#I exist to make men uncomfortable

[mockoo2]

Bought the perfect book to read at work yesterday to ward off the old men who call me sweetheart and the middle aged ones who want me to go out with them

And sure enough I had some random guy come up to me and do the whatcha reading bull and I flipped it open and looked at him, said nothing, just smiled slightly, and he just went “ah. Cool” and left so it’s working splendidly :)

[rosalesbeausderholle]

I just... I know I'm weird but my personal concept of lesbianism and womanhood and feminism and everything (and the way these three things overlap and intertwine) has always been so disassociated and separated and even oppositional to and from men in general that the mere idea of needlessly inserting them there makes my fucking skin crawl. Like, discourse about fluid sexuality, lesbians heavily performing very heteronormative roles, lack of questioning gender roles, inserting anything sapphic in very heteronormative, male gazey or downright heterosexual activities, (like those posts claiming those girls doing each others make up were gay), desexing lesbianism due to only conceptualizing sex through phallocentric lenses, etc. Why can't you be normal and be proud of yourself and not have to relate everything about your existence back to men and patriarchal norms? It's not even just that it's pathetic, heteronormative and misogynistic, it's that it's utterly bewildering. You can get to a point where you loudly and proudly proclaim yourself to be lesbian/bi/sapphic/queer and yet everything you do, everyway you think, is still filtered through the lenses of patriarchal heteronormativity and you claim this is revolutionary and don't see any contradiction in it at all?

[inkats]

my boy-coded behaviour for most my life makes my exploration of gender due to newfound freedom era lean more into feminine things but my anti-capitalist feminist value system makes this feel like a betrayal of my moral code.

[perilegs]

i thought we were done equating looks with morality... why are there still people talking about solas' baldness and him being evil in the same breath 🤨

[lord-squiggletits]

Man there's nothing wrong with genderbends as a concept but there's something lowkey infuriating about this fandom's tendency to take canonically gay (or at least, MLM) male characters and genderbend them into women like. Is that not at least a little bit uncomfortable for anyone else here or is it just me

[bumblingbabooshka]

Gallery Piece of Montreal is how I think of Suder/Tuvok

[unproduciblesmackdown]

billions also comedy gold presenting winston as a scapegoat for abuse culture fans when it's like but hey it can't be actual scapegoating if you Enjoy It or consider it Justified or experience Reassurance from Its Opportunity For A Group Cohesion Substitute For A Cohesion Based On An Inherent Equal Degree Of Belonging, The Absence Of Which Allows For, Encourages, Reinforces, & Rewards Scapegoating

it can't be Bullying if someone's Weird or you Just Don't Personally Like Them or Nobody's Actually Stopping You, Maybe At Least If They Don't See Too Much Of It, Maybe Others Are Supporting It

it can't be Abuse if you're just doing things Normally or are Following Rules or Aren't Feeling Malicious And Aren't Getting Divine Revelations Otherwise and probably it's just that a lot of abnormal people are being whiny &/or unfair &/or the Real malicious ones. kinda just like how that scapegoat is the real person ruining everything and really just forcing you to treat them like this

[the-chaos-crew]

this tman can hold so much mommy issues

explain your gender in 10 words or less without using boring words like “male”, “female”, “nonbinary”, “masculine”, “feminine” or “androgynous”.

go!

[cultstatus]

a lot of people are dismissing the "violent" rap music rushing and scrambling to say well not ALL rap is violent here's some rappers who don't rap about violence but like. idk. I think the "violent" rap is important to listen to as well. do you know why gangs exist? do you know why Compton is the way that it is? can you listen to the experiences of black men when you can't personally relate on any level? or will you dismiss an entire genre of music because certain sub genres make you feel a bit uncomfortable as a non-black person?

[busket]

the biggest tip i can say about trans inclusive language when discussing anatomy is to just say what you mean without trying to find a euphemism, and to be specific to the conversation that you're having. if you're having a conversation about childbirth, say "people who can give birth". not everyone who can give birth is a woman and not every woman can give birth (both trans and cis), so don't say "women" or "mothers" or "females", you don't even have to say like "womb haver" or whatever. "person who can give birth" is specific and clear if you're talking about childbirth.

if you're talking about penis and testes, just say that. "men" in that context is cis-centric. "amab genitals" means nothing, since trans women can have bottom surgery, and intersex people exist in all kinds of physical expressions of sex.

avoid sexualized terms like tits/boobs (use breasts) or dick, balls, etc. those terms take on a context that can make folks feel uncomfortable about their anatomy due to the sexual context. I feel uncomfortable when people try to be inclusive and say shit like "pussy haver" but if I'm reading a medical article about vaginas I'd much rather it be addressed to "people with vaginas" rather than "women"

the more we separate language of body parts from gender identities and actually start speaking frankly and respectfully about anatomy without acting like its some taboo, the better it will be for trans and intersex people. it can help cis people too. you can be a cis woman who doesn't have a womb, you can be a cis man who doesn't have penis or testes. imo this kind of language is inclusive not only for gender non-conforming people but everyone with a physical difference in their sex characteristics, due either to genetics or a lived experience!

[julietsf1]

Strawberry Season - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she was his plus-one, his accessory, his afterthought. but Lando Norris? he made her laugh before her boyfriend even noticed she’d stopped smiling (6.7k words)

content: sad/comfort, slow burn, he falls first, stuck in bad relationship (non-graphic), mutual pining, mention of fish!

AN: I was having a nostalgic day and suddenly I remembered Shawn Mendes exists. listened to Treat You Better and now boom this was made. big kiss to you all!! don't forget you deserve someone who makes you smile <3

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

The Hôtel Hermitage had a way of dressing the evening in silk and scent—amber light dancing off champagne flutes, velvet murmurs weaving between notes of string quartets, the faint hush of the sea just beyond the terrace.

You arrived on your boyfriend's arm, perfectly polished, smelling faintly of oud and confidence. Your gown—a midnight blue silk with delicate beading at the shoulders—glistened like the reflection of stars on still water. He, in a tuxedo he hadn’t even ironed himself, gave you a cursory once-over, the kind usually reserved for window displays or weather forecasts.

"You clean up well. When you try," he remarked, the words soaked in backhanded charm and just enough volume to make the sommelier glance over with subtle disapproval. "Didn’t expect that dress to actually work on you."

Then he kissed your temple like one might stamp a document—detached, obligatory—and peeled off toward a group of men with hedge funds and zero personalities, tossing the comment like a grenade dipped in cologne. He chuckled at his own wit before they even reacted, already anticipating the hollow laughter of men who mistook cruelty for charisma.

You blinked once, twice, then turned on your heel and made for the bar.

"One strawberry martini, please," you said to the bartender, your voice calm and glossy, though your chest felt like it was holding its breath. The bartender gave a subtle nod and began working in quiet sympathy.

You leaned your elbow on the marble and exhaled. Your reflection in the mirrored back wall looked elegant and mildly amused. That, at least, you could live with.

"Your boyfriend’s tux looks like it’s been through customs, dry-cleaned with a rock, and ironed with a shoe."

You turned. The man beside you held a glass of something expensive and looked far too pleased with himself. He was, annoyingly, the kind of handsome that didn’t need to try. Hair—perfectly careless. Smile—dangerously self-aware. The overall vibe? Trouble, tailored in what I assume is Tom Ford.

You laughed, sharp and immediate. "Do you know I spent half the afternoon trying to convince him to iron that shirt? Offered him a steamer. He looked personally victimized by the concept of chores. Hopeless."

He looked delighted. "So this was a collaborative failure. Now I feel bad for mocking it. Sort of."

"Don’t. I made one polite suggestion and he acted like I’d insulted his entire lineage. I refuse to be held responsible for his fashion choices," you said, the corners of your mouth finally giving in to a smile. The knot in your chest loosened just a little—this was the most fun you’d had all evening.

"I can’t tie my own ties," he offered casually. "So really, who am I to talk?"

"What do you do, then? Just let your girlfriend do it for you?"

"No girlfriend, just clip-ons. Or my mate George. He’s so posh he probably learned to tie a bow tie before he could tie his own shoes."

You laughed again, lighter this time. The sound surprised you with how easy it felt.

"Well," you said, "I can't even walk in my So Kates for an hour, so I’m in no position to judge anyone tonight."

His eyebrows lifted like you'd said you walked here barefoot. "That’s borderline inhumane. Those are incredibly uncomfortable, right?"

"Horrible," you admitted, sipping your drink. "But the real perk is that I now have a perfectly valid excuse to leave this party in about thirty minutes."

He tapped his glass against yours. "To noble suffering."

"And men who can’t tie ties."

"Ouch. That was personal."

You grinned, the martini smoothing out something tight in your chest. The conversation rolled along like it had always been waiting for an excuse to begin.

"Lando," he said suddenly, extending a hand.

"Nice to meet you, Lando," you replied, taking it, your grip easy, your smile laced with light amusement.

You tilted your head slightly. "I think I recognise you—from the racing, right?"

His brow quirked, caught somewhere between pleased and intrigued. "Guilty."

You sipped your drink, eyes glinting. "Well, it’s easy to remember a face like that."

"In the positive way?"

You rolled your eyes at him. "Please."

His posture straightened just a touch. The smirk didn’t leave his face, but something about it softened at the edges.

"I’ll try not to let that go to my head," he said, a beat late, his voice just a little warmer, his eyes twinkling amused. 

"You already did."

"Unfair. That was disarming. You’re very good at this."

"At what?" you said, feigning innocence.

"Catching me off guard in a way that’s... annoyingly effective."

"I have a talent," you said, sipping your drink.

"You do," he replied, gaze lingering just a second too long before he added, "and you’re very distracting."

You arched a brow. "Good distracting or 'tripped-over-my-own-feet' distracting?"

"Bit of both. Still deciding."

You laughed, shaking your head, the edge of your smile refusing to leave.

And just like that, the night took on a different hue. The room still sparkled, but its edges softened. You talked about Monaco in winter, about awful hotel carpets, about how Lando once tried to cook pasta in a kettle. There were no pauses, no polite silences. It was ridiculous and lovely and utterly unserious.

At some point, your boyfriend reappeared in the distance, laughing too loudly with someone whose blazer had dragons embroidered on the sleeves.

Lando clocked it instantly. "Should I spill something on him? Not on purpose, obviously. But also maybe very much on purpose."

"Tempting," you said.

He set his glass down. "But we’re too elegant for that."

"Allegedly."

The music swelled, a slow turn from something glittering into something that signaled the end of the night.

You sighed and glanced at the crowd. "I should go find him."

Lando leaned against the bar with a smirk. "Are you sure? He gives off strong 'brings up his net worth in casual conversation' energy."

You smirked. "You’re terrible."

"But right."

"No comment."

As you walked away, he called after you, "Next time, I’m bringing backup shoes for you."

You didn’t turn. But your smile stayed with you, long after the violins began their last swell.

…

The paddock terrace buzzed with the sort of energy only Monaco could host—where money didn’t whisper, it practically shouted through linen suits and Hermès bags, and everything smelled faintly of jet fuel and overpriced champagne.

You arrived on your boyfriend’s arm, your heels clicking softly on the polished concrete, your dress catching the breeze in a way that had drawn more than a few glances already. The adrenaline in the air was contagious. You couldn’t help it—you were excited. This was your home turf, after all. Monaco at its absolute peak.

You leaned over slightly, catching your first glimpse of the pit lane just below the terrace’s glass railing. The sound, the scent, the movement—it all made your heart flicker.

“This is amazing,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I can actually feel the vibration of the engines from here.”

Your boyfriend barely glanced up from his phone. “Yeah it’s whatever,” he muttered. “Look—those guys in the corner, that’s who I need to speak to. Go entertain yourself, will you?”

You opened your mouth, but he was already off, striding toward a group of Loro Piana-clad finance types who looked like they’d never broken a sweat in their lives. One of them gave you a cursory glance before turning his attention back to whatever new tax loophole they were dissecting.

Left alone, you drifted toward the edge of the terrace, your fingers lightly brushing the glass. You looked in the distance, taking in the beautiful track. The air that smelled like tyre smoke. Somewhere, a commentator’s voice crackled through loudspeakers.

Then you heard it—cutting through the din like it was aimed just for you.

“Hey, Strawberry!”

You blinked, turned your head.

Down in the pit lane, Lando was looking directly at you, leaning casually against the garage barrier with his helmet tucked under one arm and a grin that bordered on criminal. “Good to see you again!” he called up, already looking far too pleased with himself.

Your smile widened despite yourself.

He pointed upward, voice still carrying. “What? You thought I’d forget your cocktail of choice? Strawberry martini, wasn’t it?”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled out of you. A few heads turned to see who he was yelling at. You gave a little wave, pretending not to enjoy the attention.

"Fancy seeing you here."

“You look bored up there!” he shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth for dramatic flair. “Wanna come down and see where the fun actually happens?”

You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued.

He motioned toward the stairs behind you. “Come on, Strawberry. I’ll even let you wear the team radio.”

You glanced back toward the terrace. Your boyfriend was still deep in conversation, probably pitching himself like a startup, laughing with one hand in his pocket and the other balancing a drink he hadn’t even offered you.

So, you turned back to Lando—who was now dramatically miming putting on headphones like he was in a music video—and tilted your head like you were still considering it.

"Alright then," you called down. "But if I trip in these heels, I’m blaming you."

"I'll catch you," he yelled back, utterly unfazed. “Or I’ll sue the FIA for putting stairs in a paddock. Either way—worth it.”

You made your way down the metal staircase, the heels clicking like castanets, and by the time you reached the bottom, Lando was already holding out a pair of headphones and an access bracelet with a kind of smug reverence.

“For you, madame,” he said, bowing slightly. “Your official ticket to the chaos.”

You put on the bracelet with a smile, already feeling a little lighter.

“For the record,” he said, holding out the headset, “I don’t offer these to just anyone.”

You took them. “Oh, so I’m special.”

“Undoubtedly.”

You slipped the headphones on as he stepped back, hands in the pockets of his race suit, clearly satisfied.

“Let me guess,” you said, voice a little louder now with the headset in place, “you do this for all the guests who look mildly unimpressed by the view upstairs?”

“No,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Just the ones I secretly hope stick around.”

You gave him a look—curious, not skeptical—and he added quickly, “Because you’ve got good race-watching energy. Very calm. Slightly elegant. Makes the garage look better.”

“Right,” you said, clearly amused. “You just want me to make you look cool.”

“Impossible task,” he admitted with a grin. “But I admire your optimism.”

The garage buzzed around you—technicians moving with purpose, radios crackling, tyres getting shuffled like oversized poker chips. And yet, somehow, everything in your little corner felt... light.

“Not gonna lie,” he murmured, lowering his voice, “I like stealing a few quiet minutes when I can.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s a lot during weekends like this I can imagine.”

He glanced at you, thoughtful for a moment, like he wanted to ask something but decided against it. Then his expression shifted back to its usual mischief.

“Want to see something fun?”

You blinked. “Fun in a normal person way, or in a ‘you drive 300km/h for fun’ way?”

“Both,” he said, tilting his head toward the car in the middle of the garage—sleek, low, and absolutely radiating menace. “Come on. Get in. You’ve earned it.”

You blinked. “Earned it how?”

“For surviving the upstairs crowd without launching yourself off the terrace,” he said, already grinning. “Also, I feel like you'd suit it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You just want to see me try to climb into that thing in a dress.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, unapologetic. “But I’ll make it look like I’m being a gentleman helping you in. Good for my PR.”

You laughed but still let him offer his hand. His grip was steady, warm, guiding you in with an ease that made the whole moment feel weirdly... natural.

Inside, the cockpit felt surreal—like slipping into another universe. Tight, sharp, oddly comfortable in a way that made you sit up straighter.

You looked up at him. “I feel like I need clearance from air traffic control.”

Lando smirked. “You look good in it.”

You raised a brow. “Is this part of your usual garage tour?” He grinned. “Only the deluxe version. Very limited availability.” 

“Mm-hmm.”

He crouched beside the car, arms resting on the edge, expression suddenly playful. “Alright—race start. Lights out. Whole world watching. What’s your move?”

You pretended to think. “Adjust my lip gloss. Then floor it.”

He burst out laughing. “Unreal. No notes.”

You smiled, settling back slightly in the seat, the hum of the garage around you fading into a softer kind of focus. His eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary, making you feel a bit warmer than you would’ve liked to admit. 

“Okay,” you said eventually. “I like your version of fun.”

“Told you.”

Just then, you heard your name.

Lando glanced up behind you, his smile dimming just slightly.

You followed his gaze.

There, at the top of the stairs, your boyfriend had finally noticed. Arms folded. Sunglasses pushed down just enough to show a flicker of something more than irritation. 

You shifted slightly in the seat, your back instinctively straightening, your smile thinning.

“I should probably head back,” you murmured, glancing up again. “Before that turns into a thing.”

Lando’s eyes were still on you.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice low and smooth. “I kind of like that I get under his skin.”

You gave him a warning look, but your smile gave you away.

“He’s... not great with this sort of thing.”

Lando leaned one arm casually against the car, just close enough that his shoulder brushed the edge of yours. “What sort of thing? Someone actually talking to you? Enjoying you?”

You swallowed. “He’s just protective.”

“He didn’t look all that interested twenty minutes ago.”

You didn’t respond.

Lando straightened up slightly, his grin flickering into something more assured, less teasing. “You don’t have to explain it. But I’m not sorry for this.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and for a second, you forgot the tension humming above the pit lane.

You laughed softly. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, grinning.

You climbed out carefully—again with his help, though he tried very hard not to smirk when your heel caught slightly on the floor.

“Thanks for inviting me down,” you said, adjusting your dress.

He nodded. “Anytime. Next time you should stay for the race.”

You paused at that, surprised, amused, and... something else. Then you turned, stepping away, the noise of the pit building back around you.

“Bye, Strawberry!” he called after you, voice light and full of sunshine. “Try not to break hearts on your way up!”

…

The lunch reservation was for 13:00. The cancellation came at 12:52.

“Something came up. Just a quick game at the club. Have to raincheck.”

You stared at the message like it might change if you blinked hard enough. It didn’t. The text sat there on your screen, casual and infuriating, like a shrug in Helvetica.

The maître d’ at the café had already asked if you’d like to be seated twice. You smiled politely, murmured a no thank you, and slipped out before you started feeling more humiliated than hungry.

The sky was unfairly pretty for a bad day—clear and soft, with sunbeams brushing the cobblestones as if Monaco itself had no idea someone had just bailed on you for nine holes and overpriced cigars.

You didn’t want to go home. You weren’t angry, not quite. Just tired in a way that lingered behind your ribs. So, instead, you wandered a few streets over—past a bookstore, a gelato stand, and finally, a small flower shop with wide windows and hydrangeas stacked like frosting.

You paused. Then pushed the door open.

The scent hit you first—green, sweet, almost cold from the water buckets lining the floor. Peonies, roses, lavender, tulips. All in quiet conversation. The florist gave you a gentle bonjour from behind a counter cluttered with ribbon and stems.

You wandered aimlessly. No plan. No occasion. You just needed to feel like something soft could still be held in your hands.

You reached toward a bouquet of pale pink peonies—petals feathered and ruffled, like they were mid-sigh.

“I was hoping you’d go for those.”

You turned—half startled, half already smiling.

Lando was standing in the doorway, sunglasses pushed up into his curls, a grin threatening the corner of his mouth. He was wearing a zip-up and trainers, casually gorgeous in the way some people just are when they’re not trying.

“I was going to say,” he added, stepping further inside, “you look like someone who could use a bouquet.”

“You following me now?”

He shrugged. “Just happened to be across the street. Monaco’s small and you have a way of catching my eye.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you.

Lando stepped past you and plucked the peonies from the bucket like he’d been sent here by divine instruction.

“Don’t,” you started, watching as he pulled out his card.

“I insist,” he said smoothly, not even looking back. “They look like you.”

That made you pause. “Soft and overpriced?”

He smirked. “Chic, delicate, vaguely intimidating… but in a very classy way.”

You huffed a laugh and shook your head as he paid, thanked the florist with a grin that probably earned him three free carnations, and handed the bouquet to you like it was an Olympic medal.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

You looked down at the flowers, then back at him. “I was just trying to walk off a lunch that didn’t happen.”

“Rough day?”

You nodded once.

He hesitated. Then: “Come on. Let me walk you home. Or somewhere. I’m excellent at distracting people.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you busy?”

“Not even a little.”

You stepped outside together, the late sun catching the edge of your bouquet. He fell into step beside you like it was instinct.

“So,” he said, as you turned the corner, “what car would you never be caught dead in?”

You squinted. “Like… ever?”

“Yes. Immediate judgment. Go.”

You thought. “Anything that looks like it was designed by someone who hates joy. Or a Fiat Multipla.”

“Very specific. I respect it.” He nodded solemnly. “For me, it’s the ones with faces. Like, cartoon villain faces. Headlights that judge you.”

You burst out laughing. “What kind of car trauma are you working through?”

“Deep and unresolved,” he said gravely. “I once had a rental that made me feel like it wanted to eat me. Never again.”

The conversation spiraled from there—into ugly rims, hideous spoilers, the tragedy of beige leather interiors. Every few steps, Lando pointed out a car and gave it a nickname. 

"That one’s definitely a Greg. Greg works in insurance and never tips."

You laughed. Actually laughed. The kind that catches you off guard and warms your ribs a little.

And then—your phone buzzed in your bag.

You glanced down. His name lit up the screen.

Lando noticed the pause.

You looked at the call. Then pressed the side button, letting it disappear. You didn’t say anything about it, and he didn’t ask.

But he smiled. Just slightly.

It was the quietest rebellion you’d made in a while. And it felt... right.

A few minutes later, as you reached your street, you slowed.

“This is me.”

He nodded, eyes flicking up toward the front of your building like he was memorising it for later. Or just being nosy. Hard to say.

“Thanks for—well, for all of that,” you said, lifting the peonies slightly.

“Anytime,” he replied, and you believed him.

You turned to go.

“Oh, and hey,” he called, stepping backwards down the street, that familiar grin slipping into place. “If you ever need help judging more terrible cars…”

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it lightly in your direction. You caught it—his number, scribbled on a business card with Lando (flower expert) scrawled beneath in messy handwriting.

“…now you know where to find me,” he finished.

You looked down at the card, then back up.

“I do now,” you said, smiling—soft, amused, and something else you didn’t want to name yet.

And you didn’t look back until your door had closed behind you—and the peonies were already in water. 

…

Your birthday started with a buzz—literally, from your phone. Noon. A text.

Happy bday x

No call. No emoji. No punctuation enthusiasm. Just lowercase indifference and a kiss like a formality. Like he'd done his civic duty and could now go about his day in peace.

By the time your boyfriend actually arrived at the party—a whopping two hours late, no explanation—you were already knee-deep in hugs, flowers, Aperol spritzes, and the cake was nearly finished.

The rooftop was busy. Sun-drenched. Monaco glittered in the background like it knew it was part of the aesthetic. Friends mingled, music hummed, someone had started making mimosas in a blender for reasons no one could quite explain.

And then there was Lando.

He’d arrived on time, casually cool in a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of sunglasses perched in his curls.

You hadn’t expected him to come, not really. But you’d invited him anyway—half as a joke, half because he was one of the only people lately who made things feel lighter. Since the flower shop, you’d been texting—mostly memes, random complaints about ugly cars, and his very intense opinions on croissants. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’d started looking forward to his name lighting up your screen more than you should’ve.

So when he appeared with a cheeky smile and a gift bag in tow, you nearly forgot to keep pretending you weren’t waiting for him.

“Hey, birthday girl,” he said, putting the bag on the gift table. “No refunds or returns.”

You grinned. “Perfect. I was just saying how I wanted to make my own life harder today.”

“Glad to contribute.”

Your boyfriend showed up five minutes later.

No apology, no excuse. Just sunglasses, a glance around, and a distracted kiss on the cheek before he handed you an envelope.

Inside was a gift card. For skincare.

“I figured you’d appreciate this,” he said, loud enough for the people around you to hear. “Don’t want an old lady by my side, yeah?”

Someone laughed awkwardly. You didn’t.

You smiled. Thinly. The kind that feels more like a paper cut than anything resembling joy.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, folding the card and tucking it into your bag.

Lando had seen it. The whole thing. He didn’t say anything at first—just sipped his drink, eyes glinting behind his sunglasses.

A few minutes later, he drifted close, nudged your elbow lightly, and said, “Mind if I borrow the birthday girl for a sec?”

You blinked. “Sure?”

He led you away from the crowd and toward the quieter corner of the terrace, near the railing. The music faded behind you. The breeze picked up, cool against your neck.

“I really wanted to personally give this before I have to leave.”

He pulled something small from his little gift bag.

A Cartier box.

You looked at him, suddenly cautious. “Lando, what—”

“Relax,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t mortgage a yacht or anything.”

He flipped the box open with a little dramatic flair.

Inside: a sleek, elegant watch—timeless and perfectly understated, the metal catching the sunlight just enough to glow. When you looked closer, you spotted it—on the back of the face, engraved in the corner, a tiny strawberry.

You looked back up at him.

He shrugged, hands in his pockets now. “So you know when it’s time to leave,” he said lightly, then winked. “Or when it’s time to stay.”

You laughed, a real one this time, head tipped back just slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I should be offended,” he murmured, carefully fastening the clasp around your wrist. “But you are right.”

“Don’t say anything yet,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “I have a speech.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” He stepped a little closer, enough that you had to tilt your chin just slightly to keep looking at him. “Won’t say it’s well prepared, though.”

You glanced up. “No?”

He shrugged, then looked at you—not performative, just sincere with a glint of trouble behind it. “I figured you already knew. That you’re kind. And bright. And that you maybe make half of Monaco feel slightly boring in comparison.”

Your eyes caught his, something warm pooling between the humour and whatever was quietly rising beneath it.

“But also,” he added, tone shifting back to the familiar grin, “you’ve tolerated me for weeks, so I figured you deserved a prize.”

“Ah,” you said. “So it’s a pity watch.”

“It’s a prestigious pity watch,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“It’s perfect,” you said, fingers brushing over the charm. “Truly.”

A few friends called your name in the distance, but you didn’t move yet.

When you finally hugged him goodbye, it lingered. A second too long. Not enough to make it obvious—but enough that you both noticed.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, his hand pressed lightly against your back, and neither of you made a joke this time.

And that’s when it hit you. That soft, uncomfortable, quiet truth slowly creeping up on you.

You didn’t want to go back to the party.

You didn’t want to go back to him.

You just wanted to stay in that warm, safe, ridiculous moment a little longer.

…

It had been one of those dinners where the wine flowed more freely than the conversation, where the seating was all wrong, and the playlist too curated to feel spontaneous. You’d arrived on time, makeup set, dress clinging just right, genuinely hoping the night might turn things around.

He had promised he’d come.

You’d waited. You made polite conversation with strangers. You checked your phone under the table every ten minutes. At 10:14pm, a message finally came.

Running late. Take a cab? x

You stared at it. The ‘x’ annoyed you most—like it could soften the blow. Like it meant anything at this point.

You slipped out quietly, offering the host a graceful excuse. No one really noticed. You walked down the hill alone, heels clicking against wet stone. The rain started halfway to the road—first soft, then persistent, warm but unrelenting.

By the time you reached the corner, you were soaked. Your jacket was thin and decorative. Your hair clung to your cheeks. A cab passed. You raised your hand too late. Another didn’t even slow.

Then headlights curved around the bend.

A sleek black car eased up to the curb, quiet and smug.

The window rolled down.

“Need a ride, Cinderella?”

Lando.

You blinked at him through the rain.

He was in a hoodie, hair damp, wearing Nike slides like he’d rolled straight out of a student flat. His smile was all teeth and trouble, curls damp at the edges, and yet he looked exactly like what you didn’t know you needed.

You exhaled through a laugh. “What are you even doing here?”

“Padel,” he said simply, “with the boys. Charles insisted we needed some cardio. Alex brought protein shakes. It was big.”

You didn’t move.

He nudged the door open from the inside. “Get in. You look like a drenched sad poodle.”

You slid into the passenger seat, wet fabric against warm leather. The door thunked shut, muting the storm instantly.

The cabin smelled faintly of eucalyptus and sweat and jasmine air freshener. It was... comforting.

Lando glanced over. “You alright?”

You nodded, even though the answer was somewhere closer to no.

“Why were you walking?” he asked.

You stared out the window. “My ride bailed on me.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just gripped the wheel a little tighter.

Then, quieter: “Right.”

You could feel the temperature drop half a degree in the silence that followed.

He turned onto a quieter road, headlights sweeping over puddles, rain tapping steadily on the roof.

Then he cleared his throat. “Padel really roughed us all up today.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you professional athletes?”

“Oh, yeah. You’d think we’re all coordinated and elite and whatever,” he waved vaguely with one hand, “but I’ve never seen grown men lose their dignity faster than when we play anything outside of racing.”

You laughed softly. “You’re telling me Charles Leclerc isn’t good at everything?”

“God, no,” Lando said, perking up. “Charles is awful at most sports. He insists though he could’ve been a pro footballer. Brings it up every time he can.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious,” Lando grinned. “He once missed three serves in a row at padel, slammed the racket down, and said, ‘It’s because my reflexes are trained for football.’”

You snorted. “He did not.”

“And then there’s George,” Lando said. “Who, by the way, calls padel ‘cheap tennis for the common folks’ but still never declines an invitation.”

You laughed. “I assume this is the same George that helps you tie your bows?”

“Absolutely.” Lando continued, “And then there is Alex who has the coordination of a baby giraffe. He runs like he’s buffering.”

You were laughing now, fully, warmth curling in your chest.

“So what about you?” you asked, glancing sideways. “How much do you suck?”

“I’d like to think I’m one of the better ones in the group,” he said confidently.

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s definitely not true.”

“I’m amazing at everything, especially other sports.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a god at golf,” he added, eyes twinkling. “Elite. Practically unbeatable. Some say Tiger Woods retired just to avoid me.”

“Some say?”

“Me. Just me. But I say it with conviction.”

You grinned, resting your head against the seat, the storm outside softening under the steady purr of the engine.

“You’re good at this,” you said after a pause.

“At what?”

“Distractions.”

He smiled, but didn’t answer.

A few minutes passed like that—quiet, easy, the kind of silence that felt earned. The kind you didn’t want to break.

Then Lando turned off the main road.

You lifted your head. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said, flashing you a quick glance. “Don’t worry, I’m not kidnapping you. Yet.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Two turns later, he parked in front of a small café tucked between shuttered boutiques. Soft orange light glowed from the windows. The sign above the door read Clémentine in fading script.

“I need hot chocolate,” he said. “And you, tragically, look like you do too.”

You laughed. “This your secret spot?”

He grinned. “Sort of. George’s girlfriend loves this place. Alex’s girl says it feels like a Wes Anderson film. Charles’s thinks they do the best croissants in Europe—which is wrong, but she’s charming so we let it slide.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Ah. So this is… an exclusive tier”

He gave a small, lopsided grin. “Yeah. You’d fit right in.”

You blinked, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

He looked over the roof of the car and winked. “Let’s go, Strawberry.”

…

Inside, the café was quiet and warm, the kind of place that smells like something’s always in the oven. The barista gave Lando a knowing nod.

“Deux chocolats chauds, extra cream, and an extra cookie, please,” he said as you slid into a corner table.

Your dress was still damp at the edges, and your heels had started to pinch, but the chair was soft and the lighting was kind. 

You watched him as he pulled off his hoodie—without a word—he held it out to you across the table.

“You’re shivering,” he said simply.

You hesitated, then slipped it on. It was warm, oversized, and smelled faintly like him—cologne, laundry detergent, and something like orange peel. It pooled around your wrists like it belonged there.

He dropped into the seat across from you, in a plain white t-shirt slightly creased and still damp at the collar. He looked maddeningly effortless. 

When the drinks arrived, he handed yours over carefully, fingers brushing yours as he passed the mug.

“I think you forget how extraordinary you are sometimes,” he said.

No grin. No teasing glint in his eye. Just sincerity, like it had been sitting quietly on his tongue for a while, waiting for the right moment.

You looked at him.

And for a heartbeat too long, the world went still.

Then, gently, you lowered your gaze, your hands tightening around the warmth of the mug. You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to.

Something softened in your chest. Something that hadn’t for weeks.

…

The invitation had come via text, in true Lando fashion.

Hiya there’s this art auction Friday. Charles’s girlfriend’s hosting. Could be fun. Come with? Low pressure, high snacks.

You hadn’t even known Lando liked art, let alone attended charity auctions hosted by the Monaco elite, but the message made you smile. You’d read it twice. Maybe three times.

He followed up, minutes later:

Bring your boyfriend, if he won’t spontaneously combust in a room without talking about stocks.

That was how you ended up on the guest list for a night you weren’t supposed to remember as the one where everything finally snapped.

You didn’t know Alexandra—not really. You’d seen her tagged in posts with Charles, always in Dior or vintage Alaïa, always looking like she’d been drawn rather than born. But the invite felt personal in a way you couldn’t explain. Like Lando had meant for you to have something nice.

You showed up with your boyfriend.

He was already half-distracted before you arrived, scrolling his phone as the car pulled up outside the villa, barely glancing at the curated sculpture garden or the warm lighting glowing out from the glass facade.

“Art shows, what a waste of time and money,” he said, adjusting his watch, not even pretending to be excited about going with you. “Hope I can do some decent networking, make something of my night at least.”

As expected, he made a beeline for the restroom the moment you stepped inside. You hated how much relief washed over you—but deep down, you just didn’t want his sulking to cloud your first impression.

But then—you spotted Lando.

He was standing near the champagne tower, wearing a charcoal jacket with the sleeves half-rolled and a grin like he’d been waiting for you.

He caught your eye and made a show of pretending to squint. “Strawberry?” he said dramatically as you approached. “Wow. Look at you, pretending not to know me in front of the important people.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was hoping you’d stay over there a little longer.”

“That’s fair,” he nodded solemnly. “But then I wouldn’t get to tell you how unreasonably hot you look.”

You gave him a dry smile. “You’re terrible at compliments.”

“And yet, somehow, you keep showing up.”

Just then, a lilting voice cut in—velvety, amused.

“Is this the infamous Strawberry?”

You turned.

She was every bit the Monaco fantasy: Alexandra, in vintage Saint Laurent, hair pinned like a Vogue spread, a glass of champagne in one hand and the quiet confidence of someone who knew every art dealer in the room—and their secrets. And yet, the way she looked at you felt nothing but warm.

“I’ve heard things,” she said, leaning in for a kiss on each cheek. “Mostly from this one, who dramatically insists he doesn’t talk about you, and then does. A lot.”

You laughed, surprised. “Doesn’t sound like him at all.”

Lando raised his eyebrows in mock betrayal. “Unbelievable slander in my own presence.”

Alexandra gave you an approving once-over, eyes twinkling. “You look incredible, by the way. Please tell me you’re staying for the cocktails after. We have a pianist who’ll play Taylor Swift if you bribe him with compliments or €20.”

“That might be the most compelling reason I’ve ever been given to stay at a party,” you said, grinning.

Alexandra gave you a grin from ear to ear, amused. “I’m really so happy to finally meet you! I can already tell we are going to be great friends! You should meet my dog.”

You smiled. “Oh my god! I would love to!”

“Already regretting introducing you two,” Lando said. “Feels like I’m third wheeling.”

“That’s your own fault, Norris,” Alexandra said, sipping her champagne. “You have been hyping her up for weeks, of course I’m excited.”

You looked at him. “Oh really?”

Lando didn’t even blink. “All good things. Mostly.”

Alexandra raised her eyebrows at you. “He actually tried to be subtle about it. It was cute.”

You bit back a smile. “I can imagine.”

“I’ll come find you later,” Alexandra added, brushing your arm. “Got to make sure Charles hasn’t lost Leo yet. So nice to meet you, lovely!”

She slipped off into the crowd with the grace of someone born to host art auctions and mild chaos.

“She’s my new favourite person,” you said.

“I’m going to pretend that doesn’t hurt,” Lando said. “But only because you look stupidly good tonight.”

He sipped his champagne, eyes back on the crowd like he hadn’t just said something that made your pulse tick strangely in your wrist.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t think of anything clever fast enough.

But the flush in your cheeks said enough.

You gave him a side glance.

…

Laughter drifted lightly through the space, more polite than genuine, the kind of sound bred in auction houses and villas with good acoustics. You let yourself drift for a while, away from the main crush of guests and the low buzz of clinking flutes and unsolicited business pitches.

Lando had disappeared into a conversation across the room—arms folded, half-listening, already looking for an escape route. You wandered along the perimeter, letting your eyes pass over sculpture and canvas, nothing really sticking—until something did.

A Monet.

Not loud. Not the centrepiece of the evening. Just tucked off to the side, quietly luminous. The colour was soft, the light dreamlike, and it hit you all at once—how rare it was to stand still in front of something that didn’t need to impress anyone to be worth something.

You didn’t smile, but you didn’t move either.

And then, out of nowhere, a voice landed at your side.

“You’re not seriously getting emotional over that, are you?”

You blinked once.

Your boyfriend had materialised beside you, the corner of his mouth turned up in that smug, half-bored way he always wore at events that weren’t about him.

“It’s just some smudged garden scene,” he added, barely sparing it a glance. “Looks like the guy couldn’t be bothered to finish it.”

You said nothing.

He chuckled, nudging your elbow like he was letting you in on a joke. “Honestly, my niece brought home something just like this last week—finger paints, but same idea.”

You turned toward him.

And for once, your voice didn’t waiver. “Do you ever get tired?”

He raised a brow. “Of what?”

“Of being so obnoxious.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I was joking—”

“I know you were not. You just have to be an asshole all the time,” you said, stepping back. “I’m so done with this.”

You handed him your untouched champagne without looking at him again.

And then you walked.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… forward. Certain.

Across the room, Lando caught sight of you. He paused mid-sentence, head tilting ever so slightly, eyes following the clean line of your exit. He didn’t know what had happened. But he knew enough.

And he didn’t see the man behind you calling your name, confusion creeping into frustration, his voice rising in your wake.

…

The days following the gala blurred into a haze of solitude. You hadn't anticipated the weight of ending a relationship that had, for too long, been a source of discomfort rather than joy. Even though it felt like a relief to be free, the fresh perspective you had now gained made looking back on the relationship seemingly harder, being disappointed in yourself for sticking around so long.The walls of your apartment seemed to close in, each corner echoing with memories you'd rather forget.

Then, an unexpected message illuminated your phone screen. It was from Alexandra.

Hii! I know we've only met once, Charles is hosting a yacht party this weekend. I'd love for you to come. It'll be fun, and I think you could use a night out. What do you say?

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Alexandra's warmth was palpable, even through text. The idea of attending a lavish yacht party was daunting, especially solo, but the prospect of genuine company was tempting. Before you could overthink it, you quickly responded you’d be there.

…

The evening of the party arrived with a golden sunset casting its glow over Monaco's harbor. As you approached the yacht, its grandeur was undeniable. Laughter and the clinking of glasses floated through the air, mingling with the soft strains of music. Taking a deep breath, you stepped aboard, the gentle sway beneath your feet reminding you of the fluidity of the moment.

You hadn’t arrived with a dramatic entrance, but you may as well have. There was something in the way you carried yourself—unhurried, unbothered, glowing without trying—that turned heads. The white sundress moved like water around your legs. Your hair was soft, undone. You looked like summer had chosen you personally.

"Hey! You made it!" Alexandra's voice rang out, genuine delight evident as she approached, her embrace warm and reassuring.

She beamed the moment she saw you. “You look like revenge dressed in satin. Come ruin someone's night—in a good way.”

"Thank you! I’m so excited!" you replied, grateful for her presence.

She linked her arm with yours, guiding you through the throng. "Come on, let's get you a drink and introduce you to some people."

So you mingled.

You laughed. You listened. You accepted compliments with a smile that didn’t flicker with doubt this time. The isolation of the past few days had left you sharper, oddly steadier. You hadn’t expected to feel so… grounded. You were alone, technically. But not lonely.

And then—across the deck—you felt it.

Someone watching.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

But you did anyway.

Lando stood near the upper rail, half-leaning into conversation with Charles and George, drink in hand, curls damp like he’d only recently dried off. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive without meaning to be, and he was laughing at something George was saying—until he saw you.

Then he stopped laughing.

His eyes softened. Lit up. Like you’d just stepped out of a dream he wasn’t finished having.

He didn't move immediately. Just watched. And when you finally gave him a smile—small, knowing—he excused himself, barely disguising it.

You turned back to your conversation, heart thudding quietly.

When he reached you, it was casual. Or it would’ve been, if not for the very specific way he looked at you. As if seeing you tonight had knocked the wind out of him slightly.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice easy, but with that familiar edge of amusement.

You tilted your head. “Trying my best. Alexandra told me to come ruin someone’s night tonight.”

Lando’s gaze swept over you, amused. “I’ve got a pretty good candidate.”

You met his look head-on. “You volunteering?”

“I’m begging.”

You took a step closer, just enough. “Careful. I take those kinds of requests seriously.”

His voice dipped. “I was hoping you would.”

You laughed.

He smiled, pleased.

“I was wondering if you’d come,” he said, a little quieter now. “I didn’t want to push.”

“I needed a few days,” you replied honestly. “To unpick a few things.”

Lando nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something more, something gentler, but didn’t want to risk it here.

“Want to see the good part of the boat?” he offered instead, gesturing subtly toward the back. “It’s less busy, better view of the sea.”

“Are you offering a tour or an escape plan?”

“Both,” he said. “But this is not my boat so don’t blame me if we get lost mid-tour.”

You smiled, setting your glass down. “Alright. Lead the way.”

He offered his hand this time. Not his arm. His hand. Like it was only natural you’d take it.

And you did.

…

The further you got from the music and noise, the more the sea became the soundtrack. The laughter and clinking glasses behind you faded into something muted and unimportant. Lando walked beside you—not rushing, not talking. His thumb brushed against yours every few steps, like a quiet question he didn’t need answered yet.

At the stern, it opened up—a wide, quiet deck, low to the water, with just enough light to see but not enough to distract from the stars. The sea lapped gently around the hull. It smelled like salt and sun.

You leaned against the railing, feeling the breeze touch your skin. Lando stood beside you, but not too close.

“Nice out here,” you murmured, looking up.

He glanced over at you. “You suit starlight. That’s unfair.”

You gave him a look. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Absolutely,” he said, eyes warm. “I’ve been holding back for weeks.”

You laughed, quiet and real. He grinned, pleased.

But then, after a second, he sobered. His gaze drifted down, toward the water, and when he spoke again, his voice had shifted.

“You look happy,” Lando said lightly, almost teasing. “I almost didn’t recognise you without the polite ‘I’m-fine’ smile.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Wow. Go ahead and expose me.”

“I’m serious,” he said, this time softer. “It’s good to see you like this.”

You glanced at him, and for a moment, he didn’t try to dodge the feeling in the air. He looked out at the sea and back again.

“I hated seeing you pretend,” he said finally. “These past few months… at the garage, the brunch, the auction—you were always there, but it felt like part of you was somewhere else. You still smiled, still made jokes, still looked beautiful, but…”

He trailed off. Not because he didn’t know what to say. Just because he meant all of it.

You didn’t speak right away.

“You wanted to throw him in the harbour, didn’t you.”

A beat.

“Every single time,” Lando said, with no apology.

That made you laugh again, but quieter this time. Almost sad.

You looked down at the rail, fingers brushing the edge. “I wasn’t really fooling anyone, was I.”

“You fooled plenty,” he said. “Just not me.”

You looked away for a beat. Then quietly, “I haven’t been unhappy around you, though.”

Lando froze.

When you turned your head back, he was watching you like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

“Say that again,” he said, almost joking. Almost.

You smiled, small and real. “You’ve been the exception, Lando. You’ve always felt like... a relief. Like I could let out a breath I never knew I was holding.”

His expression cracked open at the edges—something flickering across it, equal parts surprise and affection.

“I’ve been trying not to say something,” he said eventually, his voice lower now. “But it’s getting... impossible.”

You arched a brow. “To me or to you?”

He looked at you deeply, green eyes soft but with a sparkle. “Me. Definitely me.”

There was a beat of silence, hanging between you like a held breath.

“You just keep making it harder,” he added, almost laughing at himself. “Showing up looking like this. Laughing at my stupid jokes.”

You stared at him. He raised his hands, just slightly.

“I know I joke around a lot,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s easy to hide behind that. But I’m not playing with this. I’m not here to push or expect anything you’re not ready for.” He paused, letting the words settle. “I just… I need you to know. I’ve been falling for you since the gala.”

The words didn’t feel rehearsed or dramatic—just honest. And they landed like something you’d been waiting to hear without realising.

You stayed still, listening.

“Since the dress,” he went on, his smile tugging softly at the corner of his mouth. “Since the strawberry drink. Since you made fun of my bow tie.”

You laughed—quiet and barely there. But it was real.

“Since you made me want to stick around,” he added, “even when you were barely looking at me.”

His eyes met yours fully now. “You’re magnetic,” he said, simple as anything. “Warm. Sharp. And really hot even when you look like a drenched puppy.” He exhaled lightly. “And I just… I didn’t want summer to end without you knowing.”

You stepped closer.

Close enough to feel the change in the air, the shift in his breathing.

You placed your hand on his chest, light but certain.

“Lando.”

He didn’t move.

“If I kiss you, is it going to be a problem?”

His answer was immediate, and sure. “No.”

Then, softer. “But only if you want to.”

You looked at him for a long, quiet second.

“I do.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it since May. Maybe longer.

And then you kissed him.

Slow, at first. Curious. The kind of kiss that asks before it takes. His hand hovered near your waist, the other brushing your jaw with the gentlest touch—as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed.

But the second your fingers curled into his shirt and your lips parted slightly, that control cracked.

His arm wrapped fully around you then, the kiss deepening with a sudden warmth that made your stomach twist. He kissed you like he’d wanted to for weeks. Like he'd held every grin, every brush of your arm, every stolen look in his chest—and finally let them out all at once.

You felt it in the way his hand slid up your back, in the way his mouth moved with yours like he already knew the rhythm.

When you finally pulled apart, your breath hitched.

His forehead leaned against yours. Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then you smiled, just a little. “So… did I ruin your night after all?”

Lando let out a low, breathless laugh. “You can ruin my life, for all I care.”

He leaned in again, this time without hesitation.

And then he kissed you—like he had nothing left to hold back. Like the wait had been worth it. Like it had always been leading to this.

…

It was the kind of Sunday that felt like a soft breeze. The kind where you woke up to Lando already beside you, hair a mess, voice rough with sleep as he offered to make pancakes—and then promptly convinced you to go out for groceries instead. A domestic detour. A small adventure disguised as an errand. Like you had so many of these past weeks with him.

You hadn’t argued. Not really.

Now, somewhere between the mangoes and the melons in your favourite Carrefour, you were watching Lando shake a pineapple like it had personally offended him.

“That’s not how you check if it’s ripe,” you said, barely holding in a laugh.

He looked genuinely betrayed. “It’s not? Then why did that woman on YouTube tell me to do it?”

“You watched a pineapple tutorial?”

“Research is key,” he said, placing it carefully into the cart. “Anyway, I came prepared.”

“You’re such a dork.” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “You pick the snacks, I’ll handle dinner?”

He winked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Then promptly wandered off to the crisps aisle like a man on a mission.

You lingered in the herb section, still debating parsley versus basil, when a voice behind you slid into your spine like cold water.

“Well. You look good.”

You turned.

He looked the same—your ex. A little too polished, sunglasses indoors, holding a bottle of overpriced green juice that screamed aesthetic punishment.

“Thanks,” you said simply. “I’ve been feeling better.”

It wasn’t petty. Just honest.

He blinked, clearly not expecting honesty.

You were just about to step away when—

“Oh, no. No no no,” Lando groaned from the next aisle, appearing with a look of theatrical dismay. “There’s a full seafood crime scene back there. Half the ocean’s laid out. I’ve never seen so much salmon.”

He stopped short when he saw you. And him.

His entire posture shifted.

He stepped up beside you, one hand sliding effortlessly around your waist, grounding and easy. He didn’t force it. Just filled the space.

“Hi,” Lando said, his tone calm, eyes flicking to the man in front of you. “I’m Lando.”

Your ex gave a tight nod, straightening slightly. “We’ve met.”

Lando’s gaze dipped to the man’s basket—almond milk, snack bars, and two tubs of something suspiciously protein-packed and aggressively vanilla.

“Solid haul,” Lando said, casual. Then, after the smallest pause, “Though I’d go easy on the sugar. Causes hair loss, you know. Wouldn’t want to risk it, considering your current situation.”

He didn’t smile. Just winked. Cheeky enough to pass for humour. Sharp enough to land exactly where it needed to.

Your ex blinked again. Offered no reply. Just turned back toward the juice aisle with the grace of someone trying not to trip over his own ego.

“Lovely to see you,” Lando called politely, already nudging the cart forward—his hand still warm around your waist.

You let him guide you down the aisle, heart flickering with quiet satisfaction.

“Hair loss?” you asked, giggling, once you were out of earshot.

He shrugged, eyes forward, lips twitching. “What? It was observational science.”

“You’re awful.”

“Mm,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your temple. “But I’m yours.”

You laughed, soft and real, tucking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

[femwizard]

Ecology win! The electric fence guarding them empty lot is powered by solar panels

[byjove]

I think Brokeback Mountain made the general public mad in a way a lot of other gay movies before it hadn’t because it made people uncomfortable to think of gay men in careers associated with traditional masculinity. It’s okay if the gay guy on screen is a lisping effeminate theatre performer or troubled artist, that’s comfortable, they’re used to that stereotype, it’s okay if they exist in a world separated from them. The idea that there are gay men out there working rugged blue collar jobs in fields like construction, mining and animal agriculture makes them angry. We need to keep telling these stories.

[styrofauxm]

Honestly, I am pretty frustrated by the "haha why would anyone hate ace people" responses to Rowling's tweet.

Don't get me wrong, the support is nice. But if you want to be an ally, you have to do so on our terms, not yours. And that means actually engaging with the aspec community, not just posting positivity every now and again. And what those responses highlight to me is what I've known for a while; you guys only support aspec people when it's easy and convenient.

It's easy to support aspec people when it's J.K. Rowling being awful again. It's easy to support us when it's just reblogging an "aspec people are queer" post.

But what about when we are talking about amatonormativity and the relationship hierarchy? When we are discussing the enforcement of compulsory sexuality? When we are pushing for greater awareness and support for aspec identities that are not asexuality or aromanticism? When we are criticizing terminology that you use but harms us? Because I can tell you right now, I rarely see allo people engage with those posts.

Why do people hate asexuality (or any other aspec identity)? Because it challenges the societal norms that benefit them. And that is uncomfortable and scary. So they turn to hate and oppression in order to assure that the changes we push by just openly existing never happen.

That means that to be a good aspec ally, you can't just make a positivity post every now and again, and you can't just laugh about how stupid aphobes are. You have to openly challenge the societal norms that harm us, even if they benefit you. Including but not limited to:

The idea that romantic and sexual attraction is the default state of being (amatonormativity)

The idea that a romantic, sexual relationship completes a person

People in marriages receiving special privileges and benefits

The idea that platonic, familial, etc. attraction are default states of being

The idea that not feeling some form of attraction must be compensated for through another form of attraction

The idea that love (not just romantic) is inherently morally good, while not feeling love is inherently a moral failing

The idea that any one form of relationship is inherently more important or deeper than any other (relationship hierarchy)

The idea that any one thing makes someone human

The idea that not having sex is shameful or infantile

The idea that having sex without romantic love is callous

Gendered divides of sexual and romantic attraction

Other aspec people please feel free to add on/challenge any of this. Allo (not aspec) people please feel free to ask questions.

Additions:

Addition from @blkaroculture

Addition (in tags) from @fluffytimearts

Addition (in tags) from @cjreblogsthings

I've placed some resources for learning more about these topics under the cut.

Amatonormativity:

[PT: Amatonormativity:]

1. Amatonormativity Coining

2. Introduction to Amatonormativity

3. Challenging Amatonormativity

4. Effects of Amatonormativity and Compulsive Sexuality on Asexual and Aromantic College Students

5. Effects of Amatonormativity On Black, Polyamorous Men

6. Essay on Amatonormativity From a Aroallo, Loveless Perspective

Marriage Benefits:

[PT: Marriage Benefits:]

1. Article about Singlism and Marital Privilege

Other Aspec Identities:

[PT: Other Aspec Identities:]

1. Aplatonicism

2. Afamilialism

Loveless:

[PT: Loveless:]

1. Loveless articles on the AUREA website

2. Essay on Amatonormativity From a Aroallo, Loveless Perspective (repeat from Amatonormativity section)

3. Follow-up Essay on Lovelessness and Aroallo Antagonism

4. Results of a Survey of Loveless People (part 2 is linked instead of part 1 as part 1 is mostly demographic information)

5. Guide to Writing Loveless Characters (it focuses on fictional characters so should not be taken as a catch-all for real people, but it still has a ton of good information about lovelessness and loveless antagonism)

Compulsory Sexuality:

[PT: Compulsory Sexuality:]

1. Effects of Amatonormativity and Compulsive Sexuality on Asexual and Aromantic College Students (repeat from Amatonormativity section)

2. Breakdown of Compulsory Sexuality

Relationship Hierarchy vs Relationship Anarchy:

[PT: Relationship Hierarchy vs Relationship Anarchy:]

1. Relationship Anarchy Coining

2. Breakdown of Relationship Anarchy

3. Issues Presented by the Relationship Hierarchy

Oppression:

[PT: Oppression:]

1. Aphobia Masterpost

2. Asexual History and Oppression

3. Asexual Theory 101

Miscellaneous:

[PT: Miscellaneous:]

1. Research on Aromantics

2. Ace in the UK Research and Activism ft. Yasmin Benoit

3. Asexual History and Oppression (repeat from Oppression section)

4. Asexual Theory 101 (repeat from Oppression section)

Books and Video Essays:

[PT: Books and Video Essays:]

An Ace Discourse Retrospective by Jenny Geist

Ace: What Asexuality Reveals about Desire, Society, and the Meaning of Sex by Angela Chen

Refusing Compulsory Sexuality: A Black Asexual Lens on Our Sex-Obsessed Culture by Sherronda J. Brown

[navybrat817]

Back Off, He's Mine

Pairing: Husband!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: You put an agent in her place after she flirts with Bucky.

Word Count: Over 2.5k

Warnings: Established relationship, violent threats (not against the reader or Bucky), protective vibes, catty behavior, possessive vibes, implied sexy times, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: Inspired by an anon ask asking for Bucky's wife to stick up for him. ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky stared at you from across the break room table, his pretty blue eyes not blinking as you looked back at him. The two of you were locked in a lengthy staring contest and you didn’t want to lose. But as the air in the room began to dry your eyes and he flashed you a beautiful smile, you couldn’t stop yourself from blinking. And the moment you did, he struck.

Snatching the last bit of the beloved pastry right from the middle of the table.

“Damn it,” you muttered, crossing your arms when he chuckled. “You cheated.”

“Oh, yeah?” he smirked, making a show of taking a slow bite. Your eyes followed his tongue licking his lips and you pressed your thighs together without thinking. The bastard made eating look sexy and he didn’t even take a full bite. He was taunting you. “How did I do that?”

“You cheated by existing.” You gestured to him, your smoking hot husband in his black t-shirt and tactical pants. To the person who made those clothes, you saluted them. “And you have serum in your veins, so I’m pretty sure you don’t have to blink as much as I do and that’s an unfair advantage.”

He chuckled again, graciously passing over the last small bite of the pastry. Your eyes lit up in thanks, popping it in your mouth with a moan. It was true love to share food like that. “I don’t think that’s how the serum works,” he teased. “And you’re a goddess, so isn’t that cheating, too?”

“Okay, but I’m not actually a goddess,” you countered, though he did make you feel like one.

His eyes softened, leaning across the table and crooking his finger. “Yeah, you are,” he whispered, kissing your lips once you met him halfway.

Before you could deepen the kiss, a shrill voice rang out in the breakroom. “Sergeant Barnes! There you are!”

Bucky’s cheek twitched as he settled back in his seat. The voice echoing in the room would’ve been enough to make anyone wince, but his enhanced hearing made it worse. He worked hard to block out noises so he’d be comfortable, and your eyes instantly narrowed at the person who brought him discomfort.

You recognized her after a moment, a pretty woman who would likely fall out of her top if she sneezed too hard. She hadn't worked there long, but she had her eye on Bucky from the start. She always flirted with him, tried to stand close to him and push her chest close, and he always dropped in the conversation that he was a married man. Apparently she didn’t get the hint that he wasn't interested. Either that or she was into taken men.

“Hi, agent,” Bucky politely said.

“Agent. Always so formal,” she giggled, dragging a chair over from another table and taking a seat without asking. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Barnes. You're a hard man to track down.”

Bubbly agents didn’t bother you in the slightest. You appreciated anyone who could stay upbeat in the line of work you dealt with. It wasn’t the enamored look in her eyes either that bothered you because you understood people wanting Bucky and you were secure in your relationship. No, what bothered you was that he had clearly been kissing his wife and she pointedly avoided looking at you after interrupting. That was just rude.

It also bothered you how uncomfortable Bucky looked when she moved her chair closer to him, his shoulders stiff and smile not reaching his eyes.

“Been spending some time with my wife,” he said proudly, reaching across the table to take your hand. You dipped your head down with a small smile, your heart still doing that funny flip like it had since the moment you met. He even managed to clear out the room so you two could be alone. “We were just finishing up.”

She didn’t spare you a glance as she set a hand on his metal arm. His cheek twitched again, squeezing your hand. It took a lot of effort for you to not knock her back from the table for touching him without his permission. “Excuse me,” you began, your tone even. “I don’t-”

“Do you think you could spar with me later?” she cut you off and either didn’t see or ignored your glare, leaning forward in her seat to make her chest stick out more. Bucky didn’t look. “I’ve been having trouble with a couple of moves and you’re so good at them,” she added, her eyes on him like she wanted to eat him up.

Which wasn’t going to happen.

“I don't think…” he stopped when her fingers trailed higher.

“Please, Sergeant?” she pouted.

Your eyes went back to your husband to get a read on him and make sure he was okay. He wasn't. His smile still didn't look right and his back was ramrod straight. Squeezing his hand seemed to ground him since he breathed a little easier, though your anger was simmering.

“I, um, don’t mind sparring if you really need the help,” Bucky began, gently pulling his arm away. “But you interrupted my time with my wife.”

Her smile faltered while yours widened. Bucky didn't like anyone cutting you off, whether that was your time together or interrupting you speaking. “What?” she asked.

“Hi there. Been sitting here the whole time.” You wiggled your fingers when she finally looked your way. “Excuse us for a second,” you said, avoiding her stare the way she avoided yours. “Bucky, do you think you can wait outside? This agent and I need to have a little chat.”

Your husband looked like he was trying not to laugh and you would take laughter over discomfort any day of the week. “Be nice if you can,” he teased, pressing a featherlight kiss to your hand. “I love you, baby,” he whispered.

“I love you, too,” you whispered, something unspoken passing between the two of you.

Defending each other was second nature, always would be.

Bucky didn’t immediately leave the room when he stood up. Instead he rounded the table so he could bend down and kiss your mouth, too. You smiled as it lingered, your heart skipping a beat. “Don’t keep me waiting out there long, Mrs. Barnes,” he whispered.

“I won't, Mr. Barnes,” you teased, tucking some of his hair behind his ear.

Straightening up, he gave a small nod to the agent for her sake. “Come find me later if you still want to talk about sparring. Maybe I can find someone for you.”

“Okay, Sergeant,” she smiled, a glimmer of hope in her eyes. That look wouldn’t last.

You waited until Bucky was gone to face the agent, who stopped smiling the second your husband was out of sight. Leaning back in your seat, you crossed your arms and asked point-blank, “You trying to fuck my husband?”

The wide-eyed expression was priceless when she realized you weren't asking as a joke. “What are you... I just asked him to spar,” she tried to brush it off.

“Please, don't insult my intelligence,” you said. It was beneath both of you to do so. “I get why you want him. Besides being one of the sexiest creatures to ever exist, he’s a good man. Polite, probably treats you with respect. More than most of the men around here.”

She shifted away from you and nodded. “He's a nice guy.”

“He is,” you agreed. They didn't make men like Bucky anymore. “And I’m not going to tell you to stop hitting on my husband, but I highly suggest that you back off. At the very least, don’t throw yourself at him right in front of me. It’s sad.”

“Why?” She had the nerve to smirk. “Worried I’ll steal him away?”

You smirked, too. She had balls and you respected that, but this wasn’t a battle she’d win. “Steal him away? You make it sound like he’s a toy and he isn’t. He’s a man, my man,” you said, holding up your hand so she could get a good look at your wedding ring. “And you are not a threat in the slightest. Our bond is much stronger than that.”

Her smirk went away fast, replaced by something sad. You almost felt sorry for her until she said, “Jealousy isn't a good look on you. It’s kind of… ugly.”

You scoffed. If she wanted to play, you’d play. “Jealous of what? You hitting on a married man who doesn't want you?” you asked, not feeling guilty in the slightest when her face fell. “I’m not telling you to back off because I'm jealous. I told you that because you’re only going to embarrass yourself if you keep trying and you’re going to make my husband more uncomfortable than he already is. I don’t like people making my husband uncomfortable.”

An unspoken threat hung in the air long enough that she swallowed. “And how exactly did I make him uncomfortable?”

“Besides you hitting on him, you touched him without making sure it was okay to do so,” you answered, letting a bit of venom seep into your tone. Bucky went years without autonomy and consent was important to you. He suffered enough and didn’t need to deal with things like this. “I’d hope as an agent you’d be able to pick up on subtle body language cues enough to know that he didn’t want you touching him.”

“And how do you know he doesn’t want me touching him? Are you a mind reader or something?” she sneered, flicking a nonexistent piece of flint from her shirt. “If he really didn't want me touching him, he would've said so. And guess what? He didn't say a word.”

You saw red, your hands curling into fists. For her to ignore the nonverbal cues… “I know my husband. I know Bucky. He doesn’t want you touching him nor does he want to start anything with you because he’s extremely faithful. He won’t throw away a loving, trusting marriage for a quick fuck or doomed affair,” you stated. She bristled, but tried to recover. “If you make a pass at him, he’ll reject you. He’ll do it as respectfully as he can because he’s a good guy, but he will reject you. That’s a promise.”

“Because he loves you so much. Jesus, what makes you so special?” she spat, surprising you both. But the longer you looked at her, the more she deflated under your stare. “I mean… He doesn’t say much to me, but when he does it’s always about you. ‘My wife this’ and ‘my wife that’ and he’s always so… proud.” She shook her head. “Do you know how lucky you are?”

You did feel a little sorry for her now. Crushes hurt, but better that she hurt now and heal than to keep pushing and hurt more later. “I’m not special. We just love each other, that’s all. And, trust me, I’m aware that I’m very lucky to have him. Someone who gets me and will fight for and beside me,” you said, a loving smile touching your lips. You hoped Bucky was listening outside the door. “There’s a guy out there waiting for you, but that guy isn’t Bucky. So don’t lower yourself by trying to go after someone who’s taken.”

She side-eyed you, crossing her arms over her ample chest. “And what if I don’t stop?” she asked.

You giggled humorously, all sympathy gone. The agent actually looked nervous at that sound and you were glad because you weren't going to play nice. “Well, if you don't back off, Bucky could make a complaint about you harassing him or at least request that you’re transferred. Maybe fired since you’re still in your probationary period,” you began, looking at your wedding band when she began to protest. “At the very least, I could have your schedule rearranged so you can spar with me. You see, Bucky taught me a few moves and if a bone or two breaks, well…”

It wasn't an empty threat either. Bucky loved fighting for you, but you could hold your own. It turned him on.

Her eyes darted to the door when you stood up and stretched. “Listen, you don't need to-”

“But do you know what I'm going to do for now?” you asked, cutting her off the way she cut you off. “I'm going to take my husband to one of the interrogation rooms and suck the soul out of his body through his incredible cock,” you smiled sweetly, taking pleasure in the sputtering sound she made. “And after he recovers, he’ll have the choice of bending me over the table and either eating or fucking my pussy. He’ll probably choose both. He’s pretty insatiable.”

She got to her feet, too, and you half expected to see smoke come out of her ears. “I don't need to hear–”

“What? Does hearing that Bucky is going to fuck me and not you make you uncomfortable?” you asked innocently before you got close to her. “Shove your tits in my husband's face again or touch him without his explicit consent, and I won't just make you uncomfortable. I’ll make your life a living hell.”

While you lost the staring contest to Bucky earlier, you very much won against this agent. She stood perfectly still and averted her gaze as you pushed your chair in. “Is that a threat?” she mumbled.

A cliche question, so why not give a cliche answer? “It’s a promise,” you smiled, heading to the door. “Oh, if he does decide to spar with you, I expect you to apologize and behave yourself. I’ll hear about it if you don't.”

Bucky leaned against the wall, waiting for you as you exited the room. He looked over the moon. “We’re going to one of the interrogation rooms, huh?”

You giggled, taking his hand as your cheeks warmed. “Of course, that's what you took from that.”

“How could I not?” he asked, pressing a soft kiss to your temple. “Thanks, baby. I thought I dropped enough hints that she’d back off.”

“Nothing to thank me for,” you assured him. He deserved to be comfortable at work. If some guy kept hitting on you, he would've stepped in, too.

“You think she’ll back off now?”

“I think so, but you tell me if she doesn't,” you said. You’d keep an eye on her, too, just in case. And if she pushed again, you’d put her back in her place. Maybe you’d make her listen while Bucky fucked you. With his permission, of course. “So, which room should we go to?”

He chuckled, the sound a happy one in the hall. “Room B. We can be as loud as we want,” he replied, tugging you closer. “I’ll show you just how special you are to me.”

Heat filled your body, anticipating how good it would feel to have him fuck your throat and more. “My body is ready, Sergeant,” you teased, shrieking when he picked you up and ignoring the whistles from other agents that walked by.

They were used to the shenanigans of Mr. and Mrs. Barnes by now.

And you couldn't wait for more.

Just like we deserve a loving Bucky, he deserves love, too. ❤️ Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[presepohne]

peaches & wine

5.8kish | NSFW minors do not interact 18+

FUCKBOY!JOHN SOAP MCTAVISH X VIRGIN!READER | ALTERNATIVE UNIVERSE

Summary: Fuck boy Johnny fuck you on your demand.

Warnings: Reader is kind of needy and overachiver girl, very cliche you can say. P in the v sex, fingering and eating out, Johnny is a FLITHY man and we like that. Drinking and alcohol. Mention of Simon rejecting reader.

Note: It's finally here and you can see how I gave up in the end, Only because this has a part two with threesome.

IDEA | INTRO

Johnny has seen many men and women alike, fucked ‘em too. He had the privilege to worship bodies and not care about them. He's a filthy god in his human skin— he can care less.

The party is booming with sounds that send low vibrations through his bones, he's nursing a drink and a cigarette. Tonight had been eventful in a low way— women kissing his cheeks and mumbling how they want his numbers, men slowly slipping hands into his back pocket to squeeze his ass.

Tonight was good, the buzz of the drinks getting to his bones. There is this very light flutter in his chest, the headiness of the alcohol catching up to him. Simon must be around somewhere, Gaz had disappeared with his girl long before he even started to order drinks.

Johnny has not been a good man, in his own sense of goodness. He has been something borderlining filth— the cross rests around his neck which he kisses every time he's at the church praying. He prays god would forget what kind of man he is when he dies.

Except Johnny forgets he himself is the man of God when it comes to fucking someone or getting fucked.

He has been eyeing almost everyone, not particularly in the mood to fuck but enough to have some dance with his people or stangers alike. He remembers the first time he had sex, with some man at the soccer club, in the bathroom.

It was something he would always hold onto, fucking the pastor's son.

You have been lingering around for a while, fiddling with the rim of your glass as you give him side eyes. He did notice you, you're very obviously gawking at him, and he takes it as a sign that you must be admiring him. He snorts to himself, puts another cigarette between his lips and searches his pockets for a lighter.

You have been around for the past two years, not really present. Not really absent, just existing somewhere— where people would notice you when they required you and not vice versa. You would be huddled with notebooks, ball point pen ink smeared across your hands and overfilled pages with notes and rough papers with even tougher calculations.

You were from the Computer Science department. Smart in studies, socialising only when others called you and just enough.

You existed, never lived the life you were given. Goal oriented, that's what he called you when you passed by him one day in the hallways. Always good marks, even better reputation between the teachers, some extracurricular activities when required— mostly sketching.

And that brings him to the thought that you shared one hobby same as him.

But it also makes him curious why you are slowly creeping beside him at a snail's pace with the fruit punch with too much soda. You're wearing a khaki shirt, two buttons at the top undone and sowing the swells of your breasts. There is a small tattoo on your sternum that isn't really visible but it's poking out.

Johnny cocks an eyebrow, taking a drag from his cigarette and chugging down what was left of his drink. He doesn't comment how you've crawled up beside him, in a metaphoric sense. Your attention is elsewhere, but it doesn't go out of his observation that you're still sneaking glances at him, again.

Very obviously that too.

You're a squirmy little thing, a bird who has just learnt how to fly. You aren't fitting well with the crowd— a mismatched jigsaw piece. He pities you for the uncomfortable feeling you must be in, an outcasted abandonment.

Earlier when he had seen you enter the club— he had seen you enter with your friends. A rowdy bunch of people from his own batch. They took their seats at the stall— one by one leaving you after asking if you'd be okay on your own, and to his sweet dismay you had said okay each time.

And that was obviously the most wrong thing, the way you were on the verge of tearing up beside him because of the loneliness.

“Ye know ye are really ain't that nonchalant lass” he snickered stealing a glance at you. He observes a few other things about you then, the way you bite your lips absolutely pink and swollen due to being nervous. There is this thought in his head that is clawing— a slow sliver of arousal winding up his spine.

You look up at him with a pout, “Wasn't trying to be nonchalant… wanted you to notice me” your voice is sweet, scared but it's mostly the fear of new interaction. There is a soft tremble in your fingers, now that he turns towards you and you are playing with the glass between your hands.

“Tryna get my attention lass? That's a sweet things” he chuckles, ordering another drink for him. The ciggy between his lips almost finished as he crushes it on the ashtray beside him, “That so love?” He mutters, leaning a little towards you.

That's when he notices that soft red hue flushed over your cheeks and the pout on your lips, the subtle way you licked them and looked away, muttering something about boys like him always poking their nose in other's business.

“Nah lass it was you who slid beside me now, didn't ye?” He grins, when you look away, flushing deeper and chugging down your soda. A small trail of the drink dripping down your lips. There is an angry frown on your face when you look at him again, eyes a little glazed and he's sure you had a couple of drinks before.

“...won't beat around the bush”

“Never said you were love”

“I need you to fuck me McTavish”

Johnny chokes on the beer he ordered, the bartender giving him a confused look, which said more like you fumbling her? Johnny shot a glare at the bartender and looked back at you, still there in flesh and not a hallucination. You're staring at him with concerned eyes, a hand on his back as you pat his back slowly.

“You— okay?” Your voice this time is ten times sweeter, concern lacing as it turns into a soft murmur. Like one's lover whispers in another's ear.

It sends his head into a frenzy, a hazy state where his brain fucks up and absolute lewd scene in his head and you're the victim of his imagination. He knows he shouldn't, god he knows he won't— but a little imagination has never hurt anyone.

The look in your eyes, the way your lips have turned red now and glossy with your constant licking and biting, your tattoo peeking out of your shirt as you lean a little forward towards him, the small warmth of your hand over his back has his cock chubbing up good in his jeans.

He shifts a little, still sane enough not to wreck his nervous system into shutting down his horniess.

“Aye—? Lass ye joking?”

There is a frown on your face this time, a confused one. Johnny is oh so sure it's the alcohol in your system speaking for you. He makes a mental note that your unconscious thoughts do consist of him fucking you and he rather enjoy that image sometimes later when he wants a wank material.

“I— no… I was serious…” your pouting again, looking here and there and everywhere but at him. Your hands are closed on your lap, there is a small tremble in your lower lips as you bite it again— and god if that doesn't make Johnny's cock strain in his jeans. He shifts again, finding a comfortable position where you can't see the tent in his pants.

“I'm… Sorry— That was so inappropriate—” you're speaking, god's you're stuttering so fucking bad while apologising, a soft tremor in your voice as you trying to articulate whatever the fuck you're saying.

Johnny feels guilty, but he doesn't pay attention to it. He's not listening to half of what you're saying, just glaring very obviously at the dip between your chest and back to your neck, his teeth would look so fucking good on the soft flesh. His eyes go a little up and they are on your lips, trembling and swollen— how fucking soft would they feel against his. How good would it feel to kiss them and roll them between his own teeth, bite them until you're a whimpering mess in his arms.

His eyes now land on your thighs and where your hands settle, the plush fat there bulging against the hem of your denim shorts. They look so soft and pure.

He shakes his head, don't Johnny.

Don't you fucking honey bastard of a man— think about her doing maths– fucking hell that's hot too, nah let's think about Simon— okay hot too— Gaz— fucking hell man nah—

He blinks his eyes and you're already off the stool muttering apologies and leaving. The gears in his head turn as he hops down too, his hands on your shoulder— aye lass, nah don't—

There are tears streaming down your eyes, soft slat clinging to your even softer features, a shallow gasp pushes past your throat, trying to catch your breath. Johnny feels a sick pit in his stomach, what he said wasn't that offending right— man he didn't even reject her, all he did was ask her if she was serious?

He tries to convince himself that it's the alcohol in your system.

A sigh, his hands slide down your shoulder to your waist and he leans over to your ear. Breath hitting the shell of it, lips almost brushing against the baby hairs that are around, “I'll take ye to my home ‘kay?” He murmurs, voice soft, yet raspy. Something sweet yet intoxicating.

That gets you to still, eyes blinking up at him as he pulls away a little, a soft smile on his face. You nodd, lips again between your teeth with a nervous flutter. His hands rests against your waist, the warmth seeping in through the cotton shirt. It warms your face as you look away.

There is a shiver in your form, pressing yourself a little closer to him even if there is this uncomfortable flutter in your stomach. You have never done this before, never have been near a man before— not like this atleast. More like you didn't get time, your head was filled with too much of your achievements to even try to engage with men or anyone for fun.

Because your fun was your work, your goals.

So no. But that backfired. High-school, the nerd, the over achiver with a fucking hell of an reputation around the school and at other competition. Never the one to be let down— just yourself.

At college not that you would join your batch mates, but getting teased by your friends as the innocent one, the sweetheart, a baby— the baby of course the group was the biggest ick you had.

So here you were, standing behind Johnny as he roared up his bike's engine to life and put on his helmet and not forgetting to help you with one too, mindfully putting his jacket around you which ate up your whole frame.

You blinked up at this man, John McTavish. You have heard his name, saw him around the campus, a rowdy man with an unspeakable amount of charisma.

People would think he's a loser, but he's decent in his academics. Almost acing his classes and hobbies. He got that fuckboy charm that attracted everyone, every gender, every fucking age— you had heard your roomates whisper among themselves about getting fucked by him, so fucking good, so fucking amazing, all sorts of compliment.

He's like a sex god.

But he wasn't your type, not really. His pal, that brooding mass of flesh that hovered beside him, always in a balaclava, that non-committal person, Simon Riley. Simon was from the History department. Did great and was as same as Johnny.

No wonder why Johnny and he were friends, except Simon was a lot less talking and more doing.

You had gone to him first, sweet and soft and polite. Asking him about his day, he replied with grunts and sighs. Simon was so quiet you almost missed all his answers. Later on, when you boldly asked if you could come with him to his apartment— god's he gave you a look.

He gave you the look.

That disinterested look, ignorance that wasn't feigned. He had sighed and took a large gulp of his drink before muttering a low, “Don't do innocent bird like you sweet’art” before walking away and not sparing a glance back at you.

Blood had rushed to your head so fucking fast, anger and humiliation burning your face up as his massive frame disappeared in the crowd. You had seen red; anger— something cracking in your with humiliation, so you went to the second best option.

His pal, Johnny.

And Johnny was an absolute sweetheart.

So here you stand, with a pit so deep in your stomach and guilt bubbling in your throat as you wipe your eyes and sniffle a little. He looks at you, mutters a it's okay lass, let's get you my home before his fingers are brushing your cheeks.

You feel warmth, too warm— that kind that makes your heart flutter. You know you shouldn't feel like this, but it's your first time being touched so tenderly by a man, of course your biology will betray you.

You nodd, helping yourself behind him on his bike as he steadies it. Then off you go.

The air is in your hair, your arms wrapped around his shoulder, too afraid to wrap it around his waist. Too nervous would be correct. You can smell his cologne, a soft salty and spicy smell that makes you nerves relaxed mildly, yet you can hear your blood rush to your cheeks. You huddle closer to him,fingers gripping his shoulders tightly as he speeds up.

“Ye holdin’ alright bonnie?”

You blink up at him, he's looking at you through the rear mirror. A slight nod as you avert your eyes again— god's you're shy, so flustered right now. You can feel a weird feeling in your skin and through your stomach. It's warming your body, it makes you think this is what love feels like.

Even if you know for fucks sake that this is far from love, it's just lust.

The bike slows down in front of a building, Johnny is a sweet man to help you get off the bike holding your hands. His fingers are coarser, yet gentle in the way only men who hold respect can be.

“You okay love?” He asks, helping you to take off the helmet, his fingers working on the strap as he lifts your head up a little. You hum, your hands idley hanging beside you as you play with the sleeves of his jacket.

The helmet comes off and you roll your shoulders, “That's a heavy helmet” you mutter, fingers fixing your hair. Johnny chuckles, his fingers coming up to your face to tuck the stray strands of hair away from your face. There is a moment of softness, your eyes on his fingers, then to his face— and god help you he has those baby blue eyes.

“This your first time love?” He asked, fingers curling around your cheek, brushing the skin under your eye. Isn't this far too— soft and romantic— you nod, pulling away a little before another flush of heat creeps up your neck. He chuckles, “Mhm, ‘kay”

You're in his apartment, shared with Simon. Simon isn't here of course, he won't be here tonight— he'd be here the next morning. The guilt again starts to make your tongue bitter as Johnny helps you with your bag, keeping it on the couch. You look around, a decent apartment that smells like grass and cheese.

Johnny disappears in the kitchen, “Ye need anything love? Water?” he asks, poking his head from the doorway. You frown, fingers fiddling with your own hands, “No, Thank you”

That should do it.

You're confused, really confused. Aren't you supposed to get into fucking immediately? Like your friends described? Kissing in the elevator, lifting you up in the staircase— aren't one night stands like such?

You blink hard, trying to erase the cloud of confusion from your own head as your fingers fiddle with the buttons of your shirt— slowly unbuttoning them as the cold air leaves a trail of goose flesh after. Hands skittish as your fingers fold your shirt and keep it neatly beside your bag on the couch.

Your thoughts drift to Simon's for once, even if you may have been avoidant towards boys and men alike— didn't mean you never fantasised their touch on your skin.

Some nights when overwhelmed with studies and emotions, laying on your bed— your thoughts would drift to Simon, wantingly. It was a silly crush when you first saw him, with Johnny, hell you didn't even pay attention to Johnny until he came up to the sketching club and sat next to you.

This silly crush developed into something more lustful. Never intimate, just lustful— with your fingers trailing down your waistbands, back arching as you rolled your sensitive bud between them. Most of your thoughts would contain Simon touching you, his hands grabbing you by your waist, arching your back as his lips trailed along your ears.

Another hand on your nipple, twirling it— a low moan.

Just imagination.

Just imagine.

Your bra was off by now, as you flinged it across the armrest.

You look up only to find Johnny gaping at the doorway, maybe salivating with the way he licked his lips and gulped. There were two popsicles in his hands, melting off now. You don't know how long he had been standing there— you don't really.

Too lost in your own head to notice the man. Hands instinctively coming over your chest to save you some dignity as a small squeal left your throat.

“I— Aye lass ye were serious?”

You take a look at Johnny, skittish on your feet. He had changed into a loose vest, shorts on and just relaxed, but the very visible growing tent through those shorts had you swallowing air. You blink innocently (you are innocent) and look up at him— flushed all red and sighing.

“John McTavish, Fuck me”

That sent all the blood rushing south, the almost hard cock now straining against his shorts as he groaned. He looked, held back— eyes glassy as he let out a long breathe, throwing away the two very molten popsicles into the bin and licking his hands clean as he strode towards you.

“Aye— as you command mam”

Johnny's paln was to send you home. Johnny's plan was to make you drink water, sober you up, give you a popsicle and talk about silly things and talk you out of getting fucked by him— because clearly the alcohol in your system was making you talk.

So god, he never expected you to stand half undressed in his living room under the low moon light looking so damn soft and pretty. He didn't fucking think that the sight of your already flushed and shy face would make his semi hardened cock rock hard.

Hell, there was this soft floral smell of your body mist waiting around the air— even on his shirt because of the bike ride which had made it all even more difficult.

Johnny was good at having control over his hormones.

He wasn't good at controlling what his hormones did when someone else controlled him.

In this case you.

He kissed you, lips licking with yours in that aggressive way that he loves. It made you gasp, fingers curling around his vest as he pulled you closer— it was so clear that you had never done this, so painfully obvious by the way you were squeamish and trying to push him away when his tongue forced its way into your mouth.

A low whine, more like approval vibrated in your throat and he grinned on your lips, pulling you on the couch.

Lips moving slowly, yet some aggressive intensity he possessed— he pulled away, letting you breathe.

And god you looked like a rose in full bloom, cheeks reddened and eyes having those hazy lustful look. You licked your lips, hands now curling around his neck as you part your lips again for a kiss and he complies, lips on yours— this time slower, taking your lower lips between his teeth that earns him a squirm and a yelp.

Your eyes hooded as you look at him, and fuck he finds it's hot— so fucking hit he can feel his precum staining his shorts.

His hands wrapped around your naked waist, skin so soft— and god the tattoo on your sternum. It's a small cross, ink curling under your skin and ending just where the swell of your breasts start. Johnny pulls away again, letting you breath— but you're painting, blinking and trying to clear the haze.

He's reverent, lips under your chin, then down your throat and down below— biting your collars that make you mewl. It's making you feel hot, Johnny can feel the way you're trying to rub your legs together to feel something kind of relief. He grins, as his lips trails slobbering kisses over your neck and up to your ears, biting the shell.

You gasp, nails digging into his shoulder.

His one hand now rests over your breasts, rolling your nipple between them, his other hand slowly trailing down your stomach down to your shorts. The overwhelming sensation causes you to throw your head back and whine, trying to lift your hips up and find some kind of contact between him and yours.

And gods he would have fucked you raw— but it's you, it's your hands wrapped around his wrists with those wide eyes that clearly scream I have never done this please please please help— and he pauses. Leans back a little, hands slowly retreating to your waist.

“I— I’m sorry I haven't really done this before—”

He knows, the softness under you skin, the innocence in your voice, the soft tremble in your body as you let him kiss you, god he knows you have no clue what you're going at— so he smiles, his voice syrupy but so husky, “‘Is alright, wannae take it slow?”

Your gaze fixes on him, a little less nervous, the tension in your limbs melted away the moment he kissed you— so you take a leap and nodded at him, lips parting to let out a soft Yeah… yeah thank you.

So Johnny's lips get back to your stomach, fingers gripping your waist and squishing the fat there. He lets out a heavy breath, teeth latching with the button of your shorts.

You give him a confused look, eyes wide and lips parted in confusion. More like awe, “Hey— McTavish what—”

Click

He teeth bite onto the fabric of your denim shorts, pulling it away slowly and that's when you relaise why the fuck is this man called a fuckboy. He got those tricks up his sleeves.

His teeth grip the zip of your zipper, pulling it down and making you feel so damn hot. You feel yourself panting, naked chest heaving as you try to look away but his hand is already holding your jaw, “Look at me love” and god you know you died on the spot.

He helps you out of your shorts, tautly pulling down your cotton knickers down with them, making you gasp and cross your legs in shame. “McTavish!?”

“It’s Johnny babe” he murmurs, parting your legs with ease as he settles between them and stares at your glistening sex. “Fuckin’ hell love, look at ye all dripping f’me?” he murmurs, his mouth already over your clit, giving it a soft kiss. You hiss at the sensation, hands automatically in his hair as a ragged breath passed through your mouth, “G-gently—”

There is this big grin on his face as he rests his head over your mound, stubble scratching the small trail there, you sigh at the weight, “Don't worry lass— lemme just—” he flicks his tongue out, a soft lick over your folds. You gasped sharply, fingers digging into his hair, “I— Sorry Johnny I didn't mean to—”

But god he looked so blissed out when you pulled on his hair, groaning into your cunt mumbling thank you god.

His mouth worked wonders, tongues lapping at the slobbering hole— and god he was messy, slurping up your essence like so ancient elixir. A low moan escapes your throat, brows furrowed in utmost pleasure, toes curling and nails digging into his hair.

He was filthy, making out with your folds whilst he muttered absolutely nonsense— so fucking sweet now aren't ye girl? getting so fucking wet for me? yeah? such a pretty thing.

It wasn't even a good few minutes in that you started to feel your orgasm wind up your core, stomach clenching as a soft cry escaped your lips— all red and glossy with your drool. The slow coil in your stomach tightened with each suck— lazy yet so fucking good it had you cumming within few seconds.

Back arching as you pulled on his hair, and Johnny being the good fucking dog he is— licked up every drop of your release until you started to whine and push at him, your heels in his thighs crying as he overstimulated your sensitive spot.

“Aye gimme one more bonnie” he grinned, lips on your bud, rolling it between his teeth and pushing his middle and ring finger in. You gasp, his fingers curling at the sweet spot making you cry aloud— “Just like that, good girl” he purred into your pussy.

Pumping his fingers in and out while rolling his thumb over your clit— Johnny takes a moment to admire you're fucked out expression— and he swears by the cross he wears around his neck, he'd tattoo this moment under his eyelids. Eyes rolled back, fingers in your hair grabbing them by roots while you try to push away, which is really trying to pull him closer.

Your second orgasm pulls closer as he hits that spot over and over again— and the coil underneath your belly snaps, making you spray all your release over him. He hums in approval, pulling back as he flicks his thumb continuously over your bud riding out your orgasm, “Aye look at her lass, so fucking beautiful”

You're spent, barely being able to open your eyes as Johnny pulls down his shorts. If you were a little more conscious, you would have noticed the white cum patch over his shorts dripping down his thighs, but you don't. Johnny sighs, pulling his vest off— the cross dangling from his neck.

He looks into your eyes, a pleased sigh leaving your lips as you try to catch your breath, fingers trying to find purchase around his neck to pull him for a kiss. There is this sudden glee flowing through your veins as you kiss him, tasting yourself on him, an approving hum.

Just as he pulls back, you stare at him.

He looks so fucking happy, the grin on his face damn beautiful and that breaks your heart.

The guilt that had left your body coils up again as your muscles tense up— a nervous flare in your bones as you bite your lips to keep yourself from crying. But all the overwhelming sensation and emotions got the best of you, and tears fell down the apples of your cheeks.

Johnny looked so fucking confused, that happy smile wiped out at an instant— hands wrapping around your cheeks as he wiped them, “Hey, Lass? Ye okay? I didn't hurt ye did I?” He's concerned, borderlining anxiety in his own form. You shake your head, “No— I'm sorry Johnny–”

And the guilt is out of the box as you wrap your arms around his neck and sob, muttering apologies that has him confused. Johnny's wondering what the fuck went wrong as he holds you, getting you on his lap and rocking you mumbling hey lass it's okay.

“It's not!” You pull away, with a particular choking sob, “It's not, I used you—”

He's staring at you now, with a look that says, come again? yet you're having an emotional meltdown on his lap, naked, both of you.

Such a good first time fuck.

“Aye lass, breath— breath love, now tell me what is goin’ on in ye head—”

You blink, sobs still wrecking but slowly shimmering into snuffles as you wipe your face, “I— Johnny… I Simon…”

“Simon?”

“Simon didn't want to fuck me so…”

“You're telling me you came to me because Simon didn't fuck you?”

“...Yes,"

You take a pause

"I'm sorry”

“Lass ye better believe that I can fuck ye better than that skull head”

You blink your tears away again, eyes burning now as your hands hastily wipe them. Johnny's grinning, holding you up a little, “This yer first time yeah?” You nodd softly, “No tears bonnie, no fuckin tears– only if I fuck you good”

And then slowly rubbing his cock up and down your folds, easing up to you while you stutter straddling his lap. A low gasp leaves your mouth as he pushes in, rocking your hips slowly. “This hurt sweet’art?” he asks with a kiss on your lips and then to your cheek.

“Not— r-really–” you fumble, walls fluttering around his girth as he bottoms out. He groans, throwing his head back as you adjust to him, “J-Johnny— this—” you stutter again, lips opening apart as he slowly thrushes in at a slow pace letting you adjust.

You're gasping, hands pawing at his chest, mewling and whining. Johnny's keeps his eyes locked on your, lips pressing soft kisses on your collar bones and down your chest— it distracts your attention from the slight pain down there, but god the way Johnny is pacing up is making your head spin.

“F-faster Johnny—” you mutter, hands grabbing the back of his neck as you push your mouth against his, whining as he increases his pace making you gasp loudly, which he swallows. Your walls clenching around him as he moves, “Fucking hell Lass made for me now didn't ye?”

You answer with a moan, nodding your head as he hits that one spot again, cock so fucking thick and stuffing that it has your guts twisting. You can feel your abdomen coil again, the sweet release in your guts wrapping around your spine as he pushes in and out again and again.

Your release washes over you, slow like waves as Johnny lets you ride it out, helping you while he chases his own release. His cock feeling impossibly thick— and then he cums, hard with a groan on your shoulder. Your head falls back as he holds your waist on his lap, pressing kisses over your neck and shoulder.

“S’ good f’me lass”

He can feel himself leak out of you, pooling on his hips as he pulls out. He'll worry about the plan b later, surely get you one before he cleans you up and gets you to bed all coddling.