#Thread: Instigator

[crimeronan]

if you are nice to people they will typically be nice to you. if you are mean to people they will not like you very much and also will sometimes be mean to you. this will make you sad and mad. if people are nice to you then you will feel happy and glad. when you are nice to people you will find fewer reasons to be very sad and very mad. follow for more wise life tips.

[mxtxfanatic]

Did a little bit of googling for something unrelated which led me to think of something. Y’all do know that Suika volunteered to do the official mdzs, right? Like, she was not scouted for the project, she was an opportunist that hopped onto it before 7seas reached out to any of the actual mdzs fan translators? Is this common knowledge in the fandom?

[thetwistedronin]

@ask-instigator-attorney [continued from here]

"Ohhh, I didn't drink all of it, did you want some?"

Miraculously, he is not yet slurring his words, but he's having to speak slower to avoid doing so.

[reallyhardy]

was going through some old files and found these cute as hell ~aesthetic~ edits i made for my old XM:A nightcrawler RP blog 🥺 like they're screamingly 2010s but made me feel INCREDIBLY nostalgic.......

[wavesoutbeingtossed]

The "Am I Allowed To Cry?" story reads to me like this:

I vowed not to cry anymore if we survived the Great War so I justified it. 

I didn't know if you'd care if I came back but at least I’m trying. The devil's in the details, but you got a friend in me, would it be enough if I could never give you peace?

I search for your dark side but what if I'm alright right here? Because I'm so terrified of if you ever walk away, but if the story's over, why am I still writing pages? I gave you so much, but it wasn't enough. What am I supposed to do if there's no you? This won't go back to normal, if it ever was, it's been years of hoping, and I keep saying it because 'cause I have to.

This ultraviolet morning light below tells me this love is worth the fight, and I wish you would come back, wish I'd never hung up the phone like I did and I wish you were right here, right now. You know I would stay forever if you say, "don't go," but you won't. If I had known what I'd known now I never would've played so nonchalant.

I wonder what we would've become if you were a better man, because you would've been the one if you were a better man. The battle's in your hands now but I would lay my armor down if you'd say you'd rather love than fight. Come on, don't leave me like this, I thought I had you figured out -- something's gone terribly wrong, you're all I wanted.

I could stand up and sing you a song but I don't wanna have to go that far. So, babe, if you know everything, tell me, why you couldn't see that when I left, I wanted you to chase after me? If you just said you're sorry I know that we could work it out somehow and if this was a movie, you'd be here by now.

But if I would've known how many pieces you had crumbled into I might've let them lay.

[aurouxa-potion-sin]

@pocketsizxxxdlawyer liked for a maid!Aurora starter~

Listen, the idea that Aurora needed to be dressed in a skimpy, bust-busting maid uniform while cleaning after hours seemed a little ridiculous, but this office paid SO well she always was the first to sign up for it.

She vacuumed the empty cubicles, wiped down and dusted desks and other surfaces, as well as the wall to ceiling windows that covered the office -- all that was left were the big wigs' offices.

And she'd complete them all, except for one-- Aurora opened the door without hesitation, only to jump seeing the lights still on and someone still obviously at the desk.

"Oh gosh, I'm sorry! I thought everyone was gone -- I just need to clean this office before I'm done." She explained, gesturing to the rest of the office before looking at him.

[parcxysm]

CAMELLIA ALDEN / TAG DROP

[stormtide-leviathan]

Has anyone written an AU where Snow stuck around in district 12 as a peacekeeper instead of returning to the capital and was there in Katniss’s time?

[mskwtz]

@ncmcrcy ➝ ♡

   he felt validated.   after everything, cobra kai lost and there was no coming back anymore. cobra kai was done. & while he was worried about tory and her own feelings about how things had ended the day prior, seeing their male captain get his ass kicked by robby had hawk feeling a little bit smug.  who  could  blame  him  ?  he'd been very vocally anti cobra kai since he'd left the dojo, and kwon jae-sung was an arrogant douchebag who got a piece of his own medicine. maybe hawk should have left it at that, minding his own business when he passed the other teen in the hotel lobby . . . but hawk was never really one to bite his tongue in the face of the enemy.   PLUS   IT   WAS   TOO   GOOD   TO   RESIST.   ❛ nice shiner, man. it suits you. ❜

[julietsf1]

The Line We Never Crossed - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: Lando Norris has been treating you like an afterthought all season, which would be fine if you hadn’t nearly kissed him last year. your new job in the paddock means you can’t avoid him, and his petty cold shoulder act is starting to feel personal. (7.5k words)

content: mutual pining, second-chance romance, slow-burn, Oscar being an instigator, French

AN: coucou mes anges <3 another one for you! big thanks for the overwhelming enthusiasm on my last lando fic :) it means a lot!!

...........................................................................

The night hummed with life; laughter spilling from Charles’s yacht, the distant pop of champagne corks, music vibrating through the decks. Monte Carlo never slept after a race, and tonight was no exception. The lights, the sound, the weight of celebration pressed in from all sides.

You’d only meant to escape for a minute. Just a moment to breathe.

But Lando had followed.

Now, the two of you sat at the edge of the dock, heels discarded beside you, the water lapping gently beneath your feet. The night air was thick with salt and summer, warm against your skin.

You’re alone.

The realization settled uncomfortably in your stomach.

Not because you didn’t want to be—you did—but because you weren’t sure why he was here, or what this was.

It wasn’t unusual, not exactly. You’d been friends for a while, hovering in the same circles, both Monaco-based when you weren’t traveling, and yet—this felt different.

Like a moment suspended between something and nothing.

Lando stretched beside you, legs outstretched, arms braced behind him. Then, with a casual sort of amusement, he murmured, “So, I heard you liked my curly hair.”

You turned to him immediately, narrowing your eyes.

"What?"

His grin was insufferable. "That’s what they’re saying.”

"Who’s ‘they’?"

"The people. The masses."

You huffed, rolling your eyes. "Your sources are questionable."

"So you’re not denying it?"

You bit back a smile, nudging him with your knee. “Lando, I swear—”

His laugh was soft, curling at the edges. 

You turned away, looking out toward the water instead.

The sea stretched endlessly, a dark expanse under the moon, dotted with distant lights from other yachts, other parties. The breeze carried the faintest hint of salt and champagne, warm and sticky against your skin.

You felt his gaze before you saw it.

When you glanced back, he was already looking at you.

The shift was barely noticeable, except suddenly the air felt heavier.

His hand inched closer—just enough for his fingers to ghost the wooden dock beside yours.

Your pulse spiked.

He leaned in.

Not dramatically. Not like some grand, sweeping moment in a film. It was slower, more uncertain—like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to.

Like he was waiting for you to stop him.

And you didn’t.

Your breath hitched.

Your body tilted, drawn into him like some unseen force, a thread tugging in the space between.

His fingertips brushed yours.

And then—

You both froze.

The spell broke.

The weight of reality crashed in, sharp and immediate.

What the hell are we doing?

You pulled back first. Forced out a small, awkward laugh.

Lando blinked, startled, his own body shifting back a second later. He exhaled sharply, dragging a hand through his curls, looking away like if he didn’t acknowledge it, it wouldn’t be real.

Silence.

Thick and suffocating.

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of the distance—or lack thereof.

Before either of you could say something, a voice cut through the night.

"Lando!"

Someone from the boat.

You turned toward the sound, blinking back into reality, the moment collapsing between you like a house of cards.

Lando hesitated—just for a second—then pushed himself up, brushing his hands against his jeans.

"Guess I should go."

"Yeah." Your voice came out quieter than you intended.

He didn’t move right away.

For a brief, fleeting second, you thought he might say something.

Then he just nodded, something unreadable flickering across his face before he turned and walked back toward the yacht.

You watched him go.

Your hands curled into fists against the wood.

The moment was gone.

…

The first time you see Lando Norris again, it’s almost anti-climactic.

No dramatic moment. No sharp intake of breath. No heart-stopping, soul-shattering collision of past and present. Just a stupidly hot Thursday afternoon in the Melbourne paddock, your brand-new team lanyard digging into the back of your neck, and the sudden realization that he’s here.

Which—obviously, he is. It’s the first race of the season, and this is his job. Just like it’s yours now.

Still, the knowledge sits awkwardly in your chest, the same way your new role at LVMH has been sitting awkwardly on your shoulders all week.

The partnership between Formula 1 and LVMH had been a big deal—a high-profile luxury collaboration that had the marketing team scrambling. When you’d been handed the opportunity to coordinate the on-site activations, it had seemed perfect. A step up, a challenge, an exciting, high-speed world that you’d already known intimately through years of association.

It had taken all of two minutes to realize the one major flaw in that plan.

You were going to see him.

Not just in passing, but constantly. Every weekend. Every city. Every press day and paddock club event and race debrief.

You’d thought you’d be fine.

And then, of course, you actually got here.

The Australian heat clings to you, sweat beading at the base of your neck as you weave through the paddock, passing familiar faces and nodding to a few you don’t quite know yet. It’s barely midday, but the place is alive—reporters setting up, engineers darting between garages, photographers angling for early shots of the drivers.

And then you spot Charles and Oscar.

Charles is leaning against a barrier near the Ferrari hospitality entrance, dressed in his usual paddock-day attire—team-issued shirt, sunglasses, that effortlessly casual Monaco ease that somehow never looks sweaty, even in 30-degree weather.

He grins when he spots you.

Oscar, beside him, looks as serious as ever, though his eyes flick over to you with mild interest.

"Ah, look who it is," Charles says, a grin curling at the edge of his mouth.

"Miss me already?" you reply smoothly.

"Obviously," he says, pulling you in for a brief hug.

Charles adjusts his sunglasses, smirking. “So, have you seen your favorite papaya yet?”

Your stomach plummets.

"Papaya?" Oscar echoes, head tilting slightly. "Wait—she’s friends with Lando?"

"Friends is a strong word," you say immediately.

"Oh, they go way back," Charles adds, clearly enjoying himself.

Oscar perks up like a cat spotting something mildly entertaining. "This is brand-new, highly relevant information. Why was I not briefed?"

"Because there’s nothing to brief you on," you say flatly.

"See, the fact that you’re saying that makes me think there’s everything to brief me on," Oscar counters.

"Agreed," Charles nods, pleased.

"Alright," Oscar clasps his hands together, "give me the timeline. We talking childhood friends? F1-era friends? Lovers turned enemies? Enemies turned lovers?"

"Oh my god," you mutter.

"I’m just collecting data," Oscar says innocently.

"Don’t worry, mate, I have the data," Charles cuts in.

Your stomach drops.

"Charles," you warn.

But he’s already too deep.

"So," Charles leans in like he’s about to deliver groundbreaking gossip, "Monaco, last year. My yacht afterparty. Except these two were not at the party because they were too busy having a moment on the dock."

Oscar’s eyebrows shoot up. "Oh, now we’re talking."

"Alone," Charles continues, "feet in the water, looking all dramatic under the moonlight—"

"That’s not what happened," you cut in.

"I choose to believe it is," Oscar says.

"Anyway," Charles waves a hand, "it was tense. And then—get this—Lando leans in."

Oscar immediately slaps a hand over his mouth. "No. Way."

"Way," Charles nods.

"And then?"

"And then... nothing."

Oscar looks personally offended. "So, they didn’t kiss?"

"Nope."

"Did they talk about it after?"

"Not even once."

Oscar blinks.

Then he turns to you, dead serious.

"So what you’re telling me is that I’ve had to listen to Lando talk about absolute nonsense for an entire year, and this—which is actually interesting—never once came up?"

"Apparently," Charles smirks.

Oscar shakes his head, sighing. "Honestly, I feel betrayed."

"Well, he’s been avoiding me since I got here, so the story ends ," you added, shooting daggers at Charles.

"Oh, that’s just classic repressed feelings," Oscar says without hesitation.

"Thank you," Charles grins.

"It’s textbook," Oscar agrees.

"I hate you both."

"Deflection," Oscar says immediately.

"Textbook," Charles repeats.

Before you can actually walk away, the air shifts.

And then—Lando walks in.

Lando moves through the paddock the same way he always does—brimming with energy, unapologetically loud, just a little bit chaotic, like a human embodiment of a high-voltage current. It’s almost impressive, really, how someone can be so unrelentingly themselves at all times.

And yet, at this moment, it’s also deeply annoying.

Oscar and Charles, mid-conversation, immediately stop talking. Not in a natural, casual way, but in the very deliberate, slightly too-obvious way of people who are absolutely clocking the tension.

You resist the urge to fidget, to adjust your stance or smooth down your shirt or do literally anything other than exist in his vicinity. Instead, you steel yourself, ignoring the way your pulse ticks just a little too fast, and force yourself to look entirely unbothered.

Lando doesn’t see you at first.

His attention lands on Oscar, and with his usual grin, he strides forward.

"What’s up, mate?"

Before Oscar can respond, Lando reaches out and promptly ruffles his hair like an annoying older brother, sending it into a complete mess.

"Jesus—" Oscar immediately flails, swatting his hands away.

Lando just laughs, completely undeterred, before turning his attention to Charles.

"Mate," he greets, clapping a firm hand on Charles’s shoulder, nodding like they’re about to discuss something profoundly important.

And then, finally—his eyes land on you.

It happens fast, but you still catch the moment of hesitation. The flicker of recognition, the slight pause, the way his expression doesn’t quite shift but still seems to hold something uncertain.

Like he wasn’t expecting you.

Like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the fact that you’re standing right there.

It lasts for less than a second, barely a blink.

And then—just as quickly—it’s gone.

His face smooths back into its usual easy confidence, and without so much as a hello, a nod, anything, he simply turns back to Oscar.

"Let’s go. Time for interviews."

And just like that, he’s gone.

Just like that, you don’t exist.

Oscar’s jaw actually drops. Charles lets out a low whistle, slowly pushing his sunglasses up his nose like he just witnessed something highly entertaining.

Your stomach twists, but you keep your expression neutral, steady.

"Well," Charles murmurs after a beat, exhaling dramatically, "that was dramatic."

Oscar leans in slightly, lowering his voice like he’s about to deliver classified information.

"He just sneakily glanced at her before leaving," 

You shoot him a sharp glare.

"Drop it."

Oscar grins, miming a zip across his lips, but the way his eyes glint with curiosity tells you this is far from over.

…

The Miami Grand Prix shouldn’t feel like a fever dream. And yet, as you step into the nightclub where McLaren’s victory party is already in full swing, that’s exactly what it is.

The music pulses through the air, the bass thrumming beneath your feet. Neon lights flicker, casting glows of electric blue and deep orange across the space, the colors mirroring the McLaren celebration. Champagne bottles pop in the distance, drinks spill, bodies move to the beat. It’s loud. It’s chaotic. It’s exactly the kind of place where reality warps, where things feel less real and more like a scene you’ll have to piece together tomorrow.

Lando won today. Not just a podium, but a full-fledged victory.

McLaren’s third 1-2 of the season. A statement race. A moment that will be replayed for years.

It’s everything he’s worked for. Everything he deserves.

So it should be easy—normal—to just be happy for him. To raise a glass, toast to his success, and not feel the sting of something unnamed creeping in around the edges.

"Tu es avec nous ou bien tu es partie dans tes pensées, là?" (Are you with us, or have you disappeared into your thoughts?)

A hand waves in front of your face, snapping you back to reality.

You blink, refocusing on Alexandra, who looks highly amused, her long dark hair shining under the blue-tinged club lights. Beside her, Charles is watching with thinly veiled smugness.

"Hein?" (Huh?)

"Elle plane complètement," (She’s totally zoning out) Charles quips, nudging Alexandra.

"Grave," (Seriously,) Alexandra agrees, smirking. She leans in slightly, voice dropping into a low, teasing lilt. "À quoi tu penses, ma belle? Ou… à qui?" (What are you thinking about, beautiful? Or… who?)

You immediately roll your eyes.

"Vous êtes insupportables," (You two are unbearable) you grumble, taking a sip of your drink.

"On t’adore aussi," (We love you too) Charles grins, entirely unbothered.

"D’ailleurs," (By the way) Alexandra says, tilting her head knowingly. "C’est quoi cette histoire avec Oscar?" (What’s this thing with Oscar?)

"Quoi? Rien," (What? Nothing) you say automatically.

"Ohhh, rien du tout?" (Ohhh, nothing at all?) she presses, eyebrows raised. "Parce que franchement, vous êtes inséparables ces derniers temps." (Because honestly, you two have been inseparable lately.)

"Bah ouais," (Well yeah) Charles hums thoughtfully, nursing his drink. Then, as if on cue, he grins knowingly. "Mais non, elle aime bien les Brits." (But no, she likes Brits.)

You whip around, giving him a look. "Excuse-moi?" (Excuse me?)

"C’est vrai," (It’s true) Charles insists, laughing as he leans back in his chair, clearly enjoying himself. 

You cut him off immediately with a playful punch to his shoulder.

"Ferme-la," (Shut up) you mutter, though your lips twitch slightly.

"Aïe," (Ow) Charles grips his arm dramatically. "T’as vu comment elle me traite, Alexandra?" (Did you see how she treats me, Alexandra?)

"Je pense qu’elle se défend bien," (I think she’s just defending herself) Alexandra muses, smiling behind her drink.

Charles exhales, shaking his head. "Bref, parlons des choses sérieuses." (Anyway, let’s talk about serious matters)

You shoot him a warning look. "Si c’est encore un commentaire sur les Brits—" (If it’s another comment about the Brits—)

"J’allais dire qu’on devrait aller s’asseoir, mais bon," (I was going to say we should find a table, but okay) Charles smirks, standing up.

You glare, but follow.

Finding a spot isn’t easy—the entire club is a chaotic mess of celebrating McLaren personnel, F1 drivers, and the usual crowd that comes with a high-profile post-race party.

Eventually, the three of you manage to claim a booth toward the side, partially tucked away from the main dance floor.It’s the perfect vantage point—close enough to feel the energy, far enough to actually hold a conversation.

You barely have time to settle in before a familiar voice chimes in.

"Ah, you actually came."

You look up just in time to see Oscar sliding into the seat across from you, grinning.

"Did you think I wouldn’t?" you quip.

"Honestly? Wasn’t sure," Oscar admits, raising an eyebrow. "But I’m glad you’re here. McLaren’s big night. Wouldn’t be the same without you."

You snort. "Oh yeah, because I’m so crucial to the McLaren garage."

"Exactly," he nods, completely serious.

You roll your eyes, but there’s warmth behind it.

"Anyway, get up," Oscar says, standing again. "We’re getting drinks."

"I have a drink," you point out, lifting your glass.

"Yeah, but I don’t, and I’m using you as an excuse to escape whatever conversation Charles is about to start."

You glance back at Charles, who is currently mid-sentence with Alexandra, looking vaguely philosophical.

You stand. "Good call."

Oscar drags you through the crowd with practiced ease, weaving past clusters of people already deep into celebratory rounds. The bass thrums through the floor, conversations blend into the music, and somewhere across the room, someone pops open another bottle of champagne. The whole night feels like it exists in a strange, weightless bubble, detached from reality.

By the time you reach the bar, the air feels heavier, the neon glow casting everything in shades of electric blue and orange. Oscar leans against the counter, exhaling like he’s just completed a mission.

"Alright," he sighs, nodding toward the bartender. "Now we can finally talk without being interrogated."

You snort, crossing your arms. "Big words from someone who’s been doing plenty of interrogating himself tonight."

"I prefer the term ‘investigative journalism,’" Oscar corrects smoothly, his tone just dry enough to make you huff out a laugh.

You shake your head, amused despite yourself, despite the way something unsettled lingers in your chest.

"By the way," Oscar adds casually, glancing over at you with a knowing look. "You look stunning tonight."

You narrow your eyes. "Flattery? What do you want?"

"You to stop pretending," he replies, flagging down the bartender.

Your stomach tugs slightly, a quiet warning.

"Pretending about what?"

Oscar doesn’t even bother looking at you as he gestures vaguely toward the dance floor. "That you’re over it."

You hesitate, fingers tapping against the bar.

"It doesn’t matter anymore," you say after a beat.

"Right," Oscar says, completely unconvinced. "Which is exactly why you’re about to spend the next five minutes trying not to look at him."

"I’m not—"

And then, before you can finish the thought, your gaze flickers toward the dance floor.

Lando is there.

The neon glow casts sharp edges over his features, blue light catching in the waves of his hair. He’s grinning, saying something to the woman pressed close to his side. Tall, gorgeous, the kind of effortless beauty that doesn’t require second-guessing. She tilts her head, lips barely brushing his ear, laughing at whatever he’s whispered.

His hand rests on her waist, fingers light but familiar.

A dull pressure settles in your chest, creeping in before you can push it away.

You tell yourself it doesn’t mean anything. That it’s normal, expected. That after all this time, you shouldn’t be feeling anything at all.

And yet—

Just as the thought forms, Lando’s gaze lifts.

The second his eyes meet yours, it’s like something tightens, sharpens, pulling everything into focus.

Even across the room, you feel the weight of it.

Neither of you move.

The music swells, bodies shift, champagne glasses clink, but the moment stretches longer than it should.

Then—without hesitation, he spins her.

It’s smooth, calculated in a way that feels deliberate, too easy to be accidental. His back turns, breaking the connection between you like a slammed door.

Oscar watches the entire thing unfold.

After a beat, he exhales, turning back toward the bar, plastering on the most exaggeratedly casual expression you’ve ever seen.

"Another Mojito sounds good, doesn’t it?"

You huff out a laugh, shaking your head.

"Yeah," you murmur. "It really does."

When you turn to order, you miss the way Lando glances back over his shoulder.

But Oscar doesn’t.

...

The first morning of Monaco race week feels different.

The air is crisp, charged with the kind of anticipation that only exists in cities built for spectacle. There’s an undeniable energy, a hum that seems to vibrate through the winding streets, through the terrace cafés and superyachts lining the harbor. It’s a city that’s vibrant even on a normal day, but during Grand Prix week? It practically crackles.

And it’s home.

Which is why, despite the fact that your schedule is packed, your inbox is overflowing, and you technically have a job to do, you’ve spent your morning making pancakes.

Because priorities.

Balancing two containers stacked with still-warm pancakes, you navigate through the paddock with ease, stopping first at Charles’s motorhome.

You barely get a chance to knock before Charles pulls open his door, eyebrows lifting when he sees what you’re holding.

"T’es un ange, vraiment," (You’re an angel, truly) he says, grinning as he takes the container from your hands without hesitation.

"C’est juste des pancakes, Charles," (It’s just pancakes, Charles) you reply, amused.

"Non, non, c’est un acte d’amour," (No, no, this is an act of love) he insists, dramatically pressing a hand to his chest before lifting the lid.

You roll your eyes, but your lips twitch. This is exactly why you like Charles—because every interaction is either chaotic or slightly ridiculous. Usually both.

" T’as décidé de lancer une boulangerie ambulante ou quoi?" (Did you decide to start a traveling bakery or what?) he asks, already picking up a pancake with his bare hands like a menace.

"Pas pour tout le monde," (Not for everyone) you smirk.

"Ah, je suis privilégié, alors." (Ah, so I’m privileged, then)

"T’as toujours aimé être traité comme un prince, non?" (You’ve always liked being treated like a prince, haven’t you?)

"Exactement," he says, nodding solemnly. "Tu me comprends trop bien." (You understand me too well)

Before you can fire back, a new voice enters the conversation.

"What’s all this?"

You glance over your shoulder just in time to see Carlos Sainz strolling past, still in a Williams hoodie, his hair an absolute glorious mess.

"Morning, Carlitos," you greet, smiling as you pull him into a hug.

"Morning," he replies, hugging you back before spotting the pancakes. His expression immediately shifts to pure interest. "And what exactly do we have here?"

"Homemade, fresh, and delivered with love," you say, handing him a plate.

"I’m so glad I walked by at the right time," Carlos grins, already taking a bite.

Charles shakes his head. "I knew you’d steal my breakfast."

"I didn’t steal anything," Carlos says, pointing at you. "She offered. Huge difference."

"She only offers because she’s too nice," Charles retorts.

"Yeah, that’s definitely the reason," you deadpan.

Carlos gives a thumbs-up, still chewing. "Ten out of ten. Would accept again."

You laugh, stepping back. "Well, I have another stop to make before you two start fighting over the last one."

"Tell Oscar he’s not worthy," Charles calls after you.

"Noted."

…

The McLaren garage is already buzzing by the time you step inside, a steady hum of engineers, team personnel, and the occasional blur of papaya moving past. You barely take it in, though—your focus is on one person.

You find Oscar exactly where you expect him—perched on the edge of a counter, legs swinging idly, his attention completely fixed on the screen of his iPad.

You step closer, peering over his shoulder.

"Are you—wait, are you watching The Office?"

Oscar pauses mid-chew, glances at you, then tilts the screen just enough for you to see.

Season 2, Episode 4.

You stare.

"Oscar."

"What?" he says, around another bite of pancake.

"You’re watching it at a glacial pace," you accuse, setting the pancake container beside him. "For someone so fast on track, you’re painfully slow with TV shows."

Oscar smirks, finally glancing up.

"I told you, I don’t binge-watch things in one sitting like you do."

"That’s not a flex, Osc. That’s just a character flaw."

"I like to savor things," he argues, grabbing another pancake like it’s part of his defense.

"No, you like to take six months to finish a single season," you counter, crossing your arms.

"Tell that to my racecraft."

"Oh, I will," you say, grinning. "Right after I tell everyone you still haven’t finished White Lotus."

Oscar lets out a long, genuinely pained groan, dropping his head back against the cabinet.

"You’re the worst."

"I’m just speaking facts."

"You’re speaking like someone who finished all of Breaking Bad in four days."

"Five, actually," you correct.

"See? That’s unhinged behavior."

"It’s called commitment," you say, shrugging.

Oscar shakes his head, taking another bite, clearly accepting his fate. The conversation flows easily, like all your conversations do—comfortable, familiar, like second nature.

Which is probably why you don’t notice Lando walking in until the energy shifts.

It’s subtle—not a full stop, not an obvious shift in tone, but a flicker of something tense in the air.

Lando walks in like he always does—quick, purposeful, in the middle of something. But as soon as his gaze lands on you sitting beside Oscar, there’s a beat of hesitation.

It’s a fraction of a second—barely long enough to register—but you catch it anyway. The way his shoulders go rigid for half a breath, the way his gaze flickers over you before smoothing into something unreadable.

Then, just as quickly, he masks it.

"Oscar," Lando says, tone clipped, neutral. He doesn’t acknowledge you. Not even a glance.

The sting of it is instantaneous, even though you pretend not to care.

Oscar, still chewing, looks up. "Yeah?"

"The whole team’s been looking for you," Lando says, gesturing vaguely toward the engineers. "We need to go over a new strategy."

"Right," Oscar nods, setting his plate down and dusting his hands off. "I’ll be there in a sec."

Lando doesn’t leave immediately.

Instead, he lingers—half-turned away, but still close enough that you can see the tension in his posture. 

Then, with an exhale just sharp enough to sound frustrated, he turns and walks off.

Oscar watches him go.

Then he slowly turns back to you, chewing with far too much thought behind his expression.

And then he gives you the look.

One that very clearly says: What the fuck was that?

You lift an eyebrow, also a bit confused by what just happened.

"Don’t look at me like that," you mutter.

Oscar snorts. "Right. Because I’m the weird one here."

"Glad we agree," you deadpan.

But as Oscar grabs his plate and follows after Lando, you can’t shake the feeling that this weekend just got a lot more complicated.

…

Singapore is breathtaking at night.

The humid air clings to your skin, thick and warm, but the city more than makes up for it. The skyline is a glowing masterpiece, skyscrapers illuminated against the inky sky, the Marina Bay waters reflecting every vibrant light.There’s something surreal about being here during the race weekend—the most beautiful night race on the calendar, the entire city pulsing with energy, every street feeling like it belongs to Formula 1.

You walk leisurely through Gardens by the Bay, your steps slow against the backdrop of towering Supertrees, their neon lights casting a futuristic glow over the path. The air is still buzzing with life—distant laughter, the hum of nearby conversations, the occasional whoosh of a breeze pushing through the palm leaves.

Beside you, Lily Zneimer, Oscar’s girlfriend, matches your pace effortlessly, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her lightweight sweater.

You met her earlier in the evening, introduced through Oscar with the casual ease of someone who genuinely thought you’d get along. And, to be fair—he was right.

Lily is incredibly easy to talk to—soft-spoken but sharp, with a warmth that makes conversation flow naturally. You clicked instantly, which is why, when she asked if you wanted to step out for a walk, you didn’t hesitate.

"I still can’t get over how beautiful it is here at night," Lily muses, tilting her head to admire the towering Supertree structures above.

"It’s insane," you agree, glancing up at the web of glowing branches stretching toward the sky. "It almost doesn’t feel real."

"Right?" she laughs lightly. "It looks like something out of a sci-fi movie. Oscar loves this place."

You hum, smiling. "You’ve been to Singapore before?"

"Just once," Lily nods, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I came last season, but it was a short trip. It’s nice actually having time to enjoy it this year."

"Yeah, the races kind of turn everything into a blur," you admit.

"Exactly," she agrees, before pausing just long enough for you to notice the slight shift in her tone. "Speaking of racing…"

You glance over.

She’s smiling, but there’s something pointed behind it.

"I heard you’ve been having some… trouble with his teammate."

Your steps falter slightly.

"Trouble?" you repeat.

"Maybe that’s the wrong word," Lily says, tilting her head in thought. "Let’s say… tension."

You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. "I wouldn’t call it trouble, but… yeah. It’s a bit weird."

Lily nods knowingly.

Then, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world, she drops: "Oscar said Lando was annoyed with him after the whole pancake thing in Monaco."

Your stomach pulls tight.

"Wait—annoyed?" you blink. "Why?"

Lily raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised. "He never mentioned it?"

"Not even once," you say slowly, trying to piece together what you’re hearing.

"They usually get on well," Lily continues, studying your reaction carefully. "But after that, apparently, he barely spoke to him. It was noticeable enough for Oscar to bring it up, which says a lot."

You had assumed that whatever had happened in Monaco—whatever weird, quiet grudge Lando had been holding—had been aimed solely at you. That he had ignored you and moved on.

But now…

Now you’re hearing that he had barely spoken to Oscar that whole weekend?

You stare ahead, processing.

"I thought it was just me," you admit, mostly to yourself.

Lily watches you for a moment before giving you a gentle nudge. "Maybe you should talk to him. Just clear the air."

You open your mouth, hesitate, then exhale through your nose.

"I don’t know if that would help," you say honestly.

Lily hums, thoughtful. "Maybe. But ignoring it doesn’t seem to be working either."

You don’t have a counter for that.

…

Mexico city is loud and bright, and the warmth in the air feels almost celebratory. Alexandra had been talking about this dinner she was hosting for weeks, making sure everyone knew it was the event before the race weekend officially kicked off. If the turnout is anything to go by, no one wanted to miss it. The restaurant is stunning—high ceilings, flickering candlelight, the scent of fresh tortillas and smoky mezcal curling through the air. It’s the kind of place that makes you feel like the whole night is stretched out in front of you, waiting to unfold into something memorable.

You arrive in high spirits, weaving through the tables, greeting familiar faces. The atmosphere is relaxed, conversations overlapping in different languages, the soft clink of glasses mingling with bursts of laughter. It doesn’t take long before you find yourself sliding into a seat beside Oscar, who acknowledges your presence with an easy grin.

“Ah, look who finally decided to show up,” he teases, nudging your arm as you set your bag down.

“Had to mentally prepare for whatever nonsense was waiting for me at this table,” you reply, scanning the group.

Carlos, sitting across from you, lets out a dramatic sigh. “I’d say welcome, but I think you already know you’ve walked into enemy territory.”

You raise an eyebrow, amused. “That bad already?”

“Carlos is just upset that I’m his biggest threat now,” Oscar chimes in, reaching for a glass of water. “He’s still not over the last race.”

Carlos scoffs. “You think too highly of yourself.”

“You should be honored,” Oscar counters smoothly. “Most people would love to be my rival.”

“Por Dios,” Carlos mutters under his breath, laughingly shaking his head.

Max, who had been swirling his gin and tonic lazily, finally looks up, unimpressed. “You two are still on this?”

Carlos points at him accusingly. “You’re just saying that because you don’t care.”

Max shrugs. “I care about my cats.”

Charles smirks. “And somehow, you still win races.”

Max lifts his glass as if to toast himself. “It’s all about balance.”

Oscar turns to you, shaking his head. “This is what I deal with on a daily basis.”

“Sounds tough,” you say, completely unsympathetic.

Max leans back, eyeing you playfully. “So, what do you think? Who wins if they go head-to-head next race?”

You hum, pretending to give it serious thought. “I think I’ll stay neutral and just enjoy the show.”

Carlos nods approvingly. “Smart answer.”

Oscar rolls his eyes. “Coward.”

The night moves on, drinks are refilled, plates are passed around, and the warmth of the evening settles into your bones. The food is incredible, Alexandra beaming every time someone compliments her choice of venue. The conversation is easy, filled with teasing and inside jokes, but even through the laughter, you can feel a certain presence in the room. A presence that, despite your best efforts, you’re hyper-aware of.

Lando arrives late, but when he does, it’s impossible to miss him.

His voice carries across the restaurant before you even see him, his laughter breaking through the steady hum of conversation. When he finally makes his way over, he’s in full form—grinning, animated, throwing an arm around Max like they’ve just won something. He slides into a seat between Carlos and Max, immediately falling into conversation, his energy big enough to pull focus. But every time you’re around?

He says nothing.

You don’t think anyone else notices at first. He’s still himself, still cracking jokes, still pulling people into conversations, still loud and impossible to ignore. But whenever you’re in the same circle, whenever your paths inevitably cross, he keeps his focus carefully elsewhere. You catch him sneaking glances when he thinks you’re not paying attention, his gaze flickering your way for barely a second before shifting back. And when he joins a conversation you’re already in, he acts as if you don’t exist at all.

You think you might be imagining it, but then you catch Oscar watching. Charles, too. And when the opportunity presents itself, when the moment naturally shifts and they see their chance, they both take it.

Charles stretches with an exaggerated sigh. “I think I need another drink.”

Oscar pushes his chair back immediately. “Yeah, same.”

You narrow your eyes at them. “Really?”

“Oh yeah,” Oscar nods, already standing.

“Absolutely,” Charles adds, following suit.

They’re gone before you can argue.

And just like that, it’s just you and Lando.

The air changes immediately. 

Lando drums his fingers against the table, gaze flicking briefly toward the bar, then back to the space in front of him. He doesn’t look at you, but it still feels like he’s aware of you, like the silence between you is taking up more space than it should.

You let the quiet stretch for a moment before finally breaking it.

“So,” you say casually, leaning back. “How are you?”

He glances at you, just for a second, and something shifts in his expression. Like he wasn’t expecting the question. Like he was caught off guard. You think, for a moment, that he might actually answer, that he might let whatever this is crack just a little.

But then, just as fast, his face smooths over.

“Could be better,” he says simply.

And then, without another word, he stands and walks off to talk to Carlos, leaving you there.

…

The paddock is still buzzing as the sun starts to set over Abu Dhabi, casting long shadows against the garages. It’s the usual pre-race chaos—engineers moving in and out, last-minute interviews happening outside team motorhomes—but your world has narrowed down to a single conversation.

You lean against the doorframe of Oscar’s driver room, arms crossed, watching as he sips from a water bottle like he hasn’t just blindsided you with his latest observation.

“You know he’s jealous, right?”

You blink. “I’m sorry, what?”

Oscar sighs dramatically, shaking his head. “Lando. He’s jealous. And you, my friend, are being absolutely insufferable about it.”

You scoff. “I’m insufferable?”

“Yes.” He nods, completely serious. “The ignoring-you thing? The weird, brooding glances? The fact that he’s acting like a Victorian husband who just found out his wife is writing letters to another man?”

Your lips part in disbelief. “That is a ridiculous comparison.”

Oscar raises an eyebrow. “Is it? Because if he had a top hat, I’m pretty sure he’d be angrily adjusting it every time you walked past.”

Despite yourself, you let out a short laugh. “That is not what’s happening.”

“It is what’s happening.” Oscar tilts his head, unimpressed. “And you’ve just been letting it happen all season.”

Your arms tighten over your chest. “I don’t see how that’s my problem.”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s not a problem, it’s just… a situation you could easily resolve if you both stopped being so painfully repressed.”

You glare. “We are not repressed.”

Oscar snorts. “Oh, right. My mistake. Just two people who definitely don’t have unresolved tension standing in opposite corners of the paddock, staring dramatically across the room like they’re in a period drama.”

You groan, rubbing your temples. “I hate that you’ve started narrating my life.”

“Then fix your storyline.”

There’s something about the way he says it—calm, like he already knows he’s right, like he’s just waiting for you to figure it out yourself—that makes your stomach turn. You hate that there’s truth in his words, that deep down, you already know what’s happening here. You hate that ignoring it has been easier.

And you really hate that Oscar sees through you so easily.

“Just talk to him already,” he says, exasperated.

You huff, pretending to check your nonexistent watch. “Wow, would you look at the time? That’s enough of Oscar’s therapy hour.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

You push off the doorframe. “I have very important things to do.”

Oscar smirks. “Like knocking on Lando’s door?”

“Like avoiding you,” you correct, already walking away.

He grins, but doesn’t push it further. “Let me know how it goes.”

…

Your heart is pounding by the time you knock.

It’s stupid. You’ve seen him a thousand times before. You’ve spent years around him. But something about this—about actively choosing to be here, about acknowledging something unspoken after months of pretending—makes your nerves coil tight in your stomach.

There’s a brief pause, the muffled sound of movement inside, and then the door swings open.

Lando stands before you, still in his race suit, half unzipped, sleeves tied loosely around his waist, the fabric clinging to the remaining sweat on his skin. His hair is a mess, damp, sticking up in different directions. Hot.

He looks at you, and for the first time, he doesn’t try to mask it.

There’s no indifference. No forced distance.

Just recognition.

“Hey,” he says, voice lower than usual, rough around the edges.

You swallow, suddenly very aware of how close he is, of the heat radiating off his skin, of the way his fingers twitch slightly against the doorframe.

“I just…” You hesitate, feeling a little stupid, a little out of place. “I wanted to say good luck. And that I’m happy to see you doing so well.”

Lando’s expression flickers. Not surprise, not exactly, but something close.

You don’t give yourself time to overthink it.

Before you can stop yourself, you step forward and wrap your arms around him.

He freezes.

It’s a split second—his whole body tensing like he doesn’t know what to do with himself. His arms remain stiff at his sides, and for a moment, you think this was a mistake.

Then, slowly, he exhales.

His fingers brush against your back, hesitant at first—then firmer, pressing lightly against your spine. He doesn’t hold you tightly, but he holds you.

Your face is against his shoulder, and for a moment, neither of you move.

Then, just as quickly as you stepped into him, you pull away.

You meet his eyes for a brief second, your pulse a little uneven, and then, just to break the tension, you flash a small grin.

"Right. So. Uh… don’t crash, I guess?"

Lando lets out a short, breathy laugh—like he wasn’t expecting that.

And then you turn on your heel and walk off, leaving him standing in the doorway, watching you go, hands still hovering slightly at his sides like he’s not sure what just happened.

…

The paddock is quiet now, the chaos of the race replaced by a slow, methodical dismantling of the weekend. Mechanics move with practiced ease, packing up equipment, coiling cables, loading crates. The bright lights above cast long shadows across the pit lane, stretching out into the empty grandstands.

You lean against the railing of the paddock terrace, high above it all, watching the world wind down. There’s something almost peaceful about it—the way everything slows after the high-energy storm of the season’s final race.

Oscar was supposed to meet you here, but you don’t mind the solitude. After months of back-to-back weekends, the rare quiet feels like a luxury.

Then, you sense someone stepping beside you.

You don’t even have to turn. You already know it’s him.

Still, when you do, Lando is watching you.

His race suit is still tied around his waist, curls damp from the post-race exhaustion. His face is unreadable, but his presence is steady, intentional.

“Hey, you,” he murmurs.

You smile softly. “Hey.”

For the first time in months, standing next to him doesn’t feel like balancing on a tightrope. There’s no hesitation in the silence, no unsaid words pressing against the edges. Just a quiet that feels comfortable. Familiar.

Lando exhales, staring down at the pit lane below. His fingers tap lightly against the railing, like he’s debating something.

Then—he sighs.

“I’m sorry.”

You blink, caught off guard. “For what?”

A small, self-deprecating laugh escapes him. “For how I’ve been acting all season. For ignoring you. For being… whatever the hell that was.”

You nod, gaze flickering back to the track. “Yeah. You were kind of a dick.”

He chuckles under his breath. “I know.”

There’s a weight in the air, but it isn’t suffocating. Just something that has been waiting too long to be acknowledged.

Lando shifts closer, resting his elbows on the railing. His hands grip the metal a little tighter than usual.

“I didn’t handle things well,” he admits.

You glance at him. “What things?”

His jaw tightens. He hesitates. Then—

“Seeing you every weekend. Looking all happy with Oscar. It was—” He stops himself, inhaling deeply. “It was fucking unbearable.”

You cut him off before he can spiral. “Oscar was just being nice. Made me feel welcome.”

It’s a subtle dig. You know it. He knows it.

Lando scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well, I hated it.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “Lando… do you know what was actually nice about spending time with Oscar?”

His lips press together, shoulders tense. “Enlighten me.”

You keep your voice casual, but there’s an edge to your words.

“Being treated like I exist.”

His jaw flexes. He hears the meaning beneath it.

Lando shifts, his weight rocking slightly onto his heels. He stares down at the pit lane for a long moment, then exhales slowly.

“It’s hard, you know?” His voice is quieter now, rougher. “Trying to move on from something when it still feels unfinished.”

He swallows, glancing at you, then, carefully—

“I didn’t think I moved on.”

Your breath catches.

“What?”

He looks at you then—really looks at you. There’s something raw in his expression, something vulnerable.

“I thought ignoring you would make it easier. That if I acted like you weren’t there, maybe I could get over it.” He lets out a dry laugh, shaking his head. “It didn’t fucking work.”

You exhale, finally understanding.

“Truthfully?” You pause, then admit, “I never moved on either.”

His eyes flicker with something unreadable. Relief. Frustration. Longing. Maybe all of it at once.

“Then why did we do this to ourselves?” he mutters.

You shake your head. “Because we’re idiots.”

He laughs, breathless, like he can’t believe it. “Yeah.”

The weight of the moment settles between you both. It stretches, thickens, morphs into something tangible. Something inevitable.

Then, suddenly, the air shifts.

Lando’s gaze drops—to your lips.

It lingers.

Your heart pounds, but you don’t move away this time.

Hesitantly—like he’s giving you the chance to stop this, to pull back—he leans in.

And you meet him halfway.

The kiss is soft at first. Tentative, hesitant, like he’s testing the waters, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. His lips brush against yours, light as air, but the way his fingers graze your jaw, the way his breath catches, gives him away.

Then, slowly, something shifts.

His hands slip to your waist, fingers pressing against the fabric of your shirt, tentative at first, then firmer. He pulls you flush against him, your bodies aligning in a way that feels too natural, too easy, like you were always meant to be here.

And then he deepens it.

Not rushed, not desperate but slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring it, like he’s trying to make up for every wasted second. Like he knows this moment is fragile and he doesn’t want to risk breaking it.

Your fingers slide into his curls, damp from the night, messy from the hours he’s spent in his helmet, but softer than you imagined. The second you do, he exhales—a sound somewhere between a sigh and relief, like this is what he’s been waiting for, like something inside him is finally settling into place.

The world shrinks.

The paddock is forgotten.

It’s just him.

Just you.

Just this.

And when you finally pull away, your breath is uneven, your hands still tangled in his hair.

Neither of you speak. You don’t need to.

Your forehead rests against his, both of you lingering in the space between, breath mingling, hearts still racing—like neither of you are quite ready to let go just yet

Lando grins—dazed, breathless, like he’s still processing it.

“So… does this mean you’ll bring me pancakes in Monaco next year?”

You groan, shoving his chest.

“You just kissed me, and that’s the first thing you say?”

“It’s an important question.”

You roll your eyes. “I’ll consider it.”

Lando raises an eyebrow. “Consider it?”

“Yes. If you keep this up.”

He grins. “That shouldn’t be too hard.”

…

bonus scene 

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. About time.”

You both jolt apart, startled, turning to see Oscar standing there, arms crossed, looking equal parts exasperated and amused.

Lando lets out an actual whimper before burying his face in your shoulder. “No. Nope. This is a dream. This isn’t real.”

Oscar tilts his head. “Nah, it’s real. And I wish it wasn’t.”

You press your lips together, trying not to laugh. “How long have you been standing there?”

Oscar throws his hands up. “Long enough to regret every decision that’s brought me to this moment.”

Lando, still hiding his face, mumbles into your shoulder. “If I don’t move, maybe he’ll go away.”

“Yeah, that’s what you tried with her all season, and look how that turned out,” Oscar deadpans.

Lando groans loudly before finally lifting his head to glare at him. “You’re the worst person I’ve ever met.”

Oscar nods, completely serious. “I was genuinely starting to think I’d have to suffer through another season of whatever that was.”

Lando throws his hands up. “I did not—”

Oscar holds up a finger. “Oh, you did. And I had to watch. Every week.”

Lando groans. “I hate everything about this.”

Oscar nods solemnly. “Yeah, well, so did I. I’d estimate I’ve aged about six years in the span of this season.”

You raise an eyebrow. “It was that bad?”

Oscar gestures vaguely. “I mean… watching you two pretend you didn’t carewas exhausting. Do you know how hard it is to be the only sane person in this situation?”

Lando chuckles under his breath. “Fair.”

Oscar narrows his eyes at him. “Oh, now you admit it?”

Lando shrugs. “Had to keep things interesting.”

Oscar scoffs. “For who? Your personal character development?”

You laugh, shaking your head as Lando sighs beside you.

Oscar, still looking far too pleased with himself, claps Lando on the back. “Alright, lovebirds. Carry on. Don’t let me stop you.”

Then, without waiting for a response, he simply turns and walks off, whistling like he’s just closed a major business deal.

Lando watches him disappear, blinking in mild disbelief. “We’re never hearing the end of this, are we?”

You grin, looping your arms around his neck.

“Nope.”

[alinathinkstoomuch]

1-800-CALL ME, FAKE FIANCÉ

pairing: aaron hotchner x reader (part of my fake!fiancee series, but can be read as a standalone) summary: the fbi agent you met at the bar helped you out of a jam so you decide to pay him a visit at work. warnings | a/n: unhinged reader, rossi being a lil instigator, reader has no shame in her game at ALL & makes the first move, the usual banter & chem, channelling all the rom-com feels word count: 3.3k

✧ masterlist

It had been a week since your little fake fiancé fiasco, and while it had been enough to satisfy your mob group of fake friends and stop them from asking questions, it wasn’t enough to satisfy your questions.

Because now, you were curious – dangerously so.

You couldn’t concentrate on much else. It was ridiculous. Absurd. Completely unnecessary. And yet…

You had googled him.

You had googled Aaron Hotchner.

And oh boy did you find things.

FBI Unit Chief Aaron Hotchner. Head of some ultra-serious-sounding department in behavioural analysis. There were articles. Court cases. Mentions of serial killers – plural. You even found a grainy news clip of him giving a statement outside a police station, looking all important and broody.

And as if that wasn’t enough, there were forums. Entire internet threads dedicated to the man. Debates on how often he smiled. Speculation on his past. A truly unhinged corner of the internet where a small but passionate group of people seemed convinced he had once been a male model.

You may or may not have spent a questionable amount of time scrolling through that last one.

But none of this answered the real question: why did an FBI Unit Chief go along with your ridiculous fake fiancé charade without hesitation? That was not normal federal agent behaviour. You were pretty sure actual government employees had policies against indulging unhinged strangers.

Which led you here. More specifically in the FBI headquarters parking lot.

Okay, you were actually insane. But you had good intentions. Intentions of thanking him properly for the night of madness he had endured.

So, you had baked him cookies. Because, according to your mother, the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach – which was a wildly inappropriate saying to be applying to an FBI agent, but here you were.

You took a deep breath, staring up at the intimidating glass doors, clutching your box of cookies like it was a ticking time bomb. This was fine. Completely normal. People brought cookies to law enforcement all the time… right?

Swallowing your nerves, you marched inside, heels clicking against the polished floor as you approached the receptionist’s desk. The woman behind the counter barely glanced up as she typed away at her computer.

“Hi! Uh, could you do me a favour and give these to an Aaron Hotchner?” you asked, setting the box down with a nervous smile. “He’s, um, Unit Chief of something very official and serious, which I’m sure you already know, but I just wanted to thank him because he helped me out of a situation – not like a legal situation, nothing weird, I’m not a criminal or anything – oh my God, that sounded suspicious –”

The receptionist finally looked up, blinking slowly. “Ma’am?”

You let out an awkward laugh, waving a hand. “I mean, technically, everyone is a criminal in some way, right? Like, who hasn’t jaywalked or taken a pen from a bank? Oh my God, I’m not confessing to anything, I just –”

“Ma’am,” the receptionist interrupted, her voice flat. “Are you delivering something, or…?”

“Wow, you guys are really strict on the whole professionalism thing, huh?” You huffed, then quickly corrected yourself. “Not that I’m not professional. I can be professional. I wore a blazer once.” You paused, glancing at her name badge. “Clarissa! I am delivering cookies. They are divine, you can have one if you’d like?”

Clarissa squinted at you, clearly debating whether or not to press a panic button – one that, realistically, would probably result in you being swarmed by tactical agents in full riot gear.

Was that even the FBI? Or was that, like… SWAT? Was SWAT part of the FBI? Were you about to go down for cookie-related crimes?

“Are you cleared to be here?” she asked.

“Depends on your definition of cleared –”

“Alright, sweetheart, let’s take a breath before you actually incriminate yourself.”

You spun around to find none other than David – if you recalled correctly – standing behind you, looking just as entertained as he did back at the jazz bar, his eyes bouncing between the cookies and you. “Well, well. If it isn’t Hotch’s fiancée.”

“Not his fiancée anymore!”

“Sure. And I’m not Italian.”

You shook your head, exhaling dramatically. “I just made him some cookies as a thank you. Do you mind passing them on to him, please? And then I can get out of yours and Clarissa’s hair. You have fabulous hair, both of you, by the way.”

Clarissa stared at you like you were personally responsible for every inconvenience that had ever befallen her. Rossi, on the other hand, grinned like you had just made his entire day.

“You know what? No,” he said, shaking his head. “You should give them to him yourself.”

Your stomach dropped. “Oh, no, that’s not necessary –”

“I insist.”

Clarissa folded her arms. “She’s not authorised to be here.”

Rossi rolled his eyes. “Clarissa, I’ve worked in this building longer than some agents have been alive. If I say she’s authorised, she’s authorised.”

Clarissa let out a long-suffering sigh but didn’t argue further.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let’s go surprise Hotch.”

You let out a weak laugh. “Oh. Yay.”

Rossi led you through security and about four different hallways before you found yourself in an elevator. You barely had time to process what was happening before you were stepping into a bullpen that made your brain go fuzzy. There were far too many people in suits, all looking intimidatingly competent.

A woman with blonde hair and a bright cardigan – finally someone who understood the power of colour – shot you an intrigued glance over the top of her glasses.

“I really don’t think this is necessary, David,” you whispered. “You guys look like busy, busy people, and I just wanted to bring some cookies. I don’t think Hotch will appreciate being called out of his very legitimate FBI career just for me.”

“Oh, I know he won’t.”

“Okay, now you’re making me panic, and I have a habit of jumping to conclusions when I’m under a lot of stress. Please, really, it’s no big deal –”

“Yeah, Hotch mentioned something along those lines,” Rossi hummed as the two of you came to a halt in front of a door, to which he knocked before stepping inside.

You followed hesitantly, barely making it over the threshold before you locked eyes with Hotch, who was standing behind his desk, looking very confused.

Rossi gestured at you grandly. “Look who I found wandering the FBI headquarters.”

“Okay, that makes me sound like a stalker and – wow, okay, I guess maybe I am a stalker, but the good kind, I promise! I come in peace. And with cookies… as a thank you.”

“I’ll leave you two lovebirds to it,” Rossi grinned, giving you a nudge as he sauntered out, shutting the door behind him with far too much enthusiasm.

Hotch, still staring at you like you had just crash-landed into his office from another dimension, slowly folded his arms. “Should I be concerned?”

“Not until you try one of these,” you said, flipping open the lid of the cookie box, only for your smile to falter the second you actually registered what was inside.

Heart-shaped cookies. Pink frosting. Extra sprinkles.

Oh no.

You stared at them. Then at Hotch. Then back at them.

He was still staring too, looking at the cookies like they were an active FBI case file he wasn’t quite sure how to classify.

You let out half a laugh. “Oh. Oh, boy.”

Hotch raised a brow, arms still crossed, looking every bit the intimidating federal agent he was.

“Okay, I know what this looks like,” you groaned, snapping the box shut like that would somehow undo the visual catastrophe. “I got slightly carried away – as I tend to – and my mind just kind of… took its own course when I was making them. I wasn’t thinking about you – well, I was thinking about you, but not like that, I swear. I just – ugh – I put a little bit myself into them.”

Hotch tilted his head. “Yourself?”

You nodded, slowly reopening the box as if the cookies might suddenly jump out and throw up edible glitter all over his office. “You know… they’re kind of chaotic but well-intentioned, possibly too much but ultimately harmless –”

“How did you find me here?”

“Oh. That.”

He just stared at you.

You cleared your throat, suddenly very interested in the cookie box. “Well, it’s not that hard, you know? I have a great memory, and I did get a pretty solid look at your badge – after I thought you were going to murder me, of course – so I just… searched you up.”

His brows lifted.

You panicked. “But only to figure out where you work so I could bring you cookies! That’s it! I had every intention of leaving them with Clarissa but your friend David saw me and said I should bring them up myself. And well… now I’m here.”

Hotch’s hand pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course he did.”

You rocked on your heels, watching him carefully. “Sooo… does this mean I’m officially on an FBI watchlist, or is that, like, a separate process?”

Hotch exhaled, lowering his hand. “You’re not on a watchlist.”

“Oh.”

His brows furrowed. “Would you like to be?”

“I feel like I shouldn’t answer that without a lawyer present,” you mumbled, setting the cookies down on his desk.

“So, let me get this straight. You looked me up, managed to talk your way into a federal building without authorisation all just to bring me heart-shaped cookies?”

You lifted a finger. “Okay, first of all, let’s not make this sound like an obsession – I googled you. That’s a normal thing people do! It’s called being informed. And second, the hearts were an accident. I only had one cookie cutter. You think I wanted to show up here looking like some lovesick lunatic?”

Hotch glanced at the cookies, then back at you. “…Yes.”

“Okay, well, this has been fun,” you said, dusting your hands before adjusting your jacket. “Enjoy the cookies, and thanks again for the other night,” you continued, already backing toward the door. “I have not had my name mentioned once in the Veronica Posse group chat since, and for the first time in years, I have actually known peace.”

“Wait,” he called just as you reached for the door handle. You spun around to face him. “Why did you really come here?”

You paused before speaking.

“I need a fiancé again,” you blurted out before you could stop yourself. “Yup. Need one again, preferably the same one, but this time it’s my parents hounding me, and they’ve already arranged a dinner and everything.”

Hotch opened his mouth, then closed it. A second passed. Then another. Finally – “You’re joking, aren’t you?”

“I am,” you beamed, completely unbothered by the scowl on his face. Hotch looked like he was about to reply, but his phone began ringing. He glanced down at it on the desk.

“Alright, really leaving now. I’ll let you get back to all this serious business,” you said, but then a realization dawned, making you pause.

Hotch looked back up, brows raising slightly. “What is it?”

You shifted, glancing toward the door, then back at him. “So, funny thing… I don’t actually know how to get out of here.”

Hotch sighed, shaking his head as he pressed a button to silence his phone before slipping it into his suit jacket. “I’ll walk you out.”

“Oh, no need,” you replied quickly, waving him off. “I’ll just ask David – he loves helping me.”

Hotch gave you a flat look. “Absolutely not.”

You blinked innocently. “Why? He was so excited to see me earlier. You should have heard him, all like Oh, if it isn’t Hotch’s fiancée! He really sells it.”

“That’s exactly why,” Hotch muttered, already moving toward the door.

You followed Hotch out of his office, barely managing to keep up with his long strides. “Wow, you walk fast,” you huffed, adjusting your purse on your shoulder. “Is this an FBI thing? Do you all just power walk everywhere?”

He slowed his pace ever so slightly so you could catch up. As you glanced around, you noticed several pairs of eyes discreetly watching the two of you – one of them being David who had zero shame in making his interest known. You offered him a small wave to which he responded with a not-so-subtle wink. When your eyes landed on Hotch he was watching the exchange.

“Keep walking.”

“I am,” you whispered back, trying not to laugh. “I just happen to also be social.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

You gasped, doing a light two step jog to catch up. “Gosh, what happened to ‘Marry me, sweetheart?’”

“You called it nonsense, remember?”

“I did,” you admitted. “But that was after you said something that was incredibly true about me.”

Hotch threw you a curious glance. “And what was that?”

“That I’m too good to consider that group of women my friends, especially ones I feel the need to impress.”

Hotch didn’t say anything right away, just reached for the door, pushing it open and holding it for you. As you stepped past him, you caught the smallest trace of something in his expression, something very close to approval.

Stepping into the hallway, you glanced around, already feeling disoriented. “This place is like a maze,” you muttered, spinning in a small circle before looking back at him. “How do you manage to not get lost here?”

“Spatial awareness.”

Before you could question him further, you felt his hands on your arms, gently guiding you to the left just as you were about to head right.

“Oh. Wow. Okay.”

His lips twitched. “You were about to walk into a closet.”

You glanced back at the door you had almost pushed open. “That’s not a closet. That’s –” You squinted at the sign. “Okay, that’s definitely a closet.” You sighed dramatically, walking ahead this time – making sure to pretend like you totally knew where you were going. “See? This is why I need a fake fiancé. Navigation assistance.”

His voice followed you, dry as ever. “That’s what Google Maps is for.”

You turned, walking backwards now, arms crossed. “Yeah, well, Google Maps doesn’t have your spatial awareness, does it?”

“You’d rather rely on me for directions?”

You stopped walking, tilting your head. “Huh. Good point. Maybe I should just take my chances with the closet.”

Hotch sighed, stepping past you. “Come on. I’ll make sure you get out of here without accidentally locking yourself in a supply room.”

You grinned, following him. “See? Fake fiancé duties are still active.”

This time, you definitely didn’t miss the half-smile he tried to hide.

After what felt like literal hours of navigating the endless, identical floors and hallways of the FBI, the two of you finally stepped outside. Freedom at last, you thought, basking in the sight of the actual sun – something you’d only glimpsed through windows you were convinced had some kind of tint designed to make the inside of the building feel even duller.

“Do you know where you parked?”

You scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. “Uh, duh. What do you take me for?”

Hotch just looked at you.

You blinked.

Then, very slowly, you turned your head, scanning the parking lot.

Oh, no.

Where did you park?

You wracked your brain, desperately trying to retrace your steps, but the problem was… you hadn’t exactly been focused when you arrived. You had just parked somewhere and hoped for the best. But now, with Hotch watching you like a disapproving parent, the pressure was on.

You pointed vaguely toward a random row of cars. “It’s… that way.”

Hotch didn’t even bother looking. “No, it’s not.”

You spun back to him. “Excuse me?”

“You’re guessing.”

“I am not.”

“You’re stalling.”

“I am not!”

Hotch arched a single, knowing brow.

You huffed. “Fine. I may be stalling. But in my defence, I had a lot on my mind when I got here!”

Hotch inhaled, glancing at his watch. “Just describe what your car looks like and what you remember seeing when you got here.”

You frowned, thinking. “Okay, so, my car is… car-shaped.”

His stare was unmoving.

You cleared your throat. “It’s, uh… blue. Or, like, bluish. Depends on the lighting.”

“Anything else?”

You squinted at the parking lot, hoping for divine intervention. “I think I was near… a pole?”

“There are multiple poles.”

“A very specific pole.”

“Right.”

You groaned, rubbing your temples. “Ugh, this is so unfair. I have many talents, okay? Parking lot navigation is just not one of them.”

“Shocking,” he muttered before moving toward one section of the parking lot. “Let’s start from here.”

You followed, chewing the inside of your cheek.

A few minutes later – after much grumbling, a completely unnecessary debate about why all parking lots look the same, and one slightly humiliating moment where you tried to unlock someone else’s car – Hotch finally spotted your actual vehicle.

“Would you look at that! There she is, in all her glory!” you sang and this time, when you hit the unlock button, the lights actually flashed. Progress.

You pulled open the driver’s side door and tossed your purse inside before turning back to Hotch. “Thank you… again.” You let out a laugh. “It feels like that’s all I ever say to you.”

Hotch gave a small shrug, hands finding his pockets. “You do seem to require a lot of rescuing.”

“Alright, alright.” You pointed a manicured finger at him. “Despite what you might think, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I just happen to have a mild navigational deficiency and… questionable taste in men. And friends, apparently – according to my ex fake fiancé.”

“Sounds like you’re finally learning.”

You rolled your eyes, sliding into your seat. “I hate that you’re good at this.”

“Good at what?”

“Reading people.” You gestured vaguely in his direction. “It’s very annoying.”

He smiled at you, one hand slipping from his pocket to rest against the edge of your car door. “I’ll try to be worse at my job next time.”

You leaned forward, placing your arms on the steering wheel with a playful spark in your eye. “Listen, Hotch, Hotchner, Aaron – I have a slight confession to make before I go.”

“That sentence doesn’t exactly inspire confidence.”

“This one’s harmless. Promise.”

Hotch stood there, shaking his head like he could not believe he was still standing there entertaining this conversation.

You tapped a finger against the wheel. “So, if mid-cookie bite you accidentally choke on a piece of paper, do not be alarmed – well, actually do be alarmed. I don’t want you to die before you’ve asked me out on a date.” You flashed him a pointed look. “But it’s my number – since apparently, having my address isn’t enough.”

“You hid your number in food?”

“Listen, it was either that or carve it into your desk with a knife, and I figured that would raise some concerns with your co-workers.”

Hotch pinched the bridge of his nose again, muttering something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like why me?

“But, you do have my number now, so really, the ball is in your court, Hotchner.”

“Is it?”

You nodded, sitting up straighter. “Mhm. And just so we’re clear – I expect a dramatic, over-the-top use of it. Maybe a cryptic, we need to talk text. Or a mysterious meet me at midnight type of situation.”

Hotch’s lips twitched. “You’d rather I text you about urgent matters than, say… just a normal conversation?”

“Aaron Hotchner, are you saying you want to have a normal conversation with me?”

He sighed, stepping back from your car. “Drive home, before I change my mind about letting you leave.”

You smirked, finally turning on the ignition. “Oh, so you let me leave now? That is so controlling of you.”

Hotch shook his head as he shut your door—just in time for you to lift a hand, making a finger phone gesture and mouthing Call me.

tags - @fandomscombine @dohmeti

dividers by cafekitsune

[silkfms]

she stopped in her tracks, her back straightening as leon’s voice cut through the night air. it wasn’t his words that stopped her — god knew she’d heard men yell at her before — but there was something in his tone, raw and desperate, that made her pause. she turned slowly, her eyes sharp and unyielding, though the faintest flicker of emotion danced behind them. irritation? pity? maybe both. "you’re right, leon,” she said, her voice as cold and sharp as the wind that swept through palmview’s empty streets. “i don’t know you. i don’t know what makes you tick, what keeps you up at night, or what makes you think acting like this is a good idea. but you don’t know me, either.” she took a step closer, the click of her heels on the pavement like a metronome, deliberate and steady. “so don’t stand there and act like you’ve got me all figured out, like this is some kind of power play or punishment. i don’t have the time or energy to push you away when you’re already halfway out the door.” her arms crossed tightly over her chest as she glanced down at the stoplight, now seconds away from turning red again. she let out a short, bitter laugh, her gaze snapping back to him. “you think this is about revenge? about me wanting you to chase me? please. if i wanted that, leon, you’d already be following me without a second thought. you’d be eating out of the palm of my hand.” the words were laced with venom, but there was no malice behind them—just exhaustion, and maybe a little sadness. “but you know what?” she continued, her voice softening just a fraction. “you’re not wrong about one thing. i haven’t given you a chance to be better. and you know why?” she tilted her head, her dark hair catching the glow of the streetlight. “because you haven’t given me a reason to. all you’ve done is show me the same sad, sorry pattern i’ve seen before— i’m a mess, but i’m sorry, so that should be enough. it’s not enough, leon. not for me, and not for you. you deserve better than that, but you don’t seem to believe it.” she took a step back now, putting a deliberate amount of distance between them. the light turned red, and she glanced at it briefly before looking back at him, her gaze unwavering. “if you’re gonna stand there and tell me all the reasons why i’m the problem, fine. but at least be honest with yourself, because this? this isn’t about me. this is about you being scared of not measuring up to your own bullshit expectations. so go ahead, yell all you want. stand there like some tragic anti-hero in your own story. or...” she trailed off, shrugging one shoulder. “or don’t. but don’t expect me to keep standing here waiting for you to decide.” without another word, she turned back toward the crosswalk and began walking again, her stride confident but not rushed. her heart pounded in her chest, but she kept her expression unreadable. she wasn’t going to look back this time—not unless he gave her a reason to.

leon shifts in place and for a split second, he doesn't move. he doesn't want to move. "what do you want me to do, huh?" he calls out as serin begins walking, his voice loud enough to echo in the dark. cars stop driving by as if they're trying to give him and her some kind of privacy. "do you want me to turn back time? i fucking can't. you know i fucking can't and you shield yourself behind that." it's unstoppable, the words coming out of his mouth. he's been silent for far too long and there's no way she's gonna keep scolding him. the counting down of the light has twenty-three seconds left, but he refuses to walk after her. "i fucked up, yeah. but at least i can recognize that, and hold myself accountable. and you keep saying it's not enough but what would be enough? you haven't given me a chance to be better. and is this really the way you wanna treat me? you don't fucking know me, serin." his heart pounds heavily and fast in his chest. "just because we fucked once doesn't mean you know me." twelve seconds. so frustrating he keeps finding himself in the same situation. maybe standing up for himself instead of taking the daggers will change that. "so you don't get to tell me all this shit when you're clearly pushing me away too. as some kind of revenge? hoping i follow you like some stray dog? fuck that, man," he sighs. but he doesn't leave. he stays still, with his hand in his pockets, wondering if this is it for them. wondering if all they ever were meant to be was just a one-night stand.

[femdemon]

It's pride month, so I feel like I should get a free pass to complain about this.

Being an aspec, nonbinary, feminine transmasc who at one point in time identified as mspec, I feel like some people don't take exclusionism as seriously as they should. Specifically, I'm referring to the attitude that some people have where they dismiss exclusionism as only ever being immature, trivial discourse on all sides.

"I don't give a damn if [identity] should be allowed under the queer umbrella because I'm an adult who has bills to pay/there are bigger, more important issues to contend with and we need all of the people we can get to fight for our cause/I don't care who's more or less oppressed because we should all be fighting that oppression together."

Okay, that's nice for you, but I don't think those of us who are the ones being excluded really have the luxury of not giving a damn. We get accused of being fakers and traitors at every turn. We have to constantly justify our presence within the community. How are we going to be able to stand up against oppression if people within our own community refuse to stand beside us?

I'm especially frustrated by the "I don't care who's more oppressed" attitude, because it has never been about that. We’re not the ones making it a competition — the gatekeepers are. They’re the ones insisting we don’t belong. And somehow we get framed as the ones trying to center ourselves or play oppression olympics. All we want is for people to acknowledge the exclusion and erasure we’re facing for what it is — real, harmful, and ongoing. But nobody will. They'll insist that it's actually somehow beneficial to us, or that we're making it up or imagining it, or that maybe it is oppression but not the kind we think it is (because obviously we aren't smart enough to tell), and does it even really count if the bigot was mistaken about our identity and just picked whatever slur they thought would hurt the most?

I think it's particularly frustrating because I know that a good portion of these "I don't care" people are more on the side of the excluded than the gatekeepers, but choosing not to say or do anything about it just feels kind of insulting. Like, I guess I appreciate that they're refusing to engage with the gatekeepers and their bullshit, but they're also refusing to acknowledge our struggles, and they're even sometimes inadvertently giving credence to the gatekeepers' incorrect assumptions about us. Like, by saying you "don't care who's more oppressed," you're giving credence to the idea that we truly think we're more oppressed! That's not what we think! See above!

Like, is it often immature, petty, trivial discourse? Yes, it is. The gatekeepers have been successfully turned against members of their own community, and if you follow the thread back far enough, they were often converted to bigotry through homophobes and transphobes who want to divide and conquer the queer community by proxy. They're 4channers in woke hats. But I also sort of feel like the "I don't care" crowd almost blames us, the excluded, for how we're being treated? They're kind of giving the "just ignore the bullies and they'll leave you alone" advice to us that guardians give children which we all know is bullshit that doesn't work at all. This shit doesn't ever stop until enough people say "you're being a fucking asswipe" to the instigators.

So, when we see this:

can we just do our fucking part and nip it in the bud, please? Please, for fuck's sake, please?

[subbmissivesuccubus]

Pent up

Summary: Your relationship with Kenma was going strong but for some reason, he hadn’t made the moves on you to instigate sex. Frustrated by your introverted boyfriends behavior, you went to sleep in a skimpy outfit to seduce him, not realising that his self control was barely hanging on by a thread at this point~

A/n: Another Patreon fic. Shoutout to all of my Haikyuu fans <3 My personal favorite is Ushijima teehee. Anyways, enjoy!

MY PATREON; COMMISSIONS; MASTERLIST;

You knew Kenma was an introvert. It was one of the reasons you loved him.

He’d prefer to stay inside his home, playing his games and building his career as a streamer as opposed to the other people of the same age who’d rather go out and party until they’re black out drunk. Hell, the reason you met Kenma in the first place was because Kuroo dragged him out of the house and into a bar after a week straight of gaming and streaming. You were working as the bartender and for some reason, this recluse young man who looked like he’d rather be anywhere but here interested you more than the many men who were trying to flirt with you.

You managed to slip him your number and luckily for you, he seemed to have noticed you as well. To this day, despite your relationship only being a month long at this point, Kenma is forever grateful that Kuroo dragged him out that night. Not that he’d ever admit that to his friend of course.

And you were grateful too. Working as a bartender and constantly being surrounded by booming music and even louder people was a lot at times and Kenma was a wonderful person to be with as he instantly calmed you down. His soft voice, calming personality and introverted behaviour meant that the two of you can spend the day indoors, order takeout, cuddle on the couch to watch a movie and consider it to be one of the best dates you could have.

But with the good comes the bad and sometimes…you wonder if Kenma likes his games more than you. Sure, you have a good time perched on his lap while he plays but it isn’t as fun when he’s screaming into the mike that the other player should kill themselves and that they’re a waste of oxygen. And yes, you love playing games with him but he either takes it easy on you or destroys you- no in between.

And while you love his passion for video games and streaming…

It is also the reason why the two of you haven’t gone past kissing.

You huffed in frustration as you collapsed onto the bed- Kenma’s empty bed. You were staying the night as you tend to do and despite him having his girlfriend over, Kenma was neck deep into the new Genshin update and told you to go ahead and sleep if you were tired. It was a long day at the bar and all you wanted was a good dicking down to relieve some of the stress. Hell- at this point you’ll give him a blowjob to alleviate some tension. You frowned as you hugged his pillow to your chest, your insecurities getting the best of you.

Maybe…you just have no sex appeal?

Wasn’t the stereotype that gamer boys were sex starved and desperate? So why does it feel like the other way around?! Sure, you could go and ask him, maybe talk to him and figure out his stance on the sex situation but you couldn’t bring yourself to do it. You wanted him to desire you. You want him to seek you. You wanted him to make the move.

…Unless your patience runs thin.

Which is why you forged an- albeit simple- plan. Stay in bed wearing his t-shirt and a pair of shorts. You weren’t blind. You caught Kenma’s eyes wandering and those eyes so often landed on your behind. You even bent over purposefully in front of him a few times, hoping he’d take the hint and atleast give you a squeeze but…nothing. Hopefully, seeing you in bed, wearing his clothes with skimpy bottoms would nudge him into doing something more.

…Is this what being desperate was?

With a sigh, your put Kenma’s pillow back on the bed before snuggling into yours, browsing your phone a bit and feeling your brain going numb at the endless scrolling and random content before eventually, it dropped out of your hands and sleep took over.

~~~~~

Oh man.

Now that is a sight.

Kenma gulped as he saw you lie on his bed, your position doing nothing to quell the desire and thirst he had for you. The moonlight seeping in through the curtains illuminated your figure, casting a white glow over you. Dressed in a pair of booty shorts and his t-shirt, with a leg hiked up on the bed, making the shorts ride up a bit and show off the sweet roundness of your behind and-

He hissed as he looked down, his cock already starting to harden and bulge slightly against his pants.

God, he wanted to fuck you so badly.

Everytime you’re on his lap while he games, he’s grateful that his disastrous team-mates make him so angry he forgets about his lust. And while you play games together, he has to always keep a pillow over his crotch because the sweet sounds you make when frustrated make him wonder if you’d make those same noises as he pounds his cock into your sweet pussy-

He shook his head, trying to banish the thoughts as he gently slid into bed behind you, getting comfortable. He wanted you. He wanted you so badly that he was worried he’d scare you off if he said or did anything. He knew how sleazy men could be, especially the ones you have to deal with on a regular basis and he didn’t want to be the same as them.

Which is why he waited. Why he was patient and didn’t say or ask for anything more than a passionate make out session. He wanted to prove to you that he was with you for more than just sex! But…it was tough. It also didn’t help that he was far too nervous and shy to actually express his desires out loud. It was selfish but he was kind of waiting for you to bring it up and the second you’d express any desire, he’d pounce.

With a pout, he snuggled up behind you, wrapping an arm around your waist and spooning you. He sighed in content at the feeling of your soft, warm body against him, fitting against him like a glove. He took in a deep breath as he snuggled his face against your neck, taking in your scent that he loved so much before placing a kiss against your skin. He couldn’t help but smirk as he continued to mouth at your neck as little noises left your lips, occasionally going up to your ear and giving it a gentle lick or a nibble, wanting to coax more of those noises out of you.

But his smirk eventually dropped when you started moving. He bit down a gasp as his teasing caused you to writhe a bit in your sleep and bring your legs down together, which led to you accidentally pushing your hips back and grinding your ass against his crotch.

God…that ass.

Kenma gulped as he looked down, cursing his body for being so weak as he felt his dick start to harden again but this time, he couldn’t really blame himself. Your perfect, peachy, bubble butt was now squished against him, those shorts leaving little to the imagination. Your ample flesh was morphed a bit due to the contact and the movement made the shorts cling tighter to you and ride up between your cheeks. His eyes widened as he took in the sight, your ass basically spilling out for him to ogle at and…oh…it was riding up so much they were starting to look like panties-

“Fuck-“ Kenma gasped out as you moved back against him some more, causing his erection to slide between your asscheeks. It looked so lewd; he didn’t know how to handle it. He knew he should get up and go take care of it in private but…he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He was a weak man for his beautiful girlfriend.

He gently placed his hand on your hip, fingers brushing against the fabric of your shorts as his body moved on instinct, giving you an experimental thrust from behind. He bit his lower lip to stop himself from moaning, the blood rushing to his face at the sensation of his clothed cock rubbing against your perfect, perfect ass. The thoughts swarming in his head were nothing short of perverted. He just wanted to rip those shorts off of you and give your bubble butt a spank- a bite- to shove his face between those cheeks and make you cum on his tongue- to grope and squeeze and kiss and lick and-

Kenma was dry humping you now, overtaken by his lust and desire. He should stop – but he couldn’t! It just felt so good feeling you against him, his weakness to your perfect body making him feel dizzy. Ever so gently, his hand started to slide down your hip, gliding over the fabric of his t-shirt before reaching your behind. His hand hovered over your butt, Kenma taking a gulp as he was just about to touch you-

“Mmph- K-Kenma?”

The man gasped, eyes widening and his hand instantly snatching itself away as he looked up at you, your face turned towards him and eyes blinking at him, slowly waking up.

“Hey- uh- I- this-“ Kenma sputtered, unable to think of anything to say and feeling like he was a kid who was caught with their hand stuck in the cookie jar. But even if he didn’t say anything, you were quick to figure things out.

You tried not to smile as you felt something hard press against your ass. Your plan worked!

“…What are you doing?” you asked, now wide awake as you raised an eyebrow. Kenma’s mouth opened and closed a few times, words failing him before he let out a frustrated sigh.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to- I-“

“It’s okay.” You said, leaning back enough to kiss his cheek, “I don’t mind at all. In fact…” you reached you hand back to grasp his wrist, bringing it down back to your ass. The man hissed as you placed his hand on your cheek, instinctively squeezing it and letting out a groan as your flesh spilled between his fingers. He growled as he started groping you more incessantly, even giving your butt a gentle yet sharp spank which made you let out a gasp.

You purred in delight, the feeling of Kenma’s hand on you causing your whole body to heat up. You popped your hips back, still grinding against him even as he copped a feel. Your bodies were practically stuck together, the two of you grinding and moaning into the quiet air. You turned your head a bit more to look at your lover and you were overtaken by how pretty he was.

Kenma was always a natural beauty and often times you thought he looked prettier than you did. And that theory was only supported more by his pleasure enjoying expression. Eyebrows furrowed, his cheeks a soft red, his baby pink lips parted to let out little pants and gasps, his long, dual coloured hair fanning out messily but it still looked so good-

“What are you- hah- looking at.”

You blinked as you were snapped back into reality, Kenma’s eyes on you as the two of you made eye contact. “You.” You answered honestly, a hand coming back to cup his cheek, “I like this look on you.” “And what look is that?” “Needy and desperate~”

Kenma scoffed, pausing his grinding for a second and your body shivered as you saw his eyes darken a bit in real time. He was looking at you like you were prey, his previous attitude overpowered by something more feral.

“Like you’re one to talk.”

You gasped as your position was suddenly shifted. Still lying on the bed together, Kenma grasped you by the shoulders and turned you around, making you face him. With ease, he grabbed one leg and hooked it over his hip, the same hand going down and giving your ass a harder slap, making you squeal. His other hand slid underneath you and looped to your lower back, using that to press you tighter against him. You barely got a word in before Kenma smashed your lips together, your eyes widening at the sudden behaviour before they fluttered closed at the familiar sensation.

His lips parted your expertly, his tongue sliding into your mouth with practices ease. You gasped into the kiss as he continued to grope your stinging ass, this time feeling his erection…press right against your crotch. You mewled as he started grinding against you again, moving his own hips while simultaneously pulling you against him, causing his hardness to grind against your pussy even harder.

“Dressing like this- mmwah- seducing me with your body- hah- you want this just as badly, don’t you?” Kenma asked between kisses. You mewled and nodded against him, your hands fisting his shirt as your body tingled with pleasure, feeling your pussy grow wetter at each thrust, his clothed erection grinding against your clit.

“Kenma-aah.” You panted you, “I want…I want-“

“Me too.” Kenma said, reading your mind easily as he bumped his forehead against yours, “I want you.”

“Then shall we…” you trailed off, your hand slowly moving down and settling at the hem of his sweatpants, waiting for his consent. He did the same to you, his hand leaving your ass to thumb at the elastic of your shorts, desire evident in his eyes.

“Please.” He said.

The two of you whisked off each other’s clothes- well- as much as you could as you were far too desperate to get to each other as opposed to getting completely naked. So Kenma threw your shorts over his shoulder while you simply pulled his pants down enough for his cock to spring out at full attention. Your minds were a mix of excitement and shame, the reality of the situation hitting hard as you stared at each other’s privates for the first time.

This was finally happening. Lying on your sides, staring into each other’s eyes.

“Wo-hah.” You gasped, slowly wrapping your hand around Kenma’s length, loving the way he shivered at your touch, “You’re really…pent up, huh?”

“Y-Yeah.” He groaned out, cock twitching in your hands as his gaze was focused on the sweetness between your legs, “And I see you’re the same.”

“Ah!” you squealed as he slid his hand gently against your cunt, the man grateful that you chose to not wear panties. You heard him chuckle as he got in contact with your wetness, his fingers gently sliding up and down your slit to collect your juices. Occasionally, he’d roll your clit in circles, making your legs twitch at he paid attention to your sensitive nub.

“Fuck…want to eat you out.” He whispered, making your face turn an even brighter shade of red. Just picturing it…Kenma between your legs…his long hair in your hands as you direct his face to your cunt…him looking up at you with his striking, catlike eyes as he opens his mouth and takes a greedy lick of-

“S-Slow down! I don’t want to cum yet.”

“Ah! S-Sorry.” You squeaked, taking your hand off of his cock, not even realising that your hand started to jerk him off on instinct. “You’re good at that.” Your boyfriend said with a gulp, his fingers still teasing your pussy, making it increasingly hard to focus, “But all that grinding has got me really pent up and…I don’t want to cum in your hand.”

“W-Where do you wanna cum then?” you asked, already knowing the answer. He simply huffed before he slid a fingers inside of you, taking your breath away. You clung onto him, once again gripping his shirt tightly as he shoved his finger knuckle deep inside you. You squeezed your thighs together on instinct but that did nothing to deter the man, Kenma even sliding a second finger inside you.

“Look at that…so ready and eager for me.” He purred; the room filled with the schluck schluck schlck sound of his fingers stretching your pussy open. You whimpered and shoved your face against his chest, your hips trembling as his long, talented fingers explored your insides. You probably had the games to thank for his talented fingers, his many hours fiddling with a controller helping him to finger fuck you perfectly.

“Kenmaaaa!” you whined, “Can we just- ah yes- I want you.”

“So desperate for me.” He teased but thankfully, he carefully pulled his fingers out. You couldn’t even retort as Kenma got your leg back up to hook onto his hip, leaving more room to really slam into your pussy. You held onto his shoulders, shivering as you felt him press his tip against your entrance. With a nod from you, your breath caught in your throat as Kenma slowly started to push in.

“Ah! Fuuuuck!” he groaned, closing his eyes as he was overtaken by the sensation of his cock sliding inside you. Your pussy hole was so tiny and cute but parted for him so obediently even as he slid inch after inch inside you. You whimpered against him so adorably, your mouth open and panting, clinging onto him like your life depended on it. Slowly…slowly…deeper…deeper… “There so go~” Kenma purred once he was balls deep inside you, his tip pressing against the hard yet gooey entrance to your cervix, “Good girl.”

“S-So deee-hah-deep.” You whined, feeling like the air had been pushed out of your lungs, “This position makes it so- hah- w-wait- Kenma!”

“Sorry baby-“ Kenma growled, his hand gripping your thigh tightly as he gave a few light thrusts, his head spinning from the pleasure, “I can’t wait. You okay? Does it- hah- does it hurt?”

“I-It’s okay,” you reassured, pulling back a bit from his chest to kiss him, “Keep going.”

With a nod, Kenma kissed you again, tongue first as his hips fucked into you. Your moans were swallowed as his cock slid in and out of you deliciously, each slide in bumping against your womb, just begging for more. You could feel your juices drip off of you and stain the mattress underneath, not even caring about the mess.

Kenma was in heaven. Waiting for so long was worth it in the end. He groaned and panted, pulling away from the kiss to breathe, his head spinning. Your pussy clamped down around him deliciously, sucking the life out of his cock. He dreamed about this and yet, those dreams didn’t come close to how this intimacy felt.

His fingers dug into the fat of your thighs harder, both of you practically breathing each other’s air as you fucked. His balls clapped against you as he thrust, chasing his pleasure and wondering what he did to deserve you. He felt his dick somehow harden even more when he saw you fumbling with your shirt. With a grunt, clearly frustrated that you had to adjust your weight enough to maneuver the fabric, you got your shirt to lift up to your chin, flashing Kenma your bare tits.

Without a second thought, the man bent down and latched onto one with his lips, a loud, pornographic moan leaving his mouth as he started sucking on your nipple. How could he forget to lavish his favourite girls? The noises leaving your lips were heavenly, you wrapping your arms around his head and pressing him tight against you, the sensation of him messily coating your hard nipple with his saliva making your whole body tremble. He’d lick at your bud a few times, giving it teasing flicks before taking it in, sucking on it harshly. With a few nibbles and toe-curling sucks, you found yourself being driven to orgasm faster than you ever had before.

“I’m gonna- gonna-“ you mewled, trying not to whine in disappointment when Kenma detached himself from your breast to speak.

“Me too baby.” He panted, giving your nipple a kiss, “Together. Let’s cum together!”

Plapp plap plap plap

The sticky lewd sound of him fucking into you was all you could heart, almost drowned out by the sound of your own heartbeat, feeling like it was beating in your ears. Kenma went back to your nipple, suckling on it greedily, eyebrows furrowed as he too reached the edge. His hips lost their rhythm, instead thrusting quickly and deeper, chasing that high that he was so, so close to touching. Arms wrapped around each other, it only took a minute before you climaxed.

With a shrill scream, you reached orgasm, your head tossed back and body shivering like a leaf as pleasure rushed over you. Like a wave crashing on top of your body, your pussy gushed happily, your toes curling and your fingers fisting his hair as you trembled from the force of your orgasm. You were so high off of your own pleasure that you didn’t register Kenma swearing as he pulled out of you quickly. He jerked off his cock as he instantly came as well, his seed splashing against you, staining your abdomen and tummy in his sticky white cum.

The man panted, feeling dizzy as he milked himself, hand tugging at his sensitive member and watching as ropes of cum left his tip only to paint you. Man…he wanted to cum inside you so badly but the two of you hadn’t had that conversation yet. It would be a real dick move to stuff you silly with his cum during your first time together.

Little did he know, you would have loved nothing more.

“Hah…fuck…” you panted, slowly getting back to reality, his cum feeling deliciously warm and sticky against you.

“Yeah…” Kenma panted, just as dizzy from pleasure as you were. You leaned towards you and gave your chest a few kisses before he paused and cheekily took a nipple back into his mouth. Your squeal made him chuckle against you, your hand slapping at his back weakly before he pulled away.

“…Round 2?” you asked, a twinkle in your eye.

“…Round 2.” Kenma agreed, grabbing your shoulders before pushing you down to lie on your back, swiftly settling between your spread legs.

~~~~~

[sugarwarachan]

itoshi brothers, regency!au - part one here

sae knows instantly the depth of rin’s feelings for you. he’s always been able to assess his younger brother’s motives at the drop of a hat—and watching him watch you is nothing more than observing another man wishing to lay claim to what sae already has.

he doesn’t think he’ll love you. it’s not expected of him, and it’s not expected of you, but as you stand beside him at the altar, a thread of fury between your brow and your shoulders tense as a bow, a flicker of understanding goes off in his brain.

he’d soothe you, if you let him.

(his hand jumps when you take it in your grasp, the din of church bells a distant echo as he inputs this new sensation. the gloves you wear are so delicate he wants to pull them off with his teeth.)

you journey to your new home with dread coiling in your stomach, the fear of the wedding night knocking your knees together. to show weakness in front of this man is unforgivable somehow, like you’ve lost the fight before it even began. the sudden heat of his palm on your knee stuns you. he says nothing for the remainder of the carriage ride while his hand seeps warmth into your skin. by the time you arrive, a troubling part of you wishes he had moved closer.

he steadies your waist when you step down, teal eyes betraying a hint of something you can't quite grasp. "I won’t touch you until you want me to," he says.

(you do not shiver. you do not go over those words late at night and recall his breath on your skin.)

sae does not, to your chagrin, play the part of monstrous husband well. for the first few weeks of your marriage, he acquaints you with the estate, introducing you to his tenants and people in his employ, and though you still find his personality grating, you can’t help but shift the image you’ve built of him in your head.

sae knows your affection is not so easily bought. he could thrust a hundred new dresses into your arms, and it would only infuriate you. so he chooses to win you slowly, not because the thought of you recoiling from him makes him ill, but because he does not like to lose.

so when rin arrives in the middle of the night, swaying in the arms of his friend isagi, he’s startled at his relief when you appear just as surprised as he is.

isagi offers little; rin offers nothing.

(rin is drunk, you realize. rin is never drunk.)

sae orders rooms for the guests, a calm and steady fury rising in him at rin’s inebriation, isagi’s assumed instigation, and your immediate concern for someone who isn’t him.

taglist: @t3chn0chan, @captainshindo, @jukiamae, @cherrybomb5000, @nectardaddy, @hiraethwa, @animetrashandotheraesthetics, @cosmic-evening, @getosbunny, @rinsko, @biashellandflyashell, @xmintpiex, @kongkhoi

there will be a part three!! (and four and probably five this is shaping out so angsty in my head). i got a little liberal with the taglist so if you want off (or on!) let me know 😘 divider by @bronzewasp

[slutforpringles]

As someone who spent way too long analysing data and nerding out over Daniel's driving style throughout his McLaren and AT/VCarb stints, people like this that tweet total nonsense about subjects they clearly have no understanding of annoy the absolute shit out of me (especially since Daniel's driving style has been so thoroughly discussed on about a gazillion reddit threads, a thousand articles and hundreds of youtube videos so a quick google search would have corrected this for you). But since apparently the internet has decided that facts no longer matter; no Daniel doesn't brake early, no he doesn't drive in a similar way to Lawson and no Yuki doesn't drive similarly to Max.

"While it would be dangerous to try to simplify Ricciardo’s 2021 cause to a single issue, it did often come back to how he attacks a braking zone and tries to rotate the car. Despite being famously adept at late-braking passes, Ricciardo’s preferred style in normal conditions is to brake slightly earlier, with less pressure, and roll the speed into the corner. That requires a positive front end to get the car rotated. At medium and low speed, the McLaren was ill-suited to this technique. Team-mate Lando Norris was much more effective with a later, harder brake that facilitated a sharper rotation and allowed him to get on the power again quicker. Ricciardo could not quite drill that technique into himself, even though he got better at it through the season. But the reason he couldn’t is probably twinned with the reason he didn’t know what his strengths were as a driver: this is something baked into him from an early age, the kind of technique that comes subconsciously to top-level athletes."

Ricciardo drives the car very differently to regular driver Yuki Tsunoda, but also to Pierre Gasly - who was AlphaTauri’s spearhead for several seasons. They prefer a later-braking approach with a sharp, later rotation - the V-style we often hear drivers talk about, and that Ricciardo wanted to move away from at McLaren but couldn’t. The way Ricciardo brakes and approaches a corner puts very different demands on the car and tyres, and requires (and instigates) a different kind of car behaviour. What you saw in Mexico was the result of AlphaTauri really adjusting the car to that for the first time. Ricciardo prefers to carry more speed through the corner by making it more of a ‘U’ shape. To do that he needs a little rear instability on entry to turn in, and enough grip to rotate the car mid-corner without the rear breaking away. The McLaren had a lot of peak downforce but it was not always usable, making the car unstable and inconsistent to drive in certain corners and conditions. That was murder for Ricciardo’s preferences. And even now, in a McLaren regularly scoring podiums, Lando Norris says he wants to ‘U’ a corner but has to ‘V’ it off because the car can’t handle that. “One of his big limitations has been the front end,” says Eddolls. “So the [new set-up] directions have been able to improve the front end of the car for him, accepting the stability compromise and how that impacts the tyre temperatures through the corner and through the lap.” It may sound surprising given this was his Kryptonite at McLaren but what Ricciardo has been clear on from the start at AlphaTauri is that he could live with a bit more rear instability. There were signs of this right back in Hungary, where Ricciardo drove the car for the first time. There, and in his second race in Belgium, there was some under-rotation in the car. While the AlphaTauri lacks the aerodynamic peaks of what Ricciardo was driving at McLaren, it seems to have a more stable platform. It’s consistent, and understandable. So Ricciardo actually found that he could cope with some more rear instability than it had, to help give him the front end he needed, without it prompting the kind of inconsistency in car behaviour that he could not handle the way Norris could at McLaren. The key to understanding the difference is to consider that not all rear instability is the same. AlphaTauri has battled some specific corner entry trouble all season, mainly when its drivers were braking late into heavy braking zones. Given he generally struggled with rear instability at McLaren, it was initially a concern that this might be an issue for Ricciardo. But with the way he drives compared to Tsunoda, Ricciardo didn't counter the same issues with the AT04. Instead, Ricciardo knows what to expect from the car and is able to take it to its limits more comfortably. Since Ricciardo’s early races before the summer break, the team has added a bit more aero load through upgrades, and the new set-up direction has now unlocked an even more Ricciardo-friendly balance. In Mexico, Ricciardo was able to use the stronger front end to rotate the car through the corners more to his style - braking a little earlier but riding it a little longer, giving him the grip to turn the front in mid-corner and carrying speed through. The result was being at ease with the car in qualifying, visibly leaning on the front and throwing the car around more.

I'm not saying that Daniel would have necessarily jumped into the Red Bull and been 100% comfortable straight-away or been right back to his absolute best. But I do think given the way he has demonstrated (even throughout his struggles at McL) that he can drive a car as long as it has the strong front end required for him to then be able to use the rear instability to rotate the car through the braking phase of corners, and that he can live with a great deal more rear instability than a driver who brakes later like Yuki or Pierre, that he had a much higher likelihood of success in a Red Bull car than most other drivers. I'm not even saying that I don't think Yuki deserves a chance in the second RBR seat, but I do think the team continuing to throw drivers in with very little thought to how their driving style compliments what is clearly a tricky car to master is stupidity personified. For Yuki's sake, I hope he manages to make it work. 🫠

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