#Red can do no wrong not even joking just look at him

[dewdewick]

could i request clark kent, hopelessly in love with his coworker at the daily planet, who he thinks hates him (he’s wrong. he’s so wrong.)??

Not friends

Pairing/s: David!Clark Kent x Fem!Reader

Genre: 💕 Fluff

Warning/s: use of Y/N, Reader is AFAB, Reader has hair, reader likes coffee, Steve Kemp is a butthead

A/N: YEAHHHH I GET TO WRITE ABOUT MY BLORBO OF THE WEEK. The yearning is STRONG and this fic is short. Love y’all and I’m working on all of the other requests

Word count: 1.5k

Request rules!

Feel free to request! Just please read the rules first!

****************************************

Night and day, Sunshine and rain, that was Clark and Y/N. She wrote an advice column for the daily planet. A girl who had the quickest wit he’d ever seen on a person non metahuman. She was probably more suited for his job, daily news. She had a silver tongue meant to strike down empires and bring them to their knees. Not quite the temperament to be writing advice to Muriel 48 who just couldn’t seem to understand why she couldn’t get a date with her 39 year old coworker.

Y/N had a special way with people. She could say the most outlandish things with a joking undertone and get away with it. She had something that not only drew

Clark but most others to her despite her dry humor and general demeanor. She was special to say it in a word, and he couldn’t look away.

He didn’t mean to stare, but her desk was just by the window. How could he not look at the prettiest girl he knew bathed in sunshine as she nursed her morning coffee? He had a bad habit of supporting her caffeine addiction too. The way she smiled and said his name when he set the coffee cup from jitters on her desk though. He’d empty his bank account and start robbing Lex Luthor blind to keep experiencing that.

She’d catch him looking occasionally, giving a small wave and an awkward smile. Her nose scrunched up just the tiniest bit. He even loved that smile, the one that probably meant “why are you looking at me like that weirdo?” He always did his best to just wave back with a smile as well. There was always some excuse about seeing a funny bird or Superman out the window.

A girl like her was never meant to be with a guy like him in his mind. That didn’t stop the debilitating crush he had on her though. It didn’t stop the teasing comments from Jimmy and Lois or the urging for him to make a move from Cat. It didn’t stop the pangs in his chest when she mentioned a date she’d been on. Most of all it didn’t stop Steve from making a comment that would change everything.

He’d walked into the bullpen on one chilly fall morning. The sun was shining and he had a tray of coffee in his hand. Steve spotted him and began teasing like always. “Kent! What is it with you and Superman huh? I mean you know half the people only read because they want to know if he’s got a girlfriend yet!” The mustached journalist exclaimed as soon as he spotted Clark. “Good morning to you too Steve.” He replied, making a beeline to her desk as Steve followed.

“Coffee delivery.” He said with a smile as she looked up. He set a jitters cup in front of her keyboard and she gave him that small smile he savored every day. “You really don’t need to do this, Clark. I’m a big girl, I can get my own coffee.” She said, taking a sip and practically melting at the taste. In all truth she would’ve been a bit sad if he didn’t continue his sweet little routine; but he didn’t need to know that.

“Yeah, this whole crush you’ve got is getting a little pathetic Kent.” Steve teased, attempting to sling and arm over Clark’s shoulder but failing due to height. “Steve, go away. You’ve got other places to be annoying.” She deadpanned when she saw Clark’s face drop just slightly. Steve just laughed, patting Clark’s back and moving on.

Clark just gave her a tight smile, his cheeks and the tips of his ears slightly red. “I’ll uh- I’ll let you get back to it. Have a good day.” He said, his voice cracking just a bit. It was cute, this big mountain of a man getting so bashful just from a stupid teasing comment. She watched as he made his way back to his desk. Handing Jimmy and Lois the coffee that he’d so thoughtfully gotten for them.

By the end of the day, she hadn’t caught his eye again. She looked over to see him hunched over his computer, illuminated by his yellow desk lamp. His curls falling over his face and his glasses low on his nose. He pushed them up and furrowed his brows as he typed on the keyboard. She sighed, standing up and walking over to his desk. She leaned on an empty space, tapping his shoulder.

He looked up at her with surprise on his face. “Hi” he murmured, like he was afraid he’d scare her away. “You haven’t been staring at me.” She accused, crossing her arms as she looked down at him. “There haven’t been any…weird birds?” He defended, his lie falling flat. “Uh huh, what other reason?” She asked.

He sighed, looking down at his desk. His large hand fiddling with the pencil in his grip. “I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” He admitted quietly.

“What makes you think I’m uncomfortable? We’re friends right? Friends look at each other and stuff. I totally spaced out the other day and ended up staring at Lois like a freak.” She asked, trying to throw in some humor.

“That’s not really the reason I look at you. You have to know that.” He said, looking up at her with a puppy dog expression. “Then why do you look at me?” She asked, her head tilting just slightly.

“I look at you cause- you’re like the prettiest coolest person i know. You have so much personality and when you smile it gives me butterflies. I thought with what Steve said that the cat was kinda out of the bag already.” He said, turning towards her in his chair. His hand found her knee, absentmindedly stroking small circles with his thumb.

“Clark” She said with a huff of a laugh “why didn’t you just tell me?” She asked, her hand covering his “I don’t think that way, it’s not how I operate. I thought you were just being nice, trying to be my friend.”

“Honey I never just wanted to be your friend.” He said, his dimples creasing his cheeks as a small smile came to his face. “I want all of you, I want to take you out and buy you more than just coffee.”

She smiled again “I’m free tonight.”

[silentcicada7]

How weird yall see Tommy as a villain in this fandom and never look at this relationship from his perspective. I have seen so many people protect Buck to the point of even doting on him, like, whatever he does is right and can be defended, while on the other hand, what Tommy does are always a wrong thing, he could not protect himself, he could not be concern or get panic from such red flags.

I have been through that one sided relationship once and that's HORRIBLE. And what did Buck do to express his feelings for Tommy? We could see little on the screen. He baked a lot, but Tommy never know cause he nerver says.

If the writers couldn't look from both characters' perspective, they express the hint that Tommy is just a functional side character to highlight the main character, although many of the fans in BT fandom keep saying 'Tommy isn't the plot device', you treat him exactly like a functional object, nothing else. He is just an object that satisfies your projection of Buck, and when this object develops his own will, you will get tired of him and eventually abandon him.

And using a hypothetical helicopter crash which may cause fatal damage more than just bump in head to mock the studpidy? It's not a joke, not angry or furious, donno any people would wish their beloved to suffer from that, it's just... vicious.

i dont think theres a fandom consensus about how buck reacted after tommy left in 8x11 but I think it’d be juicy if buck was just. incandescently angry.

who does TOMMY KINARD think he is? thinking he knows BUCKS feelings better than buck. in love with eddie? PLEASE. and what the hell was that “competition” line?? thats buck’s BEST FRIEND, you dick! the fucking AUDACITY of that man. and! AND! speaking of audacity! “”i have a shift later,”” you’re such a shit liar, kinard. he’s had your shift schedule memorized after six months, and you were at a bar last night, so don’t think for a SECOND he bought that excuse to run. who even cares. he only made buck breakfast. but that’s like!! basic decency. and now most of it is going to waste. in love with eddie… is tommy stupid??? did he crash his helicopter and hit his head??? was he concussed???? did buck slam him into a wall too hard last night? fuck he’s out of flour. and what did tommy even mean with that lazy attempt on getting back together?? hi maddie, do you have any flour? hey, do you think buck’s in love with eddie? i mean, what does that even MEAN???? of course he’s not in love with eddie. have you met eddie?? he’s EDDIE. buck’s not touching that with a 10 foot— no, 100 foot pole, he was there for the kim disaster, thank you very much! keep that shit away from him—

[erwinsmithsmissingleftarm]

THANOS DATING HEADCANONS (nsfw included)

sfw

life never gets boring with him

he always has something planned, always know how to entertain you when needed

randomly brings you flowers, not some pricey bouquets but wild flowers he found on his way

I saw these flowers and they reminded me of you.

he looks so proud of himself when he's handing you those, a grin plastered on his face

dare to look unpleased and he immediately looks likee a sad puppy, hand lowering slightly, his eyes flickering to the flowers as if he's trying to understand what you don't like

not a good cook and refuse to assume it

sometimes you come back home and there's smoke and the smell of burnt

you imagine the worse until you see thanos with a rag and a burnt pan running around the kitchen

I swear I don't know what happened! one minute ago those fucking onions attack my eyes and the next one they are setting themselves on fire!

despite forbidding him to go near the stove, he always peeks behind your shoulder while you cook, trying to figure out what he did wrong

eventually he accepts the fact that he isn't the next Gordon Ramsay and sticks to instant ramen (the only food he can make)

big fan of cuddles from the back, his hands wrapping around your waist while he presses his chest against your back

thanos likes to rest his chin on your head/shoulder whenever he can, even if it annoys you

definitely the big spoon

only times when you get to be the big spoon is when he takes a nap and you lay down beside him

drooler and snoorer

which is ironic cause thanos cannot sleep in a noisy environement

don't worry, give him a little push and he will stop snoring... for about 5 minutes

absolutely hates to wake up early

protests and whines if you dare to get up or worse, wake him up before 9-10am

is the type to pull you back into the covers to get a few more cuddles

"come on... don't leave just yet. you really want to leave me cold and alone?

thanos loves when you play with his hair/fingers

nudges you like a cat until he gets what he want

always ask you to paint his nails because 'you do it better than him and paying for a professionnal is dumb'

100% into getting matching pyjama pants

not the basic red and black ones, no, we are talking about pyjama pants with silly prints or the iconic hello kitty ones

he wears them so often that sometimes he forgets to change them when he goes out

which of course earns him teasing from nam-gyu

is jealous, but not too much

thanos is confident and self-assured so he trust that you won't leave him for another

if a guy is especially flirty with you, he won't hesitate to diss him in one of his songs

speaking of songs

he often creates small raps for you (which are equally or even more embarrassing than the one he did for Mi-na)

if you are sad, he sees it as his job to make you laugh

dumb dad jokes, ridiculous songs, weird use of english in his sentences, funny stories, weird dance moves... he has never-ending ways to make you forget your sadness

neck kisses lover, whetever to receive or give

likes to give you small nibbles between kisses, just enough to leave you gasping

on your period, he's even more clueless than for cooking

the type to bring you pads AND wings instead of pads with wings and then looks totally lost when you burst out laughing

"what's so funny?! you asked for pads with wings so I got you pads and wings! see, i even got the spicy ones, your favorites.

once he read that women like to eat chocolate when on their period and since then, he always come home with a bag full of it

thanos runs to nam-gyu's place when your mood swings reach their peak

- dude, she can't be that scary. just stand up for yourself - nam-gyu, one day you will realize that sometimes men have to choose their battles. this one ain't for me

nsfw

tease, tease, TEASE

sorry, did I mention that he is a tease?

100% makes you edge until you cry and beg for him to let you cum

what did i tell you, mhm? you have to ask for it, baby. with words, like a big girl

he can't help it, he loves to see you break under his touch, your eyes rolling back as he fucks you dumb

has a high libido but can survives if his partner hasn't

alternates between vanilla sex and spicy sex

sometimes he likes to take things easy and stick to traditionnal sex

but sometimes he likes to bring it to the next level

buys you sexy lingerie and expect you to put it on immediately

thanos loves to use toys on you

vibrator on your clit while you suck him off? yes! fucking you with a dildo until you beg for his cock? good lord yes please

he's a boob guy

that motherfucker can suck on them for hours like a goddamn leech and still not have enough

loves to watch them bounce and move at each thrust of his cock into your warm pussy

prefer to receive oral rather than give oral

he can't help but grab the back fo your head and use your mouth as his personnal cumdumpster

despite prefering to receive oral, he's always willing to give you a cunnilingus

he drags his tongue along your wet fold before the tip of his tongue nudge your clit, making lazily circle around it

thanos loves the taste of your cum, it has such an unique taste

licks his fingers after stretching you out and hums out of delight

fuckkk, so delicious f'me baby. all of this just for myself

his pace is usually fast and deep as he makes sure to hit the deepest spots

g-spot? you thought it was a myth until he bumped that place with his fingers, an eletric shock running up your spine

you don't know how he does that, but he always knows what part to hit to drive you crazy

thanos knows your sweet spots by heart and knows how to use them perfectly like biting your neck while pistonning his dick in and out of you or nibbling on your ear while he teases your slick slit

enjoys quickies from time to time but prefers to have all the time he wants

maybe you have a quick fuck in his dressing room right before one of his shows ;)

he isn't brutally mean nor degrading during sex but he can call you a slut or spank your ass if you misbehave

don't be a brat now. show me what good little slut you are for me

that man needs you to be loud, both vocally and bodily

he wants to hear you moan out loud each time your bodies connect and feel your gummy walls clench frantically around his shaft when he empties his balls inside you

he's the type to talk non-stop during sex and go quiet when he's about to cum, a simple low and deep grunt leaving his lips when he reaches his orgasm

aftercare is messy but gentle as you are both lightheaded after the intense lovemaking

he makes sure you are not hurt, clean you up (in the shower or simply with a wet cloth depending on your level of tiredness), offers you a glass of water and cuddle you afterwards until you fall asleep

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[kaliuchisangel]

Hey twinicillin I have a request 🤕 could you write a kind of angsty fic where Malachi and reader were hanging out but he just gamed the whole time, he wasn’t mean about it, and he would talk to you. But you guys just didn’t hang out like you planned, so you got bored and left to do something by yourself.

You can give it a happy ending id you’d like! Mwah!

(Don’t feel obligated to write this)

Not Mad, Just Disappointed

Pairing: Malachi Barton x Reader

Word count: 1.5k

Warnings: Angst, hurt

A/N: Hey, twinnn. Ofc, I will write it. I hope you like this. Enjoy!

You always imagined the afternoon going a little differently.

You'd both cleared your schedules—no practice, no auditions, no errands. It was supposed to be one of those rare, quiet days where you finally got uninterrupted time together. You brought snacks. You even wore his hoodie because he always grinned like an idiot when you did.

But instead of a cozy, slow afternoon with his arm around you and music playing softly, you're curled up in the corner of his bed… while he’s two feet away, glued to his screen. Again.

“Babe—watch this headshot.”His voice cuts through the silence like it's something sacred. You look up, eyes tracing the way his fingers fly over the controller, his jaw set in focus.

You nod with a small smile, even though you have no idea what’s going on.

“Nice,” you say, because what else is there?

Malachi grins—barely glances over his shoulder at you. “Told you I’ve been getting better.”

Then he’s back in the match, and you’re back in your silence.

It’s not that he’s ignoring you on purpose. He still talks between matches. He asks if you want water, he shares his chips, he even rubs your foot under the blanket without looking.

But it’s not the same as being together.

You shift on the bed, pulling your knees up. For a while you just scroll. You even try to watch one of his matches with interest, asking who the guy in red is or why he keeps switching weapons. He answers, of course, but his replies are short—absent-minded.

And eventually, you stop asking.

—An hour passes. Maybe two.

You check the clock. The sky is starting to bleed into gold through his bedroom window. It would’ve been the perfect time for a walk. Or to lay out on the roof with speakers and a half-melted Slurpee like you always say you will and never do.

You glance at Malachi again. The blue glow of the screen paints him like a ghost. He’s laughing now, teasing someone through his headset.

You smile softly to yourself. Not mad.

Just…

Noticed.

You sit up quietly, brushing crumbs off your lap. Slipping your phone into your hoodie pocket.

Malachi doesn't even look up.

You hesitate in the doorway, eyes flicking back to him. For a second, you think about saying something—“Hey, I’m heading out.”* Or even just,“I’ll see you later.”

But your throat tightens around the words.

So instead, you just leave.

—

The sky outside is warmer than you expected. August soft, with a breeze. You let your feet carry you nowhere in particular—past the little bakery you both like, down the path that leads to the reservoir. The sun’s low, catching in the ripples like scattered gold coins.

You sit for a while. Watch ducks swim past. Answer a couple texts.

And then you just… breathe.

It’s not that you’re hurt. He didn’t do anything wrong. You know he loves you—he’s just distracted. Caught in his own world.

Still, it stings. To be next to someone and still feel kind of invisible.

You pick up a pebble and toss it lazily into the water.

Maybe you’re overthinking it. Maybe he didn’t realize how quiet you’d gone. Maybe he thought you liked being there, just near him. And honestly, part of you did.

But part of you also missed the way his hand would find yours under the blanket. The way he’d make dumb jokes just to see you roll your eyes. The way he used to look at you like you were the best thing in the room—not the game.

You lie back in the grass, hoodie bunching beneath your head.

You’re not mad.

Just…

disappointed.

And somehow that’s worse.

—

Your phone buzzes sometime later.

Malachi (My man):

where’d you go?

you ok?

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering.

Then you type.

You:

i’m fine. just went for a walk.

A pause. Then—

Malachi (My man):

you left without saying anything?

You chew your lip.

You:

yeah. didn’t wanna bother you.

No reply.

A full minute passes.

Then—

Malachi (My man):

you weren’t bothering me.

Another beat.

Malachi (My man): i was just… i dunno. caught up.

but i wanted to hang out with you today.

You exhale slowly, heart tugging a little.

You:

me too.

but it didn’t really feel like we were hanging out.

The typing bubble appears. Disappears.

Comes back.

Then finally:

Malachi (My man):

i’m sorry.

i thought you were okay just chillin there with me.

i should’ve paid more attention.

You sit up, brushing grass from your sleeves.

You:

it’s okay.

i wasn’t mad.

i just felt kinda… forgotten.

This time, he calls.

You almost don’t answer.

But then you do.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice smaller than usual. “I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“I swear I didn’t mean to make you feel that way. I thought… I don’t know. That it was enough just being near you.”

You’re quiet for a second, then say, “It usually is.”

He sighs. “You’re right. I got stuck in my own head. I should’ve been more present.”

You trace your thumb over the edge of the phone. “I just missed you. And I was right there.”

“I know,” he says. “Do you wanna come back?”

You glance at the sky. “Only if we actually hang out.”

“No game. I promise,” he says immediately. Then adds, “Unless you wanna kick my ass at Mario Kart later. But only if you feel like it.”

You smile faintly. “Maybe.”

“Okay. I’ll make popcorn.”You hum. “Extra butter.”

“Obviously.”

You let the silence stretch for a moment, softer now. Then you say, “Mal?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not mad at you.”

“I know,” he says quietly. “But I kinda wish you were. That’d be easier than knowing I let you down.”

Your chest tightens, but in a good way. In the way that says maybe next time, he’ll notice before you leave.

“I’ll be there soon.”

“I’ll be waiting.”

-

And when you walk through his front door again—this time, he meets you halfway. No controller in hand.

Just his arms. Open.

Like they should’ve been all along.

[jungwnies]

f1 grid | serving yourself less (tiktok trend)

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : serving your formula one boyfriend more than you serve yourself

୨ৎ : genre : comedy - tiktok trend ୨ৎ : word count : 1547

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : i got a final exam tmrw and i already know im beyond cooked

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

immediately looks at your plate, then at his, then back at yours.

“that’s it?”

scoops food onto your plate without asking. “you didn’t see me doing that.”

mutters under his breath the whole time: “ridiculous. you think i’m gonna eat all this while you nibble on two leaves?”

makes you sit down while he fixes you a proper plate.

“you’ll thank me later when you’re not starving in two hours.”

yuki tsunoda

jaw drops. full betrayal.

“why is your plate sad? do you hate food?”

takes food off his plate and puts it on yours like he’s rescuing it.

“you need to eat or u will be grumpy. and you know what happens when you're grumpy.”

glares at your plate for the rest of the meal to make sure you don’t sneak food back.

will literally feed you if he has to.

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

stares at your plate like you’ve just insulted everything he stands for.

“darling... that’s not a meal. that’s a sad sample.”

immediately puts his fork down. “what’s going on? why are you eating like a bird?”

gives you a speech about nutrients. you don’t even make it five minutes in before he’s switching your plate with his.

“eat. i’ll make us smoothies after. with oats. and peanut butter.”

glares at anyone else at the table who doesn’t say anything.

kimi antonelli

freezes mid-bite and just blinks at your plate.

“...wait, is that all you’re eating?”

awkwardly tries not to panic but can’t stop glancing at your food.

“you want some of mine?” pushes his whole plate toward you like a puppy offering a toy.

you say you’re not hungry and he goes quiet.

five minutes later: “okay but… what if i just gave you half of everything i have?”

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

eyebrows instantly scrunch together.

“bébé… where’s the rest?”

literally keeps waiting for you to go back for more.

when you don’t, he starts panicking gently: “is this about something? are you okay? are you mad at me?”

puts things from his plate on yours like it’s no big deal.

whispers “please eat, i hate when you don’t” like you just told him you’re leaving forever.

kisses your temple and goes “merci” when you take a bite.

lewis hamilton

side-eyes your plate with a little smirk.

“you planning to go back for seconds… or is that a cry for help?”

smooth as hell while sliding his fork over to your plate, spearing some of his food, and holding it to your mouth.

“open up, baby. i know you're hungry.”

if you say you’re not, he tilts his head and gives you the look.

“don’t make me get up and fix you a real plate. because i will.”

makes you finish at least half of his meal too, while rubbing your back the whole time.

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

stares at your plate. then stares at you.

“what’s that?”

full dramatic gasp. clutches chest. “you’re joking. that’s the appetizer, right? where’s the rest?”

scoots your plate next to his and starts transferring food over like it’s a formula one pit stop.

“you’re not doing this ‘cute portions’ thing again. eat properly or i’ll call your mum.”

makes airplane noises while feeding you a bite just to be annoying.

you try to glare but you’re laughing too hard to stop him.

oscar piastri

doesn’t say anything at first, just silently eyes your plate… then yours again.

“that’s... all?”

furrows his brows slightly. “is something wrong? are you okay?”

super calm but will not let this slide. adds food to your plate like he’s just “helping,” not completely panicking inside.

casually: “you can finish mine too if you want.”

when you finally take a real bite, he visibly relaxes and says, “thank you” like you just took your meds.

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

pretends not to notice at first.

then eyes your plate like it's personally disrespecting him.

“you’re kidding. right? that’s not dinner. that’s—snack behavior.”

takes your plate, loads it up himself, and hands it back without a word.

“eat,” he says, deadpan.

if you protest, he hits you with the eyebrow raise and mutters something in Spanish under his breath like “mi vida está loca.”

cuts your food into pieces and says “better” while sipping his wine like the crisis has been handled.

lance stroll

instantly frowns when he sees your plate.

“hey… where’s the rest?”

full concerned rich boy mode: “did the chef mess something up? do you want me to order something else?”

scoots closer and starts offering bites of his meal.

“you want a bite? actually—here, have all of it.”

if you take even a few bites, he goes, “that’s my girl” and kisses your forehead like you just saved his life.

100% sneaks extra dessert onto your plate later. plays innocent when you call him out.

ʚ・williams

alex albon

dramatic gasp. like cartoon-level gasp.

“okay, what is that? no really, explain. is that a bite? a sample? a decoration?”

“i’m calling your mom. i’m calling your best friend. we’re staging an intervention.”

takes your plate and starts adding food while lecturing you.

“you’re hot and smart but your portion control is a war crime.”

kisses your temple like he didn’t just drag you and says, “eat up, pretty girl.”

continues feeding you from his plate like a clingy golden retriever boyfriend.

carlos sainz

freezes when he sees your plate. stares at it. stares at you.

“is that all you’re eating?”

you shrug. he sighs and sets down his fork. full concerned boyfriend mode.

“mi amor, that’s not enough. seriously.”

pushes his plate toward you and waits until you take a bite. then goes soft.

“tienes que comer bien, cariño.” (you have to eat well, darling.)

“te necesito fuerte y feliz, no con hambre.” (i need you strong and happy, not hungry.)

spoons extra food onto your plate every time you’re not looking. smiles like he’s done nothing.

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

gasps like you just insulted his entire bloodline.

“wait wait wait. THAT’S your plate? you’re kidding.”

points at it dramatically. “someone get the girl a real meal!”

piles food on your plate himself while mumbling, “she thinks that’s gonna get her through the day? she’s insane. adorable. but insane.”

offers to feed you personally if it means you’ll eat more.

“open up. no, seriously. i’m not letting you leave this table hungry.”

won’t let it go for a week. “remember when you tried to survive on three leaves and half a tomato?”

esteban ocon

doesn’t say anything right away. just side-eyes your plate with increasing concern.

“is that enough? are you sure? you’re sure?”

when you insist it’s fine, he just sighs and very gently starts moving food from his plate to yours like it’s a covert operation.

“just in case you get hungry later,” he says softly.

watches you eat like a hawk. when you finish, he smiles like it’s a personal win.

mutters to himself in French the entire time — something suspiciously close to, “elle va me rendre fou.” (she’s going to drive me crazy.)

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

does a double take. then slowly turns to you.

“so you hate food now? or is this performance art?”

chuckles but immediately adds more food to your plate. “this feels illegal.”

makes jokes the entire meal, “you need a magnifying glass to see that portion.”

but side-eyes you so hard every time you put your fork down.

halfway through, scoots his plate between you both. “just share mine. easier.”

whispers “you’re actually feral for that” in your ear, but kisses your cheek while handing you a bite.

isack hadjar

absolutely scandalized.

“quoi?! that’s not dinner. that’s—what is that!”

full-on offended. places a hand on his heart like you’ve betrayed his entire French culinary heritage.

literally gets up and remakes your plate. “you eat what i give you. this is criminal.”

gives you a “look” every time you try to protest. you know the one.

softens immediately when you take a real bite. “bon. merci, mon cœur.”

kisses your head like a reward and mutters, “don’t scare me like that again.”

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

immediately dramatic. like, eyebrows raised, jaw dropped, wine glass in hand.

“you trying to break my heart? because that’s what this is.”

pokes at your plate with his fork. “this is… decorative. c’est rien.”

slides his plate next to yours and starts serving you from it.

“eat, mon ange. i need you strong enough to carry this relationship.”

flirts relentlessly until you give in.

“you’ll eat for me, right? be my good girl?”

smirks like he just won the Monaco GP when you take a real bite.

jack doohan

doesn’t say much. just blinks at your plate.

“is that enough?”

you say yes. he nods.

five minutes later he’s quietly refilling your plate like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

“i just thought you might want more.”

casually puts a piece of his food on your fork and waits.

won’t push you, but his quiet worry is palpable.

kisses your temple when you finish and mumbles, “thank you,” like you saved his appetite.

ʚ・kick sauber

nico hulkenberg

raises an eyebrow. says nothing for a full thirty seconds.

“...that’s it?”

sips his drink, pretending not to care. he cares so deeply it’s physically hurting him.

eventually breaks. sighs and says, “give me your plate.”

doesn’t ask — just starts adding food to it.

“you’ll thank me when you’re not lightheaded later.”

kisses your forehead once and mutters something like, “don’t do that again, yeah?”

gabriel bortoleto

visibly stressed.

“babe? love? angel? why is your plate empty?”

starts rapid-fire listing all the food options: “do you want rice? bread? i can go get something else—”

won’t start eating until you’ve got a full plate.

watches you take every bite like he’s tracking your hydration levels too.

ends the night making you tea and saying “you scared me,” while cuddling you for the next three hours.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[pucksandpower]

The Ghosts We Carry

Charles Leclerc x Bianchi!Reader

Summary: it’s funny, really, how the same tragedy can have such different effects on two people. Jules’ death drove Charles to chase the finish line with more fervor than ever, but also drove his sister as far away from any reminder of racing as possible … until their worlds collide again for the first time in nearly a decade and the flames of each other’s first loves are fanned once more

Warnings: descriptions of PTSD, panic attacks, a fatal crash, grief, and emotional abuse

“You’re doing it again.”

You don’t look up from the sink. The dishes aren’t even dirty — just rinsed glasses from this morning’s coffee — but your hands are shaking, and you need something to hold. Something to do. Something that isn’t the conversation you’ve been dodging for the last three days.

“Doing what?” You ask. Water keeps running over your fingers like it might rinse away the dread crawling under your skin.

“Zoning out.” Vincent’s voice echoes across the apartment. It’s that particular brand of annoyed he reserves just for you. “It’s like talking to a brick wall lately.”

You clench your jaw. You count to three. “I’m just tired.”

“Tired,” he repeats, laughing under his breath like you’ve told a joke. “You’re always tired.”

You turn off the tap. The silence is sudden and thick.

He’s sitting at the tiny kitchen table, all angles and Hugo Boss, scrolling through his phone like you’re an app he’s already bored of. His blazer’s still on from work. There’s a wine glass in front of him, untouched, because red doesn’t pair with takeout. You ordered Thai. He said it was too spicy. Again.

You dry your hands slowly. “I didn’t sleep well.”

“You never sleep well.” He doesn’t look up. “You should talk to someone about that. A doctor. Or maybe just try magnesium or something. That stuff’s meant to help.”

It’s always solutions with Vincent. Never space. Never softness.

You swallow. The kitchen’s warm, but your arms break out in goosebumps. “I don’t need magnesium. I need-”

“What?” His gaze flicks up. “What do you need?”

You hesitate. You hate the way his eyes sharpen like that — cool and assessing, like he’s gearing up to debate, not to listen. 

Vincent stands. Moves toward you. “Hey,” he says, softer now. Calculated. “I didn’t mean to be a dick.”

You flinch when his hand reaches for your arm. You hope he doesn’t notice.

“I’m just stressed with work,” he continues. “The agency’s putting pressure on the team and then my parents started going on about the summer, and now that the invitations are here-”

You freeze. “What invitations?”

He blinks, like he didn’t mean to say it. “Monaco.”

Your chest tightens instantly. The air tilts. You grip the edge of the counter to stay upright. “What do you mean Monaco?”

He sighs, pushing a hand through his perfectly tousled hair. “The Grand Prix. My parents got us tickets. You know they go every year. They want us there.”

“No.”

It’s out before you can stop it. Reflexive. Immediate.

Vincent’s jaw twitches. “Come on.”

“I’m not going.”

“You haven’t even heard-”

“I don’t need to hear it.” Your voice shakes now, uneven. “You said you’d never ask me to go back.”

“That was years ago,” he says, as if grief has an expiration date.

You blink fast. The room starts to distort at the edges, just slightly. The refrigerator hum is too loud. There’s a faint rumble from outside — a motorcycle or maybe a sports car tearing through the Marais — and it hits you so hard your stomach flips. Your breath stutters.

Vincent notices. His expression hardens.

“I told you,” you whisper, bracing yourself on the counter again. “I can’t. I can’t be near that again.”

“You can’t live your whole life avoiding it.” His voice is cold again. “Jesus, it’s been over ten years.”

You flinch like he’s hit you.

He must see it, because he sighs and rubs his eyes. “Okay. Okay, that came out wrong.”

You say nothing.

“I just …” Vincent tries again. “This is important to me.”

Your mouth opens. Then closes.

He steps closer. “They’ll all be there. My team. My boss. Clients. It’s not just a race — it’s a whole weekend of networking.”

“Then go,” you say quietly.

“You’re my girlfriend.”

You stare at him. You want to scream. You want to run. You want to rewind the last five minutes and toss the whole conversation in the Seine.

Instead, you whisper, “I can’t watch cars go in circles without thinking about the one that didn’t come back.”

Vincent’s face changes for a beat — pity, or guilt, or something in between — but it vanishes fast. Replaced with that tired look again. The one that tells you he’s had this conversation too many times. The one that says you’re exhausting.

“I’m not asking you to sit in the grandstands,” he says, trying for gentler. “We’ll stay at the hotel. Go to a few dinners. Smile for some pictures. You don’t even have to go near the track if you don’t want to.”

You’re already shaking your head.

“There’ll be music. Parties. Beach things. You love the Riviera.” He smiles, like he’s selling it. “And it’s been a decade. You can’t even hear the engines from most of the town.”

“That’s not-” You cut yourself off. Your throat is tight.

Vincent tilts his head. “It’s not like Jules would want you to-”

“Don’t,” you snap.

He stops.

“Don’t bring him into this. Don’t you dare.”

Vincent exhales slowly, hands raised in mock surrender. “Fine. Okay. I won’t.”

The silence sits between you, thick with everything unsaid.

You press your palms to your eyes. The tile floor is cold beneath your bare feet. Your heart is thudding in your throat, and your chest still hasn’t unclenched from that sound outside.

You haven’t been back to Monaco in ten years. Not since the funeral in Nice. Not since the longest week of your life, when everything smelled like sea salt and grief and lilies. You were sixteen and trying to remember how to breathe while everyone else wore sunglasses and whispered in corners. Charles had cried through his eulogy. You’d left before the after-service lunch.

Vincent’s voice cuts back in, low now. Measured. “Look. I know it’s hard for you. But I’m asking for one weekend. That’s all. One weekend for me.”

You stare at him. There’s a buzzing in your ears.

“I’ll make it easy,” he adds. “We’ll do dinners. Some yacht party. You don’t even have to wear heels.”

You almost laugh. But you’re tired. Not just today. All the time. Of fighting, explaining, flinching at shadows.

So you nod. Slowly. “Just the weekend.”

His smile is quick, triumphant. “I’ll let my parents know.”

You don’t say anything else. You don’t trust your voice.

Vincent returns to the table, already texting. Probably confirming dinner reservations. You stay in the kitchen. You rinse the same glass for the third time. The water’s ice-cold now, but you can’t feel your hands.

Across the apartment, the TV turns on. A broadcaster’s voice echoes faintly: “… Monaco, always a spectacle, and this year promises no less …” The roar of engines rises underneath it, and you clamp your eyes shut.

You can’t breathe. You stare at the sink. At your shaking hands. At the suds circling the drain.

You think about Jules. About his last voicemail. About the way he used to tap your helmet before every karting session and say, “Don’t think. Just feel.”

You feel everything now. And it’s all too much. But still, you said yes. And Monaco is waiting.

***

The plane lands in Nice just after noon. You stare straight ahead, knuckles white on the armrest. Vincent is already checking his emails before the wheels even touch the runway.

Outside the window, the coastline yawns out in sun-washed glory. But all you can think about is how the air feels too close, too thick. You’re breathing, but it doesn’t feel like it’s working.

“You okay?” Vincent asks without looking up.

You nod once, lie through your teeth. “Fine.”

The drive to Monaco is exactly as you remember it — winding, glittering, cruel. The sea on one side, too beautiful, too eternal. And the rocks on the other, jagged like teeth.

You keep your gaze low. You used to watch this road with Jules, your noses pressed to the window of your father’s car, pointing out yachts and motorcycles. You used to count Ferraris like they were constellations. Now every curve makes your stomach twist.

Vincent talks most of the ride. Something about his boss. Something about dinner tonight. Something about a rooftop brunch where “you’ll love the view.” He doesn’t notice that your hands won’t stop fidgeting or that your voice has gone flat.

By the time you pass the faded billboard for Cap d’Ail, your chest is so tight you think it might crack.

***

Monaco looks the same. Worse, it feels the same.

A sunlit dollhouse of wealth and nostalgia. Bougainvillea climbing balconies. Pastries too pretty to eat. The glint of gold and sea spray. And underneath it all, the faint hum of something mechanical — unavoidable, omnipresent. Like a ghost just under the surface.

Vincent’s phone rings as you cross into the city. “It’s my mother,” he says. “She’s already at the hotel. Do you mind if I-”

You wave him off, still staring out the window. Still trying not to break.

The car snakes through the streets, past boutiques and awnings and roads you once knew by heart. You blink, and there it is: Rue Grimaldi. You see a little girl standing on a balcony, holding a homemade Ferrari flag, her dad lifting her onto his shoulders.

Your lungs stutter. You were that girl once.

You used to scream yourself hoarse every May, wedged between Jules and Charles, arms tangled, cheeks sunburnt. The Bianchi and Leclerc families shared a balcony back then — one big mess of folding chairs and paper cups and your father shouting split times in overly excited French. You remember laughing so hard at Charles’ sunhat once that you fell off the cooler you were sitting on and scraped your knee. Jules gave you his bandana and told you it made you look fast.

You press a hand to your chest now, like it might stop the memory from flooding your ribs.

“Hotel de Paris,” the driver says gently, pulling up to the curb.

You step out, and the heat hits you like a slap. Monaco in May always felt like standing in a champagne bottle just before the cork blows — glittering, effervescent, almost unbearable.

Vincent is already halfway through the revolving doors, still on the phone.

You hesitate. Just for a second. Then you follow.

***

The hotel is chaos in designer clothing. People check in with luggage the size of coffins, draped in linen and logos. Somewhere behind you, a woman with a British accent is yelling about VIP passes.

You stare at the chandelier.

It’s the same one from your childhood. Jules once dared Charles to touch it, and Charles tried — jumped off a bench and nearly broke his arm. You can still hear the thud, the scream, your mother’s gasp.

You can’t do this.

You turn toward Vincent, who’s wrapping up his call. “I need air.”

He glances up. “Now?”

“I’ll just be a second.”

He doesn’t argue, just nods and mouths don’t get lost like you’re a child.

You walk fast. Out the doors. Down the steps. Past the tourists and the flower carts and the too-bright race banners strung between buildings like celebration scars.

You keep going. Every corner has a memory. The bakery where Jules used to buy raspberry tarts before karting practice. The alley where you and Charles once skipped an entire dinner party and got caught kissing behind a Vespa. The gelato stand with the chipped blue awning where Jules taught you how to say “stracciatella” without sounding like a tourist.

You stop. The stand’s still there. Same old man, same tiny freezer. His hair’s gone grey, but his hands are the same — broad and kind.

He looks up. “Ciao, piccola.”

Your throat closes.

He stares a beat longer, recognition flickering. “La sorellina di Jules?”

You nod slowly. “Hi.”

He smiles, small and sad. “You’ve grown.”

You almost laugh. You want to ask how long it’s been. If he still thinks about Jules. If the whole town does. But all you can say is, “Do you still have stracciatella?”

He hands it to you without a word.

***

You walk and eat and try to feel normal. You fail.

The streets are already crowded. Men in branded polos. Girls in vintage sunglasses. Kids in Ferrari hats dart between tables and café chairs, holding autograph books with hope heavy in their hands.

You should turn around. You should go back to the hotel. Instead, you find yourself outside the building where Charles used to live.

It’s quiet here. Tucked between a pharmacy and a florist, just above a steep stone staircase. You and Charles used to race down it when you were kids, then beg for granita from the stall at the bottom.

You stare up at the second-floor windows. The old shutters are still crooked. One is open. A white curtain dances in the breeze like it remembers you.

A laugh bubbles up in your throat. Sharp. Painful.

“You okay?”

You jump.

It’s a woman — early thirties, glossy ponytail, holding a toddler in one arm and a baguette in the other. She smiles at you with the kind of easy concern strangers in small towns reserve for familiar ghosts.

“Yeah,” you say. “I’m fine.”

She tilts her head. “You look like someone I used to know.”

You force a smile. “Maybe.”

The toddler tugs her sleeve. “Maman, vite!”

The woman glances back, then looks at you again. “Take care, d’accord?”

You nod. And then they’re gone.

***

By the time you get back to the hotel, Vincent’s already changed for dinner.

He frowns when you walk in. “Where did you go?”

“Out.”

“You disappeared.”

“I texted.”

“You didn’t.”

You hold up your phone. He doesn’t check.

Instead, he moves toward you, all polished concern. “You look pale.”

“I’m tired.”

“You’re always tired,” he says again, softer this time, but it still cuts. “Maybe tomorrow we’ll just do the brunch and skip the paddock.”

You stiffen. “There was never going to be a paddock.”

He raises his hands. “Right. Sorry.”

You sit on the edge of the bed and stare out the window. The view is cruel — Port Hercules and all its glittering arrogance. The stands are already half up. You can see the trace of the track running like a scar through the city.

It feels like someone’s cracked your ribs open and stuffed Monaco inside.

Vincent is talking again. Outfit choices. Restaurant menus. Who’s coming tonight.

You hear none of it. Your eyes are fixed on the sea. On the curve of the road near the tunnel entrance. You remember the exact angle. You remember the call. The scream. The silence.

“I saw someone today,” you say, cutting through his monologue.

He pauses. “Who?”

“Just … someone from before.”

He looks confused. “From school?”

“No. From before that.”

A beat.

“Does it feel weird?” He asks, and it takes you a second to realize he’s trying. “Being back?”

You nod once. “It feels like being inside a snow globe someone won’t stop shaking.”

He doesn’t laugh. You don’t expect him to.

Vincent sits beside you, hands folded. He doesn’t touch you. Just says, “We can leave after Sunday. First thing Monday morning.”

You nod again. But deep down, you already know that something’s shifting. You felt it in the curve of that staircase. In the cracked window shutters. In the taste of stracciatella that still melts the same way it did when you were twelve.

You came back to survive a weekend. But Monaco remembers everything.And it’s not done with you yet.

***

“You’ll want to wear flats,” Vincent says, rifling through his cologne collection. “There’s a lot of walking.”

You sit on the edge of the bed, frozen with one shoe in your hand. “Flats for brunch?”

He doesn’t look up. “Change after. We’re heading to the paddock first.”

Your stomach drops.

“No,” you say quickly, standing. “You said we weren’t doing the paddock.”

Vincent straightens his tie. “Change of plans.”

Your voice cracks. “Vincent.”

“They’re expecting us.” He finally glances at you, holding his phone like a shield. “I wasn’t going to, but then Julien texted — he got us on the list. It’s not like we have to stay long.”

You’re already shaking your head. “I told you I can’t go.”

“It’s not the race yet,” he says, too casually. “It’s just the setup. Garage tours. Some driver meet-and-greets. It’ll be fun.”

Your jaw clenches. “Fun?”

He moves toward you, adjusting your hair like it’s a stray thread. “You’re being dramatic.”

You pull away. “You said I wouldn’t have to-”

“It’s been ten years, babe.” He sighs. “You’re still letting this control you.”

You stare at him, something hot and acidic rising in your chest. “This?”

He doesn’t flinch.

You walk to the window, heart hammering. The harbor below is crowded with floating palaces and people in team colors. A roar rises in the distance — an engine firing up, aggressive and guttural. You grip the windowsill. Your nails dig into the wood.

Vincent’s voice softens. “I thought if you saw it up close, maybe it wouldn’t feel so … big anymore.”

The buzzing starts in your ears. You barely hear him now.

“Babe,” he adds gently, like that might help. “You can handle it.”

But you can’t. You know that already. Still, you nod. What else can you do? You nod, and you smile, and you tell him, “Just for a few minutes.”

He kisses your cheek like you’ve just agreed to champagne, not psychological warfare.

***

The walk to the paddock is short, but every step feels like glass. The closer you get, the louder it becomes — mechanics shouting, tires screeching against pavement, that ever-present metallic scream of engines revving to life. It’s everywhere, all at once. Surrounding you.

Vincent keeps his hand at the small of your back like you’re a purse he doesn’t want to lose.

The VIP gate is chaos. Wristbands, security, lanyards that smell like sunscreen and stress. You’re barely listening. Your focus narrows to the sounds — the clang of metal tools, the sharp whoosh of a pit gun. You feel it all in your teeth.

“Hey,” Vincent whispers. “Smile.”

You try. It doesn’t work.

Then you step inside. And the past slams into you like a wave.

Ferrari red. McLaren papaya. Red Bull navy. The garage walls bleed color and history, the logos shouting louder than the engines. The track is just beyond the chainlink, but the paddock buzzes like its own electric storm.

You smell fuel.You smell burning rubber. You smell 2004, and Jules holding your hand, and Charles swinging your arms between his like a human jump rope.

You stop walking.

“I need a second,” you whisper.

Vincent barely hears you over the roar of another engine coming to life. “What?”

“I just need-”

Too late.

There’s a cluster of photographers ahead, flashes going off in rapid bursts. A driver walks by, helmet under his arm. You barely register who it is — dark hair, sunglasses, some grin that probably belongs on billboards.

You turn the other way.

And that’s when you hear it.

“Y/N?”

It’s your name, but it doesn’t sound like it’s being said for the first time. It sounds like it’s being remembered.

You freeze. It’s not a hallucination.

It’s Charles.

The voice is unmistakable. Deeper now, but still threaded with that old warmth. You don’t turn around. You can’t.

“Y/N, wait!”

You don’t wait. You bolt.

Vincent calls after you, but his voice is drowned by the chaos. Your feet slap the pavement as you duck behind a Mercedes display, then slip through a tent flap like it’s a back door out of a nightmare.

You find yourself in a quiet corridor behind one of the media rooms. Empty. Dim. The sound muffled just enough that you can hear your heartbeat over it.

You press yourself against the wall. Breathe.

In. Out. In.

It doesn’t work.

Your palms are sweating. Your chest is too tight. Your vision starts to tunnel. You close your eyes and try to count — five things you can see, four things you can touch-

But everything’s vibrating. Inside and out.

You slide down the wall, fingers gripping your knees.

You feel twelve. You feel seventeen. You feel the moment the phone rang. You hear the doctor’s voice. You see your mother’s face. You hear Charles’ sobs when they lowered the casket.

You press your hands to your ears. “Stop,” you whisper. “Stop it.”

But your body doesn’t listen. The panic blooms like wildfire.

***

You don’t know how long you sit there. Could be five minutes. Could be twenty.

Eventually, the sounds dim. Your breathing evens. Your hands stop shaking enough to pull your phone from your purse.

You have eight missed calls from Vincent. You ignore them. Instead, you call a car.

***

Back at the hotel, the silence feels dangerous. Too still. Too clean.

You kick off your shoes and sit on the floor beside the bed. Cold marble against your spine. You stare at the ceiling and try not to cry. You fail.

By the time Vincent storms in, your mascara’s dried in streaks and your hands are still trembling.

“Are you kidding me?”

You don’t respond.

He slams the door. “You ran.”

You flinch. He notices. Pauses. Swears under his breath.

“Do you know how bad that looked?” He snaps. “Julien was trying to introduce you, and suddenly you’re gone? I had to make excuses for ten minutes-”

“I had a panic attack.”

That stops him cold.

You barely whisper it, but it’s enough.

His mouth opens. Then shuts.

You look up at him. “My first one in three years.”

Vincent blinks. “I didn’t-”

“No. You didn’t.”

He kneels in front of you, cautious now. “I thought maybe it would help.”

“You lied.”

“I was trying to help you move on.”

You laugh, hollow. “You don’t get to decide how I heal.”

He runs a hand through his hair. “Jesus, Y/N. I didn’t mean for-”

You stand before he can finish. “I’m going to lie down.”

“You’re mad.”

“I’m not mad. I’m exhausted.”

He stares at you like you’re a puzzle he’s finally realizing he’ll never solve.

“Okay,” he says after a beat. “I’ll be at dinner.”

You don’t answer.

When the door shuts behind him, you let yourself fall back into the pillows. The quiet creeps in again, and this time you let it.

Your phone buzzes once on the nightstand. A text from an unknown number.

Are you okay?

You stare.

No name. But you know who it’s from. Charles found your number.

Your heart lurches in your chest, but you don’t answer.

Not yet. You’re not ready for that. Not tonight.

But the part of you that ran? The part that saw him and felt everything all over again? That part is still burning.

***

The morning of the race arrives like a cruel joke.

You wake to the sound of engines — distant, but unmistakable. They start early, echoing up from the hills like thunder rehearsing for disaster. You squeeze your eyes shut, bury your face in the pillow. If you don’t open them, maybe you won’t have to exist.

But then Vincent speaks.

“We should leave by ten,” he says casually, like he’s talking about brunch. “Traffic will be hell.”

You stiffen. “Leave for where?”

He’s at the mirror, adjusting his cufflinks. “The paddock club.”

Your stomach churns.

“We agreed we weren’t doing this again,” you say slowly.

“I know, but Julien insisted. And now that you’ve already met some of the team, it’ll be easier. Plus, you’ll be in the suite this time. Glass walls. Air conditioning. Free champagne.” He glances at you like that last part might sweeten the poison.

“I can’t.”

Vincent exhales, tight and impatient. “You said that yesterday.”

“I had a panic attack yesterday.”

“I’m not asking you to watch the race,” he snaps, then softens his voice like he didn’t. “You’ll be safe. You’ll be inside. You don’t even have to look at the track.”

You wrap your arms around your knees. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because it’s been ten years. And because you can’t keep living like this.”

You say nothing. What can you say? You’re not winning this fight. He’s already picking out your dress.

***

The paddock club is worse than you expected.

Polished and gleaming, every inch of it a performance — glass walls, white leather chairs, waiters in pressed uniforms offering trays of delicate things you can’t name. The race hasn’t started yet, but it feels like a warzone already. Noise everywhere. People everywhere. A camera crew in the corner. Laughter that doesn’t sound real.

You sit in the back, clutching your phone like a weapon. Your breathing is already too fast.

“Smile,” Vincent murmurs. “At least try to look like you’re not in mourning.”

You turn to him. “I am.”

He blinks. You look away before he can say anything.

The noise builds. You hear tire warmups. Practice start simulations. Over the loudspeakers: the deep, cinematic voice of the announcer calling out the grid, each driver’s name met with cheers that rattle the windows.

And then- 

“Charles Leclerc. Monaco.”

The suite erupts.

The walls are glass, but you swear they close in. Your lungs aren’t working. Your hands are clammy. Your mouth tastes like metal.

Someone bumps into you. Laughs. Another cheer.

You stand. Too fast.

“Excuse me,” you murmur, stumbling toward the hallway. “I need … I need-”

But no one hears you.

You make it halfway to the corridor before the world spins. The lights blur. Your knees buckle. The floor tilts.

You collapse against the wall just outside the suite, trembling. Hands shaking, vision fractured.

You can’t breathe. You’re not here. You’re back there.

The hospital. The priest. Your mother screaming. The casket. The dirt. Charles gripping your hand so hard you bruised.

Your heart slams against your ribs. You gasp — once, twice — but the air doesn’t come. Your skin tingles, numb and hot at once. You try to speak, to scream, to something, but your body is locked.

And that’s when you finally break.

You fall. Down to the cold cement, curled between two hospitality tents like debris, your body giving out the way buildings do in earthquakes. Silent. Sudden. Devastating.

You cry until you choke.

***

It’s hours before he finds you.

Long after the chequered flag. After the roar dies down and the fans start to leave. After the interviews, the champagne, the national anthem played on home ground for the second time in his name.

Charles moves through the back corridor like a man searching for something lost.

And he finds you there — collapsed, silent now, forehead pressed to your knees, mascara streaked to your collarbones, dress crumpled like paper.

He freezes. Then steps closer, slowly.

“Kot doudou,” he whispers, crouching down. Sweetheart.

You flinch.

“Shhh,” he says quickly, gently. “C’est moi. C’est Charles.”

Your breathing hitches.

You don’t look up.

He doesn’t touch you — not yet — but his voice softens into something only you’ve ever known.

“Je suis là, d’accord? I’m here. Tu n’es pas seule. You’re not alone.”

Tears slip down your cheeks again.

“Regarde-moi. Look at me, please.”

Your head lifts.

And there he is. The same green eyes. The same scar above his eyebrow. But older. Wiser. Softer. Still him.

Charles reaches out, so slowly, fingers hovering just above your wrist.

“Puis-je? Can I?”

You nod.

His hand wraps around yours — warm, steady, real.

“You’re okay,” he says softly. “Tu es en sécurité maintenant. You’re safe now.”

A sob escapes your lips, sharp and desperate.

He pulls you into him.

You don’t even realize it’s happening until you’re wrapped in his arms, clinging to the white of his race suit like a lifeline. He cradles you with both hands, holding your head against his chest.

“Respire avec moi, d’accord? Breathe with me.”

In. Out.

“Comme ça. Like that.”

You match his rhythm, barely.

His voice is a metronome.

“Tu te souviens quand on courait dans les escaliers derrière l'appartement de ma mère? Do you remember those stairs we used to race down behind my mom’s flat?”

You nod, weakly.

“You used to cheat,” he says, smiling gently. “Tu criais ‘regarde!’ et puis tu me doublais.”

That pulls a tiny laugh from your throat. Barely there. But it’s something.

Charles strokes your back slowly.

“Et Jules te portait toujours quand tu tombais. You always made him carry you back up.”

Another breath. This one deeper.

“Il serait si fier de toi, tu sais? He’d be so proud of you.”

Your tears come harder then. Not like a collapse this time — but like a release.

And still, Charles doesn’t let go.

“Come with me,” he says finally, standing slowly, guiding you up with him. “I have a room. You can sit. Breathe.”

You nod again, unable to speak.

He leads you gently through the maze of tents, hands warm and grounding.

***

The driver’s room is small, private, cool. One chair. One couch. A fridge full of untouched water bottles.

He closes the door quietly behind you.

“Stay here,” Charles says. “I have ten minutes of press left. Maybe fifteen. I’ll be back before you miss me.”

You glance at him, voice raw. “You don’t have to-”

He holds up a finger. “Non. No arguing. Just sit. Rest.”

You sit.

He turns to go, but pauses in the doorway.

“I won,” he says quietly.

You blink.

“What?”

“The race,” he says, almost shy. “I won.”

A beat.

Your eyes widen.

“You — Charles.”

He shrugs, like it’s nothing. But his smile says everything.

“You should be celebrating,” you say quickly, standing. “This is — this is huge. It’s Monaco, your home! Go-”

He steps forward.

“No.”

You stop.

“I’ve waited all season for that win,” he says softly. “And when it happened, I looked around and still didn’t feel complete. You know when I did?”

Your throat tightens.

He steps closer.

“When I saw you again.”

You try to look away.

He tilts your chin up with two fingers.

“I don’t want champagne,” he murmurs. “I want to know you’re breathing.”

You look up at him — really look.

And the boy you knew is still there.

Not buried. Not broken.

Just older. Like you.

You nod, slowly.

“I’m breathing,” you whisper.

His voice breaks a little. “Bon.”

Then he kisses your forehead, and everything in you finally, finally quiets.

***

The ride to Charles’ apartment is slow, winding through sleepy post-race Monaco. The streets are still littered with confetti, fencing half-disassembled, tourists wandering in a daze of heat and champagne. You sit in the passenger seat of his matte black Ferrari, window cracked, fingers curled into your lap. Still silent. Still unsure if this is real.

Charles drives one-handed, his wrist slung casually over the steering wheel like it’s second nature. It probably is.

He glances at you at a red light.

“You okay?”

You nod.

“You don’t have to pretend.”

You exhale, looking down at your fingers. “I don’t know what I am.”

“That’s okay,” he says, voice low and warm. “You’re allowed not to know.”

The light turns green.

The hum of the engine should set you off again, but somehow it doesn’t. Maybe it’s the calmness of his presence. Maybe it’s the way he keeps the radio off, lets the city sounds fill the silence without trying to fix it.

His apartment is tucked up in the hills, away from the yacht parties and billionaire noise. It’s quiet, modern, all warm neutrals and clean edges, but lived-in. There’s a pair of sneakers by the door, a hoodie crumpled on a chair, a water bottle half-full on the counter. It smells like citrus and laundry detergent.

And dog.

Because the moment you step inside, there’s a scrabbling of little paws.

“Leo!” Charles laughs as a beige blur launches toward you, tongue out, tail whipping like a metronome. “Gentil! Doucement!”

Leo the dachshund ignores all commands and beelines straight for your knees, snuffling at your dress with single-minded joy.

You blink down at him. “You got a dog?”

Charles shuts the door behind you. “Last year. He picked me.”

“He’s …” You crouch slowly, letting the dog sniff your fingers. “He’s got no sense of personal space.”

“He’s a Leclerc.”

You snort. “Touché.”

Leo plops on your foot, satisfied. You scratch behind his ears. Something in your chest softens.

Charles watches you with that quiet expression you remember so well. Thoughtful. Open.

“Come,” he says gently. “You need to eat.”

***

The kitchen is bright, sun-washed even at this hour. He pours you a glass of water before he even offers you anything else. Puts it in your hand like it’s sacred.

You sip, then drain the whole glass.

“I ordered from Il Giardino,” he says, sitting across from you at the marble island. “You remember?”

Your eyes widen. “Are you serious? That place is still open?”

“Best pizza in Monaco. Of course it is.”

“You used to eat half a pie in one minute.”

He grins. “Don’t challenge me.”

The pizzas arrive ten minutes later, delivered by someone who knows him well enough not to ask for a photo. You both sit cross-legged on the floor like teenagers, plates balanced on your knees.

You don’t speak at first.

The food is too good.

Or maybe it’s that you haven’t eaten a full meal in three days and your body is finally remembering it needs to survive.

Charles watches you as you eat. Not in a weird way, just … like it matters to him that you're eating at all.

“I’m sorry about earlier,” you say quietly, after the second slice. “About the race. The panic. I ruined your day.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin anything.”

“You won Monaco.”

“And I found you again.”

Your heart stumbles.

He adds, softer, “It feels like one miracle deserved another.”

You look down at your plate. “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

His voice is low. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I ran.”

“I ran too. Just in a different direction.”

You blink.

He leans back on one arm. “You left, I know. But I stayed and buried myself in the thing that hurt most.”

You watch him carefully. He’s not looking at you anymore, just out the window, where the lights from the harbor flicker like memory.

“I used to think that if I won enough, drove fast enough, gave enough interviews saying I was okay … it would mean I was.” He shakes his head. “It didn’t work.”

Silence stretches between you, tender and wide.

“I couldn’t look at a track,” you admit. “I couldn’t even listen to the commentary on TV.”

“I know.”

You glance at him. “You do?”

He nods, eyes still distant. “I saw photos of you once, maybe two years after. In Paris. Some event. You looked so far away.”

You don’t remember the event, but the far away part tracks.

“I thought about calling you,” he continues. “A hundred times.”

“So why didn’t you?”

His smile is sad. “Because I was angry.”

You nod. “Me too.”

He turns back to you.

“Were you angry at Jules?” He asks.

You hesitate.

“Yes. And at myself. And at God. And the FIA. And time. And physics. And the rain. And anyone who said, he died doing what he loved.”

Charles swallows. “I hate that.”

“Me too.”

His voice is quiet. “I still talk to him, sometimes.”

You blink. “You do?”

“When I’m driving.” He shrugs. “Before a quali lap. After I fuck up. He’s there. Always.”

You nod, tears pricking again. “I still wear his bracelet.”

He looks at your wrist. The woven red one, frayed and delicate now.

“I remember when he gave you that,” Charles says. “You were mad because he stole your gelato that day.”

“I threw a spoon at him.”

“And he said you’d go to jail, since you assaulted him.”

You laugh — really laugh — and cover your face.

Charles grins. “You told him I was the only person dumb enough to get arrested.”

You glance up at him.

The look between you settles deep.

Warm. Familiar. Real.

He picks up Leo, who immediately tries to chew on a crust, then sighs and burrows into Charles’ hoodie like he’s lived there for years.

Charles strokes behind the dog’s ears, voice softer now.

“I’m glad you came.”

“I almost didn’t.”

“I know,” he says. “But you did.”

You feel yourself cracking open again, but not in the way you did yesterday.

Not like glass.

Like thaw.

Like something cold finally learning warmth again.

You set your plate down and lean back against the wall, full and exhausted and strangely weightless.

“I haven’t eaten like that in a week,” you admit.

“You probably haven’t slept in a week either,” he says gently.

You want to argue, but you’re already yawning.

Charles stands, then holds out a hand. “Come on. You can have the guest room.”

You take it without question.

***

The room is simple. A white bed, soft sheets, windows left open to the sea air. You sit on the edge and kick off your shoes.

Charles lingers in the doorway, Leo still under one arm like a loaf of warm bread.

“I’ll be just down the hall,” he says. “If you need anything.”

You nod. Then pause.

“Thank you,” you say quietly. “For not making me feel broken.”

“You’re not broken,” he says immediately.

You look at him.

“You’re just grieving,” he adds. “And grief isn’t linear.”

You nod.

He starts to leave, then turns back.

“I meant what I said,” he says. “Seeing you again … it mattered. More than winning.”

You blink slowly, too tired to fight the emotion in your throat.

“You always mattered more.”

He smiles. Small. Real.

“Bonne nuit, mon étoile,” he says.

The door clicks softly behind him.

You curl into the covers, still in your dress. And sleep.

***

Back then, everything was simpler.

You’re fourteen. He’s fifteen. You’re sitting on the roof of his mother’s apartment in the old part of Monaco, knees pulled to your chest, elbows brushing as you both watch the sea below shimmer in silver-blue streaks. The track’s still being built for the Grand Prix — steel scaffolding half-draped along the waterfront, familiar and loud and full of promise.

“Do you think we’ll remember this?” You ask, swinging your ankle in slow, lazy arcs. “When we’re old and boring?”

Charles glances at you, his hair sticking up at the crown where you’d mussed it earlier. “How old?”

“Like … twenty-five.”

He snorts. “That’s not old.”

You grin. “Feels ancient.”

He nudges your shoulder with his. “I’ll remember. Even if I’m ninety.”

You rest your chin on your knees. “What if we don’t see each other anymore? What if we grow up and forget?”

“I won’t forget you,” he says, just like that. No hesitation. “Not even if you forget me first.”

You go quiet.

He’s quiet too, but he shifts closer, like his body can’t help it. His shoulder touches yours again.

You whisper, “You’re my best friend.”

“I know,” he says. “You’re mine too.”

Your heart beats like a drumroll. Your stomach feels like fireworks.

He looks at you then — really looks.

And it’s not a surprise when he leans in.

It’s a promise.

Your first kiss is shy and warm and a little clumsy. His lips taste like the peach ice cream he stole from your cone ten minutes ago. Your fingers curl in the hem of his t-shirt like you’re anchoring yourself to this exact second, because you are.

You pull back and grin. “You taste like sugar.”

He laughs. “You taste like you’re going to break my heart someday.”

“Never.”

You meant it. So did he.

***

You wake to the smell of something warm and savory. The soft sound of music drifting in from the kitchen — a scratchy vinyl piano cover of some piece you don’t recognize. There are birds outside, faint seagulls, and for a second you have no idea where you are.

And then-

Leo jumps onto the guest bed with all the enthusiasm of a creature five times his size. He licks your cheek once, then sneezes into the pillow beside your face.

“Gross,” you mumble, pushing him off with one hand. “Rude.”

The door creaks open.

“You’re awake.”

Charles is holding a tray.

“Hi,” you say, rubbing your eyes.

His hair is a mess. He’s wearing a hoodie and the most ridiculous socks — Ferrari red with little dogs on them.

“I brought you sustenance,” he says, setting the tray down on the bedside table.

You blink at it. Fresh-cut flowers in a mug. A slice of quiche on a ceramic plate. A to-go cup of coffee with your name spelled right for once.

“Jules’ favorite,” Charles adds, tapping the crust with a fork. “You remember? The one from the market on Rue Grimaldi. They still make it with the caramelized onions.”

You sit up slowly, heart already twisting. “You went to the market?”

“I go every Monday.”

You look down at the plate. It smells like childhood.

“Why are you being so nice to me?” You ask quietly.

Charles shrugs. “Because you deserve it.”

You look at him. Hard.

He holds your gaze.

“Because I missed you,” he adds.

You bite your lip.

“I looked for you,” he says. “In every city I raced in. I’d check cafés and train stations. Not because I thought you were there, exactly … I just hoped.”

Your chest tightens.

“Even when I was in Paris,” he continues. “I’d take extra long walks. Through Saint-Germain, the Marais. Hoping you’d just … be there. Like magic.”

You stare at the tray again.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Why?”

“Because I wasn’t finished knowing you.”

You press your palm over your heart like it might quiet the noise.

Charles kneels beside the bed, not touching you, just … there.

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” he says.

You shake your head. “It’s too much.”

“I can take it.”

You exhale, staring at your hands.

“I’ve been walking through life like a ghost,” you say. “Just … watching things happen around me. Letting Vincent tell me what I need, what I can’t handle, what would be good for me. And I believed him.”

Charles tilts his head. “He doesn’t see you.”

“No,” you whisper. “He sees a broken version of me. One he can fix. Or at least manage.”

“Fuck that.”

You blink.

He says it again. Softer, but just as sure. “Fuck that.”

A shaky laugh escapes your lips. “He made me feel crazy for still missing Jules. For not wanting to go to the races. For not getting over it fast enough.”

“I still cry,” Charles says simply. “All the time.”

You look at him.

“I hear certain songs, or see someone with his shoulders, or walk into a hotel and remember we stayed there during karting once. I cry,” he says. “I miss him in a way that doesn’t shrink with time. It just … stretches.”

You nod, fast, eyes blurry.

“I thought maybe I was stuck,” you whisper. “But maybe I’m just grieving. Still. Just like you.”

He smiles softly. “Exactly like me.”

You pick up the quiche and take a small bite. It’s still warm. Still perfect.

“I loved him so much,” you say, voice breaking. “I still do.”

“I know.”

Charles doesn’t fill the silence that follows. He just lets you sit with it.

Leo curls up at your feet. The music hums along in the background.

And for the first time in years, the grief doesn’t feel like a wall.

It feels like a bridge.

***

Later, you're curled up on Charles’ couch in a pair of his old sweatpants and a borrowed hoodie. Your hair’s in a messy bun, face scrubbed clean. He brings you another coffee and settles beside you with a bowl of cereal, Leo now draped across both your shins like a blanket.

“Remember that summer when we tried to build a treehouse?” You ask.

“In the olive grove,” he says immediately. “We got through two planks and a ladder.”

“And then you fell.”

“I leapt.”

“You cried.”

“I landed emotionally.”

You burst out laughing. It feels like the first real laugh you’ve had in months.

Charles grins, slouched and easy.

“Do you ever wish we could go back?” You ask.

He leans his head back. “To when we were kids?”

“Yeah. Before everything.”

“Sometimes,” he says. “But then I think … maybe we had to get lost before we could find each other again.”

You fall quiet.

You’re starting to feel it, this pull in your chest. Not just toward him, but away from everything that’s kept you small and afraid. Vincent. The routines that numb. The excuses that sound like truths. You’re starting to question it all.

You sip your coffee and ask, “What if I’m not ready?”

“For what?” Charles asks.

“To feel this again.”

He shrugs. “Then don’t. Just feel whatever you feel. No rules.”

You stare at him. “You’re infuriatingly healthy now.”

He chuckles. “Leo’s my therapist.”

The dachshund barks on cue.

You smile.

“You should stay the night again,” Charles says suddenly.

Your brows rise.

He rushes, “Not like that. I mean — just stay. Rest. We’ll order something. Watch a film.”

You hesitate.

Then nod. “Okay.”

A beat.

Charles grins. “You want to wear the dog socks?”

You shake your head. “I want my own pair.”

He pretends to think. “We’ll see if you’ve earned them.”

***

The walk to Pascale’s apartment is warm and golden, the kind of afternoon Monaco only gifts to those it’s missed. The harbor glints. The sea air tastes like old summers. And Charles, walking beside you with a cloth bag of strawberries and flowers slung over one shoulder, is humming something under his breath.

You don’t ask what it is. You already know. It’s the same melody he used to hum in the kitchen of his family’s apartment when you were fourteen, waiting for crêpes and poking Jules in the ribs with a spatula until he yelled.

“Are you nervous?” Charles asks quietly.

You nod. “A little. I haven’t seen her since …”

You don’t finish the sentence. You don’t have to.

He reaches for your hand. Not in a way that demands anything, just enough for your fingertips to brush. “She missed you. She asks about you every time I go home.”

You glance sideways. “You told her you found me?”

“She figured it out,” he says with a wry smile. “I didn’t come home after the race. Then I texted her to ask if she still made that orange cake you liked. She said, ‘How long is she staying?’”

You bite your lip.

“She loved you, you know,” he adds, softer now. “Still does.”

You nod, chest tight.

The wind tugs your hair across your face. You brush it back. You feel grounded. Fragile, but grounded. Like this walk is one step further away from the version of yourself who couldn’t imagine standing on this street ever again.

And then-

“Y/N?”

You stop cold.

You know that voice.

Charles turns with you, brow furrowed.

Vincent is standing just outside a cafe patio, phone still in his hand. Sunglasses pushed up in his hair. His expression freezes the moment he registers the scene.

You. Charles. Together. Laughing. Comfortable.

He blinks once. Then twice.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Vincent says slowly. “Him?”

The air shifts.

You open your mouth, but nothing comes out.

Charles steps subtly in front of you — not enough to block, but enough to signal. “This isn’t the time.”

Vincent ignores him completely. “This is where you’ve been? I’ve been calling you for two days.”

“I turned off my phone,” you say, voice hoarse.

His eyes narrow. “And didn’t think to let me know you were with Monaco’s golden boy?”

“Vincent-”

“Jesus Christ, Y/N.”

Charles says your name gently. You glance at him, and that’s when Vincent loses it.

“Oh, don’t look at him like that,” he snaps. “You think he’s your savior now? The famous, hot, emotionally available Charles Leclerc swooped in the second you cried on a racetrack? That’s cute.”

“Stop,” you say, voice cracking.

“No,” he says. “No, because I’ve been dealing with your silence, your triggers, your shutdowns for years, and the second someone shiny from your past shows up, you run to him?”

You flinch.

Charles says, more firmly, “That’s enough.”

Vincent laughs bitterly. “You think you can just slot back into his life? You think he actually wants this long-term? You’re-” he hesitates, then lowers his voice to something sharper, quieter. “You’re too broken, Y/N.”

Silence.

The world tilts.

Vincent takes a step forward. “You know it’s true. You can’t even watch a race without hyperventilating. You barely eat, you don’t sleep. You-”

“I left because of you,” you whisper.

He blinks.

“I wasn’t planning to stay,” you go on, voice trembling. “But then you made it so clear I wasn’t safe with you.”

Vincent’s mouth opens. Closes.

“You made me feel like grief was a burden,” you say. “Like Jules should be ancient history. Like my pain was something to manage.”

He glares at Charles. “So what, he’s different?”

You don’t even hesitate. “Yes.”

Charles puts a hand on your back, grounding, steady.

Vincent exhales through his nose and mutters something you don’t quite catch. Then, in a tired voice, he says, “Let’s just talk. Alone.”

You glance at Charles.

“Go if you want to,” he says, calm and clear. “But not because you think you owe him something.”

That does something to you.

But you nod. Because you need to say this. You need to end this in a way that’s yours.

You follow Vincent a few steps away, to the mouth of a side street.

“I loved you,” he says. “I tried.”

“I know,” you whisper. “But you loved a version of me I don’t even recognize.”

He swallows.

“I’m not broken,” you add. “I’m grieving. There’s a difference.”

“Then why do you always fall apart?” He asks, voice almost desperate. “Why do I always have to pick up the pieces?”

“I didn’t ask you to.”

He doesn’t reply. And you don’t wait. You walk away. You don’t look back.

***

That night, you don’t go back to Charles’ place.

You don’t go back to the hotel either.

You go where you always go when everything feels too loud: the cemetery.

Jules’ memorial stone is worn at the edges now. There are new flowers — someone’s always bringing them, sometimes fans, sometimes friends. But you kneel anyway and set down the tiny bouquet of wildflowers you picked from a wall on the walk.

You sit cross-legged. You stare at his name. You breathe.

You whisper, “I’m so tired.”

And then — finally — after days of tears caught behind your ribs, you cry.

Not quiet. Not graceful.

You cry like your body is being wrung out from the inside.

You cry until your chest hurts and your palms dig into the gravel and your vision goes blurry with salt and moonlight.

And when a voice whispers, “Chérie …” you don’t even flinch.

He finds you there, curled in on yourself.

You don’t look up.

Charles kneels beside you, gently pressing a hand to your back.

You exhale, broken and sharp.

“Respire avec moi,” he murmurs. “Un … deux … trois …”

He matches his breath to yours.

You inhale.

Exhale.

Again.

Again.

Your body starts to slow.

You lean into him.

“Je suis là,” he whispers. I’m here.

You nod into his chest.

He rubs small, slow circles into your shoulder. He doesn’t rush it. Doesn’t speak again for a long time.

When you finally sit up, eyes puffy, hands trembling, you say, “I don’t know who I am if I’m not sad.”

He looks at you gently. “You’re not just sad.”

You shake your head. “But I don’t know how to be without it. Grief has been my entire personality since I was seventeen.”

“I get it,” he says. “I do.”

You look at him. “How did you do it? How did you keep going?”

He exhales. “I didn’t have a choice. I had a contract. Expectations. A whole family who needed me to be okay. But I wasn’t.”

He pauses.

“I drove through the pain,” he adds. “Not because it healed me. But because it was the only way I could be close to him. On track, he’s still with me.”

You close your eyes.

“But I’ve had moments,” he says. “Nights where I broke down in hotel rooms. Days I couldn’t speak to anyone. And in all of that, I realized … Jules wouldn’t have wanted us to live half-lives just because he didn’t get to finish his.”

You whisper, “But he was so good.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to be like him.”

“You were.”

You finally meet his eyes.

Charles reaches for your hand. “He loved you. He’d want you to love yourself. Even the parts that still hurt.”

Tears prick your eyes again. But they’re softer now.

“I don’t know what comes next,” you say.

“You don’t need to,” he replies. “You just have to keep walking. One step at a time.”

***

You don’t mean to cry the first time you sit across from the therapist in Paris.

But something about the quiet room, the glass of water on the table, the soft hum of a sound machine in the corner — it cracks you open before a single word is spoken. You cry quietly. Silently. The tears just fall, like they’ve been waiting for you to stop running long enough to let them catch up.

The therapist — Marion — is in her forties, maybe. Calm eyes, soft voice. She doesn’t flinch.

“That’s okay,” she says. “Take your time.”

You nod. You wipe at your face with the edge of your sleeve.

It’s your first session in years. The last time you tried, you’d walked out after twenty minutes. The therapist had said the word closure and you’d nearly laughed in her face.

But Charles had sat with you the night before this appointment, legs folded beneath him on your couch in Paris, Leo asleep in a little croissant shape beside him. He’d held your hand, kissed the inside of your wrist, and whispered, “You don’t have to fix everything overnight. Just try.”

So you’re here. And you’re trying.

You don’t talk about Jules in the first session. Or Monaco. Or Charles.

You talk about the little things: the engine sounds that make your stomach turn. The blackouts. The way your chest tightens in traffic. The dreams you can’t always remember but wake up from with your hands clenched into fists.

Marion doesn’t push.

Instead, she introduces something called EMDR.

“It works differently than traditional talk therapy,” she explains. “The idea is to reprocess traumatic memories while stimulating the brain bilaterally. Often through eye movements, tapping, or sound.”

You nod, even though it sounds a bit like science fiction.

“It’s not about erasing the memories,” she says. “It’s about giving your brain a way to move through them instead of staying stuck in the moment of impact.”

You sit with that. Let it settle in your bones.

“I want to try,” you say.

And for the first time in years, you mean it.

***

Charles starts flying to Paris on his free weekends.

It’s never anything dramatic. No declarations. No grand gestures.

Just soft knock-knocks on your door at noon. Croissants from the place downstairs. Leo waddling in like he owns the apartment. Charles curling up beside you on the couch, watching documentaries or whatever terrible movie you picked out of nostalgia.

He doesn’t ask too many questions.

He doesn’t hover.

He’s just there.

“Do you want to talk about it?” He asks one Saturday evening as you lean against him, the leftover sushi untouched on the table.

You hesitate. Then you say, “I remembered the way the radio sounded. The moment it cut out during Jules’ crash. That silence. That pause.”

He nods.

“And then the static. I can’t unhear it.”

“I know.”

“I hated that I couldn’t do anything,” you whisper. “I just sat in my room, watching the feed freeze, and I knew. I knew.”

Charles exhales slowly.

You feel his breath against your hair.

“I dreamt about it last night,” you add. “In the dream, I’m running across the track. But I never get there in time.”

He closes his eyes. You feel him wrap his arms around you. Tight. Steady.

“You can say it,” you murmur. “You dream too, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” he admits. “Sometimes I hear his laugh and wake up with my pillow soaked.”

You squeeze his hand.

That night, he stays in the guest room again. And even though he’s just down the hall, you sleep like you haven’t in years.

***

The EMDR sessions become a rhythm.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Back and forth. Left and right.

You track the movement of Marion’s fingers with your eyes. You speak. You breathe. You reprocess.

It’s brutal. Some days, you leave feeling like you’ve been scraped hollow.

But other days, there’s a weightlessness to it. Like a memory that used to feel like drowning now floats a little.

You tell Charles about it over the phone when he’s in Baku.

“I didn’t dissociate today,” you say, voice shaking with pride.

“Chérie, that’s amazing,” he says. “I’m proud of you.”

You smile at the ceiling.

And when he says, “Next time I’m back, I’ll take you out to dinner. Somewhere loud,” you don’t panic. You nod.

Because maybe you’re getting there. Maybe, slowly, you’re learning how to live in the world again.

***

Vincent texts twice.

The first is vague.

We should talk.

The second is manipulative.

I’m worried about you. You isolate when you’re spiraling. I just want to help.

You don’t answer.

You don’t owe him that anymore.

Instead, you text Charles.

Still hate the sound of engines. But I don’t want to run anymore.

He sends back.

Come to Fiorano.

You blink at the screen.

Fiorano?

Private Pirelli tire test. Just a few laps. I can keep everyone away. You won’t have to talk to anyone.

You stare at the message.

I’ll think about it.

But you already know you’re going.

***

It takes three trains to get to Maranello.

You wear headphones the entire ride. Not because of noise, just because you need a barrier. Something that says I’m not ready yet. Please come back later.

When you arrive at Fiorano, the sun is setting behind a curtain of red and gold. The track is quiet, save for the low rumble of distant engines. You flinch once. Then breathe.

A Ferrari staff member meets you at the gate. She smiles warmly, checks your name, and says, “He’s just finishing his run. You can watch from the platform up ahead.”

You nod.

You walk slowly. One foot in front of the other. Grass crunching beneath your shoes.

When you reach the edge of the platform, the view takes your breath away.

Charles is out there.

Not Charles your childhood best friend.

Not Charles your heartbreak.

Not Charles your anchor.

Charles the driver. The one Jules believed in. The one who used pain like fuel.

The SF-25 glints like molten fire as it tears around the corner. The sound — once unbearable — is dulled by your earbuds. You leave them in. But you don’t turn away.

You watch.

He’s graceful. Aggressive. Focused.

You’ve never seen anyone so alive.

Your heart beats fast, but not from panic. From something closer to awe.

You stay there until the car slows, until the engine cuts.

And when he climbs out, helmet off, curls sweat-dampened and grin bright under the golden sky, he sees you.

He doesn’t wave.

He just nods. Like he knew you’d come.

You stay on the platform until the sky deepens into twilight.

And for the first time, the sound of an engine doesn’t feel like a threat.

It feels like memory.

It feels like home.

***

The house in Nice is smaller than you remember.

You don’t know if it’s the time away or the grief that made it feel so much bigger in your mind, but when the cab pulls up to the curb and you step out onto the sun-warmed pavement, all you can think is God, I was just a kid.

The shutters are the same pale green. The mailbox still has the dent Jules put in it when he tried to do a wheelie on a borrowed scooter. The garden’s overgrown, the way it always was. Your dad never did win that war with the weeds.

You hover at the gate longer than you should.

And then the front door opens and Christine is running down the steps, arms open wide, her voice breaking-

“Ma chérie-”

You go.

You don’t think, you just move. And suddenly you’re wrapped in her arms, your mother’s perfume the same as it’s been since you were nine. She holds you like she might never let go. You let her.

Philippe is on the porch, quiet. When you pull back, he’s already coming down the steps too, slower, more careful. He kisses your forehead and doesn’t say anything, but his eyes say it all.

There’s grief there.

And love.

And something like relief.

“You look thin,” Christine says when you’re finally inside, brushing your hair from your face like she used to when you were sick.

“I eat now,” you say. “Mostly pizza.”

“Charles?”

You nod.

She smiles.

The house smells like rosemary and garlic. Like home. Like a past you thought you left behind but somehow still carries your shape.

You don’t go upstairs.

Not yet.

Instead, you sit at the long, chipped dining table that still has Jules’ initials scratched into the corner. You help your mother slice lemons, and you listen as your father and Charles talk about Monaco like it doesn’t ache anymore.

***

Pascale arrives first, arms full of wine and flowers, her laugh trailing through the doorway.

“Mon dieu, look at you,” she says, hugging you so tight your back cracks.

Then Arthur and Lorenzo crash in behind her, both taller than they used to be, both grinning wide. Arthur pulls you into a hug so forceful it nearly knocks you over.

“Tu m’as manqué,” he mumbles into your shoulder.

You laugh, a little breathless. “You’re stronger than you used to be.”

“I train now,” he says, smug.

Lorenzo kisses both your cheeks and gives you a long look.

“You okay?”

“Better,” you say. “Getting there.”

He nods. That’s enough.

The dinner is loud. Warm. Your cheeks hurt from smiling.

You learn that Pascale still makes her own tomato sauce because store-bought is “for lazy people.” Arthur’s trying to learn Korean. Your dad finally fixed the kitchen faucet after ten years.

You laugh too much. You drink too fast.

Charles sits beside you. His knee brushes yours beneath the table every few minutes — accidentally at first. Then not.

At one point, you catch him watching you.

He doesn’t look away.

***

After dessert, your parents bring out old photo albums.

You see pictures of yourself in a pink karting helmet, grinning with a gap-toothed smile beside Charles. Jules with his arm slung around Charles’ shoulders like a brother. All of you in matching red on the streets of Monaco, back when the race was magic and not ruin.

Arthur makes fun of your childhood haircut. You threaten to cut his while he sleeps. Lorenzo finds a photo of you and Charles at fifteen, forehead to forehead, and whistles low.

“Were you-”

“No,” Charles says, too fast.

“Yes,” you say, at the same time.

Everyone laughs. Charles flushes. You almost do, too.

But it doesn’t ache the way it used to.

***

Later, the house grows quiet.

Pascale leaves with Arthur and Lorenzo, but not before hugging you again and whispering, “Come home more, okay?”

Your parents retreat to their room, sleepy from wine and joy.

And then it’s just you and Charles, standing awkwardly at the bottom of the stairs.

“I should — I haven’t been up there,” you say.

“To your room?”

You nod.

He hesitates, then, “Want me to come with you?”

You nod again.

***

Your bedroom is a time capsule.

The posters, the mismatched furniture, the bookshelf filled with old notebooks and ballet shoes and books with folded corners.

Charles walks in slowly, reverently, like the room might collapse under the weight of what it held.

He turns in a slow circle. “It’s exactly the same.”

“I couldn’t come back,” you say. “Not after.”

“I know.”

You sit on the edge of the bed. It creaks familiarly. “I kept thinking I’d break if I saw all of this again.”

“Are you?”

You look around. “No. But I thought I would.”

Charles kneels in front of you, resting his arms on your knees.

“I hated that you disappeared,” he says. “After Jules. I hated it for a long time.”

Your chest tightens.

“I know.”

“But I also knew why.”

You stare at the floor between you.

“I didn’t know how to stay,” you whisper. “Not without him. You — God, Charles, you looked so much like him some days. The way you laughed, the way you grieved, the way you drove. I couldn’t breathe near you without remembering him.”

He doesn’t move.

“I was so angry,” you admit. “Not at you. At everything. At racing. At the world. At the fact that everyone kept going like he hadn’t just-” Your voice breaks. You swallow. “I thought maybe if I left, I could outrun it.”

“Did you?”

“No. But I tried. I thought if I saw you, I’d fall apart,” you say. “Turns out I was already broken. Just didn’t want to admit it.”

He lifts your hand. Kisses your knuckles.

You watch him. Watch the way his lashes brush his cheeks. The way his hands shake just slightly when they touch yours.

“I still love you,” he says quietly. “I think I always did.”

It hits like a second heartbeat.

You close your eyes.

“I don’t know who I am without grief,” you whisper. “But I want to try. I want — God, Charles, I want something that doesn’t hurt.”

He leans closer. “This doesn’t have to hurt.”

You look at him. Really look.

“I’m scared,” you say.

“So am I,” he murmurs.

And then-

Then he kisses you.

Soft. Hesitant. His hand cupping your cheek like you might vanish if he touches too fast.

You kiss him back.

There’s no music, no fireworks, no perfect movie lighting.

Just the creak of the old bed. The sound of your breath catching. The quiet thud of his heart against yours.

You pull back first, eyes wide.

“I-”

But he shushes you gently, forehead resting against yours.

“Don’t say it yet,” he murmurs. “Just stay.”

You do.

You stay.

***

It’s been a year.

Three hundred sixty-five days since your heart broke open on the edge of a paddock, between a thousand voices and the ghosts you couldn’t keep away. A year since the screaming engines sent you spiraling and Charles found you curled between hospitality tents, unable to breathe.

Now, you stand in the Monaco paddock again — upright. Whole. Not unscarred, but standing.

Charles’ pass hangs around your neck, warm against your skin.

A Marussia cap is in your hands. The red one. The one with the white trim and the subtle stitching of Jules’ name on the inside of the brim. It’s a little faded. The black marker signature has started to bleed through the fabric, but the weight of it — it’s as heavy as it was ten years ago.

“Is this real?” You ask.

Andrea nods. His smile is tired but kind. He looks at you the same way he did when you were fourteen and clumsy, following Jules into the gym with your ballet flats and a book.

“He left it in my car that weekend,” Andrea says. “Said he wanted to bring it back home, for good luck.”

You look up. Your throat tightens.

“I kept it in the glovebox for a while. Couldn’t let it go,” Andrea adds softly. “But I think maybe it was meant for you all along.”

You press the cap to your chest. Your fingers are trembling.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

Andrea nods and reaches out to squeeze your shoulder. “He’d be proud, you know.”

You blink fast. “Of Charles?”

“Of both of you.”

***

You’re in the Ferrari garage by the time engines fire.

The roar still knocks something loose inside you. But it doesn’t take you under anymore. Not like it used to.

You breathe through it. Slow. Grounded.

The cap is on your head now. It smells like the past — faint motor oil and leather and something sweet you can’t place. You roll the brim between your fingers. Familiar. Safe.

From your seat behind the engineers’ monitors, you watch the red car on track. Fast. Fluid. Like it was born to be here.

You think of Charles at fifteen, grinning with a mouthful of braces and a heart too big for his body.

You think of Jules lifting you onto his shoulders so you could see the cars from the balcony when you were seven.

You think of standing in this same paddock a year ago, barely breathing, Charles’ voice anchoring you in a storm you thought you wouldn’t survive.

Now-

You watch him fly.

***

Lap after lap.

Pit stops. Unsuccessful attempts at overtakes. Strategy calls in quick, sharp Italian over the radio.

You don’t flinch at the crashes. Not even when a car goes sideways at the chicane, barely missing the barrier.

You look at the screen and you don’t see Jules. You don’t see blood. You don’t see the worst day of your life on repeat.

You see Charles.

You see yourself.

You see surviving.

***

He crosses the finish line first.

The garage explodes in noise.

People are yelling. Jumping. Champagne is already being cracked open somewhere. Hugs and high fives and radio static flood the air.

You don’t move.

Not at first.

You just sit there, the cap tight on your head, and close your eyes.

Then a hand grabs yours.

It’s Andrea again, laughing. “Come on. He’ll want to see you first.”

***

The pit lane is chaos.

Charles’ car rolls into the parc fermé, and he’s out of it in seconds, tearing off the helmet, curls wild, face flushed with victory and disbelief.

The team swarms him. You stay back. You let them have their moment.

He’s doused in champagne before he even makes it to the cool-down room.

You think maybe he’s forgotten. That you’ll see him later, after the podium, after the press, after the fanfare.

But then-

He turns.

And his eyes find you like they always do.

He doesn’t walk.

He runs.

He pushes past mechanics and engineers and the cameras flashing around him, dripping champagne and laughter and something else — something you can’t name because you’re already crying.

“You made it,” he says.

You laugh, broken and breathless and soaked now, too, because he’s got his arms around you and he doesn’t care who’s watching.

“So did you.”

He kisses you.

Right there in front of the world, with the brim of Jules’ cap brushing against his cheek and the crowd around you going still.

It’s not hesitant this time.

It’s sure. It’s full. It’s home.

***

Afterward, you stand against the garage wall, fingers laced through his.

He’s still shaking. From adrenaline, from victory, from you.

“How did it feel?” You ask, voice low.

“Winning Monaco?”

You nod.

He glances at you. Smiles.

“Better with you here.”

Your breath catches.

“I’m proud of you,” you say.

His thumb strokes over your knuckles. “I’m proud of you. You fought for this. For yourself. I just showed up.”

You bump your shoulder into his. “You never just show up.”

He shrugs, feigning innocence. “I am pretty charming.”

You grin. “So modest.”

He looks at you. Really looks. Then pulls you in again.

Quietly, just for you, he says, “I think we both made it.”

And you believe him.

For the first time, you really do.

[hoshifighting]

   bsf!seungcheol watching you ride a dildo

— where your bestfriend!seungcheol wants his shirt back, but he searches for it inside the wrong drawer.

WARNINGS: +18, smut, sex toys, ''cock'' riding, clit stimulation, lub, voyeurism?, fingering, penetrative sex, reader feels the ''real thing'' after, dildo sucking, dirty talk, choking, overwhelming.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST

“yo, y/n, where’s that shirt i left at yours the other day? the black one, with the holes,” seungcheol’s voice booms from your bedroom, and you can hear him already rummaging through your wardrobe like it’s his own. typical. you’re still in the bathroom, pulling a shirt over your head, eyes rolling at how this guy feels so at home in your space, no hesitation.

“it’s in the drawer, you dumbass,” you yell back, adjusting your shirt in the mirror, not giving it a second thought.

and then it hits you.

oh fuck. that drawer. the one you’ve recently swapped out for all your, uh, extra stuff. your eyes widen, and a bolt of panic shoots through your veins. not the t-shirts and gym clothes drawer anymore, no—your sex drawer now, fully stocked and thriving.

you bolt out of the bathroom, hair still a mess, nearly tripping over your own feet, “seungcheol, no! wait—”

too late. he’s standing there, drawer halfway open, a look of pure shock frozen on his face. it’s like time slows down and you can almost hear the dramatic, “dun-dun-dunnnn” playing in the background as his eyes lock on something you really didn’t want him to see.

the dildo. baby pink. glittery. silicone, with a ridiculously realistic head.

“what... the… fuck,” he mumbles, staring at it like it’s an alien. his hand’s on the drawer handle, and he’s so still, like he can’t quite process what’s in front of him. if it was just the lube, or even the handcuffs, maybe you could’ve salvaged this situation. maybe. but nope, he’s standing there like he’s seen the holy grail, except it’s your new glitter dildo, glistening under the light like a perverse disco ball.

you skid to a stop, face burning up. “cheol, no—don't—” but he’s already got it in his hand, holding it up like it’s some kind of trophy. a fucking trophy.

he gives it a little shake, slapping it against his palm with a dumb grin. “y/n… never pegged you for a glitter girl. this—” he waves it around, the thing jiggling like some obscene party favor. “—is this what you’re into now? pink, sparkly dicks?”

you slap your hand over your face, mortified, “it’s new! i—it’s not even—i haven’t—just give it back, jesus christ!”

but he’s inspecting it now, like he’s doing some kind of in-depth analysis. his eyebrows raise, and he looks from it to you, back to it. “it’s not that big, though, right? not thicker than me, at least.” he looks way too smug for your liking, like he’s just cracked some inside joke.

“cheol!” you squeal, lunging forward to grab it, but he pulls it out of reach, shaking his head like you’re a kid trying to snatch candy from a shelf.

“nah, nah,” he chuckles, “hold up, hold up. i just… i just didn’t expect this from you. like, c’mon, this? you could’ve called me. i would’ve come running, y’know. no need to settle for this sparkly piece of shit.”

you’re fully red now, your fingers gripping his forearm as you try and close the drawer with your hip, but he keeps it open, the dildo still in his grip. “cheol, i swear to god, give it back.”

he twirls it like it’s a damn baton, slapping it lightly against his hand again. “so, like... is it better than the real thing? huh?”

“no, oh my god, no! i haven’t even—just—shut up!” you try again to snatch it back, but he’s stronger than you and absolutely milking this moment.

“mmm,” he hums, biting the inside of his cheek like he’s deep in thought, “i bet you’ve been riding this thing at night, hm? fuckin’ bouncing on it, lights out, all alone in this big-ass bed…” his words trail off, teasing, and you want to crawl into a hole and die, right there.

“cheol, stop, i’m not—i haven’t even used it yet, okay?” you sputter, still trying to grab it, but your words only seem to encourage him.

“oh? you haven’t? huh… well,” he holds it up, wiggling it under the light, “why don’t you show me how you would? like, y’know, ride it for me.” the way he says it, dead serious, makes you stop. his voice drops lower, and suddenly the room feels hotter. “c’mon, y/n. don’t be shy. give me a little demo.”

“cheol, stop it. i’m already embarrassed enough,” you say, feeling your breath catch in your throat. your cheeks burn. he just grins, settling back into the chair at your vanity, his eyes practically glinting.

“don’t be shy now,” he says, but you can hear the tease dripping from every word. his back rests against the wall, arms lazily crossed, as if he’s got all the time in the world to watch you squirm. you can’t even deny the flutter of heat that’s been coiling inside you since this whole thing started.

you let out a shaky breath, reaching for the lube, the sound of the cap clicking open feeling way too loud in the stillness of the room. you get on your knees, your fingers tremble as you coat the bottom of the dildo with it, sticking it to the floor, the suction strong as it holds in place. every nerve in your body is hyper-aware of his eyes on you. watching. waiting.

you slowly tug down your shorts and panties, trying to shield yourself as much as possible, your oversized shirt covering your lower half. it’s stupid to feel shy now, considering what you’re about to do, but you still shake your head when he says, “take that shirt off too.”

“n-no,” you stutter, cheeks flushing. you glance at him through your lashes as you start to spread the lube on the dildo, your hand sliding up and down, coating it thoroughly. the way you grip it, the slow strokes—it’s almost automatic, the sight of it in your hand makes his jaw clench, and you can practically hear his breath catch.

he shifts in his seat, eyes glued to the movement of your hand. he swallows thickly, his gaze darkening, and you can see the tension building in his body. it’s not just teasing anymore—he’s feeling this, just as much as you are.

“fuck,” he mutters under his breath, his eyes not leaving the way your hand moves, the way the lube makes the dildo glisten. for a split second, it’s like he can’t even blink, like if he does, he might miss something.

you feel your body flush even more, and you bite your lip as you spread your legs slightly, reaching down with your lubed-up fingers to ease yourself open. “look away for a sec,” you mumble.

he scoffs, eyes narrowing, but he closes them. still, you know better than to think he’s not peeking—there’s no way he’s fully shutting you out. and sure enough, you catch him with one eye cracked open, watching, his arms crossed over his chest trying to look calm and shit, but his body clearly stiffen up. the slick sounds of your fingers working you open fill the air, and you can’t help the small whimpers that escape your lips. each one seems to hit him like a punch, his eyes flickering, the sound driving him crazy.

you can feel your own wetness mixing with the lube as you stretch yourself, prepping so you can sit on it. your breath hitches as you pull your hand away, finally sitting back up on your knees. “i’m gonna… i’m sliding on it now,” you whisper, like saying it aloud makes it even more real.

his—both—eyes snap open at that, and he leans forward, elbows resting on his knees, staring hard. “yeah? let me see,” oh, he had his soothed voice, and you can feel the his gaze on you.

your body trembles as you line yourself up, one hand braced on the floor in front of you for support as the other lined the toy. the first contact makes you bite your bottom lip, your pussy lips parting as you sink down, the head of the dildo stretching you slowly. you let out a soft moan, your body reacting to the stretch, the feel of the silicone sliding inside.

“shit,” you breathe out, your head falling forward as you lower yourself further, taking more of it in—the cool, smooth silicone pushing into you, the lube making everything slick and easy. the way it presses against your inner walls has you clenching around it, your muscles pulsing as you adjust.

you can feel seungcheol’s eyes on you, locked onto the way your body reacts, the small tremors running through you. his fingers twitch, his hands squeezing each other so tightly you swear his knuckles are turning almost purple.

he’s almost breathless from just watching. you feel so full, the stretch making your hips shake as you rock slightly, sliding the dildo deeper inside. the pressure builds as your pussy hugs the toy, the texture of it rubbing against you in all the right places.

your shirt brushes against the floor as you lean forward, hips grinding down, taking the dildo all the way in. your hand clutches the floor for balance, the other gripping your thigh as you start to move, slowly at first, testing how much you can take. each slide has you gasping, your wetness mixing with the lube, creating obscene, slick sounds that echo through the room.

seungcheol’s eyes are practically burning holes into you, his breath coming out in short, shallow pants. you can feel his tension, his need to see everything, to watch every reaction, every twitch of your body as you ride the dildo.

“c’mon… let me see your face, baby,” he sulks in a greedy way.

but you shake your head again, hiding behind your hair, your chest heaving as the pleasure builds, too shy to meet his gaze. your pussy tightens around the toy as you rock your hips, the friction making your thighs shake, your moans escaping louder now, uncontrollable.

he leans in even closer, eyes dark and heavy, and it feels like he’s about to explode just from watching. his voice drops, “take that shirt off.”

“cheollie…” your voice cracks, finally looking at him for the first time since you started riding the toy. the moment your eyes meet his, the intensity nearly floors you. he’s been watching you with such focus, so goddamn turned on, and you can see it all over his face—his chest heaving, his lips slightly parted, the eyebrows knit together.

he’s so still for a second, but his eyes flick down to where the toy disappears inside you, watching how your pussy swallows the dildo, and it’s like he can’t hold it in anymore. “lift it up a little, just a little,” he says.

with a shaky breath, you slowly raise the hem of your shirt, pulling it up until it rests just under your belly button, feeling the cool air against your sopping cunt. the moment he sees you fully exposed, he lets out a low groan, like he’s moaning right along with you. his eyes are glued to the way your body moves, the way your slick drips down onto the floor as you rock your hips harder.

“fuck, you’re dripping all over,” he mutters, his eyes flicking between your face and the obscene sight below you. you’re too overwhelmed to even process the words fully, but when you feel his gaze lingering a bit too much, like he’s inspecting every little detail, you can’t help but try to hide again.

you quickly cover yourself with your hand, right over your clit, your other hand flying to the floor to support yourself as your head falls back, mouth open as a loud moan escapes. it’s getting too good now, the way the toy presses up against your walls.

you circle your clit with the hand covering you, the added stimulation making your moans uncontrollable, rolling your hips harder and faster on the dildo. “fuck, cheol… oh my god…” your voice is all breathy and desperate, and you can feel his eyes on you, burning, drinking in every reaction.

he leans forward again, elbows resting on his knees, his voice dropping even lower, almost a growl. “does it feel good, baby? look at you, fucking yourself like that. is it really better than the real thing?”

you shake your head, gasping for air, unable to form any real words as your hips move on their own, chasing the high that’s building. his voice is like gasoline on a fire, making everything burn hotter, the pleasure consuming you. you can't even look him in the eye, too mortified by how good this feels, by how badly you want more, maybe how badly you want... him?

“ride it like it’s me,” he rasps, and you almost choke on your own breath at the words. “pretend it’s my cock you’re bouncing on. ride it like you’d ride me.”

your whole body freezes for a second, the words sinking in, and your mind spins, caught between the fantasy and the reality of what’s happening. the thought of him, of riding him instead of the toy—it makes you instantly clench around the soft silicone.

you breathe in sharply, your chest heaving as you press your hand back on the floor, leaning forward. the angle change gives him the perfect view, your ass sticking out behind you, uncovered, as you start to bounce on the dildo, your knees moving in and out as you grind down harder. your moans grow louder, more desperate.

he groans softly, watching the way your body moves, the way you tremble and gasp. “shit, look at you… would you ride me like that?” his voice is so velvety. and its doing things to you. “would you moan even louder for me?”

the thought of it, of him underneath you, of riding him instead, has you spiraling. your mind can’t shake the image of his cock inside you, of bouncing on him just like this. the fantasy is too vivid, too real, and your body reacts before you can stop it. your hips slam down onto the toy harder, your moans growing higher in pitch, louder, uncontrollable.

he bites his lip, his eyes locked on the way you grind down on the dildo. his hand slides inside his sweatpants, gripping his cock, stroking himself in time with your movements, his breath coming out in shallow, desperate pants.

“fuck, you’d feel so good on me,” he groans, his hand moving faster as he strokes himself. “i bet you’d be so tight, so wet for me. you’re already dripping everywhere, baby… fuck, just thinking about it is making me lose it.”

you’re barely coherent at this point, your mind clouded by the sound of his voice, by the way the toy stretches you just right. the wet sounds of your pussy sliding up and down the dildo fill the room, mingling with your moans and his ragged breathing.

“cheol… i’m… i’m so close,” you manage to gasp out, your body trembling as you push yourself closer to the edge.

his eyes darken even more, his jaw clenched tight. “yeah? gonna cum for me?” his voice is strained.

he moves before you can even catch your breath, standing up from the chair, your hips still working on the dildo, but now, sitting straight again, and you can barely focus as he steps closer, towering over you even as he kneels down, his hands gripping your shoulders firmly.

“cheol, i—” you don’t even get the chance to finish before his hands push you down, forcing your body to slide deeper onto the dildo. you gasp, eyes widening as the toy sinks so deep inside you that it steals the air from your lungs, making you feel it so deep inside you. your hands fly to his chest, gripping his shirt tightly as you tremble against him, the fullness making it impossible to move.

your head falls forward onto his chest, whimpering as your body starts to shake. the pressure is unbearable, the dildo pressing so deep inside you that it makes your whole body seize up. and then he presses you down even further, his hands now gripping your hips, pushing you until the toy is buried to the hilt, the balls of the toy pressed on your clit, you lose it.

“CHEOL! i’m—oh my go-o-d,” you cry out, your whole body convulsing as your orgasm hits, this one even harder than any other. your hands claw at his shirt, your face pressed against his chest as you cum, trembling uncontrollably. you can’t think, can’t breathe, and he holds you through it, keeping you pinned down, making sure you feel every second of it.

he doesn’t say a word, just watches you with that hungry look in his eyes, his hands never leaving your hips as your body shakes against him.

the pleasure finally start to ebb, and you’re left panting, your body slumping against him, completely spent.

he lifts your face gently, his fingers under your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze. “look at me,” he whispers, his breath hot against your lips, and before you can react, he’s kissing you, desperate, all tongues and messy breaths. the taste of him fills your senses, his lips devouring yours, his hands sliding up your body to cup your face.

the kiss is all heat, your head spinning as you melt into him, moaning into his mouth as his tongue tangles with yours. he pulls away just enough to catch his breath, his forehead resting against yours. “you’re so fucking perfect, you know that?”

you can barely respond, still lost in the fog, but then he’s pulling you up, guiding you to the edge of the bed. your knees hit the floor as he bends you over the corner, your chest pressed into the mattress, and you can feel him behind you, his hands gripping your hips as he positions himself.

“can i baby? can i?” he growls, and you nod weakly, your breath coming in ragged gasps as you brace yourself. he presses the tip of his cock against your entrance, and the second he starts to push inside, you gasp, your hands clutching at the sheets. he’s so much thicker than the toy, so much warmer, so much real.

“fuck, cheol… it’s so… so big,” you moan, your voice shaky, and he chuckles darkly, his hands tightening on your hips as he pushes deeper.

“you can take it, pretty,” he mutters, his voice strained. “look at how well you’re taking me already, fuck… you’re so wet. such a perfect pussy,”

you can feel every inch of him, the way he pushes you open, the heat of his cock filling you in a way that’s completely different from the toy. the fullness making your head spin, but it feels so fucking good at the same time.

he starts to move, slow at first, letting you adjust to the thickness of him, but soon he’s fucking you harder, each thrust making your body yank forward, your moans getting louder with every snap of his hips.

and then he reaches behind him, grabbing the dildo, and you feel his hand slide around to your face. “open your mouth,” he orders, and you obey, your lips parting as he presses the toy against them. “suck on it.”

you moan around the toy as he slides it into your mouth, the taste of the lube mixed with your own slick coating your tongue. the act of it is so filthy, so wrong, but it turns you on even more, the feeling of his cock fucking you from behind while you suck on the dildo making your whole body burn.

“that’s it, baby, just like that,” he groans, his voice thick with lust. “fuck, you’re so fucking hot… i can’t believe how good you look right now, sucking on that while i fuck you.”

your eyes roll back as he fucks you harder, the sound of your moans muffled by the toy in your mouth. the way he’s talking to you, the dirty words spilling from his lips, makes your whole body tingle with arousal.

“you like this, huh? you like being fucked like this?” he growls, his pace quickening, his cock slamming into you with each thrust. “i bet you’d love to have my cock in your mouth instead, wouldn’t you? bet you’d choke on it, make those pretty little sounds for me.”

you whimper around the dildo, nodding weakly, your body shaking with pleasure as he fucks you harder, deeper. the pressure is building again, that familiar heat pooling in your core, and you know you’re close, so fucking close.

“gonna cum again, huh?” he grunts, his voice tight. “fuck, i can feel it. you’re so close, baby. just let go. let go f'me...”

your body spasms violently, and you barely register the way your throat tightens around the dildo as he pushes it deeper. for a moment, everything goes hazy—your head spinning from the overstimulation, your knees shaking beneath you. the sensation of being so full, of having him inside you while the dildo stretches your throat, sends you into a dizzying spiral, leaving you shaking.

your face falls onto the mattress, your body too weak to hold you up anymore. you can feel him pulling out of you, the sudden emptiness making you shiver, and then he moans—and you hear the sound of his cum, warm and wet against the floor.

he pulls the dildo from your mouth, and you gasp for air, your chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath. your throat feels raw, hoarse from the way you had been gagging around the toy, but you can’t even focus on that, still reeling from the power of your orgasm. your throat burning from how deep the dildo had gone.

he’s still kneeling behind you, his hands resting on your hips as he leans forward, his breath hot against the back of your neck. “you’re so fucking hot,” he murmurs. “you should’ve seen yourself, baby. you looked so fucking good riding that dildo like that... i cant wait to see you riding me, real, real.”

you shudder at his words, a faint whimper escaping your lips. your body is still trembling, you feel weak and shaky, but the way he’s talking to you—so dirty—it makes your head spin all over again. his hands sliding up your back, his fingers tracing the curve of your back, his hands sliding down to your ass, giving it a firm squeeze. “i want you to be that horny for me all the time. i want you to think about this every time you touch yourself from now on.”

you groan, burying your face deeper into the mattress, your heart pounding in your chest. he pulls back slightly, his fingers gently tugging at your hair until you turn your head to look up at him. you close your eyes, your breath still coming in shallow gasps as you try to calm down.

“cheol…” you whisper, your voice hoarse, “i don’t… i don’t think i can move…”

he chuckles softly, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your back. “you don’t have to move, baby,” he says, his voice gentle now, softer than before. “just relax. you did so good for me… just rest.”

you nod weakly, him putting you fully on the bed so you can lay fully, your body sinking into the mattress.

“you okay?” he asks quietly after a few minutes, his fingers brushing a strand of hair from your face.

you nod again, your voice barely above a whisper. “yeah… just… tired.”

he smiles, leaning down to press a soft kiss to your temple. “good. you deserve to rest after that.” he stays close, his warmth comforting against your skin, and you feel his lips curl into a smile against your forehead. it feels so fucking good. and you know, deep down, that this won’t be the last time something like this happens.

[paucubarsisimp]

forza ferrari

pairing: lando norris x reader

summary: in which you decide to get back at lando by wearing a ferrari hoodie

warnings: none! lando being a drama queen?

a/n: this was requested on my wattpad!

you weren’t exactly proud of the ferrari hoodie. but you also weren’t not proud of it. after the fight with lando last night — the stupid, too-loud, too-late fight that ended with both of you turning your backs in bed like teenagers — you needed a little petty revenge.

so. you pulled out the ferrari hoodie he once told you he “didn’t trust” when you bought it as a joke, and you wore it. to the race. in public. where he could see it.

it was childish. dramatic. possibly career-ending.

perfect.

you weren’t even in the paddock for five minutes before you saw him — and he saw you.

lando froze mid-conversation with a poor, innocent engineer, his eyes locking onto the red like it physically pained him. his hand dropped, his jaw followed. and then—

“what the f—” he started walking. fast.

you smiled. sweet. innocent. sipped your iced coffee.

“you’re wearing that?” he said when he reached you, already reaching for the hoodie drawstrings like he might tear it off your body himself.

“good morning to you too,” you said.

lando blinked, his voice a whisper-shriek. “you wore a ferrari hoodie? here? to my race? are you—are you actually trying to kill me?”

“what, this?” you looked down, feigning surprise. “it was the only thing clean.”

“you own eleven of my hoodies.”

“yeah, but none of yours say ‘drives for a competent team’ on the front.”

he physically staggered.

“that’s it,” he said, dramatically, “we’re done. over. this is a betrayal. you’ll be hearing from my lawyers.”

you snorted. “you don’t have a lawyer.”

“well i do now. and they’ll be filing a lawsuit for emotional damage.”

“how about you just admit you were wrong last night?”

lando groaned, dragging a hand through his hair. “i was wrong, okay? i was a dick. and now my punishment is this.” he gestured at your hoodie like it had personally offended his ancestors.

“and what do we learn from this?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

he sighed, head tipping back like the heavens might give him strength. “never go to bed mad at someone who owns other teams’ merch.”

“very good,” you nodded.

he stepped closer, eyes softening, fingers tugging gently at the sleeves of the hoodie now. “can you… take it off? please? before someone takes a picture and i get disowned by the team?”

you smirked. “maybe. if you win today.”

lando groaned. “you drive a hard bargain.”

“well,” you said, leaning in to kiss his cheek, “don’t crash and we’ll talk.”

bonus

he didn’t win. but he did nearly rip the hoodie off you backstage and stuff you into his own papaya one instead.

“you’re mine again,” he muttered, zipping it up dramatically like a rom-com character. “peace has been restored.”

“you’re so dramatic,” you said, smiling into his chest.

“and you’re the worst,” he whispered, kissing the top of your head. “never do that to me again.”

you didn’t make any promises.

taglist: @barcapix, @universefcb, @joaosnovia, @ilovebarcaaaa, @levidazai, @hollyf1,@mxryxmfooty, @halfwayhearted, @landoslutmeout , @linnygirl09, @spidybaby, @dessashippr lmk if you want to be added!

[monserelates]

Love, Actually

⇨james potter x f!reader

⇨summary: Everyone knows James Potter is hopelessly in love with Y/N. So when he suddenly starts mooning over another girl, the entire school is left confused—including Y/N, who isn’t the type to sit around and cry. She's loud, proud, and absolutely not affected. Until she is.

⇨warnings/notes: stubborn!reader, outspoken!reader, use of y/n, cheeessyyy, fluffy ending, light angst, swearing, emotional angst, mutual pining, jealousy, protective Marauders, happy ending

word count: 1.6k

It starts with confusion.

James Potter has loved Y/N since third year. That’s not an exaggeration, it’s Hogwarts common knowledge. Professors are in on it. First-years whisper about it. There are unofficial bets in three different Houses about when he’ll finally make a move.

So when he shows up at breakfast grinning like a fool and sits beside Eleanor Buckerfield instead of Y/N—everyone pauses.

Then he leans into Eleanor's side and says, “Has anyone ever told you your eyes shine like the color of a summer meadow?”

Sirius chokes on his pumpkin juice.

Peter looks up. "What the bloody hell even is that compliment?"

Remus stares.

Y/N freezes, toast halfway to her mouth.

“What the actual fuck,” she mutters.

“Must’ve bumped his head on a Bludger,” Marlene says under her breath, glaring across the table.

“No,” Lily whispers. “Look at his pupils. Too dilated. Something’s off.”

“Obviously,” Y/N snaps, standing up and throwing her bag over her shoulder like nothing’s wrong. “Potter’s just being a fucking idiot again. What else is new?”

She doesn’t storm off. She walks like she could, but she won’t give anyone the satisfaction.

Not even him.

The worst part? He keeps it up.

All day.

Charms, Herbology, dinner. James follows Eleanor like he’s under a trance. He carries her books. Laughs at her jokes. Brings her a carnation from the greenhouse and tells her, “It matches your lips.”

Y/N doesn’t care. Of course she doesn’t.

She definetly does not want to bang her head into a wall or jump to the black lake.

In fact, it’s not like she ever liked James.

Sure, she used to laugh at his dumb Quidditch metaphors and ruffle his hair when he was pouting and take care of him when he's sick and know his favorite flavor of the Bertie Bott's beans ( Tutti-Frutti ) so whenever Sirius bought some she'd always set them apart for James and pretend not to notice how he stared at her when she wasn’t looking—but that meant nothing.

So when Lily gently says, “Are you okay?” that night in the dorm, Y/N just scoffs.

“Obviously I’m okay. Why wouldn’t I be? He can fall in love with whoever he wants. It’s not like I ever gave a cared.”

Dorcas raises an eyebrow. “You just crushed your quill.”

“It was old anyway.”

“You stabbed it clean through the Transfiguration schedule.”

“It was an ugly schedule.”

In the corridor the next day, James walks by with Eleanor, hand in hand.

Y/N doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t say a word.

Just turns to Sirius and says, “That’s not James.”

Sirius frowns. “You think it’s Polyjuice?”

“No,” she says. “It’s him. But it’s not him. You know?”

And Sirius, who knows James better than anyone, nods slowly. “Yeah. I do.”

By Thursday, it’s not funny anymore.

James is paler. Slower. His laugh sounds forced. His eyes are always red-rimmed like he hasn’t slept.

And Eleanor? She’s smug. Too smug. Her hand never leaves his arm.

At dinner, he tries to feed her strawberries.

She giggles.

Y/N drops her spoon.

The clatter is deafening.

James doesn’t look up.

“He’s sick,” Lily says later that night. “You saw the way he stumbled. He didn’t even finish his dessert.”

Marlene nods. “Probably a love potion. But it’s too strong. It’s eating him alive.”

Y/N is silent.

Then: “How do you break a love potion?”

Dorcas looks up. “Depends on the spell. Some wear off. Some need antidotes. The powerful ones?”

She pauses.

“True love’s kiss.”

Y/N rolls her eyes so hard it could crack glass. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?” Lily pushes.

“Because I’m not the protagonist in a cheesy romance, Lils. He can rot.”

But she doesn’t sleep that night.

The next morning, James faints in the courtyard.

He hits the cobblestone hard, face ashen, lips cracked. Eleanor shrieks and drops him like a sack of potatoes.

Madam Pomfrey is summoned. She takes one look and says, “Someone’s cursed this boy.”

Up at the top of the stone staircase, Y/N stands frozen.

Then she sees Eleanor's—arms crossed, trying too hard to feign shock.

And Y/N snaps.

She storms down the steps, fury radiating off her like wildfire. Her wand is already in her hand before anyone can blink, Peter tries to stop her, but Sirius holds him back. "I've been waiting for this one."

“You,” she hisses.

Eleanor turns, smug until she sees the look in Y/N’s eyes.

“I didn’t— I don’t know what happened—”

“Cut the bullshit.” Y/N’s voice is low, dangerous. “You spiked him. You put him under something, and now he’s dying, you stupid cow.”

“I didn’t mean—he liked me—!”

“No. He never liked you. He barely tolerated you. He’s been in love with me since third year, and everyone knows it—except your delusional ass.”

Eleanor pulls out her wand.

"Talk about delusional, you're just mad little Jamie got over you."

Y/N raises her wand.

“Expelliarmus!”

Eleanor's wand flies out of her robe.

“Petrificus Totalus!”

Eleanor stiffens mid-stammer and crashes backward into a bush, frozen.

There’s a beat of silence.

Someone claps.

Sirius mutters, “Hot.”

Remus elbows him.

"She ate that up, to be honest" Marlene said, whispering to Lily who nodded.

Y/N doesn’t wait. She throws her wand back in her pocket and bolts toward the Hospital Wing.

The Hospital Wing smells like mint and moonflower and antiseptic.

Y/N’s hands are cold as she sits beside James, who hasn’t stirred. His skin is too pale. His lips have lost that familiar flush, and his curls—usually a mess of warmth and chaos—are limp against the white pillowcase.

Madam Pomfrey had said the curse needed to be broken willingly. That something true, something pure, had to reach him through the fog.

But Y/N’s not thinking about that.

She leans down.

"James," she whispers. "C’mon. This is ridiculous."

She places a hand on his chest. Feels the irregular thump of his heart.

“You were mine first. Do you hear me? Mine. I’m the one who made you laugh in Potions and the one who goes to your parent's house every christmas break, helping your mother bake cookies—me.”

He doesn’t move.

She swallows. Her voice breaks. “You don’t get to leave me. Not like this. Not when we’ve spent years dancing around this thing like idiots.”

Still nothing.

And then—

It’s not desperate.

It’s gentle. Affectionate

Her lips brush against his like a promise kept, broken. Like she’s daring him to come back to her.

Like she’s always known he would.

It’s not a grand kiss. Not the stuff of legends.

It’s soft.

Warm.

Honest.

Like home.

For a breath, everything is still.

And James gasps.

Eyes flying open.

He stares at her.

“Y/N?”

She hugs him so tight his ribs might crack.

“You absolute dimwit,” she breathes into his shoulder. “Don’t you ever scare me like that again.”

His voice is hoarse. “You were jealous.”

“I was concerned.”

“You kissed me.”

“You were dying.”

“You slapped me.”

“I did not?”

"Oh, that must've been Eleanor then."

"She did what? Does she really want to be hexed again?" You picked up your wand.

"M' just kidding, love. Wait. You hexed her?"

You smile sheepishly. "Maybe."

“I—bloody hell, I think I’m in love with you,” he mumbles, dazed.

Y/N grins, smug as ever, and presses her forehead to his. “Yeah,” she whispers. “I know.”

Meanwhile, in the staffroom…

Professor McGonagall slides a galleon into Professor Sprout’s palm.

Slughorn hums. “Told you the kiss would break it.”

Filius chuckles. “I bed she'd deck him or hex someone. I stand vindicated.”

Binns floats by. “They remind me of a young couple in 1642…”

Everyone ignores him.

Dumbledore walks in, eyebrows raised with amusement. “She hexed Eleanor.”

There’s a beat of silence.

Slughorn beams. “Brilliant, that one.”

Sprout nods thoughtfully. “That spellwork showed real control.”

Filius whistles low. “She managed a silent hex under that much emotional strain? Impressive.”

McGonagall smirks into her tea. “And with excellent aim, I might add.”

Sprout leans forward. “Next wager—when do they finally shag?”

McGonagall sputters mid-sip. “Pomona!”

Slughorn claps. “Put me down for next Hogsmeade weekend.”

Dumbledore smiles, eyes twinkling. “Ah, young love.”

Back in the dorm later that night:

“She kissed him,” Dorcas hisses, dramatically flopping onto her bed like it's breaking news while you laugh.

“Aw, he's like a puppy,” Marlene says through a yawn, “an over-excited one that just found its favorite toy.”

Lily sighs dreamily, arms tucked behind her head. “I’m just glad they finally stopped being so bloody oblivious.”

Dorcas rolls her eyes. “True love’s kiss. Classic.”

Marlene perks up. “And did you hear what Flitwick said on the way out of the Hospital Wing? ‘Pay up, Minerva. I told you she’d crack first.’”

Marlene snorts, then cackles. “I love this school. They should just shag already.”

From the hallway:

“I HEARD THAT!” James’s voice echoes from beyond the dormitory door.

Lily doesn’t even blink. “Good! Tell Y/N to kiss you again so we can start round two!”

Y/N, sitting on the edge of her bed, wrapped in a blanket and holding a mug of cocoa, freezes.

“What?! We’re just—best friends!” she says, way too quickly.

Three heads snap toward her in unison.

Dorcas raises an eyebrow. “You're a dumbass.”

Lily snorts. “You kissed him and hexed a girl for flirting with him.”

Marlene, deadpan: “You called him ‘love.’”

Y/N blinks. “Okay… but like… in a platonic way?”

Dorcas throws a pillow at her. “You’re the spell that needs breaking.”

Marlene leans over, whispering to Lily: “Five sickles says she’ll kiss him again before Friday.”

From the hallway, again:

“MAKE IT TWO!” James yells.

Y/N groans into her cocoa. “I hate all of you.”

Lily just smiles. “No, you don’t. You’re in love.”

[sixeyesonathiel]

Hi!! I didn’t even realize ur requests were open until I checked your pinned omg. Can u write something dark with loser reader and bully fratboy Gojo pls?? They used to be rly close like lowkey childhood besties and everyone thought they were gonna end up together, BUT he got mixed in with the wrong crowd (aka the frat) and now he’s just so MEAN. He bullies her for no reason now but like... in that messed up way where he’s still obsessed w her?? Like he knows her too well, knows what makes her tick and he uses that against her just to watch her squirm. I want toxic codependent vibes, power imbalance, him being POSSESSIVE as hell and her still clinging to what they used to be. And maybe he’s extra cruel bc he HATES that she still gets to him. Also, this is embarrassing but please write the reader as flat chested. Thank uuu

a/n: ahhh this was actually the second request i ever got on here and it made me spiral (in the best way). i literally paused all my wips to double down on this one because the brainrot was insane. i hope you enjoy what i cooked up hihi <3

cw: dark content, somnophilia, cockwarming, dacryphilia, edging, overstimulation, oral sex, fingering, spanking, nipple play, hair-pulling, public sex, exhibitionism, voyeurism, filming, degradation, humiliation, sadism, drug use, alcohol consumption, jealousy, possessiveness, gaslighting, victim blaming, slut shaming, coercion, stalking, obsessive behavior, 18+ only, MDNI.

fratboy satoru who was once your north star, the kid who’d slip you extra cookies during late-night study sessions, his goofy grin lighting up your world. you’d giggle at his dumb jokes under a blanket fort, his hand brushing yours, promising forever with the kind of sincerity only a kid could muster. but that satoru’s dead, buried under the weight of his family’s collapse, his own arrogance, and the frat’s toxic grip. now, he’s a king in a jungle of red solo cups and bass-heavy trap music, his blue eyes cutting through the haze of a packed house party.

fratboy satoru who’s buzzing from the xans suguru slipped him, his veins electric after a football game win, dragging you to the frat house basement where the air’s thick with weed and desperation. the couch is stained, sagging under your weight as he shoves your skirt up, pinning you down with a hand on your chest. “don’t fucking scream,” he hisses, eyes glinting with sadistic glee as his fingers plunge into you, slick and merciless, curling deep while his other hand smothers your whimpers. “bet you’re soaking ‘cause you love this shit.” your body betrays you, clenching around him as tears stream down your face, and he’s eating it up, his grin wicked as you shatter, sobbing into his palm. “look at this pretty cunt, dripping for me like it knows who owns it,” he growls, his voice low and filthy, fingers pumping harder just to hear you choke on your own moans. he doesn’t stop there—keeps going until you’re shaking, cumming again, your thighs slick and trembling. “fuck, you’re a mess, my favorite fucking mess,” he laughs, licking his fingers clean, eyes never leaving your tear-streaked face. he doesn’t soften, just pulls you onto his lap, muttering, “stay still, or i’ll fuck you right here.”

fratboy satoru who thrives on your fragility, your too-soft heart that cracks under his cruelty. you’re in the library, glasses slipping, surrounded by textbooks, trying to claw your way through a chem assignment. he finds you, of course—slips into the chair behind you, yanking your ponytail back just hard enough to make you gasp. “thought you could hide from me?” he whispers, voice dripping with mockery, but he’s already pulling you into a cramped study room, locking the door. he bends you over the table, skirt flipped up, your notes scattering like confetti. “fuck, you’re so small, so breakable,” he pants, belt clinking as he frees himself, slamming into you so deep your nails dig into the wood. “cry for me, baby, you’re cutest when you’re a mess.” you do, snotty and pathetic, your glasses fogging as he fucks you senseless, his cock stretching you until you’re dizzy. “look at you, taking this dick like it’s your fucking job,” he snarls, slapping your ass, loving how you flinch. your tears only make him harder, and when you beg him to slow down, he just laughs, kissing your wet cheeks. “nah, you’re too fucking cute like this, all pathetic and ruined.”

fratboy satoru who’s got an unholy obsession with your tits, small as they are, worshiping them like they’re his personal altar. he’s got you sprawled across his dorm bed, the sheets reeking of weed and cheap cologne, straddling your waist as he sucks and bites, leaving your chest a map of purple bruises and red teeth marks. “fuck, these are perfect,” he groans, teeth grazing your nipple until you whimper, your hands fisting the sheets. he pins your wrists above your head, his knee between your thighs, grinding against you just to feel you squirm. “keep still, or i’ll tie you up and do this all fucking night,” he warns, eyes glinting with that mean streak, and you know he means it. his tongue’s relentless, swirling over sensitive skin, and when you arch into him, he growls, “goddamn, you’re begging for it, aren’t you? little tits driving me fucking insane.” he leaves you raw, marked, and when he’s done, he kisses you hard, all teeth and possession, muttering, “you’re my fucking angel, don’t forget it.” but there’s no softness, just his hand squeezing your bruised chest one last time.

fratboy satoru who can’t get enough of your pussy, addicted to the way you taste like it’s his last hit. “been thinking about this all night,” he says, spreading your thighs wide, his fingers digging into your ass as he buries his face between your legs. his tongue’s obscene, lapping at your clit like he’s trying to drown in you, sucking hard until your knees buckle. “taste so fucking sweet, could live down here,” he mumbles, voice muffled as he pushes two fingers inside, curling them just to make you scream. you grip the counter, biting your lip to stay quiet, but he doesn’t give a fuck—he wants the whole house to hear. “let it out, baby, let ‘em know who’s eating this pussy,” he taunts, licking you through your first orgasm, then another, until you’re a shaking, dripping mess. he stands, chin glistening, smirking. “that’s my girl.”

fratboy satoru who’s a monster when he’s jealous, his blood boiling when he spots you laughing with some nerd at a campus café. he doesn’t confront you there—just waits, simmering, until he’s got you alone in his car, parked in a shadowy alley. “think you can flirt with other guys?” he snarls, ripping your blouse open, buttons pinging off the dashboard. he reclines the seat, forcing your legs over his shoulders, fucking you so hard the car creaks. “this pussy’s mine, you fucking get that?” he spits, slapping your thigh, his cock relentless as you cry out, overwhelmed. “bet he can’t fuck you stupid like i do,” he growls, his pace brutal, overstimulating you until you’re sobbing, begging for him to ease up. but he doesn’t—he leans down, kissing your tears, smirking, “so fucking pretty when you’re pathetic.” when it’s over, he doesn’t soften, just tosses you his jacket, muttering, “cover up, you’re a fucking mess.”

fratboy satoru who films every depraved second, his phone propped on a nightstand as he’s got you bent over his desk, your skirt bunched at your waist. “smile for the camera, baby,” he taunts, spanking you hard enough to leave welts, the sound echoing in the room. the video’s grainy but vivid—your choked whimpers, the wet slap of skin, your thighs trembling as he fucks you raw. “gonna keep this forever,” he says, voice low and possessive, “jerk off to it when you’re not here.” he doesn’t share the vids, thank fuck—they’re his alone, a private shrine to your broken devotion. “look at this tight little cunt, swallowing me whole,” he groans, zooming in as you clench around him, your tears glistening in the low light. “fuck, you were made for this dick.” he cums with a grunt, watching the footage later, stroking himself to your snotty, ruined face, muttering, “you’re mine, always.”

fratboy satoru who’s unhinged when he’s high, snorting lines with sukuna in the frat house attic before stumbling to your dorm at 3 a.m. you’re asleep, curled up in a t-shirt, but he doesn’t care—he crawls into your bed, yanking your panties off, giggling like a fucking lunatic. “shh, just let me have you,” he slurs, burying his face in your pussy, his tongue sloppy but desperate, moaning like he’s getting off more than you. “fuck, i’d die for this pussy,” he mumbles, licking you until you stir, gasping as your body betrays you, cumming under his relentless mouth. he’s still high when he fucks you, slow and messy, his cock slipping in with a wet squelch. “you’re my fucking lifeline, i’d die without you,” he whispers, eyes bloodshot, but there’s no softness—just his hand gripping your throat, keeping you in place as he takes what he needs.

fratboy satoru who’s got a fetish for your panties, always checking what you’re wearing like it’s his birthright. he corners you in an empty lecture hall after class, flipping your skirt up without preamble. “let’s see what you’re wearing,” he says, fingers brushing the fabric, smirking when he sees the plain cotton. “boring,” he scoffs, pocketing them, leaving you bare. “walk back to your dorm like this,” he orders, his voice low and mean. “bet you’re wet thinking about it.” he’s right—your thighs are slick, your face burning with shame as you obey, and he kneels, licking a slow stripe up your inner thigh, teasing your clit just enough to make you whine. “so fucking needy,” he laughs, standing to kiss you, his lips tasting of you and spearmint gum. “you’re mine, don’t forget,” he adds, twirling your stolen panties around his finger like a prize.

fratboy satoru who lives for fingering you at a frat party, right in the middle of the chaos, perched on his lap like his personal trophy. the room’s a blur of flashing lights and pounding music, but he’s got two fingers buried in you under your skirt, pumping slow and deliberate while he laughs with suguru about some dumb bet. “keep quiet, or they’ll all know what a slut you are,” he whispers, biting your earlobe, his thumb circling your clit until you cum, shaking in his lap, tears welling up from the embarrassment. but he doesn’t stop—keeps going, chasing another orgasm, then another, because you’re just too fucking cute, all teary-eyed and red-faced, trying to hide your face in his neck. “fuck, look at you, falling apart for me in front of everyone,” he taunts, his voice dripping with filth. “bet you want ‘em all to see how this pussy creams for me.” you’re sobbing, mortified, but he just licks your tears, thrusting harder, making sure every drunk asshole in the room knows you’re his. when you cum again, he doesn’t even flinch—just smirks, licking his fingers clean, muttering, “good fucking girl.”

fratboy satoru who’s got you bouncing on his dick like a ragdoll, his phone pressed to his ear while he’s laughing with suguru about some frat drama. you’re in his dorm, straddling him on his gaming chair, your skirt fanned out, tits jiggling with every brutal thrust as he grips your hips, slamming you down harder just to feel you choke on a sob. “yeah, sugu, tell me more,” he says casually, but his eyes are locked on your tear-streaked face, your mouth open in a silent scream. “fuck, this pussy’s gripping me like it’s scared i’ll leave,” he growls low, just for you, his free hand smacking your ass to make you yelp. “keep it down, baby, don’t want suguru hearing how you’re creaming on my cock.” but he’s lying—he loves the idea of someone knowing, and when you cum, shaking and snotty, he mutes the call for a second to kiss your tears, smirking. “you’re too fucking cute when you’re falling apart.”

fratboy satoru who catches you washing dishes in the frat house kitchen, your apron tied tight, looking so domestic it makes his dick twitch. you’re humming softly, oblivious, and he can’t take it—you’re too much like wife material, and it’s fucking with his head. he yanks you against the sink, ripping your leggings down, and fucks you right there, the counter digging into your stomach. “look at you, playing house like you’re not my little cumslut,” he sneers, his cock splitting you open as water sloshes in the sink. “this pussy’s so wet, like it’s begging me to ruin your perfect little fantasy.” your hands grip the faucet, knuckles white, as he pounds into you, dishes clattering with every thrust. “gonna fuck you so good you’ll never dream of anyone else,” he says, biting your neck, leaving a bruise. when you cum, crying his name, he just laughs, leaving you there, panties soaked, to finish the dishes.

fratboy satoru who’s paranoid you’re dreaming of someone else, watching you sleep so peacefully in his bed, your face soft even after he’s fucked you raw. he’s high, overthinking, and can’t stand it—he needs to own every part of you, even your dreams. he slips your panties off, careful not to wake you, and slides his cock into you slow, groaning at how warm and tight you are. “fuck, even your sleeping cunt knows it’s mine,” he whispers, thrusting shallow, watching your brows furrow in your sleep. he’s gentle at first, but when you stir, moaning softly, he goes harder, waking you with a gasp as he fucks you deep. “no one else gets to haunt you like this,” he growls, cumming inside you as you whimper, half-conscious. he doesn’t soften, just kisses your forehead, muttering, “stay in my bed, always.”

fratboy satoru who’s got you cockwarming him while he’s gaming, his headset on as he barks orders at his Valorant team, crushing some rival frat. you’re perched on his lap, his dick buried deep, your thighs trembling as he keeps you still, one hand on your waist, the other clicking his mouse. “don’t you fucking move,” he hisses during a pause, his voice sharp, “or i’ll fuck you till you’re screaming and they all hear.” every time he gets a kill, he thrusts up hard, making you gasp, your pussy clenching around him. “this tight little cunt’s my good luck charm,” he taunts, slapping your thigh when you squirm. he edges you for hours, ignoring your whimpers, until the match ends and he finally fucks you proper, growling, “cum for me, show me you’re mine.” you do, sobbing, and he just smirks, leaving you to drip on his chair.

fratboy satoru who’s feeding you bites of his burger at a crowded frat party, perched on a table while he stands between your legs, his plate balanced in one hand. everyone’s too drunk to notice how he’s grinding his bulge against your clothed cunt, your skirt riding up as he presses harder with every bite he offers. “open wide, baby,” he says, shoving a fry in your mouth, his hips rocking subtly, making you squirm. “fuck, you’re so wet through these panties, like a needy little bitch,” he whispers, his voice low and filthy. “bet you’d let me fuck you right here, let ‘em all see how you take this dick.” you’re blushing, teary, trying to chew while he keeps the pressure on, your clit throbbing. he doesn’t let you cum, just keeps you on edge, smirking when you nearly cry from frustration. “eat up, you’re gonna need the energy.”

fratboy satoru who’s obsessed with edging you until you’re a babbling mess, especially after a nightmare where you tried to leave him. he’s got you in his dorm, tied to his headboard, your thighs spread as he teases your clit with slow, featherlight strokes. “you love this dick too much to leave, don’t you?” he taunts, stopping every time you’re close, your hips bucking desperately. “say it—say you’re fucking obsessed with me.” you’re crying, snotty, babbling, “i love you, satoru, please,” and he just laughs, cruel and delighted. “that’s right, my pathetic little angel, keep begging.” he finally lets you cum after hours, your body shaking, and he’s kissing your tears, but it’s not soft—just possessive. “don’t ever fucking dream of leaving me again.”

fratboy satoru who’s got a sick obsession with public bathrooms, dragging you into one at the science building during a lecture break, the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. “be quick,” he snaps, locking the door, his belt already clinking as he shoves you against the sink, your skirt yanked up. he spreads your thighs wide, his cock slamming into you with a wet squelch, the mirror fogging from your ragged breaths. “love how you take this dick,” he growls, smacking your ass hard, the sound echoing off the tiles as your face crumples, tears spilling from overstimulation. “cry harder, baby, it’s so fucking cute—look at you, sobbing like a slut in a shithole like this.” your hands claw at the porcelain, your body shaking as he fucks you relentless, his pace brutal, loving how your tears streak your cheeks, snot dripping. he doesn’t stop after you cum once—keeps going, growling, “gimme another, let ‘em hear you outside.” you’re a wreck, begging for mercy, but he just laughs, cumming with a guttural groan, his seed dripping down your thighs. he kisses you soft after, wiping your cheeks, but it’s fleeting, his voice cold. “you’re okay, yeah? just us. now fix your face, you look fucked out.”

fratboy satoru who’s vicious when you try to slip away, catching you creeping out of his dorm after a screaming match over his latest stunt—spreading lies about you to keep guys away. you’re halfway down the dim hallway, heart pounding, when his hand clamps around your wrist, yanking you back. “where the fuck you going?” he snarls, his blue eyes wild with something raw, almost feral—fear masquerading as rage. he pins you against the peeling wall, ripping your jeans down, your legs forced around his waist as he fucks you right there, rough and angry, the drywall scraping your back. “you don’t get to leave me,” he spits, voice cracking, his cock stretching you so wide it burns. “this pussy’s fucking mine, you hear me?” you’re sobbing, your nails digging into his shoulders, and he’s relentless, slamming into you until you cum, crying into his neck. he’s kissing you like he’s pleading, desperate, his hands bruising as he holds you tight, whispering, “i’m sorry, fuck, don’t scare me like that.” but there’s no softness, just his grip tightening, a warning not to try again.

fratboy satoru who’s addicted to breaking you, loving how you shatter under him. he’s got you on all fours in his room, the frat house walls thin enough to let every sound carry, fucking you from behind with a sadistic edge. “nah, baby, take it,” he growls, yanking you back by your waist when you try to crawl away, your body trembling from the stretch of his cock, so thick it feels like it’s tearing you apart. “you can handle more, i know you can,” he says, slamming into you, the headboard banging loud as you sob, snot dripping onto the sheets. “fuck, you’re so cute like this,” he whispers, kissing your spine, his voice mocking as he keeps going, even when you’re shaking, cumming around him with a choked scream. he doesn’t stop, pushing you into another orgasm, his cum spilling inside you as he groans, low and filthy. after, he cleans you up, his lips soft on your swollen pussy, murmuring, “you did so good for me,” but his eyes are already glinting, planning the next way to ruin you.

fratboy satoru who flips out when he sees you chatting with a guy in chem class, his jealousy a live wire. he doesn’t confront you there—just stews, his jaw tight, until he’s got you alone in an empty campus parking lot at dusk. “think you can replace me?” he growls, shoving you over the hood of his car, the metal cold against your stomach as he rips your tights open, the fabric tearing loud in the quiet. he fucks you so hard your knees buckle, his cock driving deep, relentless, your hands scrabbling for purchase on the slick surface. “this cunt knows who it belongs to,” he spits, his hand fisting your hair, yanking your head back as he overstimulates you, pushing you past your limit until you’re crying, begging, your voice hoarse. “so fucking pretty when you’re pathetic,” he laughs, kissing your tears, his tongue licking the salt off your skin. he cums with a snarl, leaving you shaking, but he doesn’t let you collapse—carries you to the passenger seat, tossing his jacket over you, muttering, “you’re mine, always remember that.” his hand rests on your thigh as he drives, possessive, unyielding.

fratboy satoru who’s rarely tender, but when he is, it’s after he’s pushed you to the edge, leaving you bruised and trembling. after a night of fucking you senseless—your thighs marked with bites, your wrists sore from his grip—he pulls you into his bed, the sheets tangled and smelling of sweat. “you’re my only light,” he mumbles, voice low, kissing your hair, your shoulders, the purple welts on your thighs. his fingers trace the marks he left, like he’s trying to piece you back together, his touch almost reverent. “don’t hate me, okay?” he says, voice small, almost boyish, and you nod, too exhausted to argue, your body curling into his warmth. he holds you through the night, stroking your back, and for a fleeting moment, he’s that kid again—the one who’d sneak you candy and whisper promises under starry skies. but by morning, his eyes are cold again, his smirk sharp, reminding you the softness is a trap, a rare glitch in his cruelty.

[lolkency]

secret(shh)

⋮ you unexpectedly see your former ta at a house party

❥ nerdmin x reader

cw: oral sex, fingering, squirting, sexual intercourse, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, (kinda) rough

RANDOM PARTY

The buzz from the pre-game shots spread through your veins, as you and your friend Sasha walked up the stairs to a random party. She'd begged you to go as soon as she learned about it through her friend Connie.

She knew you never turned down a party, it was the only way to distract yourself from the hellish life of being a pre-med student.

Apparently it was thrown by some guy named Eren, whoever he was, he was loaded. The all white mansion's lights shined bright in the night.

"Nice house" you admired, still walking up the never ending stairs.

"Yeah, his family's loaded, his dad's a really big surgeon around here" Sasha replied.

"Mhm maybe I could shadow him...you think I could get an internsh-"

"Ah ah, no nerdy talk right now" Sasha shushed you, as you finally made it to the front door.

You thought maybe there'd be some sort of security because of the scale of the party, and it being in such a wealthy neighborhood, but Sasha just walked right in, and you followed.

The crowd was massive, everyone practically bumping shoulders...or other parts.  You couldn't help but admire the chandeliers above you, the lights changed colors along with the beat of the music.

Taking your attention away from the pretty lights, you caught the eyes of a familiar blonde. His blue eyes glowed in the now purple lights, glasses framing his face. He wore a dark green t-shirt, and a multi-colored flannel, with jeans.

Before you could wave, nod, or give him any type of acknowledgment, you were pulled in the opposite direction.

"C'mon I wanna see what they have to drink" she shouted over the music. You just nodded, still being tugged toward the kitchen. Once you were there, Sasha fixed you and her cups of punch.

You however, were still thinking about the blonde. He was your Biochem TA from last semester. You'd always thought he was sweet and kinda hot in a sorta nerdy way. You felt there was a bit of tension between you, but you never acted on it.

He even had one on one tutoring sessions with you before your exams. If it weren't for him you doubt you would've passed with an "A".

You wondered if he even remembered your name, he probably had so many other things to worry about.

Sasha handed you your drink, "Y/n?"

"Hmm" you finally snapped out of your thoughts, grabbing the red solo cup.

"Did you hear anything I said" she sighed, taking a sip of her punch.

"No, sorry. What did you say?" you shook your head, sipping the red concoction. It was actually pretty good, a bit sweeter than you'd like, but good.

"I saidddd, Nic is here!" She exclaimed. Nic being her crush of a few months, who you're sure that everybody knows likes her, but her.

"What? How?" You questioned.

"I sent him a snap of me at the party to make him a bit jealous, but then he snapped me back saying he was here too and asked if I wanted to hang" she could barely contain her excitement.

"So you're leaving me for your crush?" You playfully pouted.

"No of course not, you can come too" she smiled, not seeing anything wrong with you intruding.

"Ugh no Sash, I don't think Nic wants to hang with me. I think he wants one on one time with you, ya know?" You chuckled.

"No...he doesn't think of me in th- wait really?"

"Yeah Sash I'm pretty sure he likes you back, like 99.999% sure"

"Okay I'm going, you sure you'll be okay?" She looked up at you, concern in her brown eyes, oh how you loved her.

"Yes, I promise. I'll find something...or someone to do" you laughed, half joking.

"Alright wish me luck" she kissed your cheek and then she was off in another direction.

You decided to walk back towards the heart of the party. Scanning the crowd, your eyes moved towards the area of the familiar face, only to see he was gone.

"Looking for someone?" A voice questioned, close beside you. You instinctively jumped, turning to see Armin Arlert, your former Biochem TA.

Although the air was filled with weed and liquor, you were still able to get a whiff of his citrusy cologne. Well, you'd found him, or rather he'd found you.

"Yeah, I was looking for you actually. You're the only familiar face I've seen and my friend just ditched me" you sipped more of the sugary drink.

Armin only hummed in response, nodding over to his former spot in a corner. You nodded, following him through the crowd.

"So, you still a TA for Professor Hange?" You shouted above the music.

"Yep, not the same as last semester though" he replied, finally making it to the corner, where the music wasn't as loud.

"How so?" You questioned.

"The students don't ask for my help, I kinda feel useless" he let out a soft chuckle.

"You know I kinda missed you, you actually seemed like you wanted to learn". He smiled over at you, his pretty eyes meeting yours.

You took another drink of punch before responding."Really? You missed me?" You laughed. He only responded with a head nod, licking his lips, unintentionally giving you get a glimpse of his tongue ring. That god damn tongue ring.

"I missed you too" you blurted out, a smirk formed against his lips.

"Yeah?" He moved closer to you, his cologne was intoxicating.

"Yeah" you responded, with an innocent smile.

"There's no other TA like you" you added, finishing the cup of punch which you're pretty sure was 80% sugar, but you still felt a slight buzz.

Armin's cheeks burned red, and you couldn't tell if it was from the alcohol in his red solo cup or your comment, but you hoped it was the latter.

"You know, I kinda thought you didn't remember me" you continued.

"Who could forget such a pretty face" Armin's eyes flickered up at yours then to his drink, taking another sip.

"Am I just a pretty face?" You teased, moving even closer, face to face.

"No, you're smart and passionate about your future, it's admirable" he smiled at you, genuinely.

You didn't know if it was the punch or the way he was complimenting you, but you felt like you had a chance, and you took it.

"I've always thought you were cute"

"Cute? Just cute?" He asked, his mouth twitched into a smirk.

"And smar-" Armin's free hand grabbed your face, pulling you into an abrupt kiss. His lips were soft and sweet from the punch.

The kiss was quick, but you could still feel his warm lips pressed against yours once he pulled back.

"Thanks, but I'm not just cute" he smiled, his hands left your face, and back into his pockets.

"How so?" You teased.

"Let me show you"

The next thing you knew, you were upstairs in a random bathroom.

Armin locked the door, pushing you against it, connecting your lips again. He held your face in one hand, while holding your hip with the other. This kiss was rougher, less calculated, more frantic.

Feeling his tongue push against your lips, you let it slip in. The silver ball you'd fantasized about in class, was now in your mouth, and you couldn't help but moan at the thought.

Armin broke the kiss a string of saliva moved with him, still connected to your lips. He smirked down at you before grabbing the ends of your tank and lifting it over your head.

You quickly discarded your bra, your nipples hardened from the cool air of the bathroom. "Fuck, they're even better than I imagined" Armin drooled at the sight of your breast, you took it he was a boob guy.

His lips attached to one of your nipples, playfully flicking his tongue before sucking it. You let out a soft moan, grabbing his head, fingers running through his hair.

His other hand moved to play with your other breast, pinching and grabbing it, until it stung. The slight pain went straight to your cunt, begging for attention.

His teeth bit down on the sensitive skin and you swore you could see stars. You moaned out, grabbing his hair and pulling him up to look at you.

"You're a little freak aren't you" you teased, before grabbing the back of his neck, pulling him into another kiss. You moved from the door, sitting on the sink. Your legs spread, letting Armin in between, both his hands laid on your thighs.

Your hands moved from his neck, back to his soft hair, tugging it a bit, when he bites down on your bottom lip. He pulled back from the kiss, out of breath.

"I like to be in control" he looked at your sternly, glasses at the slope of his nose.

"Then take control" you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, his clothed erection against your clothed cunt. There were too many barriers between you at the moment.

He let out a chuckle, before giving your thighs a light squeeze to let go of his waist. He moved away from you and over the toilet, placing his glasses on the seat.

Then his flannel and shirt were off, and you couldn't help but admire his body. Holy sleeper build.

Once he's in front of you again, your hands immediately attach to his chest, his heart was racing, and for some reason you felt your pussy pulse because of it.

His hands moved to lift your skirt, sliding your black panties off. He balled the thin fabric, before placing them in your mouth with a smirk. "Shh" he lifted a finger to his mouth.

Then he was on his knees, between your legs. "You know, it may be perverted to say, but I've imagined what you'd taste like" his breathe shuddered against your cunt. He was such a freak, and you loved it.

Armin wrapped his arms around your legs and pulled you closer to the edge of the counter. Without warning, he dipped his tongue into your heat, down to your hole lapping up your slick and moving to your clit.

His tongue moved in circles against the sensitive bud, the metal ball adding a new element of pleasure. He slurped and sucked your clit just as hungrily as he'd done your breasts.

You moaned into your panties, moving your head back against the mirror. His fingers dug into your thighs, as his tongue dipped into your hole, swirling around before slurping your arousal.

He took a hand from your thigh, taking his ring and middle finger into his mouth and interning them into your cunt. "Mmm" you moaned, muffled by the fabric.

"You're so wet" he smiled up at you innocently, so much that it gave you whiplash. How could he look like that but do things li-

His lips attached to your clit again, as his fingers eagerly pumped inside you with a slight curve, hitting your sweet spot.

"Mmm mm" you pleaded, wanting to announce you were close, your hands grabbed a hold of his hair, pressing him further onto your cunt.

Armin continued his pursuit against your pussy, never letting up. He sucked your clit so hard you swore the stars were back, and with another pump of his fingers hitting that spot, you came undone.

Pleasure ran through your veins, the pressure in your abdomen releasing, you squirted against Armin's fingers. Your arousal and liquids all over his face, but he continued pumping into you.

"Mmm mm mm" you wanted to cry out from the pleasure and overstimulation, but Armin continued attempting to get another orgasm out of you.

He groaned against your clit, before lifting his head to look at you, "cmon you can do it again, I know it" he coached you.

"Just lift your hips a bit"

You nodded, moving your hands from his hair to the marble bathroom counter, slightly lifting your hips, arms trembling.

"Good girl" he smirked, still pumping his fingers into you, he spat against your clit before adding pressure with his thumb.

Armin watched your face the entire time, your second orgasm slowly built and he knew the moment your cunt clenched around his fingers you were almost there.

With his fingers bruising your cunt, you came undone again. Tears left your eyes, as you squeeze them shut, coming down from the high. Your hips jerked against his hands and Armin finally removed his fingers, giving your clit a soft peck.

He raised from his knees, taking the panties from you mouth. You let out a sigh, catching your breath, your body slumped on top of the counter.

A smirk formed across his lips, sticking his fingers into your mouth and you sucked them clean. Armin brought you into a quick kiss, unbuttoning his pants.

His jeans and underwear dropped to floor and the only thing left was his painfully erect dick. It was...pretty, just like him. You couldn't stop yourself from smiling.

"Stand up and turn around" Armin ordered, and your smile immediately faded, you didn't even know if you could stand anymore.

"You can do it" he added, his blue eyes softened.

You nodded, slowly getting off the counter, your legs took a second to readjust, but you were good...for now.

Turning around, you placed your hands against the marble counter. Armin's hands grabbed your ass, kneading it before aligning himself with your cunt.

"Ready?" He asked.

"Mmhm" you replied, looking back at him over your shoulder.

Armin slid himself inside you, and you finally felt whole. You let out a small whimper, which gained a slight moan from Armin.

A hand slapped your ass, forcing another whimper out of you, the pain hurt so good. Armin's strokes started off slow, but it wasn't long before his pace quickened, his hips snipping against you.

Each stroke, hitting your already bruised cervix. He looked down at himself moving in and out of your cunt. You swallowed him whole, taking him so well.

Your cunt dripped with your arousal, and he was proud to say he'd made you this way. You had gotten wet just for him. "Mmhm" he moaned, lifting a hand and slapping your ass again.

You looked up at the mirror, dried mascara streaks against your skin. You looked fucked out, but you could go for another orgasm, and he for sure gonna give it to you.

Armin increased his speed, pounding into you over and over. Your hands gripped against the counter, close to your release.

"Fuck Armin" you cried out, your legs trembling from his pursuit. He abruptly pulled out of you, turning you around and picking you up. To be honest, you hadn't thought he could lift you, but he did so effortlessly.

You instinctively wrapped your legs around him, as he pushed you back down onto his length. Pushing your back against the door, Armin began pumping into you again. With his face in the crook of your neck, he moaned, fingers digging into your thighs, he was close.

His hips snapped into you, coaxing your orgasm. You tightened your legs around his waist, wanting no space between you. Your hands moved to his hair again, giving it a slight tug.

Your hips bucked against his, "Mmhm Armin" you cried out, your third orgasm washed over you. New tears fell down your face, as you sobbed from the pleasure.

Armin groaned against your neck, "fuck I'm gonna cum." His strokes became staggered, sinking his teeth into your shoulder, as he came inside you, his warm seed coating your insides. He pumped into you a few more times, coming down from his high.

Armin caught his breath, slowly placing you to your feet, giving your forehead a soft peck.

✎ i promise he gave after care(i mean it’s armin we’re talking abt)

sorry for any grammar/spelling errors, i’ll fix em when i have the time<3

- ciara💻

[cherrygarcia-07]

Uniform // Spencer Reid❤️

You buy Spencer a new t-shirt and he is over the moon to be so publicly yours (despite some teasing from his friends).

pairing: spencer x girlfriend! reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2.6k

notes: nothing really! cursing once. I really like this one, just a lot of lovey dovey spencer and a lot of derek and penelope being everyones favourite chaotic duo bullying their baby brother 😚

masterlist

——————————————————————————❤️——————————————————————————

“How do you feel about Star Wars tonight?” Spencer asked as he shuffled over to where you were curled up on the couch of your shared apartment, a bowl of popcorn in one hand.

“I hear you.” You began, lifting one side of the blanket up so he could slide in beside you.

“But?” Spencer raised a brow at you, suppressing the ‘I know what’s coming’ smirk pulling at his lips as you rested your weight against him.

“Hear me out.”

“I don’t think I have much of a choice.” He muttered, tossing more popcorn in his mouth.

“Pitch Perfect.” You grinned, giving him your best puppy dog eyes in plea.

Spencer hummed as he nodded as if to say I knew it, tilting his head to look at you while trying his best to hide the adoration all over his face. “Correct me if I’m wrong- and I’m not-“ you rolled your eyes, “but I believe you’ve made me watch Pitch Perfect 6 times over the past 2 months already.”

“Go for lucky 7?” you urged, putting on your best sweet voice as you rested your chin on his shoulder, gazing up at him through batting lashes. “If you don’t say yes then you’re a great big liar.” You grumbled, pointing a finger at the print on his t-shirt.

His brows furrowed in that adorable way you loved as he glanced down at his shirt. He let out an exasperated chuckle as he realised what you were referring to. In large white & red lettering read the words I ❤️ MY GIRLFRIEND , bold and clear across his chest.

You’d gotten it for him on Valentine’s day. You always joked that he wore his heart on his sleeve, and despite him usually being a relatively private person he never shied away from bragging about you any opportunity he got (in fact he invented the opportunity himself more times than not just to give your name an excuse to leave his lips). You figured why not wear his heart on his chest too? He’d blushed when he saw it, a dopey smile on his face as he read it. He’d made you laugh, loud and heartily, with the way he immediately abandoned the shirt he was wearing, fingers fumbling with his buttons as a lovesick haze clouded his brain. Before you could even blink he was donning his new attire, a goofy but proud look in his eyes and your heart soared at the sight.

“I hardly think one’s willingness to watch Pitch Perfect every week is an accurate measurement of one’s love.” He smirked, pulling your legs into his lap, rubbing your calf with a gentleness that contradicted the sarcasm dripping from his words. “Especially if we’re basing it on a t-shirt.”

With a playful huff, you tried to pull your legs back in protest, only to end up tighter in his grasp as he pulled you in closer and you found yourself unable to hold back the giggle bubbling in your throat. His free arm wrapped around you and he laughed back as his hand guided your head to his shoulder with a loving touch.

“I’m kidding. You know we can watch whatever you want to anytime, sweetheart.” He spoke with a softness that would put the clouds to shame. He turned his head slightly to press a light kiss to your forehead before adding, “even if I could recite the script to you in my sleep by now.”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” you retorted. “You could do that with literally any movie, mr eidetic memory.” Smiling to yourself, you raised a finger to his shirt and lazily traced the red heart on his chest, revelling in the warm, fuzzy feeling spreading through you over your boyfriend’s selfless eagerness to make you happy.

The bickering went on for just a little while longer before you finally began the movie, fitted against one another on the couch like pieces of a puzzle. It was about 45 minutes into the movie and you were both beginning to grow a little drowsy when there was a sudden knock at the door. With a groan, you pulled your head from where it still rested on Spencer’s shoulder and began to rise to your feet.

“No, no, I got it.” Spencer muttered beside you, gently pushing you back to the cushions and quickly tucking you back underneath the blanket before padding towards the door with a yawn. He ran a hand through his hair as he swung the door open, confused to see Derek standing on the other side, a book in one hand and his phone in the other.

“What are you doing here?” Spencer grumbled as he checked the time on his watch.

“It’s nice to see you too.” Derek retorted with a raised brow. “You left this on your desk, genius.” He held out the huge brick of a book he’d been holding, waving it in front of Spencer’s face as he waited for him to take it.

“Oh, thanks.” Spencer took the book, placing it rather haphazardly on the small table by the door. “I didn’t even realise I’d forgotten it.”

“Too eager to get home to your girl, huh?” Derek teased as he glanced across the room at you half asleep on the couch. He moved to focus back on Spencer and his gaze dropped as he took in his slightly crumpled clothes, a smirk pulling at his lips as he read the print on the t shirt. Instantly amused, Derek laughed and rubbed his hands together with a mischievous shine in his eyes. “Now, what the hell are you wearing, loverboy?”

A blush immediately crept up Spencer’s neck and to his cheeks as he remembered what the hell he was wearing, the heat of embarrassment pricking at his skin as he hastily crossed his arms in front of his chest in a too-late attempt to conceal it.

“It-“ A loud exhale left his nostrils as he dragged his hands down his face. “It’s nothing. It’s my pyjamas. Why are you still here?” He cringed at the way his voice rose an octave higher, cracking like a teenage boy’s. His arms hung rigid in the air for a moment, unsure whether to return to his face or his side before resorting to crossing in front of his shirt again.

“Nah, come on- don’t do that. Let me see, pretty boy.” Derek grinned, reaching for Spencer’s wrists before being firmly swatted away. “I heart my girlfriend, huh? Does she have a matching one?”

“Did you come all this way just to bully me in my own apartment?”

“Hey I’m not bullying.” Derek raised his hands, his voice adopted a teasing tone as he continued. “In fact I think it’s adorable. Very cute, Romeo.”

Spencer groaned, hand gripping the door in preparation to shut it in his face.

“Thank you for bringing me my book.” He began, deadpan as he slowly began closing the door. “I’ll see you on Monday.”

Derek jammed his foot in the door, still beaming like the Cheshire Cat. “You didn’t answer my question, Reid.”

“What question?” He sighed for what felt like the 50th time during this whole conversation as he lightly kicked the shoe out of the door’s way. It was a miracle he even had any breath left in him.

“Does she have a matching one?”

“Yes.” Spencer surrendered, punctuating his sentence with a hard slam of the door, ignoring the laughter echoing down the hallway on the other side.

A few moments later you felt the couch dip next to you, stirring you awake after you had nodded off while Spencer was at the door. Blurry vision barely made out the movie you’d begged for still playing on the TV, though it had long since been forgotten in the hypnotic presence of your boyfriend. Your vision began to clear as you awoke a little more and you turned to see him beside you, watching the way you gazed up at him through heavy eyelids.

“Who was that?” You mumbled as he pulled you back into his lap.

“My test from God.” He replied, caressing your legs over the blanket as if to soothe himself more than you.

“Derek?” You asked and he hummed his response, nodding.

The rest of the night the two of you remained curled up against one another, blanket intertwining you as you both fell in and out of sleep on the couch, staying there long after the movie had ended- neither one of you having the energy to break out of eachother’s grasp. Eventually, under some mostly-asleep zombified state neither of you would recall in the morning, you made your way to your bed and flopped down onto the soft mattress, bodies absentmindedly finding eachother again instantly and you fell asleep for good wrapped up in his arms.

-

Spencer walked into the bullpen, sipping the sugary coffee you’d made him before he left from the thermal mug in his hand and nodding his good mornings to the team. He plopped himself down in his chair, stretching for a second before unpacking his bag onto his desk. He didn’t get far into his work before his bubble of peace was abruptly burst, a familiarly grating voice materialising behind him.

“Hey, lover.” Drawled Derek’s voice. Spencer’s eyes squeezed shut like an automatic response, a dramatic sigh leaving him as he pinched the bridge of his nose and cursed internally.

“Are we really still doing this?” He tried to keep his voice low and even as if he didn’t care but the slight squeak in his words betrayed him.

“Depends.” Derek leaned over his desk, forcing him to meet his eyes. “Do you still heart your girlfriend?”

Spencer stayed silent. Both in protest to his friend’s teasing and in silent agreement that despite his reluctance to the conversation, he very much does still heart his girlfriend.

“How come you’re not in uniform today?” Derek continued, gesturing to his usual cardigan and subtly patterned button up combo.

Sipping his coffee in a feigned display of nonchalance, he responded “that would hardly be professional workplace attire.”

“Maybe we should get you a mug. Can’t let anyone walk around here not knowing how much you love your girl, huh?”

Spencer rolled his eyes at the way Derek shook his shoulder as he laughed, but he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t genuinely considering it. He was somebody who lived to share his knowledge, always jumping at the chance to ramble about whatever topic presented itself, barely stopping to breathe as his words spilled into one another as his mind moved faster than his mouth could keep up. He could lecture about anything between the vastness of space and the tiny specks of dirt in the ground, an endless supply of topics floating around in that library of a brain but his favourite one to talk about was undoubtedly and unabashedly you. Something that lived on his desk as a constant invitation to talk about you? Well quite frankly, that seemed like a dream.

“Oh, leave him alone.” A new bubbly voice accompanied by the clacking of heels broke him out of his thoughts and he turned his head to see Penelope strut into the room. “It’s not embarrassing to be in love.”

“How do you-“ Spencer began, eyes darting between the two of them with an accusatory look. “You told Garcia?”

“You’re the profiler, honey.” Penelope chirped, tapping him on the nose with the fuzzy topper of her neon pink pen. “Should’ve seen that coming.”

He leaned back in his chair, utterly defeated as he let the teasing continue. He felt like a ping pong ball being batted between the two of them as they carried on for what felt like hours, only stopping when Hotch left his office to remind them that they do in fact have jobs to be getting to, although even he had the faintest glimmer of amusement in his eyes as he dispersed them.

Spencer breathed a sigh of relief, pulling his chair closer into his desk to get started as the sound of Penelope’s heels faded further away behind him- until they suddenly stopped.

“Oh- and hey, Reid!” She called. He turned to face her, brows furrowing as he watched her raise her phone in the air. “Thanks for the new lockscreen!”

Spencer’s eyes widened in what felt like slow motion as he realised what he was looking at. A slightly blurry, slightly off centre photo of him half awake in his doorway sleepily modelling the t-shirt. At a speed that risked whiplash, he spun to face Derek who was already brandishing the biggest shit-eating grin Spencer had ever seen on him- which was saying a lot. He’d been so focused on getting back to you he hadn’t even registered the phone in his friend’s hand when he answered the door.

“I’m sorry man. I’m sorry.” Derek raised his hands in surrender, though it didn’t take a profiler to see he was in fact quite proud of his work.

Spencer groaned and dragged his hands down his face again. It was going to be a long day.

-

Coming home felt like stepping through the door into dreamland, the harsh floor of the hallway outside melting into soft cotton beneath Spencer’s feet as he walked into your shared space. The weight of the day crumbled instantly as he heard your voice ring through the apartment. You were singing to yourself from the bedroom, the sound like a rope that lassoed him and pulled him to you without a second thought. He pushed open the door, body slumping in relaxation as you turned to face him with a smile.

“Spence!” You sang, wrapping your arms around his neck and letting him fall into you as he buried his face in your neck. “How was work?”

“Long.” His voice was muffled against your skin. “Missed you.”

You ran your fingers through the curls at the back of his head as you chuckled at his broken sentences. For a genius who seemingly had an inability to stop talking, he sure had a limited vocabulary when it came to your affection. Even the lightest touch from you was enough to render him speechless, IQ slashed catastrophically as his brain melted from the heat of your fingertips against his scalp.

“I missed you too.” You pressed a kiss to the top of his head and you could’ve sworn you heard him purr.

He pulled away slightly, aching to see your face and if his brain was faltering before it had stopped working all together now. He froze as he glanced down at your clothes, gentle hands finding their way to your waist. A black t-shirt with the words I ❤️ MY BOYFRIEND across your chest.

“I, um. I like your shirt.” He stammered eventually, voice thick with affection.

“Spence, you’ve seen it a thousand times.” You giggled, dropping your hands to rest on his shoulders. “You gave it to me, actually.”

It only seemed right, he’d thought, that you have a matching set.

“Have you been wearing that all day?” He asked, and his heart fluttered when you nodded. Spencer laughed lovingly as he pictured you walking around the grocery store, or the post office, or wherever you had been today with those words openly declared to the world. Suddenly, the whole day of teasing was forgotten, discarded like it never happened and he found himself itching to get changed.

You frowned slightly as he pulled away from you, though it was quickly replaced by an equally confused and thoroughly entertained smile as you watched him scramble to pull off his cardigan, fingers struggling with the buttons of his shirt in his excitement.

“What the hell are you doing?” You laughed, watching him grab his matching shirt from the closet.

“Well, as Morgan pointed out.” Spencer began, pulling it over his head and smoothing out the print so there was no doubt about what it said. “I wasn’t in my uniform.”

-

[jungwnies]

f1 grid | comfort after a bad race, except its you.

୨ৎ : featuring : all drivers on the grid & driver!reader ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by anon) : comforting you after coming off a rough race weekend.

୨ৎ : genre : fluff ୨ৎ : word count : 1844

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ 10k event | masterlist ୨ৎ

ʚ・red bull

max verstappen

it’s not in max’s nature to be soft, but the second he sees you sitting on the pit wall, still in your race suit and staring out at the empty track, he knows not to joke. no teasing, no smug remarks—just him dropping down beside you in silence. he offers his water bottle, nudges his knee against yours.

“you don’t have to say anything,” he mumbles. “just sit with me, yeah?”

you do, and when you finally speak, he listens—really listens. and when you break, voice cracking mid-sentence, he places his hand over yours and whispers, “bad race doesn’t mean you’re a bad driver. you know that, right?”

yuki tsunoda

yuki finds you in the cooldown room post-race, curled into the corner of the couch with your head in your hands. he doesn’t say anything right away, just sits beside you and lets out a long sigh. “that was shit,” he says bluntly. “but you’re still better than half those idiots out there.”

when you laugh weakly, he lights up. “there’s my rival,” he grins, bumping your shoulder. then softer, “i know how hard you worked. they’ll see it next time. i promise.”

he even lets you steal his favorite onigiri snack as a peace offering.

ʚ・mercedes

george russell

george finds you in the back of the garage, helmet still on, shoulders stiff and unmoving. he doesn’t say anything at first—just crouches in front of you and taps gently at your gloves.

“i know it’s shit,” he says quietly, eyes searching yours through the visor. “but one race doesn’t erase who you are.”

when you finally pull your helmet off, blinking fast to hide the tears, he just pulls you into a hug and lets you bury your face in his shoulder.

“you’re not alone in this. i’ve been there. tomorrow we reset, yeah?”

kimi antonelli

he’s awkward at first, unsure how to approach you. but the moment he sees your clenched jaw and how you refuse to meet anyone’s eyes, something clicks.

“you don’t have to pretend with me,” he mutters, handing you a cold water bottle and sitting beside you on the pit wall.

he doesn’t talk much—just lets the silence wrap around the both of you while your breathing evens out.

later, he surprises you with a quiet “you’re still the person i look up to. one bad race doesn’t change that.” and it nearly breaks you.

ʚ・ferrari

charles leclerc

he finds you in your driver room, pacing, still in your suit, muttering under your breath about everything that went wrong.

“mon amour,” he says gently, stepping inside, “you don’t have to carry this alone.”

you break down the second he pulls you into his arms, hiding your face in his chest while he rocks you slightly, murmuring, “it’s not your fault. i saw you fighting out there. you gave everything.”

later, he makes you sit down and eat something, even if it’s just a few bites. he knows the weight of a red suit and how it can feel like the whole world is watching—so he makes sure you remember it’s okay to stumble.

lewis hamilton

lewis sees the storm behind your eyes the second you step out of the car. he knows that look—it’s familiar. he’s worn it too many times himself.

“come here,” he says softly, pulling you aside into a quieter corner of the paddock.

“you are so much more than one result,” he reminds you, thumb brushing a tear off your cheek before it falls. “don’t let today rewrite your story.”

later that night, he sends you a playlist he made years ago for moments like this. it’s full of soft strength and quiet hope, just like him.

ʚ・mclaren

lando norris

he sees the frustration on your face before you even say a word, and his heart sinks right along with yours.

“hey,” he whispers, catching your wrist gently before you can storm off to your room. “don’t go spiraling. not today.”

sits with you on the floor of your room, helmets and gloves tossed to the side, just the two of you in quiet.

“you drove your heart out. i know it doesn’t feel like it mattered, but it did. you matter. we’re allowed to have shit days.”

pulls you into his side, kisses the top of your head, and adds, “but tomorrow? we try again. and i’ll be right here.”

oscar piastri

he doesn’t say much at first—he lets you vent, listening with those quiet eyes and soft nods that tell you he’s really hearing it all.

once you stop, chest heaving with the weight of it all, he speaks: “you’re allowed to be upset. but i need you to remember this doesn’t define you.”

he’s calm, grounding, the steady energy you didn’t know you needed.

later, he hands you a water bottle and sits beside you on the floor of the garage, legs stretched out, shoulders touching. “bad days happen. but you’re still one of the best out there. never forget that.”

ʚ・aston martin

fernando alonso

he watches you from across the paddock, eyes narrowed, reading you like a strategy sheet.

“you are angry with yourself,” he says quietly when you pass him, and you just sigh. “good. that means you still care.”

he doesn’t sugarcoat it. he respects you too much for that.

but later, he finds you alone in the motorhome and sits beside you. “you learn the most when the race hurts. and you—you're already better than half of them out there on your worst day.”

he doesn’t offer a hug, but he does leave you with a smirk and a softened, “come. let’s debrief over coffee. my treat.”

lance stroll

you’re curled up on the floor of your room, suit half-off, still sweaty and furious, when he knocks gently and peeks his head in.

“i brought snacks,” he says with a tiny smile, holding up your favorite post-race comfort food.

he doesn’t push. he just sits near you, eating in silence until you start talking, even if it’s just mumbled complaints.

“look,” he says eventually, nudging your knee, “you’re not allowed to quit, okay? not when you’ve worked this hard. not when i believe in you this much.”

gives you the softest, warmest hug when you finally let yourself cry into his chest.

ʚ・williams

alex albon

he finds you slumped in the garage, helmet still on, and just wraps his arms around you from behind. no words, just warmth.

“don’t talk yet,” he whispers into your shoulder. “just breathe.”

once you’ve calmed, he gently pulls off your helmet and tucks a few stray strands of hair behind your ear.

“you don’t have to be strong with me,” he says, eyes soft. “i know you gave it everything. and that’s enough for me.”

drags you out of the paddock and insists on bubble tea and cartoons in the hotel to cheer you up.

carlos sainz

paces around like he’s the one who DNF’d—frustrated, muttering in spanish, raking a hand through his hair.

the moment he sees you, all his tension melts into concern. “mi amor… come here.”

holds your face so gently, as if you might shatter. “you were brilliant. the car wasn’t. that’s not on you.”

kisses your forehead and murmurs sweet nothings in spanish while you lay on his chest in the motorhome.

promises to personally have words with whoever screwed up your strategy.

ʚ・haas

ollie bearman

he’s awkward at first, doesn’t quite know what to say when he sees you with glassy eyes and your suit half unzipped in defeat.

“hey… um. that sucked. really sucked.” then hugs you a bit too tightly.

rests his chin on top of your head. “but you’re still the coolest person in this whole paddock to me.”

pulls you away to the haas sim rig and makes you crash the car on purpose just to make you laugh.

“we’re gonna fix this. next race, you’ll be untouchable. i’ll make sure of it.”

esteban ocon

immediately knows something’s wrong just from your body language. pulls you aside the second he gets the chance.

his voice is calm, low, and soothing. “you’re allowed to be upset. but you’re not allowed to think you’re anything less than brilliant.”

sits beside you in the back of the hospitality unit, quietly holding your hand and rubbing your knuckles with his thumb.

brings you a bottle of water, wipes your face gently, and whispers, “you don’t need to put on a brave face with me.”

tells you about every race he failed to finish, just so you know you’re not alone in it.

ʚ・racing bulls

liam lawson

sees you storm off toward the garage and immediately follows, no cameras, no questions.

doesn’t ask what happened — just wraps his arm around your waist and murmurs, “talk to me when you’re ready.”

when you finally break down in the motorhome, he brushes your hair out of your face and pulls you into his chest.

“you’re allowed to be upset. but don’t forget you’re the fiercest driver i know.”

kisses the top of your head. “and if anyone says otherwise, they can deal with me.”

isack hadjar

tries to joke at first — “at least your helmet still looks good?”

but when he sees you’re genuinely crushed, his expression drops immediately.

sits beside you on the floor, backs against the wall, knees touching.

“hey, you’re allowed to cry. i know i would’ve punched someone by now if it were me.”

quietly adds, “you don’t have to prove anything to anyone. you’re already enough. more than enough.”

ʚ・alpine

pierre gasly

finds you pacing behind the paddock, biting back tears, helmet still on.

gently unclips your helmet, brushing a hand down your cheek as he takes it off.

“i know that look. i’ve worn it too many times.” his voice is soft, steady.

pulls you into a quiet room away from everyone and sits you down.

“you gave it everything. the result doesn’t erase the effort. or your talent. or how fucking proud i am of you.”

franco colapinto

catches the tail end of your radio message — the frustration, the cracked voice.

waits for you just outside parc fermé with open arms, doesn’t care who sees.

“you did your best. the car didn’t. that’s not on you.”

rubs your back as you lean into him, forehead pressed to his shoulder.

whispers in spanish, “sos increíble. y nada de esto cambia eso.” (you’re incredible. and none of this changes that.)

ʚ・kick sauber

nico hulkenberg

you storm off after the cooldown lap, helmet still on, teeth gritted. he doesn’t say a word — just walks beside you.

waits until you're seated in the garage corner before crouching next to you.

“want to break something? or sit in silence? your call.”

hands you a water bottle and his usual sarcasm fades: “you’ve had worse, i’ve had worse. we come back. we always do.”

adds, quieter, “you’re too damn good to let one shit race define anything.”

gabriel bortoleto

finds you hiding in your driver room, curled up with a towel over your head.

knocks once, then slides in anyway. “i brought snacks.”

doesn’t push you to talk — just sits beside you, legs touching, playing some silly tiktok sound on his phone to try to make you laugh.

“i’m still proud of you. even if today sucked. especially because today sucked.”

when you finally lift your head, he grins and says, “next time? we show them who you really are.”

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[thewitchblue]

"There's nothing wrong with you, Jay."

You murmured to him. He had a panic attack after a nightmare and panted softly in your arms. Everything was overwhelming, but your calming voice was guiding him back to reality.

The nightmare was bad enough to wake him up on his own instead of staying trapped until you wake him. He couldn't get enough air in his lungs. What's wrong with him? Why are you still putting up with him? You wake up every time he has nightmares, yet you comfort him the entire time.

"There's so much wrong with me, pipsqueak."

He says the nickname with so much love it melted your heart. You showered him in kisses while saying,

"You do what you have to do to survive."

He shuddered. He's a bad man in his mind. He has too much blood on his hands. Even if they were criminals, he still thinks he's a bad man. He felt tainted. He whispered,

"How can you love me when you know what I've done?"

He needed to know how you could even stand looking at him. You were so sweet and kind. You warmly said,

"I can love you because I know you."

He looked at you in confusion. Of course you know him. You wouldn't be sleeping in his bed with him if you were a stranger. You softly explain,

"I know you break into bakeries at night to get me my favourite pastry, but leave money on the counter so you don't feel like a complete jerk. I know you love my cheesy romance books despite pretending you don't. I know you love cooking for me so I can eat the leftovers and remember you."

Jason grumbled. He's always been a man who thinks actions speak infinitely louder than words. Anything is worth it for you. You continued with a smile,

"I know you love my lame jokes. You love to cuddle, and you replay romance scenes with me when you read a story you particularly enjoyed."

Jason hid his face in your hair. The big bad Red Hood was acting like a schoolgirl with a crush, and you loved him for it.

You kissed the top of his head. He was nestled in your side comfortably with his large frame curled to make it easier to cuddle. He placed his head on top of your chest and his arms wrapped tightly around your waist. He needed to be reassured that you were here and alive.

You let him listen to your heartbeat while you played with his hair the way he liked it. You smiled as you said,

"I love your smile, and I don't care one bit about the blood on your hands. You are protecting the ones you love in the only way you think will work. I know you pretend to dislike your family, and you'll fake gag around their significant others, but your romantic heart soars when you see couples being in love."

The gentle hand rubbing his scalp and your soothing heartbeat was luring him back to sleep. So what if he is a bit of a romantic. He can't help the way he feels.

"I know you read the books I recently read just so we can have a conversation about it."

Jason blushed. He thought he'd been sneakier about stealing books. He's read every book in your house during the two years he's been dating you.

He's a book thief, but he always returns the book and even organised the bookcase for you when you complained that you needed to organise it. You were looking for a book to give him, and it took a good fifteen minutes to find the book. You continued,

"I know you love when I lay on top of you because I feel like a weighted blanket, and you love when I hug you from behind to feel the height difference between us."

Jason yawned. You love this man with your whole heart. You don't care about Red Hood. You care about Jason Peter Todd, the love of your life. His large arms tightened around you before relaxing. He rolled you on top of him and kissed your forehead.

"I love you, pipsqueak."

You smiled at him and gave him a long kiss before softly replying,

"I love you too, hoodlum."

[hsnlv]

🧸ྀི - jaeyun and his (cute) jealousy issues?

pairing: husband!jake x wife!reader • pls mind the fact that this is an actual (almost) teeth-rotting fluff!

a/n: im actually tooo lazy to make a proper layout for this one but enjoy it regardless! reblogs and comments are highly appreciated 🎀here’s my masterlist!🎀

—

you honestly have no idea what is going on with your husband lately.

jake’s usually the most easygoing, playful person you know — the kind of guy who laughs at his own jokes and kisses you on the forehead whenever he walks past. but lately? he’s been a walking storm cloud, and you’re starting to feel like you’re married to a grumpy old man instead of the golden retriever boy you fell in love with.

it started small — sighs when you took a little longer getting the baby to sleep, huffs when you missed dinner because the baby needed you. then it got worse. now, he snaps over everything.

tonight is no different.

“it’s just laundry, jake,” you sigh, leaning against the armrest of the couch as he paces like he’s on a mission to wear a hole in the carpet.

“just laundry?” he scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “the whole load smells like mildew now! that’s like… five shirts! gone!”

“you have fifty more in the closet,” you deadpan.

he opens his mouth to argue, then closes it with a glare.

you watch him, eyes narrowing. this isn’t about laundry. you’re sure of it. he’s been like this for weeks — tense, restless, snappy over the tiniest things. and every time you ask, he just mumbles “i’m fine” and stomps off like a teenager grounded from his xbox.

you’re tired of it.

“jake,” you say carefully, sitting up straighter. “can you please tell me what’s going on with you? you’ve been weird for days.”

“i’m not weird.”

“you’re literally brooding.”

“i’m not brooding.”

“you’re pacing dramatically and sighing like you’re in a sad music video.”

“i’m not—” he stops mid-step, glaring at you again. “i’m not brooding.”

you stare him down, crossing your arms.

“jaeyun.”

his jaw clenches.

“it’s nothing,” he mutters, turning away.

“jake,” you try again, voice softer now. “i’m your wife. talk to me.”

he doesn’t respond.

you sigh, running a hand through your hair. okay. plan b it is.

“if you don’t tell me what’s wrong,” you say slowly, “i’m going to assume it’s something ridiculous.”

he snorts. “yeah, sure.”

“like… you’re mad because i finished the last of the cereal.”

“what? no.”

“or because i didn’t let you buy that life-sized iron man figure last week.”

“hey, that would’ve been cool.”

“or,” you pause dramatically, “you’re jealous of the baby.”

silence.

jake freezes.

your eyes widen.

oh. my. god.

“…you’re jealous of the baby?” you whisper, half in shock, half on the verge of laughing.

“no,” he says quickly — too quickly.

you gasp. “you are!”

“i’m not jealous of our kid!” he protests, turning red.

you stand up slowly, like you’re piecing together the biggest mystery of the century.

“oh my god. that’s why you’re acting like this? because i pamper her too much?”

he groans, dragging his hands down his face.

“it’s not — i didn’t mean —” he stumbles over his words, looking mortified.

you can’t stop the laugh that bubbles out of you.

“jake,” you giggle, stepping closer to him. “are you seriously mad because i give the baby more attention than you?”

he groans louder, tipping his head back like he’s praying for the earth to swallow him whole.

“you do, though!” he finally bursts out, voice high-pitched and frustrated. “you kiss her all the time! you hold her, cuddle her, play with her — and i’m just… here! i get, like, one kiss a day now, and even that’s a forehead kiss while you’re half asleep!”

he’s full-on pouting now, looking like a kicked puppy.

you bite your lip, trying so hard not to laugh again.

“jaeyun,” you whisper, stepping closer to cup his cheeks. his face is warm under your hands. “are you seriously telling me you’re jealous of our three-month-old daughter?”

“i’m not jealous,” he grumbles, but his voice cracks. “i just… miss you. i miss when you looked at me the way you look at her. i miss cuddling without a baby monitor going off. i miss being the one you kiss all the time.”

your heart squeezes so hard it almost hurts.

you stare at him, his brows furrowed, lips downturned in the saddest little frown — and you realize he’s not even mad. he’s just hurt.

“oh, jaeyun,” you whisper, your voice softening. you pull him into a hug, feeling him melt into you instantly.

“i love you,” you murmur into his shoulder, holding him tight. “so much. you’re not in second place. you’re my first everything — first love, first choice, first home. you’re my person. and yeah, i’m obsessed with our baby, but that doesn’t mean i stopped being obsessed with you.”

he doesn’t say anything for a second — just squeezes you tighter, his face buried in your neck.

“i’m still mad about the laundry,” he mumbles.

you snort.

“you’ll live.”

he laughs, finally, and the sound is so warm and familiar that it makes your heart swell.

and from that moment on, jake doesn’t even try to hide how clingy he is.

he follows you around the house like a lost puppy, wrapping his arms around your waist whenever you’re cooking or cleaning. if you’re sitting down, he’s immediately in your lap — or pulling you into his. he whines when you get up, pouts when you leave the room, and steals every possible kiss he can.

“jaeyun, i have to go check on the baby,” you giggle as he tugs you back onto the couch for the third time that afternoon.

“she’s sleeping,” he huffs, nuzzling into your neck. “she gets you all day. i get you now.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

“yeah, but you love me.”

“unfortunately.”

he gasps dramatically. “take that back!”

“make me.”

he tackles you onto the couch, smothering you with kisses until you’re both breathless with laughter.

and honestly? you wouldn’t have it any other way.

©️ all rights reserved | hsnlv | 2025

[rainrot4me]

How would each of the creeps react to their partner being severely injured?

✦ . jeff the killer

Freaking the fuck out.

His first instinct is blind panic masked as rage. Blood makes him giddy—but not yours.

“Who did this?” His voice shakes as he crouches beside you, hands trembling. “Who fucking did this?”

Jeff presses his hoodie into the wound, even as it soaks red. He tries to laugh, but it comes out cracked. There’s no humor in the moment no matter how hard he tries to make you giggle, even just a smile would give him some relief.

“C’mon, don’t close your eyes. Look at me. You’re gonna be okay. I’m not letting you die, not when I just got you…”

He threatens every single person in the room. When he can make sure you’re steady, at least long enough for him to get you to EJ, he goes quiet. Deadly quiet. And whoever did it? They’ll wish they’d never been born.

✦ . ticci toby

Absolutely lost, unsure what to do.

He freezes. Just freezes. You’re hurt, and his brain short-circuits. It takes a beat, but then the panic hits like a tidal wave.

“Shit—shitshitshit—okay. Okay. Breathe. You’re breathing, right?”

He hovers, hands shaking, unable to decide whether to pick you up or yell for help. He does both.

When you reach for him, he nearly breaks.

“Don’t move! Don’t move, just—just stay with me, okay? You’ll be alright. I’ll fix it. I pro-promise.”

He carries you like something precious and doesn’t leave your side. Sleep? Eating? Not until you’re better.

✦ . eyeless jack

Goes emotionally numb—long enough, at least.

It’s surgical, controlled, and practiced perfection. He’s done these same movements on the proxies endless times, but his jaw is clenched so tightly it looks painful.

“Lie still. Don’t talk. I’ve got you.”

He’s already halfway through assessing the damage before you can even speak. Blood doesn’t faze him—he knows how bodies work, but watching you in pain has a different effect.

You notice his voice get gentler, more reassuring. That’s how he keeps from freaking himself out.

“This will hurt, but I can’t let you bleed out. I’m going to fix this, love. I swear to God, you’re not dying on me.”

Later, when you’re stable, he won’t say much, but he’ll sit at your bedside all night, eyes never leaving your sleeping form. It may seem possessive, but he needs to be close enough to hear the rhythmic beat of your heart in your chest or he’ll drive himself mad.

✦ . masky (tim wright)

Uncontrollable.

He’s angry at everything. At you for getting hurt, at himself for not stopping it, and at whoever’s responsible.

“What the fuck happened?” he barks, already pressing something to the wound.

He doesn’t say it, but you see the tears in his eyes.

“You keep your fucking eyes open. Don’t even think about it.”

Masky becomes hyper-focused, mechanical in his actions, but his hand won’t leave yours. Even as he snaps orders, even as he sews or stabilizes you just enough to clot the blood, and even as he has to forcefully lift you off the guard despite your pitiful crying.

Once it’s over, he drops the mask beside your bed and just sits, rubbing his face like he’s trying to wipe the guilt off. His fault or not, he’s taken it as a personal act against him.

✦ . hoody (brian thomas)

Deathly quiet in the most terrifying way.

He doesn’t say a word. Not at first.

Just kneels beside you, hands already working fast to stabilize. But there’s a tremble in his touch that you can feel despite your state.

“Shh,” he finally murmurs when you cry out. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

His tone is so soft—and you never hear him like this.

Brian lifts you in his arms like you weigh nothing, like you’ll break if he breathes wrong. For all he knows, you certainly could.

Later, when you’re safe, he won’t let anyone else near you. His hoodie stays wrapped around you even while you sleep, even as he watches the heart monitor like a hawk. He won’t leave until you’re up again.

✦ . ben drowned

Spiraling.

At first, he thinks it’s a joke. Then he sees the blood.

“No. Nope. Don’t—don’t do this.”

Ben glitches across the room to you in an instant, hands on your face, scanning your injuries like he’s buffering through a nightmare.

“Hey. Eyes on me. Don’t you dare pass out. Don’t you fucking dare.”

There’s real fear in his voice, the kind that cuts through even his arrogance.

Once you’re stable, he clings hard. Refuses to log off the mortal plane until you’re laughing again.

✦ . clockwork

Commanding, as if you could follow the orders.

“What the hell happened to you?” she barks—but it’s fear, not anger.

She presses her fingers into the wound and winces like she’s the one hurt.

“You dumbass. Why’d you take the hit?”

She works fast, precise, muttering curses under her breath as she keeps you conscious. If it takes grabbing you by the shoulders and shaking you back awake, so be it.

“You don’t get to die, got it? I didn’t come this far with you just to watch you bleed out.”

Later, she curls into bed beside you when you’re stable, whispering, “Don’t ever scare me like that again.”

✦ . laughing jack

Tries to find the humor. Fails miserably.

“Oh, look who decided to play with knives and lose,” he giggles, voice unsteady.

But when he sees the blood—real, dark, your blood—his smile falters.

“Oh no no no. This isn’t a joke. This isn’t funny. Not you. Never you.”

Jack doesn’t know how to fix it, but he tries. Hands clumsy, clown outfit soaked. He holds you like porcelain, like pottery crumbling in his arms. All he can do it cry out for help.

When you wake up, he’s humming a lullaby at your bedside, stuffed animal on your chest, eyes glowing like fading candles.

“Next time,” he whispers, “let me be the one who gets hurt, okay?”

✦ . slenderman

Pray to whatever god you believe in, man.

The air cracks. He appears in an instant, tendrils lifting you before you hit the floor.

His presence alone stills time. He doesn’t panic, but you feel the terror in the way his limbs tighten protectively, coiling just a little tighter than comfortable.

“Unacceptable,” his voice hums inside your head. “No one harms what’s mine.”

He doesn’t need medics. You’re healed within minutes by a pulsing energy, but it costs him energy in return. It doesn’t matter, whatever caused your pain has been erased from the universe within seconds.

Afterward, he keeps you hidden, locked in the safety of his realm. He holds you in silence, a powerful force cradling something fragile. It takes a long time before you can go anywhere without the looming presence following you around.

꩜ .ᐟ