#made this in order to learn how to blend

[kazzsbrekker]

I SAW THE TV GLOW (2024)

Owen Isabel & Maddy Tara

What if I really was someone else?

Someone beautiful and powerful.

Someone buried alive and suffocating to death.

Very far away,

on the other side of the television screen.

[norristeria]

Oddity¹ ! LN04

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Oscar's PA! FemReader, Oscar Piastri x PA! FemReader ( platonic )

SUMMARY 𝄡 Though Oscar's teammate is the strangest man you've ever met, you cannot help but find this oddity charming.

IN THIS CHAPTER... Desperate for a job, you apply to be a personal assistant for a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports.’ It's harder than it looks, but only because your new employer is dead set on being a pain in the ass. And what's the deal with his new teammate?

TAGS 𝄡 Angst. Fluff.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 6k.

NOTE 𝄡 Everyone loved the pairing, so I wrote the series⏤it's as simple as that. What do we think? Not much Lando in this chapter but Oscar and Reader's subplot has my entire heart! I tweaked the chronology a bit because I can. ( not edited. if you see a typo⏤no, you didn't. ) <33

For a better experience, read this story in light mode! ( use of black writing on transparent background )

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

━━━━ ❦ Chapter II.

‘Mark Webber’ sounded like an important name, enough to have its gold plaque hanging on a solid oak door.

The man who opened it matched that image—serene and proud, the kind of man that had known glory, however small, in the past. Mark Webber's charisma was undeniable, yes, but the expectation that lit up his face as he extended a hand toward you, the need for recognition clearly visible in his eyes, made him so painfully human that your shoulders relaxed.

He may have been the manager of your future client—a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports' according to the job description—but he was still a man, and you knew how to deal with those. Had been doing it for years during your bachelor’s degree and, later on, your master’s in business administration and management. Those so-called “sons of” or “self-made men” proliferated in Harvard, waiting for one thing only: for you to recognize them without ever needing to introduce themselves.

But because you desperately needed this job and hadn’t gone through three interviews for nothing, you swallowed your pride, smiled, and extended your hand.

“Mr. Webber, it’s an honour to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss L/N. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m afraid time is not on our side right now. I do hope you had a moment to look over the contract HR sent you.”

He led you to his office, cluttered with paperwork. You winced at the chaos, resisting the urge to bring order to the madness. Instead, you sat down, crossed your legs, and pulled the employment contract from your folder.

Your very own Holy Grail.

“Here’s my copy. Initialled and signed.”

You had shed a few tears as you slid the pen across the page—a strange blend of relief and frustration. One of those emotions only fate itself could concoct. Because you had not planned this. Not at all. For years, you had envisioned yourself as a talent agent, maybe a manager at a publicly traded company—but certainly not the personal assistant to one Oscar Piastri, whose name you hadn’t even known three weeks earlier.

When life gives you lemons, learn to make lemonade or suffer their bitterness, your grandmother used to say.

You had chosen your side quickly, picked the lemons yourself, pressed them, sweetened the juice, and learned to savour the taste. You who had never liked citrus fruits had now convinced yourself to see in that pale yellow flesh a sign of future success, of stability.

How many lemon trees would you need to harvest before your parents got used to the sourness?

Watching their prodigy of a daughter become a ‘rich man’s servant’, after paying for five years at Harvard, was a truth they struggled to swallow—a sourness lodged in the throat, leaving behind the bitter tang of defeat.

When you had graduated summa cum laude, your parents had imagined you’d be drowning in job offers. But reality hit hard. Brutally hard. Intelligence alone wasn’t enough. The world’s best companies didn’t hire without connections, and you had none.

The first disillusionment in life stings like nothing else.

So, you had to swallow your pride, lower your standards, and look elsewhere. Anything, really—anything but unemployment and long days spent contemplating the wreckage of your ambitions.

Anything but failure.

The job description had arrived in your inbox amid hundreds of others. That night, you had drunk two glasses of red wine—maybe more—your cheeks streaked with mascara and the remnants of your frustration. You had received two rejections that very morning. Overqualified, they had said.

Bullshit, you replied. They just didn’t want to pay you what your degrees were worth.

For months now, you had been suffering—stuck in this purgatory. Too qualified for some roles, not enough for others. The adjectives varied, but the outcome remained the same. You barely needed to read the emails anymore. You knew the words by heart.

After reviewing your profile, and despite its many strengths, we have decided not to move forward with your application.

It was with those words echoing in your mind that you clicked on the job offer. Personal Assistant. Your eyes widened at the jaw-dropping salary and the list of benefits.

“What the actual fuck?” you mumbled.

Suddenly sobered, you sat up straight and read the required qualifications eagerly, a flicker of hope warming your chest for the first time in weeks. The words were generic—experience, organisation, management, flexibility—but you welcomed their familiarity.

Your internship with one of New York’s top CEOs—the one your classmates had mocked, claiming “it wasn’t a real internship with real responsibilities”—was finally proving useful.

You took another long sip of wine and hastily drafted a cover letter, attached your resumé, and submitted them via the designated portal.

The next day, you received an email with an interview date.

A month later, you found yourself in the heart of London, ready to sign your first real contract—no matter what your parents thought on the matter.

You blinked away the sound of their voices. You wouldn’t let a few bitter scraps of lemon zest ruin what was beginning to look like a stroke of fate. Instead, you watched Mr. Webber sign the contract. With each initial written on the paper, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders.

That’s it, you thought. I have a job.

Yes, being a personal assistant wasn’t the career you had dreamt of; yes, you were overqualified—but it was still a job. And a well-paid one. Probably better than a quarter of your former classmates now working as marketing consultants.

Mark Webber capped his pen and smiled at you.

“Well then, welcome aboard.”

You couldn’t suppress the laugh of pure relief that shook your shoulders as you tucked the signed contract back into the folder.

Webber rummaged through the chaos on his desk and pulled from its depths a rectangular white box, which he slid across to you. A brand-new iPhone 14.

“Here’s your work phone. I’ve already inserted the SIM card. I don’t know if you’ve worked with this kind of setup before, but it’s a bit different from a regular iPhone—more secure, more restricted. Oh, and I almost forgot the most important part: HR should send you an email within the next couple of days with information you need to have, including Oscar’s number.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough. I’d like the two of you to feel comfortable around each other as soon as possible. It’s his first season as a full-time driver and his first time working with a personal assistant. I want everything to go smoothly.”

“Naturally.”

Mark Webber sank back into his chair, eyes fixed on you. You held his gaze. He smiled.

“I’ve got a good feeling about you. I had it the moment I saw your CV.”

“I won’t let you down,” you promised.

Just like Mark—who had insisted you call him that—had said, the meeting with Oscar came swiftly. An email arrived in your inbox four days after your interviews, listing a time and an address.

Six days later, as winter tightened its grip on England with sharp winds and grey skies, you wandered through the deserted streets of Hertford for several minutes before stumbling upon a building that looked quintessentially British—red brick walls, single-hung white windows—the kind your grandparents had once lived in. It was unremarkable, to the point that you wondered if you had typed in the wrong address in Maps. Didn’t Formula 1 drivers earn outrageous salaries?

A gust of wind stung your cheeks. You pulled your coat tighter around you and pressed the doorbell labeled “O. Piastri.” The ink on the name was nearly washed away, chased by the rain and all the other pleasantries of English weather. Mother Nature herself seemed determined to guard his anonymity.

“You can come up. Third floor, last door on the left.”

Mark’s voice crackled through the intercom, as though his client had no voice of his own. Your mind wandered: would he sound the same, or had his years in England worn away his accent, like the ink on his doorbell?

Apartment 3B’s door appeared sooner than you expected, leaving you no time to steel yourself. This was a decisive moment. If Oscar Piastri didn’t like you—if he deemed you unfit for any reason—they would terminate your probationary period, and you would be cast back into the labyrinth of professional limbo.

I just need him to like me. Simple enough, right?

As you adjusted the collar of your sweater, the door opened to reveal Mark. He greeted you with a nod and stepped aside. You didn’t spare a glance for the apartment. Instead, your eyes fell immediately on the young man seated at the table. Your gazes locked.

You gulped.

You had read Oscar Piastri’s Wikipedia page, of course. Before you became an assistant, you had been a student, and if there was one thing you had mastered during that time, it was research. You had stuck only to the facts, never clicking on the suggested videos or press interviews—resolute in forming your own impression.

“Hello. I’m Y/N, pleased to meet you.”

“Oscar.”

Your handshake offered little reassurance, nor did the driver’s impassive expression. You swallowed again and instinctively hugged your notebook to your chest before taking a seat opposite him.

You listened half-heartedly as Mark launched into a stream of benign, reassuring remarks—an overview of your role you had already read over multiple times. Realizing you wouldn’t need to speak, you let yourself drift from the monologue and instead studied the boy you would be working for, scanning his impassive face for any hint on your potential dynamic.

Like many, you had seen The Devil Wears Prada, and while you were aware you weren’t going to work for Vogue, Formula 1 seemed every bit as cutthroat as the fashion world—catfights and sabotage didn’t seem far-fetched in a microcosm so thoroughly built by and for men.

“So, that’s everything,” Mark concluded. “Any questions?”

Oscar shook his head. You mirrored the gesture.

You both shook hands again, before you left Hertford with a new file in your handbag and a knot in your stomach.

December faded; January dawned, bringing with it a new year and its obligations. You moved to Hertford, into a small townhouse not far from Oscar’s apartment, though you never found the courage to cross the neighborhood that separated you.

Instead, you improvised a home office on your dining table, where you set up your laptop and phone—devices you would stare at for hours, waiting for the screen to light up, though it never did despite the messages you had sent Oscar.

Would you like me to order a coffee for your video call with Zak Brown?

Do you need anything specific before your trip to Monaco?

When are you planning to leave for Australia? I’ll book the tickets.

You always left your ringer on, even through the night. Just in case he calls, you told yourself. But it never came. No calls. No messages. No requests. Just silence—heavy—and that infuriating “seen” icon.

At least Mark had the decency to keep you in the loop regarding Oscar’s upcoming obligations. The driver himself had all but vanished. His absence brewed a storm of emotions in you.

First doubt. Then anger.

Did Oscar think you incompetent? Did he consider himself above you?

You lasted a week before you snapped. One week of avoidance. One week of “seen.” One week of voicemails.

You retreated from your desk to your bed, turned off your ringer, and replaced calls and messages with emails—though those, too, went unanswered.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: London–Australia Flight / Dec 14, 10:30

Dear Oscar,

Please find attached your outbound ticket to Melbourne, departing from London Gatwick on Dec 14 at 10:30 AM. A taxi has been booked to pick you up at 7:00 AM.

Let me know your preferred return date, and I’ll handle the booking promptly.

P.S. Don’t forget your Zoom meeting with Mr. Ellis Woodward from McLaren HR on Dec 18 at 9:30 AM London time (6:30 PM Melbourne time). Here's once again the link: https://zoom.us/j/814553

Wishing you happy holidays.

Kind regards, Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: Flight_OPiastri_LGWMEL_1412.pdf]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Offlane B.V. Meeting

Oscar,

Offlane would like to schedule a video call to discuss your website’s new branding. Mark emphasized that it should be handled before the New Year. Please let me know your availability.

Attached are the proposed designs for your review.

Regards,

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: OSCARPIASTRI_FINAL_1224.zip]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Schedule & Meeting Change / Dec 30–Jan 5

Please find attached your schedule for the week. I’ve managed to free up Dec 31 to Jan 2.

Note that your meeting with Thomas Rogers from McLaren’s comms department has been moved from 7:30 PM to 8:30 PM (Melbourne time).

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: Schedule_OP_06120125.pdf]

“I don’t understand why you hired me if Oscar flat-out refuses my help," you said one day, matter-of-factly. “He won’t even answer my emails.”

On your MacBook screen, Mark sighed. The sound crackled harshly in your ears. You grimaced, but quickly composed yourself, afraid he’d take the gesture personally, before turning the volume down and glancing around.

You had chosen this café for its peace. The barista was humming a familiar tune as he prepared lattes, and the only other customer was far too engrossed in her novel to care about you.

You found comfort in this silence. It was unlike the one at home—less oppressive, more soothing.

Your latte, sweetened with vanilla syrup, was going cold. Yet even masked by sugar, you couldn’t get rid of the bitterness that had seeped into all your meals.

Lately, the lemons life gave you were either underripe or rotten. Oscar Piastri had spoiled the lemonade recipe you had spent years perfecting. You had forgotten its tangy sweetness and were now biting into the bitter rind of failure.

“Oscar is... a guarded young man,” Mark replied after a suffocating pause. “That mess with Alpine and his contract didn’t help. From his perspective, you could betray him just like they did. McLaren are the only one he trusts right now. I think that’s why he’s counting on their PR assistant for now.”

You frowned. The statement stung more than you cared to admit. Mark must have sensed it, because he quickly added: “But don’t worry—I’ll speak to him. Things will improve. Whether he likes it or not, he needs an assistant. I’ve made that clear. Everything’s about to speed up come late January, and I want him focused on racing.”

“Then why didn’t you ask McLaren to hire someone if he trusts them so much?” you asked, your tongue thick with resentment.

“Because a contract is just that. A contract. It expires and no one knows what tomorrow will bring. I want him to trust someone outside of that system. And if that means we pay your salary ourselves, so be it. It’s worth it. Loyalty is rare in this sport. I want to give it a chance to bloom without any influence.”

You nodded, but a lump had settled in your throat. Guilt. On your parents’ advice, you had begun quietly looking for other jobs.

You can’t go on like this, they’d told you. You deserve respect. And painful as it was to admit—they were right.

“I understand,” you finally said. “And I understand his trust issues. God knows I’ve been betrayed more than once during internships. I don’t blame him for that. But I’d appreciate it if he at least acknowledged my emails.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Mark repeated. “In the meantime, keep doing your job. I see every email you send, and I want to commend you—not just for your efficiency and initiative, but for your professionalism despite Oscar’s behaviour. Your efforts are not in vain.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply nodded. It was hard to accept praise when the one person you were meant to work for gave you no recognition at all.

“I have to go. McLaren call in five minutes. Keep it up—I’ll handle Oscar.”

Your tired and discouraged face stared back at you on the black screen. You sighed, took a sip of cold coffee, and began typing a new email.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Quad Lock

Oscar,

As Mark and your new McLaren PR assistant may have informed you, Quad Lock (an Australian brand for sports phone mounts) is interested in sponsoring you in 2023.

They’re only available on Thursday, January 16 at 10:30 AM, but you’re scheduled for a padel session then. Would you prefer I reschedule, or can you make yourself available?

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

That evening, you nearly choked on your red wine when your phone buzzed. You immediately recognized the sound—your inbox—and tapped the notification with a trembling finger.

"What the fuck?"

From: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > To: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: RE: Quad Lock

Jan 16 works. Cancel padel.

Oscar

You ended up staring at the screen for far too long. Since when did a simple email affect you so deeply? You had studied at Harvard, for God’s sake. Interned at prestigious firms. Yet here you were—shaken by a curt reply from a bull-headed driver.

If your parents could see you now, they’d sigh.

You typed a reply, erased it, retyped the same one, changed a word, fixed a typo, then—uncertain—rewrote it altogether.

Then deleted it again.

And finally typed: “Thanks, I’ll inform them.”

You tossed your phone across the bed and drained your wine in one big gulp.

You didn’t know what to make of the sudden shift, but one thing was certain: you could count on Mark. And there was nothing more reassuring than not feeling alone in your corner.

You longed for the sense of excitement that had animated you when you had signed your contract in this very office, just a few weeks ago. The golden plaque on the door still bore Mark’s name but it no longer gleamed as it had that first day. It appeared dull now—faded, even.

He had summoned you to discuss Oscar’s upcoming first days with McLaren, and the logistical arrangements it would require.

Upon your arrival, the secretary had promptly informed you that the Australian would be running late. Something about a meeting “too important to be cut short.”

So, you had sat down in one of the waiting room chairs and begun flipping through your notebook to review the brief Mark had sent two days prior. But muffled voices soon broke your concentration.

You looked up. The office door stood slightly ajar.

You immediately recognized Mark’s voice. Another, deeper and more assertive, kept interrupting him.

Oscar.

Eyes wide, you gently closed your notebook and placed it on the seat beside you before moving closer to the door.

“This can’t go on,” said Mark. “Besides your blatant lack of professionalism, you're making things harder for yourself on purpose.”

“I don’t need an assistant.”

They’re talking about me, you realized.

You swallowed hard and leaned in.

“And I’m telling you that you do. You’re stepping into the big leagues, Oscar. That means four times the responsibilities, four times the meetings. Your little Google Calendar might’ve worked in F2 and in 2022, but that’s no longer the case. You need someone.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here to help you negotiate contracts, not book your flights or your hair appointments. I have enough on my plate as it is, and you do too. You’re literally starting at McLaren in two weeks!”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But why Y/N?”

 “Why not?”

“I’ve read her résumé. She doesn’t belong here,” he spat.

You recoiled. The words stung, not just because of what he said, but how he said it. You had expected indifference from Oscar, but never cruelty.

“You can complain all you want,” Mark replied coolly. “It won’t change a damn thing. She is your assistant—and given the excellent work she’s done despite your shitty attitude, she will remain as such. So get used to seeing her around.”

“Whatever,” Oscar muttered.

Silence followed, then soft but steady footsteps.

Your stomach twisted. You scrambled back to your seat, notebook now trembling in your damp hands. Your heartbeat was so loud you could feel it pounding in your temples.

Oscar soon appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes immediately found yours. You froze, gaze fixed on a blurry sentence, your heart in your throat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him stop. His stare scorched the right side of your face. Your cheeks burned—whether from fury or adrenaline, you couldn’t say. Perhaps both.

After what felt like an eternity, the driver turned and walked away. Without a word. As always.

He didn’t even have the decency to say it to my face, you thought.

Something inside you cracked at that realization—the last stronghold of patience, the final tower of understanding.

Rage surged through your veins and turned your chest into a battlefield. Amid the carnage, a voice pierced your armour. You looked up and saw Mark, one hand on the door handle.

“Are you coming?”

You followed him into the office mechanically, sat down in the leather chair, opened your notebook, nodded silently at every sentence he spoke, scribbled down notes you knew you would never read, and asked no questions.

More than once, Mark raised an eyebrow at your uncharacteristic silence, but you deliberately ignored his questioning glances.

Gone was the eager assistant, determined to prove herself, always anticipating her client’s needs. In her place sat a woman with furrowed brows and brisk, sharp movements—hardened by a fresh wave of anger.

One of the first management courses you had taken at Harvard had introduced the idea of professional archetypes. Who was motivated by emotion? Rewards? Everyone prided themselves for their individuality, their uniqueness, but, at the end, we all fell a category. And you knew you thrived for acknowledgment—something Oscar had never given you. Not once.

And that hurt.

So no, you didn’t feel guilty for not listening during the meeting. Mark continued with his verbose explanations, but you knew the spiel…

Oscar’s debut at McLaren was fast approaching. It would be a critical moment—for him, for Mark, for you.

And yet, despite knowing all that, you couldn’t bring herself to care.

She doesn’t belong here.

At the memory of those words, you tightened your grip on your pen.

“Y/N,” Mark said eventually, his tone tentative. “About Oscar… I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”

You stifled a bitter laugh and nodded. He eventually dismissed you, realizing you had nothing further to say, and you didn’t hesitate to walk out—slamming the door behind you, decorum be damned.

Once home, you glanced at your makeshift desk on the dining table, then at your work phone—silent, as always.

That was the final straw—the dark screen.

On impulse, you reached out to your cousin, a doctor.

One of your professors had once spoken at length about the value of networking and connections. You finally understood the importance of those when, thirty minutes later, a five-day medical leave form landed in your inbox.

You forwarded it to Mark, turned off your phone, and threw it into a drawer.

If Oscar didn’t need you, then he could handle his McLaren debut on his own.

During the first two days, you didn’t leave your bed. You stayed under the covers and ignored the world outside—though the latter seemed determined not to ignore you. Your parents kept sending you links to job offers, and Mark had started calling your personal number.

On the third day, someone knocked.

Oscar.

The moment you saw him standing there, you didn’t think—you tried to slam the door in his face. But the driver was faster—damn reflexes—and caught it with one hand.

“We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Please.”

That one word made you falter.

“I know you took medical leave,” he continued. “Mark told me. I also know you’re not really sick and it’s because of me.”

That caught your attention. Oscar took advantage of the hesitation and slipped through the gap. You protested, pushed against his chest to get him out, but you were no match to his strength.

Soon, Oscar Piastri was standing in your apartment.

The sight was so surreal you blinked, convinced you were hallucinating. But no, he was real and had just turned your worst nightmare into reality.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he said. “I was an asshole.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms.

“Understatement of the fucking year.”

Oscar took your hand and held it in his.

Your eyes widened.

“I thought I didn’t need an assistant, but I was wrong.”

You rolled your eyes before pulling away.

“Oh, right. So what? You had some epiphany while I was gone?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“I missed three meetings with McLaren and was late to two others because I didn’t get your reminder emails.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Mark didn’t send anything?”

It was surprising, given how insistent he’d been about professionalism before Oscar’s debut.

“He said it was to ‘help me realize how much I fucked up.’”

You stifled a smile as a warm wave washed over you—part pride, part relief. Mark had stood up for you. Your heart felt just a little lighter.

You looked up at Oscar.

But then a memory—sharp and cold—soured the moment.

“You said I didn’t belong there,” you whispered.

You hated yourself for voicing it, for letting the insecurity slip through. The same one your parents had spent years nurturing.

A heavy silence followed.

“You heard us,” he simply said. “Mark and me. The other day.”

It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer. Oscar ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“You don’t belong here. That’s true.”

You opened your mouth in disbelief.

“Did you read your résumé?” he went on, undeterred.

“What kind of stupid question is–”

“Because I did,” he cut you off. “And you’re overqualified. You graduated from Harvard, for fuck’s sake! You deserve so much more than being my personal assistant.”

For the first time, you were speechless.

“But I guess I’m selfish,” he sighed. “I still think you deserve better, but now that I know how much I need you, I don’t want you to leave.”

He stepped closer.

“So please, forgive me. I’ll give you a raise—just name your price. But don’t quit.”

You hesitated, frozen in the middle of your living room, facing a visibly nervous Oscar. Were you making a mistake? Giving in too easily? What if this was just a momentary change of heart? What if, in three weeks’ time, everything went back to how it was?

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar took another step and rushed to reassure you.

“I’ll try harder. I’ll communicate better. I’ll learn to trust you.”

“And reply to my emails?”

He smiled, and the sight of those bunny teeth softened something in your chest.

“That too.”

You had come to love this job in the past weeks. It quenched your thirst of order and precision. And, Oscar aside, it was relatively simple.

The salary didn’t hurt either.

“You have no self-respect, woman,” you muttered under your breath before taking a deep breath and speaking aloud. “Fine.”

You said it quickly, as if speaking too slowly would give regret the time to catch up.

Maybe forgiving him wasn’t the best decision. Maybe your first impression hadn’t been good either.

Maybe you had both made mistakes.

“What?”

“I said, fine.”

Oscar looked as though he wanted to hug you—you saw it in the way his muscles tensed—but he thought better of it and rested a hand on your shoulder instead.

“Thank you.”

Yoy offered him a small smile and straightened up. Oscar’s hand fell back to his side.

“Well… Let’s start over, shall we?”

You held out a hand.

“Hello, I’m Y/N. I’ll be your personal assistant. If you need anything, I’m here.”

Oscar took it and gave it a gentle shake.

“Hi, I’m Oscar and I won’t screw up this time.”

Woking was a rather dreary town, you concluded as you watched its brick buildings pass by through the window of Oscar’s car. A typical English town, with uniform neighbourhoods and a colour palette of browns and whites.

“Feeling nervous?” you asked, glancing at Oscar’s hands, clenched so tightly around the steering wheel they were turning white.

“Yes."

“Good. It would’ve been strange if you weren’t. It means you care.“"”

He sighed and turned down the radio.

“Mark warned me they’d drown me with information. I’m worried I won’t remember anything and that I’ll come across as a rookie.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Just try to remember the essentials, and I’ll take care of the rest,” you replied, giving your black notebook a shake.

The movement caught Oscar’s attention, and he glanced away from the road for a second. He hummed in acknowledgment, and silence settled once again over the car.

There remained in your interactions traces of your chaotic beginnings. The team-building week Mark had forced you into, squeezed into the slim window of time leading up to today, had helped, but one didn’t simply erase a month of mutual silence with the wave of a wand.

Both of you had promised Oscar’s manager to try. You had sealed the pact without hesitation—anything was preferable to playing yet another damned escape room.

Oscar eventually gestured toward the notebook with a nod.

“You’ll need an orange one.”

You clutched it to your chest with a grimace. Loose pages and stray Post-its crinkled against your wool winter coat. It was an organized chaos of contracts and printed emails—a reflection of the turbulent start to Oscar’s F1 career, and their own beginnings.

“It’s not even full yet! And I don’t like orange.”

“A sticker, then.”

You pursed your lips.

“I suppose. But only if I get to pick the design.”

‘It has to be related to the team or me, though.”

“It is related to you. It contains your entire life for the next eight months.”

Oscar cut the conversation short when he took a sharp turn.

“Look—we’re here.”

You blinked at the building.

What kind of Avengers shit is this?

The building looked like it had been plucked straight from the future and placed with uncanny precision beside the lake. Everything about it exuded innovation and ambition—the kind of place you had imagined yourself working for after graduating.

Today, you were entering it as a mere personal assistant.

A part of you felt bitter at the thought, but you quickly buried the feeling when Oscar opened his door and offered you a hand.

Mark was already waiting at the entrance, flanked by a man you recognized as Zak Brown, and another with tanned skin and graying hair.

“Andrea Stella, the team principal,” Oscar murmured in your ear, seeing your confused expression.

Zak and Andrea greeted you politely—nothing more—before turning their full attention to Oscar. Mark, on the other hand, walked over to you with a sly smile on his thin lips.

“You managed the drive without killing each other? I’m impressed.”

As if he hadn’t just forced the two of you into a three-hour tug-of-war last Wednesday…

You all entered the building together. You were left speechless by the modern architecture and followed the group of men on autopilot. Very quickly, Oscar began meeting the team—one person after another. The receptionists. The mechanics. The engineers. The technicians. The designers. You jotted down as much as you could in your little notebook, but even you soon felt overwhelmed, your wrist aching.

“Of course you know Cecilia, your PR assistant,” announced Zak Brown as they entered the office area.

That was enough to catch your attention. You snapped your head up so fast your neck cracked. You couldn’t help narrowing your eyes, givng a once-over to the woman who’d had such a good job back in November. Beside you, Mark stifled a laugh.

“Careful—you almost look jealous.”

“I don’t care.”

But you couldn’t hide your satisfied smile as you observed the interaction between the two—cordial and awkward.

Take that, Cecilia.

“Ah!” Zak exclaimed. “Just the man we were looking for! Lando, come meet your new teammate.”

You rose onto your toes to catch sight of the newcomer.

Of course, you knew who Lando Norris was. A McLaren driver since 2019 and now Oscar’s teammate. Nothing more—just the essentials. That was enough. Memorizing the information Mark and Oscar fed you already took up a quarter of your time; you didn’t have room for another driver.

He shook hands with everyone with the ease of someone familiar in his environment. There was no hesitation in his movements, just a quiet confidence.

“Nice to meet you, Oscar.”

“Likewise.”

The Australian stepped aside, revealing you behind him. Your eyes met. Lando’s widened.

“And this is—”

But before Oscar could introduce you, Lando stumbled and fell at your feet.

You blinked. Then rushed to help him. Your knees hit the smooth floor, but you had no time to feel the pain; your hand quickly found the Brit’s shoulder.

“My God! Are you alright?”

Lando sprang back up and recoiled from your touch as though burned, his face flushed crimson.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, eyes fixed on the floor.

He mumbled words you didn’t catch—something about an engineer and a meeting—then spun around and disappeared down the corridor.

You blinked once, twice, then shook your head and hurried to rejoin the group for the rest of the tour, which lasted another two long hours.

“Lando…” you began once you and Oscar were back in the car.

“What about him?”

“He’s a bit… odd, don’t you think?”

Oscar shot you a quick glance before focusing back on the road. Already, the McLaren Technology Centre was nothing more than a vague grey blur in the rearview mirror. The engine roared, churning your stomach—or perhaps that was the regret creeping onto your tongue.

You and Oscar weren’t yet close enough for you to speak so freely. What would he think of you, openly criticizing his future teammate?

“I suppose,” he admitted, to your utmost relief. “I haven’t really had the chance to talk with him yet. We’re planning to meet up before the first tests. He mentioned something about padel.”

You pulled your notebook from your bag and uncapped your fountain pen, glad for the change in topic.

“Do you already have a date in mind?”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

[evilminji]

Ooooh~ Drink mix up? >.>

Because! Wes DID, in fact, get that dream job. HAS learned... after many, many hours of "beat about the head and shoulders with an ethics pamphlet by his great aunt", to keep his mouth shut! Family curse of Sight? WHAT family curse?

He doesn't see shit! Mind your business.

What're you? A cop?

Look, he sent Fenton a gift basket. He was a shitty, shitty "I have to be RIGHT and nothing else matters!" Stubborn lil asshole of a kid. He got better. Grew up. No one is there best Self during puberty. He DOES, in fact, regret it.

Which is WHY, he is deliberately ignoring Kent's terrible, awful, paper-thin, "who meee~?" Aw shucks BULLSHIT excuse of a disguise, like it isn't blatantly obvious he's Superman. Yep. Nothing to see here! Nothing but us chickens! Mmmmm, morning coffee! Delicious.

But see, here's the THING.

The Itty, bitty, teeny lil PROBLEM...

Wes grew up in Amity "Totally Not Supernatural Hotspot For Centuries" Park. He is... to put it mildly, genetically? A freak. His biology is ALL fucked up. Everyone's is. And it WAS NOT made better by the Fenton's playing fast and loose with their hell basement. The Ectoplasmic NUKE that was that portal.

There is a REASON his morning coffee? Is COVERED. Contained. Fenton brand, LEAD LINED, specialty cups. The sort that can't be EATEN from the inside out. Eroded after a few uses. They're ugly as sin, but they work. He even ordered a few covers from Star's etsy shop. (Apparently he wasn't the only one who hated how ugly they looked. Good for her though, he heard it was doing well.)

He SAYS this? 'Cause his morning brew is less... straight COFFEE... and more... how to put this? A blend? Brew? Potion, really. Like an energy drink. From hell. Or, partially at least, the Zone. It's the combination of roots, seeds, and a few dried berries. Kinda like a tea, actually!

Tasty. Adds this nice fruity, warmth. A zing. Goes GREAT with the coffee. And it really perks you up... if you are Limnal. If you AREN'T? It'll desolve your esophagus like swallowing straight acid. And that's not TOUCHING the... witch-y, more Seer specific bit of the blend.

That stuff is medicinal. You know, "calm the mind" and "mental clarity". That sorta thing. With a good ol helping of "don't blurt out everyone's secrets, you spacey bitch! For the love of God, those are our INSIDE THOUGHTS!". Which? Really helpful! Infinitely less likely to get decked. It's a family staple.

Poisonous, though.

They're fine cause they've basically developed an immunity to that part, but like? Wouldn't recommend. It's why he NEVER shares his drinks. Food? On occasion. If he PLANS it and knows not to add and interesting spices. But DRINKS? Never. Weston family brews are basically NEVER safe.

Which? Begs the Very Important Question ™!

Who's Coffee Is This?

Cause it SURE AS FUCK AINT HIS!

You never realize quite how fast you can go from "completely calm and kinda sleepy" to "bomb strapped to my chest, primal panic AWAKE" until it happens to you. His coffee was ON HIS DESK. People have passed by. He talked to them. Cups put down and picked up. Lazy early morning. He doesn't even register, really, as his chair crashes to the ground.

He's shouting.

People confused. They don't realize yet. His head whips around, looking for that distinct cover. Before it's too late. Before someone takes that fatal sip. He spots it. Bolting from his desk. Crashing through coworkers, over desks. Chaos and outrage. "It's 'just' coffee!" They cry.

Kent turns, confused. Pretending. Raises his (HIS! Oh god!) cup to his lips, unknowing. Wes SCREAMS a warning. But he doesn't listen. "It's 'just' coffee" They never listen. Curse of Cassandra. God's damn it. This is why his family fucking CONVERTED!

He TACKLES the man of steel.

RIPS his cup away from him, knows his eyes are frantic. How much have you had?! Spit it out! Wes voice ECHOES in the sudden silence. I'm a META, Kent! It could KILL YOU!

And oh, Oh NOW they get it. Or perhaps it is the burn in his mouth that finally registers. He rolls, spits oil slick nebulae that eat away the floor. There is blood mixed within it. It took mere moments. Superman stares, transfixed and horrified, as Wes shakes. He... he should probably get off of him.

He'll move in a moment.

When his legs no longer feel weak from terror.

The news room is in chaos. Lane kneeling by her husband, Perry trying to do damage control. He... he's probably gonna lose his job, isn't he? Wes wants to cry. Protection laws only go so far, after all. And warning his boss about his dietary needs means jack shit, after an incident like this. Beloved as Kent is. Not that anyone likely believed him.

They never do.

And now he's nearly killed Superman.

@hypewinter @hdgnj @legitimatesatanspawn @nerdpoe @lolottes @babbling-babull @mutable-manifestation @dcxdpdabbles

[skywalkerslvt]

Leon Fucking You In A Sketchy Alleyway

❥Pairing: Leon Kennedy x F!Reader

❥Summary: Leon and reader get horny while he teaches her how to play pool, so he fucks her in a sketchy alleyway.

❥CW: 18+, smut, semi-public sex, unprotected p in v, sorta praise kink? 2.2k words

❥a/n: another very rushed and not proofread fic lol! Was half asleep when I finished writing it so I hope it's not too hard to follow. Enjoy <3 pics are from pinterest

The day had been long and exhausting. You and Leon had spent hours on patrol, dealing with the usual chaos that the city seemed to attract. As partners on the police force, you and Leon had grown accustomed to each other's company, you developed a rhythm that made every situation–stressful or not–so easy. You guys were inseparable, best friends even, and you worked well together. 

After clocking out, a few of your coworkers suggested heading to a nearby bar to unwind. It was a dingy, dimly lit place, frequented by off duty cops and regulars looking for a cheap drink. You and Leon had exchanged a glance and shrugged–why not? 

The bar was slightly crowded, the stale air smelling of cheap beer and cigarettes. You found a table with your coworkers and ordered a round of drinks. The chatter was lively, everyone sharing stories from the day and laughing at old jokes. 

A few drinks later, you found yourself tipsy and alone at your table, your coworkers mingling around the bar. One of them was having a game of pool with Leon. You had decided to stay at the table and watch the game while nursing your drink. 

Leon stood at the pool table, his eyes narrowing in concentration as he lined up his shot. He leaned over, his body a perfect blend of tension and relaxation. God, he looked good. The two of you had developed a close bond over the years. You trusted him with your life, and he trusted you with his. Your friendship was solid, built on shared experiences and mutual respect. Over time, your friendship had grown into something deeper–an unspoken bond that nothing else could compare to. You found yourself drawn to him in ways that went beyond mere friendship, your heart racing whenever he flashed that boyish smile or offered a comforting word. It was more than just professional respect that you two shared; it was magnetic attraction that was getting harder and harder for the two of you to ignore. 

It wasn't until Leon had walked over and stood in front of you, that you realized the game was over. You had been so lost in your thoughts, staring at him, that you hadn't noticed. 

“Ever played?” he asked with a boyish grin, nodding to the pool table. 

You shook your head, taking a sip of your drink. “Nope. Never learned how. I've always wanted to try, though.” 

A mischievous glint appeared in his eyes. “Want me to teach you? It's not too hard.”

You hesitated, feeling a flutter of nervousness. “Sure, why not? But be warned, I'm a fast learner.” 

Leon laughed as you stood up, grabbing a couple of cue sticks. “We'll see about that. Come on.”

As you walked over to the pool table, the noisy sounds of the bar faded into the background, your only focus being Leon as he handed you a cue stick and explained the rules of the game. His hands occasionally brushed against yours as he adjusted your grip and stance. 

“First, you need to get your stance right,” he said, positioning himself behind you. As he pressed his chest to your back, he began guiding your arms with his hands. “Like this.”

You could feel his breath ghost on your neck, the sensation sending shivers down your spine. You hummed in affirmation, trying to focus on the game. 

“Now, aim for the ball,” he continued, voice low and steady. “And don’t forget to keep your eyes on the cue ball.”

You took a shot, but missed the ball completely. Leon chuckled lightly behind you. “That’s alright, it takes practice. Here, let me help you get the hang of it.”

He pressed himself even closer behind you and placed a hand on your upper back, pushing you forward until you were bent over the table. Heat rose to your cheeks as you felt him put his arms around you, his much larger hands enveloping your own as he corrected your grip once again and guided your hands into the correct position. His crotch was barely grazing your ass, but that was all it took to turn you on. You inhaled sharply at the compromising position you two were in, feeling heat begin to pool between your thighs. 

Leon noticed your sudden intake of breath, and leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear. “Relax,” he murmured, his voice low and gravelly, most likely from the few drinks he had. “Now, watch how I do it,” he said while guiding your hands.

With his guidance, you took another shot, this time hitting the ball. It rolled slowly, hitting another ball, but didn’t make any pockets. “I guess I’m not as fast a learner as I thought,” you said with a shaky exhale. 

Leon chuckled, the sound sending butterflies throughout your stomach. “You’re doing great. Just need a bit of practice. He moved his hands to your waist, his presence a comforting weight behind your back. 

"Want to try again?" he asked, his voice softer now, more intimate. You nodded, feeling a mix of excitement and nervousness. He positioned your hands again, his touch lingering longer than necessary. The atmosphere around you grew thick with unspoken tension, each brush of his fingers against yours sending sparks through your veins.

As you lined up for another shot, Leon's hand slid from your back to your waist, his fingers pressing into your hip. "Just like that," he whispered, his breath warm against your neck. You could feel his chest rising and falling with each breath, his closeness intoxicating.

You took the shot, and this time, the ball sank into a pocket. You couldn't help but grin, turning your head slightly to look at him. "I did it," you said, your voice filled with a mix of surprise and triumph.

Leon smiled back, eyes locking onto yours.“Atta girl! Let's try it one more time.”

As you took the shot, you felt Leon's body press even closer against yours, his crotch pressed firmly against your ass now, and you could feel his half hard cock through his jeans. His breath was hot against your neck, sending shivers down your spine. As you took your shot, you experimentally pushed your hips back, slightly grinding your ass against his crotch. 

Leon's grip on your waist tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he fought to control his own desire. You could feel the tension in his body, the barely contained need radiating from him in waves.

"Damn," he muttered under his breath, his voice strained with restraint. "You're a natural."

You turned to look at him, the intensity in his eyes leaving you breathless. "Thanks," you managed to say, your voice barely a whisper.

Leon opened his mouth to say something, but abruptly closed it in hesitation. “Do you…Do you wanna get out of here?” He asked. 

You caught the hesitation in Leon's voice, sensing there was something more behind his question. Your heart pounded in your chest as you searched his eyes for any sign of what he was really asking.

His gaze flickered between your eyes and your lips, a silent invitation hanging in the air. Without a word, you nodded, your own desire mirrored in his intense gaze.

In a heartbeat, Leon took your hand, leading you through the crowded bar towards the exit. The world around you faded into a blur as anticipation coursed through your veins.

The night air was cool on your flushed skin. Leon led you to the dark alleyway beside the bar, abruptly pushing you flush against the rough brick wall, and before you could even register the slight pain, his lips were on yours in a sloppy, open mouthed kiss. His hands roamed your body, moving up from your hips to your breasts where he groped you roughly. 

Your hands grabbed his now fully hard cock through the fabric of his jeans, causing him to let out a strangled moan into your mouth. You fumbled with the buttons on his jeans, the urgency in your movements mirroring his own need for you. Leon's ragged breaths mingled with your own as you finally succeeded, the sound of his heavy breaths filling the air as you pushed his jeans down his hips.

His hands had moved down to your thighs now, reaching up your skirt as he ran his finger along the wetness of your panties.

“Fuck…already so wet f’me,” he teased as he slid your soaked panties to the side, gathering your slick on his fingers as he pushed a finger inside of you while circling your clit with his thumb.

You whined as you began pumping his hard cock, precum staining your hand. “Leon…need you inside of me, now.”

“Fuck–I know, baby, I know. Just be a good girl and take my fingers for now. Then you can go dumb on my cock, yeah?”

You moaned and nodded, bucking your hips into his hand to gain more friction on your clit. 

With a wicked grin, Leon complied, his finger delving deeper inside you, curling and stroking in all the right places as you whimpered and squirmed against him. Each movement sent shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your body, the sensation building with every thrust of his hand.

You clung to him desperately, your need for release growing with each passing second. Leon's touch was electrifying, his fingers expertly navigating your slick folds as you teetered on the edge of ecstasy.

Right when you were about to cum, Leon removed his fingers, bringing them up to his lips and tasting your slick. He grabbed your thigh, holding it up around his hip as he guided his thick tip to your entrance, pushing in slowly. 

You keened at how his thick cock stretched the walls of your cunt. You've never had a cock this big, and he was filling you so good. You clenched around him as he gave you a second to adjust, causing him to let out a low groan. 

Unable to hold back any longer, Leon rolled his hips into yours as he leaned in and began sucking marks onto your neck. His cock was angled just right and was brushing against that gummy spot that had you seeing stars. 

You began meeting his thrusts, urging him to take you deeper and faster. Leon’s breath was hot against your ear as he moaned dirty praises, igniting a fire deep within you. 

As his thrusts became sloppier, signalling his quickly approaching release, Leon began working his fingers on your clit, pushing you further to the edge. 

The alleyway echoed with the rhythmic slapping of Leon's hips against your own, mingled with your shared moans that filled the air.

With one final, deep thrust, he hit your g-spot perfectly, sending you over the edge. Your chest heaved as you let out a strangled cry, your walls clenching tightly around his cock. A wave of ecstasy washed over you, your cunt gushing around him in a release that left you trembling. 

The sensation of your velvety walls tightening around him was all Leon needed. His grip on your hips tightened, and with a guttural moan, he buried himself deep inside you. You felt his cock twitch as he spilled his hot cum, filling you completely. His body shuddered against yours, both of you lost in the overwhelming pleasure of the moment.

As the intensity of your orgasms subsided, Leon remained close, his breath warm against your neck. He gently pulled out, and you could feel your combined releases trickling down your thighs. He steadied you, his hands now soft and tender on your waist. 

“You okay?” he asked, his voice low, but laced with concern. 

You nodded, a dopey smile playing on your lips. “More than okay,” you replied, leaning your forehead against his. 

Leon chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair out of your face. “We should probably get back before the others start wondering where we are,” he said, but he made no move to pull away from you. 

“Yeah, we probably should,” you replied reluctantly, moving to adjust your clothes.

Before you could move to leave, Leon caught your wrist, pulling you back for one more kiss. It was slow and tender, unlike the kiss you shared in the heat of the moment. “This…this wasn't just a one-time thing, right?” he asked, his eyes searching yours. 

You smiled, your heart swelling with affection for him. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”

With a final shared glance and a knowing smile, you both made your way back into the bar. The noise and lights greeted you, a stark contrast to the intimate darkness of the alleyway. As you rejoined your coworkers, the atmosphere was lively, with no one seeming to have noticed your absence.

Leon slipped his arm around your waist, pulling you close. "Let's grab another drink," he suggested, his eyes twinkling with mischief.

You nodded, your heart still racing from the intensity of your time together. As you sipped your drinks and mingled with your friends, the connection between you and Leon felt stronger than ever, the weight of your shared secret hanging between you.

[ferrarifudds]

hiiii!! could u please write one where Charles has a crush on a girl who owns a small coffee shop in Monaco and he's never really had the courage to ask her out yet but Leo kinda acts as his wingman when Charles just got him? lmao, thank u sm! also, i adore ur writing <33

Coffee. ✷ Charles Leclerc

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x CafeOwner!reader

Summary: When Leo Leclerc decides to be a chaotic little wing man for his dad.

Word Count: 1.1k

Disclaimer/s: fluffff! ^_^ leo feature slay

Vera’s Voice! loved this request to death so had to get to it immediately. but!!! will be getting to my other requests soon!!! promise ^_^ thank u for requesting!!!! mwah! hope u enjoy!

The mornings in Monaco always held a quiet charm, a soft blend of sunlight bouncing off the pristine waters and the gentle hum of life waiting to stir.

For you, mornings meant the comforting clink of ceramic little tea cups, or the bittersweet aroma of freshly ground coffee beans. And the hum of your small cafe shop nestled along a cobblestone street just off the harbor was perfect.

It wasn’t grand or luxurious, but it was yours—as place as perfect as you, called La Petite Matin.

The regulars made the place feel like home. Businessmen grabbing espressos, elderly couples sharing croissants, and the occasional curious tourist wandering in off the beaten path.

But none of them made your heart skip quite like Charles Leclerc.

The first time he walked in, you didn’t even register it was him. Your brain was too preoccupied with the morning rush, juggling orders and making sure the almond croissants didn’t burn.

It wasn’t until he was standing in front of you, all tall and handsome with that devastatingly soft smile, that it clicked.

“Bonjour,” He greeted, glancing at the handwritten menu above the counter. “Ehhmm..” He studied the contents before finally making a choic. “Could I get a cappuccino?”

You blinked. Once. Twice. Then stared, trying not to make it obvious that the guy from the posters on your cousin’s bedroom wall was standing in your shop, asking for coffee like he wasn’t Charles Leclerc.

“O—Of course,” You stammered, nearly letting out a nervous giggle as you fumbled to grab a cup.

That had been three months ago.

Since then, he had become a regular. On any morning he wasn’t traveling for races, he’d show up at precisely 8:30 AM, lean against the counter like he had all the time in the world, and flash you a smile that made your pulse stutter.

At first, it was overwhelming—serving coffee to one of Monaco’s most famous faces. But you quickly learned that Charles wasn’t anything like you’d expected.

He was easygoing, funny, and oddly humble for someone whose face was plastered across billboards. He’d ask about your day, tell you stories about his week, and even joke about how he probably should be ordering green smoothies instead of croissants.

What you didn’t know was that Charles wasn’t just coming for the coffee.

He was coming just to see you.

It was a warm and golden Tuesday morning when he walked in, but this time, he wasn’t alone.

He waved at you as he pushed the door open with one hand and holding a leash in the other. Trailing behind him was a small dachshund, its tiny legs moving at lightning speed as it padded into the shop.

You looked over the counter. “Bonjour!” You smiled. “And who’s this little guy?”

“Leo,” Charles said, crouching to unclip the leash and picking the animal up. “He’s… well, he’s quite the handful.”

Leo wagged his tail furiously, barking once in what could only be described as a hello. You leaned over to greet him, your heart melting as he pressed his nose against your hand that pet him.

“He’s adorable,” You said, scratching behind his ears. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”

Charles shrugged, a sheepish smile on his face. “I don’t usually bring him out, but I figured he’d like to finally meet you.”

You froze for a second, glancing up at him. His expression was casual, but there was something in his tone that made your stomach flip.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you too, Leo,” You said, trying to ignore the warmth creeping up your neck.

As Charles ordered his usual cappuccino, you gave him the okay to let Leo trot around the shop. The mini dachshund sniffed the furniture and charmed the few customers sitting by the windows.

You couldn’t help but laugh as he stopped in front of the display case, staring longingly at the pastries inside.

“Hmm,” You teased, handing Charles his beverage. “Think he’s saying you should get a treat with your cappuccino today.”

“Oh, he’s already convinced me,” Charles replied with a grin.

Before you could respond, Leo made his move. The little dog bolted toward the counter. He leapt up on his hind legs, paws resting on the wood as he barked.

“Leo!” Charles scolded, but there was no real heat in his voice.

“It’s okay,” You said, laughing as you leaned again to pet him. But just as you reached out, Leo darted to the side—right into the shelf of to-go cups.

With a crash, the cups tumbled to the floor, scattering across the tiles.

“Oh my,” You gasped with a laugh, hurrying around the counter.

Charles was already crouched down, gathering the cups as Leo sat innocently beside him, tail wagging like he hadn’t just caused chaos.

“I swear he’s not usually like this,” Charles said, shooting you an apologetic look.

“It’s fine, I don’t mind,” You assured him, though you were fighting back laughter. “Honestly, it’s kind of impressive. He’s got a lot of energy for such little legs.”

Charles chuckled, stacking the cups in his arms. But as he stood up, something slipped out of his pocket—a small scrap of paper.

You bent down to grab it before he could, your eyes catching the familiar curve of your own handwriting.

It was one of the notes you wrote with his coffee cups.

You’d started the habit a few weeks ago, jotting down little messages like Good luck today! or Hope this makes your morning better. You’d never expected him to keep them.

“I—” Charles began, his ears turning pink. “I meant to throw that away. I’m not a stalker, I swear.”

You bit back a smile, holding the note out to him. “You kept this?”

He rubbed the back of his neck, avoiding your gaze. “Y—Yes… It was a nice message. And, uh… I’ve actually kept a few others.”

Your heart thudded in your chest as you stared at him, suddenly noticing the nervous energy radiating off him. For a guy who drove at 300 kilometers per hour for a living, Charles seemed unusually flustered.

“I like the notes,” He admitted, his voice softer now. “And I like coming here.” A pause.

“And sometimes, not just for the coffee.”

The words hung in the air, and for a moment, you didn’t know what to say. Then, as if sensing the tension, Leo barked again—loud and insistent.

Charles groaned. “Leo, not helping.”

But you were already smiling, warmth blooming in your chest.

“Well,” You said, tucking the note back into his hand, “I’m glad you like the coffee. And the notes.”

Charles met your eyes, his nervousness melting into something softer, more genuine.

“Would you like to get dinner sometime? With us—or I mean, just me. Not Leo. Unless you want him to come too.”

You laughed, feeling a giddy kind of lightness. “I’d love to. But maybe just us for the first date?”

He grinned, his relief palpable. “Yeah, just us. That sounds perfect.”

As you scribbled your number on a napkin and handed it to him, Leo barked one last time, wagging his tail like he’d just sealed the deal.

“Guess I owe him a treat then,” Charles said, tucking the napkin into his pocket.

“Definitely,” you replied, your smile widening.

“Best wingman I’ve ever met.”

likes, comments, & reblogs are appreciated!!! ^_^ & please LMK if you wanna be apart of my permanent tag list!!! mwah!!!!

tags! @planetpedri @halfwayhearted @wdcbox @freyathehuntress @iovepoem @piastri-fvx

[eriace]

the ink that never fades ; diluc ragnvindr

oneshot & fluff ↪ in which jean fakes a soulmate mark to make diluc fall for her, only to learn the hard way that real connections can’t be forged with ink—especially when diluc’s mark only ever glows around y/n. ↷ diluc ragnvidr ; genshin impact [ part two ]

↳ an order of espresso shot + iced water from @sailorstar9 in the comeback cafe event !

IN MONDSTADT, SOULMATES were known by the marks they bore—strange, radiant sigils that bloomed somewhere on their skin the moment they were born. Most appeared subtly: near the wrist, the back of the neck, or just beneath the collarbone.

Diluc Ragnvindr’s mark was an unmistakable flame curling around the edge of his left shoulder blade, stark and elegant, flickering red when he was near his soulmate.

Jean knew this. Everyone did.

But what they didn’t know was that Jean had a mark of her own—a gentle wind spiral just below her collarbone. And it wasn’t a match.

She had spent years admiring Diluc’s dedication to Mondstadt. She’d convinced herself it was love. So when she learned about a rare alchemical ink that mimicked soulmate marks—capable of glowing, shifting, responding—she made a choice.

She inked a flame to her shoulder blade.

And when she approached Diluc days later, her jacket slipping just enough to “accidentally” reveal it, she watched the brief flash of confusion in his crimson eyes.

“You… have the mark,” he said slowly, gaze narrowing.

Jean smiled tightly. “I wanted to tell you before anyone else.”

But he didn’t step closer. Didn’t smile. He only looked away.

And when he left, he didn’t come back.

-

THE WINERY WAS quieter than usual when Y/n arrived. The evening sun bled through the windows, painting the wood in orange and gold. She was here on invitation—Diluc’s own, written neatly on parchment, asking if she’d help him review some new blends.

But when she found him sitting by the fireplace, his usual composed self looked…troubled.

“Am I early?” she asked gently, stepping into the light.

He looked up—and the second he saw her, the flame on his back flared softly, the edge of his shirt unable to hide the faint glow.

“No,” he said, voice low. “You’re right on time.”

She sat beside him. The fire crackled quietly between them.

“You seem… tense.”

Diluc was quiet for a moment. Then: “Jean came to me earlier this week. She claimed to have the same mark.”

Y/n blinked, unsure how to respond.

“But the mark didn’t glow,” he continued, “not once.”

Her breath caught.

“She used ink,” he added, his tone unreadable. “Alchemical. Clever. Almost convincing.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

He turned to her. Slowly, carefully, like he was piecing something together. “Because mine only glows around one person.”

She froze.

“And it’s glowing now.”

She looked down at her wrist, where the faint flame-shaped sigil shimmered gently in the light—an echo of his. A mark she’d been born with, hidden most days under long sleeves, never expecting it to matter.

Her voice was barely a whisper. “You knew?”

“I suspected,” he admitted. “But I didn’t want to believe something so rare, so precious… could actually be mine.”

“And Jean?”

He shook his head. “I care for her. But not like this.”

The space between them felt suddenly delicate. Sacred.

He extended a hand, palm up.

“If you’ll have me,” he said softly, “I’d like to stop pretending my soul isn’t already marked by you.”

Y/n placed her hand in his.

The marks glowed together—steady, sure.

And not a drop of ink could fake that.

© eriace ;; don’t repost my works.

[spockandawe]

Oh my gosh. This project consumed me, and for a hot minute there I wasn't sure it would work out. But I really wanted to try making a PICTURE with straw marquetry, and hm. For that I need an image with strongly blocked, highly recognizable shapes, and for preference, I'd rather not try to navigate the lumpy, holey complexities of the human face. Oh hi, transformers--

Oh man. I knew I was underestimating the difficulty of this project from the start, that's just how it goes. But the difficulty truly started with... the sketch. From the start, I wanted that perfect staring red eye, that was my one non-negotiable point. I wanted navy blue straw and a staring red eye. At first, I had dreams of a dynamic pose! However. Sketching at 21 inches tall is a whole different thing than sketching at 8 inches tall. My sketchbook's height is the width of this silly, silly thing. I thought to note what straw grain direction I wanted for the different elements too, which was a good call. The fingers were... ambitious, but hopefully unobtrusive if I messed them up.

After that, I was NOT working on a hard wood/mdf substrate and peeling of unwanted straw. I've seen the pros do that, but always cut too fast for me to understand what they're doing. So i was working somewhat similar to wood marquetry, gluing straw to paper and then cutting through the paper backing. But since it's harder to place my inlays from behind and i can't sand straw flat, here, each cutout was placed on a backing of the same blue paper to help blend my seams. I was supposed to start with the most background elements of the image and work my way forward, and immediately hecked that up. But it was working!!

It was a few good hard days of work, ahahaha. And it was really a learning process! Things like keeping my knife handle tilted towards my waste seemed pointless... Until it made my inlays noticeably easier to fit. And when I messed up the back to front order, I figured out how to cut from a combo of my overlay sheet and freehand to blend everything right! And techniques like carefully pricking the outline of a difficult shape (circles. CIRCLES.) and then cutting, that was game-changing. I stayed up way, way too late last night, but I finished!

That's an image from today, after I scrubbed him down and trimmed up all my edges. After that. I glued him to a foam back and installed him in a frame! You can see in all the photos here that the color effect is so, so dependent on lighting and angle, but the eye pops the way I hoped and the effect is everything I wanted. The frame is black but has a nice subtle metallic highlight on the corners and the narrow aspect ratio suits him so well, I'm SO delighted with how this turned out. It's the most difficult project I've done so far, and I don't know if I can handle doing this OFTEN, but I definitely want to do it again!!

[artsninspo]

008 | Richmond Inc.

「 ✦ full library & archive ✦ 」

「 ✦ aaron pierre & characters library ✦ 」

⇚ 007

♠ summary: Monte Carlo continues to be memorable as our cast of characters enjoy a series of firsts. This one's a whirlwind 🌪️.

♠ pairing: Terry Richmond (Aaron Pierre - Rebel Ridge) X Lorence Cole (Black Fem OC)

♠ word-count: ~3.8K

⌖ - Monte Carlo, Monaco

We’re paid to perpetuate the illusion of safety, maintain the natural order of things and quell any trouble before it starts. We’re paid to make people feel at ease and not to disturb the flow of drinks, food and conversation. It’s why I’m sitting on the balcony enjoying a smoothie with a face full of makeup and curls setting in my hair. It’s why my nails are perfectly manicured in something boring and ‘classy’ and why my dress hangs in my room behind me. We’re supposed to blend in. I scroll through communications with my team and see everything is on track to go smoothe. Just as I feel at ease there’s a knock at my door. I head inside and unlock the deadbolt to find Cassandra already fully dressed and looking like she belongs on somebody’s red carpet.

“You look gorgeous” she beams stepping in.

“Thanks, so do you”

“I was just stopping by to help you into your suit.” she says.

“I got it on already, thanks” I respond.

“Let me check” Cassandra insists and I take off my robe. She does and finds I’ve put it on perfectly.

“I’ll take help getting in the dress though” I tell her, taking it down from its garment bag. 

“I got you” she smiles, finding the zipper and helping me get it over my head without any makeup smudges or ruining my pin curls. I’m still not sure whether to be mortified or impressed by how realistic the suit looks. “Need help taking down your hair?” she asks.

“Yes please” I tell her, sitting down in the room's vanity and plucking out the pins.

“Are you excited?”

“Kind’ve and then I kind of just want it to be over” I laugh making her do the same.

“I came by last night - guess you were out cold and early” she says once all the curls are out. “Flip your hair. Do you have combs and a brush?” she asks before I can tell her about last night.

“Yeah, on the ottoman over there” I point, flipping my curls so they fall. I hear a gasp and when I look over I find Cassandra holding the caricature art. Her expression is priceless mirroring mine from last night when the artist handed me the shady masterpiece.

“Did you draw this?” she asks.

“No” I scoff. “After dinner Richmond came to check on me, I guess … I was wound up and he offered to help. We ended up walking my route, then spent some time on the beach. I wanted to get drawn and he didn't play nice, so the artist got her pound of flesh” I smile.

“You and Terry walked a nearly two hour route together and you’re both still breathing.” She looks shocked.

“Honestly, that’s the least shocking part of the night” I tell her.

“I've got to hear this” she sits down beside me with wide eyes and I smile.

“He was actually kind of … nice. Well … nice for Terrance Richmond’s standard. I know you're step siblings” I disclose and her eyes widen even more.

“He told you?!” she gasps.

“Yeah, he said he thought you told me already” I confess.

“He made me swear not to tell anyone unless I bring it to him first” she snaps and I shrug.

“What else did he tell you?” she probes.

“His mom passed, I didn't push for details though. I also learned we have a lot of travel experiences that I can redeem. And that you’re partly to blame for our first meeting going to shit” i add.

“Me?” she gasps, still not recovered from the initial shock of the information she is trying to process.

“Yes, he thought Lorence Cole was a man. In walked me - allegedly his ‘type’ whatever that means” I finish and now her jaw is on the floor.

“He told you that?” she squeaks, utterly shocked.

“Did you drug him or something - what the hell was in dinner?!” she exclaims standing and pacing. “And he told you about his mother?!” she asks, looking back at me.

“I didn’t drug him, I didnt even seek him out. I tried leaving, you know our history. Typically we’re fireworks and not the good kind” I remind Cassandra.

“You don't get it Lorence, we lived together for years after our parents married and we never had more than a two minute conversation. You guys are a natural disaster and then you spend a few hours together and he tells you his most personal details?” she exclaims. I swallow, allowing her words to digest.

“Years?” I ask and she nods. “And cliffnotes are his most personal details?” I continue.

“Lorence, he’s a military man through and through. Anything that can be exploited is dangerous and personal” Cassandra says noting the different set of rules Richmond has been playing by.

“That’s the cliffnotes, he knows EVERYTHING personal about everyone” I correct.

“Yes but it's because he’s OCD and not normal.” she says standing behind me. I sit in silence soaking it all in as she arranges my hair nicely. 

“So did all his girlfriends look like me?” I ask and she smiles.

“No, Terry doesn't have time for girlfriends. Our parents have a social calendar and Terry’s had a few women over the years not at the same time but a few total. He brings them around until they figure out his work is his wife.” Cassandra says candidly. I can picture it. It aligns perfectly with everything I know about the man. It’s practical and utilitarian.

“So how’d you know I was his type and why’d you want to rattle him?’ I ask, recalling Richmonds words.

“It’s kind of personal to him and a long story he’d probably have an aneurysm if I told you. So I won’t but - with how much he’s opened up … I’m sure you won't have to wait long at all” she says.

“Last call!” I hear from outside and grab my purse and my tablet ready to go. I slip on my loafers at the door and head out with Cassandra. I multitask during the ride to our VIP box. All has gone well thus far and our client is en route with an ETA that aligns with ours.

“Cole, you look incredible” Emerson says likely with the purpose of getting a rise out of Cassandra.

“Thank you Emerson” I say, sparing him a smile.

“I didn't see you around last night. The client is having a boat party tonight. Will you be in attendance?” he asks.

“Let’s see how the day goes” I respond, turning my attention back to my work.

“Well, I’m here if you need anything,” he smiles.

“Thank you” I respond and he sits forward. I look to Cassandra who rolls her eyes acutely aware of what her scorned former lover is trying to do. I don’t have time to dwell as the client makes it out of the car and to the security team. Finally able to breathe I mark voyage one as complete and close the tablet putting it into my purse.

“Broke men with good dick always think they’re special when there’s a million more where they come from” Cassandra says just loud enough for Emerson to hear. He tenses and the reaction makes me feel bad for the fool. The point on that backhanded compliment is sharp enough to cut diamond. I’m not sure when’s the last time the men here have been deemed broke or run of the mill. The very nature of them is exceptional. But I guess when you’ve been around exceptional for most of your life like Cassandra the bar is different. Our arrival is smooth as we find our VIP box. I fasten my earpiece in case anyone needs me from my team and I’m greeted by a few familiar faces among the many unfamiliar. Cassandra takes my hand leading me onto a balcony with seating that’s practically empty. It overlooks the races route which no one in box seems interested in.

“So is Terry your type?” she asks.

“You know he’s handsome and impressive but I’m not really into the whole asshole persona. I don't like when men are short with me or temperamental” I confess.

“Well he’s not used to that.” she smirks. By the look of amusement in her eyes they’re light years away from the silent distance they once shared.

“Honestly my biggest fear is what's going on between you and Emerson” I whisper and she fans me off.

“Don’t worry about me and Emerson. This is just foreplay, he’ll perform better if I ever give him another chance.” she whispers, making me laugh.

“Cassandra, nice to see you.” The Boss’ deep voice says, cutting through the noise.

“Nice to see you too Terry, we have so much to catch up on” she says standing with a smile. He gives her a glare as they embrace.

“Terry Richmond” he says introducing himself to me with an outreached hand. For a second it’s like we’re the only two here living in a world with our agreement coming to pass. Clean slate. I smile to myself taking his hand.

“Lorence Cole” I introduce.

“Pleasure,” he says, shocking me.

“Terry, I’d like to introduce you to my daughter Ana” a mother calls from inside the box.

“Ugh” Cassandra remarks.

“I’ll see you later,” he says, letting my hand go. “You ladies look stunning by the way” he says before turning away.

“Oh this is going to be good!” Cassandra comments reveling in the possibilities

The race's opening ceremonies kick off and it really is an experience. I find myself invested in the outcome. The food and drinks keep flowing and the client stays put in our box ensuring I don't need to be at attention every minute. Jameson enters and I see his cover really is deep when people greet him with respect. Having an established public relationship with both Cassandra and I he joins us with a smile injecting some fun into the atmosphere. When Joel’s around the male attention declines which is something I appreciate. I notice that Richmond never gets a moment to himself. He goes from person to person, his serious stare etched permanently into his serious expression as he listens to their questions or concerns. With the exception of the women trying to pawn her daughter off on him everyone shows him the utmost respect. It only solidifies that’s the treatment he’s used to. By the time the race is over Cassandra and I have been invited to more afterparties then there are hours left in the day. The client is past tipsy and I feel for the security team as we file out of the suite and to the transportation port. The client has commandeered a gaggle of women requiring two sprinters instead of one. It’s something we planned for and I watch as the security team pats them down before they can head in the car. I get traffic reports in my earpiece and see we’re all clear. I miss being able to have eyes on everything.

“Where are you two headed?” Richmond asks, emerging beside Cassandra.

“Back to our rental, then who knows where” Cassandra shrugs and Richmond looks at me. 

“Text me where you’re gonna be” he says looking back at Cassandra who grins.

“Terry RIchmond are you…”

“Don't start” he says, being short with her and she smiles.

“Whatever, only cause we’re in public.” Cassandra conceded

“Text me Cassandra, the moneys arrived and so has the riff raff” He tells her.

“Okay I’ll text you, where are you going?” she asks, taking out her phone.

“I have an intelligence meeting,” he says.

She raises a brow. “Off the record?”

“Yeah” he nods. When our car comes Richmond sends it away calling in a driver he knows and trusts before letting us get in. Control freaks is an understatement for what he is. Still I find myself a little unnerved by the lack of attention. Today’s been a far departure from last night. Especially from a man that has made a declaration like the one he has. I shake the thoughts from my head.

“He’s all wound up, somethings wrong,” Cassandra says, interrupting my thoughts. Carefree Cassandra is gone and she starts on her tablet swiping through a variety of screens trying to find what's out of place. She hasn't found whatever it is she’s looking for when we make it back.

“With the clients?” I ask.

“No, he’d have sent the client back home if they were in danger. I’d be aware of that briefing” she says heading into her room. “Need anything?” I ask.

“I know what party we’re going to change into something a little sultry” she smiles. “I need about an hour and a half,” she says.

“Ok” I agree, heading to my own room. When I try to call Joel there’s no answer but thankfully the client has reached their destination safely. I make the necessary transitions to go from a daytime to nighttime look. After the experience I had in VIP I don't know if I have the patience to stomach the male attention purposely dressing ‘sultry’ will stir up; so I go for simple. I keep my suit on and find a dress I hope Cassandra likes. As long as it conceals the zipper for my suit and I can move comfortably in it it passes the check for me. Once I’m ready I meet Cassandra who’s all done up in a dress that definitely screams sexy.

“You look great!” I tell her.

“Adam only lets peacocks in his section - we’ll have to split up unless you show some more skin” she says. “You look like someone’s trophy wife, you need to look like you're auditioning to be someone's trophy wife” she explains.

“I can stay back” I offer.

“No, I’ll see my contact, get some info and then we can go have some fun. We look too good to stay in” Cassandra says, taking my hand.

“Alright” I agree.

The streets are painted with people making the car ride longer than it needs to be. The celebrations have spilled out into the streets when all the viewing venues have cleared out. It’s the gridlock I planned for and the client avoided. I make a note to celebrate the team's win when I get back. Cassandra continues her search on the phone and I return a few texts from friends and family in response to my Grand Prix social media stories. Sin asks for an update on the Boss and I have none to give her. He was warmer than he’s ever been but distant and all business. I guess interest for him is a little different than it is for most men. It’s not what I’m used to. Is RIchmond my type? No. I’ve always run from men with energy as dominant as his. I’ve always been more drawn to the free spirits that are more focused on the present than the future. The boss's level of ‘masculinity’ is something that's always made me feel uncomfortable. My childhood is unmistakably why. Richmond’s anger, his tirades, dissatisfied expressions and marginal margin for error seems like something that would be cataclysmic and anything but fun in any kind of romantic situation.

The car stops throwing me from my doubts. I follow Cassandra out of the vehicle and into the venue. House music erupts from the speakers casting an ambiance I’m not too familiar with. The luxurious club is far from the typical city party venue. The ceilings have crown mouldings as do the sections. Intricate tiles cast a twinkling mosaic for those who look up.

“All I need is thirty minutes, keep your phone close for info and be diligent about your surroundings” Cassandra warns walking off. I nod, taking my thoughts away from Mr. RIchmond and tune them into my surroundings. Exits, Security, Major players. It takes me five minutes to perform my assessment of the place. Cassandra and I are on the highest level. 

“Would you like to join my section, beautiful?” A voice says. I dont turn until the expensive cologne gets my attention. A man dresses so casually it means he’s loaded and sits beside me wearing glasses and a four hundred thousand dollar watch.

“I’m good here thanks” I smile and he does too.

“Whatever she wants” he tells the bartender who stands ready and willing.

“I’m not thirsty, but thank you” I tell him and he smiles at me for a moment before it fades. I follow his line of sight to a man I definitely recognize. He looks at Cassandra making a hand gesture and I watch her stand with the man she came to see before heading into a room. He comes over to me, glaring at the ma at my side.

“We need to leave,” he says sternly. 

All our progress has evaporated in an instant. “Why?”

“Not now, please trust me” his tone is tense and his body language rigid.

“Just us?” I ask and his nostrils flare.

“Yes immediately” he says and I turn away looking around to see the venue full.

“Rich-”

“We have to leave now!” he snaps, taking my arm. 

“If innocent people can get hurt we have a duty to do something” I snap and he sighs pulling the fire alarm as we leave. I go to run with him when I hear rounds of gunfire go off.

“Are you wearing your suit?” he asks. 

“Yes” he nods but before we can start on an alternate route more guns go off. There’s screaming and frenzy, the pops start from every angle. I bend taking my pumps off as fast as I can. There’s no talking over the chaos so I take Richmonds hand and push through onto the frenzied crowds the balcony. My heart races as I employ my training and scale from the upper level down to one below. Richmond isn't far behind me. When he gets down he takes a firearm from his waist handing it to me.

“There's only one round” he says, taking the point without any. There’s no time for questions. I follow his lead until I see a man with blood pooling from his leg. I go to help him but he pulls an automatic weapon. Before I can move I'm thrown to the ground. I hit the concrete hard before being dragged into a room. Richmond works quickly to lock us into a supplies closet. A firefight ensues and he uses his body on the other side of the door like a human shield. There are screams and wailing and so many pullets it sounds like shelling. The screaming is piercing and when it does stops so does the gunfire. My heart races violently, Richmond’s heart is too against my back. There’s talking in a language my brain can't make out. I hear footsteps, a door opens and screams are silenced by more gunfire.

“I got you” Richmond whispers, taking the gun from me. We stand together and he backs me into the corner standing against me again as he faces the door. I feel his back muscles contract as he aims the gun ahead. The footsteps get closer and the door is tried. When there is no luck opening it a round of bullets sing cutting through the door with no resistance. 

“All clear” a man's voice says but I dont move a muscle. There’s no movement from outside the door for over a minute. Terry nor I move a muscle but then I hear what sounds like a lock being shot off. Then I hear the sound of someone losing their life. I know Terry has discharged his weapon from the kickback. He moves quickly passing me back the smoking gun and ridding our would be killer of his automatic weapon. I take point and as we're out of the closet I see Joel in full gear. Relief washes over him and he takes off his helmet putting it on me.

“Terry, we have Cassandra - we’ve got to go.” he says, turning on his eyewear. They form a protective stance used for asset recovery all the way into our waiting car. 

“Are you hit?” Joel asks as the door closes and it's that exact moment I start to hyperventilate into hysterics. I watch panic take Joel as he lifts my dress up looking for blood.

“She’s wearing her suit” I hear Terry say and Joel relaxes, slumping into relief. His chest rises and falls as violently and fear is in his eyes for the first time.

“Breathe” Joel says but I can’t. “It’s okay kid” Joel says, holding me tight against him and I find the breaths come in sooner. I don't want to cry but I can't help it.

“What the fuck!” I hear Richmond scream.

“Boss we’re all accounted for and our clients are secure” a voice says.

“How does this happen?” He bellows.

“The attack was coordinated, we had ten minutes' notice but only got to it with six to go” the voice I recognize as Connor says.

“Be fucking through” Richmond snaps.

“I can't be sure but if the prelims are correct it was a strike for the Troy upset of last year” Connors says and I find myself relaxing a touch. I look at Terry recalling his words from last night. They seem prophetic now as I recall the “Troy upset” of last year. Tale as old as time, an unsatisfied trophy wife looks for love elsewhere. Then the neglectful husband’s ego can't take it and he lashes out.

“End all contracts.” The boss says and I can't take my eyes off of him.

“Check him” I say but my voice sounds hoarse and unlike myself. Joel lets me go.

“I’m fine,” Terry says.

“Are you in your suit?’ Joel asks.

“No” Terry responds, making my blood go cold. I look at him, he’d been shielding me from bullets and danger when he hadn't been wearing any protection?

“Check him” I repeat and the sound of my voice makes both men wince.

“I’m fine,” Richmond tells Joel.

Trembling, I push forward from Joel’s arms. I check for wounds like we’re supposed to, by pressing down and looking for blood. The moss watches me run my hands over his arms, he indulges me pressing on his chest and then lower onto his abdomen where my hands become stained red with sticky blood. Frantic, I rip away the fabric of his shirt to find shards of glass in his skin. I move back, eyes locked on him as the first responder’s begin caring for him. “I got you” his words echo in my consciousness. A forever promise. There is no suit, no kevlar, no defence against harm, just flesh, bone and the unrelenting resolve of Terrance Richmond.

“She’s gonna go into shock” he shouts sounding terrified and just like that I know he loves me.

I got you

authors note: Hope you enjoyed this update, things are heating up from here - full steam ahead. To those of you who watched Mufasa iykyk that scene had me like Sarabi, I get it sis. Had to inject it here lol

terrance's interlude ⇛

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[ambersinterlude]

Say It Like You Mean It

Word Count: 687

Warnings: smut, mdni

Jey Uso x Reader

OMNISCIENT |

The door slammed so hard, the picture frames rattled.

“You just don’t listen!” Jey barked, standing in the living room with his chest rising and falling, sweat still glistening from training.

You squared your shoulders. “And you don’t talk to me—you bark orders and expect me to just nod and say ‘yes, sir.’ I’m not one of your boys in the ring, Jey.”

He ran a hand down his face, jaw clenched tight. “You know damn well that’s not what this is.”

You rolled your eyes and turned on your heel. “I’m done talking about this.” Your voice was clipped, your feet already carrying you toward the master bath.

Despite the heat of their argument, one thing never changed: they always showered together. It was their ritual, even when they were pissed. Especially when they were pissed.

You stripped out of your clothes, leaving them scattered across the tile like fallen petals. Hot water hissed from the showerhead as you stepped in, letting it pour down your body, eyes closed. You needed to breathe, to cool off—even if the water was scalding.

But before you could even exhale fully, the bathroom door creaked open again.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him.

Jey’s voice came low, gravel-thick. “You think you can just walk away after poppin off like that?”

You turned slowly in the steam, hair slicked back, water running down your curves. Your lips parted but no sound came out.

“I’m talking to you, baby.”

His eyes were already dark with something more than anger. Lust. Possession. Control.

He stepped in behind you, fully naked, heat radiating off him hotter than the spray. He pressed himself close, chest to your back, letting you feel every inch of him.

“You mad?” You asked, trying to keep your voice steady.

Jey leaned down, lips brushing your ear. “Mad as fuck. But you look too fucking good to stay mad.”

Before you could answer, his hand wrapped around your throat—firm, but not too tight—tilting your head back against his shoulder.

“You got a smart mouth, baby,” he growled, kissing your neck, biting just enough to make you whimper. “Always tryna test me.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Shh. You know what I think?” His hand slid between your thighs, fingers finding you already wet. “You like when I get mad. You like pushing me until I remind you who the fuck you belong to.”

You gasped as he bent you forward, your hands bracing against the slick tile.

Jey’s grip tangled in your hair, yanking your head back. “Say it.”

“Say what?” You whispered, breathless.

“Say who you belong to.”

“You,”

“I said say it like you mean it.”

“You, Daddy,” you gasped. “I belong to you.”

“Damn right.” He pressed into you without warning, thick and deep, making you cry out. “You gon learn today.”

The rhythm was brutal—deep, hard backshots that made the walls echo with skin on skin. Your cries turned into messy moans, mixed with the slap of water and the low, filthy things he whispered in your ear.

“You feel that?” he hissed, hand smacking your ass before gripping tight. “That’s mine. All mine.”

Your body trembled, nails scratching at the wall.

“Having that attitude out there, like you forgot how I fuck the attitude out you.”

“I’m sorry, Daddy,” you cried out. “I won’t do it anymore—I’m sorry!”

“Too late for that now.”

His hand wrapped around your throat again, holding you still while he drove into you with merciless strokes, the pressure making you see stars.

Their mouths crashed together in a sloppy, hungry kiss, water and spit and teeth all blending into something primal.

“Say it again,” he growled, pounding you harder.

“I’m sorry, Daddy—I won’t do it anymore—I promise!”

He groaned deep, lost in the feeling of you clenching around him.

“You better not,” he gritted through his teeth. “Cause next time? I ain’t gon be this nice.”

And still, his thrusts didn’t slow—if anything, they got rougher, more punishing, making sure you knew exactly what you had done.

And that you never forget who you belonged to.

─────────────────────────

Published: 4/30/25

Hope you guys enjoyed😘

[sexydoffyman]

Weird request but how would TF141+König and Alejandro react to meeting an orphan around 15 years of age who's like extremely talented in engineering, mathematics and physics, like they could build a rocket if they had the materials ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ It can be HC, whatever you want! I was thinking maybe said orphan got in trouble with the government for unknowingly building some sort of weapon, maybe it was stolen? Twist that however you wish.

Just ignore this ask if you wanna <3

A KID?

genre: action

characters: König, Simon Riley, John MacTavish, Alejandro Vargas, Kyle Garrick

A/n: expect a lot more mistakes. Also thinking this needs a second part.

It’s been 6 years now since the war began. You were left stranded. All by yourself. Left on your own by everyone. Living was hard, but you pulled through. You learned how to do a lot of shit since you were there only with yourself for some time. Building stuff. That was your biggest interest.

You were constantly making things. New weapons mostly. You were always moving, never staying in one place for too long. You got brutal throughout the years you were alone. You took the uniform of a dead soldier. To blend in. You were mistaken for a recruit and pulled inside a helicopter by a military dude.

The military was a great provider of food and healthcare. So you just went along with everything they threw at you. Your knowledge of building shit helped out a lot. And even when some dude figured out you were a kid he let you stay.

The same dude put you in a task force with a man he trusted. You were cautious of everyone in there, but at least you had some people who you could trust a bit.

You picked up how things work from the years of pretending to be a soldier. Pretending to be an adult was getting easier and the task force you were assigned to found a place in your heart.

“There’s gotta be a way.” You finally snapped out of thinking about life before the war. You thought that the military would be a great cover. But now all your hope of making it out alive hit zero. You were stuck and with gas slowly filling the room that you and the others were in you knew your chances of survival were low.

You sat in the corner of the room. You had given up a few minutes ago already. The others were still trying to figure something out.

Suddently you felt something inside of you snap. You were not gonna die today. It must’ve been the panicking of the rough men infront of you that made you have that feeling. You started to search for a solution.

You found a small vent. It was too small to fit a grown man in, but you were not a grown man. You took off your gear and crawled into the vent unnoticed by your team.

You finally got to use the skills you gained. You crawled through the vent and dropped down from the ceiling right on the other side of a door that the rest of your team was trying to open. You managed to get inside some kind of an electrical system. You cut some wires and reconnected some other ones. The door opened with a space in between the doors just a centimeter big.

Grabbing a metal piece from the electrical you prayed the door open. You were met with the looks of your crew. You looked down and put your hand above your forehead to block your face. By now all of them realized that you weren't of age.

You ran into the room to grab your gear while your team gave each other a disgusted glance. “We need to get out of here ASAP,” you said as you walked away from the room. Price grabbed you by the shoulder to stop you. You turned to him with your mask on now.

“How old are you?” he was looking at you worriedly while he said that. You didn’t know what to answer and so after a few stutters you answered “Classified” This only made them feel more curious.

It has been days since that mission and nobody brought up the fact that you were a kid. You did notice that Price stopped shouting orders at you and started just saying them in a normal calm tone. Soap was making more small talk with you than usual. Ghost was staying closer to you, knowing you might not be able to fend off an enemy. Gaz was making sure to double-check your gear.

When you teamed up with Mexican special forces and met Alejandro you were given tasks that you’d be on with multiple people.

When you were stranded from the team, finding your way to a spot they could locate you at, you met another dude. Austrian and huge. Big dude. He was your enemy, but it didn’t take him long to find out that an adult dude would have a little more strength than you did. He forced your mask off and found out that you were in fact a kid.

Instead of killing you, he spared you. Helping you locate your tram instead of them having to look for you.

Would you survive the next missions? That you don’t know. But you do know that you don’t have to worry about pretending to be an adult.

[kykyonthemoon]

Moonlit

You're on the mission to approach a target at a banquet, and that's all it takes to drive him crazy.

🌻 Rafayel/Xavier/Zayne x F!Reader See Caleb and Sylus's parts here: Full Moon Tags: R16+, suggestive theme, MDNI, possessive, marking and biting, no established relationship This is a request by Xuanlinhh. A/N: This is my first time trying out something like this for L&D, as I don't usually write fic with suggestive theme. So I'm curious to know how I've done with this fic. Feedbacks are always appreciated. After so many titles, I decided to choose "Moonlit", since the moon represents illusion, fear, hidden things. These are the scenarios where he shows another color of his to you. Thus, in all three scenes, there are moonlight all over the place.

Masterlist

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𝑹𝒂𝒇𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒍

Your eyes widened when you saw the dress draped over your cotton blanket. It was long past the ankles, the shoulders were slightly bulging and hanging down to reveal the collarbone. The dress consisted of many layers of pastel pink and purple. In the afternoon sunlight, the sequins and pearls attached to it seemed to shine.

“Does he really want me to wear this?” It was a murmur to yourself. The dress was too exquisite, too expensive, too... much at least in comparison to what you would often put in your wardrobe. You did not need to become a princess, just a normal evening dress to blend in and complete the task assigned to you.

Being ignorant about high society or lavish balls, you had asked Rafayel for help. You never expected him to send you such a gorgeous dress.

Indeed, as he predicted, you became the focus of the party as soon as you arrived there.

Each party guest had a mask. Yours arrived in the same color scheme as the dress and was encrusted with opulent pearls and jewels. You wondered why Rafayel was making you look quite distinct. However, you shouldn't have had any reason to doubt him at all when your target moved toward you on his own initiative.

The target of this mission was a high-class profile from another city. Even though you tried your best to focus on the mission, you still wondered if Rafayel came here, or just his work.

The banquet area was adorned with paintings by Rafayel, so it was hard to look at them and not think about him. Had he made it in yet? Would he abandon you here, trapped in a conversation with a stranger?

Using the skill of pretended intimacy in order to obtain information was something you had learned from your training courses. You put a hand on the target's, smiling and talking as if you were fascinated by him. After getting the information you needed, you made an excuse to leave, but it did not appear like things would finish so simply.

He grabbed your wrist and roughly pulled you back to your seat. You shouted, but the music and laughter drowned you out. You aimed at the middle of his face and was about to throw a punch, only to have an arm wrapped over your shoulder and holding your back.

“It seems like this lady doesn't want to be here anymore.”

You knew right away that voice, and that scent were as familiar as a field of wild roses. You turned around and saw Rafayel standing next to you. His hand held your shoulder to help you stand up. Suddenly your heart was filled with joy to see him.

Your target still refused to let go, but when he realized Rafayel's face was not covered by the mask, he knew that was someone he could not meddle with.

He said something to Rafayel in a foreign language and then walked away. You looked at Rafayel, grateful:

“Rafayel…”

Before you finished speaking, you were tugged out of the banquet room by him.

The quiet garden was awakened by the footsteps of two people. From behind, you couldn't see Rafayel's face, only his broad shoulders covered in a dark-colored tuxedo with sequins. You had the strange impression that he was furious. Perhaps it was his pressure that caused your wrist to get crimson. He guided you through a labyrinth of plants and stone sculptures.

“Rafayel.”

He only stopped when you called his name, but still did not turn to look at you. You stepped forward to observe him. You took a step forward to study him. A frown could be seen plainly on his forehead as his face pouted.

“Rafayel? What's the matter?"

His gaze grew gloomy. His hand holding yours tightened even more as he pulled it up to touch his cheek.

“…”

His abrupt movement confused you. He buried his face in your palm, took in a deep breath and gave you a bite.

“Rafayel!”

You let out a cry of surprise instead of agony since the bite was rather faint. He took advantage of your vulnerability to wrap his arms around you, forcing your body to touch his.

His lips placed on your palm a kiss where it had just been bitten, then slid down to your wrist. You made an unsuccessful attempt to flee. He gave you another glance, or rather studied every strand of lace and fabric of the garment that embraced your upper body.

“I made a terrible mistake sending this dress to you. Too graceful. Too desirable…”

The moon, round like a silver disk overhead, provided the sole light in the labyrinth. Rafayel continued to rub his face on your hand, his face appearing and disappearing in an instant.

“He touched you here…” Rafayel whispered. He kissed your wrist and palm again, fiercely like a storm.

“You… What are you doing?…”

Your heart beat was so incessant. It might have been an overdose of alcohol that caused your arms and legs to feel so weak. Rafayel let go of your hand, just to rub his head on your shoulder. His fingers sank into your hair, causing your mask to fall off. You caught his heavy breathing close to your ear, his breath caressing your uncovered neck and collarbone.

“What about here?”

Rafayel asked, then he bit your neck, causing your body to squirm in agony.

“N-No! Rafayel!”

You tried to push him away, but the more you resisted, the more Rafayel tightened his hold on you. His lips sucked into your ear.

"Here?"

“I… I was just talking to him… That's all!”

"Good." He said, leaving your neck covered in crimson kiss marks. Moist. Burning. Exposed under the moonlight. "You won't be touched by that filthy hand ever again. Not in the slightest... I promise it."

A crazy thought suddenly crossed your mind. You had never seen this side of Rafayel. It frightened you, and also invited you to explore further.

“What... are you going to do?…” You asked in a daze. With your head whirling, you sought to Rafayel's powerful arms for support.

“With him? You shouldn't be worried about that guy. What you should be worried about is the things that will happen to you right now.”

“Rafayel, you—!”

He nipped you on the neck, then planted another kiss where he could hear your nearly deranged heartbeat—deeper beneath your collarbone.

You took deep breaths. Rafayel straightened up and gazed down at you, euphoric in his arms. The bite marks and kiss marks were intertwined like a work of art he had left on you. Similar to the garment you were donning, they served as a reminder to others that you belonged to no one, but him.

𝑿𝒂𝒗𝒊𝒆𝒓

The melodious music led the couples back and forth according to a set pattern. Every step, every movement was perfectly planned. Only eyes were not so easily controlled.

Yes, you had been looking at that man in the white attire ever since the music started and you were escorted to the center. His hair as bright as starlight at night stood out in the ballroom. And no matter where he was, you would find him in a blink. Even with the silver mask covering half of his face.

And, he also looked at you. There was a hint of sorrow and a tinge of rage in his eyes. Did you delude yourself like that? Or was he really looking at you and wishing that the person each of you were guiding through music was the other?

Carelessly, your heel stepped on your partner's foot. You said in embarrassment:

“My apologies… How clumsy I am.”

The man said there was no problem, and you continued dancing. This was the target you must approach for the day's mission. You turned back to face Xavier. He was also leading another person in the dance. Another target.

Due to the importance of this mission, neither you nor Xavier must show any negligence. But in the midst of this lavish masquerade, what you wanted the most was to leap into Xavier's arms. You could dance until dawn, if it was with him.

You forced the stray ideas out of your mind. You needed to focus. Extremely. You turned back to your dance partner, who did not seem to notice anything unusual. You pulled him closer and your hand on his shoulder slid down slightly.

A grin came across his grim mask to greet you. You caught a glimpse of the other side, Xavier's face tightening. Almost at once, his dance partner intentionally fell into his arms.

Fortunately, you had a mask on as well. Otherwise, your unpleasant glance would be visible to everyone in this room, including him.

You leaned your head slightly on your partner's shoulder. But you still kept an eye on Xavier. He was also observing your every move. Every time the other girl became close to Xavier, you did the same thing to your dance partner. This was supposed to be a mission, but it ended up being such a ridiculous competition.

One more dance and you got what you needed from the target. You made up an excuse and sneaked out onto the balcony alone. The starry sky loomed above you, and the aroma of flowers and grass bathed in night dew calmed you down. You removed your mask and set it on the railing. At that moment, a powerful hand was wrapped around your waist and gently squeezed.

You were startled. But immediately, you realized that the hand belonged to Xavier. He was approaching you from behind. He approached you from behind. His breath, which carried the delicate aroma of wine and cinnamon, breathed into your hair, before gradually sliding down the back of your neck, sending you slight trembles.

“Xavier?…What are you doing?…”

The mask he was still wearing tapped against your bare back exposed to the moonlight, causing you to shiver. Gently, Xavier laid kisses on it.

“Xavier!…” Your body was slightly bent, but his hand on your abdomen held you up. His other hand was around your neck, stabilizing you in that posture. A series of hasty kisses covered your back and shoulders. You bit your lip, waiting for him to speak while silently relishing the heated sensation radiating from the places where his lips met.

A little later, the hand holding you eased somewhat. You took that opportunity to turn around to face Xavier.

You could tell, even through the mask, he was hurt. He did not say a word, just looked at you like a puppy abandoned in the rain. You let out a soft sigh, wrapped your arms over his head to remove the mask. You pressed your palm against his cheek.

“Why did you do what you just did…” Your cheeks flushed, and you were certain that your back was now coated with traces of his. Xavier drew you back into his arms, grasping your hips once more.

“This mission…” He paused for a moment. “It's really too much for me.”

“Don't you like it, dancing intimately with such a beautiful girl?”

The scene of him holding someone else in his arms was enough to upset you. But it went both ways to Xavier, who was not able to hold his feelings any longer. To your surprise, he lifted you up and placed you on the railing. You felt guilty for unintentionally triggering Xavier's fury.

"I don't enjoy it one bit." Xavier replied bluntly. “Because, there is only one girl I have my eyes on in this universe and she is right in front of me.” His chilly fingers moved from your hip to your shoulder, then your neck. “I don't want anyone else to touch her.”

Before you could say anything, Xavier clasped your lips in a passionate kiss, sending your head spinning.

“No one else… but me…” Xavier whispered in very short pauses, then buried himself again in your embrace and scorching kisses.

𝒁𝒂𝒚𝒏𝒆

The high society banquet in Linkon City was truly a remarkable event. You also prepared meticulously for that day, as your latest mission needed you to meet a target at that party.

You had done quite well during the first two hours of the event. You looked graceful in a luxurious, tight-fitting black velvet dress, with long sleeves and a thigh-high slit. You spoke, laughed, drank, and danced with your target, and everything went perfectly until you noticed a familiar figure standing in the corner of the room, observing.

The guests were all wearing masks, and from such a distance, you wondered whether you were wrong. He would dislike such events. But you couldn't shake the feeling that you were being watched, attentively, by someone you knew well.

After completing the mission, you sneaked out through the path least noticed. Your feet hurt from dancing too much in high heels. So you pulled them off and wandered barefoot across the calm garden at night. The dew-soaked grass made your feet chilly, but it also provided a soothing and delightful feeling.

You sat and settled by the fountain. You removed your mask and threw it on the grass next to the shoes. Your feet had begun to swell. You stretched them out, placed your hands on the fountain, and elevated your face, allowing the silver moonlight to beam down on you as you felt relaxed and relieved after finishing your work for the day.

The sound of shoes treading on the grass jolted you awake. When you opened your eyes, you saw a figure standing between you and the moonlight, clothed in a flawlessly fitting black tuxedo. That was who you had suspected all along.

“Zayne?”

You called his name, and he took off his mask.

“It's really you!” You exclaimed, happy and astonished. "I didn't think you would attend events like this."

Zayne's face hardened, indicating seriousness. He examined you thoroughly, from your somewhat unkempt hair to the garment that clung to your body, displaying your curves and the bare thigh beneath it. He gently leaned down, one knee resting on the grass. His chilly palm touched your ankle, startling you.

“Z-Zayne!”

He gave you a glance, implying that you should remain still. His large thumb brushed over the irritated skin on your leg. Cool and comfy, as if being iced. You knew it was Zayne using his Evol.

“Seeing me here, are you surprised?”

You nodded; all words had vanished once Zayne touched you.

“I was invited. If I hadn't come, I probably wouldn't have caught you doing—"

He left the sentence incomplete without glancing at you.

"Caught me doing what?"

"…Nothing."

He tilted down and focused on rubbing your feet with all the gentleness that made you feel both comfortable and tickled.

“I think… my foot is fine now.”

Despite the fact that Zayne's Evol should have kept you cold, your body began to heat up. You were about to alter your posture to sit up straight, but he grabbed your ankle.It appeared so little in his massive, covered in scars hands.

"Be still." He whispered quietly. "Where do you want to go with feet like this?"

"I… have to go back to HQs to report for today's mission…" You made up an excuse. As soon as you left the banquet room, you sent all of the information to the headquarters.

"Mission? Is that the reason why you were intimate with that guy?”

Zayne gazed into your eyes. His face did not exhibit much expression, but his eyes were perplexing. Could it be that he was uncomfortable when he noticed you being close to someone else at the party?

Having hit the nail on the head, you pushed forward. You slipped your bare foot forward until it reached his chest.

"Maybe. But that man was really interesting. He's a doctor, too. Strangely, I was more interested in speaking with him than with some other doctors I knew."

Zayne's expression worsened. His hand shifted from your ankle to your foot, gripping firmly.

"Don't mess with me."

A giggle escaped your so red lips. “Or else? What would Dr. Zayne do to me?”

Zayne frowned. He gazed at your foot, which was still on his body. He softly stroked it and said:

"You're drunk."

"It seems so." You laughed again. Your toes started moving purposely against Zayne's chest. He grabbed them and to your surprise, he placed a kiss on the middle of your feet.

“Zayne!?”

You were so bewildered that you almost fell into the fountain. Zayne grabbed your leg and swiftly positioned his other hand behind you to support your back. Suddenly being so close to each other sent you a panic attack. You sensed a fresh scent like snow and wood emanating from his body. The sound of your heart beating was so loud that he could hear it clearly without a stethoscope.

He glanced at you for a minute before carefully returning to his former posture. His hand left your body, leaving you a little dissatisfied. As if reading you, he leaned forward again. One hand clutched the base of the fountain, exactly near to your hip, and almost immediately, you heard the sound of the water freezing, followed by silence. His other hand kept your leg tight to his torso. Long fingers caressed your calf and thigh. You trembled at the cold he delivered, but it was promptly followed by a tingling sensation throughout your body.

"Do you really like talking to him more than me?"

Zayne asked quietly. The hand that was sliding down your thigh came to a halt at the end of the dress's slit and then tightened, prompting you to cry out unintentionally.

Seeing your helpless reaction and crimson cheeks, a satisfied smile appeared from the corner of Zayne's mouth.

“I guess what you mean to say is, no.”

"You…"

You could feel Zayne's heat wrapping around your legs, in the place where your skin was exposed to the moonlight, then running all over your body. You sat still so he could continue to draw close, his lips gently brushing the corner of your lips provocatively.

“Now you will have to bear the consequences for teasing me.”

[marcyvamp1re-blog]

i don't know if you do platonic yanderes , but I want to request how platonic yandere gambit would be with a darling

BLACK SHEEP.

pairings ⸺ Yandere! Remy LeBeau x Mutant! Reader. (Platonic Fic)

¿Request? Yes!

This is a Headcanon!

warnings ⸺ mdni! Dark themes, violence/death, blood, insolation, invasion of privacy, scars, delusion, Angst, ¿OOC Gambit? Idk, fights, Disturbing Content, Unhealthy Obsession, Gaslight, Mental Illness, Corruption, Isolation, Paranoia, Manipulation.

sinopsis ⸺ Marked by a past of solitude and betrayal, his affection for you is a poisonous blend of devotion and control, always teetering on the edge between tenderness and obsession. For Remy, you are everything, his only family, and losing you would mean his ruin... so he will do whatever it takes to keep you by his side, even if it means locking you in a cage made of his possessive love.

A/N ── English is not my first language—Spanish is—Thank you for placing the order! I really appreciate your trust and enthusiasm. Your support means a lot to me, and I’m excited to work on it. If you have any specific ideas or details you'd like to include, please feel free to let me know.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... actually knew who you were before you even exchanged a glance. Charles Xavier, Beast, and Logan talked about you often, in conversations filled with worry and caution. Your destructive powers had isolated you, and it was a tragic accident that took your parents' lives while they tried to protect you from yourself. That story resonated with him. A broken soul, chained to a gift that society did not understand nor could accept. Remy was always drawn to broken things; they were like pieces of a puzzle he needed to complete. The first time he saw you, hidden among the bushes in the garden, covered in dirt and fear, his heart beat faster. He knew that the moment he reached you, he would never let you go.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... was not intimidated by the hurtful words you threw at him, desperate attempts to make him leave, to protect him from you and what you were capable of. “Don’t touch me!” you shouted, with tears that dared not fall from your eyes. But he did not move. Instead, he smiled softly, that mischievous, almost playful smile that hid a dark depth that few could see. “Cher, Gambit isn’t going anywhere. You don’t scare me. In fact, I think you and I are more alike than you think.” The words sounded soft, almost hypnotic, as if they were designed to disarm you. And, little by little, they began to work.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... slipped into your life without you realizing, appearing in the most mundane moments, when you tried to find a bit of peace in the chaos of your existence. At first, he did it subtly: he listened as you lamented about your family and your life before your mutation, his jacket over your shoulders when the cold hit you, or staying with you in that corner. He made sure you saw him as someone trustworthy, someone who wouldn’t back away out of fear. But always, in the background, there was something more. A glimmer in his eyes that told you his presence was not merely accidental, that he was watching.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... used his story to soften you, to connect with you on that deeper level that always seemed inaccessible. He knew you were broken inside, hurt by the loss of your parents and consumed by fear of your own power, so little by little, he began to open up. He told you how he too had been an outsider, an orphaned boy raised on the streets of New Orleans. How he had been rejected even by those who took him in, feared for his own gift, a gift he could not control either. “Tu sais, I wasn’t always like this, chérie,” he would say with a melancholic smile, as his fingers played with a deck of cards. “Everything i am now is because Gambit had to learn to survive. In this world, if you don’t have anyone, you are nothing.” And with every story he shared, you felt the wall you had built begin to crack. Remy, with his soft words and warm gaze, was slowly digging into that shell you had fought so hard to maintain.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... made you feel less alone, but never in the way you desired. He knew when you were about to break, and there he was, holding you before you could fall. “You can’t get rid of me so easily, chérie,” he whispered as his hands found yours, strong but gentle. He made you feel safe, but there was something suffocating about his constant presence, something you could not name.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... began to take up more space in your life, even in your most painful moments. When your nightmares woke you up at night, sweaty and echoing with the explosions that never stopped resonating in your mind, he was there. You didn’t ask how he knew you were awake, nor why he was always so close. But his touch, his soft words, wrapped around you until the terror dissipated, only for another kind of unease to grow in its place. “You’re never going to be alone again, Gambit promise you,” he said, almost like a vow.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... started to make you doubt everything. When you tried to pull away, when you wanted to put distance between your destructive powers and those around you, he whispered in your ear: “No one else is going to understand you like I do, chérie. No one else can bear what you carry inside.” His words sank into you like sweet poison, until the idea of being without him began to seem more terrifying than the idea of destroying everything around you. Who else could face your power? Who else would keep loving you after everything you had lost?

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... carefully decided who you could associate with, selecting only those he considered “safe.” He encouraged you to get close to Jubilee, with her sparkling and carefree energy, because he knew that she posed no threat to his control. “Elle est bonne pour ti, chérie. She has a good heart,” he would say when you saw her, and little by little you convinced yourself that he just wanted what was best for you. Ororo was also welcome in your little circle; her calm, motherly nature made him feel that she was not a dangerous influence. And of course, Rogue was always nearby, though you could never shake the feeling of tension between her and Remy. He justified her presence by saying they were old friends, but there was something in the way he looked at her when you were around that made Rogue keep her distance, while Morph, Bobby, and others like them were completely off-limits.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... whispered words of comfort in your ear when your darkest memories suffocated you. “It wasn’t your fault, chérie. Your parents didn’t know what they were doing, but I did. I would never leave you.” And though those words should have eased you, there was something in his tone that made you feel trapped, as if there were no escape from the invisible cage he was building around you.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... didn’t want you to associate with people who could “corrupt” your view of the world. Bobby tried to talk to you once, casually, while you were in the kitchen. His easy smile and relaxed nature made you laugh, something that didn’t happen often. But it wasn’t long before Remy noticed. “What was he doing with you, huh?” His tone was as smooth as a knife's edge, his eyes burning with something you hadn’t seen before. “I don’t like you getting close to him.” And though you knew that wasn’t true, you felt the coldness of his control wrap around you. The situation exploded when Remy and Bobby ended up in a violent fight, sharp words and barely veiled threats exchanged until Jean and Scott had to separate them. You, however, saw him as a friend, someone who could help you forget for a while how dangerous you were. But over time, even Bobby began to avoid you, and the few friendships you had dwindled down to those Remy approved of.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... enjoyed the simple things with you, those that seemed harmless on the surface. He liked to take you to shopping malls, where he could walk beside you and make sure you felt safe, but always under his watchful eye. “Choose whatever you want, ma belle. Whatever it is, it’s yours.” He let you pick out clothes, books, little decorations for your room. But even in those moments, there was an underlying control. The options he offered you were carefully selected; he made you feel you had freedom, but it was always within the limits he set.

Yandere Remy LeBeau who... loved to see you smile, and one of his favorite ways to achieve that was by playing board games with you. He was charming, relaxed, and playful during those moments. “Allez, chérie, you’re going to have to try harder if you want to beat me,” he challenged you while a carefree laugh filled the room. Those were the moments that made you doubt, that made you think that maybe Remy just wanted what was best for you, that his closeness was a good thing. When you laughed, when for a second you forgot your destructive powers, he looked at you with devotion. But behind those crimson eyes, there was an insatiable hunger, a need for control.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... took his time decorating your room, making sure everything was to your liking, but always with his touch. “It’s important that you feel comfortable, mon coeur,” he would say as he placed a soft lamp by your bed or adjusted the curtains so that the light came in just as you liked it. But even here, there was a shadow of possession. The things he chose for you always reflected his own taste, his vision of who you should be. It was not just your space; it was a reflection of his influence over you.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... could not stand the idea of anyone else entering your intimate life. The thought of you falling in love with someone else filled him with a silent fury. “If you ever find someone,” he said in one of those moments where he seemed casual, almost brotherly, “it has to be someone Gambit approve of. Someone who will take care of you like I would. Not just anyone can be with you, chérie.” And even though he said it with a smile, there was something in his tone that chilled you. You couldn’t imagine Remy sharing that control with anyone else.

Yandere Remy LeBeau who... as time passed, that possibility grew even more distant. The few attempts you made to get close to someone were sabotaged before they could blossom. Remy made sure that any connection broke before it could grow strong. He would tell you it was for your safety, that your power made you too dangerous to be with anyone. “They can’t handle what you are, mon amour. But I can. I always will.”

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... hated it when you rebelled against his control, when you tried to challenge him and do things your way. The arguments began with soft words and gentle warnings, but soon intensified when you refused to obey. One night, you tried to go out alone to practice your powers, tired of feeling constantly watched. But before you could get too far, Remy intercepted you. His hand gripped your arm tightly, his eyes shining with a mix of fear and rage. “You’re not going out alone, chérie, not like this.” His grip was rougher than you expected from him, and you tried to break free, but it was in vain. “You don’t understand how dangerous it is. I won’t let you take that risk, I can’t.” His words were severe, his tone more dominant than usual. But when he saw you trembling, when he saw the fear and frustration in your eyes, his hardness faded, replaced by a desperate plea.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... immediately apologized after those episodes of harsh control. He hugged you tightly, his trembling hands, as if he feared you might disappear at any moment. “I’m sorry, ma belle,” he murmured against your hair, his voice filled with remorse. “I didn’t mean to scare you, but I can’t lose you. Not after all we’ve been through. You’re all I have.” In those moments, when his hardness crumbled and only a broken man remained inside, vulnerable to the fear of losing the only person who meant something to him, it was hard for you to push him away. His need for you, that connection that made you feel like you were his anchor, enveloped you, confusing you. Was it love? Was it protection? Or something much darker?

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... never let conversations about other guys last long. If he saw you interested, he subtly changed the subject or found a way to make you feel guilty for even thinking of opening up to someone else. “Personne ne te comprendra jamais comme je le fais.” His words became more intense over time, more definitive. The world outside, he told you, was too cruel, too fragile for you. But he, he was your refuge, the only constant.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... felt deeply affected the first time you went on a mission with the X-Men. He knew this day would come, but he wasn’t ready for the unbearable anxiety that invaded him. “I know you can take care of yourself, but I can’t help but worry,” he had told you before you left, with a carefree tone that hid how much he hated the idea of you exposing yourself to any danger. But when you returned, injured, all trace of his usual charm disappeared. His gaze burned with a fury and desperation you hadn’t seen before. “Merde, chérie! What did they do to you? Who did this to you?” He enveloped you in his arms protectively, almost suffocating, as his fingers traced the cuts and bruises on your skin. You could feel the tension in his body, as if he were on the verge of exploding.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... went mad when he saw you hurt, his mind filled with images of what could have happened if you hadn’t returned. “Je ne veux pas te perdre,” he said in a hoarse voice, almost inaudible, as he held you tightly. “You are my family. You have no idea what I would do if something happened to you.” There was something dark and disturbing in his words, in the intensity with which he held you close, but you couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of comfort in his desperation. It was as if, in his twisted and possessive love, Remy was capable of doing anything to keep you safe.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... did not allow his possessiveness to ruin the moments of tranquility you shared. On quiet nights, when you lay in bed, emotionally exhausted, he was there, sitting in a nearby chair, watching you with that mix of devotion and control. “Dors bien, ma belle. I’ll be here to take care of you.” And though those words should have comforted you, sometimes you felt as if those invisible walls he had built around you closed in a little more each night.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... always found a way to soften his behavior after moments like those. He took you to quiet places, away from the tensions of the mutant world, to strolls through the mall or parks where there was no immediate danger. He loved to see you laugh, as if that could erase any trace of the darkness that lay between you. “Look, ma chérie, this is how it should always be, right? No worries, no fears.” And in those moments, when it seemed like it was just you and him, you could forget, at least for a while, how invasive his presence had become.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... never let you forget that, for him, you were family. He constantly reminded you how alone he had been before meeting you, how you had filled a void in his life that no one else could fill. “I don’t know what I would do without you, ma chérie. If you ever drift away from me, if I lose you...” He never finished the sentence, but the weight of those words needed no ending. It was a warning, a reminder that his love for you was so intense that any possibility of losing you pushed him to the brink of despair.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... had a special way of softening his manipulations, of making you feel that everything he did was out of love, for your well-being. After a fight, he would always come back with a repentant smile, hugging you and telling you he never meant to hurt you. “Je suis désolé,” he whispered, with a tenderness in his voice that left you speechless. “But, mon coeur, you don’t understand. Gambit can’t live without you. You are my family, the only thing I have.” And though you knew there was something unhealthy in all of this, his words pierced deep into your heart. You had lost so much, and while his love was suffocating, it was also the closest you had to feeling loved.

Yandere! Remy LeBeau who... looked at you as if you were a broken work of art, one he was determined to rebuild, but only in his image. And, in his mind, he did it out of love.

A/N ─── I love you, Remy, you're divine, I don't care what anyone says. Now, I adore Remy, he's charismatic and handsome, what more can I say? I love writing in French. Although I’ve had some less pleasant experiences with the language and culture, in Remy's case, French sounds almost like a caress. It's part of his essence!

He has that irresistible charm that makes him stand out, not just for his looks but for his heart full of complexities. Who wouldn’t fall in love with someone who, despite living in the shadows, always tries to bring light to others?

If you have any problems knowing the meaning of a phrase in French, tell me in the comments and I will be happy to answer you.

Don't hesitate to ask me anything if you want.

take a bath!

[diamonddaze01]

69. "You know my name?" + chan omg im begging u or ill beat u to it and write it (lol stares at all my wips 💀)

call me by my name

Pairing: lc x f!reader | wc: 971 words prompt: "You know my name?" au: university au! | warnings: none a/n: HANEULLLLL thank u for the ask this was so cute and fun to write i hope you love it <33333

The lecture hall buzzed with the usual pre-class noise—pens tapping against desks, chairs creaking as students settled in, snippets of conversation floating from every direction. The air carried a faint hum of fluorescent lights, blending into the background chaos. You sat at your usual spot in the front row, pen poised and ready, eyes skimming the lecture notes you’d pulled up on your laptop.

Behind you, it was less preparation and more pandemonium.

“Seungkwan, what the fuck! Stop throwing shit at me!”

You didn’t have to look to know it was Soonyoung. His voice carried, loud and incredulous as always.

“That’s not throwing—it’s called handing,” Seungkwan shot back, his words dripping with mock seriousness. “Get some spatial awareness, idiot.”

The sound of a paper airplane slicing through the air followed, landing somewhere near your seat. You glanced down briefly at the crumpled attempt at aerodynamics before looking back at your notes.

“Is that supposed to be a plane or modern art?” another voice chimed in—Chan this time, laughter in his tone.

Turning your head slightly, you caught sight of the trio in their usual seats toward the back. Soonyoung had crossed his arms, glaring at the offending paper in Chan’s hand. Seungkwan was smirking triumphantly, leaning back in his chair with his arms behind his head.

“Give it here,” Chan said, snatching the airplane and inspecting it with exaggerated care. “Yeah, no. This isn’t a plane. This is, like… a bird that forgot how to fly.”

The paper flew again—this time courtesy of Chan—and barely made it past the second row before nose-diving onto the floor. The resulting laughter spread like wildfire across the room, even prompting a raised eyebrow from Professor Lee, who was just arriving.

“If the three of you could channel even half this energy into engineering,” the professor said, setting down his coffee with a thud, “you might actually pass this class.”

A round of chuckles rippled through the room as Chan held up his hands in mock surrender. “We’ll consider it!”

You shook your head, letting the familiar chaos wash over you. It had been like this all semester—Chan, Seungkwan, and Soonyoung acting as the unofficial class entertainment. Their antics had a way of filling the space, loud enough to distract but not enough to pull you from your work.

Professor Lee called the class to order, his voice steady as he launched into announcements. You settled in, fingers flying over your keyboard as you took notes.

Until he dropped the bomb.

“Alright, folks, listen up,” Professor Lee announced, raising his voice over the chatter. “Big news today—it’s time to kick off your group projects.”

Groans and murmurs spread through the room like wildfire. People immediately started swiveling in their seats, calling out to friends to lock in their groups before anyone got left behind.

You stayed put, as you always did. You’d learned from experience—being the quiet one meant waiting out the storm. Once the dust settled, you’d deal with whatever scraps of a team were left.

“The project is worth thirty percent of your grade,” Professor Lee continued, adjusting his glasses. “So choose wisely.”

“Thirty percent?” someone whispered behind you.

“Yeah, that’s fucked,” another voice muttered.

You ignored them, jotting down the project details from the board. If no one picked you, you’d just work alone—it wasn’t ideal, but you’d survive. Your eyes flicked back to your laptop, but before you could even finish writing down the assignment details, a shadow fell over your desk. You blinked up, startled, only to see Chan grinning down at you, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket.

“Uh, hi?” you said cautiously.

“Wanna be in a group with me and my friends?” He jerked his thumb toward Seungkwan and Soonyoung, who were mid-wrestle over a pencil in the back corner of the room.

Your pen froze mid-word. “You… know my name?”

Chan tilted his head like you’d just asked him if the sky was blue. “Uh, yeah? Considering you’re the one who ruins the curve every time… yes, I know your name.”

Oh.

“But also,” he continued, “you clearly know what you’re doing, and we’d be stupid not to team up with you.”

You blinked, your brain short-circuiting for a moment. “Okay.”

His grin widened, and he gestured for you to follow him.

By the time you reached Seungkwan and Soonyoung, they’d paused their argument and were now watching you with matching mischievous smirks.

“So,” Seungkwan said, leaning closer to Chan, “you actually got her to join us, huh?”

“Guess today’s my lucky day,” Chan muttered, side-eyeing him.

Soonyoung jabbed Seungkwan in the ribs, grinning like an idiot. “Told you he wouldn’t chicken out.”

“Shut up,” Chan hissed, his ears already pink.

But Seungkwan wasn’t done. “You didn’t have to use the whole ‘you ruin the curve’ thing. You could’ve just said, ‘Hey, I think you’re super smart and pretty, and I totally have a crush on you.’”

Chan’s eyes widened as if someone had just slapped him with a textbook. “What the fuck—”

“Or,” Soonyoung added, tapping his chin theatrically, “you could’ve been, like, ‘I sit two rows behind you every day because your hair smells like strawberries.’”

“I do not—”

Seungkwan gasped, fake-shocked. “Oh my God, you’ve smelled her hair?”

Chan groaned, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I hate both of you.”

You couldn’t help it—you burst out laughing, covering your mouth as the trio dissolved into chaos.

“Don’t listen to them,” Chan said quickly, turning back to you with an apologetic look. “They’re dumbasses, but I promise we’ll actually get work done. Eventually.”

You raised an eyebrow, still grinning. “As long as no one brings paper airplanes to the final presentation.”

“See?” Soonyoung crowed. “She’s funny too. You’re screwed, Chan.”

Chan didn’t answer, but the flush creeping up his neck said more than enough.

send me an ask for my drabble game!

[eriace]

the right blend ; nagumo yoichi

oneshot & fluff ↪ in which l/n y/n and nagumo yoichi fake a relationship for a mission, but somewhere in between shared coffee, late-night stakeouts, and quiet glances, pretending stops feeling like pretending. ↷ nagumo yoichi ; sakamoto days

↳ an order of cappuccino from anonymous in the comeback cafe event ! ( author's note: i already made something similar for the fake marriage so this is for the fake dating one.)

IT STARTED WITH a mission.

Fake dating. Simple enough—play the part, blend in, get close to the target who had a soft spot for couples. It was supposed to be easy. Calculated. Impersonal.

But that was before Y/n learned how fast pretending could start to feel real.

The JCC Academy’s south quad was nearly empty at dusk, the sky bruised with fading orange and violet, wind teasing at the edges of her jacket. She sat on the low stone bench near the training hall, foot tapping, trying not to look at her watch for the fifth time.

Nagumo Yoichi was late.

Again.

She was mentally composing the verbal slap he’d earn when his shadow stretched long over her shoes.

“Miss me?” His voice broke through the quiet—casual, teasing, infuriatingly smooth.

Y/n looked up. He wore his standard jacket slung off one shoulder and held two cups of vending machine coffee, steam curling from the rims. His hair was wind-tossed, and his smile was the kind that made people let their guard down.

Not her. Not today.

“Fifteen minutes late,” she said, voice flat. “You know we’re supposed to check in together.”

“I brought coffee as a peace treaty.” He held one cup out. “I even remembered—two sugars, no cream. Like a psychopath.”

She stared at it, then took it with a reluctant sigh. The cup was warm against her palms. Stupid, how small gestures still made her chest ache.

“You’re lucky that’s exactly how I like it,” she muttered.

He smirked, dropping beside her on the bench, thigh brushing hers just enough to make her heart lurch. She hated that he noticed.

“I always remember your coffee,” he said, more quietly this time, eyes flicking to hers. “Fake boyfriend duties. I’m a professional.”

“So professional you’re always late?”

“I like making you wait. Keeps things spicy.”

She rolled her eyes, sipping the too-hot coffee to hide her smile. The quad remained still around them, quiet enough to hear the fountain trickling nearby.

They should have gotten up. They were expected in the instructor’s office five minutes ago to report on their progress. Instead, neither of them moved.

Nagumo leaned back on his hands, gaze tilted toward the darkening sky.

“You know,” he said slowly, “I’ve had real dates that felt less real than this.”

Y/n glanced at him, caught off guard. “This is just a mission.”

“Sure,” he said. “But you didn’t have to remember my favorite snack for the stakeout. Or patch up my hand when I cut it on the stairwell. Or stop me from saying something dumb to the teacher yesterday.”

She swallowed. “That’s just good teamwork.”

“You didn’t have to ask me how I take my coffee either.”

Her chest tightened.

Nagumo turned his head, met her eyes. There was no smirk now. No teasing curve to his mouth. Only that rare, steady look—the one that didn’t try to charm her, just see her.

“You’re not pretending anymore,” he said softly. “Are you?”

She opened her mouth. Paused. Closed it again.

It would’ve been easier to lie.

Instead, she said, “Not since the first time you held my hand without being told to.”

Nagumo was quiet for a moment.

Then, very gently, he set his coffee down, shifting to face her fully. His fingers found hers, slower than usual. No theatrics. No smirk.

Just skin to skin.

“Good,” he said. “Because I remember practicing how to ask you out in the mirror, before any of this started.”

Her breath caught.

“And if I wasn’t such a coward,” he added, voice barely above a whisper, “I would’ve done it for real.”

She didn’t answer, and for the first time since the assignment started, Y/n didn’t feel like an undercover anything.

She just felt like a girl who was falling. And maybe—just maybe—he was falling too.

© eriace in tumblr ; don’t repost my works.

[tobiosbbyghorl]

Extra Sweet, Just Like You | yjw

Café for7you followers event

Order for @wonieheartue ⋆˚✿˖°

One,Trope Latte “strangers to lovers” with a Swirl of Romance Cream ‘Holding hands under the table.’ Coming right up!

Brewed in golden hour light with a double shot of familiarity and a cinnamon swirl of connection. This cup is rich with soft routines, warm gazes across the counter, and hands that find each other beneath quiet conversation. Finished with slow-burn foam and a sprinkle of shy smiles, it’s a strangers-to-lovers blend best served gently one sip, one day, one feeling at a time.

The first time he walked through the door, you noticed him because he looked a little out of place too put-together for your sleepy, slightly weathered café tucked on the corner of an old street. His shoes were soaked, dark strands of hair plastered to his forehead from the rain. He didn’t even try to shake the water off his coat. Just stood in the doorway, blinking away drizzle like he was surprised to be there at all.

“Rough day?” you asked, offering him a towel and a tentative smile.

He looked up, startled, then softened. “Something like that.”

You handed him a warm cup vanilla latte with cinnamon, your comfort drink and told him it was on the house. “You look like you need something sweet.”

He smiled faintly. “I didn’t think anyone did stuff like this anymore.”

“Welcome to the café where kindness is brewed fresh daily,” you said, tapping the counter lightly.

He stayed for fifteen minutes. Didn’t say much. Just sat near the window, watching the rain with his hands curled around the cup like it was the only warm thing in the world.

You didn’t expect to see him again.

But he returned three days later.

This time, dry. Less lost. He ordered the same drink and said, “You remembered.”

You hadn’t realized you had.

After that, he became a regular.

He never told you his name at first. Never asked yours. He just came always around 3:30, when the post-lunch crowd thinned and golden light spilled through the front windows. You learned to expect the soft jingle of the bell above the door. The way he always glanced at the specials board, even though he never ordered anything different.

Sometimes he read. Sometimes he brought his laptop. Most times, he just sat and talked to you as you worked behind the counter.

You started saving him a spot by the window. Started pulling an extra espresso shot without asking. Started making his latte a little sweeter, a little warmer.

One day, when you brought over his drink without being asked, he looked up at you with a small, boyish smile.

“It’s Jungwon, by the way.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

“My name,” he said, eyes crinkling slightly. “In case you ever want to write it on the cup.”

After that, it got harder not to notice the way he watched you. The way his gaze lingered a little too long. The way he leaned across the counter when no one was around. The way his eyes flicked to your lips when you smiled.

Still, nothing happened.

It was slow.

Painfully, deliciously slow.

And maybe that was what made it so addictive. Like steeping tea letting it swirl, infuse, become something deeper.

You started to learn more. That he worked two blocks down. That he liked cheesy romance dramas and couldn’t drink black coffee to save his life. That he loved rainy days but hated how they always made him feel nostalgic.

“About what?” you asked one afternoon, watching him trace circles on his cup.

He just smiled softly. “I don’t know yet.”

One Thursday evening, near closing, the café was quieter than usual. The other tables were empty. You had your apron off. He had his tie loosened, a paperback on the table, half-read.

You sat beside him instead of across.

Not a big move. Not even a bold one. But his shoulder brushed yours, and the air shifted.

“I like this,” he murmured.

You looked at him. “Like what?”

“This. Us. Here.”

Your heart thudded softly in your chest.

You didn’t respond. Just reached for your cup, and accidentally intentionally let your pinky brush against his on the table.

And he didn’t pull away.

Neither did you.

For a moment, it stayed like that. Hands near, not quite touching. Like a breath being held between two hearts.

Then slowly like testing the surface of something sacred he slid his hand into yours under the table. Fingers lacing together. Warm. Sure.

Your stomach flipped, and your grip tightened slightly in return. He didn’t look at you, didn’t say anything, just smiled at his half-finished book like nothing had changed. But everything had.

And under the table, hidden from the world, your hands stayed clasped like a quiet promise.

Want to place an order? See here what Café for7you has to offer for you! ₊˚⊹♡

permanent taglist: @ijustwannareadstuff20 @hoonielvv @rjssierjrie @morganaawriterr @firstclassjaylee @rikifever

©️tobiosbbyghorl - all rights reserved

barista’s note:

hi lovie! thank you for ordering and I hope you like it! ૮꒰ྀི⸝⸝> . <⸝⸝꒱ྀིა Come back for more~

[annaswrites00]

Just Between Us - Lando Norris

Lando Norris x Margot Piastri (OC)

(1.3k)

Chapter One - Intro!!

Summary - Margot Piastri wasn’t planning on getting caught up in the chaos of Formula 1 — or in Lando Norris’ orbit. But with one easy smile, everything about her quiet gap year started to feel a lot less predictable. Warning - Will mention mental health, anxiety, slightly disordered eating eventually. Chapters that cover sensitive topics will have a warning.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚

The energy in the paddock was insane. Loud, busy, alive in a way that made Margot’s skin tingle.

She stood off to the side, clutching the strap of her canvas tote bag, trying to blend in.  

It wasn’t working.

People rushed past her — engineers barking orders into radios, PR reps in headsets, drivers weaving through the chaos like it was second nature. Margot tried not to look like she was on the verge of being run over.

Oscar had disappeared ten minutes ago, promising he’d “only be a sec” grabbing his new helmet.  

Classic.

Margot exhaled slowly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.  

She had spent her whole life watching Oscar chase this dream, always from a safe, comfortable distance. TV screens. Interviews. Texts from across the world.  

But standing here now, the whole world of Formula 1 cracked open in front of her, it didn’t feel distant anymore. It felt real.  

And maybe — terrifyingly — a little bit like *hers*, too.

She was taking a gap year. She was going to travel with Osc before starting Uni. She was hoping to learn something along the way.

“Lost?”

A voice cut through her thoughts.  

Margot turned — and instantly wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

Lando Norris stood there, hands shoved into the pockets of his McLaren shorts, that stupidly boyish smile tugging at his mouth. His brown curls were damp from the heat, and his lanyard hung loosely around his neck.

She knew who he was, obviously. Everyone did.

But seeing him up close — cheeky and real and right in front of her — was something else entirely.

“Uh—” she blinked. “No. Just... waiting.”

“For Oscar?” he guessed easily.

She nodded, heat creeping up the back of her neck.

Lando’s grin widened. “Thought so. You look like him.”

Margot wrinkled her nose. “Thanks, I guess.”

He laughed, and it was unfair how easy it sounded. Like he wasn’t surrounded by chaos. Like this wasn’t his *job*.

“I’m Lando,” he said, offering a hand.

“I know.” Margot regretted it immediately, hearing how awkward it sounded. She recovered quickly. “I mean — yeah. I’m Margot.”

Lando’s hand was warm when she shook it, a firm, quick squeeze.

“Margot Piastri,” he said, as if testing it out. His smile tilted sideways. “Oscar’s mysterious little sister.”

She pulled a face. “Mysterious?”

“You never come to races,” Lando pointed out. “You’re like a myth. I thought Oscar made you up sometimes.”

Margot snorted. “Yeah, my family keeps me hidden in a tower.”

Lando chuckled, then shot a glance down the row of garages. “Well, nice to finally meet you.”

Margot shrugged, a little more comfortable now. “I figured it was time.”

He looked at her for a second — really looked — like he was seeing past the badge hanging from her neck, past the 'Oscar’s sister' label.  

And for some reason, that made Margot’s chest feel tight.

Before she could think of anything else to say, Oscar reappeared, his fresh helmet tucked under one arm.  

He spotted them instantly and frowned.

Lando stepped back with a grin, hands raised like he was surrendering. “Relax, mate. Just saying hi.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well. Hi’s over. We’ve got a meeting.”

Margot caught the playful glint in Lando’s eye as he leaned in slightly, voice dropping just enough for her to hear:  

“See you around, mystery girl.”

And then he was gone, whistling as he sauntered back toward the McLaren hospitality building, like he hadn’t just knocked the air out of her lungs.

Margot stood frozen for a beat, blinking after him.

Oscar nudged her shoulder with his free hand. “Stay away from him.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“He’s trouble,” Oscar said, not joking even a little bit. “And he knows he’s trouble, which is worse. I love him, he’s my teammate…but I don’t love him around you.” 

Margot smirked. “You’re being dramatic.”

Oscar gave her a flat look. “I’m being a good brother.”

Margot just shook her head, following him through the paddock.  

But as she walked, she couldn’t help glancing back — half-hoping, half-dreading she’d catch another glimpse of Lando’s messy curls in the crowd.

Trouble or not...  

It was already too late.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚

The next few hours blurred together.

Oscar dragged her through meetings and team briefings, introducing her to a million people she immediately forgot. She perched on the edge of sofas and smiled politely whenever someone asked “so, you’re Oscar’s sister?” like she was some rare new species.

But her mind kept drifting back.  

To the easy way Lando had smiled. 

By the time the sun dipped low over the track, painting the world in gold, Margot found herself sitting outside McLaren’s hospitality building, legs dangling off a low wall.

“Thought you might be here,” a familiar voice said.

Margot looked up — and there he was again.  

Lando.

This time he wasn’t in full McLaren kit. Just a plain black t-shirt, grey shorts, messy hair damp from a shower.

He looked... normal.  

If “normal” meant unfairly attractive and lowkey famous.

Margot grinned before she could stop herself. “Are you stalking me?”

“You’re in my building, technically.” he said, sitting down next to her on the wall like it was the most natural thing in the world.  

When she glanced over, he was already looking at her, elbows resting on his knees, relaxed.

“So,” Lando said, voice light, “what’s it like being the cooler Piastri?”

Margot laughed, surprised. “Cooler?”

“Way cooler,” he said solemnly. “You don’t make me sit through four-hour debriefs.”

Margot grinned, nudging him with her knee. “Maybe you just caught me on a good day.”

They sat like that for a while — trading quiet jokes, watching the crew finish tearing down the garages, the low buzz of the paddock settling into something almost peaceful.

Margot realized, somewhere between teasing him about his golf obsession and him pretending to be offended when she called him a "grandad," that she was happy, and not the polite, half-fake kind she wore at family dinners or graduation parties.  

And it scared the absolute shit out of her.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚

Later, when she finally found Oscar again - after dodging about six "where are you??" texts - he gave her a look.

Margot played dumb. “What?”

Oscar folded his arms. “Stay away from Lando.”

Margot shrugged, breezy. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oscar muttered something under his breath about "idiots and bad ideas," but Margot just smiled, letting him drag her back toward their rental car.

She wasn’t doing anything wrong.  

She was just talking. Laughing.

And if Lando Norris happened to make her heart race a little faster every time he smiled at her?

Well.  

No one needed to know just yet.

₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚₊✩‧₊₊✩‧₊˚౨ৎ˚

I love them already!!!