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verstappenverse · 10 days ago

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In Every City, It’s Still You

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: After weeks of hiding your fears that Max cheats on the road, your confession leaves him heartbroken that you think so little of his love. (Requested)

2.2k words / Masterlist

Max's texts come in at 2:13 a.m.

Landed. In the hotel now. I miss you.

Try to sleep.

Talk tomorrow. Love you.

You stare at your phone for a while, the bluish light casting sharp shadows over your face in the dark room. The words are sweet, comforting even, but they don’t settle the unease coiling low in your stomach. Your thumb hovers over the screen, hesitating.

You type, Miss you too. Sleep well, and hit send. But it feels... hollow.

It’s not him. Not really. Max hasn’t changed, he still texts you every time he lands, still calls you baby in that low, tired voice that makes your heart ache. But something around him has shifted, and you feel it all the way from home. The messages feel like a thread stretched too thin, too tight, trembling, like it might snap if you pull just a little harder.

Because it isn’t the distance anymore. It’s everything else.

It’s the way girls throw themselves at him in the paddock every day, effortlessly pretty, sun-kissed, always laughing too loudly when he’s around. The influencers in the hospitality suites who watch him like they already belong to him, cameras flashing like they have something to prove. The blonde in Canada who sat on the pit wall like it was her throne, perfectly poised and knowing exactly where the lenses were. The brunette in Imola who wore Max's number on her cheek like it meant something personal.

And you were... here. Alone in bed, scrolling through tagged photos with a growing ache in your chest and a nauseating swirl of insecurity you couldn't quite explain.

You know Max loves you. He told you. He shows you. But some nights, like tonight, you can’t stop the slow, creeping doubt. The fear that love isn’t always enough when you aren’t there. When someone prettier or bolder or more his world is.

You turn your phone face-down and blink hard into the ceiling, trying not to cry, because it isn’t him.

It’s you. Spiralling.

And you hate that you can’t stop.

It isn’t like Max has ever given you a reason to doubt him. He doesn’t flirt. He isn’t sneaky. He never makes you feel small or uncertain. He makes time for you, even when he’s exhausted and halfway across the world. He calls when he says he will. He texts when he’s landed. He checks in between meetings, between media, between practice sessions.

But even the most reassuring routines begin to feel fragile when you spend your nights alone, scrolling through social media feeds that turn love into a ticking time bomb.

On Twitter or TikTok it’s like cheating wasn’t just a possibility, it was a guarantee. People talk like it’s an open secret. Like all of them do it. Like staying faithful is a joke, not the norm.

And you hate how easily those posts get under your skin.

One comment in particular has lodged itself somewhere deep in your brain, rotting quietly.

You think any of them are faithful on the road? They’ve got girls in every city babes. You’re just the one they come home to.

You remember reading it in bed, the words hitting harder than you ever wanted to admit. You’d stared at it for too long, re-reading it like it was some kind of warning meant specifically for you.

Maybe it isn’t about Max. Maybe it’s just a bitter stranger talking from experience. But what if it wasn’t?

What if Max is different without you, surrounded by constant temptation and girls who don’t hesitate?

What if all the love you give to each other at home isn’t enough to hold his attention in Singapore, or Brazil, or Vegas?

What if you’re stupid for thinking you’re the exception?

The thought makes your stomach twist, hot and cold at the same time. You hate yourself for even questioning him, but the doubt creeps in anyway, quiet and venomous. Because love isn’t always louder than fear. And lately, fear has found a voice you can’t ignore.

It comes out on a random Wednesday.

Max has a few days off and is finally back in Monaco with you, curled up on the couch, wearing sweatpants and eating cereal out of the box like he’s a college student and not a multiple world champion.

You’re quiet, distracted, picking at the hem of your sleep shorts while some Netflix show runs in the background.

“Babe?” he says, nudging your leg with his knee. “You okay?”

You nod too quickly. “Yeah. Just tired.”

He doesn’t buy it. “You’ve been weird since I got back from Canada.”

“Have I?”

Max sits up a little straighter, the playfulness gone. “Don’t do that.”

You swallow, staring at the bowl in your hands. You don’t meant to say it, but maybe you need to.

“I just…” you start, voice quieter than you expected. “I sometimes wonder what really happens when you're away.”

He blinks. “What do you mean?”

You feel your heart begin to race. There was no easy way to explain it, no version of this that wouldn’t hurt him. But keeping it inside had only made it worse. You take a shaky breath and force yourself to look at him, to see the confusion on his face.

“Okay… just don’t take this the wrong way,” you say, voice trembling. “You’re surrounded by beautiful girls. All the time. At afterparties, on boats, in clubs. They throw themselves at you. And I know you say you love me, I do, I hear you, but…”

You pause, eyes searching his. “Max, people like you… you have options.”

Silence.

You keep going, even though your throat feels like it’s closing. “I’m not accusing you of anything. I’m not. I just, I’ve seen what people say online. About how no driver, no athlete stays loyal. That it’s just how it is. That they all cheat. That it comes with the territory.”

You glance up again, and what you see in Max’s eyes feels like a punch to the stomach. Hurt. Pure, disbelieving hurt.

He stares at you like you’d just slapped him.

“You think I cheat on you?” he asks, voice low, almost stunned.

You flinch. “I don’t know. I think… I think maybe you could. One day. And I wouldn’t even know.”

He stands up so fast the phone on his lap clatters to the floor.

“Jesus Christ, how could I not take that the wrong way?” he mutters, raking a hand through his hair. “You really think that little of me? You really think I’m capable of looking you in the eye and lying to you like that? Of touching someone else and then coming home to you like nothing happened?”

Your heart drops. “No, Max, that’s not—”

“You think I’m out there fucking around in every city I go to?” His accent thickens, voice rising with disbelief. “That I land and what? Just start looking for a warm body?”

“I didn’t say that—”

“You didn’t have to,” he snaps, pacing now. “You just implied that for all this time what, you’ve been sitting here imagining me cheating on you and not telling me?”

Your eyes sting. “I didn’t want to fight. I didn’t want to seem insecure.”

“You’d rather just assume I’m a liar?”

“No, Max, fuck—no. It’s not like that. It’s not even about you, it’s... God, it’s not even logical, okay?” You were scrambling now, words tumbling faster than your brain could sort them. “It’s just there’s this stigma, okay? That athletes are cheaters. That they all are. And I guess some part of me thought that was just… part of the deal.”

Max stares at you like he can’t believe what he’s hearing. “So because other people fuck up their relationships, I’m guilty by association?”

“I’m not saying that.”

“You are, though,” he snaps, stepping back like your words burn. “You’re saying you don’t think I’ve done anything, yet, but you’ve already decided I probably will.”

“I’m saying I’ve seen it happen!” you cry. “To people who swore they’d never do it. Who looked just as in love as we are.”

Max stares at you for a long time, chest rising and falling.

Then, quietly, “You think I’d put you through that?”

Tears well up in your eyes. “No. But I’m scared that you could. That one day I won’t be enough.”

“You think I’d just wake up one day and decide you weren’t enough?” he asks, his voice cracking with raw emotion. “That I’d throw us away for what, something easy? Something empty?”

“I don’t want to think that,” you whisper. “But it’s like this constant voice in the back of my head saying, don’t get too comfortable. Saying people like me don’t keep people like you.”

Max looks like he wants to yell or be sick. His fists are clenched, jaw tight, frustration radiating off him.

Then, just as suddenly, his face crumples.

He sits back down.

And says, more softly than you expected, “I love you.”

You sniffle. “I know.”

“Clearly you don’t.” His voice cracks ever so slightly, a barely-there fracture that makes your heart squeeze. He swallows hard, throat bobbing, like the words were caught on something sharp on their way out. He looks down for a second, just a flick of his eyes, then back at you.

“I love you,” he says again, more deliberately this time. Slower. Like he wants you to feel every syllable. “I love you.”

His hands ran over his thighs before curling into loose fists again.

“Like… when I’m away, I go to bed early because I miss you,” he says, voice soft but firm. “And I mean physically miss you. Like my chest fucking aches and everything feels too quiet and I stare at the ceiling hoping you’ll call even though I know you’re asleep.”

You blink, stunned by the rawness in his tone.

“I check my phone like an idiot,” he goes on, letting out a soft, bitter laugh. “Every five minutes. Just to see if you sent a stupid meme or said goodnight again. And if you didn’t, I reread the last thing you said. Because it makes me feel closer to you.”

You feel your eyes start to burn again, but he isn’t finished.

“When I come home and you’re here? It’s like—” He breaks off, searching for the right words, his brows knitting together. “It’s like I can breathe again. Like I stop being whatever version of me the rest of the world expects and I just… exist. As me. As yours.”

He let’s out a breath, slower this time. Measured.

“I don’t care what people say. I don’t care what some idiot online thinks is ‘normal’ for a driver or a man or anyone in this life. I don’t care what the stereotype is. I don’t need a club full of models or some yacht party to feel important.”

His gaze locks onto yours, eyes fierce but tender.

“I don’t want options. I want you. You’re it for me. You always have been. And I need you to know that. Not just hear it, not just nod and say okay know it. Because I don’t have a backup plan. I don’t want one.”

He exhales, like saying all of it left him exposed in the best and worst way.

You wipe at your cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so so sorry.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice hoarse. “Do you have any idea what it does to me to think you’ve been carrying that around? That you’ve been hurting because you’re afraid I’ll leave or stray or whatever the fuck people think drivers do?”

You shake your head. “It’s not fair to you. I know that.”

He exhales slowly, nodding. “No. It’s not. But I get it. I do.”

You look up.

“I’ve seen what fame does to people,” he says. “I’ve seen guys ruin good things for a pretty face and some attention. And I hate that you’ve had to wonder if I would do that to you.”

You feel like the smallest person alive. “Max, I’m so sorry.”

He reaches for your hand.

“I need you to trust me,” he says, fingers tightening around yours. “Not the version of me that strangers make up. Me. The guy who texts you at 2 a.m. because I can’t fall asleep without hearing from you. The guy who thinks about you twenty-four seven even when I’ve got a million other things to focus on. The guy who looks at other girls and doesn't feel a damn thing and only thinks, ‘none of them are you’.

You let out a shaky breath.

“I do trust you, I’m just terrified of losing you and—” you whisper, “I just let the noise get in my head.”

He pulls you into his chest.

“Next time it gets loud in there,” he murmurs against your hair, “you come to me. Let me be louder.”

You nod, arms wrapping around him tightly.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. “I love you so much.”

Max presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re mine. You hear me? I don’t want anyone else. Never have. Never will.”

You let the truth of that settle into your bones like warmth.

Maybe people will always talk. Maybe they’ll always be stories and rumours. Maybe they’ll always be stereotypes and assumptions and endless temptations.

But you aren’t dating a stereotype.

You’re dating Max.

And Max? He only ever wants you.

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kitasuno · 1 year ago

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dating the love and deepspace boys | domestic moments

featuring: rafayel, xavier, and zayne x gn!reader

(´• ω •`) ♡ modern au! can you guys tell raf is my favorite..?

rafayel

a year younger than you. lies to everyone (including you) that he’s actually two years your senior. you only found out he was younger than you when you met his parents, who have his birth certificate framed.

hates cats. despises them. they fill him with rage (fear). says he’s allergic (he’s lying).

“oh shit raf, this sucks! i guess you can’t move in with me.. i have cats”

“...you have cats?”

“yeah. 3.”

“i’m not allergic. i can move in tonight.”

chronically online. minoring in marine biology and majoring in annoying you. texts you over 200 times a day and if you don’t respond, he’s faking a horrible chronic illness. again. it’s amnesia on wednesdays, appendicitis on thursdays, chronic migraines on fridays… etc..

he has 2 followers on his private twitter. you and thomas.

over 700k followers on instagram for some reason? he sells paintings on depop (he says it's depop but you’re convinced he sells them for heinous prices on the black market)

cooks on occasion? has an apron that says kiss me im irish (he's not irish?) made you a tuna cupcake once??

pescatarian. not in the vegan/vegetarian way where he refuses to eat red meat but because he’s absolutely feral over fish. (is this cannibalism? he says its not)

lives in a 2 bedroom apartment with you but doesn’t use his bedroom. says your bed is comfier. turned his bedroom into a painting studio (IT’S for the black market you say!!) and sleeps with you.

“raf,” you sigh. “don’t you have.. homework or something?”

he sits between your legs, back against your chest as he scrolls through his phone.

“yeah,” he says. you flick the back of his head because you know he’s smirking. “it’s called assignment: you. due in two minutes.”

with his free hand, he reaches back mindlessly to grab yours. you sigh, fingers intertwining with his, a reflex as he leans his head back. his eyes meet yours and you can’t help but laugh.

“well?” you ask, brushing his hair out of his eyes as he squeezes your hand. “what are the assignment details?”

he chews on the bottom of his lip as he thinks, humming while his eyes wander across your face. he swings your interlocked hands in circles. it’s raining outside, the heater is on, and rafayel is warm like hot chocolate.

“what?” he says, his cheeks a tinge pink. “you’re looking at me like that again.” a pause. he turns, his head now buried in your chest.

“just studying my homework.” you say, hands instinctively wrapping around his back. the laundry machine is running in the background, rain is falling against the window, and you faintly hear your rice cooker dinging in the kitchen. home, you think, is with rafayel.

“i can hear your heartbeat.” he says, voice muffled. “it’s super fast. you like me or something?”

“i really like you.” you say, without skipping a beat. rafayel groans into your chest, sighing in discontent.

“no fair. i’m supposed to be the flirter.”

you press a kiss onto the top of his head and you feel his body melt into yours. the two of you fall into a warm silence, his breath steady as he traces paintings into your neck.

“raf?” you mumble, eyes drooping. he hums in response. “did you pass your assignment?”

he smiles. “with flying colors.”

xavier

chronic napper. (yapper?)

has 100 late assignments. failing all of his classes yet got into the top university in your country because he got a perfect score on his entrance exams. you thought he was a nepo baby (turns out he’s just.. smart?)

his procrastination rubs off on you… he is the WORST distraction and he knows it. so smug about it and uses it to his own advantage. will perch on top of you when you’re studying and kiss down your neck until you go to sleep with him.

lives in the apartment on top of yours but is at your house most days, if not all. you ask him to move in.

“am i not already.. living with you?”

“don’t you still have your apartment, though?”

“yeah..?”

is that good for the economy?? is it financially smart? not at all, but he’s too lazy to move out and put his apartment up for lease.

xavier sleeps with his legs entangled with yours and his arms wrapped tightly around your chest. the air conditioning hums in the background as you scroll mindlessly on your phone, dimming the brightness as you hear xavier stir.

“sorry xav, did i wake you up?” you ask. he doesn’t respond, blinking the sleep out of his eyes as he glares at your phone.

“xavier?” you question, swallowing a laugh at his ruffled hair and disheveled clothes.

“phone down.” he says, voice raspy with sleep and an octave lower than usual. you raise an eyebrow at him.

“can i get a pretty please in this economy?”

xavier’s eyes narrow as he snatches your phone away, snoozing the device and placing it on the nightstand next to you. his lips ghost your neck, pressing kisses against your skin as he mumbles incoherently in the dark of your bedroom.

“xavier-” you breathe, giggling at the sensation. “that tickles!”

he nips at your neck.

“bedtime. now.”

zayne

3 years older than you

he literally has his whole life together at 27 which scares you so much

“my credit card is your credit card” typa boyfriend

cooks. cleans. has a 9-5. you’re interning at the hospital that he works at (he’s head doctor!!)

you’re just a sweet little intern and zayne is the big bad monster!! everyone at work thinks he hates you because he’s extra strict on you. doesn’t give you any special treatment, ‘ignores’ you most days (but also slips meals into your locker and hands you heat packs on cold days in the hospital)

no one knows he’s dating you until one day someone sees you leaving in zaynes car.

“oh, you carpool with doctor zayne?”

“huh? no, we live together.”

“you WHAT???”

he’s a virgo……. erm……

the two of you get ready together in the morning. his guard is down when he’s sleepy and he’ll cling to you as he brushes his teeth and does his hair.

you wake up to the cold night breeze, blinking the sleep out of your eyes and shivering as you scan your surroundings. you yelp as you meet the attentive gaze of your boyfriend.

“huh? whuh? huh?” you splutter, squirming as zayne holds you tighter. he’s carrying you bridal style in his arms, his jacket around your shoulders as the two of you walk to his car. you see the bright lights of akso hospital fading away behind the two of you.

“it’s two am,” he says calmly, placing you down gently as he opens your car door for you. “you waited for my shift to end. again.”

you smile bashfully, rubbing the back of your head. “well, i didn’t wanna just leave you!”

zayne clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth, eyebrows furrowed but gaze warm. he guides you into your seat, clicking your seatbelt in place.

“you can nap on the way home,” he says, closing the door and sliding into his side of the car.

the heater’s on already- courtesy of his super expensive electric car. he fastens his own seatbelt and hands you a hot tea and bread from the hospital vending machine.

“drink up. doctor’s orders.”

you grin before he leans over to press a kiss on your lips.

“thank you for waiting for me.”

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #rafayel #xavier #zayne #love and deepspace headcanons #love and deepspace rafayel #rafayel x reader #zayne x reader #xavier x reader #love and deepspace fluff

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rebelssvy · 4 months ago

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roommates ✧.*

ushijima x reader ੈ✩‧₊˚

⋆·˚ ༘ *

summary: ushi is your roommate and saw your phone with porn on it. creating an interesting relationship with you two. sex, smut, porn

i added twt links bc why not just to make it juicer lol

the worst thing to ever possibly happen, happened. while getting some cereal at one a.m, you had been scrolling on your own personally private twitter account. do you have porn on there? yes. do you actually watch it? yes. did you mean to leave it open on the counter top? no. not at all.

so to your horror as you ran to the pantry for some more cereal, you came back to the kitchen to find your your roomate, ushijima, standing right above your phone.

the action of him ease dropping isn’t what got you, he often snoops around your shared apartment. it was the audio you heard coming from it that made you jump out of your skin.

in the dead quiet of your dimly litted apartment, the audio of a girl getting absolutely railed by a man echoed.

“oh my god!” you scrambled, running over to your phone you shut it off. then threw it across the room it landing on the couch.

your hands instantly found your face, everything was burning up. ushi was normally a kind of awkward guy. not ever really saying much and when he did, it was always just kind of awkward.

did this stop you from having a crush on him? of course not. how could it? he was fucking huge. his muscles could make you pop from a hug. and he was also caring. even if he stuggled showing it. so you had no idea how he was about to handle this.

“you don’t have to be embarrassed y/n.” his voice prodded through the silence. it was deep, hushed. it wasn’t until a hand found your back that you looked up to him.

“i’m so so so sorry ushi!” you said turning to face him, putting your hands on his chest and burrying your head into his pecks. being touchy with him wasn’t abnormal. he just never really reciprocated it. that didn’t bother you.

“i’m… i’m just gonna go to bed.” you said before leaving your cereal on the counter, grabbing your phone and walking away.

that night you slept in horror. praying that he wouldn’t move out because of the action.

that night ushijima was more sexually frustrated then he had ever been.

✧.*

the next day when you two were at dinner, he brought up the situation from last night.

“god.. you don’t have to try to make me feel better. just forget about it.” you stood shaking your head. you two were out at a random restaurant about to leave when he asked you about it. you really wished he could just forget.

“you know y/n.. everyone watches porn.” he said it casually. tone unwavering. your eyes darted to his, attempting to read his emotions. to which you were met with a straight face.

the rest of the night you kept thinking about what that meant. does the ushijima wakatoshi watch porn? no way. i mean… there is no way right? in your head he could never be tempted. he’s too idk. perfect.

those words haunted you until you got home. every moment of silence between you lead back to the mental image you created.

finally walking through the door you decided to bring it up with him. you just didn’t know how.

he waked to his bedroom as you made you way to the kitchen for a drink. “hey ushi..?” you called out. he only responded when he walked back in with a changed, more casual outfit.

“yes y/n?” he replied finding a spot on your shared couch. instantly stretching he made himself comfortable as he flexed his biceps ever so subtlety. your eyes wandered to wear his shirt poked up. a flips of his happy trail peaked out. “do you have a question?” he said. your eyes snapped back to his face. you only nodded in reply.

going and sitting down next to him, sitting cris cross legged. as he faced forward his head turned to you. you were close, but not as close as you wished you were. so you opted to scoot closer to him. one of your knees now touching his thigh.

“earlier, i just can’t get it out of my mind… you said yk ‘everyone watches porn.’… and i was just wondering if like.. excuse me if im over stepping here but, if you watched.. porn?” your skin felt hot. like you were burning up. after you said it you wished you could take it back.

there was a long pause, and you swore you died and came back to life. just as you were about to excuse yourself to suffer an eternity of embarrassment, he responded.

“yes i watch porn.”

it was the answer you had longed for. craved and yearned. but now what? you asked him.. now what do you do?

“okay…” you said, hesitant. “i’m sorry. i don’t know what to say i’m so embarrassed oh my g-“ he stopped you mid sentence. cutting you off to say,

“want to see what i watch?” his tone was so casual that he never seemed more comfortable to talk to you. you couldn’t give him a verbal yes, so you shook your head yes instead.

you gasped as he moved his arm closer to you, only to grab his phone your thigh had been covering up. you watched intently, all nerves stood on end as he traveled to his notes app. you watched as he unlocked a hidden folder that revealed several links and notes under them. this was so ushijima. you thought to yourself.

“can i?” you asked while scooting closer to him. he flushed and shook his head yes. you scrolled through tens of links and notes beneath them like, ‘threesome two boys one girl.’ or ‘good creampie.’ it wasn’t out of the ordinary until one really caught your eye. it was a link, then labeled. ‘y/n.’ you gasped reading your name. then he caught on right away. obviously embarrassed he shut his phone off and didn’t say anything.

curiosity struck at your bones. what was that video? what did it have my name on it?

“can i.. can we maybe watch some of them..?” you leaned into him now bringing the phone back up to seversace level and unlocking it. he never said no. he shook his head yes before saying.

“let me explain-“ you cut him off, pressing a finger to his mouth before saying. “we will save that one for last how bout that…” you were now flirting with him. and he could tell. he shook his head yes once again as you scrolled through all the different links.

finally clicking on one you watched it with him side by side. you watched as a boyfriend penetrated his smaller girlfriend with his huge cock. you felt ushijima squirm next to you, obviously uncomfortable.

“fuck…” you said without realizing. your head whipped to his but he was already looking at you. and god.. he was so handsome. his lips parted slightly, glossed from his own saliva

“can i please kiss you?” he asked while dropping his hand and now holding your face. before giving him an answer you brought your face to his with passion. kissing him so intently. your lips molded around each others. it was hot. it was almost too much to handle. a line of saliva connected the two of you as you parted.

you picked up his phone and went back to scrolling. this time his hands were all over you, touching every part of your body. brushing over it of pinching at it, he needed to feel you.

you moaned as he brought his head to your neck and slurped at all your open skin. you watched videos that he had saved, making mental notes about how the women in them are. or what he was into like, two lovers forced to be quiet or how the girl in the video spread herself open to get finger fucked.

finally you made your way to the video with your name on it. ushijima had now brought his eyes back to you, nervous of what was about to happen. in silence you clicked on it. just to find a video of a girl with your body type and look getting absolutely pounded.

“i’ve never been fucked like that before…” you admitted, breaking the silence. you looked over to him. dropping the phone now.

“fuck y/n… i’m trying really hard right now to be a gentleman but your making it hard.” he dropped his head back before bringing a hand to his hair and messing with it.

“fuck that! just fuck me please oh my god!” you squealed out, shocked that you even said it. you smacked a hand over your mouth. but it was too late. ushijima had already taken you into his arms. carrying you into his room.

“i haven’t..” he started while throwing his clothes off, and undoing yours next, “been able to get you out of my mind. i need you so bad” he admitted now laying you down on the bed.

it was all happening too quickly. and yet his pace was awfully slow for you. fully naked you stared at him. he stared back at you.

finally his fingers trailed your asshole before finding your cunt. it was soaked already, ushijima was seeing stars. “fuck your so wet..” he groaned. “can i?” he asked for your consent.

“yes! ushi~just fuck me!” you moaned as his hand cupped your soft little cunt. he stood above you, spread your legs open and pressed his middle finger into your tight little hole. taking it out to draw circles on your clit. your back arched at all of his motions. you squirmed under his touch.

“god your so fucking tight. so fucking pretty.” he groaned before putting another finger into you. pumping it in and out of you at reckless pace.

“need more… i need your cock ushi..!” you moaned out grabbing at his length. you jerked him off a couple strokes before he pulled his fingers out of you and pushed them in your mouth.

you sucked your own juices off his digits. and oh my god, ushijima had never felt hotter. he felt like he was on fire.

now on the bed with you he threw your body around into a doggy position. your ass in the air. he waited seconds just looking at you before he positioned his cock near your hole.

as his fat tip sank its way further into your sobbing cunt, the more your pussy sucked him in. half way in and he thought he was going to cum. he pushed the feeling deep down into his soul. he needed to fuck you first.

“ushijimaaa~ fuck! ah-! your so fucking bi-i-g!” and with that moan of his name, he swore he heard wedding bells.

a new fuel fired his engine, as he pounded your wet cunt from behind. your arched your back further. the sensation was too much for you. the feeling of you stretching out around his fat cock. you could feel him everywhere.

your cream gathered at the base of his cock, it made his mind go hazy. pushing your farther into the bed, he rested more of his weight on you. slamming his cock in and out of you. your noises filled the room. the way you clenched around home you knew you were close.

“fuck you like that? cmon y/n.. cum around my fucking cock.” his words sent you over the edge. shaking and spasming beneath him you cursed out moans. saying ‘fuck ushi-! god i fucking love your dick ohmygod’ it wasn’t until his pace slowed slightly that you realized that he wasn’t stopping.

“i’ve been waiting to fuck uou for months baby. cmon gimmie a nother one cmon…” you watched all his composer slip away as he pounded your overstimulated body. flipping you on your front you got pounded face to face with him. his eyebrows furrowed. he was such a sight.

you felt your second orgasm approaching. he reached down to circle your creamy clit. as soon as he touched it pleasure ripped through you. your body lurching forward. you shook with the feeling.

“imcummingfu-c! god ushi~ your cock oh my god. fuck your so fucking good ah-!” you moaned, almost screaming him praise. he came on the spot. his cock filling you up with his seed. you felt him everywhere.

“god your so perfect. oh my god fuck y/n.” he said through grunts and groans. finally he fell next to you. kissing your sweaty body.

getting cereal at one am was the best thing you’ve ever done.

·:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:··:*¨༺ ♱✮♱ ༻¨*:·

i missed writing about him so u know i had to do it

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anaquariusfox · 1 year ago

Text

I spent the evening looking into this AI shit and made a wee informative post of the information I found and thought all artists would be interested and maybe help yall?

edit: forgot to mention Glaze and Nightshade to alter/disrupt AI from taking your work into their machines. You can use these and post and it will apparently mess up the AI and it wont take your content into it's machine!

edit: ArtStation is not AI free! So make sure to read that when signing up if you do! (this post is also on twt)

[Image descriptions: A series of infographics titled: “Opt Out AI: [Social Media] and what I found.” The title image shows a drawing of a person holding up a stack of papers where the first says, ‘Terms of Service’ and the rest have logos for various social media sites and are falling onto the floor. Long transcriptions follow.

Instagram/Meta (I have to assume Facebook).

Hard for all users to locate the “opt out” options. The option has been known to move locations.

You have to click the opt out link to submit a request to opt out of the AI scraping. *You have to submit screenshots of your work/face/content you posted to the app, is curretnly being used in AI. If you do not have this, they will deny you.

Users are saying after being rejected, are being “meta blocked”

People’s requests are being accepted but they still have doubts that their content won’t be taken anyways.

Twitter/X

As of August 2023, Twitter’s ToS update:

“Twitter has the right to use any content that users post on its platform to train its AI models, and that users grant Twitter a worldwide, non-exclusive, royalty-free license to do so.”

There isn’t much to say. They’re doing the same thing Instagram is doing (to my understanding) and we can’t even opt out.

Tumblr

They also take your data and content and sell it to AI models.

But you’re in luck!

It is very simply to opt out (Wow. Thank Gods)

Opt out on Desktop: click on your blog > blog settings > scroll til you see visibility options and it’ll be the last option to toggle

Out out of Mobile: click your blog > scroll then click visibility > toggle opt out option

TikTok

I took time skim their ToS and under “How We Use Your Information” and towards the end of the long list: “To train and improve our technology, such as our machine learning models and algorithms.”

Regarding data collected; they will only not sell your data when “where restricted by applicable law”. That is not many countries. You can refuse/disable some cookies by going into settings > ads > turn off targeted ads.

I couldn’t find much in AI besides “our machine learning models” which I think is the same thing.

What to do?

In this age of the internet, it’s scary! But you have options and can pick which are best for you!

Accepting these platforms collection of not only your artwork, but your face! And not only your faces but the faces of those in your photos. Your friends and family. Some of those family members are children! Some of those faces are minors! I shudder to think what darker purposes those faces could be used for.

Opt out where you can! Be mindful and know the content you are posting is at risk of being loaded to AI if unable to opt out.

Fully delete (not archive) your content/accounts with these platforms. I know it takes up to 90 days for instagram to “delete” your information. And even keep it for “legal” purposes like legal prevention.

Use lesser known social media platforms! Some examples are; Signal, Mastodon, Diaspora, et. As well as art platforms: Artfol, Cara, ArtStation, etc.

The last drawing shows the same person as the title saying, ‘I am, by no means, a ToS autistic! So feel free to share any relatable information to these topics via reply or qrt!

I just wanted to share the information I found while searching for my own answers cause I’m sure people have the same questions as me.’ \End description] (thank you @a-captions-blog!)

#anti ai #ethics

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casssmalefantasy · 2 months ago

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OFF MUTE — PAIGE BUECKERS X READER!

| synopsis: you never thought your casual scroll on tiktok would land you on a live with kk arnold and paige bueckers. but a last-minute song request, a few suspicious smiles, and one dm later… you’re starting to think paige might’ve just found her new favorite singer.

| warnings: secondhand embarrassment, lots of flirting, suggestive banter, minor swearing, social media chaos, and hints of mutual pining

| word count: 3.2k / part two

you’ve been a uconn wbb fan for a minute now. it started out casual—just catching games on tv and watching clips on twitter—but it quickly turned into something deeper. the kind where you know their next five matchups, have favorite pregame fits saved on your phone, and would absolutely fake confidence if any of them ever looked your way in person.

you’ve already been to two home games this season, and yes, you may or may not have replayed that one clip of paige doing a no-look dime to azzi like thirty times.

so when you see kkarnold2 pop up in your tiktok live notifications, your fingers move before your brain even catches up.

you click in.

the screen loads, and there they are—kk and paige, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder on what looks like paige’s bed, a mountain of snacks behind them and the sound of a basketball game from the tv playing in the background.

“we live. what’s up girly pops,” kk says immediately, grinning into the camera. she does a peace sign while sticking her tounge out, and paige snorts beside her.

“hey girly pops,” paige mimics, reaching for a gummy worm. “i sound just like camera, huh?.” she says while smirking.

“girl boo,” kk says. “you lucky i invited you. the people don’t come here for you.”

“bold lie,” paige says, looking directly into the camera now. “they definitely come for me. watch this—”

she leans in closer. “talent show.”

and just like that, the comments start exploding. people are begging to go live. some are typing “i can do a backflip on command” and others are already screaming “PAIGE I LOVE YOU” in all caps.

you laugh to yourself, just watching. you remember the last “talent show” live they did. someone tried to do a magic trick and exposed themselves accidentally. it was chaos.

kk starts accepting people randomly—one girl screams as soon as the camera flips, another guy attempts to rap, and two different girls sing a snippet of sza before fangirling too hard to finish.

you pause for a second. bite your lip. then… screw it. you hit the request button.

you don't actually expect anything, though.

“ooh hold up,” kk says, squinting. “this username kinda cute. should i let them in?”

paige leans over to look at her screen. “wait, show me the pfp.”

there’s a beat.

then paige goes quiet. really quiet.

so quiet you hear her say under her breath, “pretty.”

but the mic picks it up.

kk turns to look at her, then immediately starts grinning. “paige.”

before you can panic and back out, your screen changes.

you’re live.

with paige bueckers staring directly at you.

“yo!” kk cheers. “we got a new one. say what’s up!”

“h-hi,” you manage, trying not to sound like your heart’s doing jumping jacks. “uh… i wasn’t actually expecting to get in.”

“too late now,” paige says, smiling. “you’re here. what’s your talent?”

you blink. “uh… i sing.”

“yesss,” kk claps. “okay pick a song, we ready.”

“you pick,” you say, a little bolder now. “what do you want to hear?”

paige doesn’t even hesitate. “sza. sing ‘love language.’”

you raise an eyebrow. “is that your favorite or something?”

paige shrugs, but she’s smirking. “might be.”

you set your phone down, take a breath, and hit play on the instrumental in the background.

the second the first note drops, paige mouths the intro. then stops completely once you start singing.

you’re locked in now—soft, smooth vocals floating through the speaker. eyes half-closed. completely in your element.

the chat explodes.

@buckets4bueckers: WAIT SHE CAN ACTUALLY SING

@kkarnoldstan420: PAIGE LOOKING LIKE SHE'S IN LOVE RN

@d1gf4paige: this girl is fine AND talented??? bye.

@fuddnation: paige got her mouth open 😭

@bueckherdownbad: THE WAY PAIGE LOOKED AT HER??? I’M SWEATING

@paigesgfconfirmed: y’all this is the real draft night

@szaandslay: girl sang sza and stole paige’s heart on live… legend

@loveandlayups: paige better dm her RIGHT NOW

you keep going. full verse, chorus, little riff at the end.

when you finish, there’s a few seconds of silence.

then—

“oh my god,” kk says. “no cause you ate that.”

“like, actually,” paige says, still staring. “you’re insane.”

you glance at the chat. one comment catches your eye: “paige been smiling since she joined.”

paige reads it too. she covers her mouth, laughing. then leans out of frame and lightly punches kk in the arm.

“you see how they got me lookin right now?”

kk cackles. “you did it to yourself.”

“nah. don’t even start right now.” paige says

you’re blushing hard now. “okayyyy i think it’s time to pass the mic to someone else.”

paige frowns. “what? no, sing another.”

you shake your head, trying to keep it smooth. “wish i could, but i got homework. maybe next time.”

kk nods. “respect. education comes first. even if paige is heartbroken.”

“literally shut up,” paige says, half-laughing, half-hiding her face.

she suddenly turns to kk. “wait—mute the live real quick.”

kk gives her a look, but does it.

the screen goes silent for twenty seconds. they’re clearly talking. paige’s hands are moving a lot.

then the live un-mutes.

paige leans back into the camera. “thank you for joining. you’re seriously amazing.”

“come back next time!” kk adds. “we need some more.”

you smile. “will do. night y’all.”

the second you leave the live, your phone buzzes.

followed by: paigebueckers and kkarnold2

then—another notification.

dm from paigebueckers:

hey. you really killed that. we should talk more sometime.

and you sit there smiling, already typing your message back to her.

#paige bueckers #uconn wbb #uconn huskies #ncaa women’s basketball #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers x black!reader #wlw #kk arnold

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lazysoulwriter · 1 month ago

Text

hands on him. - pedro pascal.

requested! thank you. ♡ content: Pedro Pascal x wife!reader, established relationship, social media chaos, fans notice her always grabbing his ass in public (red carpets, candids, etc), cracky fluff, mutual obsession, chaotic married love

---

It started as a joke.

A harmless, silly little Twitter thread titled: “why is Pedro Pascal’s wife always grabbing his ass?”

And then came the photos.

A red carpet shot — your hand planted firmly on one cheek as he leaned in to whisper something in your ear. A pap photo from a stroll in NYC — oversized hoodies, sunglasses, hand still there. A blurry fan pic from the Venice airport — Pedro dragging a suitcase, your hand sliding down to give him a squeeze.

The internet lost its mind.

“i wanna be THAT comfortable with someone” “she’s living the dream and i respect her” “me too girl. me too.” “pedro looks so unbothered and so FED” “this man is never cold bc she always has him in hand” “her hand is literally a registered accessory at this point”

The thread went viral in under a day.

Pedro found it first.

He was scrolling through his phone in bed beside you, giggling to himself while you applied night cream.

“What?” you asked.

He turned the screen toward you, smirking. “You’ve been exposed.”

You blinked. “What did I do now?”

He tapped the photo. “My ass, apparently.”

You laughed so hard you had to sit down on the bed.

“Pedro—! I didn’t think anyone noticed.”

He raised a brow. “Didn’t notice? Babe, you treat it like a damn handlebar.”

You gasped, mock offended. “It’s your fault for having such a great one!”

“Oh, I’m not mad.” He slid an arm around your waist, tugging you onto his lap. “I’m just saying — the internet has officially caught on to your behavior.”

“And what do you think of my behavior?” you asked sweetly, fingers already slipping under his shirt.

He shrugged, biting back a smile. “I think you better keep it up.”

A week later, during another red carpet appearance, a reporter dared to ask:

“So, what do you think about your wife becoming a meme for always touching your—”

Pedro didn’t even let them finish.

He grinned. “She’s got excellent taste.”

You? You just smiled for the cameras and gave his ass a casual, loving pat.

As. You. Should.

---

✦ please do not copy, repost, or translate this work. © lazysoulwriter // i write with a lot of love and care, so please respect that.

taglist: @sarahhxx03 @lloydmustache @lolareadsimagines @greenwitchfromthewoods @silksepia @pascalswiftie @itstokyo-cos @mani-pedro @llsister @authorbriannarae13 @introvrtedjellyfish @aj0elap0l0gist @spencercmlover @cixrosie @cherrqbaby @cup-half-full-of-anxiety @kellyxo1 @freakbobcult @sunlightpleasure @barnes70stark @mooniscrying @ohnaurshayla @croissantbakerylws @nellispunk @kasienka @taylorswiftsrep-blog @emerencedaily @byzyz @noovaarq @kristend512

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natalianovnas · 1 month ago

Text

༄ `. 𝐌𝐀𝐓𝐂𝐇 𝐌𝐀𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐎𝐒

request (briefed) : beefy!nat x younger!gf where they date & nat is an off-social media person. reader refers nat as her sugar mommy constantly, reposts anything nat-related on her socials and post about nat all the time. also, nat being confused over movies/series references.

words count : 0.6k || masterlist

an : wrote this at 2 am while dozing off at times. though, i hope this is what you expected, anon 🥲 also decided turn it into a drabble :)

If anyone asked Natasha what it was like dating you, she’d pause, take a breath, and probably say, “It’s… a lot.”

Not in a bad way.

Just that she didn’t understand half the things that came out of your mouth.

You were pure sunshine—chaotic, internet-warped sunshine. You’d wake up in the morning, throw a leg over her solid frame, and whisper:

“Natty… you're my Roman-empire. I think about you daily.”

She’d blink sleepily, rubbing her eyes. “What does that mean?”

“You don’t get it because you are the Roman Empire.”

Cue you grinning like a gremlin while Natasha squints suspiciously, clearly trying to figure out if that was a compliment or not.

Your Instagram story was practically a shrine to Natasha: blurry gym pics, her figure caught mid-walk from behind, short videos of you two holding hands and so on.

Your Twitter had random tweets like:

> “having a six foot beefy assassin as a gf is a flex and a half.”

> pic of natasha fixing your hair with intense concentration

caption: “why is she treating me like a stray she picked up from the shelter? I like it anyway.”

> “do you think if i pretend to be helpless more, natasha will carry me around like a feral toddler?”

> nat just handed me her credit card and said “don’t be ridiculous” when i said i couldn’t afford the 40 dollar hair clip i wanted.

i’m marrying her tomorrow. sugar baby rights.

Thing was—Natasha didn’t have social media. She had a dusty Facebook from 2012 she forgot existed. She barely used her phone unless she was texting you “home in 10” or sending you blurry photos of cats she saw on patrol. So she had no idea her girlfriend had a mini fanbase who’d dubbed them “Sugar Mommy & Chaos Baby.”

One time, the two of you were walking downtown when you spotted a street mural—blue and red, faces opposing each other. You gasped.

“CaitVi real!”

Natasha paused, mid-sip of coffee. “What the hell is a CaitVi?”

You blinked at her. “League of Legends? Arcane? The sapphics?”

She narrowed her eyes, clearly unconvinced.

“Natasha, please.”

But then with a resigned sigh, you added. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

You tried to get her in on trends. One evening, you held your phone up and whined, “Come on, do it with me.”

“No.”

“Please.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You are the woman, Nat! You have arms like Wonder Woman, you open jars like it's daily occurence, you fixed my car with your bare hands.”

Natasha just sighed and looked away, hiding the way her mouth curved slightly at the corners.

Of course, you got her to do the trend. It got 3.4 million views. She still pretends she doesn’t know.

She knows you post pictures sometimes, little videos of you cuddling or her carrying you like you weigh nothing. She figures people think it’s cute. You show her a few posts here and there.

What she doesn’t know is that your followers are rabid.

They make edits. They comment things like:

> “MOTHER IS MOTHERING.”

“this is my roman empire.”

“she blinked. i barked.”

“sugar mommy supremacy.”

One lazy afternoon, Natasha scrolled through your phone. Her expression changed slowly as she found your Twitter.

“‘My sugar mommy bought me boba again. I win’? - I did not agree to be called that.”

“You paid for the boba.”

“You were crying because they didn’t have the pink cup.”

You batted your lashes, “And you made them check the back. Sugar mommy behavior.”

She gave you that look—half amused, half exasperated, all soft. “I’m going to regret asking this, but… what else have you posted about me?”

You just grinned and pulled up the folder titled “MY NAT.”

“Would you like to start with the gym thirst edits or the ‘Natasha vs my electric bill’ memes?”

Natasha groaned, but she didn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.

#𓂃 ๋ ࣭ 𔘓 natalianovnas #natasha romanoff x reader #natasha romanoff #black widow #natasha drabble

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juicykvnture · 1 month ago

Text

ONE OF YOUR GIRLS

camboy!DickGrayson x fem!reader

tags: AFAB reader, only a HINT of plot, mutual masturbation, phone sex, webcam use, praise kink, mild degradation, nicknames (angel/baby), college AU

a/n: GULP

wc: 3k | part 2 | Masterlist

DESPERATE SLUTS IN YOUR AREA - the pop-up ads on your laptop are mocking you, you swear.

Girl, you know there are desperate sluts in your area, you own a mirror.

Well.. It’s somewhere down the bottom of a moving box, tossed in a van along with basically everything you own and all hopes of entertaining yourself.

Okay, well you could get started on the pile of college assignments you’re yet to start and the content you need to familiarise yourself with.

But be serious, you’d rather familiarise yourself with some guy to bang you right about now - but we can’t all get what we want, can we?

Your roommate isn’t even moving in until tomorrow, so that’s a plus at least. You’ve got the dorm room to yourself.

It’s how you ended up scrolling for the last half hour, your underwear tugged halfway down your thighs as your half lidded eyes scan the glow of the laptop screen before you.

You gave up on the hub a long time ago, if you wanna get off to something, you’d honestly rather be sure it’s at least ethical, yknow?

To your dismay, every author you follow on tumblr hasn’t updated in a solid week, Twitter is a fucking minefield for hell knows what and you swear you’d end up arguing with someone in a thread before you’d find something you’d actually enjoy.

You rub some mascara out of your eyes, your lashes fluttering open slightly. You can only pray you don’t look like a raccoon right now, just in case your wishes did in fact come true and some guy is just gonna magically appear between your legs to actually fuck you.

You’re not sure why, but eventually you find a link that catches your eye.

It’s one of those cam-chat sites, the ones that claim to match you with people within a couple mile radius of you.

You’re hesitant at first, but they’re not asking you for your credit card information, so honestly, What the fuck have you got to lose?

It’s seen better days definitely, by the looks of things it probably hasn’t been updated since like 2007.

But hey, fuck it. Even if it’s literally just some bot or a dude at a call centre, at least you won’t feel as bad. It’s not like you’ll ever meet this stranger in real life anyway, you literally have nothing to lose but an ounce or two of your dignity and self respect.

Eh, you've done worse.

ENTER USERNAME

Okay, no point using your name. You’d swear you’d have a heart attack if someone you knew somehow found this shit.

You pause for a second, glancing around for inspiration, your room key on your nightstand, dorm 444.

@444ANGEL

Cliché, you’ll live.

ENTER RANDOM CHAT

Straight to the point, alright.

MATCHED WITH - @BLUUDHAVEN

Desperate sluts in Blüdhaven too apparently? Ain't too far - Ain't too close either though. See you could run into him downtown, but you don't leave your dorm, be serious.

@BLUUDHAVEN: u up?

You blink, staring at your screen. What the fuck is this, Snapchat?

@BLUUDHAVEN: that was awful I’m sorry :p

That stupid little face at the end earns a small huff, nice to know someone still respects the art of emoticons over emojis in the big 25.

@444ANGEL: so.. u come here often?

Girl lock in. This is a porn site, not a bar.

@BLUUDHAVEN: No, actually :)

@BLUUDHAVEN: I do cams sometimes but I’ll be honest I’m literally just here to jerk off :3

“Huh..” you mutter to yourself, at least he’s got a sense of humour?

@444ANGEL: so you’re a slut by trade?

@BLUUDHAVEN: Not by trade, but at heart

@444ANGEL: so how does this work.. are you gonna like whip it out or..

@BLUUDHAVEN: first time I take it? Might be easier on webcam? :p

Okay, logical. You’ll have your hands free!

You’re hesitant for a moment, staring at your laptop. Okay, he doesn’t need to see your face, right? You’re just gonna chat to him for a while.. see where it goes?

You’re fiddling with the Angel wing on your necklace, thinking. Shifting slightly, you sit back against your headboard, your laptop on the mattress.

JOIN WEBCAM

You’re met with him shoving a stack of books off of his desk, one of them eerily similar to the sociology text book you’ve got shoved in a moving box, somewhere between your vibrator and your favourite sweater.

But that's not important right now!

“Hey, Angel.” He says all too quickly, running his fingers through his tousled black hair.

“Who-“ Your eyebrows furrow slightly.

“Your username,” he smiles softly, knowingly, reclining in his desk chair.

Fuck, he's definitely noticed how much of a noob you are now now.

And you’ve noticed he’s definitely shirtless. Zoo-wee-mama! You’ve also noticed some little blue tattoo at the base of his neck. But that’s not here nor there, you know what’s there? His happy trail.

In your defence his hand is right there, thumb hooked in his grey sweats. Where else you meant to look?

“Second thoughts?”

You blink, his words snapping you out of your happy daze.

“Huh? No, no thoughts. Wait, I mean-“

“It’s okay to be nervous, we can take it chill,” he reassures you, never loosing that grin.

“Chill yeah, chill,” downstairs is anything but chill she was very warm in fact.

“Do you want to get more comfortable maybe?”

“Oh, I’ve actually got this really fluffy blanket-“

“I meant take your clothes off, baby,” he looks directly into his webcam, clearly amused as he drums his fingers against his waistband.

You swallow, pressing your thighs together.

Are you seriously about to take your clothes off for a really cute stranger? Yeah, you are.

You can only pray you’re wearing one of your better, slightly cuter bras tonight.

Your fingers curl into the thin fabric of your shirt, bunching the white cotton up and pulling it over your head, hitting the wooden floor with a soft thump.

“Fuck,” He mumbles under his breath, his hands clenching on his knees as he shifts his hips, the grey sweatpants doing little to hide the outline.

You take that as a good reaction, chewing on the insides of your cheeks as you lean back against your headboard.

“Nervous?” He prompts, his hand palming himself over his boxers.

“A little?” You offer a shaky sigh, grateful that he can’t see the embarrassing blush on your face.

“I’ll talk you through it.”

That’s the second time a guy you’ve never fucking met in your whole life has made you irrationally flustered. Fuck, you need to touch grass.

Or yourself, whatever works.

“Sounds good,” you laugh slightly, letting your hand trail along your cleavage, fiddling with the lace.

He nods, “Good.” Ever so subtly, you see his hand start to move, gently trailing his fingers along his bulge.

“Do you want to start slow, trace your nipples for me baby? Can you do that for me Angel?”

You blink for a moment, your teeth pressing into your bottom lip. You find yourself listening to him, offering a small nod as your hand drifts down to lightly trace over the fabric.

“Yeah?” He murmurs, his hips shifting lightly, his fingers tugging at the drawstrings of his sweatpants.

You nod, once again grateful he can’t see your face as your hand moves down lower between your ribcage, pausing for a moment once you get to your stomach, your hand clenching slightly.

He sees your hesitation, tilting his head back slightly as he watches the screen through his dark lashes.

“You okay to keep going?”

He can just barely see you nod again, and his hand brings out his pulls his length from his sweatpants.

“Yeah? Good fucking girl,”

And that’s all you needed to slip your hand beneath the cotton of your panties. “Fucking shit,” all that pent up tension of from all night (morning?), and the general sight of this Blüdhaven guy, making you head lol back against your headboard.

“Christ you sound gorgeous, let me hear you Angel? Please?”

Your heads spinning, you’ve never had to think about how you sound, never thought of the possibility that someone could ever hear you.

But here you are, and he’s all too eager.

With a muttered “fuck,” you nod again, spreading your thighs apart to offer him a better view, your fingers moving in slow circles over your clit under the fabric.

He’s watching you. His gaze fixed on his screen like he’s mesmerised by you, watching your lips part, your lashes flutter, everything about you. You’re not real, no way you are. You’re too fucking pretty and he’s never even met you.

His cock twitches in his hand, and he groans shakily. “So fucking pretty”

You blush, dipping your finger lowers before circling back up. “not so bad yourself,” you try to sound some way put together and he chuckles at your efforts.

“You have me so worked up Angel, and I’ve only seen your pretty tits, Christ. Take off your panties baby, let me see what you look like.”

You’re astonished that you don’t even hesitate to use your other hand to slide down the fabric, kicking it to your ankles.

“Fuck baby you look so sweet, look at your screen for me, see how pretty your little cunt is,” your eyes immediately go to the little square in the corner, you’re completely soaked.

“Ain’t that a pretty sight huh baby?”

You flush red at the praise, managing to get a meek “mhm,” out.

“You’re so fucking wet, shit she’s practically glistening for me. So wet over a guy you’ve never met, hmm?”

Fuck, you’re embarrassed now. It’s bad enough that you’ve already had to resort to a fucking chat site, but now you’re getting off on the fact that he’s a total stranger?

“You’re making fun of me,”

“No,” a grin, “It’s cute,”

That has you losing whatever train of thought you had, your head slumping forward for a split second, giving him a glimpse of your hair covering your face before you catch yourself again.

“You pull this shit with all of your girls?”

It’s a weak rebuttal, but you’re not thinking about that, you’re not thinking at all.

“And guys,” he says sliding his thumb along his slit, collecting the bead of pre cum there and dragging it south. His eyes remain on his screen at all times, looking at you through his dark lashes.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

“Articulate,” he cocks his head.

“Shut up and stroke your shit.”

“Well I think we both know how aware you are that I’m stroking my shit, Angel,” his stupid little smirk, a shiver running along your spine.

He’s so fucking infuriating that you have the urge to hop through the screen and choke him, or fuck him - or both.

But that’s a bold claim considering the fact you’re drooling over a stranger, acting like his hands are yours. Wishing for a lot more than his hands.

“Shocked you have customers, your bedside manner isn’t really up to par,” you pause in the middle to let out a contradictory whine.

“Well your pretty pussy seems to be all for a little humiliation don’t think? Fuck I wish I could fuck her right now,” this pussy pronoun using bastard needs to calm down with all these reads.

“Shut up,” your eyes roll back, willing yourself to not cum yet.

“C’mon you can’t tell me you don’t wish I was there with you huh? Touching you, licking you, pounding into your sweet little hole hm?” His pace is getting faster and his palm swirls over his tip on each stroke.

“Shut the fuck up,” she gasps eyes screwed shut, “self involved prick,”

“Oh fuck baby, you talk to me so sweetly, what else am I?” His eyes are locked on the screen, your hand moving, your mouth letting out those desperate, divine sounds.

“Annoying, and arrogant and so fucking hot,” you hope the almost shout you let out is enough to distract him from what you’ve said.

“What was the last one Angel? C’mon let me hear that again,”

“So fucking desperate for someone to tell you you’re hot, huh? That why you whore yourself out on a cam website huh? You’re that thirsty for attention,”

In that moment, it isn’t clear what’s weaker, your dorms internet connection or his self control.

His mouth is agape, sweat-slicked hair clinging to his forehead with his lashes fluttering, fucking himself into his fist like he’s some kind of porn-star (he ain’t far off).

Watching him only makes you go harder, your hips shaky as you watch his teeth press into his lip, unable to hide the fucking whines he’s letting out if he tried, acting like the cum starting to drip down his knuckles isn’t there, pretending he’s fucking you and not his hand like some loser.

“Fuck, Angel,”

He’s panting, his back arching off of his desk chair as his free hand goes to desperate grip the table, trying to control himself, to last at least another second,

“C’mon, Angel, fuck..”

His words aren’t more than a broken whine, much like yours as your thighs start to tremble, forgetting about your laptop on your bed for a moment.

He doesn’t stop, he can’t. Not until he knows you’re there too, not until he knows for sure that you’re wishing he was there beside you.

“Please, fuck, please cum with me.”

Your resolve snaps, you oblige him. Head thrown back, eyes screwed shut and a noise complaint from your neighbours in all directions.

You momentarily black out you think, but when you come back that Blüdhaven guy is leaning back against his chair, head rolled back. He looks like he been put through the tumble dryer a good four times, but looking at the mess in his hands you’d think he had a pretty good time.

“Holy shit,” holy shit, you just had perhaps one of the most phenomenal orgasms of your life, with some guy on the internet and your fingers.

“Hmm,” he practically moans, still in a daze with his head thrown back, this angle making that little tattoo at the base of his neck more visible.

“You alive over there?” You manage to croak out, your heart still slamming in your chest as you let your hand fall by your side, almost wincing at the loss of touch.

“Uh-huh,” His Adam’s Apple bobs in his throat, staring down at his hand and then back up at his screen, a broken grumble leaving him as he nods.

You’re not real, you genuinely have to be some kind of Angel. He’s never met anyone able to put him into such a state.

Well, he hasn’t met you either.

“Angel?” He mumbles breathlessly, praying that the dim light is enough to hide the flush of his cheeks.

“Yeah?”

“Leave me your number?”

He swallows,

“Please?”

“Shit,” you groan into your hand at the sound of knocking on your dorm room door, rubbing a hand over your face.

It’s probably one of those stupid campus committee things going around. You’re not bothered to open the door, they can come back later for all you care.

You can’t get the guy from last night out of your head. You gave him your number under the premise of living on the edge for once in your life. You don’t expect him to call you, you don’t expect to see him like.. ever.

He does this like professionally, you’re just one of his girls - not even.

Another knock to the door disturbs your peace again, the sound of shoes shuffling outside your door.

“Give me a minute!”

You pull on a tank top, fixing your hair in an attempt to look somewhat decent when you inevitably have to open the door and tell these early birds to fuck right off.

You stumble out of your bedroom with a grumble, your socked feet thumping lightly against the creaky flooring.

“Hey, I’m not interest-“

Fuck.

There he is in the fucking flesh, standing at your door with a sheepish smile and a moving box.

You blink, digging your fingers into your palm to snap yourself out of whatever fucked up sex dream you’re having right now, staring at the guy standing in your doorway.

“Hey, this is room 444 yeah? I just got assigned here and I’m fucking lost.” He lets out a soft chuckle, rooting around in his pockets in efforts to show you his own key.

“Yes?” You murmur, the shakiness in your tone doing little to hide how aghast you are.

You have to double check, glancing over him like he’s got three fucking heads. He’s got the messy black hair, the boyish grin, that fucking tattoo at the base of his neck.

“Hey, you alright?”

His words snap you out of it, your nails digging into the doorframe like you’re about to rip the entire thing from its hinges.

“Yeah?”

You’re met with a slightly awkward nod, a far cry from whatever the fuck happened last night.

“Okay, good. I’m sorry I’m early, the train from Blüdhaven is a whole mess.”

You tilt your head, staring at him.

“Shit, my bad. Uhm, name’s Dick, Dick Grayson.” He offers, one hand fumbling to keep the box he has upright, the other now extended towards you.

Those same hands you wish were the ones fucking you last night, fuck, you need to lie down.

“Hey,”

Your words are far fucking shakier than you’d like, but how are you supposed to react?

He smiles, stepping inside your now shared dorm, glancing around and then at your slightly dishevelled form, offering another one of those little smiles that genuinely make you want to curl up and die on the spot.

“Rough night?”

He ain’t got a fucking clue.

“No, I uh, I couldn’t sleep, I guess.”

He nods, setting his box down on the coffee table, his eyes roaming over you for a moment more.

“Nice necklace.”

“Hm?” You blink.

“The Angel thingy, it’s cute.”

a/n: ITS TONGUE IN CHEEK DANIELLE!!

thank u @ccmf02 for proofreading and everything!!

part 2

Thank you for reading!!

I have motivation so reqs/asks are open

Dick Grayson m.list

#dc comics #nightwing x reader #dc x reader #nightwing #dick grayson x reader #dick grayson #nightwing x you #nightwing x y/n #nightwing x fem!reader #dick grayson x female!reader #dc smut #dc imagine #dick grayson x you #richard grayson #batfam x reader #Spotify #batboys x reader

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wroetolando · 3 months ago

Text

𝙾𝚏𝚏𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝙵𝚘𝚛 𝚈𝚘𝚞 | 𝙻𝙽𝟺

𝗮/𝗻: hey guys! so sorry I haven’t been posting recently. I’ve been super busy with school with finals and graduation coming up! will be a lot more stories being posted during my spring break! april 7-11!

𝗽𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: lando norris x chronically online! reader

𝘀𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗮𝗿𝘆: the one where the chronically online reader gets publicly exposed by lando, roasts him on stream, and swears they’d never fold

𝗺𝘂𝘀𝗶𝗰: cloud 9 - beach bunny

𝘄𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: none!

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You had a reputation. Not in a bad way—at least, not to you. Some people called you “chronically online,” but that was just a fancy way of saying you were really, really good at the internet. You were the first to catch onto memes before they went mainstream, you knew every streamer’s latest drama, and your Twitter feed was a masterclass in unhinged yet somehow lovable posts.

Lando, however, did not fully understand the depths of your internet obsession. He was online, sure, but in a different way—his world was filled with F1 updates, Twitch streams, and the occasional chaotic group chat with his fellow drivers. Meanwhile, you lived in a universe where knowing whether a brand was about to get canceled was as essential as breathing.

And yet, somehow, he was absolutely in love with you.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

It started with a joke. Or, more accurately, it started with a tweet.

@yourhandle: “if lando norris ever called me babe i would simply evaporate”

He saw it. He saw it, and you knew he saw it because his little gremlin self had the audacity to like the tweet. He didn’t reply, didn’t quote it—just a simple like that sent your notifications into a frenzy.

Your friends went feral.

BESTIE, HELLO??

Did he just acknowledge your existence???

This is basically a marriage proposal.

You tried to act normal. Failed. DMed him something casual like, “did you just publicly expose me?”

To which he responded:

“Just testing a theory. Should I call you babe and see what happens?”

And that was the beginning of the end.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

It wasn’t long before you found yourself in Lando’s world—whether that meant sitting on his stream, half-distracted while scrolling your phone, or joining his Discord calls just to roast his gaming skills. The internet loved your dynamic.

“Lando getting cyberbullied by his own girlfriend is my Roman Empire.”

“Y/N being a menace online and Lando just going along with it is peak relationship goals.”

“Her: ‘He’s so dumb but he’s my dumbass.’ Him: ‘I just work here, man.’”

You two were a content goldmine, even when you weren’t trying to be.

One particular night, you were both curled up on the couch, Lando setting up for a Twitch stream while you scrolled mindlessly through your phone. You weren’t paying attention until you heard your own voice.

“Guys, I have a very special guest today,” Lando said in his usual mischievous tone. “My girlfriend, who is currently ignoring me for Twitter.”

You didn’t even look up. “That’s crazy. What’s Twitter saying?”

Chat immediately erupted.

“SHE DIDN’T EVEN LOOK UP LMFAO.”

“Peak chronically online behavior.”

“Lando, blink twice if you need help.”

Lando fake pouted. “See? She doesn’t love me, chat. She loves her parasocial relationships more.”

You finally glanced at the screen. “Why would I need a parasocial relationship when I already have you to annoy in real life?”

The clip went viral within minutes.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

Despite all your time spent online, you did, in fact, exist in the real world. And the more time you spent with Lando, the more you realized how much you liked his world too.

There was something peaceful about watching him work on his racing sim, focused and determined, even when he was grumbling under his breath about understeer. There was something nice about walking into the McLaren garage and seeing how the team operated, how much they adored him.

And there was something absolutely dangerous about the way he looked at you when he thought you weren’t paying attention.

Like right now.

You were at a race weekend, standing just outside his driver’s room, eyes glued to your phone. He was supposed to be reviewing data, but you could feel his eyes on you.

“Lando,” you said without looking up, “why are you staring at me like that?”

He didn’t even try to deny it. “I think I’ve figured out how to get you off your phone.”

That made you look up. “Oh? Do tell.”

A smirk curled at his lips. “No.”

You narrowed your eyes. “No?”

Instead of answering, he took two long strides forward, gently plucking your phone from your hands and placing it on the nearest table. Before you could protest, he had you backed up against the wall, his hands resting on either side of you.

Oh.

Oh, he was serious.

“Lando,” you said, a little breathless, “are you—”

“I like your little internet world, I do,” he murmured, voice warm and teasing. “But sometimes I think you should focus on this world. On me.”

You swallowed. “That so?”

He nodded. “Yeah. And right now, I want your undivided attention.”

Mission accomplished.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

You weren’t going to lie—you had expected the internet to roast you once they realized that your whole brand was being chronically online, and yet Lando had somehow turned you into a simp.

And they did roast you.

“So you’re telling me Y/N was ‘if he calls me babe I’ll evaporate’ and then Lando hit her with a real-life slow burn fanfic moment???”

“POV: You thought she was a keyboard warrior but she’s actually a simp in disguise.”

“Lando pulled a ‘look at me, I’m the main character now.’”

Lando, of course, thrived off the reactions.

You were sitting next to him on the couch when he turned his phone toward you. “Look at this one—‘Y/N has spent her entire internet existence roasting men, and yet all it took was one good wall pin for her to fold.’”

You glared at him. “I hate you.”

He grinned. “No, you don’t.”

You groaned, shoving his face away playfully before burying your head in your hands. “I will never live this down.”

He pulled you into his side, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Nope. Never.”

And for the first time in a long time, you didn’t feel the need to check your phone.

.・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・。. .・。.・゜✭・.・✫・゜・

masterlist

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httpknjoon · 1 month ago

Text

wanna try out some freaky positions? | myg

plot | that time popstar!yn is on her tour's day two in paris, and fans are wondering if she's finally doing the most requested position of all time. the one that may require her bassist (and rumored boyfriend), yoongi.

w.c | 1980

pairing | bass guitarist!yoongi x popstar!reader

genre | fluff, humor, enemies to lovers, slow burn

note | i'm still calling it twitter

main masterlist | series masterlist

DAY 301: PARIS, FRANCE

It's everywhere. Predictions about your possible Juno position for your second performance night in Paris are all over social media before you even officially land in the said country. It didn’t help that you and your band members are active on social media, alluding that something is happening behind the scenes. There were also sightings of your close friend, another celebrity, who you knew was staying in France for his vacation. Your fans, who were already elated with the upcoming performance later tonight, flooded you with mentions on Twitter, which resulted in a short and unplanned Q and A.

You were in the middle of your rehearsal break when you finally got hold of your phone after posting that late IG story hours ago. Knowing how excited your fans are at the moment, you reinstalled your Twitter app just to have some interactions with them. It has been so long since you opened your account there, since you were avoiding seeing any tweets about your breakup from last year. You smiled as you typed in your tweet, along with a photo you prepared for today, swaying your feet as you sat at the edge of the stage.

While you have all of your focus on your phone, you didn't even notice Yoongi, who's sitting on one of the empty seats in the area where the VIP audience usually sits. He cannot help but smile while he sips his Americano, looking at you. He wondered what made you so giggly and smiley on your phone. Meanwhile, his phone kept on vibrating in his pocket, which made him reach for it. That’s when he got the answer to his curiosity. Notifications from your Twitter account popped up one after the other. He chuckled before clicking on the app to read more of your tweets.

You giggled at the friendly banter you had with one of your fans. Scrolling down the tag, you smiled even harder when you found an interesting question to reply to.

Yoongi had to laugh with that one. Hearing that, you turned your head up, finally seeing him sitting alone just a few feet down the stage. Your left eyebrow raised, wondering what made him laugh on his phone.

“Where are the others?” you asked all of a sudden, just to get his attention.

Your bassist looked up and met your gaze. “They went out for snacks. I got your coffee here.”

He points out the still-warm takeout coffee cup he has on the empty seat next to him. You smiled before reading yourself to jump from the stage rather than taking the stairs. Seeing that, Yoongi immediately stood up.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

“I’ll jump,” you replied, already inching yourself at the edge.

He clicked his tongue while shaking his head, “No, just take the stairs.”

You pouted. “This is easier. I hate the stairs.”

“You might get hurt. Art and Cal will both kill me if I let you do that,” he said while walking towards you. He then stood just a few feet lower than you.

From your point of view, he looked nonchalant, yet he opened both his arms.

You squinted, “Are you gonna catch me?”

“Nope, I just like opening my arms at random times like this,” he scoffed.

You rolled your eyes. “And I like jumping from high places.”

He shook his head again before telling you sternly, “I don’t care. Just jump, diva.”

So you did. Even though you would have loved to continue the childish banter. And he did catch you, helping you carefully land your feet on the ground. Steadily and easily, he got you with one hand, holding you up against your back. Unconsciously, your face is almost buried in his neck, like you were magnets, they just connect instantly. Maybe it was because he still wore the familiar scent that makes butterflies stir in your stomach.

And maybe that’s why you didn’t pull away right away.

With how close you are, you can feel his heart beating almost at the same pace as yours. Fast and loud. Slowly pulling away, your eyes interlocked with each other. It was a heavy exchange of stares, anchored with something heart-fluttering that you two didn’t have to label anymore. A small smile tugged at your lips as you noticed his eyes moving down.

“Thank you,” you whispered before stepping back.

Yoongi followed behind you, trying not to put his hand over his beating chest. He sat in a seat apart next to you while you took a sip of the coffee. The much-needed caffeine helped you feel warmer and comfortable in your baby blue sweatshirt.

“You liked it?” he asked even though he already knew the answer.

“Yep, I needed that. Thank you,” you replied, putting down the cup. You turned to him. “Why are you here, by the way? You don’t want to explore the city in your free time? We’re only here for a few days.”

He shrugged, “I don’t know, I just had this gut feeling that you will do something reckless and I need to stick around.”

It was your turn to scoff, “Yoongi, just say you stayed behind for me. It’s okay.”

He looked at you, brows furrowed, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

And he didn’t even deny it, you thought to yourself.

As soon as everyone got back, the rehearsal resumed. This time, it was a dress rehearsal. So you had more time and room for errors and adjustments. While Art is talking with the band about something related to your time on stage, you take a quick scroll on your phone. You instantly took notice of a certain tweet getting a lot of attention. You laughed at it as it sparked something in your brain. You swiped up your finger on the app to see more tweets from your fans, but a notification from a verified account popped up. You turned around to see Yoongi raising his brows. You typed in your phone before giving it to your very pregnant assistant, Cal.

The fishbowl method.

That method is known to be Yoongi's greatest enemy. Whenever any staff member of your tour brings out that glass bowl that was filled with rolled papers, he just knows he will hear his name from that staff member’s tongue. And today is no different day.

It was during the second rehearsal break of the day when Cal came in holding the infamous transparent bowl.

“So, everyone, this is for the Juno performance. We need two people for tonight,” she said it like it’s gonna be something fun.

Although Yoongi literally had no idea why, everyone seemed to be excited upon hearing Cal’s instructions as they cheered, including you. Fred, who is happily married and permanently removed from choices for the Juno performance participants, sat along with you and your dancers. He was cheering too. For more variety, the fishbowl included the names of your band members and dancers.

“YN, will you do the honors of picking two names in our bowl of names?” Cal called you up.

“Okay, here we go. Drumroll, please,” you quipped, but Fred followed, running to his drums and playing them.

Knowing his fate, Yoongi was not surprised anymore when he heard his name after Noah’s. He is not even disappointed or frustrated. He just accepted and expected that the fishbowl method loves him. But what he did not expect was the reason for today’s fishbowl method. While you explained your plan for tonight’s Juno performance pose, Yoongi just shook his head with a smile as he was already used to your straightforward poses. He just didn’t expect that you could be this creative for positions.

“So, do you want to be at the back or the front?” Noah asked, which can sound strange without context.

Yoongi blinked, “What?”

He was obviously dumbfounded, making the others laugh. You tried not to laugh while you bit off your inner cheek.

“He means for the Eiffel Tower,” you explained, which didn’t really clarify anything for him.

Noah cuts in to help, “We are basically the tower itself, while YN is the centerpiece. She will bend forward, and we-” he clasped his hands together, “Are gonna high-five over her.”

“That’s your Juno position for tonight?!” Yoongi looked at him, then to you.

You nodded enthusiastically, “Yeah, the Eiffel Tower!”

When it finally registered in his head, everyone can see Yoongi’s shoulders deflating as he shakes his head with a smile. Just smiling over how stupid yet creative this whole thing is. His defeated stance made Fred and the dancers laugh.

“I swear, we should change that fishbowl method,” he muttered, pushing his hair back.

“I think the fishbowl likes you a lot,” you teased him.

“I don’t think it was just the fishbowl,” he replied, making you pause while you three walk to the heart-shaped center stage.

Noah, who did not hear that last line since he walked faster, snapped his fingers, “Catch up, lovers. Let’s do this test run for the Eiffel Tower. I’m honestly starting to feel like the third wheel here.”

He said the name sarcastically, which resulted to you rolling your eyes and Yoongi scratching the back of his neck. You get into the position. You have your sparkly mic in your right hand, singing the last line before the pose.

“Wanna try out some freaky position?”

The guys stood on your front and back. Noah was on the front, while Yoongi was behind you.

“Have you ever tried… this one?”

You bent forward as Yoongi and Noah high-fived over you, which instantly earned some whistling and cheers from your tour staff and dancers. You laughed, making you lose balance and accidentally grind against Yoongi. You only snapped out of it when he instinctively gripped your hips to steady you in place.

Noah, who saw this happen, gaped, “Oh my god, someone wash my eyes with holy water.”

Being the dramatic one, he threw up his hands and walked away in exaggerated disbelief. You and Yoongi, on the other hand, seemed to be in your own little world as you looked over your shoulder to look at him.

“Oops, sorry,” you said without really meaning it.

He raised an eyebrow, “Really?”

You shrugged, standing back up, “Eh.”

Noah groaned from afar, leaning on one of the big speakers near their instruments, “Where is the HR for this tour?! I need to report something!”

The joke made everyone laugh. Akio, being the second most dramatic one in the band, dramatically consoled Noah. You stifled a laugh, turning around in their direction.

“Oh my god, you’re making me look like I’m a problem here.” you fed into their little bit that was going on.

Your best friend accusedly pointed out his finger, “You are the problem, and so is Tower B over there.”

Mr. Tower B, who stood next to you, remained casual as he muttered, “I don’t mind what’s going on. I kinda liked the view.”

The subtle smugness in his statement got a loud reaction from everyone. Fred laughed. The dancers howled. Akio and Noah groaned. The rehearsals are getting a little messier so Art had to step in.

“Okay, everyone. Let’s go rehearse the performance from the top again,” he signalled the dancers to stand up before turning to you and Yoongi. “And less thrusting, this time.”

You gasped even though you knew he was just teasing you, “There was no thrusting! I accidentally ground against him, that’s very much different!”

Art gave you a look that said, “Uh-huh, sure.”

Yoongi remained unbothered, “Yeah, thrusting is different. It requires intent.”

With that unexpected remark, the room erupted with laughter. All while your eyes widened, feeling the blood rushing to your cheeks.

“Yoongi!” you scolded him through an embarrassed gritted grin.

He looked at you, nonchalant as he blinked innocently, “What? I was just explaining!”

SERIES TAGLIST

@busanbby-jjk @jimingirl95 @treacherqus @jajabro @marnz1990 @ktownshizzle @notarshia @m00njinnie @thelilbutifulthings @tarahardcore @livisdoingfine @jungshaking @eridanus-lynx @enthralled-bandit @goodnight-n-go-home @ronyiboniyy @jimeg629 @lveegsoi @madussthoughts @jalexad @ryryvna @kiki-zb @kam9404 @rtyuy1346 @esam28

PERMANENT TAGLIST (CLOSED)

@dunixxd @cixrosie @jksjx @embrace-themagic @buttvi @starbtslove @missseoulite @vanntaesworld @kenqki @imajinthis @stopeatread @seolaquotes @greyrain23 @chimchimmarie @petalsofink @jayhope88 @moonchild1 @laylasbunbunny @nikkiordonez12 @misshale21 @marblemoonstones @butnotmontana @mar-lo-pap @ficluvr613 @senaqsstuff @stars4kooo

#bass guitarist! yoongi #yoongi fluff #yoongi x reader #yoongi imagine #yoongi au #yoongi x y/n #yoongi x you #bts drabble #bts aus #bts fanfic #bts x reader #bts x you #bts x y/n #yoongi fanfic #bts suga #httpknjoon #Spotify #love is... on tour myg

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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

Text

Daylight

Pairing: Lando Norris x Emilie Abadie (Original Character)

Welcome to a short side story, featuring Emilie and Lando, set in the White Horse Universe. There are specific scenes copy and pasted from White Horse, so it’s easier to follow along timeline wise.

Summary:

Emilie Abadie hadn’t planned on caring about Formula 1. Until she saw a boy with curly hair win the Miami GP in 2024.

Warnings and Notes:

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, toxic families

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Emilie Abadie hadn’t planned on caring about Formula 1.

In fact, she actively avoided caring about it— Mostly because of her best friend.

Belle, with her soft green eyes and gentle heart, who had already survived too many years of being invisible in a family that only seemed to remember she existed when it was convenient.

Belle, who was one of the best people Emilie had ever met, who had been born into a family that cared about podiums and trophies, about DRS and pit stops… and not about their daughter, their sister.

Even Max Verstappen hadn’t changed Emilie’s dislike for everything Formula 1.

Granted, of course, Emilie had googled him when Belle had first mentioned him to her.

There had been some amusement somewhere in the back of her head that Belle had found a guy to date who had 2 World Championship titles and 4 dozen wins to his name, while Belle’s brother was still on his 5th career win after Austria 2022.

Emilie didn’t care about Max’s wins. Or his podiums. Or whatever he did for a living. She’d seen enough of Belle’s face when she talked about him to know he was good—really, properly good—and that was enough.

But then came that Sunday in May, and Twitter exploded.

Emilie wasn’t even trying to pay attention. She was lounging on her balcony with an espresso, mindlessly scrolling between Vogue articles and TikToks of people organising their fridges.

And then—suddenly—orange hats, all-caps screaming, and multiple photos of a grinning man half-drenched in champagne.

“HE FINALLY DID IT.”

“LANDO. FREAKING. NORRIS.”

Someone had posted a clip of him standing on the top step of the podium, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, trying to keep it together while the crowd roared. And God help her, Emilie had clicked it.

He wasn’t even her type.

Too boyish.

Too chaotic.

Probably smelled like Monster Energy and nerves.

But he’d smiled like it meant something. Like it had taken years. Like he couldn’t quite believe the universe had finally let him have this moment.

And something in Emilie’s chest—usually locked up tight behind snark and cashmere—shifted.

She frowned.

Closed the app.

Opened it again.

Googled him.

Lando Norris. 25. British. McLaren driver. Five seasons. No wins—until now.

She even found a quote: “It’s about damn time.”

And still, Emilie was deeply annoyed to find herself staring at photos of this Lando person and wondering what his laugh sounded like in real life.

And that was exactly when she opened her texts and messaged Belle.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Isabelle Leclerc

Emilie: Okay so… Question

Isabelle: That’s always a dangerous start.

Emilie: Who is this Lando person And why is everyone crying because he won something

Isabelle: Oh my God. You really don’t know anything about F1, do you?

Emilie: Absolutely not. I know Max drives fast, and you’re too pretty to be emotionally stable, that’s it.

Isabelle: Valid.

Emilie: But seriously. My entire timeline is full of sweaty orange hats and people screaming “HE FINALLY DID IT.” What did he do? Did he climb a mountain? Invent a vaccine?

Isabelle: He won his first Formula 1 Grand Prix. He’s been in F1 for five years. Always came close. Never quite made it.Everyone’s been waiting for this.He’s a good guy. Deserved it.

Emilie: Huh. He’s the guy with the curly hair, right?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the jawbones?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the voice that’s suspiciously hot for someone named Lando?

Isabelle: …Why do you care?

Emilie: I don’t!!

Isabelle: You do. You’ve never asked me about a single driver. Not once. And now you’re googling him like a concerned historian.

Emilie: I’m just… doing research. You know. investigating the cultural phenomenon

Isabelle: Uh-huh. Is this cultural phenomenon wearing a papaya-colored race suit and has curly hair?

Emilie: Fine. He’s cute. He looked happy. The bar is so low.

Isabelle: He is cute. And he should be happy. He’s a good guy.

Emilie: You sound like you’re trying to sell me a family dog.

Isabelle: He’s very sweet! Loyal! Thoughtful! Max calls him chaotic sunshine. I call him emotionally transparent. You’d like him.

Emilie: So a golden retriever.

Isabelle: With slightly better hair.

Emilie: Does he bite?

Isabelle: Only when provoked. Or when Max makes a joke about his height.

Emilie: Hmm.

Isabelle: Oh no.

Emilie: What?

Isabelle: You’re thinking about him.

Emilie: Absolutely not.

Emilie: This is slander.

Isabelle: This is me knowing you better than you know yourself. And I’m telling you: he’s a good one. A little chaotic. But real.

Emilie: He smiled like…like he waited years for this. I noticed that. I hate that I noticed that.

Belle: Yeah. That’s why people cried. It wasn’t just about the win—it was about him. He needed it. And he earned it.

Emilie: …Okay maybe I get the hats now.

Isabelle: Give it three days. You’ll be watching fan edits on TikTok and pretending it’s research. I have been there.

***

Emilie tossed her phone down onto her table, flopping back into her chair with a groan.

God, what was wrong with her?

She never did this. Never caught herself noticing smiles. Never cared about people’s stories.

She’d always been good at getting the guy.

Usually, she saw a man she liked, decided she liked him, and that was it.

If she wanted him, she got him.

Easy.

The harder part—the impossible part—was getting them to stay.

Not that she ever admitted that out loud.

They got infatuated with the packaging—pretty blonde, sharp tongue, quick wit—but none of them wanted to know what was underneath. Or if they did, they ran.

So she never gave them the chance.

Emilie knew what she was. What she had been taught to be: polished, pretty, disposable.

Raised by grandparents who valued appearances more than affection, she’d learned early that emotions were a liability. Her family was a cold, glittering mess of old money and colder expectations.

Emotionally unavailable parents who vacationed in the Alps more than they parented. Her grandparents had raised her—fierce, stylish people who taught her how to dress, how to argue, how to build walls no man could climb.

Emilie knew how to play the part—how to be charming, captivating, just unattainable enough to keep her pride intact when everything inevitably crumbled.

Old money. Cold manners.

And Belle—sweet, gentle Belle—hadn’t been raised in a world much kinder.

Emilie still hated Belle’s family for that. For making her believe she had to earn love, that she had to be perfect to deserve being seen. Even now, even after Belle had found Max—the only man who seemed to see her fully and without condition—Emilie’s chest still burned with protective rage whenever she thought about it.

She’d watched Belle spend her whole life being overlooked. Forgotten. Ignored by people who were supposed to love her. And now she had Max, who looked at her like she was the whole damn world.

She was happy for Belle. Truly. Because Belle deserved good things—finally. Especially after growing up in a family that prioritized podiums over people.

And Emilie, for all her sass and designer boots, had never liked the Leclercs. Not really.

Belle was happy now. Radiantly, irrevocably happy. And Max—grumpy, blunt Max—loved her like it was the only thing that had ever made sense.

Maybe that’s why Emilie couldn’t look away from a stranger’s victory lap on Twitter.

Maybe, deep down, she still believed there were people worth betting on.

Even if she didn’t believe it for herself.

God help me, she thought grimly, dragging a hand over her face.

She was absolutely going to end up watching fan edits.

In three days. Tops.

Maybe two.

Lando Norris had looked like someone who didn’t think the world would ever give him a win.

And for some reason… she couldn’t stop thinking about that.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max and I are getting married tomorrow. City hall. Just something small. Just for us. Will you come?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME???? TOMORROW??? CITY HALL??? SMALL???

Isabelle: Yes. No fuss. Just us. That’s all I want.

Emilie: Oh my GOD. You are not getting married like you’re renewing a driver’s license. You need flowers. A cake. A moment, Belle.

Isabelle: I don’t need any of that. I just want him. That’s it.

Emilie: Yes, yes, eternal love, devotion, blah blah blah. BUT. You are still getting married. You will wear a dress. You will hold a bouquet. You will eat something that tastes like joy and sugar and victory.

Isabelle: I’m not even sure what I’m wearing yet 😅 We haven’t thought that far ahead.

Emilie: THAT IS WHY YOU HAVE ME. Do you still have the white dress we got a few weeks ago? The one that made you look like a romantic novel with legs?

Isabelle: ...Yes.

Emilie: Good. Wear that. It’s perfect. Simple. Elegant. You. I’ll take care of the rest.

Isabelle: Em—no pressure, really. Please. I don’t want a production.

Emilie: This won’t be a production. It’ll be a love letter. With flowers. And maybe a three-layer cake.

Isabelle: Emilie 😭 You really don’t have to—

Emilie: Belle. You’ve planned everyone else’s birthdays, surprises, parties, and holidays since you were like what, twelve?! Let someone do it for you this once. Let me.

Isabelle: ...Okay. But just a little. No spark machines. No confetti cannons.

Emilie: Deal. But I am bringing champagne. And I will cry.

Isabelle: I wouldn’t want it any other way. 💛

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: You have a camera, right?

Lando: …yes?? What kind of question is that?

Max: Like, a real one. Not your phone.

Lando: Yes, Max, I own a camera. Why??

Max: I need you to document something.

Lando: What kind of something?

Max: Just be at Monaco City Hall tomorrow. 10:30. Bring your camera. Wear a suit. Preferably not orange.

Lando: MAX.

Max: Yes?

Lando: ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW???

Max: Yes.

Lando: YOU’RE JUST DROPPING THAT ON ME AT MIDNIGHT???

Max: It’s 11:43.

Lando: Oh, my mistake. PLENTY OF TIME TO PROCESS THE FACT YOU’RE SECRETLY GETTING MARRIED.

Max: Not secretly. Just quietly.

Lando: Max.

Max: What.

Lando: I’M HONORED BUT ALSO PANICKING. Do you want, like, pictures or VIBES?? Do I need a tripod?? Am I the witness?? Do I bring champagne?? WHAT’S MY ROLE HERE.

Max: Your role is “friend with a camera who knows how to shut up.”

Lando: I can be that.

Wait—can I still cry a little?

Max: Only if it’s behind the camera.

Lando: Deal. Lando:I don’t even know what shoes to wear for a Verstappen emergency elopement

Max: Don’t overthink it. You’re just the photographer.

Lando: You’re getting married in Monaco city hall and I’m the photographer?? What the hell kind of fairy tale speedrun is this?

Max: The efficient kind.

Lando: Who else is gonna come?

Max: Just us. People we trust.

***

Emilie Abadie had been awake since three in the morning. .

Not because she was nervous. She wasn’t the one getting married.

It was Belle’s wedding. And that meant it had to be perfect.

Because Belle would never ask for perfect. Belle would shrug and say “just something quiet, just us” with that soft look in her eyes like she didn’t dare hope for more. But Emilie had spent the last seven years learning the difference between what Belle asked for and what she deserved.

And today, she deserved everything.

And perfection, as it turned out, required bribing a florist with a bottle of Dom Pérignon, whispering at a baker’s front door like a criminal, and coordinating a last-minute restaurant buyout with a maître d’ who still remembered Belle and Max’s first date like it had happened yesterday.

It was still early. The sun hadn’t quite cleared the rooftops of Monaco. But Emilie was already in motion—dressed, phone in hand, espresso in the other, a determined woman on a mission.

The florist had said it couldn’t be done. Snowdrops weren’t in season. They’d laughed—laughed—when Emilie asked.

Laughed. Emilie still remembered when Belle had told her about her favourite flowers. Fragile, quiet, perfect. Blooming in the cold, when nothing else did. Just like Belle.

Emilie Abadie didn’t take no for an answer.

She made five calls.

Then ten.

Then offered double the price.

Then triple.

Someone from a specialty hothouse near Nice came through. A courier had arrived an hour ago, carrying a chilled box like it held diplomatic secrets.

Now, the bouquet sat in a vase on Emilie’s kitchen counter. Fragile white snowdrops, soft eucalyptus, and one or two sprigs of pale forget-me-nots.

Because Emilie was dramatic, and because Belle deserved to be remembered in every way that mattered.

The cake was next.

Not a tiered monstrosity. Just something beautiful. Elegant. White chocolate and raspberry with buttercream. The baker—an angel Emilie had gone to culinary school with for exactly three weeks—had rolled her eyes at the timeline and then agreed with a huff. “Only because it’s for Belle.”

Of course it was.

Emilie knew how much Belle had given. To her family. To her brothers. To Ferrari. To everyone except herself.

She’d watched Belle quietly shrink herself for years—make room for Lorenzo, for Charles, for Arthur, for Charles’ career, for the Leclerc family myth.

Belle never asked for much. Never expected anything back.

So today, Emilie would give her everything.

The final piece fell into place just after sunrise: lunch at the restaurant where Max had taken Belle on their first date. The cozy one tucked behind the port with the ivy-covered terrace and the little hand-painted plates. Emilie had called the manager at 6:15 a.m.

“I need the whole place,” she’d said. “15 people. Three bottles of Perrier-Jouët Belle Époque. No fuss. No press. Max and Belle Verstappen.”

The Manager had paused and looked at Emilie:. “Ah,” he’d said, eyes twinkling. “For the couple who ordered the wine, then forgot to drink it because they were too busy falling in love?”

By 6:00, the venue was booked. The menu was set. The staff had already started laying out fresh linen.

Emilie checked the list one more time—flowers, cake, lunch, Max’s boutonnière, Belle’s shoes.

Everything was ready.

Emilie slipped her phone into her bag, gave the bouquet one last fond glance, and smiled to herself.

Because today—finally—was about Belle. Not Charles. Not their mother. Not a team or a trophy or anyone else’s spotlight.

Today was hers.

And Emilie Abadie would make sure not a single petal was out of place.

***

Emilie Abadie arrived with the force of a hurricane compressed into five feet and a few inches of blonde ambition and French fire.

She stood in the doorway like she’d conquered nations before breakfast, her icy blue eyes narrowing the moment they landed on him.

Lando’s stomach immediately did that stupid swoopy thing it did when he just knew he was fucked.

She was Belle’s best friend. He had known that in an offhand way, had seen her make appearances on Belle’s Instagram and in stories Belle told…but Lando had never met her.

“Why,” she said, voice crisp and imperious, “are half of you not wearing ties?”

Lando glanced around as if he might be able to blend into the cabinetry.

Too late.

“You,” Emilie snapped, pointing at him with all the grace and threat of a commander selecting someone for sacrifice.

“Me?” Lando squeaked.

She stalked toward him like a missile in heels. “You call that a tie? What is that knot? A shoelace? A cry for help?”

Lando glanced down at the pale blue mess under his collar. It did, in fact, look like it had lost a bar fight. “Technically… yes?”

Emilie sighed. Dramatically. Award-winningly. “Come here.”

He obeyed, despite every instinct screaming to flee. Blushing furiously, Lando stepped toward her like a man accepting his fate.

“You’re kind of scary,” he muttered.

“I’m not scary,” she replied, already undoing his tie with practiced hands, “I’m just French and disappointed.”

He stood still, heart hammering far too fast, hyper-aware of how close she was, of the way she reached up to fix the tie like she’d done it a hundred times. She smelled like roses and battle plans. Her fingers brushed his throat, adjusting the collar with delicate but precise movements, and Lando very seriously considered the possibility that this was what dying felt like.

“Can I breathe yet?” he whispered.

“When I say you can,” she said sweetly, tilting his chin. “Fashion is pain. Suffer with dignity.”

“I’m… terrified of her,” Lando muttered under his breath once she turned her attention elsewhere.

Max, still leaning casually against the counter, didn’t even blink. “You should be.”

And Lando was, but also… he was hopelessly in love with her.

Or at least something very inconvenient and fluttery that made it hard to breathe when she was near.

She was absolutely stunning in her sharply tailored outfit and meticulous energy, her blonde hair swept up, and her eyes laser-focused on whipping the room into shape. She’d turned wedding planning into a military campaign—and somehow made it look elegant.

But even as she herded grown men into order with eyebrow raises and verbal artillery, Lando couldn’t stop watching Max.

Because Max—who had never seemed interested in fanfare or spectacle—was getting married today. And he looked… happy. Genuinely, deeply happy in a way that made Lando’s chest go warm.

And Belle—sweet, gentle, quietly brave Belle—was the reason.

He couldn’t be happier for them.

Even if Charles was definitely going to kill him.

Lando had been trying not to think about that bit—the Charles-is-going-to-strangle-him-when-he-finds-out bit. Because once the truth came out, once Charles realized his little sister had married Max, and Lando had known, there was going to be hell to pay.

But he couldn’t bring himself to feel too guilty about it. Not when Max looked like that. Not when Belle had finally been seen the way she deserved.

The chaos in the room only paused when Emilie cornered Tom, who was valiantly attempting to pass off a cravat as formalwear.

“This is Monaco, not Pemberley,” Emilie said, already pulling a tie from her tote like Mary Poppins preparing for war.

Even Jos wasn’t immune. When Emilie raised her brows at him with military precision, he actually reached for the tie GP handed him—without protest.

“I like her,” Jos muttered, half to himself.

Yeah, Lando thought, hopeless and dazed. Me too.

Daniel’s cartoon tie didn’t stand a chance. Neither did his excuses.

“I have a lighter in my purse,” Emilie said, entirely too calmly.

And just like that, Daniel disappeared to change.

Only Oscar and GP escaped with their dignity intact. Emilie gave them a nod that could’ve launched ships.

Then Max—cool, unbothered Max—lifted his chin with the smugness of a man who had already tied his tie correctly.

“It’s crooked,” Emilie said, pulling him forward to fix it anyway.

Max didn’t even argue. Just let her do it, then shot her a crooked grin.

“You’ll do,” Emilie declared.

“You’re marrying my best friend,” she added. “You’re lucky I didn’t make you wear the floral pocket square.”

Lando snorted. Max only grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

And then the world stopped moving.

Because the bedroom door opened.

Belle stepped out.

And everything else just… dropped away.

Lando forgot about his camera. Forgot about his tie. Forgot about the fact he was probably about to die by Leclerc rage.

Because Belle was breathtaking.

She looked like she belonged in one of those old black-and-white movies—ethereal and quiet, in a dress that shimmered like water, snowdrops tucked gently into her dark curls. Her eyes swept the room until they found Max.

And Max—his friend, the fiercest driver he’d ever known—just stood there like the ground had been ripped out from under him.

“Hi,” Belle said softly.

Max walked toward her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. And when he told her she looked like a dream he’d never let himself have, Lando had to turn away, just for a second.

His chest hurt in a good way.

Maybe love didn’t have to be loud or dramatic or perfect. Maybe it could just be this. A quiet kitchen. A white dress. A soft “Hi.” The kind of thing that made a man forget how to breathe.

Daniel sniffled. Oscar told him to shut up.

And Lando—caught somewhere between awe and a slight panic over Charles Leclerc’s eventual reaction—just smiled.

Because one of his best friend had everything he’d ever wanted.

And Lando? Lando might be crushing on the tiny French hurricane currently terrorizing everyone with her sense of style.

But he had hope.

***

The wedding luncheon was held at a small, sun-washed restaurant tucked into one of Monaco’s corners.

It was perfect, of course. Belle perfect.

The place where Belle and Max had had their first date. Where they had fallen in love and forgotten to drink the bottle of wine they had ordered it.

Emilie sat at one of the long wooden tables, a glass of champagne in hand, watching Belle laugh over something Max whispered in her ear, her cheeks pink and glowing.

And for the first time in a long time, Emilie felt something unspool in her chest—something fragile and aching.

Belle was happy.

Finally.

After years of being treated like an afterthought by people who should have fought for her, she was loved by someone who saw her. It made Emilie both stupidly emotional and faintly murderous when she thought about the people who hadn't.

Her fingers curled loosely around the stem of her glass.

She didn't cry at weddings. That was not her brand.

But if she were going to cry, it would’ve been for this.

Someone bumped her elbow, breaking the spell.

She looked up—and into the bright, apologetic face of Lando Norris.

"Sorry! Sorry," he said immediately, holding up his hands like a man under arrest. "Didn’t mean to—uh, interrupt. Or spill anything. Or—"

He was wearing a navy blue suit, rumpled already, tie askew again even after her earlier threats. His curls were fighting a losing battle against whatever product he’d tried to tame them with. There was a crookedness to him—a kind of chaotic, restless energy buzzing just under his skin.

He looked like a golden retriever trying desperately not to knock over a priceless vase.

Emilie raised an eyebrow. Cool. Appraising.

She knew boys like him. Bright smiles. Quick laughs. Attention spans like sparklers: burning hot, burning out.

He should’ve been easy to dismiss.

So why wasn’t she?

"You’re safe," she said dryly, tipping her glass toward him. "For now."

Lando's grin widened, lopsided and a little breathless. "Good. I was warned you might have a taser."

Emilie allowed herself a small, sharp smile. "Only for men who deserve it."

His eyes—bright greenish blue, annoyingly nice eyes—crinkled at the corners. He shifted from foot to foot like he didn’t know whether to stay or retreat. She could practically see the gears turning in his brain, second-guessing everything.

Cute, she thought reluctantly. In that maddening, boyish way.

And real.

There was something startlingly unguarded about him. No polished script, no careful charm. Just... all messy heart.

"Can I—uh, sit?" he asked, nodding toward the empty chair beside her.

Emilie could have said no. Should have, maybe.

Instead, she tilted her head and said, "If you must."

He practically collapsed into the chair with relief, bumping the table and nearly knocking over a bread basket in the process. Emilie caught it one-handed, setting it upright with a sigh that was more amused than exasperated.

"Smooth," she said.

"I try," Lando said, flashing another grin. "But usually it goes like this."

They fell into an awkward, oddly endearing silence. The lunch buzzed around them: clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, Belle’s voice lifting and carrying across the room like music.

Lando fiddled with the edge of the napkin, sneaking glances at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Emilie noticed.

She noticed everything.

And it made her want to fold herself back into the armor she wore with men. The one that said: you can look, but you will never touch anything real.

But he wasn’t looking at her like she was an acquisition to win or a prize to brag about.

He was looking at her like she was a puzzle he was trying—hopelessly—to figure out.

She sipped her champagne. Let him squirm a little longer. Then, finally:

"So," Emilie said, tilting her head just enough to make him sweat, "are you going to make conversation, or are you just planning to stare at me and hope it counts?"

Lando blinked, then laughed—a quick, surprised sound that made something warm spark low in her chest.

"I was thinking... both?" he said, scratching the back of his neck. "You’re kind of intimidating."

"Good," Emilie said, leaning back in her chair with a smirk. "I work hard at it."

He shook his head, still smiling, eyes glinting with something that might have been mischief-or admiration.

Probably both.

And Emilie—who got whatever guy she wanted but never trusted any of them to stay—felt the faintest, most treacherous flicker of curiosity.

Maybe Belle wasn’t the only one who deserved good things.

Maybe.

But not yet.

For now, she just raised an eyebrow, tore a piece of bread in half, and said, "You’ve got five minutes to impress me, Norris. Don’t waste it."

Lando leaned forward like a man accepting a dare.

"Oh," he said, grinning wide and unrepentant. "I’m definitely going to waste it."

And to her absolute horror—

Emilie found herself smiling.

Real and warm and helpless against it.

Maybe chaotic sunshine wasn’t the worst thing to let into her life after all.

Emilie watched him over the rim of her glass, amused in the way one might watch a golden retriever attempt calculus. She was prepared for the usual: some half-flirty line, some brag, something easy to roll her eyes at and dismiss.

Instead, Lando immediately, and spectacularly, fumbled it.

“So, uh,” he began, sitting up straighter like he was about to give a business presentation, “I have a driver's license.”

Emilie blinked. “I should hope so,” she said dryly, “given your profession.”

“Yeah, but like,” Lando forged on, waving a hand vaguely, “I passed my first test. No minors. No majors. Totally clean sheet. Instructor said I was ‘shockingly competent.’” He smiled at her like this was an accomplishment that should win him a Nobel Prize.

Emilie couldn’t help it: she laughed.

A small one, sharp and unexpected, escaping before she could stop it.

Lando lit up like a Christmas tree. Actually lit up.

Encouraged, he kept going, words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them if he tried.

“And—and I can cook a bit. Like, real cooking. Not just the ‘put something in the microwave and pray’ thing.”

“What’s your specialty?” Emilie asked, playing along, one eyebrow lifted.

He considered this with deep, theatrical seriousness.

“Pasta,” he said finally. “But, like, real pasta. I once made fresh tagliatelle for a girl I liked.”

Emilie smirked. “And did she survive?”

“She did,” Lando said solemnly. “She even asked for seconds. Probably because I didn’t tell her I dropped half the dough on the floor and had to start over.”

Emilie shook her head, sipping her champagne to hide the curve of her mouth.

God, he was awful at this. And somehow—somehow—it was working.

Not because he was slick.

But because he wasn’t.

He was throwing everything out there, a whole messy human open on the table, with no polish, no angles, no agenda except: please like me.

And it was dangerously, horribly endearing.

Emilie, who had been courted by men with yachts and family names older than democracy, who had been wooed with Cartier and poetry and private jets, found herself genuinely, terrifyingly charmed by a boy who thought shockingly competent driving was an acceptable conversation starter.

“You’ve got two minutes left,” she said lightly.

Lando gasped in mock horror. “Pressure’s on.”

He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking.

Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was telling her a state secret."Okay. Here's the real selling point: I'm friends with Max, and you know what that means?"

She gave him a look that said choose your next words very carefully.

"It means," Lando said solemnly, "I have survived approximately fourteen near-death experiences involving go-karts, jet skis, and very questionable Red Bull stunts. So I'm basically immortal."

Emilie snorted into her glass.

"And," Lando added, beaming now, "I'm very good at getting bloodstains out of clothes. Just in case."

"You expect me to believe you're domestically capable," she said, eyeing him skeptically.

"I can use a washing machine," he said proudly. "Mostly."

"Terrifying."

Lando grinned wider, basking in the fact she hadn't told him to go away yet. His foot accidentally bumped hers under the table, and he yelped, jerking back like he'd been electrocuted.

"Sorry! Sorry—" he spluttered, flailing slightly. "Didn’t mean—"

"Relax," Emilie said, amused despite herself. "I don't bite."

She paused.

"Unless provoked," she added sweetly, echoing Belle’s earlier words.

Lando looked half in love already.

The realization hit Emilie like a cold glass of water poured down her back.

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn’t how it went. She flirted. She played. She walked away before anyone got the chance to look at her like that.

But Lando didn’t seem to be strategizing, didn’t seem to be measuring her up like some glossy prize. He just looked... happy. A little awestruck. A little proud of himself for surviving her.

It was stupid. And messy. And probably a terrible idea.

But when Belle caught her eye across the room and gave her a tiny, knowing smile—the same smile Belle had worn when Max had first reached for her hand like it was instinct—

Emilie thought, maybe, just maybe, she could let herself enjoy this. For today. For a minute.

For herself.

She set her champagne down and looked at Lando, who was still watching her like she might vanish if he blinked.

"Alright, Norris," Emilie said, sitting back with a mock-sigh. "You've survived the first round."

Lando brightened so much it was almost dangerous.

"And what’s round two?" he asked eagerly.

Emilie smirked.

"You’ll find out," she said, standing up, brushing invisible crumbs off her sleek dress. She leaned down, just enough to whisper near his ear:

"If you're lucky."

And when she sauntered off to steal a slice of cake before the toddlers got to it, she didn’t even have to look back to know Lando was grinning like he’d just won the Miami Grand Prix again.

***

It started innocently enough.

At least, that's what Lando told himself.

It was late, he was jetlagged, and he was lying in bed with one arm slung over his face, phone glowing much too brightly against the dark hotel room ceiling. He should’ve been asleep.

Instead, he was... scrolling.

Specifically, scrolling through Emilie Abadie’s Instagram.

In his defense, she’d posted a new story earlier that day—something about a bookstore in Paris—and he’d swiped up without thinking, curious. From there, well... it was a slippery slope.

He clicked on her profile. Scrolled a little. Then a little more. And a little more. Until suddenly he wasn’t just seeing today's cute coffee shop photo; he was deep in 2019 territory, where the grid looked different—less polished, more chaotic.

And there it was.

The Bikini Picture.

Emilie, standing on a beach somewhere impossibly blue, wearing sunglasses, a tiny black bikini, and a smirk that could have started wars. Hair loose, skin sun-kissed, hand holding some drink with a tiny paper umbrella in it.

She looked effortless. Untouchable. Dangerous.

Lando, because he had the survival instincts of a drunk moth around a flame, stared at it for too long.

And then, as if his thumb had a mind of its own—

He liked it.

The screen flashed red.

Hearted.

The panic hit instantly.

"NO—NO, NO, NO—" he yelped, scrambling like he'd just touched a live wire. He frantically unliked it—smashed the heart again until it turned back to grey—but it was too late.

He knew how Instagram worked.

She got the notification.

He sat there, paralyzed, mortified, vibrating with shame.

He had liked a bikini photo from five years ago.

He was that guy.

The type of guy who accidentally cyberstalked someone so hard he time-traveled.

Lando buried his face in his pillow and groaned loud enough to scare himself.

At some point, he gave up and texted Oscar.

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Oscar Piastri

Lando: Mate. I just liked a 2019 bikini pic on Emilie’s Instagram. Kill me.

Oscar: 😂😂😂

Lando: I’m actually dying. This is fatal. I’ve died.

Oscar: How did you even GET to 2019??

Lando: I was just looking!! And then scrolling!! And then it happened!! I didn’t MEAN TO.

Oscar: Famous last words.

Lando: I hate you.

Lando: I'm gonna throw myself into the sea.

Oscar: Before you do, serious question. You like her, don’t you?

***

Later, when Lando had the courage to crawl out from under his metaphorical rock, he found himself sitting in Oscar’s hotel room, tossing a mini water bottle up and down, trying not to look like he wanted to crawl into the mini fridge and hide.

Oscar just sat on the bed, arms folded, regarding him with the amused patience of someone who had absolutely seen this coming.

“So,” Oscar said, grinning slightly. “Emilie, huh?”

Lando groaned. “It’s not like that.”

Oscar raised a brow.

Lando dropped the water bottle onto the floor with a thunk. “Okay. Fine. Maybe it’s a little like that.”

Oscar didn’t say anything, just nodded sagely, like he was some ancient wisdom god instead of a 23-year-old who still ate cereal for dinner sometimes.

“She’s just…” Lando floundered for words, pushing a hand through his hair. “She’s scary. And beautiful. And scary.”

“You said scary twice.”

“It felt necessary.”

Oscar snorted. “Sounds like you’ve got it bad, mate.”

Lando slumped. “I don’t even know if she likes me. She could crush me like a bug if she wanted.”

“Would you be mad about it?” Oscar asked.

Lando considered it. “…No.”

Oscar laughed, then sobered slightly, watching him.

“You ever just know?” Lando asked suddenly, voice quieter. “That someone’s different? Like—you’re still kind of terrified, but you don’t want to run away?”

Oscar leaned back against the headboard, thinking for a second.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “With Lily, I knew.”

Lando glanced at him, genuinely curious.

“I mean, it wasn’t like lightning bolts or fireworks or anything,” Oscar said, shrugging. “It was quieter. Like... I realized I was happier when she was around. And when she wasn’t, it felt like something was missing. She made life easier. Not harder. You know?”

Lando nodded slowly.

“People talk about love like it’s supposed to be this huge, dramatic thing,” Oscar continued. “But honestly? The real thing’s just... peace. Trust. Someone you want to tell stupid jokes to at 2 a.m.”

Lando swallowed.

He thought about Emilie.

The way she made fun of him mercilessly, but smiled when she thought he wasn’t looking.

The way she laughed—not a polite, reserved laugh, but a real, from-the-gut laugh—when he told the world’s dumbest jokes.

The way he felt when she was near. Like maybe he could stop trying to be impressive and just... be.

Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be easy.

Maybe it was just supposed to be real.

“You think I’ve got a chance?” Lando asked, half-joking, half-serious.

Oscar smiled.

“You’ve already got one,” he said. “You’re just too scared to believe it.”

Lando sat back, heart thudding a little too fast, a little too hopeful.

Maybe he’d make an idiot of himself.

Maybe Emilie would laugh him off.

Maybe she’d crush him like a bug.

But maybe—maybe—he’d survive it.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be worth it.

***

Instagram Direct Messages: Lando Norris & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: So.

Emilie: I noticed you liked a little throwback.

Emilie: From 2019, no less. Deep cuts. Impressive research skills.

Emilie: You know, you could’ve just asked me to dinner. Would’ve been less creepy than liking my bikini photos at 2 a.m.

Emilie: (But I guess this way was more entertaining.)

Emilie: You still can ask, by the way. If you’re brave enough.

Lando: Would you maybe want to have dinner with me? Without bikinis. I mean you can wear one if you want but not like a requirement— This is going badly.

Emilie: I’m free Thursday. Pick somewhere good.

Emilie: And try not to like any more photos from my past while you’re planning it.

Emilie: Or do. It’s cute. In a tragic way.

Lando: Bold of you to assume I won’t.

Emilie: Bold of you to assume I’ll say yes if you like the duck-face selfie from 2017.

Lando: Challenge accepted.

Emilie: Challenge lost.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Max Fewtrell: BRO. You saw it, right?? Charles fully crashed his soul mid-interview??

Lando: Unfortunately, yes. It was like watching someone remember they left the oven on... and also their sister.

Max Fewtrell: Iconic. Karun was like “her birthday, right?” And Charles just downloaded a full panic attack.

Max Fewtrell: I screamed. Like—out loud. In public.

Lando Norris: It was kind of beautiful tbh. Like watching karma arrive with a mic and a production crew.

Max Fewtrell: Is his sister okay though? Do we know? Does she have a burner Twitter? I feel like she would.

Lando Norris: She’s fine. Emilie’s with her.

Max Fewtrell: Who’s Emilie?

Lando Norris: ... She's Belle’s best friend. Sharp. Dangerous. Possibly psychic. Says terrifyingly accurate things about my emotional state and then walks away in heels

Lando: She’s terrifying. Also brilliant. And she’s like…scarily beautiful.

Max Fewtrell: You have a crush on her, don’t you.

Lando: …I didn’t say that.

Max Fewtrell: YOU ABSOLUTELY DO OH MY GOD YOU DO This is the best gossip of the day and Charles had a meltdown on live TV

Lando: Shut up Also can we go back to Charles??

Max Fewtrell: No Because now I want to know why you know where Belle is And how you know Emilie’s with her And why you’re being so weirdly calm

Lando: …because I went to the wedding?

Max Fewtrell: THE WHAT

Lando: ...

Max Fewtrell: LAN THE WEDDING

Lando: Yeah. Belle and Max Verstappen. They got married. I was invited. Very small. City Hall. No media. Emilie picked the flowers

Max Fewtrell: MAX. VERSTAPPEN?!

Lando: Yes

Max Fewtrell: YOU MEAN TO TELL ME CHARLES IS HAVING A BREAKDOWN ABOUT FORGETTING HIS SISTER’S BIRTHDAY AND DOESN’T EVEN KNOW SHE’S MARRIED TO HIS RIVAL???

Lando: Correct

Max Fewtrell: I need to lie down. And then I need popcorn And possibly therapy But also more of this

Lando: Same. Group chat is chaos Do not ask to be added It’s war in there

Max Fewtrell: This is better than Drive to Survive You’ve been sitting on this gossip for HOW LONG?

Lando: Long enough to know I value my life And Max Verstappen would kill me if I leaked it before they were ready

Max Fewtrell: Fair

Lando: You think Charles is spiraling now… Wait until he finds out Max is family now

Max Fewtrell: My god. This is better than Netflix.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Lando Norris

Lando Norris

hey is belle okay?

Emilie: She will be. She’s hurting, but she’s strong. And she has Max. That helps. (And me, obviously. I threaten people on her behalf.)

Lando: yeah i’d be more scared of you tbh Lando: but good Lando: she doesn’t deserve to feel that way Lando: no one does

Emilie: this is very rude. I was not prepared for sincerity. Please warn me next time

Lando: sorry next time i’ll open with a meme but i meant it

Emilie: I know. That’s why I’m weirdly touched. Ugh. Gross. I hate this. Emotions are banned after 10pm.

Lando: it’s 9:58

Emilie: you’re on thin ice, Norris.

Lando: wouldn’t be the first time but thanks for telling me and tell her i said… i don’t know that i’m rooting for her and that she deserves better brothers and maybe a pony idk what people say in these situations

Emilie: you’re doing fine she’ll appreciate it and so do I

Emilie: you’re a good guy, Lando.

Lando: 😳 wow ok i’m printing this and framing it

Emilie: Don’t push it. ***

The restaurant buzzed softly around them—quiet conversations, clinking silverware, candlelight glinting off glasses. It was the kind of cozy, tucked-away Monaco spot that felt private even when it was packed, the kind of place that made Lando loosen his shoulders for the first time in days.

Or, at least, it should have.

But honestly, Lando was too busy trying not to screw this up to relax.

Sitting across from Emilie Abadie—in a dim corner booth, with a bottle of wine between them and a shared plate of something fried—was more nerve-wracking than qualifying on a wet track.

She was devastating.

Not just in the obvious way, with her wild blonde hair and sharp mouth and the way she sipped wine like she was judging the entire country of France—but in the way she looked at him. Like she was trying to decide if he was worth the effort of knowing.

And God help him, he wanted to be worth it.

He was halfway through trying to come up with something clever when he saw her expression shift. Just a flicker—something hard and tight slipping across her face.

Lando followed her gaze.

Across the restaurant, standing up too fast, was Charles Leclerc.

And he was coming right for them.

"Uh," Lando said, sitting up a little straighter. "Is that...?"

"Unfortunately," Emilie said under her breath, setting her wineglass down with a soft clink.

Charles didn’t even hesitate. Just stormed across the room, panic practically pouring off him. He stopped at their table, ignoring Lando completely, and zeroed in on Emilie.

"Emilie," Charles said, voice tight, "we need to talk. About Belle."

Emilie didn’t even blink.

"I’m having dinner," she said coolly. "Sit down or leave."

Charles didn’t sit. He stood there, vibrating with panic and guilt and about four too many emotions for the room they were in.

“She posted a horse,” Charles burst out, voice climbing. “A horse! She never said anything! She’s still not answering me. You’ve seen her. You know. Why won’t you just—just tell me what’s going on?!”

Lando, still frozen in his seat, watched Emilie set her napkin down. Slowly. Precisely. Like she was a surgeon preparing for a very delicate operation.

Her smile disappeared.

And then—God help him—she destroyed Charles.

"You think you're owed answers now?" she asked, voice so sharp Lando actually felt it across the table. "After months of ignoring every warning sign? After standing in the same garage with her and looking through her like she wasn’t even real?"

Charles flinched.

Emilie leaned in slightly, not loud, but lethal.

"You want to know why she’s not answering you? Because you only want her when it’s convenient. When it fits your schedule. When it doesn’t mess up the perfect story you tell yourself about your family."

Lando sat back, eyes wide, utterly mesmerized.

He had seen Emilie be sharp before—sarcastic, teasing, merciless with Daniel’s cartoon ties—but this was something else.

This was fierce.

This was loyalty turned into a weapon.

And it was, without a doubt, the moment he realized he was completely screwed.

Because he wasn’t falling for her because she was pretty (although, let’s be honest, that wasn’t exactly hurting). He was falling because of this.

Because of the way she fought.

Because of the way she protected the people she loved like it was breathing.

Because he could see, in every word she threw like knives, how much Belle meant to her.

He had never wanted anything more in his life than to be someone Emilie Abadie fought for like that.

Charles opened his mouth, desperate, and Emilie cut him down again.

"You forgot her birthday," she said, each word a bullet. "And you think a few panicked phone calls are enough to fix that?"

Lando couldn’t even feel sorry for Charles at that point. Not really.

He was too busy being completely, absolutely undone.

"You don't love Belle the way you should," Emilie said, voice low and devastating. "You love the idea of her. The safe, quiet little sister who never asks for anything. Who never demands too much. Who lets you shine without ever threatening your light."

And there it was—the fatal blow.

Charles stood there like he had been hollowed out.

Good, Lando thought savagely.

He didn’t deserve her.

He didn’t deserve Belle’s softness—or Emilie’s fury on her behalf.

Emilie, calm as anything now, lifted her glass again like she hadn’t just torn him to pieces.

"Now," she said, "go back to your table. Apologize to Alexandra. And maybe—if you’re lucky—figure out how to be someone your sister actually wants to let back in."

Charles didn’t even argue.

He just turned and walked away, a shell of himself.

The moment he was gone, the restaurant buzzed back to life like nothing had happened.

And Lando just sat there, staring at Emilie like she’d hung the moon.

Because this was what undid him, completely and without mercy:

Not the beauty. Not the sharp tongue. Not even the way she teased him into laughing at himself.

It was this.

It was the way she loved.

Fierce. Loyal. Uncompromising.

It was the way she stood her ground, sword drawn, in defense of someone who needed it.

It was the way she made it absolutely clear that you didn’t get to hurt people she loved without consequences.

God, he was in trouble.

Emilie caught him staring and arched an eyebrow, setting her wineglass down with practiced grace. "What?"

Lando blinked, scrambled for something to say, something that didn’t sound like I might be in love with you.

"That was," he said, voice a little hoarse, "the most badass thing I’ve ever seen."

A faint, real smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "He needed to hear it."

"He did," Lando agreed. Then, quieter, "And Belle’s lucky to have you."

Something flickered across Emilie’s face at that—something small and vulnerable and quickly hidden.

She picked up her glass again, studying him over the rim. "Careful, Norris. Say too many nice things and I might start thinking you mean them."

"I do," he said simply.

And this time, she didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t mock him.

She just held his gaze, steady and assessing, like she was weighing whether he was telling the truth.

Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because after a long beat, she said lightly, "Good."

She took a sip of her wine. Then, smiling like she hadn't just broken and remade his entire world in under five minutes, she leaned in closer.

"Now," Emilie said, "where were we before the drama?"

Lando couldn’t even remember.

All he could think about was how wildly, desperately he wanted to kiss her.

***

Emilie sat back in her chair, wine glass light between her fingers, and tried to act like her heart wasn’t pounding against her ribs.

Like Lando’s words hadn’t just cracked something wide open inside her.

Belle’s lucky to have you. I mean it.

She didn’t know what she had expected—maybe some teasing, maybe a joke to defuse the moment—but not that.

Not sincerity.

Not him.

She should’ve brushed it off. Should’ve quipped something scathing and easy, should’ve knocked the moment off balance before it could land. But she hadn’t.

Because something about the way Lando looked at her—steady, certain, real—had made her hesitate.

Careful, Abadie, she warned herself. You know better.

Boys said things they didn’t mean. Boys fell in love with ideas, not people. Boys liked her because she was shiny and sharp, not because they saw her.

And yet... Lando hadn’t looked at her like she was shiny.

He’d looked at her like she was something solid.

Like he saw the messy, brutal, fiercely protective parts of her—and didn’t want to flinch away.

It was terrifying.

It was worse than terrifying.

It was hope.

"Now," Emilie said, forcing her voice back into familiar, teasing steadiness as she leaned across the table, "where were we before the drama?"

Lando blinked at her, like he needed a second to remember where he was. It made something traitorous and warm flicker in her chest.

"Uh," he said, a little breathless, "I think I was telling you about the time I accidentally set a microwave on fire?"

Emilie let out a real, surprised laugh. "You did what?"

He grinned—wide and messy and self-deprecating—and just like that, the intensity between them loosened into something lighter. Still charged. Still humming just under the surface. But lighter.

"I was fifteen, okay," Lando said, leaning in, elbows on the table. "And I thought you could microwave foil. Spoiler alert: you cannot."

"Oh my God," Emilie said, actually laughing now. "You’re lucky you didn’t set the whole house on fire."

"Almost did," Lando said proudly. "My mum nearly murdered me."

He told the story with his whole body—hands flying, eyes bright—and Emilie listened, smiling in spite of herself, feeling the last shards of her ice defenses start to melt.

He’s dangerous, she thought distantly. And not for the reasons you’re used to.

He was dangerous because he wasn’t pretending.

Because he didn’t want her to be less. Or smaller. Or easier to love.

He wanted this version of her—the messy, complicated, fierce version—and it felt so new and so scary she almost didn’t know how to hold it.

Halfway through his story about the microwave (and the resulting three-day grounding), Emilie caught herself staring.

Caught herself wondering what it would be like to lean across the table and kiss him.

Idiot, she thought, draining the last of her wine to kill the impulse.

But even as she set the glass down, her hand brushed against his—just lightly, just by accident—and Lando froze.

The air between them tightened again. Not heavy. Not sharp. But electric.

His hand stayed where it was.

Waiting.

Not grabbing. Not pushing. Just waiting.

An invitation.

An if you want to.

Emilie’s chest squeezed so tight she could barely breathe.

She wasn’t used to boys who waited.

She wasn’t used to being wanted without being hunted.

Slowly—so slowly she barely let herself think about it—she turned her palm up and let her fingers brush his.

His hand closed gently over hers, warm and callused and careful.

And Emilie, against every rule she had ever made for herself, didn’t pull away.

***

The night air was cooler than the restaurant had been, crisp against Emilie’s skin as they stepped out into the narrow Monaco street.

The world felt smaller out here—quieter, sleepier. The kind of night you could almost believe was magic.

Their hands brushed once, then again. And then—without speaking—Lando laced his fingers through hers.

Just like that.

No fuss. No dramatics. No careful maneuvering.

Like he’d been waiting for permission, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

Emilie let herself be pulled along, hand in his, heart hammering an unfamiliar rhythm against her ribs.

It was terrifying.

It was wonderful.

Neither of them said much as they walked. The occasional motorbike buzzed by; laughter floated out of the bars they passed. But between them—just a quiet hum of something new.

When they reached a corner where the street narrowed and the light hit just right, Lando slowed.

Emilie slowed too, their joined hands swinging slightly between them.

Lando glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

She caught the look—shy and reckless all at once—and her heart gave a traitorous thud.

"You’re quiet," he said, voice soft, like he was afraid to scare her off.

"Maybe I’m enjoying the peace," Emilie said lightly.

He smiled at that. Real and crooked. The kind of smile that made her want to hand over every sharp piece of herself without a second thought.

"You were incredible tonight," he said, after a moment.

Emilie huffed a laugh, looking away. "I was brutal."

"You were brilliant," Lando corrected. "You were exactly what Belle needed."

The words were so unexpected, so easy and true, that Emilie almost stumbled.

God, stop, she told herself. Stop falling faster.

But it was already too late.

When she looked back at him, Lando was still watching her with that same maddening, open expression. Like he liked her exactly as she was. All fire. All teeth. All soft, bruised, careful heart underneath.

They stopped under a streetlamp without meaning to.

It pooled gold light around them, softening the edges of everything. Making the world feel like it had shrunk to just this. Just them.

Lando’s hand tightened slightly around hers.

"Emilie," he said, and the way he said it—half a question, half a prayer—made something inside her crack open.

She should have said something sharp. She should have laughed it off.

Instead, she just lifted her chin and looked at him.

"Are you going to kiss me, Norris," she asked, voice deceptively cool, "or are you going to keep holding my hand like we’re on a third-grade field trip?"

Lando made a small, strangled noise that might have been a laugh—or a whimper—and then he was stepping closer, so close she could feel the heat of him.

"I’m working up to it," he muttered.

"You’re slow," Emilie said.

"You’re terrifying," Lando shot back, grinning.

And then—finally, finally—he kissed her.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t smooth or practiced.

It was messy and a little desperate and so real it nearly brought Emilie to her knees.

Lando kissed like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to. Like he wanted to be sure she knew she could push him away at any second—and like he was praying she wouldn’t.

And Emilie—fierce, guarded Emilie—kissed him back with all the reckless, terrifying hope she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying for years.

It was a soft, stumbling collision of mouths and laughter and fingers tightening on jackets—and it was, without a doubt, the most dangerous, precious thing Emilie had ever let herself have.

When they finally pulled apart, Lando rested his forehead lightly against hers, still holding her hand.

"You scare the shit out of me," he whispered, grinning.

"Good," Emilie whispered back.

But when he kissed her again—this time slower, sweeter—she let herself believe, for just one dangerous, dazzling second, that maybe she didn't have to be scary forever.

That maybe someone had finally seen her.

And wanted her anyway.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Lando: Bro. BRO. I’m going to throw up.

Max: ok congrats on what?? nervous breakdown? race win? what are we celebrating

Lando: i kissed her

Max: who

Lando: her

Max: MATE WHO

Lando: EMILIE

Max: WAIT wait wait wait BACK UP u kissed her??? WHAT DO YOU MEAN "I KISSED HER"???

Lando: we had dinner and i didn’t die and then she LET ME HOLD HER HAND and THEN SHE LET ME KISS HER

Max: mate i need a minute

since WHEN were you even going on dates with her??? this is like finding out ur mate moved to another country and got married without telling u what do u mean you just had dinner casually WHEN WAS THIS PLANNED

Lando: it just happened kind of after i liked her 2019 bikini pic at 2am

Max: what the fuck

Max: YOU DID WHAT

Max: YOU DUMB IDIOT LEGEND

Lando: she slid into my dms after told me i could just ask her out next time instead of stalking her like a creep

Max: i’m crying i’m so proud u’re still an idiot but like a victorious idiot

Lando: i’m literally shaking bro like i kissed her and she kissed me BACK

Max: wtf and she didn’t mace you or slap you??? mate she might actually like you

Lando: i think she might

Lando: i’m gonna marry her

Max: ok buddy let’s aim for a second date first

Lando: i’m so fucked

Max: in the best way

727 notes · View notes

starcrossedmusings · 9 months ago

Text

Mine

Pairing: Hongjoong x Actress!Reader WC: 2.5k Warnings: smut (sexual degradation [reader is referred to as whore, slut, and hole], manhandling, tiny bit of spit kink, hickeys/marking, unprotected sex, use of a vibrator, oral sex [m receiving], light dacryphilia, spanking), swearing, jealous Hongjoong, possessive Hongjoong, established relationship, "good girl", probably some more that I missed (let me know)

Synopsis: You are an actress starring in a new drama, and fans online have been going crazy for you and your on-screen partner. After a particular scene goes viral, your boyfriend Hongjoong decides he needs to remind you who you belong to.

A/N: Requested by anon. I hope you like it!

The scene had gone viral overnight--one moment the drama you had been starring in was on the verge of cancellation, and now you were signing on for another season while your twitter blew up. The fans of the show were all in agreement: the season finale tension between you and your co star has sent a swarm of butterflies in their stomach. You had immediately called your boyfriend, Hongjoong, who was finishing up his world tour when you found out.

Hongjoong had wanted to be happy for you, and for the most part he was. But there was a nagging feeling that took root in his chest when he had watched that episode that he has no idea how to shake. He hadn't quite been able to pinpoint exactly what it was until Seonghwa pointed it out to him. He had been sitting backstage waiting for his turn in the hair and makeup chair, and was scrolling through the ship name tag on twitter with a clenched jaw. Seonghwa chuckled at his friend, immediately noticing the tension rolling off of him.

"You've gotta stop looking at all that shit. It's fine to feel jealous, but what you're doing now is gonna give you an ulcer."

Hongjoong continued his scrolling much to Seonghwa's dismay and determined that he was not jealous. No...he was fucking feral. The way you looked up at your co star was a look that should be reserved for him and him alone, and the likelihood of things progressing with the new season meant he needed to find a way to come to terms that you might be kissing this man. He was white knuckling his phone by the time his name was called. He just needed to get through one more night.

The following evening, you were lounging on your couch, silk pajamas on and a tv show playing. You were mindlessly invested in your show when you heard a knock at your door. You furrowed your brow, not expecting anyone at this hour. You paused your tv, and the knocking sounded again, but much more intense. You pad over to the door and look through the peephole, gasping and throwing it open in shock.

"Joong?! What are you doing here?" You throw your arms around your boyfriend's neck, tears springing to your eyes. "You must be exhausted, I thought you weren't coming until tomorrow morning?"

Hongjoong chuckles and wraps his arms around your waist, squeezing tightly and pressing a kiss to the top of your head.

"I needed to see my gorgeous girl."

"I missed you."

"I missed you too, angel. Thats why I needed to see you--needed to do this." Hongjoong brings your chin between his pointer finger and thumb, tilts your head up, and kisses you deeply.

The kiss is intense--a clash of teeth as he surges forward. He pushes you back into your apartment and kicks the door shut behind him, not ever breaking the connection between his lips and yours. It leaves you breathless and dizzy, the fervor with which he's exploring your mouth with his own.

Hongjoong feels like his chest could explode at any moment as he teeters on the edge between wanting to explain himself and wanting to just take what he wants. But he forces himself to separate from you long enough to let you catch your breath. He plants rushed kisses down your jawline and neck, nipping at the sensitive skin. He feels pride simmer hot and heavy in his veins as you sigh and tilt your head back to give him more access, your hands exploring the planes of his torso as he continues sucking at your neck. He chuckles as he feels your fingers slip under his t-shirt and trace along his skin.

"Did you miss touching me too, angel?"

The breath you loose from your nose is pointed, and he can tell his words are getting the desired effect. You nod, and he makes a tsking sound. "I need you to use your words."

"Yes," You breathe out almost instantly. Hongjoong smirks and starts kissing at your neck again, slowly walking you back towards your open bedroom door.

"Good girl. Missed how good you are for me" He mumbles into your neck, sucking a dark hickey into your pulse point.

"Fuck, Joong, easy! I have a shoot in a couple of days."

That sends his blood boiling. He pulls away from your neck, eyes dark and chest impossibly tight. He speaks lowly, maintaining eye contact.

"Worried your new boy toy will see?"

You furrow your brows in confusion, placing your hands on his chest as you halt your movement. You both stand on two separate sides of the threshold to your bedroom. "My what? What are you talking about?"

Hongjoong cocks his head, a dangerous glare taking over his gaze. "You know who I mean, angel. That asshole that has you so infatuated in your show. I've been looking at all the clips from your final episode. At the way you look at him. I'm not happy about it."

Realization washes over your gaze and he sees relief come flooding in. Wrong move.

"Oh you mean Christian? He's--"

Hongjoong grips your jaw roughly and forces your gaze to land on him, shock crossing your features at the harshness of his grip. He speaks with lethal quiet. "I don't want to hear you say his name. Ever." He steps closer to you, pressing his body against yours and gripping your hip harshly in his other hand. "Got it? You're mine. Nod if you understand."

He smirks as you nod, eyes all wide with shock and slightly glazed over. "There she is. Look at my good girl." He releases your jaw and smacks your ass firmly. "On the bed, angel. Hands and knees."

You turn and scramble over to your bed, planting your hands and knees firmly on the mattress. Hongjoong approaches behind you slowly, letting himself rake his gaze over your waiting form. He saunters to your bedside table, opening the drawer. He grabs your wand from the inside and smirks when he presses the button and finds it turns on. He quickly turns it off and turns to look at you.

"You left it on the highest setting?" He tuts, sitting on the edge of the bed next to you and holding the head of the toy up to your lips. He brushes it across your lips and tilts his head. "Angel, have you been a little whore while I've been gone?" He can see the way your breath catches and the embarrassed flush that starts creeping up your neck.

When you don't answer him, he smacks your ass again and growls out, "Answer me." He relishes in the way you yelp.

"Yes. Yes I've been a whore."

He smiles sadistically and tilts your chin so you're forced to look at him. "Whose whore have you been, angel? Your co-star's?"

You shake your head frantically. Hongjoong takes the wand and runs it teasingly across your clothed pussy, barely putting pressure and keeping it turned off.

"Whose whore are you then, angel?"

You take a steadying breath before you answer, focusing on not bucking your hips to meet the head of the inactive vibrator. "Your whore, Hongjoong."

He smacks your ass again, dropping the toy onto the bed and beginning to tug his sweatpants down to his thighs. "Damn right you are. And I bet my whore missed sucking this perfect cock, didn't she?" He stands and turns to face you, thighs touching the edge of the bed as his half-hard length springs free. You nod and lick your lips, staring up at him through your lashes. He tugs your hair, bringing you closer to the base of his cock. "Suck."

With the way you swallow him down greedily, Hongjoong thinks it's a miracle he doesn't cum immediately. Your mouth is so fucking warm, and the sounds of your gagging and choking alone could make him finish on a good day. He grips your hair at the root and forces your head further down until he feels your nose brush against his pelvis. He throws his head back and hisses out from between his teeth.

"Fuck yes. I missed your mouth." He lowers his gaze to look as you struggle to breath, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes. His chest aches at the sight. "Awe angel, look at you. Trying so hard to stuff all of this cock down your throat. Such a good hole for me."

He doesn't miss the way your thighs clench together.

"You like being a hole for me? Like letting me use you?" He thrusts his hips into your mouth and almost loses it when you gag, a tear running down your cheek. He pulls you back and looks down as you gasp for air, coughing slightly. A trail of your spit is still strung between the head of his cock and your bottom lip. He forces you to look up at him.

"Open."

You open your mouth obediently, sticking your tongue out slightly. He pumps himself a couple of times, looking down as you wait patiently. He smacks the side of your face with his cock before spitting into your mouth.

"Swallow, whore."

He almost busts when you do without question, keeping your doe eyes locked on his fiery gaze. He pumps himself a couple more times, grabbing the vibrator and making his way to the other edge of the bed. He pulls your hips back into him, loving the way you squeal slightly. He pushes the flimsy material of your sleep pants and underwear down and runs a finger across your folds teasingly.

"You're soaked for me, angel. You really do love being a hole for me, don't you?"

You nod and whine, arching your ass back into him and savoring the way his cock brushes against you. You hear him turn the vibrator on, and gasp as he presses it firmly against your clit. The high setting sends you reeling almost instantly, and he harshly grips your hips to keep you in place.

"Whores take what they're given, angel. And right now, you're going to take everything I give, and you're going to thank me for it, aren't you?"

You cry out at the intense feeling building in your core, whining and sinking the upper part of your torso further into the mattress. "Yes oh god yes!"

Hongjoong smirks and runs a hand down your spine as he lines himself up with your entrance. He pushes in torturously slowly, and groans when he sinks in to the hilt. He circles the vibrator in tight circles on your clit, watching as you shake and thrash below him. He grips your hair again, pulling harshly until your ear is in line with his lips.

"I'm going to fuck you now, angel. And you aren't going to cum until I say you can." He feels you clench around him and nips harshly at your neck. "Ah ah, none of that angel. I'm not going to move until I know you'll be a good slut for me."

The vibrator is still pressed against your clit, and it takes everything in you to still your hips long enough to give him what he wants. You whimper and nod, trying to focus your breathing. "I'll be so good for you. Please."

All of Hongjoong's restraint snaps, and he pushes you roughly into the mattress, setting a brutal pace. The snap of his hips has your whole body rocking back and forth, each thrust hitting that special spot deliciously. He keeps the vibrator firmly on your clit, and you quickly feel your legs begin to shake as pressure builds rapidly. You're a whimpering mess beneath him, and Hongjoong feels like he's on cloud nine as you begin to squirm and writhe. He grips the base of your neck with his free hand, throwing his head back and relishing in the way your pussy sucks him in greedily.

"So. Fucking. Perfect. For. Me." He punctuates each word with a thrust, taking out his anger from the past 48 hours on your abused hole. "Would your co star make you feel this good, angel?" He growls out.

You whine again, long and high, as your shake your head. The sound is muffled by the plush mattress, but the sentiment makes its way across perfectly. Hongjoong coos and mocks you. "No? Awe, angel, whose cock are you gonna fall apart on, hmm?"

The choked "yours" that flies from your mouth sends Hongjoong completely over the edge. He snaps his hips even harder into you, circling the vibrator and hissing as you clench onto him like a vice. "Thats right, this pussy is all mine, your orgasm is all mine. You. Are. Mine." His thrusts lose their rhythm briefly before he cums, groaning loudly and gripping your neck impossibly tight. He resumes his normal rhythm shortly after, brushing against your g-spot with every thrust. Your whole lower half is trembling and he continues fucking into you, whines and moans flowing freely from you.

"Gonna fuck all this cum back up into my pussy, angel. Take it."

"Joong I can't hold it anymore," you whimper, "please let me cum!"

He leans down, pressing his body into yours as he goes impossibly harder. "Does my whore want to come all over my cock?"

You throw your head back, arching and whining, "Yes! God yes please let me!"

He chuckles lowly and circles the vibrator again, sending shock waves across your core, "Go ahead then, whore. Let me hear how good I'm making you feel."

Your orgasm crashes over you violently, profanities mixed with Hongjoong's name ripping from your lips as your whole body shakes. The pleasure has you seeing stars, and it's almost like you can't breathe as it peaks. Hongjoong fucks you through the entire thing, growling lowly in your ear as he thrusts, "Fuck, you're squeezing me so good, angel. Thats it."

As your orgasm ebbs away, Hongjoong slows to a stop and removes the toy from your clit. Both of you are breathing heavily, and he kisses the back of your shoulder gently. He stays buried in you as you collapse onto your forearms and takes a moment to stare down at how wrecked you look. He swears to himself that you never look more perfect than you do in the afterglow. He runs a hand down your spine and removes himself from you, taking note as his cum spills out of you and down the inside of your thighs.

"Stay there, angel. I'll be right beck."

He breathlessly stands and moves to your attached bath, wetting a washcloth and returning to gently clean you up. He chuckles lightly as you jump when he brushes against your folds and teases, "Feeling sensitive?"

"Fuck off." You breath out. He laughs and tosses the washcloth to the floor, pulling you into him as he collapses beside you. He kisses the top of your head. "How are you feeling, angel?" He marvels as you turn to look at him, pupils blown out and his marks on your neck.

"I'm feeling like I should make you jealous more often." You joke.

He huffs a laugh through his nose and nuzzles into your neck.

You're going to be the death of him.

#ateez #ateez fanfic #atz #ateez x reader #hongjoong #hongjoong x reader #hongjoong smut #hongjoong imagines #ateez smut #ateez imagine

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