I mean, you really do have bragging rights about that.”

You prop your chin on his chest, smug. “Told you.”

His hand slides up to brush lightly down your spine. “How the hell am I supposed to recover from that?”

You grin wider. “Come on. That all you got?”

He blinks at you, mouth twitching. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” you tease, eyes gleaming. “Big talk for years, and now you’re all ‘oh no, I need to lie down.’”

He stares. “I just had my soul removed via your mouth and you’re taunting me?”

“I’m motivating you,” you say sweetly.

He laughs again, one of those quiet, incredulous laughs that bubbles up from his chest. “Well, I was gonna say something cocky but now I’m wounded.”

You raise a brow. “Say it.”

He bites back a smile. “Just thought it was common knowledge that… y’know, eating out is for annual events only.”

You smack his chest. “Twat.”

He’s grinning like an idiot now, clearly pleased with himself even as your hand lingers, half-playful and half warning.

And then—before you can fire back another insult—he moves.

You’re flipped fast, the room spinning for half a second before your back hits the cushions and he’s above you, eyes dark and mischievous.

“Oh,” you say, breath catching.

He smirks, voice low. “Guess what day it is.”

You barely manage to answer before he’s already sliding down your body—slow and deliberate, hands dragging over your thighs, your waist, your hips. You squirm under him, anticipation crackling through your veins.

He kisses the inside of your knee.

You arch a brow. “You’re just doing this to prove a point.”

“Obviously,” he murmurs, lips brushing your skin again, “but I’m also an overachiever.”

His mouth finds your inner thigh and your breath hitches.

This, you realize, is very quickly about to become a competition.

And neither of you plays fair.

He kisses his way down your thighs, hands dragging slow, like he’s taking inventory.

“Still not taking this seriously,” you murmur, but your voice betrays the way your body’s already reacting to him—hips shifting, stomach tensing.

Lando lifts his head just enough to give you a wicked grin. “I’m insulted. You think I don’t rise to a challenge?”

You hum. “So dramatic.”

“I just think,” he says, lowering again, lips brushing close—too close—without quite touching where you need, “if you’re gonna make bold claims about your talents, I should be allowed to respond in kind.”

You squirm as his breath fans over you, and when you go to snap something smug back, his mouth finally meets you over your panties.

Everything derails.

It’s not tentative. There’s no awkward fumble, no hesitation. Just heat. Intention. A surprising kind of focus that makes your breath catch and your hands fly to his curls like instinct.

He hums into you, and you curse softly, head falling back against the couch cushion.

“Fuck, Lando…”

You feel him smile. Bastard.

He slides the fabric to the side and keeps going—slow at first, like he’s mapping out every reaction, every shift of your hips, every sound you make. He starts adding his hands, fingers anchoring you wide open, thumbs brushing soft along your thighs as he buries himself deeper in it.

It’s not rushed. It’s not polite.

It’s intentional.

And it’s driving you insane.

You’re panting now, fingers gripping his hair, one leg hooked over his shoulder because you stopped pretending to play it cool somewhere around the second time he moaned against you.

You manage to glance down once, and the sight nearly finishes you—him, flushed and focused between your thighs, like he’s memorizing you.

“Okay,” you breathe out, voice high and wrecked. “Okay. I take back everything.”

He doesn't stop.

“Lando.”

A flick of his tongue. A curl of his fingers.

You break.

Your hips jerk, your back arches, a sharp cry tears from your throat and you feel everything all at once—your blood rushing, your pulse crashing, the way his name leaves your mouth like muscle memory.

He slows down only when your hands tug at his hair—not to pull him closer, but in surrender.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, dazed, boneless against the cushions.

Lando crawls back up over you, and for a second, neither of you says anything—just panting breaths and the shared knowledge of what just happened.

Finally, he grins, breath still hot against your cheek. “So… just annually, huh?”

You laugh—half-gasp, half-shocked. “You’re an actual menace.”

“And you’re blushing,” he says, full of smug satisfaction.

“Am not.” You give his shoulder a playful smack.

“I mean… maybe we shouldn’t limit that to once a year,” you say, casual but breathless. “Wasn’t exactly terrible.”

He tilts his head, eyes glittering. “Not terrible? Sounded like more than that to me.”

You snort, cheeks warming again. “Okay—fine. It was actually pretty fucking great.”

He rolls onto his back beside you, both of you still catching your breath in the hazy silence that follows.

“You still think this was a good idea?” he asks, eyes on the ceiling.

You turn your head, grinning. “Amazing actually.”

He laughs and it feels like nothing’s changed.

[thatonegrimm]

Can you do the Saja boys with a sassy reader ? Please

Yes yes yes—this is gonna be so fun. 😌🔥

🌙 Saja Boys x Sassy!Reader

------------------------------

🧿 Jinu

Jinu didn’t know what to do with you at first.

You called him “spellboy” and “rulebook with legs.” You poked fun at his dramatic speeches and perfectionist tendencies. You made fun of his color-coded pantry.

“You know no one’s grading your seasoning technique, right?”

He flushed. “I like things in order.”

You grinned. “Adorable. Like a haunted librarian with control issues.”

He was horrified. Then deeply flustered. Then… kinda into it?

Because for all your sass, you never mocked what mattered. You just knew when to push him. When to tease. When to lean in and smile like you knew you’d already won.

And Jinu? He loved the challenge.

So, eventually… he tried to push back.

“Well at least I don’t smell like sarcasm and impulse decisions.”

You blinked. “Did you just weaponize my aura?”

He panicked. “Yes? No? Paprika?”

You laughed so hard he had to leave the room.

He tried again later—with contour and cheekbone jokes.

You told him he was glowing and kissed his cheek.

He’s never recovered.

------------------------------

💪 Abby

You roasted Abby daily and he loved every second of it.

“Those muscles are for show. I’ve seen you cry during animal commercials.” “That dog deserved love,” he sniffed.

You called him a himbo. A protein-obsessed golden retriever in gym shorts. You mocked his love for flexing while doing completely normal things like making toast.

Abby just beamed at you like you were paying him compliments.

But one day, he got brave. Too brave.

“You’re like a… spicy pigeon!”

You blinked. “A what?”

He panicked. “You know! Small and aggressive but also cute???”

He bought you bird-themed apology cookies. You teased him while eating one shaped like a chicken nugget. He called you his favorite bird anyway.

Later, he whispered to Romance, “They’re chaos. But I like that they talk to me like I’m human.”

------------------------------

📚 Mystery

You called him "the Cryptid King of Brooding." Said he was 80% shadow and 20% passive-aggressive silence. Once told him he looked like a cursed Victorian cat ghost.

He blinked. You blinked.

Then he smiled.

Mystery never reacted much. He’d just watch you, silently, like you were a riddle. And then later, he’d leave a post-it note somewhere weird that said things like:

“Your mouth moves faster than fate.”

He did try to sass you once. You teased his dramatic hoodie collection and he replied:

“I don’t talk much because I like the sound of you failing out loud.”

You: “EXCUSE ME???”

Mystery: sips tea like nothing happened

You still haven’t won that round, but he also keeps a file of your best comebacks written in his handwriting.

He calls it “field research.” You call it what it is: romantic.

------------------------------

💋 Romance

You were his dream sparring partner.

You: “You think every problem can be solved with eyeliner and innuendo.” Romance: “And yet here we are. You’re still in love with me.”

He flirts? You roast. He poses? You roll your eyes.

You once called his morning routine “budget drama club cosplay” and he fainted theatrically onto a couch pillow.

One day, he tried to come in hot.

“You’re like a cat. If it was raised on sarcasm and emotional suppression.”

You just sipped your drink.

“I am a cat. And you? You’re the knockoff laser pointer no one asked for.”

Romance stared at you for five full seconds before collapsing into laughter and saying, “God, marry me.”

(He has not stopped proposing since.)

------------------------------

🔥 Baby

Baby gives as good as he gets.

You sass him? He’s already halfway through the comeback.

You: “You lurk like a sleep paralysis demon.” Baby: “And you talk like you peaked in middle school.”

You throw shade? He throws it right back, deadpan and devastating. The group chat once exploded when the two of you debated who looked more feral in the morning—neither of you conceded.

But the moment you soften? The moment you smile at him all cocky and say:

“You like me anyway.”

He doesn’t argue.

He just stares at you for a beat too long, mouth twitching like he’s trying not to smile. Then walks off—calm, unreadable.

Later that night, you find a little container of your favorite snack on your bed. No note. No explanation.

But the lid’s sealed with tape in the shape of a tiny flame.

He never brings it up.

But the next time you sass him in public, he just raises a brow and says,

“Say that again, see what I don’t do for you later.”

And you swear you blush.

------------------------------

M-List

[em1i2a3]

Fire For You

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader!

Summary: Bob has been head over heels for you ever since he met you, but he has never admitted it. Sentry is getting sick and tired of him dancing around the subject, so he goes to extreme measures to get Bob to confess.

Warnings: No warnings in particular, Sentry is an absolute menace in this though, and there is Fluff, but yeah that’s pretty much it :)

Author’s Note: I really enjoyed writing this little blurb, and the concept was cute as shit lol. Thank you @sol-lol for the request! Hope y’all enjoy! <3

Word Count: 3,801

Afternoon sunlight filtered through the high-paneled windows, casting long, golden streaks over the hardwood floors. Even the ever-present hum of the compound's security system felt muted–as if the entire building had exhaled, grateful for the rare stillness. Most of the team had shipped out at dawn, leaving only Bob and you behind, sentenced to stay and grind through mountains of post-mission paperwork.

You were across the hall in your room, with the door cracked, and music playing low. It was barely audible, but you were humming along out of tune. That little sound though had tugged at Bob like a thread caught in his chest. From his room he could see yours, and his eyes lingered there for a second too long before he turned away, running a hand through his dripping wet hair, closing his own door and padding barefoot across the hardwood floors of his bedroom.

He bent slightly, grabbing his black sweatpants from where they hung off the end of the bed, faintly warm from the sun that was beaming into his bedroom. Just as he was about to step into them–

“You should go into her room and tell her how you feel Robert.” The voice hit him like a low rumble in his chest, reverberating off the inside of his skull. Deep and rich, with that molten smoothness that made it impossible to ignore. It was a voice meant for command. Worship. Destruction. Right now, though, he sounded supremely annoyed. Bob groaned under his breath and pulled the soft cotton up his legs with an aggressive tug.

”I can’t te-tell her. It’s plain and simple, Sentry. How can you not understand that?” He hissed, keeping his voice low, casting a glance towards his door. The last thing he needed was for you to hear him arguing with himself like an exasperated older sibling. He crossed the room to his wooden dresser, pulling open the top drawer and grabbing a clean white t-shirt, yanking it over his dripping hair with more force than necessary.

“This is the perfect opportunity to confess your feelings…I’m getting sick and tired of watching your pathetic little mating dance. My patience is wearing thin.” Bob let out a small laugh under his breath–dry and crackly–shaking his head.

”Your patience?” He muttered, pacing towards his mirror, seeing the soft golden hue shimmering over the oceanic blue of his irises, “I’ve been waiting for these feelings to go away for six months, and we’re ta-talking about your patience?” The silence that followed was heavy, and for a split second, Bob thought that maybe he had stunned the sun god into temporary retreat. Only for him to come back swinging.

“You’ve been making yourself look like an absolute fool, and I’ve been allowing it thinking that you’d eventually grow a spine and do something about it. But I guess I was wrong. Guess you’ll just keep pining for your teammate in silence until the both of you die from mutual emotional constipation.” Bob pressed the heels of his palms into his eyes, rubbing at them in frustration.

”Don’t try to pull that reverse psychology crap on me. I’m not that st-stupid.” He muttered. Sentry scoffed loudly, like a clap echoing through his head.

“Could’ve fooled me,” Sentry shot back, “Only an idiot treats telling someone they love them like it’s the end of the world.”

“Wow…Why don’t you tell me how you really feel?” Bob snipped, turning slightly to reach for his forest-green crewneck–the soft one with faint bleach stains, and frayed cuffs. He held it in both hands for a moment, running his thumbs over the texture as if it could soothe himself before tugging it over his head.

”Y’know, if you ac-actually thought about the consequences, I think you wouldn’t be encouraging me to do it.” He added, adjusting the hem of the sweater so it covered him properly. That earned him a sudden jolt in shoulder. Not pain, exactly–but a violent reminder of who he was arguing with. The Sentry rarely used force on Bob, but he always knew how to make his point felt.

“You’re not defusing a goddamn bomb, Robert. You’re just being honest. What kind of consequences are you building up in that overthinking brain of yours?” Bob paused, leaving on the edge of his desk, staring blankly at the sight of himself.

”If she doesn’t like me back…” He started slowly, “Then we’ll have to work together. We still have to live under the same roof, train in the same gym, eat at the same goddamn table. Do you have any idea how aw-awkward that would be?” For a long moment, there was no reply. Then came the laughter. Not mocking, but indulgent. Low and syrupy, warm like something dripping from heaven, curling through his spine like a lit fuse.

“It is painfully obvious that she likes you back. I have seen her through your eyes. I have watched how she looks at you when she thinks you're not watching. It’s not exactly subtle.” Bob snorted and shoved a hand through his hair again, tugging it slightly, his cheeks going hot at the thought of you sneaking quick glances at him. He never noticed and it was quite possible Sentry was just making it up to push him.

“Oh yeah? So why doesn’t she say anything then, huh?” Sentry let out a long groan that vibrated through Bob’s ribcage. It was almost like he was bored of the conversation, or he was sick of the predictability of his host and his line of thought.

“She doesn’t say anything because she’s a woman, Robert. You’re supposed to make the first move.” Bob let out a sharp laugh.

”Well that’s just not fa-fair,” He said, arms thrown wide for no one to see, he felt like he was going crazy in his own room–technically he was–but he couldn’t give in, “I’m not going to put myself in that position just to ruin our friendship, and that’s final.” He went to reach for his mini notebook, about to slide it into the pocket of his sweatpants, when Sentry’s voice changed.

Dropping into a lower, colder tone.

“…I guess I’ll have to resort to some extreme measures then.” Bob froze in his spot, as he slowly looked up, and glanced over at the mirror.

”…What the hell is that supposed to mean?” He asked warily, but there was silence, like a phone line being cut off midway through a call.

”Se-Sentry?” He whispered, taking a cautious step backward from the mirror, feeling his heart rate pick up. He didn’t understand what extreme measures meant, and he truly didn’t want to know, but he wasn’t going to go and admit something so sensitive like this. There was too much risk involved and he cared about you too deeply to put his feelings ahead of yours, because that���s just how Bob was with you.

Then a knock on the door made him jump up in the air.

”Bob, I’m making some iced latte’s, do you want one?” You asked. Bob pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, trying to will the fluttering in his chest to slow down. His pulse thudded hard in his ears–too loud for the quietness in his room. It felt like Sentry’s absence was a weighted pressure now, not a relief. Like something had just coiled back instead of vanishing. He turned toward the door, voice soft and strained.

“Um…Yeah. Yeah, that would be nice. I’ll be out in a se-second, thank you.” You didn’t reply, but he heard your footsteps padding gently down the hallway, the distant clatter of ice cubes being dropped into a glass, the hiss of the espresso machine warming up. He let out a long breath, fingers dragging down his face. He turned back toward the mirror above his dresser, stepping in close, peering into his own eyes. Blue. Clear. Normal. No trace of gold, and that only made it worse.

There was no way Sentry would just slink off like that without more sarcasm, more threats, more “divine push”–especially not after uttering a line like “I guess I’ll have to resort to some extreme measures.” Bob leaned closer, as if looking hard enough would summon the god back to taunt him.

“Wh-Where the hell did you go?” He muttered. “You never shut up this fast…” But there was nothing. No response. No flicker. No warmth in his bones. Just his own reflection staring back at him: flushed cheeks, frizzy damp hair, and a nervous tension coiled through his jaw.

He sighed and stood up straight, tugging down the hem of his forest-green sweater, smoothing it out even though it still sagged a little too loose at the collar. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to flatten it–pointless, really, but it gave him something to do.

Then he stepped out of his room.

The hallway smelled faintly like citrus cleaner and your perfume–orange peel and peach, you had told him happily when he had asked. The sunlight slanted in lower now, catching motes of dust that danced lazily in the air. The door to your room was still cracked, music still playing just because you wanted to keep listening to it even though it was faint–but you weren’t humming anymore.

He followed the sound of clinking glass and the gurgle of the espresso machine down the hall to the kitchen.

You were standing at the counter in a loose t-shirt and bike shorts, back to him, scooping ice into two mason jars. You had your hair pushed out of your face, and the late afternoon light that was pouring through the window kissed your bare legs, making you look like you belonged in a painting more than the compound's kitchen. You were a work of art to him, and he could admire you for hours if he could go unnoticed doing so. Bob swallowed thickly, and he could feel his stomach turn, a wave of nausea floating over him.

You turned when you heard his footsteps and gave him a small smile–soft and easy, like the two of you hadn’t been alone all day with miles of tension simmering between you. He watched as you poured a little bit of liquid sugar into the cup before adding a shot of espresso and some milk with the rest of it. You shoved a straw into the drink and mixed it around quickly.

”Here you go,” You said, handing him the jar, “Made yours a bit sweeter this time, cause you always make a face when it’s too bitter.” You added. Bob blinked down at the glass for a moment and cleared his throat.

”Oh. Th-Thanks.” He replied, wrapping both hands around the chilled jar, grateful that he was able to keep his hands occupied. The cold bit into his palms, but it grounded him enough to distract him from worrying about Sentry. You leaned casually against the edge of the counter, crafting your own drink with a soft rattle of ice against glass, throwing little glances his way. You didn’t seem to notice how stiff Bob had gone, shoulders locked and jaw tight as he lifted the straw to his lips.

The first sip helped. The sweetness, the cold. It settled like a stone in his stomach and gave his trembling hands something to focus on.

But it didn’t last.

A warmth bloomed beneath his skin–subtle at first. Then stronger. Not the warmth of sunlight or embarrassment. It was internal. Like standing too close to a furnace. Bob blinked, shifted on his feet.

And then–a bead of sweat slid from his temple, down his cheekbone. He wiped it away absently.

Then another.

And another.

He gulped loudly, his eyes flicking up to you nervously.

”Hey…Is it getting hot in here, or is it ju-just me?” You looked up from your drink, brows furrowing slightly at the question.

”They’ve got the AC on full blast…Can’t you feel it?” You asked, your voice laced with concern. Bob blinked slowly, almost like he was dazed. The cool air licked at his damp forehead, but it felt like nothing. His skin felt tight, hot, wrong.

“…I’m…I’m getting really ho-hot actually.” He mumbled, setting his glass down carefully on the countertop so it didn’t slip from his sweaty palms. With a clumsy, shaky tug, he peeled the forest-green sweater over his head, tossing it onto a nearby chair. You caught the brief glimpse of his bare waist as the hem rose–taut, pale skin, a soft line of hair trailing down below the waistband of his sweatpants–but you forced your eyes back up before he could notice. Your heart began to skip anyways. Bob ran the back of his wrist across his forehead, strands of damp hair sticking to his temples.

“Jesus,” He breathed, trying to shake the feeling off, fanning himself with one hand, “It really feels like I’m burning up.” He added, almost breathlessly.

“Bob,” You said slowly, eyes narrowing with concern, “Are you getting a fever or something?” He shook his head immediately, rubbing at the back of his neck, which was now slick with sweat.

”I was fine before. I-I don’t know what’s going on, I–“

“If you don’t tell her, I’m going to boil your insides until you’re a puddle of skin and blood.” Sentry said, his voice cracking like lightning inside his skull. Bob stiffened even more at the words.

And then–everything ignited.

It felt like his blood had caught fire.

One second he was upright, trying to breathe through the heat crawling up his spine, and the next–it was everywhere. Searing pain radiated out from his chest, licking through every vein like liquid metal. His nerves flared, his muscles seized, and his vision blurred at the edges with violent, pulsing white.

It was like being cooked alive from the inside out.

“Holy…Ho-Holy fuck,” Bob whispered, his voice barely audible through the rising static in his ears. His eyes darted around the kitchen like they couldn’t hold still, couldn’t focus. His pulse was hammering too fast in his neck. You stared at him, wide-eyed. His white t-shirt was plastered to his chest, soaked through as if he’d stepped into a shower fully clothed. Sweat dripped from his temples in heavy rivulets and the waistband of his sweatpants was already damp.

”Bob, what the hell is happening?!” You asked sharply, your drink completely forgotten behind you. He tried to answer, but his mouth opened–and nothing came out. Only a shallow, panicked gasp.

Then–his knees gave out.

“Shit-” You gasped, rushing forward and catching him before he hit the tile. Your arms looped beneath his, bracing his full weight as he sagged against you like a ragdoll. His head dropped forward, thudding against your shoulder with enough force to make you stumble. He was the weight of a boulder compared to you, but the angle you were able to catch him at really helped with your leverage. You eased both of you down onto the cold floor, your knees scraping the tile as you cradled him in your lap. His head lolled slightly, sweat-soaked curls sticking to you, seeping into the cotton of your shirt. He felt like he was steaming. Your hand flew to his forehead.

“Jesus Christ, Bob,” You breathed, barely holding back the shake in your voice. “You’re boiling hot–what is this? What’s happening to you?” His skin radiated heat like a furnace. Not fever-warm. Inferno-warm. Unnatural. You’d been around him enough to know what a post-mission stress spike looked like–what adrenaline did, what panic attacks did. This was something else. His skin was flushed, his breathing fast and shallow, like he was suffocating inside his own body.

“Bob,” You whispered, pressing both hands to either side of his face. He was slick with sweat, taking in shallow, desperate breaths, like all he was doing was inhaling thick humidity, “Look at me. Please, you gotta tell me what’s going on so I can help you.”

“Tell her or I’m going to keep going.” Sentry snapped. The pressure climbed again, cruel and sharp, curling beneath his ribs like a vice.

”St-Stop,” Bob gasped, voice hoarse, shaking his head against you, “Stop, please…I can’t, I can’t.” You froze at his begging.

”Who are you talking to?” He couldn’t answer. He couldn’t move. His hands were limp in his lap. His eyes fluttered closed, lashes clinging with sweat. His whole body trembled with the effort of not screaming. It felt like his bones were melting. You brushed his soaked hair back with shaking fingers.

“I’m not–“ He tried, letting out a groan of pain, arching his back and writhing a bit. You thought he was being possessed, like somehow a demon got into him, because that would be more plausible than him just going through this at random, “I’m not…Strong enough to fight him wh-when he’s like this…” You paused, breath catching in your throat.

”…Sentry,” You said under your breath. Bob didn’t nod for you to get full confirmation of this, because you could feel it now–something else lurking beneath his skin. Something immense and ancient and merciless. The pressure in the room had changed, the air grown heavier. You felt the way the light dimmed, like it was being pulled inward, like the very shadows in the corners of the kitchen were watching.

“Why is he doing this to you?” You whispered, stroking his cheek with your thumb. “Why would he hurt you? He’s never done this before.” Bob’s eyes opened, barely. There was no gold in them, it was as if Sentry was camouflaging himself–but you could see the panic, the regret, and longing even.

”…It’s be-because I won’t tell you the truth.” He croaked, shivering a bit, twitching against you.

”What truth?” You asked, confused.

“Now, Robert. Say it, or I’ll peel your consciousness apart piece by piece and make you feel every single moment of it.” Bob winced at his words, as he let out another grunt of pain, his stomach aching, his lungs burning.

”Stop. Pl-Please stop.” He begged, his breath hitching in his throat. You moved fast, gripping his cheeks again, forcing him to look at you.

“Bob,” You started, voice breaking, “Whatever it is, just tell me. I’m right here. If it makes him stop, just tell me for god sake!” He stared at you. Pupils blown wide, almost eating the familiar blue he always sported. Sweat dripping down his neck in steady streams, wetting your legs beneath him. The heat had reached his ears, his fingertips. He felt like he was dissolving–turning into a puddle in your arms.

And finally, with his lips trembling and his body shaking in your arms, he whispered “…I’m in lo-love with you.” You stayed just where you were, cradling his burning cheeks, the sweat from his skin soaking into your palms. Your legs were going numb beneath him, but none of that mattered now. His chest heaved with shallow, uneven breaths. His eyes were wide and desperate, waiting for impact.

But your expression didn’t change.

“That’s it?” You asked softly.

Bob blinked. “Wh-What?”

“That’s the truth that was going to kill you?” You shook your head a little, almost in disbelief. “You’re burning alive from the inside out because you didn’t want to admit you loved me?” He nodded. Quickly. Frantic. The heat still trembled beneath his skin like something half-released.

“I’ve–I’ve loved yo-you since I first saw you,” He stammered, words tangling into little balls of misunderstandings. “I thought it would go away, I tried, I really tried, but it just…It just got worse and I didn’t know how to…I’m so sorry.” You stared at him for another beat, your thumbs brushing instinctively along the damp skin beneath his eyes. He was flushed and shaking and somehow still apologizing. A soft laugh slipped from you.

“Only you would apologize about loving someone.” Bob groaned, like his body had finally started to come down, the tension bleeding slowly from his frame. His breathing began to even out, though he still looked like he’d run a marathon through a thunderstorm.

“Ye-yeah…” He muttered, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Because I have a god inside me who wants to kill me and have me ruin all my friendships in th-the process.” He tried to breathe through the humiliation, through the cool air finally creeping back in. He was regaining himself, physically. But emotionally, he was trying to retreat, blinking away from your eyes, gaze dropping down to your chin, then your lips, then the floor. You leaned in slightly. The space between your mouths thinned. You could feel his breath–still hitched, still hot–against your lips. You didn’t blink.

“Who said the friendship was ruined?” You whispered. Bob’s eyes flicked up. He blinked at you, lashes damp and heavy.

“…Well…” He rasped, “Yo-You don’t…You don’t like me like that…” You raised your eyebrows, a dry laugh slipping from your throat.

“Who told you that?” You shot back, a smirk coming up on your lips. He swallowed hard.

“…My-Myself.” He replied, voice breaking around the answer. You let out a breath through your nose, equal parts amusement and affection.

“Then I guess you’re wrong.” That confused look passed over his face like a ripple in water–eyebrows scrunching together, lips parting just slightly like he was about to ask–

And then you leaned in, your lips finding his before he could finish the thought.

It wasn’t a rushed, breathless kiss like the kind that usually came after a confession. It was slow. Sure. A quiet answer. Your lips moved against his in steady rhythm, grounding him more than the cold tile, more than the sweat that was now cooling on his skin. His breath caught in his throat again, but this time not from pain–just pure shock.

He kissed you back like he was afraid he was imagining it.

Like he couldn’t believe he hadn’t melted for nothing.

When you pulled back, just slightly, his eyes were glassy again–but softer now.

“…You kissed me,” he whispered, stunned.

You grinned. “Yeah. I noticed.”

“…Can you do it again?”

You laughed.

And then you did.

[arabella-syntax]

Let’s Play Pretend (One-shot)

Pairing (Alexia Putellas x Reader / BarcaFemeni x Reader)

Summary: When a FC Barcelona charity scavenger hunt pairs you with six of Barca Femeni’s players, you don’t expect the chaos. Or a bookstore moment. Or the way Alexia keeps catching your eye — and then not looking away.

Featuring: Caroline Graham Hansen, Irene Paredes, Jana Fernandez, Mapi Leon & Marta Torrejon.

Word count: > 15k

————————————————————————

Barcelona in spring was made for chaos.

Mild sun. Restless breeze. People on rollerblades. Dogs off leashes. Music from somewhere — always somewhere — bleeding into the hum of traffic and secondhand espresso breath.

You adjusted the hem of your volunteer-issued T-shirt — bright coral with FCB Fundació Scavenger Hunt 2025 printed across the chest — and tried not to sweat through your tote bag strap.

Your phone buzzed again.

Dani 🧍🏽‍♀️

don’t kill me

but I really can’t make it

flu + toddler = mutual destruction

pls don’t hate me

You stared at it. Blinked. Stared again.

Then sighed.

“Brutal,” you muttered under your breath, glancing up at the check-in booth. A volunteer with a clipboard smiled too brightly and gestured for the next person. You took a reluctant step forward.

It had seemed like a cute idea. A charity scavenger hunt hosted by FC Barcelona — proceeds to local schools, with mixed teams of fans, players, and community volunteers. Something wholesome. Team-building. Cultural immersion. You were new to Barcelona. You were a product manager with a flexible calendar. You were very much in your “say yes to things” expat era.

And now?

Now you were alone in a group-based citywide game show with no backup, no clue, and an aggressively cheerful shirt.

Perfect.

————

“Hi!” the clipboard girl beamed. “Team name?”

You paused. “Uh. I don’t really… have one. My teammate dropped out last minute.”

She blinked. Flipped through pages. “You registered as ‘Codependents in Catalonia.’”

You winced. “That sounds like Dani.”

“No worries! We’ll just pop you into a group that needs one more.” She scribbled something down, then looked up again. “Are you cool being grouped with, um, high-profile participants?”

You shrugged. “I guess?”

“Great! You’re Team FCB. Head to the blue tent over there and look for the clipboard with your team name on it. Good luck!”

You thanked her, already regretting every decision you’d made since agreeing to this.

————

The blue tent was more of a canopy, half-collapsed under the breeze, with a banner that read Team FCB in a marker-thick scrawl.

And there — huddled around a clue sheet — were six women in athletic gear, designer sunglasses, and various shades of amused detachment.

You recognized them instantly.

Alexia Putellas.

Irene Paredes.

Caroline Graham Hansen.

Marta Torrejón.

Mapi León.

Jana Fernández.

Every Barça Femeni highlight reel you’d ever seen came rushing back to you like a montage. And yet, here they were, standing in casual sweats and arguing about whether a particular street counted as “historically Gothic.”

“Oh no,” you whispered.

Alexia looked up.

Met your eyes.

Smiled — just faintly.

You froze.

Then walked forward like you weren’t having a small, contained identity crisis.

“Hi,” you said, too brightly. “Apparently I’ve been adopted into your team. Hope that’s alright.”

Jana was the first to speak. “Oh my god, we’re seven now! Lucky number.”

Mapi narrowed her eyes. “Wait. Are you… press?”

You blinked. “What? No. Product manager. Tech stuff.”

“Still sus,” she muttered.

“Ignore her,” Marta said with a smirk. “You speak Catalan?”

“Enough to order wine and fake confidence.”

Caroline laughed softly. “That’s all you need, really.”

Irene extended a hand. “I’m Irene. This is chaos, but you’re welcome to it.”

You shook her hand, heart thudding.

And then Alexia spoke.

“New to the city?” she asked, voice low, amused.

You nodded. “How’d you guess?”

“You’re wearing sunscreen.”

The team chuckled. You flushed.

Alexia held your gaze for just a beat longer than necessary. Then turned back to the clue sheet like it was nothing.

Like you hadn’t just melted slightly into your sneakers.

“Alright!” Jana clapped. “Clue one: Find the first mural by the artist who signs with a tiny eggplant emoji.”

Mapi groaned. “Not Eggplant Bansky. We’ll be here all day.”

Caroline snapped a photo of the clue and said, “Let’s move.”

As the group began walking, you found yourself next to Alexia.

She looked over, expression unreadable, and said, “You’re very brave.”

“For joining your team?”

“No.”

She smirked.

“For pretending you don’t know who we are.”

————

The map was upside down. Or maybe Barcelona was just showing off.

Irene swore they were supposed to take a left at Carrer de la Cera. Mapi insisted the mural had been painted over. Marta said nothing, but the look on her face screamed, We’re losing, aren’t we?

You, new and mildly sunburned, trailed a few paces behind the group, sipping from a reusable water bottle and watching the scene unfold like it was reality TV.

“This is absurd,” Caroline muttered beside you. “We’re professional athletes. How are we being outsmarted by a spray-painted emoji?”

“An emoji and a clue written by a teenager on Red Bull,” you corrected.

She snorted. “Touché.”

————

The hunt had barely been underway an hour, and you were already learning important things:

Mapi had the energy of a TikTok account no one over 30 should be allowed to follow.

Jana was way too good at making strangers pose for group selfies.

Caroline was the dry-witted sniper of the group, mostly quiet but lethal when she chose to speak.

Marta kept a running list of everyone’s most “inefficient decisions” on her Notes app.

Irene treated every detour like a Champions League match.

Alexia, despite doing very little to draw attention to herself, seemed to be quietly orbiting you.

She walked just close enough for your elbow to register her warmth. Asked you things no one else did — where you were from, how long you’d been in Barcelona, why you chose this city when you clearly weren’t Catalan.

You told her the truth.

You came here for a job. Stayed for the late dinners. The freedom. The way nobody knew who you were — and for once, that felt like peace.

Alexia nodded thoughtfully at that.

“I get it,” she’d said. “Sometimes it’s nice to feel like a blank page.”

You’d agreed. You didn’t tell her she made you feel more like a highlighted paragraph.

————

Eventually, you found the mural.

It was wedged between a bakery and a motorbike repair shop — a rough sketch of a moon with two legs and a tiny eggplant in the corner. Jana screamed. Mapi fist-pumped. Irene immediately scanned the next QR clue and began dictating it like it was a government memo.

You snapped the required team selfie. Caroline held the camera.

Alexia leaned in close, chin near your shoulder.

Click.

The photo came out blurry.

You all decided it was perfect.

————

Next stop was the Boqueria.

Clue #3: Find the vendor who makes the “Maradona of mango smoothies.” Bonus points if he remembers your name.

You were sent ahead with Alexia and Jana.

“Tag team,” Irene said, like you were off to steal national secrets.

Jana led the charge. Alexia walked beside you again, shoulders almost touching.

“She’s having fun,” you said, gesturing toward Jana up ahead.

“She always does,” Alexia replied. “But especially when she’s not the youngest in the group for once.”

You raised a brow. “Is that me?”

Alexia grinned. “You tell me.”

You paused. “I’m twenty-nine.”

She smirked. “Old enough to lie convincingly.”

“And you?”

“Old enough to know better,” she said smoothly.

You reached the smoothie stand.

The vendor recognized Alexia immediately and offered her a free drink.

She shook her head. “Only if you remember my name.”

He squinted dramatically. “Marta?”

She burst out laughing.

You nudged her with your elbow. “Brutal.”

She looked at you, eyes crinkling. “You remember my name, though.”

“Hard to forget.”

She blinked once. Held your gaze. Said nothing.

Then turned to order the drinks.

Your heart absolutely betrayed you.

————

Back at the group checkpoint, Mapi was yelling about losing rock-paper-scissors to a child and demanding a rematch.

Marta sighed. Caroline filmed it all.

You handed Irene the smoothie as proof. She nodded in approval. Jana offered you a conspiratorial thumbs-up.

Alexia didn’t say anything when she returned, but she handed you a second smoothie.

“You didn’t ask,” she said, “but I figured you’d want one.”

You blinked. “Why?”

She sipped her own. Shrugged.

“You don’t seem like someone who’d share easily.”

————

The next clue read like the beginning of a mystery novel:

Seek the oldest pages in the Born,

where stories live and time is worn.

Find the volume with no spine,

and trade a fact for your next sign.

“Library?” Jana guessed.

“Bookstore,” Irene corrected. “There’s an old one near Carrer dels Flassaders. Specializes in rare Catalan prints.”

“You just know that?” you asked.

“She’s like the human version of Google,” Mapi said flatly. “If Google had better abs.”

————

The shop didn’t even have a sign outside.

Just a dark wood door, propped slightly open, and the smell of paper so old it might’ve remembered Franco.

You offered to go with someone.

Alexia said, “I’ll come.”

No debate. No glances exchanged.

Just her voice. Sure and simple.

Inside, the shop was barely lit — thin skylight, amber desk lamp, dust hanging like punctuation in the air. Floor-to-ceiling shelves towered with mismatched books. Everything smelled like parchment and coffee-stained secrets.

“Wow,” you whispered.

Alexia didn’t say anything at first. Just looked around slowly, fingers trailing the edge of a shelf like she’d been here before — in another life, maybe.

You turned toward the clue.

“Find the volume with no spine,” you murmured.

“Over there,” she said, already walking.

Tucked into the poetry section, between a weathered Foix collection and an unlabeled red journal, was a stack of old papers bound with string — no spine. No cover. Just yellowed edges and a handwritten title.

You picked it up carefully.

Inside was a folded card.

Clue #5: Tell the bookseller your favorite line of poetry. If he approves, he’ll hand you your next location.

You glanced at Alexia. “You go first.”

She smiled. “Too predictable. You do it.”

“I’m not poetic.”

“That’s alright,” she said, tilting her head. “I like seeing what people reach for when no one’s watching.”

The bookseller listened patiently as you recited the only thing you could think of:

“You do not have to be good.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.”

He stared.

Then nodded.

Handed you a gold-embossed envelope without a word.

Alexia murmured, “Mary Oliver?”

You blushed. “Yeah.”

“That’s your favorite?”

“No. It’s just the only one I remembered in the moment.”

She nodded once, like she didn’t believe you — and like she did at the same time.

When you turned back toward the door, it was shut.

You reached for the handle.

It didn’t budge.

Alexia tried next. Nothing.

You exchanged a look.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you whispered.

“Let me guess,” Alexia deadpanned. “You get locked in a lot of places with women you’re pretending not to be into?”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

She smiled faintly. “That wasn’t a denial.”

————

Ten minutes passed. You sat on the floor beside the travel section. She joined you, her shoulder just grazing yours.

Outside, muffled voices. Jana shouting something. Mapi laughing.

You pulled your knees in. “So. This is… surreal.”

“The bookstore, or the company?”

You smirked. “Both.”

A beat.

Then softer: “Why are you here?”

She tilted her head.

“I mean — this event. You’re not exactly low-profile.”

She exhaled. “Mapi made me sign up. Said I was being boring.”

“Were you?”

“Maybe.”

“Still are,” you said, nudging her.

She laughed under her breath. “And you? What’s a product manager doing in a city-wide obstacle course?”

“Honestly? I’m trying to unlearn spreadsheets.”

Alexia raised an eyebrow.

“I’m tired of being efficient,” you said. “I want to be surprised again.”

She was quiet.

Then: “And have you been?”

You looked at her. She was close. Closer than before. Not leaning in — not yet. But her eyes were on yours.

“Yes,” you said.

She didn’t move.

Neither did you.

Then a loud bang from outside, followed by a cheer. The door clicked open.

Mapi burst in. “We knew it! You two have zero urgency!”

Jana peeked in behind her. “Did you kiss?!”

Alexia stood up like nothing happened.

You followed, heart in your throat.

“No kissing,” Alexia said evenly, walking past them.

“But plenty of urgency,” she added with a wink — just for you.

————

By the time the team stumbled into a shaded garden tucked behind Sant Antoni Market, the city had shifted into its slow, golden hour.

A row of food trucks flanked the gravel courtyard — empanadas, grilled artichokes, fancy jamón sandwiches. The kind of place where you ordered with your hands, paid with a smile, and were handed a glass of wine before you finished your sentence.

You collapsed onto a wooden bench, breathless.

“I would die for a tortilla right now,” Mapi announced, flopping beside you dramatically.

“Maybe don’t say that in front of the nutritionist,” Marta said, scanning the menu board.

Caroline had wandered off with her GoPro again, presumably to document local pigeons.

Jana was trying to teach Irene how to order “like a Gen Z” (Irene looked physically pained).

Alexia appeared behind you quietly.

“Hungry?”

You looked up. “Starving.”

“Come on, then,” she said. “Let me buy your very first tortilla in Barcelona.”

You smiled. “This isn’t my first.”

“I know,” she replied. “But it’ll be your favorite.”

————

You stood beside her in line, awkwardly aware of how your elbow brushed hers every time she shifted. She ordered in perfect Catalan — smooth, crisp vowels, no hesitation.

The vendor handed her two plates. She nodded a thanks, then turned to you.

“I wasn’t joking,” she said. “This one’s good.”

You took a bite.

It was.

But not as distracting as the way Alexia sat across from you at the picnic table and watched you eat like she was committing the moment to memory.

“So,” Mapi said loudly, rejoining you. “Tell me something.”

You blinked. “Uh-oh.”

“Do you actually not know who she is?” she asked, jerking a thumb toward Alexia.

“Mapi—” Alexia warned.

“What? It’s a fair question!”

You sipped your wine carefully. “Of course I know who she is.”

Jana gasped. “So you lied?”

“I didn’t lie,” you said calmly. “I just didn’t announce it.”

“That’s suspicious behavior,” Irene chimed in, stealing half of Mapi’s tortilla.

“She’s clearly a spy,” Caroline added from across the table. “Sent by Real to destabilize us.”

Alexia smirked. “She’s not that subtle.”

You locked eyes with her.

Something flickered there — amusement, yes. But something else, too.

Recognition.

————

Later, when the group had fanned out across the courtyard, you sat back with your drink and watched the city hum around you.

Alexia slid into the seat beside you, close enough to feel the heat of her thigh against yours.

“You’re handling this well,” she murmured.

“This?”

“My friends. Their curiosity.”

You glanced at her. “Are they always like this?”

“Only when they’re trying to figure out who I like.”

Your heart stumbled.

“Oh,” you said quietly.

She didn’t correct herself.

Didn’t fill the silence.

Just looked at you like she was waiting for you to decide what to do with that sentence.

You didn’t. Not yet.

————

Mapi returned moments later and dropped something onto the table between you.

A folded napkin. On it:

“Clue #6 – La Ciutadella calls. The mime awaits.”

You stared at it.

Alexia groaned.

Mapi grinned. “Time to bribe a mime.”

————

Parc de la Ciutadella was awash in honey light and chaos.

Skaters dodged toddlers. Street musicians played in three different keys. Couples lounged on the grass in half-buttoned shirts and tangled limbs. The air smelled like gelato and grass and warm pavement.

And in the center of it all, a mime stood completely still.

White face paint. Black suspenders. Deadpan stare. And in his gloved hands:

An envelope marked Team FCB.

You stood next to Mapi, arms crossed.

“So,” you said, “what’s your plan?”

Mapi cracked her knuckles. “Negotiation.”

Jana, filming on her phone, whispered, “This is either going to be genius or a war crime.”

Mapi walked up to the mime. Bowed dramatically. Offered a chocolate bar.

He didn’t move.

She tried a coin. A wink. A floss dance.

Nothing.

Then she held up a hand mirror and fixed her hair in front of him, loudly announcing, “I’d also be silent if I had those eyebrows.”

The mime blinked. Smiled. Handed her the envelope.

She turned and held it in the air like a trophy.

“Diplomacy,” she said proudly.

“Blackmail,” Irene corrected.

————

The clue was a bit more cryptic this time:

Find the rooftop that once housed pigeons,

now strung with bulbs and secret missions.

There, a lockbox waits with two keys —

one to open, and one to see.

“Sounds like the old art school,” Caroline guessed.

“You sure?” Alexia asked.

Caroline held up her phone. “I did a docuseries here last year. That terrace has string lights and a rep for after-hours events.”

“Convenient,” you muttered.

Alexia grinned. “Scared of heights?”

“Scared of metaphors.”

————

The rooftop was three flights up and only slightly structurally questionable.

Wooden slats. Hanging bulbs. A few deck chairs. An old mural half-faded on one wall. A view of the city that felt too generous for how casually it was shared.

Jana found the lockbox under a crate of succulents. Irene opened it with the first key inside.

But the second?

Was just a disposable camera.

Mapi groaned. “Seriously?”

Alexia picked it up. “The note says: Take the photo you’ll regret not taking later.”

Everyone looked around awkwardly.

Jana posed dramatically against the skyline. Caroline took a fake paparazzi shot of Marta. Mapi pretended to propose to Irene (who did not play along).

You leaned back against the railing, watching them laugh. Warm light everywhere.

Then you felt her beside you.

Alexia.

She held the camera up. “Can I?”

You blinked. “Of me?”

“No,” she said softly. “Of this.”

You didn’t move. Just nodded.

She took the photo.

Then hesitated.

Lowered the camera.

And looked at you — really looked at you — like maybe this was the part of the clue that mattered more.

“I’ve had fun today,” she said.

“Same.”

“But you’re hard to read.”

You smiled faintly. “That’s because I’m trying not to say something stupid.”

She tilted her head. “Like what?”

You turned toward her. “Like how this might be the best I’ve felt since I moved here.”

Alexia’s gaze dropped to your mouth. Then back to your eyes.

“Not stupid,” she said quietly.

Then, just loud enough for you to hear:

“Take the photo you’ll regret not taking later.”

You blinked. “What?”

But she didn’t answer.

She just leaned in.

And this time — no clues.

No crowd.

Just the rooftop. The bulbs. The silence.

And her kiss.

———-

You didn’t talk about the kiss.

Not immediately.

Mapi burst through the rooftop exit moments later shouting, “LAST CLUE’S LIVE!” with all the subtlety of a stadium flare.

You and Alexia jumped apart — not guiltily, just instinctively — as if the city had returned too quickly and you weren’t ready to give it your attention.

Jana snatched the final clue from the envelope like a kid at Christmas.

Sunset waits at the arch of the park,

where iron meets sky and laughter lingers.

Bring your team. Bring your smiles.

Take one last photo — and make it count.

————

The walk to Arc de Triomf was warm and golden.

Caroline queued a playlist. Mapi tried to make everyone rank their “Top 3 Barça kit disasters.” Marta ignored her. Irene debated a child over who was faster. Jana skipped ahead, camera in hand, declaring every five steps, “This is giving cinematic climax!”

Alexia walked beside you quietly, your arms brushing.

She didn’t say anything about the kiss either.

But once — just once — she reached over and adjusted the edge of your sleeve where it had rolled, fingers slow and certain. Like she wasn’t asking permission. Like she already had it.

The arch was flooded with people.

Other scavenger teams. Tourists. Rollerbladers. Sunset photographers. The final check-in tent sat just beyond it — a small white booth framed by string lights and confetti cannons that had clearly gone off too early.

Your team lined up on the paved walkway for the last photo. A volunteer aimed the Polaroid camera.

Alexia stood next to you.

No stage directions. No cue.

She just reached for your hand.

You let her.

The camera clicked.

————

Afterward, while the others collected their goodie bags and shouted plans for post-hunt tapas, you slipped away from the crowd. Just a few paces — to the edge of the plaza, where the sky looked like orange rind and watercolor.

Alexia followed.

“Hola,” she said.

“Hola.”

You smiled. She did too.

Then, without ceremony, she pulled something from her pocket and handed it to you.

It was a folded clue card. One of the earlier ones — the bookstore one, now smudged and bent.

You turned it over.

On the back, in clean, looping script:

You were a surprisingly good teammate.

Want to try something harder?

Like a second date?

— A.

📱 +34 XXX XXX XXX

You laughed.

Then looked up.

Alexia was already watching you. Waiting.

You didn’t hesitate.

You pulled your phone from your bag, opened a new message, and typed:

Best clue of the day.

Then hit send.

Alexia’s phone buzzed in her pocket.

She didn’t need to check it.

She just smiled wider.

————

The afterparty wasn’t loud — not in the way parties usually were.

It was low tables and higher laughter, plastic cups filled with surprisingly decent wine, and a Spotify playlist that shifted between reggaeton and old Shakira deep cuts. Someone’s toddler was dancing near the snacks. Mapi tried to start a limbo contest. Marta politely declined all existence of games.

You sat on a bench under string lights, still wearing the coral T-shirt, sipping a red that tasted like cherries and maybe adrenaline. The ache in your calves from running all over the city hadn’t quite caught up to you yet. But something else had.

Alexia.

She appeared beside you without announcement. No dramatic entrance. No lingering tension. Just a quiet slide onto the bench like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I’ve had worse Saturdays,” she said, nudging your knee with hers.

You smiled. “You’ve probably had better ones, too.”

“Maybe.” She took a sip from your cup without asking. “But none with mimes, bookstore lock-ins, and fake tourists who turned out to be very real.”

You chuckled. “Sorry about that.”

“I’m not,” she said, looking at you. “I liked the pretending.”

“You did?”

She nodded. “People usually recognize me. And treat me like… an answer to a trivia question.”

You tilted your head. “And I didn’t?”

“You didn’t flinch,” she said. “Even when you did recognize me. You just… played along.”

“Is that why you kissed me?”

She smirked. “That, and you said something about wanting to be surprised again.”

You laughed into your wine.

————

The party started to wind down. Players drifted out. Irene offered a sleepy wave. Mapi yelled, “Text me when you’re famous!” to no one in particular. Caroline gave you a long, unreadable look and then a surprisingly sincere thumbs-up.

And then it was just you and Alexia, still sitting under the lights.

She glanced at you sideways.

“You’ll text me, right?” she asked.

You pulled out your phone and showed her the screen — her number already in your contacts, already starred.

She smiled.

And then — without the pressure of the game, the crowd, or the pretense — she leaned in and kissed you again.

It was slower this time. Certain.

No clues. No timer. No game.

Just her mouth on yours, and the feeling that maybe — just maybe — you had won something after all.

————————————————————————

[mv1simp]

for the bully!Max, Leclerc!Reader and chubby!reader simps in my requests…I heard you and I’m here to deliver 😼😼 enjoy!!

You Belong To Me ♥️

Bully!Max Verstappen x Chubby!Leclerc!Reader

say it louder, say it louder, who’s gonna love you like me (who’s gonna fuck you like me?)

Growing up as the youngest daughter in the Leclerc family, you’d had a childhood crush on your brother’s rival and friend, Max. But when you grew older he turned into your worst nightmare, always bullying you. You’ve been able to avoid him for the last 5 years - but now with your new engineer job on the paddock, you can’t hide from Max any longer…and can’t stop the feelings you still have for him.

Content includes: 18+ MDNI, smut, size kink, dom/sub, dark! Max who bullies innocent virgin!reader, dub con, brainwashing, bimbofication, somno, yk all the good shit, WC 9k 😨

You shiver as you walk into your family’s childhood vacation home along the Cote de Azure, despite the summer heat. It’s been a long time since you’d visited this house. Even though your Mama and three older brothers came by often, looking for a weekend break from their busy lives or a romantic getaway with gorgeous girlfriends, you’d always turn down their offers to join once you were in college. They'd always be confused at your hesitance - but then again, they don't know just how many bittersweet memories this home holds for you. You’d grown up here in the summers, the youngest daughter of the famous Monegasque Leclerc family. Racing was in your bloodline, and your beloved Papa had instilled his passion into all of his children before he’d passed away.

Your older brothers, who were all handsome, tall and athletic, made natural drivers right from childhood and easily progressed through the karting competitions. Meanwhile, you were the youngest and the only daughter, and were raised in a far gentler manner as the apple of your family’s eye, their cute bunny as they’d nicknamed you, after your favourite childhood pet. In comparison to your brothers who ran around outdoors, you were more shy, preferring to be left with your books and colouring pencils in the safety of the patio.

Of course, with all your differences, there had been the healthy sibling rivalry of brothers vs sister growing up. They hated being forced to play house or pose for your scribbly drawings (not Arthur though - even at age 5 you were convinced he secretly loved when you made him join the Barbie tea party.) And in turn, you'd alway complain when you’d be dragged to cheer on Charles from the sidelines as he won his karting competitions. You would sulk, childishly annoyed at your parent’s attention shifting from you to their middle son’s rapidly growing racing career.

But it all changed when Charles raced against Max Verstappen for the first time at age 11. The blonde Dutchman aggravated your competitive older brother immediately with his aggressive driving tactics. You’d heard Cha, as you’d been calling him since you were little, furiously ranting about the illegal moves Max had been pulling and your 7 year old brain tuned it all out. But when you first saw the mysterious blonde in question, your heart fluttered with a feeling you’d never felt before and a bright blush overtook your chubby cheeks.

You immediately became infatuated with the older boy, who was far nicer to you than Charles had been back then. Your middle brother's idea of “sibling time” involving hiding beetles in your bed and laughing when you screamed. So it became a common sight to see you wandering after Max instead of being by your family’s side, tugging on his shirt sleeve and showing him the racecar drawings you’d made. Max always entertained you, ruffing your hair and smiling back toothily, telling you that you were a much better artist than his little sis Victoria.

You’d beam from the praise, only leaving Max’s side when his scary father Jos would approach and eye you with disdain. You scampered back to your family, to your older brothers who accused you of the worst crime imaginable to the loyal Leclerc blood - exchanging racing strategies with the enemy Dutch. Your mother had hit all three sons on the back of the head and told them they could learn a thing or two about treating Bunny with respect like that cute boy Max did.

As you grew older, your pigtails were replaced with cute pins and headbands in an effort to look pretty whenever Max would come around to your summer home. By now, his rivalry with Charles had turned into a reluctant "frenemies who also spent summers together to discuss racing". You'd get to be with Max all day, swimming in the turquoise ocean and eating sweet stroopwafel that he always brought. An in the evenings, the two car-obsessed 14 year olds would be arguing about overtaking strategies at your family’s dining table. You’d pout, childishly wanting attention at age 11, interrupting whatever stupid point you're sure Charles was making to bat your eyelashes at your guest. Holding up your now detailed drawings of a black kart, you asked Maxie - as you’d taken to calling him - if he liked your recreation of his.

He’d grinned at you, still boyishly handsome and in the lanky phase of growing up as he told you he loved it, should he sign his autograph on it? with that Dutch accent you adored. Charles watched your shenanigans with a roll of his eyes, snidely muttering (in French, thank god) that the annoying little bunny wasn’t doing a very good job of hiding her crush on the enemy Dutch. You flushed, frantically checking to make sure Max hadn’t been able to understand, and had run off with a red face to tearfully rat him out to your Mama. Unlike Charles, she found your crush on Max rather cute, and always encouraged you to give your favourite ribbons and bows to Max for a good luck charm the way you did with your brothers pre-race (Traitor, teen Arthur and Charles mouthed at you).

She eyed you knowingly when you do your best to avoid blushing as you grew older still, this time seeing Max when you were 14 and him 17 with an impressive winning streak in the Junior Redbull team. He’d started to develop into his tall 6 foot frame now, towering over your tiny 5”2 frame like your brothers did. What, no drawing of a racecar for me to sign Bunny? he gently teased, leaning down so you could shyly kiss both of his cheeks - a Monegasque tradition Max had become accustomed to from your family. You stuttered out your no, of course not, you were too old for that now! making him laugh at how cute you looked before walking off. Arthur watches the exchange with a smirk, elbowing Cha when he emerges from the changing rooms. Your middle brother’s frenemy status with Max was more of a friendship these days, and his earlier accusations of you being a traitor had turned into something much more annoying. Max and Bunny, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G-

But by the time you turned 16, your Maxie changed from the sweet, laughing boy you’d always trusted into someone darker, someone who you felt scared of at times. You were at the age where you now wanted Max as your boyfriend, naively thinking that the 19 year old driver would return your affections when he’d attended your Sweet 16th. You’d spent hours getting ready, styling your long curly hair and wearing a cute dress all your friends had insisted you would be irresistible in (but had almost given your older brothers an aneurysm). It was tight and short, and although you'd always been a chubby kid, you feel a self conscious of the new plush curves around your hips and chest, in comparison to your older brothers who now looked very handsome and muscular.

You’d lit up when you saw Max across the fancy yacht club, flooded with all your schoolmates and family friends who’d come to celebrate the baby Leclerc’s birthday. He'd looked so handsome, his muscular frame now filled out and catching the eye of many girls. There was a devilishness in his smile that came with the confidence of being the youngest F1 driver in history. Lately, your innocent crush had started to drift towards naughtier, dirtier fantasies about what Max’s large hands and lips would feel like on you, if he snuck into your bedroom in the middle of the night and told you he loved you as you willingly gave him your first kiss.

But all your naive hopes come crashing down when you see a slim, sexy blonde approach Max where he’s talking to Charles intently, drinking a beer. His hand squeezes her ass in a familiar motion as she wraps her arms around him, leaning up to give him a kiss. You quickly turn around in the crowd before you can be seen, heartbroken, and drown yourself in blurred conversations and slices of birthday cake. Max doesn’t even come to wish you happy birthday like he normally did, always with a special gift in hand. At some point in the night you’re talking to Charles and try to subtly ask who that blonde girl with Max had been. Your older brother gives you an amused look, asking if you still had your silly little childhood crush on Max? You adamantly deny it, and he smirks and tells you that was Giana, Max’s girlfriend and an Italian model. You’re upset, of course, but thankfully he changes the topic to tell you how Max had recommended his old F2 seat go to Charles, wasn’t that amazing Bunny? You nod mutedly, having become used to Cha being less and less aware of anything that went on outside his racing career these days.

After a sneaky shot of tequila your friend gave you, you have the courage to go approach Max. His girlfriend is still at his side and raises an eyebrow, pointedly glancing down at your figure to make it clear what she thought of your curvier body. What shocks you, though, is seeing an annoyed look on Max’s face as well, as he demands to know why you’re interrupting, couldn’t you see he was busy? You’ve never heard him speak like that and are confused, asking him why he’s being so mean, did I do something wrong, Max-

He cuts you off, smirking as he asks why you weren’t calling him Maxie anymore. The girl laughs at that, saying no way, she’s such a kid, she calls you that? A few of your older schoolmates have wandered over, curious to see what was going on and you flush from the embarrassment of having Max treat you like this in front of your friends.

From then on, Max just became crueler and crueler to you. It’s like he enjoyed seeing how you'd react, your cute chubby cheeks darkening with embarrassment as you avoided his gaze. Once he'd officially moved to Monaco, you ran into him everywhere as him and Charles formed a close friendship and would often hang out. Max would always time his harsh remarks just when your brother wasn't in earshot. He'd mock you about everything, from your childish appearance, to your innocently conservative outfits, your nerdy perfect grades, your animated Italian gestures and accent which he'd always seemed to adore growing up. Your popularity in school plummeted as your friends watched the talented F1 driver roll his eyes and mutter how pathethic you were when he heard you were reading romantic novels on Friday night instead of partying, saying the only reason you had any friends was because of your talented brother’s fame. Your family had no idea what was going on - as Max’s bullying started the same time your Papa becomes unwell and landed in hospital. Your brothers thought the change in your sweet demeanour was because of your sadness for your father.

If only they knew the real culprit was right under their noses.

It seemed there was nothing teen Max enjoyed more than seeing your big brown doe eyes welling up with tears. He’d use everything you told him growing up against you, making gossip and rumours fly around your school constantly. Any guy who tried to talk to you was assumed to be doing it as a dare. The first few years of high school had been like hell - the only thing making it bearable being your perfect grades and promising future. Unlike your older brothers who were natural sportsmen, you were the opposite and excelled at academics, and you’d used it to get a full ride scholarship at a prestigious engineering course in the UK.

That’s what you reminded yourself to get you through a graduation party at the end of high school. You'd been reluctantly dragged by the small group of friends you’d thankfully kept despite all the bullying and rumours. In true Monaco trust fund kid fashion, the party was hosted on one of your schoolmates' yacht, with many juniors and older siblings tagging along as well. Towards the end of high school, Max’s bullying was less common as he became busier with his racing - something Charles had become fully invested in with his new F1 Alfa Romeo seat. And you’d grown up, too, maturing into your curves and pretty dark Italian features, catching the eye of a few boys in your year.

It seemed you’d been briefly relieved of your duties of being a social pariah when you're yanked into a circle of already wasted partygoers playing 7 minutes in heaven. But when your friend pulled out your name with a drunken flush, you could only widen your eyes in horror when the next name she announces was one you'd never expected - Max.

And then you see him, on the other side of the deck, leaning against the railing and ignoring the girls trying to speak to him as his ice blue eyes intently watch you. You squeaked out your protests, begging your friend to try again, but it's hopeless when the circle begins chanting your name and Max’s. Giving up, you turned around and ran through the crowd, trying to reach the ramp and get off the boat -

-when a large, warm hand wrapped around your waist and easily pulled you into a broad chest. Before you knew it, you're in a tiny, dark storage room, with Max Verstappen blocking the door and smirking down at you. Your naive heart still ached with conflicting feelings for Max, who was your childhood knight in shining armour, who always stood up for you when your older brothers ganged up on you, always knew how to make you laugh when you were crying from their teasing. But this was also the same Max who made your high school life hell, had teased you mercilessly behind your brother’s back, and used all the secrets you'd trusted him with against you. He'd make you look like a childish little girl in front of your effortlessly cool, rich peers. This reminder brought you back to your senses and you quietly but firmly ask him to let me out.

He hadn’t let you leave, of course, instead leaning down until he was whispering in your ear with his deep voice that still send shivers down your spine, mockingly asking if you’d had your first kiss yet or if you're still the same stuck up Leclerc who thinks she's too good to be fucked by anyone here?

Heart racing furiously from nervousness, you mumble out that you hadn’t had your first kiss, avoiding his ice cold eyes as he chuckled. You know his game well enough by now to understand he wouldn’t let you go until he gets his answer. You hated the boy you once hoped to give your first kiss to. He’d ruined your reputation beyond repair, had made it so no guy at school would touch you even if they found you pretty.

Well, apparently except for one boy.

Turns out Max himself had no issues laying his hands on you, hidden in the darkness of the storeroom. His hands had pushed you up against the wall, your face cutely scrunched up in confusion, and then your jaw almost dropped in shock when he pressed his lips to your ear. He huskily whispered how pretty you looked, how he’d hated the way boys had been checking you out all night. They didn’t know you’d already promised to marry Max when you were little, yeah Bunny?

And then he’d captured the surprised gasp you let out, shocked that he’d remembered your childhood wish to be his vrouw, his wife, when he leans down to press a surprisingly gentle kiss against your soft lips. When he pulled back, his face remaining close to yours, your brown doe eyes looked into his with whirling confusion and hurt - but also desire flickering in them. And then you’d both gotten lost in another kiss, then another, and then Max being Max had starting running his hands all over your body. Squeezing his hand into your juicy ass to make you shyly moan, and then greedily slipping his tongue inside.

That’s how everyone had found you when they yanked the door open, with Max having you moaning his name, one hand sliding up your skirt and the other running over your tits. The darkness in his gaze returns as he pulled back and left you leaning against the wall with wobbly legs. He laughed as he strode off the party, saying it’d been so easy to get you to beg for him like a little slut, who would’ve guessed with your innocent appearance?

You couldn’t wait to graduate high school and go to university after that. And it had been amazing, moving far away from Monte Carlo. No one knew who you were or how deep your history with world famous athletes like Charles or Max went. You reinvented yourself, becoming confident after months of therapy and your intelligence becoming something you were admired for instead of teased. You’d though that was the end of it, that you’d never have to be humiliated or have your heart broken by Max Verstappen again. Until 5 years later when you got a call from Lorenzo asking you to come home.

With the intimate engagement party of your oldest brother being held at your family’s scenic vacation home, you’d been unable to refuse. You knew Max was going to be there, but you’d taken a deep breath and reminded yourself that things were different now. You were 22, a qualified engineer and had used your own hard work to get a job within the Alpine garage - even using your mother’s maiden name as your last name because you wanted to prove it was because of your skill, not connections. Charles had been bewildered, begging you to please come work at Ferrari, bebe but you’d been adamant about needing to prove your own worth. You loved your family, and were so happy for Cha’s success as your relationship with your brothers blossomed into a close, loyal one as adults. It had always been your father’s dream to see him in the red suit. It was unbelievable to have millions of Tifosi literally worship your older brother - and their adoration extended to you, his sweet younger sister Bunny. You make rare appearances on the paddock but were hailed as a good luck charm when you did, Tifosi cheering when you affectionally kiss your brother on both cheeks and tie a hair ribbon to his suit. You always made sure to stay well away from the Redbull garage.

And you’d become radiant in your beauty, too, in pretty, flattering dresses and fitted miniskirts that showed off your soft stomach and thighs, your generous cleavage and juicy ass. Full, lush lips and long dark curls framed your sweetheart face and you’d been finally been able to put makeup on without fear of being mocked. A few guys had tried to ask you out in college, but you hadn’t been quite there yet in your confidence to say yes. Max had seemed to put you off all men, for now at least….and your protective Italian brothers seemed to make it their personal mission to protect your honour and integrity. Very dramatic, you’d said to them with a fond roll of your eyes, secretly enjoying how they cared for you despite their luxurious celebrity lifestyles. So you’d ended up still being a virgin at your college graduation, wanting to save it for the man you fell in love with.

You reminded yourself of all that you had to offer, of how you weren’t the same nerdy little girl who was going to be bullied, when you heard Max would be joining your family prior to the engagement party. The night before he was meant to arrive, you’d been overthinking and anxiously wringing your fingers so hard that your whole family had started demanding to know what was troubling you. After giving them some weak excuse about being worried about your new job, you'd gone to read one of your romance novels by the pool after dinner to destress. You had ended up falling asleep under the stars, your tired mind eager to rest.

You didn’t know the man you were desperately hoping to avoid had landed a night earlier with his private jet. When he’d greeted your middle brother late in the night, saying he would crash for now and greet everyone properly in the morning when they were awake, Charles had gone to bed and the last remaining light of the house switched off. Only the silver moonlight illuminated your pretty face and unsuspecting figure when Max Verstappen stepped outside his bedroom's French doors, hoping to cool off - but instead felt his blood pumping heatedly at the sight of you.

Honestly, he hadn't expected to see you for years as you'd understandably fled to the other side of the continent the second you had the change to escape. You’d turned from a nervous, cute schoolgirl into a gorgeous woman, and his intense gaze hungrily roams over your peaceful sleeping body. He was going to ruin you, he thinks wickedly, gently stroking your still chubby cheeks that subconsciously leaned into his touch.

He decided to give you one last night of quiet as he left you in deep sleep, walking back inside with dark desire brewing. The childish bully he’d been as an angry teen, desperate to prove himself, was gone. He was now a thrice proven world champion, a millionaire, a man who’d been with dozens of women but found only one he still wanted through it all. And it was none other than his racing rival's sweet younger sister, the one who'd stayed loyal to him since she was little. He was ready to make you his, whether you still wanted him or not.

When you finally saw him at breakfast the next morning you had been suspicious at his pleasant behaviour, greeting you like he would any family friend and asking how college had treated you. Your whole body had gone stiff, eyes distrustfully following his every move. You’d been forced to respond back politely as your family watched you, your mum still grinning as she rooted for her daughter to become romantically involved with her childhood crush. If only your family knew how much Max tormented you, they’d never let him get within 10km of you again. But to your surprise, Max kept up his kind manner even when your family would be out of the room, laughing and smiling easily at you and somehow bringing confusing butterflies back to swirl in your stomach. After the week he'd spent at your vacation home, you'd naively started to think maybe he had changed. Maybe the five years away had made him mature into the charming, funny driver you'd seen in numerous interviews and ads, being unable to avoid his far reaching fame.

But it turned out his respectful behaviour, all through the engagement celebrations and the after party, only served as a ploy to get you to foolishly lower your guard. Max had greedily collected up all the information he’d missed over the years, about what your likes and dislikes were now, about how you’d gotten a job with your own means at the F1 paddock. And then he casually informed you over dinner that he’d spoken to Horner who was coincidentally looking for a mechanical engineer - and had wanted to interview you after seeing your resume. Your family had been ecstatic at a job for you in a prestigious garage, despite their blood thirsty Ferrari loyalty. Even Cha had caught you after dinner, telling you that it was thoughtful of Max to look out for you, that as your big brother he’d feel so much better if you were working in a winning team’s garage and being protected by Max, instead of alone in a poorly performing team.

You were so confused, couldn’t understand why Max was trying to get involved - and you told him so that night, hushed angry whispers in the hallway after everyone had gone to bed. He’d smirked, leaning down to press you into the wall, saying Wasn’t it obvious Bunny? I want you.

Your eyes widened in shock, and you stammered out your confusions, asking him why he would say such a thing, only to feel his lips brushing your ear. His deep voice murmured his explanation of how his father didn't think Max had been focused enough when he was younger, had wanted him to throw all distractions to the side...including you. I'm a three time world champion now, Max said with a cocky grin. It doesn't matter what he says anymore, I do what I want.

Although his initial words about how the change in his behaviour being due to his controlling father sent a pang of empathy through you, you hadn't come this far to just give in. You pushed him off you with all your might, only being able to get a couple of inches as you glared and said you're delusional, Max, if you think I'd ever forgive you. Much less want you back after the hell you put me through. Storming off, you naively thought that was the end of it, that Max would back off once he saw you weren't the same lovesick girl he could toy with anymore. Not gonna call me Maxie anymore? he teases at your retreating back.

You should have known Max always got what he wanted, because he finds his way into your bedroom later that night. It was stupid to not lock your room because you think he wouldn't lay a hand on you when under the same roof as your brothers. Softly closing the door behind him, Max's dark gaze took in your curvy, sleeping figure in your childhood room. It was still decorated with your younger self's belongings as your Mama had always wanted you to feel welcome - but you had never come back after graduating. So you slept against a large plushie Bunny, cutely dressed in a pink matching shorts and camisole set. The twisted desire to corrupt the sleeping beauty in front of him rushes to Max's head - and his hardening cock- and he doesn't hesitate to slowly run his large palms over your body. He teasingly slides one hand up your sheer camisole to graze your large tits and the other down your shorts, to lightly toy with your pussy through cotton panties. The sweet dream you'd been having started to turn into a dirty one from the stimulation, and you instinctively grind back against the warm, hard body pressed into your back as you moan sleepily.Your dream is getting more and more heated as Max plays with your sensitive body, and only when you’re starting to drench your panties with slick do your eyes hazily blink open. Your adorably confused expression turns him on even more as he captures your gasp in his mouth, using his tongue to explore the inside of your mouth. Soon he has your panties pulled to one side and his thick finger sliding into your dripping folds. Your muffled protests have started slipping into confused moans, and he doesn't need to keep you silent any longer as start kissing him back when your body's frustrated needs take over your mind's denials. Max looks down on your face, memorising how pretty your wide brown eyes looked as you teared up, and he whispers filthy things in your ear to send you off the edge and spiralling into your first orgasm. You're so sensitive, bunny, you’re still a virgin aren’t you? Saved yourself just for me like a good girl, hmm?

You’d silently cried into your plush toy as you buried your flushed face into it, feeling lost in the overwhelming pleasure that you knew you shouldn't be feeling, that was wrong but felt so right. Drool stained your poor bunny plush as you bit down on it to muffle your scream of Maxie as waves of satisfaction rolled over you. You'd fallen back into a deep sleep after the overwhelming stimulation, distantly feeling Max's lips press a goodnight kiss to your tear stained cheeks. And when you awoke in the morning, you almost thought you'd imagined up the whole thing, a particularly naughty wet dream, but when you found that your panties were missing underneath your cute pajama shorts you knew there was only one person who would have taken them with him.

You didn’t even get a chance to confront him because you find out the very same day that Max had gotten his lawyer to cancel your Alpine contract and have Redbull send you a new one, complete with a generous signing bonus that anyone would be a fool to refuse. With your family watching you expectantly, you knew it would be too hard to explain your way out of this. So you reluctantly signed the 1 year contract, telling yourself it was only a temporary problem, that you would surely be hiding out the back of the garage and in the workshops, well away from your childhood bully.

That’s all Max needed to get you alone, to start his corruption of you, his favourite Leclerc sibling. Right from your first day, he’d welcomed you with a firm hug, his swollen biceps pressing you against his broad chest, squeezing your plump ass and making you squeal - but striding off before you could say anything. Or coming up behind you when you were bent over, tinkering on something, and making sure you could feel his impressive semi against your covered slit. You'd always desperately try to move away, anxious someone would see - but you stood no chance against the adult Max's strength when he tightened his grip around your thick hips and grinded himself on your jiggling ass.

He still teased you, sure, but now it came off as harmless flirting, steeped into your childhood friendship. And conflicting feelings swirled in your chest when you saw the lucky ribbon you’d gifting him as a kid somehow still tied to his seat, an ever present good luck charm. Everyone else would smile at you two encouragingly, saying you looked so sweet together, where you secretly a couple? No one seemed to share your nervousness around Redbull's champion driver, or pick up on the undertone of darkness in his intense gaze when he looked at you.

Soon he has you travelling exclusively with him, staying in all the same hotels, under the guise of being his personal mechanic for any last minute corrections. Charles loved it, saying this way Max could always keep a close eye on you when you were away from home. If only your overprotective brother knew he was sending his little sister right into the den of the lion. And the so called Dutch Lion was no longer holding himself back from taking your sweet innocence all for himself.

You'd always belonged to him, after all.

It first started when he’d gotten absolutely furious seeing you at a race afterparty in Miami, giggling cutely in a pretty minidress with an engineer you’d started to flirt with at work. Max had all but dragged you to his private booth, tossing you over his strong shoulder when you tried to stand your ground and stand firmly in your strappy high heels. He kicked all the models and B list celebrities trying to leech out of the dimly lit room, pushing your head down till you were staring up at him, your pretty face bathed in the red neon lights as you anxiously bite your glossed lip.

If you wanted to get fucked so bad, he growled deeply, unbuckling his belt and making your eyes go wide with fear as the biggest cock you’d ever seen emerges, you can just beg for it nicely like the good little slut you are, hmm? You’re sniffling, tears emerging in your wide doe eyes as you beg him please Maxie, please don't do this, I promise I’ll stop-

But he doesn’t listen to one pleading word, his twisted mind obsessed with one thing and one thing only - making the pure Leclerc sweetheart gag and choke on his mean cock. You knew better than to get in the way of what Max wanted, because he always ended up getting it. Instead you let your mind go blank, letting the guilty pleasure cloud your senses to ignore the reality of how mean Max was being, your pliant mouth dropping open as you let him ruin your throat. There isn’t a glimmer of his childhood sweetness in his dark, icy blue eyes as he memorizes the hypnotising sight of your chubby cheeks slurping at raging erection, the tears falling down your face at performing your first blowjob on your knees at a nightclub just making him impossibly harder. He groans as your sweet mouth slurps on his warm length, continuing to whisper his filthy promises to punish you and slipping into dutch as he climaxed. Fuck, fuck, erg lekker, so fucking good- He made sure your crying cheeks was pressed right into his tense abs when he finally emptied his load inside you, panting heavily from how good your heavenly tongue felt. He didn’t move until you followed his instructions and tried to swallow every drop. Your inexperienced mouth struggled, half of his sticky cum leaking out the corners of your mouth. He tutted mockingly, smearing his release all over your swollen lips with his thumb and saying he’d have to give your throat so much more training so it knew how to suck a cock, hmm?

Your cheeks burned with humiliation at failing to please him properly, even though he was practically forcing you to deepthroat him. The next day, when you woke up with no voice, you’d had to pretend you had a cold when seeing Cha for brunch the next morning.

And when he’d have a bad qualifying, he’d easily swipe his way into your hotel room two doors down from his. He often finds you in a cute silky babydoll, getting ready to sleep after a long day in the garage but making sure to dress prettily because you never know when Max is in a bad mood and wants to take it out on you. You had one more job to do, and that’s to make up for whatever mistake you must have made with the car and fucked up his hot lap, Max would argue. An angry Max always scared you so you would sweetly beg for his forgiveness, even for a mistake you would never have made on the car, letting him abuse your petite frame to vent his frustrations.

Tonight, he wanted to play with your breasts, sliding the silky straps off your nightie off your shoulders to hungrily eye your curves, tanned nipples quickly tightening from the chill. Can’t get enough of these pretty fucking tits, he said as he sloppily fucked them while you obediently kneeled in between his spread legs. You’re squeezing your plush chest together to cushion his raging erection, his angry red tip making you squeal when he growls and splatters cum all over your deliciously tanned skin. Knowing he’d get mad if you don’t let him mark his territory, you rub the sticky cream all over your hardened nipples and large breasts before you clean up his drooling cockhead with your mouth. He cooes his praises at you, telling you see, you’re perfect at this, maybe he’ll have you promoted from engineer to his personal cocksleeve to relieve his stress, hmm?

You feel so dirty at the wetness gushing between your legs at his filthy words, biting your lip at the thought of Max fucking you in his driver’s room while your brothers stood just a garage over in Ferrari. But despite his constant teasing, he knew to never cross the line fully and actually fuck you. That would scare you away, make you too anxious, and although he played rough and mean when he'd been younger, he now had the patience to wait and leave you wanting more, so that you'd be the one to come to him. So he edged you constantly, working you up only to pull away just as you almost climaxed, his name on your tongue like a prayer. Or pulling you into sleep against his bare muscled chest, so that you'd feel his morning wood against your soaked panties but be unable to do anything except dry hump him.

And his plan worked because after only a few months, your once pure and innocent mind has become utterly ruined for Max’s attention. The Dutch Lion has convinced you that you’re meant to be his plaything, and you can’t find it within you to try and deny him any longer. Would it truly be so wrong to give in to the naughty desires you’d been having about your childhood sweetheart, your school bully, your brother’s rival on track but friend that had been trusted to keep his little sister safe? When you’d grown too desperate to satisfy yourself by grinding on your pillow or your tiny fingers, you’d decided to entice Max even more in the hopes that he’d properly take your innocence.

You’d certainly caught the Dutchman’s eye, as well as many other hungry gazes, when you started arriving on the paddock in cute heels and floral minidresses. And of course, your generous cleavage was out on full display in sweetheart necklines, instead of conservatively hidden in an oversized Redbull shirt. You’d made sure to have your lanyard tucked right in between your bouncing tits too, the label of Max Verstappen’s Enineering Team dangling and drawing attention with each bounce of your tits when you walked. Because you knew your Maxie just as well as he knew you, after all - and he was a intensely competitive and jealous man. You hadn’t even had to wait till the debrief as he’d hightailed it right out of the meeting room, taking you to his motor home through a back passage.

You still play the clueless little virgin, adamant on trying to resist him even though you're secretly finding it just as dirty and hot as Max does when he shoves you against the door, locking it firmly. Fuck, your body drives me wild, it’s all your fault that I’m getting distracted like this. How can you be such a naive virgin but walk around with the body of a slut just begging to get fucked, huh?

You frantically shake your head, trying to plead your innocence but he doesn’t hear your words, instead grabbing a hold of your miniskirt and asking if you understood girls with thick asses like you shouldn’t be showing them off unless you wanted attention, yeah? You started crying easily, already finding your thoughts going fuzzy as you slipped into submission, craving the way he’d degrade you for his own pleasure.

He’d have to punish you for distracting him, he said, even though he’d won P1 it had been torture seeing your fat ass bending over when you dropped your phone in front of him. You were lucky no one else had seen your cotton panties or he’d have to fucking kill them.

His possessive words make you shiver, doe brown eyes staring up at him expectantly and waiting for his orders. He swears at your obedient expression and guides your hand to his sizeable bulge, making you squeal, hoping it sounds like fright and not eagerness. He rubs your tiny palm across his pants, demanding to know just how the hell he was meant to focus with a hard on the whole race?

When you can’t answer him properly he smirks and tells you that you’ll just have to take your punishment like a good girl, then. Within seconds he has you lying across his lap, your miniskirt up around your hips and white cotton panties pulled down to snugly trap your thick thighs together. And then he’s spanking you with his large hands, telling you to count and meanly restarting each time you lost track when he hits extra hard to watch your ass bounce. By the time he’s finally content your cheeks are red and burning, and you’ve left drool all over his sofa from your desperate efforts to muffle your wails.

You like that, don’t you bunny? He asks meanly. You start sniffling again at his mean words, cheeks burning with humiliation because it had felt soooo good but you felt so naughty for enjoying it. You'd die if he found out. So instead you tell him he was being so mean, Maxie, couldn’t he just be nice to you like when he’d been younger?

Your eyes widen as you blurt the words out instinctively, making Max’s expression grow stormy at your bratty reply. Ripping your panties off entirely, he stuffs them into his pocket and tells you to explain why you’re fucking dripping all over me then, hmm? - running his thick fingers along your dripping cunny and smirking at the long strands of sticky wetness that connect to his fingers when he pulls away. When you don’t respond, too embarrassed by how your body has given you away, he slides the fingers into your closed mouth despite your attempts to turn your head. He makes you lick him clean, tasting yourself on him, murmuring if you were a good slut and spread your legs for him he might consider eating you out.

The ache between your thighs is almost as painful as your tender ass now, and your virgin cunny tingles from the idea of Max kissing you down there. Even though he’s being so mean, you can’t help but sit down willingly against the sofa arm and slowly part your thick thighs, blushing all the while as he examines you intently. You whine when his hungry gaze continues to linger, but he doesn’t stop, even taking out his phone to snap photos of your pussy after holding your thighs open to stop you frantically closing them when you see what he’s doing. It’s so cute and wet he murmurs distractedly, looking entranced as he slowly sinks a single thick finger in and finds it completely sucked in by your tight, drooling pussy. Really, you’ve never let any boy except for me touch you here, not even with his fingers? At the shake of your head and shy murmur of no, just my own, I promise, Maxie he breaks into an evil, satisfied grin. So this little hole is really all mine to claim, huh?

It turns out going down on you was really more of a punishment than a pleasure because he makes you cum multiple times with his skilled tongue. You’re begging him to stop, feeling overstimulated and completely wrecked, mascara stained tears running over your chubby cheeks. When he finally eases his sadistic torture after teasing flicks of his broad tongue have you squirting a third time, you’re too fucked out to protest him separating your puffy cunny lips and spitting onto it, as if it belonged to him. Bunny, if your brothers knew the kind of things I was doing to their precious baby sister, Max says, chuckling darkly. They’d want to slam me straight into the nearest barricade and have my head on a spike.

But your brothers remain as oblivious to your corruption as ever, with an endless supply of work excuses easily being used by Max and now you, as you started to fully give in and enjoy the intense pleasure being his personal fucktoy brought you. He’d taken your sweet virginity on a hot night in Singapore after beating Charles to P1, telling you that the best reward wasn’t the trophy but knowing he got to cum raw inside your untouched cunny. After plying you with champagne at the yacht afterparty, he'd taken you back and fucked you on the French chaise, not even making it to the bed. He’d been gentle the first time, huskily whispering praises in your ears as you desperately tried to adjust to the size, his cock so much larger than his fingers. He licked away the tears at the corner of your eyes as you bite his shoulder, lost in the waves of pleasure as you ride out your orgasm.

When he finally carries you over to the bed, climbing over your satisfied figure, you’re fooled into thinking he’s going to cuddle you. He’s turning you onto your front and you’re expecting to feel him behind you, bringing you into him as his little spoon like he does ever night. But your sleepy eyes go wide open when your thick hips are suddenly pulled up into the air, and your flushed face pressed down firmly into the sheets. And then he huskily whispers it’s time to fuck you properly, be a good bunny for me and take it, okay?

You wailed into the cushions, your open mouth leaving drool all over the pillowcases, as his cock bullies your tight cunny over and over. He reaches around to toy with your sensitive clit, smirking when your crying turned into confused moans of pleasure as the pressure in your pussy starts to feel so good. Soon he’s slamming his hard length into your twitching figure, slapping your red plump ass repeatedly and telling you how funny it’d be if Charlie found out his rival had claimed your virginity, hmm? Should he tell him next time the Ferrari driver tried to one up him on the track? You sob, begging him not to tell your protective brother, shaking your ass onto him and telling him he could even cum inside if he wanted instead of telling your brother. Max groans at your gullibility. Silly girl, he croons as he bends down to whisper in your ear, his muscled abs pressing down on you. I was always going to do that anyways, hmm? This ass belongs to me.

And then he’s moaning into your drooling mouth as his hips still above yours, draining his heavy balls into your pussy that had already been stuffed full of his thick, creamy load from the first round. Rivulets of your mixed juices run down the inside of your thighs, overflowing from the sheer amount of cum he’s pumped you full of. You know better than to ask him to wear a condom, instead praying that it was the wrong time of the month to get knocked up. Especially when he doesn’t let you get up and try to pee it out, instead murmuring he’s just going to stuff a couple of fingers inside and make sure you don’t waste anymore, okay? You try to resist, crawling away and wanting to save your poor, overstimulated clit but once again Max easily holds you still. Hmm, guess I’ll just have to teach you a lesson and use my cock to plug you up, he threatens meanly, making tears fall down your face again and his dick twitches with interest. Every man had his pleasures, and world champion Max Verstappen’s was to see the Leclerc baby sister crying and begging for him. Sick bastard, you think distantly through a pleasurable haze as he sinks back inside your gummy walls and makes you keep his cock warm.

Your secret affair with the Dutch Lion continues easily throughout the year. And at the end of your contract, at the yearly FIA prizegiving, you attend with Charles instead of with the Redbull team, dutifully doing your part as the Leclerc sister now that your term at a rival garage was done. At one point you get up from dinner, saying you had to find the bathroom, but end up gone for 20 minutes, missing Cha being awarded overtake of the year for when his Ferrari had divebombed the leading Redbull. Later, when everyone is mingling, Charles walks over to Max’s table, shaking his hand and taking a seat to reminisce about the season. They’d come so far together from their childhood karting days, wasn’t it heartwarming now that they stood together on the F1 stage?

The two men laugh, catching up on missed updates during the busy end of season. Soon they’re talking about their love lives, Max congratulating Cha on his relationship he’s recently made public. The Ferrari driver warmly returns the compliment, saying whoever the Redbull driver was seeing recently must be treating him well because he’s never seen Max so relaxed before. He’s seen the gossip magazines speculate who the silhouette of a mystery girl seen making out on Max’s lap in a paparrazi shot through his car window. Max slyly commented that it was good the camera hadn’t been able to go lower, because then they’d have seen that she’d actually been bouncing on my dick underneath her skirt. Charles laughs at Max’s deviousness, patting him on the back for being such a shameless fucker.

Charles had forgotten to go find the youngest Leclerc, which was just as well because he would never have been able to guess where you had been hiding. You’re diligently on your knees, drooling on Max’s cock underneath the tablecloth, safely tucked in close between his spread legs. Your brother is completely unaware that the girl he and Max are joking about is his innocent baby sister, who’s currently worshipping his rival’s thick length eagerly. Paying the price for her brother’s overtake on the track with her glossy pink lips, just as Max had ordered you too when he found out what award his rival was getting tonight.

As the night continues, all formality lost as the party goers make use of the open bar, it was all to easy for the blonde Dutchman to make you follow him to the private bathroom. It’s so degrading, so mean of Max to do this, to have you on the dirty bathroom floor with your pretty curls unpinned from the classy updo you’d spend ages styling. Your expensive red silk dress hangs off your hips and exposes your bare, bouncing tits to his hungry gaze. So slutty, no bra and all, hmm? You wanted me to fuck you tonight, didn’t you? Answer me! He slaps his hard length repeatedly against your chubby cheeks, spraying precum everywhere and making your perfect makeup run.

Soon mascara stained tears are dripping down your face as Max makes you finish sloppily sucking him off, his phone camera on you and recording every single filthy sound that fills the air. It’s obscene, the way his huge cock stretches your small plush lips open all the way and your eyes roll to the back of your head every time his tip grazes the back of your throat. Hmm, so eager to drink my cum, aren’t you? He coos, and you nod dazedly, your doe eyes glassy. Fuck, you’re such a good little slut, letting me do whatever I want you to your body. My own personal fucktoy. Bet you’d even let me piss down your throat if I wanted, huh?

You gag at this, trying to shake your head but finding it impossible with the strong grip he has on your hair. Max chuckles at your panicked expression, reassuring you not to worry, he wasn’t that mean. You don’t believe him, because later he bends you over the bathroom counter and makes you look in the mirror to see where his leaking cock repeatedly sinks in to the hilt, stretching your cunny out yet again, filling it with his thick seed. You text Cha some excuse about feeling unwell and leaving early as Max buckles you into his passenger seat, knowing there was no way you could explain your absolutely wrecked appearance to your brother afterwards.

You’ve realized that the legal end of your Redbull contract really had no say on anything. Because at the end of the day the only thing that mattered was what Max wanted - and he wanted you to stay by his side, forever. So you let him take your hand in his a few months later at Lorenzo’s wedding, revealing the secret relationship to your family. Your mother is overjoyed, telling you both that you always had her blessing, ever since you’d been kids. Your brothers take a lot more convincing, of course, as well as Max swearing privately to Cha that you certainly hadn’t been the girl from the paparazzi car incident, he’d never treat the Leclerc princess like that of course! He was a playboy before, sure, but for you he was willing to stop all that and commit.

Charles gives you two his begrudging yes, seeing how attentive Max was with you, always intently watching you whenever you entered the same room as him and always knowing where you were if you walked away. And the way you’d look up adoringly at the blonde, desire and love clear in your doe eyes. Soon you’ve accepted Max’s offer to move into his penthouse, unpacking all the lingerie and diamond necklace sets he’s been buying you for months. And when he comes home at the end of a tiring day, sighing and settling on the living room couch, you now know to anticipate Max’s needs before he has to tell you. You crawl over to him, wearing skimpy lingerie in his favourite colour, nuzzling your face into his clothed thigh and asking please Maxie, could you please suck him off, your mouth felt empty without him?

He places a loving kiss to your forehead and unbuckles his belt for you, cooing praises at what a good little pet you were being for him. This time, when he cums, you have no issue greedily swallowing every single drop of his hot, sticky cum, licking your well trained lips. So yummy, Maxie…Would you like my pussy or my ass next?

He smirks down at your slutty words, a dazed expression on your face, dumbly ready to please him however he liked, whenever he was in the mood, wherever he wants it. Nothing quite beats having his own personal toy, even if it’s taken some time to break you in. Doesn’t matter now, though, because it has been worth it. Because you’ll never leave his side again, completely devoted to him, the concept of being with any other man ruined for you.

Time for him to make good on his childhood promise, Max thinks. Make you his vrouw, his wife, once and for all.

[steviewashere]

STEVE HARRINGTON IS A LOVER AND SO I PROPOSE:

Him crushing so hard on Eddie. Just head over heels kind of crushing. And Eddie's teasing him and lightly jabbing at him and being his usual sarcastic, nerdy, charming (in that unintentional way) self. So Steve just grabs Eddie by the face—mid-conversation by the way—and peppers Eddie's forehead, cheeks, and nose with little pecks.

He pulls back and has this embarrassed, overwhelmed blush on his face. There's hearts in his eyes. And he can't stop himself from smiling, so he's trying to close his lips around his teeth, but he can't!! Because he's grinning too big!!! Because he's in love!!!

And he pulls his hands away and they're shaking a little because he's so nervous and jittery and—again—IN LOVE!! So he starts fidgeting with the sleeves of his jacket or plucking the fabric of his shirt or running his fingers through his hair.

And then Eddie grabbing him back just as fiercely, but giving him a big smooch on the lips instead!

Steve is just literal jello at that point. Completely weak in the knees, ends up needing to grab on Eddie's elbows or shoulders for support. He's giggling through the kiss and he won't close his eyes because he wants to see Eddie's face and he's so overwhelmed with love in his heart. He's warm all over and he can't stop giggling and he's trying to catch his breath, but it's almost impossible. And, y'know what, he'd probably start stimming honestly—like rocking up on his toes or scrunching his fingers in Eddie's shirt or continuing to huff little laughs or something.

HE IS JUST EXPERIENCING SO MUCH LOVE AND PASSION THAT HE HAS TO GET IT OUT!!! Cuteness aggression! Steve has cuteness aggression! He's a little lovebug! He's wearing his heart on his sleeve! He gets an upset stomach if he feels like he's about to be rejected! He literally can't calm down or be normal if somebody reciprocates his feelings! He's like a high energy dog that needs to take a run around the park before he can get anything done!

He is always up for a kiss. He's a touchy guy—petting his hand down his partner's back or lifting them in the air or dancing with them or walking arm in arm with them or hand holding or piggy-backing or cuddling on the couch or or or

Steve would be such lover boy and Eddie needs to be hit with the force of his love! Steve's a sun-powered laser beam of love and he is charged up!

[godricgryffinsnore]

fred weasley x gf!reader who’s actually incredibly smart. and fred fucking loves to listen to her ramble abt something new she learned, all dazed looking, with a big grin on his face as he stares at her lips move. and when he gets cuteness aggression, he’ll grab her face and kiss her all sloppy, no matter where they are. his favorite thing ever is watching his super smart gf become incredibly dumb when he fucks her. (she doesn’t have to be ravenclaw, she’s just smart kinda like hermione)

Brains and Bedhead ♡ : A Fred Weasley Fan Fiction.

pairing : Fred Weasley x fem!reader.

summary : A playful and passionate look into Fred Weasley’s love for his brilliant girlfriend—where wit meets worship, rambling turns to romance, and being smart has very unexpected consequences.

warnings : Suggestive content / implied sexual activity, Light smut (no explicit scenes, but strong innuendos), Mild language, Overwhelming fluff and humor, Fred Weasley being absolutely feral for his genius girlfriend. Please let me know if I missed any.

author's note : English is not my first language, so please forgive me for any grammatical errors or spelling errors. Re-blogging is completely fine with me, but please don't copy my work. I love you all. Enjoy <3.

della's note : Anon!!! Your request was so good, I almost finished the entire fiction in one night!!! IT WAS SUCH A CUTE FIC TO WRITE AND MY BRAIN WAS SCREAMING WITH LINES AND IDEAS. THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING, ANON!!!!

word count : 0.6k

main master list <3

banners : @seldomstardom and @saradika-graphics

There was something almost divine about the way her mouth moved when she was excited about something. Fred Weasley didn’t quite believe in religion—unless you counted Quidditch or pranking professors—but when his girlfriend started talking about something she’d read, or theorized, or revolutionized in her pretty little head, he stared at her like a man at church. Worshipful. Dazed. Slightly drooling.

She was currently mid-ramble, pacing their shared dorm room with parchment tucked under one arm and her dressing gown half-falling off her shoulder—hair in disarray, wand stuck in it like a quill forgotten behind a poet’s ear.

“And if you apply vector transfiguration to a binding hex, you could theoretically reverse it—Fred, are you even listening?”

He wasn’t. He was staring. At her lips.

At the way they curved, pursed, twitched with thought. She was all bright-eyed brilliance and he was the dumb puppy who’d been hit by Cupid’s Howler.

“You’ve got the prettiest little mouth, you know that?” he murmured, leaning against the wall, hair a mess and shirt half-buttoned.

She blinked. “That’s not relevant to the theoretical implications of—mmf!”

He launched. With a gleam in his eye, he crossed the room in three long-legged strides, grabbed her face in both hands, and smashed a kiss to her lips—sloppy, breath-stealing, completely derailing.

“Fred—!” she gasped mid-smooch, but he just kept kissing her, chuckling between breaths.

“You’re too bloody smart for your own good, sweetheart,” he murmured against her mouth. “Makes me wanna kiss you stupid.”

And Merlin did he mean it.

She melted instantly—speechless for once, brain gone fuzzy like someone cast a silencing charm on her intelligence. She clung to his shoulders like they were anchors, and Fred felt the smug grin curl on his lips.

“Was that a theory on transfiguration or just dirty talk?” he teased, pulling back only an inch.

“I—I don’t remember,” she mumbled, dazed, eyes glazed over.

Fred beamed.

── .✦

He loved how clever she was. Really, he did. The way her mind worked was poetry with teeth. She could predict potion reactions like chess moves and memorize spells faster than anyone in the year.

But his favorite thing?

His absolute favorite thing was when that big, brilliant, overachieving brain of hers turned to mush.

Because when he had her in bed—her limbs tangled in sheets and her pretty lips parted with breathless gasps—his genius girlfriend became the most delicious, mindless, babbling mess he’d ever seen.

“Oh, fuck—Fred, I can’t—I can’t think—”

“Yeah?” he rasped, dragging his lips down her neck, utterly pleased with himself. “That clever little brain all scrambled now, love?”

She nodded, glassy-eyed, and he nearly groaned with how hot that was.

“You’re so good at everything, except thinking when I’m inside you, huh?”

Her only reply was a whimper.

── .✦

The next morning, he found her in the library, hair tied up again, glasses perched on her nose, and seven books stacked in front of her. She looked like a war general preparing for an academic siege.

Fred leaned over the table and whispered, “Still recovering from last night’s brain damage, darling?”

She flushed a deep crimson but didn’t look up.

“Shut up, Weasley.”

“Oh, that’s Mr. Weasley, certified IQ destroyer, to you.”

She shoved a book in his face, but he could see the smile tugging at her lips.

Fred kissed her temple and whispered, “I love you, brainiac.”

She rolled her eyes, muttering something about dopamine receptors and oxytocin, but he swore he saw her blush reach her ears.

And as he walked away, he turned and whispered, “Same time tonight?”

She didn’t answer. But she did bookmark her page with trembling fingers.

[aesthetixhoe]

warnings: none! ill make more with nsfw things later !

CURRENTLY THINKING ABOUT my chuckle sandwich head cannons

ted:

loves being called teddy and theo but no one else calls him it :(

loves when you steal his clothes and pretends to not know where they went

forehead kisser

olive theory (or pickles, tomatoes, onion, whatever you like and he pretends not to do you can have extra)

“sweetheart”

“honey”

hugs from behind with head kisses

where he towers over you

the party was…fine. following the streamy awards, the venue being filled with content creators… which you were not. ted went to go get drinks, leaving you alone. a fish out of water. after some time standing alone awkwardly, you pull your phone out briefly to check the time and your notifications. as you’re clearing them you feel two arms come around your middle.

you momentarily flinch, caught off guard, but as soon as you feel a kiss pressed to the top of your head you relax. you turn, looking up and finding ted, craning your neck to meet his eyes.

“scare ya, hon?” he chuckles, feeling you turn around in his arms.

“just a little.” you giggle, taking the glass from his hand. “was fine when you kissed me though…” you smile slyly up at him.

“oh yeah?” he raises an eyebrow, following along with your train of thought. “how ‘bout i give you another hmm?” you beam up at him, nodding. he leans down empty hand pulling you closer by your waist, pressing his lips to yours. you smile against his mouth,exhaling softly through your nose. when you pull back and meet his eyes they’re practically shining down at you with adoration. “love showing you off, sweetheart.”

love language is touch

also words of affirmation

he says “i love you” probably 3 times an hour

loves date nights

takes candid pictures of you often (how can he not, you’re so pretty)

charlie:

when cuddling he holds your stomach so he can feel when you laugh

loves cooking for you

he often wakes up before you so he’ll make breakfast for you to wake up to

loves teaching you how to play dnd (or a different game if you already know dnd)

rock gifter

so many inside jokes

“babe”

kiss monster

“c’mere.” he says as soon as you walk into the living room with your dinner.

“char, i need to eat…” you say, sitting down beside him on the couch.

“just a second, promise.” he smiles over at you. you give him a quick peck on the lips. bad choice. he smiles evilly before you get pushed back in the couch, charlie on top of you stopping you from getting out of his grasp. he has your hands above your head, his lips kissing you wherever he can reach. your neck, your chest, he moves up to your face attacking you with his quick kisses.

you can’t conceal the giggles falling out of your mouth with his cuteness aggression. “char!” you laugh out, but to no avail. he won’t stop until he’s satisfied. he finally pulls back after covering every inch of you with his kisses. “you’re relentless!” you sigh out, getting your hands back and wrapping your arms around his neck. you pull him down to touch your lips to his, a slow, gentle kiss this time. you feel each other smiling against each others mouths.

“i have to reheat my food now!” you groan out, a soft laugh following.

will burry his head in your neck

love language is physically touch or acts of service

schlatt:

loves when you wear his clothes

quickest way to his heart is his cats

isn’t big on pda

but he will have a hand on your back guiding or holds pinkies with you to not lose you

he actually does use toots

but he also uses angel

puts his hands on your waist when standing behind you. which he often does

very introverted and doesn’t go out much

love language is quality time

every other one he brushes off by saying “it’s not big deal” or “it’s nothin’ special”

“oh hey, i got you somethin’. i left in on the counter for ya.” he says simply, walking into the living room. you get up, confused. no anniversary, no birthday… did he get you food?

you get to the counter and sitting in the middle is a long rectangular box. you furrow your brows and open it, revealing a tiffany & co necklace you saw online and really wanted. it just wasn’t in your budget for this month.

“jay… no way you bought this for me.” you half scoff in disbelief walking back into the living room.

“eh, it was nothin’. i saw you eyeing’ it on your phone couple of weeks ago. figured why not?” he says looking up at you, a slight smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. you jump into his lap, tackling him in a hug.

lowkey a sugar daddy…

sings softly around the house and gets flustered when you hear

drive by ruffles your hair

is actually a big cuddler. loves having his head laid on some part of you

[suhtorus]

something's fishy. gojo satoru

fluff. ₊˚⊹ ᰔ parents au, non sorcerer au, family fluff, unnamed gojo sons, baby talk with a little lisp cuz they're babies <3

little sunshines au

"let's see if we got somethin'!"

your five-year-old grins excitedly at you, tugging at the rope attached to the perch trap. the sun is bright, and the waters of the lake are pretty calm, making it a perfect day for your two sons to see the fishes.

with your phone in hand, you make sure your husband can watch this too through the videocall, his smile matching your son's as he encourages him.

"hurry up, mochi! did you catch any fishies?"

you flip the camera, so now you and your toddler are in frame, your hand resting on his tummy to make sure he doesn't run off to the edge of the dock.

"say hi to papa."

the bright blue eyes of your toddler watch satoru through the screen and your husband beams at the sight of his cheek squished against yours.

"hi, baby." his little fingers wiggle at his dad through the screen. ever since he picked up on your husband calling you that, he's been saying it back at him. "fishie."

satoru coos at his two-year-old, wanting so badly to munch on his chubby cheeks. he fell victim to cuteness aggression as soon as the first baby was born.

the excited gasp of your other son brings all three pairs of eyes back to him, "I got one!"

flipping the camera back at him, you tell him to show off the fish to his dad.

"woahhh, that one's giant!" satoru is quick to praise him, giving a thumbs up through the screen, "good job, mochi. that's my boy!"

the toddler squirms out of your grasp and joins his brother, wanting to see the fish as well.

"gimmie fishie." he demands, but only half a second goes by before his eyes widen, looking back at you in slight fear before adding, "pwease."

you and satoru observe the two boys as they marvel at the fish in their hands, your toddler cradling it close to his chest, and you can't help but wince—his shirt is definitely going to smell.

"you wanna thwow it in?"

his brother asks him, and a little nod is all you get before he's letting it fall from his little fingers and onto the water without a second thought.

"buh-bye fishie, mwah."

you watch, in horror, as your toddler sends a flying kiss to the fish with the same hand that held it.

"o-kaaaay... time for a bath."