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1800titz · 4 months ago

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The one where Y/N and Harry are neighbors in an apartment complex, he's got a bunny called Snuggles, he makes softcore porn spanking people (it's a REALLY LOUD HOBBY), and Y/N has definitely called the police for a domestic disturbance next door.

HI FRIENDS. The council has spoken, so here is the first part of the lovingly-dubbed spanko fic. This series will be early access, so— parts go up on patreon first, then they come to tumblr 3-ish weeks later (but if you wanna get ahead, the second part is already up on patreon). Reader insert, emotionally a slowburn, and basically a garbage fire I'm pouring my deepest, darkest desire into as a coping mechanism :p If you liked TDIAG, you'll probably rock with this one. As always, feedback/reblogs massively appreciated <3 WEEEEEEEE okay bye

ᴄʜᴇᴄᴋ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴛʀᴇᴏɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ : ᴍᴀɪɴ ᴍᴀꜱᴛᴇʀʟɪꜱᴛ

CONTENT/WARNINGS: miss girl misconstruing consensual kink for domestic violence (oops)

WC: 7.8K

Harry’s face is the reason average men have developed a phenomenon called personality.

Historically, it was faces like his, at the very least, that ignited adaptation— this wasn’t an overnight implementation, after all. Men don’t move that fast. There’s a long-lasting, brutally destructive record there, and a tale as old as time itself. Before charisma had to be manufactured in the absence of a devastating jawline, there was the high-cheekbone aristocracy, and its counterpart, what’s known today as the “he’s actually really nice” faction. The beauty privilege inventors; the bedroom-eye monarchy; the symmetrical syndicate of a resting smolder—

And the rest of everyone else.

Rumor has it that the first comedian was a man who watched another guy, who had eyes like wet chrysocolla and really broad shoulders, turn a casual glance into an entire bloodline’s origin story. Maybe the first poet sat next to a man wearing the skin of divine nepotism— and the only defense strategy was to pick up a hobby that spoke less in pretty, heart-shaped lips and more in words like love’s trembling hand doth trace its name upon thy skin. New seduction ritual: implemented.

Basically, the survival mechanism goes like this: if you’re competing with bone structure sculpted by an empyrean chisel, a mouth worthy of oil paintings and crumpled love letters, and the kinds of dimples that were engineered for the sole purpose of emotional damage (Cupid’s attempt; two, little exit wounds, the perfect pair of injustices parenthesizing his smile)…

And you’re lingering in the shadow of those attributes? Operating on a deficit? Well, then. There’s a little more work left to be put in.

If you’re lucky, you’re tall, or you’re well endowed in the basement, or both. If you’re none of those things, you’re banking on a gift with a musical instrument, or you’re coping with the weight of your wallet. You’re getting into niche, esoteric interests you will impress upon every woman that steps foot into your orbit to stand out, or you’re polishing up your comedic abilities. The thing is, society has evolved to the point where this compensation is the foundation to procreation. The foundation to function. And the kind of men with faces like Harry, who got in line not once, but twice when God was handing out genetic privilege (the overachieved extra credit projects), just get to sit back and let the world unravel at their feet.

Men like Harry don’t need personalities because they already look interesting enough. When you’re the kind of pretty that inspires love songs and ill-advised tattoos, you don’t need wit, or pockets lined with green. It opens doors (and legs) with such minimal effort that it may as well be as simple as breathing. The quiet space in a room bends around you when you become the focal point by existing, incidentally magnetic.

It’s pretty unfair, to say the very least.

Y/N only really registers it passing— in fleeting, peripheral moments when the space bends around him and her eyes glue, almost like an accident. A brief sighting here and there, like a rare animal caught between the trees— seen but not acknowledged, because staring starts to feel like stepping into something too raw, too deliberate.

He’s always moving. In motion, slipping past. Glimpses of wide shoulders cutting through the communal pool, water slicking over musculature in a smooth tide and then rivulets, droplets sticking against sun-warmed skin. A silhouette in the elevator at the end of the hall, head bowed. Sorting through crinkled envelopes between his massive hands with a ruckle between his brows.

He’s got the kind of face that suggests he should be gently perched on the edge of a marble fountain, carved in alabaster. A cherubic thing. Rosy-mouthed, haloed by damp curls that tuck around his ears in perfect, artistic disarray. The kind of beauty that feels vaguely mythological, like he should either be blessing crops or luring unbeknownst sailors to their deaths. A visage that belongs on domed Renaissance ceilings.

Y/N breathes. Her pulse feels like it’s rattling a little. It makes her head feel a little gooey when he’s stood in front of her.

And here he is, holding a package in one hand, water still beading at his collarbone from a morning shower, damp curls dripping onto the fabric of a lived-in, vintage T-shirt. The tragic failure of modern existence is that a man like this— who should, by all logic, be strumming a lyre on the edge of a celestial fountain— has instead been doomed to wander the mundanities of the human condition. To swipe through his mail. To stand in front of her door and say things like “Think they swapped our mail again” in that perfectly unassuming, relaxed tone, like his very existence isn’t actively offensive to the concept of mediocrity.

His singular flaw? That one, teeny thing?

He’s a horrific neighbor.

Abysmally inconsiderate, in fact. Maybe, one of the worst people Y/N has ever had the pleasure of sharing a paper-thin wall with.

The thing is, under all normal circumstances, eye candy is a desirable next door tenant, to catch those scarce glimpses of and swoon over. But Harry? He’s dangerous. An illusion gilded in beauty that sits in this achingly so, lazy way. It’s an excellent cover for someone who (based on volume alone) should be legally required to sublet a soundproof chamber instead of an apartment. Beauty privilege, remember?

Instead of spending his days spreading divine harmony and whispering sweet nothings into the ears of poets, her tragically beautiful neighbor has chosen a different calling. One that involves subjecting Y/N to an auditory experience that can only be described as an unholy, unprovoked act of sonic terrorism against anyone who possesses functioning ears.

While he may look like the patron saint of soft lighting and tasteful nudity, he lives like a man who has never once considered the presence of neighbors. Evidently, the universe operates on imbalance.

It’s not surprising that he fucks. Nor is the frequency, given— everything. It would be more surprising if he didn’t, which, statistically, seems impossible. It is the sheer volume at which he fucks and the blatant disregard for customary noise ordinances.

Y/N has had the great misfortune of gaining intimate knowledge of Harry’s extracurricular activities through nothing but flagrantly inconspicuous, unsolicited proximity. She is now, against her will, deeply familiar with the sound of his bed frame against the wall. With the low, gravel-thick groan that spills out of him before everything goes quiet, the sharp gasp from whoever is tangled up in the sheets beneath him. The pornographic chainlink of yes, yes, yes, as if to lyricize the tempo of a wrought iron headboard ramming against hollow drywall. She’s a victim to secondhand moaning; a hostage to the unchecked libido of a man she’s not even screwing.

The young woman isn’t sure who he’s sleeping with, but based on the sounds, they either really, really like whatever feat of Olympian-endurance he’s performing on the other side of the wall, or they’re being held at gunpoint and doing an exceptional job of faking it. It’s loud. A predictable regularity. Enough to make her consider downloading white noise apps and investing in a stronger liquor cabinet.

And every morning, after nights filled with thumping and gypsum-dulled dirty talk— horny monologue hour, hardly softened by an overworked, underpaid layer of rental-grade plaster— and the occasional bass-heavy indie rock soundtrack, he leaves his apartment looking criminally rested. Peaceful. Unbothered by the absolute railing he has just put someone (and the walls) through.

For all his divine aesthetics, Harry fucks like he’s trying to earn a standing ovation. With the kind of dedication to performance that suggests he thinks there’s an awards committee waiting outside in the hallway to hand him a trophy when he’s done.

Y/N doesn’t know what’s worse— the rhythmic, wall-shaking thump of his bed frame, the low, muzzled stream of just incomprehensible enough to stay offensive murmurs, or the fact that he has the audacity to look well-rested when she sees him the next morning, while she lurches past him like a woman who’s been spiritually waterboarded by the full-scale resonance of his sex life.

Y/N has tried— earnestly tried— to ignore it. To mentally downgrade him from disruptively attractive to something more manageable, like guy-next-door cute. But Harry is simply too loud to be ignored.

And not just in volume— though, yes, he operates at a decibel that insinuates he believes “inside voice” is an urban legend. It's everything. The way he takes up space. The way he stretches his arms over his head and his shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of toned stomach like some kind of aesthetic oversight. The way his lips pull into a smirk when he's amused, a single dimple pressing into the smooth skin of his cheek.

The worst part? He doesn’t weaponize it. Just… exists, as if he entirely lacks self-awareness for the unrelenting power he yields with pure aesthetics.

Perhaps the only thing more dangerous than his unregulated evolutionary favoritism is the lack of object permanence it causes. Inspires. Because at the end of the day, despite how polite, how deeply-gnarled in neighborly niceties, The Incident from last month still exists, but miraculously manages to melt into her every time she’s face to face with him. Like a static buzz settling into the way her composure thaws away.

His most notable sound pollution, to date, spilled in the form of audible rejection on a rain-drenched afternoon, dripping through the drywall in a dissent-rusted chain. Stop. No. Please. It was a voice she didn’t recognize. A voice trying to be firm but not entirely expecting to be listened to. It sounded so defeated, like a cry and then a high, sharp whine in response to whatever distinctly lower-pitched murmurs the insulation muzzled. All velvet-dipped tones swallowed by the structural integrity of a shoebox apartment.

Y/N is the last person to dig into others’ preferential depravities, nor does she have the mental bandwidth to file through the archives of a borderline stranger’s hedonisms, but her stomach had twisted up like one of those coiled, abstract sculptures that fits on a bookshelf, and she ended up on the couch with her cellphone tucked to her ear.

Because it wasn’t just the kind of sound that prickled at her nape, but curdled deep in the belly of her, heavy and rotting.

(“Um, hi, I think my neighbor is— hurting someone.”)

But the thing is, standing with her door cracked now, Y/N thinks there needs to be at least one, obnoxiously visible character flaw to remind her and offset the audacity of his aesthetics, because up close, it’s so much worse.

Anything— an overinflated ego, a questionable tattoo, a personality cultivated exclusively from Joe Rogan podcasts. But no. Harry is polite— painfully so, armed with the clean-shaven jawline of a man who has never known an awkward phase and the kind of infuriatingly natural charm that makes all rationale and reason puddle off into awed oblivion.

“Hey,” he says, cradling the package in one palm, curls wet, one rogue lock clinging to the crest of his cheekbone in a way that would look deeply artificial on anyone else. “Think they swapped our mail again.”

The level of allurement at which he functions should come with a warning label, so it’s a little tough to keep The Incident afloat when he just… waterlogs it with simple, blissfully unaware presence. In these types of situations, all that buoys is the vague, internal monologue reminding her that she’s been gawking wordlessly too long to be considered socially acceptable.

Her taller neighbor (significantly taller; really, Y/N thinks— it’s as if he collected hallmarks like they were on conveniently timed clearance) blinks. He’s still holding the package out. Y/N blinks back. Batting her lashes shakes something, as if warding off gnats off in a plume of smoke. Slowly, she accepts the misdelivered offering, and unease creeps into the soft spot between her rib bones and her organs.

Despite the way the man has embedded his existence so deeply into her thoughts— honestly, so much so that he may as well be paying rent (she should be getting compensated for the unpaid mental labor)— Y/N doesn’t actually know Harry.

She knows his name is Harry. H-A-R-R-y, always inscribed in all capitals, besides the cacographic tail end of the lowercase, curving Y. She’s given up on trying to understand why whoever the post office sends insists on treating their mailboxes like interchangeable suggestions rather than fixed addresses. She knows that their mail, through some act of bureaucratic sabotage, somehow manages to interchange between 9B and 9C with unsettling regularity.

She knows he fucks. A lot. So regularly that at this point, it’s practically a statistical impossibility that his celibacy record stands longer than a sparse handful of days. She knows that he wears the face of a misplaced effigy, with a halo’s worth of plausible deniability— the kind that should be mounted to an Italian plaza centerpiece, or live frescoed, immortalized on a high ceiling between Corinthian columns. She knows she called the police on him last month, so she needs to ball her resolve in her arms when it spills apart like unrolled toilet paper—

There is one truth Y/N must latch on and cling to in these tragically catastrophic stand-offs (probably… entirely one-sided, given that the opponent to her poor mettle and overactive nervous system is just… standing there, breathing, entirely oblivious of his innate talent to dilate pupils and cause momentary amnesia), and that truth is this: no superficially aesthetic veneer of deception can shell-up reality.

And the reality is that Y/N does not know this man, and so no cherubic façade, neighborly niceties, or feigned self-unawareness can suppress that he may as well be an entirely different person behind closed doors.

It’s months down the line that the irony will hit her— that yes, undeniably, Harry is almost a direct, walking contradiction behind the assumed sanctity of a closed door— that no pleasantries or seraphic, unassuming dimples can soften the obscenity of his pastimes. Hobbies include: vinyl collecting, long walks, and ensuring that an attitude adjustment sticks. But that’s months down the line, and right now?

Right now he’s just her obnoxiously loud neighbor that, according to probable cause (and the recording of the phone call she made to the emergency hotline, stored somewhere in the 911 archives), may or may not take no for an answer. Which is the biggest tragedy of all, in her opinion.

“Thanks.” There’s a little bite there to the word, there. Enough for him to clock it— for something to flicker along that lazily charming smile, like a gossamer-thin, bewildered film over the surface of his expression.

Harry pauses, almost like he wants to say something (probably to acknowledge the awkwardly apparent dissonance going on), but then he just… doesn’t.

“Okay,” as the man breathes, the breadth of his shoulders swells up, thick muscle rising up under the cotton fabric (not quite pulled taut— not anywhere besides the span of his shoulders— but enough for the shape of his pebbled nipples to poke through the material). Y/N chews into the gummy-smooth skin along the inside of her cheek. Honestly, it’s unfairly disarming; his low voice, his stupid face, his hard nipples prodding through the tee. With his dewy meadow eyes glued onto her, her resolve wobbles like a flimsy stilt house on the coast in a hurricane. “Have a good one.”

He ducks his chin (a subtle period on the uncomfortable pause, a formal seal on his exit) at the young woman, still holding the parchment-wrapped package she’s been awarded as if solidified into a stone-encasement of the position. Y/N blinks. Harry turns.

With a final glance toward his retreating back, the girl closes the door. As her fingers tighten around the package, her knuckles bleach from the strain. It’s either that or punch drywall, and quite frankly, she’s been paying too much in rent to consider remodeling and too many fees in the form of involuntary eavesdropping to afford a fracture in the (poorly constructed) noise barrier. She tucks the chainlink back onto its track as the door clicks shut and resigns herself to another unfortunate truth: Harry is so dangerously attractive that not only is she almost certainly going to think about this moment later, but she will be reminded, every time she’s shepherded into close proximity with him, that when God packages something up in 6 feet of limited-edition facial topography and artfully tousled curls, no amount of unsought aural pornography and creeping suspicion can stop a cosmic nepotism baby from dismantling her concentration.

The last thing Harry expects from a disgruntled herd of bleary-eyed, sock-shuffling renters— a crowd caught somewhere between sleep-deprived and half-dead— is small talk.

Half these people have a look that suggests they contemplated burning alive before choosing to evacuate, and the other half probably wish they decided to wear real pants to bed. Tonight, Harry falls into both categories. With the fire alarm still shrieking from the guts of the complex and the blinking glow of blue and red in the corner of a tar-black night, the briefs hitching high on his meaty thighs is almost… poetic. Cinematic, at the very least. Like a scene from an experimental indie film focused on the gradual dissolution of dignity.

The downy rabbit nestled in his arms, coiled more like a floccose ball than a living animal, is the sartorial maraschino cherry— it pulls the look together. Emergency Evacuation chic. He looks about as disheveled as the rest of the congregation; bedhead, sleep still dusting at his half-mast gaze, keyring slipped over his middle finger and his phone cradled in the same hand (though, Harry thinks wryly, no building-wide emergency couture quite tops the tighty-whitey socks-and-sandals combo that the guy up ahead of him is rocking). There’s sparse chatter going on all around him, a kind of background drone that fades into the wail, but he doesn’t have any intention to engage. Despite the unplanned slumber party and the potential opportunity to trauma-bond, he can’t really find it in him to start ice-breaking and sharing life stories. There’s a time and place to build community with your neighbors— half-dressed in a parking lot at three AM isn’t one of them.

Instead, he stands in the midst of the mass, dead-silent as if still calibrating. It takes him a while to notice the young woman a few feet ahead of him— long enough that the cool air has settled over him in a coat. Her bathrobe wraps tight around her, cinched pink terry-cloth. He doesn’t recognize that she’s a familiar face until she turns enough for him to see her side profile, her phone screen casting light and painting shadows in the crease of her furrowed brow as she sniffs. Thumbing over the device, Y/N turns back over her shoulder.

The longer he stands there, creaking into a more-awake rendition of himself as the faint chill cuts through the grogginess in his skull, the more the silence marinates into impatient restlessness. Stretching like old gum. She lingers in his periphery, shifting from foot to foot as if nursing the same restive itch. Once again, his neighbor twists to the side, rocking onto the balls of her feet and then back down onto her heels. A huff spills from her lips as she turns her phone off and tucks it up under her upper arm, crossing them. It’s not cold enough for the air to bloom with her breath, but the exasperation in it is audible. Maybe because he’s managed to seep closer.

“—Wonder if someone just pulled it.”

At first, Y/N doesn’t acknowledge the statement, as if she doesn’t recognize the remark is directed at her. And then, the presence behind her— not pressing uncomfortably close, just distant enough to notice— has Y/N turning her head over her shoulder. She double-takes.

Harry’s in a new light. Still abysmal to her train of thought, already weak on its tracks given that the drowsiness from being rudely awoken in the middle of the night still has her lingering in a dull, cotton-wrapped awareness. But now, he’s a fraying shape; sleepy and half-nakedly soft. Hair a masterpiece of sleep deprivation— the typically styled ringlets on his head sit mussed; whatever shape (she assumes the usual— somewhere between windswept and enticingly intentional) existed yesterday has gone rogue, erased by his pillow. What’s left is a tousled disarray. He’s in another tee, once again pulled snugly over his shoulders, and he’s cradling what could be a live, fuzzy animal, but more resembles a balled fur stole, its potential face tucked into the nook between his muscly upper arm and his chest. Despite the ridiculous assortment of this particular wardrobe showcase, that’s not what catches her eye most. Y/N sucks in a breath.

Considering a fair share of the evacuees around them teeter on the brink of public-indecency, it shouldn’t throw her guard off as much as it does, but all she can manage in such close proximity with Harry’s thighs is to blink wordlessly. It’s not necessarily his thighs so much as the way they’re denuded— not the way his trousers sit on them so much as their entire lack thereof. It’s the way his lower region is only covered up by a pair of jet-black briefs, clinging like a second skin, riding ridiculously high and ridiculously low. High enough that the only place her eyes can focus is the (chewy) musculature, slightly sun-bathed from all those hours spent in the residential pool, dusted with hair. Low enough that a sliver of skin peeks from between the waistband and hem of his shirt, hitched up just a touch on one side. Enough to hint at a sharp dip of a mostly concealed V, where muscle sinks in a hard line along bone. A tease of whatever workout routine he’s committed to. Beside the rigid line chiseled in there, an inked, leafy stem climbs (a set of mirrored layers that she’d observed on him, supine on a pool chaise).

Basically, it’s the type of thing that should legally classify him as a walking thirst trap.

With the crowd sporting bedtime fashion, some covered only in the most legally vague sense of the word, it leaves Y/N wondering: if most of the people decided to haphazardly vacate their apartments by only tossing on the most minimal attire— if opting to add to their garb in any way— what did Harry add? Did he wear the cream-toned tee to bed? Just the Calvins? Both? Or was he entirely bare, only sloppily throwing on whatever was left discarded by the side of the bed? Does he sleep naked?

With all these sordid thoughts clouding up the forefront of her mind like a thick plume of fog, she can’t find words through alphabet soup and the vague mental images of Harry’s bare skin tangled by sheets. To make it better, he’s just staring at her, like he’s expectantly waiting for her to respond. What was the question?

Y/N blinks again. “What?”

“The—“ Harry bobs his head towards the cluster of emergency vehicles, olive eyes oscillating to the apartment complex and back onto her, “fire alarm. I wonder if someone just pulled it.”

If ever the universe was to humble Harry from a breathing renaissance painting, half-clothed and half-asleep would be the time. He could be knocked down to whatever status a man up front is bearing, clad in a questionably classy fusion of tragic, high-cut cotton underwear, socks, and suede, open-toed sandals. Somehow, though, it’s worse that his bedhead, for the most part, still leaves the tendrils curling in lazy, untamed waves. That his nakedly-beguiling thighs, strong and sculpted with muscle, look like they’re meant to pry knees wide. It’s mortifying—

“Then, they’d be an asshole,” she murmurs, her own gaze raking out and lingering on the building. The words come out clipped with exhaustion, and then that pause lingers again.

Harry hums. She chances another glance at the furball curled to his chest.

“Snuggles,” Harry supplies, raising one arm a tad from where it’s caged to support the animal. The motion is enough to jostle the thing, and it tucks its face out, twitching its nose. With careful precision, the man moves one hand out from the cradle— the one not clutching his keys and his phone (by the way, casually dwarfed by the sheer size of his palm and cupped, lengthy fingers) to skim his pointer along the Holland lop’s dangling ear. “He’s a bit delicate and has some strong opinions on sudden, loud noises. Not a fan of fire alarms, as it turns out.”

The young woman hums noncommittally, eyes snaking back off to the polychrome strobe.

The last thing Harry expects from his neighbors during a mandatory, middle-of-the-night evacuation order are pleasantries. Between the slouched postures, the collective, dead-eyed aura of suffering, the general degree of resentment perfuming the air, and the visible internal debates over whether a hypothetical fire is worth enduring the cold, it’s safe to assume morale is at an all time low. Which brings him to his next point— there is, Harry suspects, something about him that fundamentally offends his neighbor.

Not inherently because she’s not talking to him. Naturally, the theory has no relevance to her lack of enthusiasm at the moment.

There’s a clause to life that he learned as a little kid, an absolute truth that the motto “water off your back” was created around, and this clause is that not everyone will like you. There’s really no gentle way to chew on that one, but it’s a fact Harry has long come to terms with. Jealousy, misery, even a simple case of personalities repelling like mismatched magnets— all things that can cause someone to decide you’re just not their cup of tea. Incompatibility could very easily leave your existence grating someone down to the molecular level. And you can never please everyone— that’s another piece of that truth he had to gnaw on before he decided that he was going to spend the rest of his life marching to the beat of his own drum.

Apparently, something about this tempo scrapes at some highly-sensitive nerve of hers like a dull knife on a chalkboard.

It’s an intuition thing, really. There hasn’t so much been a sharp, substantial instance so much as there’s been instances. Little, creeping things; the way her eyes ward when he’s close, despite the way they hover; the tone she seems to reserve for him, not outwardly rude, but suspiciously close to some awkward admixture between tolerating jury duty and being held at gunpoint. There’s more, among those, too— the suspiciously long pauses that sit like preludes to every response she gives him. The way her gaze flickers off avoidantly.

And those last two aren’t flustered mechanisms.

Harry knows he is, according to conventional, societal standards, attractive. He’s no stranger to reflective surfaces, nor is he unaware of the way actual strangers look at him. Ogle. Gawk.

It was a burgeoning metamorphosis he became acutely aware of between awkward kidhood and the place he’s at now. First, all lanky angles of uncertainty, only half-grown into his features, when his bones had made up their mind but the muscle and skin over them hadn’t quite decided what they wanted to be yet. Then, it was almost overnight. Everything began stretching into place and ubiquitously working in his favor. Eyes lingered, heads turned…

It’s safe to say he knows nervous girls. Boys. The lack of eye contact, or on the polar opposite hand, the blanking, empty stares and the silent beat as their response time glitches and their mouth tries (and fails) to keep up with a short-circuiting nervous system. Not everybody is able to stay the most suave version of themselves interacting with someone they find sexually attractive— his firsthand experience involves not only being on the receiving end, but on the giving end, as well. Granted, the aesthetics boost had given him a sense of confidence that buried his inhibitions down, so it’s been a long while since the last time he tripped over himself in front of someone that made his dick sit up and pay attention, but—

The thing is, Y/N doesn’t glance away like staring at him rapidly dissolves her thoughts in a static haze. She doesn’t take long pauses because she’s floundering over the next word. She doesn’t even look at him in a way that insinuates she’s worried he’ll nip her or something, she’s just so utterly…

Closed off. Disinterested. Like his presence is a jury duty evaluation and she’s wriggling in her seat, waiting to talk about her views on jury nullification.

In fairness, it could very well be a me-not-you thing— the awkward shuffle through their interactions, the severe deficit of enthusiasm. Those communication patterns could very well be sound across the board… in another universe. There are footprints that lead him to the massive elephant in the room, and those footprints spell the vague shape of it didn’t used to be this way.

Sure, Harry contemplates, if she was a miserably unpleasant person that holed up in her apartment with no interest in corresponding with another human being, he’d get it. If she’d given him the idea that something about him rattled her down to atoms the first time he ever said hello to her, he’d get it. But she used to smile. Coyly, almost, he’d go as far to say— one finger away from twirling a lock of hair around her pointer as she talked to him. The kind of simper that accompanies a giggle from a barista handing his drink over across the counter, eyes honed. She used to lean onto her door frame when he handed off a stack of envelopes that got misplaced into his mailbox, or hung back with her eyes wet and lively as she stood at his doorway and handed off a package.

What’s more is that his history is marked by drawing more people in after he opens his mouth, than turning them away. He’s arguably likeable— not in an arrogantly self-absorbed way, but strictly based on track record. He’s befriended too many older ladies (who sparked up chatter with him in grocery stores unprompted, mostly), and gotten slipped too many drinks (on the house) from bartenders to believe otherwise. Generally, his existence tends to fall into the category of charming rather than grating.

When he considers all of this, his analysis only leads him to one conclusion— there is something about him that suddenly, fundamentally offends his neighbor.

And it’s with this hypothesis that Harry clears his throat, hesitates, and prods, with just a moment of lull after she’s turned back away from him, “If I’m misreading this, feel free to tell me to piss off, but— did I do something?”

The young woman pivots back over her shoulder, blinking, almost as if she’d forgotten he was behind her at all.

“…What?”

Harry shrugs. The motion coaxes Snuggles to lift his head again. “I don't expect us to be friends, but I also don't want to be the person you actively avoid in the hallway. If I've done something to make things weird, l'd rather fix it than pretend I don't notice."

For a long second, Y/N doesn’t say anything. Just batting her lashes up at him, features lax, like she’s processing the earnest directness behind his words and letting them settle. And then her face twists.

Ooh— okay. Ruckling brow bone, lips tugging down, the nearly incredulous burst of air she expels as she turns her prickling face away—

She scoffs, muttering something strangely close to, “can’t be serious,” under her breath, and Harry’s eyes pensively narrow just a smidge. Enough to be entirely imperceptible as he drinks in her body language. That’s an indicator, if Harry’s ever seen one.

“You know what, Harry,” she says after a moment (now her arms are caging defensively, that’s an interesting touch), “…I just don’t really …appreciate how you treat women, to be honest.”

Of all the responses Harry had been anticipating, curiously honed on every word, that was— not the one. His dark canopy of lashes sweeps over his eyes as the admission lands and… knocks him off kilter, just a bit. His brows relax, then furrow up as he mulls the statement over, buffering.

He sounds a little bewildered when he says, voice much more soft-spoken, “…Sorry?”

“You should be,” his neighbor tells him pointedly, her arms still crossed like a defensive barrier across her chest, “Hitting women is wrong. Very illegal for a reason, actually.”

At the mention, his head bobbles back a bit like he’s dodging a smack between the brows with the context-lacking declaration. He’s not quite sure he’s heard her right, eyebrows climbing and eyes widening almost comically. Right, okay. This is… a gross misunderstanding, he decides. When the realization hits him, truly hits him, his knee-jerk response is an incredulous laugh, which he muscles down. Instead, his appalled amusement trickles out like a little huff, corners of his strawberry mouth tugging up. Unfortunately, the reaction only seems to irritate her further, and her forehead crinkles up as her own eyebrows ascend in stunned disbelief.

“You think there’s something funny about hitting a woman?” Y/N presses, eyes steeling into slits, her priorly indoor-voice rising a decibel.

The volume of her statement (and the misleading content) has his otherwise mirthy expression falling into something far more serious. Full of comically flat, grievous denial, like a kid being scolded for spray-painting a concrete wall after being caught with the can in its hand.

“—No,” Harry shakes his head slowly, side to side, “Not at all.”

Cautiously, his gaze slips off to the corner, where a few tenants have turned over their shoulder to gauge the commotion. As the young woman’s head swivels to tail where his eye contact has meandered, Harry realizes that backpedaling is only going to become a feat of incredible verbal athleticism from here. Upon catching the other glimpses from the crowd, slowly turning back to their own conversations, Y/N makes a deadpan sound of amusement before she turns back to face him.

“Oh, what? You’re ashamed now that you’re being called out for it? Good,” she bites, shoulders teetering as she leans toward him and unfolds her arms, pointing her index finger into his direction scathingly, “You should be ashamed. It’s absolutely disgusting to put your hands on a woman.”

This is tragically weighed against Harry’s favor. Here he was, just a half-asleep evacuee, holding his rabbit, clad in only a pair of hardly decent briefs, contemplating whether he should Uber Eats tacos as soon as the emergency exit fiasco were to clear up (might as well, since he’s already awake). Somehow, he’s managed to morph from an unassuming extra to the perceived antagonist.

No, Harry thinks— this wouldn’t be a disaster film; it’s a full blown, poorly-contrived drama with a plot twist even the supposed villain is caught off guard by. The curly-headed brunette chances another glance to the other side now, where more people have not only glimpsed over in brief acknowledgement, but have fully twisted their shoulders to observe the apparent scandal. As much as Harry wholeheartedly marches to the beat of his own drum, at this moment in time, his reputation is shaking in its boots and he’s reached a mental checkpoint called time for damage control.

Weaving sincerity into his tone and shaking his head placatingly as he steps forward— a subconscious attempt to coax her into lowering her volume— Harry tells her, “I don’t put my hands on anybody that doesn’t consent to it first.”

Her face scrunches up.

“I think,” his pink tongue slinks out to wet his lips, “maybe, there’s been a misunderstanding.”

“Oh, I don’t think so.”

“No, I really, really do,” Harry counters, ducking his chin into a nod.

Instead of hearing him out, however, his neighbor, as if fueled by the internal calling to manually dismantle misogyny, one assumed violent criminal at a time, only raises her volume a little more. Exceeding the normal range, definitely steeping in public-humiliation-ritual territory.

“I’m not misunderstanding,” Y/N bites, brows pinched like he’s personally offended her by even insinuating as much, “I have ears, just so you know, and I’ve heard a woman saying no, and please, and stop. So you can drop your good boy act, okay—“

Harry blinks. If not for the character defamation going on and the way Socks-and-Sandals raises his phone out of seemingly nowhere, pointing it into their direction as if there isn’t a potential fire to be filmed instead of all things, Harry would laugh. But there is, and the flash is on, weak along his peripheral edge—

“I know guys like you, I know your type,” Y/N declares, jabbing her finger against him again, this time so close to grazing the area along his chest, right between the tops of his pectorals, just over Snuggles, “and it’s gross that you think because you’re attractive you can walk all over everyone and do things like that to people, and you know what, next time maybe the cops won’t be so nice—”

Ah, nice. Another mystery resolved; one which involved a pair of men with guns in their holsters at his door performing a wellness check and an excruciatingly awkward clarification on impact play, consensual sadomasochism, and safewords. For weeks Harry wondered what had inspired a legal inquiry into his pastimes. Now, staring at the culprit— case dismissed— he can only blink before his brows wrinkle up.

“You’re the one who called the police?” Harry murmurs, a note of soft incredulity soaking the phrase.

“Any sane woman would call the police when she heard another woman being abused—“

“Abused?”

“Yes! Abused! And— and— honestly—“

Before Y/N can launch into another ruthlessly-curated, virtue-plated diatribe, Harry resituates the animal in his grip, unlocking his phone to the homescreen. Then, Safari. He thumbs over it with a careful determination seeding along his downturned, sculpted expression.

“I don’t know what form of assault would be worse,” Y/N chimes, hands climbing up in an exaggerated, universal symbol of exasperation before they fall back to her sides (as if she hadn’t even noticed his attention has been redirected to his phone), “but when someone says no, it means no.”

It only takes a second for her to register that his focus has been rerouted elsewhere, though. Her tone dips indignantly.

“Excuse me. I’m talking to you. And also, while we’re at it, you’re unbearably loud and an unmannerly neighbor—“

Harry turns his phone around. His expression is impressively flat, all things considered. Y/N pauses.

“Typically,” Harry states as her eyes rake over the glowing screen, “I like to be wined and dined before I give a crash course on my preferences, but.”

The image stretched across the illuminated LED sits over her tired gaze as she absorbs it, pupils jittering as she reads, but through the lens of his own profile mirrored back, he can see the moment her righteously fueled demeanor chips.

“I do, like, a… softcore porn type thing,” he admits.

Still, her brows are kinked. Only now, in stupefied doubt. “I— what?”

It’s with a rotting sense of dread curdling in the pit of her tummy that it suddenly dawns on Y/N— the mortified realization that she has succumbed to a horrible misunderstanding.

The website the tab is set on almost looks archaic, like a kitsch relic— repository archives of a porn blog from the early 2000s. Spankinggram. The page is set onto a profile, something called Rings&Paddles, and the squared image of an avatar slices through the garishly orange palette of the site’s logo. Her gaze sweeps over the vista; a man sitting down on an armless chair, thighs splayed, palm curled over a …hairbrush.

The profile picture sunders off at the neck. It’s a faceless silhouette, but the miscellany of sketches cascading across a forearm and the distinctly chunky medley of rings are… enough—

“Consensually,” Harry— Rings&Paddles, Y/N recognizes, molten heat dripping along the crests of her cheekbones— adds, “No one is being abused.”

In retrospect, the only feasible option to survive this, Y/N decides, is to change her name and move to another state.

Probably something short and vaguely melancholic, one of those names that would look intriguing in all lowercase. A quiet town. Somewhere coastal, maybe. West. No— north. As far north as geographically possible. Perhaps she could get a dog. An older, ratty boy from a shelter. Drive an old car that’s too big with a busted radio. She’ll pretend it’s a benefit, rather than an inconvenience, because she’ll be the fabricated kind of mystique that insufferably enjoys the quiet calm (and rainstorms). A rebranded, movie-clichè hipster, but not unbearable in real life—

“But I understand the concern,” her neighbor says, cutting through the haze as she contemplates what brand of cigarettes she’ll be taking up as a trait of her pseudo-identity. Against all odds, his tone is calm in an all-too-merciful kind of way, “You can look into… domestic discipline, if you’d like. If you wanted to understand a bit better. There’s loads of really good information on the internet.”

For a moment, Y/N deliberates burning alive. If there isn’t a fire licking up her department store drapes, she’s going to set one to avoid bearing the weight of this shame for the rest of her life. Granted, the heat sizzling at her face feels like a flame, enough, both at the way she’s just publicly kinkshamed an innocent man and at the mention of …domestic discipline.

She’s going to cry.

They would be Virginia Slims.

“You— …what?”

The garbled confusion drenching her tone is almost laughable. She sounds it, too; voice pinched and deceptively close to trembling off into a sob. Y/N stares straight ahead, body locked in a fugue state of humiliation as the realization calcifies in real-time. Her shoulders have gone stiff and her spine rigid, posture squeezed somewhere between standing and catatonic. The scale of her miscalculation worms into her skull like a parasite that’ll chew her awake in the middle of the night, years down the line.

For the last month, Y/N has spent every interaction with Harry evasively toeing over eggshells. Floundering over the way his face was sculpted, rather than compromising the integral structure of their acquaintanceship. Somehow, a sleep cycle cut short and the ambiguous suggestion that he had picked up on her avoidant habits was all it had taken to not only slander his (apparently not safe for work) extracurriculars, but probably assure her foreseeable Amazon packages suddenly start going missing.

Now, with a semi-public declaration of his profile pressed out to her face and his name no longer being audibly smeared with accusations, Harry can appreciate the quiet sense of revelation.

His neighbor, on the other hand, looks visibly wrecked. Her entire stance is pulled in tight, like she’s actively trying to make herself smaller, but it’s her face that really gives her away— the way it twists, fluctuating between wide-eyed horror and the dawning realization that she’s just detonated a social landmine at point-blank range. All heat-tinged and shame-doused, the young woman blinks up at him, doe-eyes rounded in apologetic appall and lips parted slightly like she’s still buffering. The combination of words that just left his mouth— softcore porn, domestic discipline, consensual— seem to be wrestling in her brain like tangled Christmas lights, none of them quite fitting together in a way that makes sense and glinters.

“I am sorry about the noise,” he tells her, shutting the phone off and nestling his arm back up under his pet, “I’ll make sure to keep it to a minimum from now on.”

Y/N wilts. With the phone no longer held out into her direction, the way she stays glued to the same spot on the cement— as if mortified into a motionless piece of stone— is ridiculous enough for him to gnaw into his cheek to chew back a bark of laughter. Despite all trials and tribulations, his coping mechanisms never fail.

“You— oh my God,” Y/N whispers. She makes a sound that could be a vaguely pained noise or the byproduct of her soul seeping out of her body. “Oh my God.”

Harry blinks.

“I called the police on you,” she tells him, utter dismay lacing the words together.

“You did, yeah.”

Harry still remembers the blank expression varnished along the officer’s face— the kind of emotionally vacant stare reserved for department store mannequins. The echo of the distant, metaphysical NOPE that definitely rode along his brainstem the moment the curly-haired brunette mentioned “it’s a kink thing,” and the way his partner, hands allocated to his holster belt, started very obviously examining his own shoes.

“I thought—“ Y/N stutters, her wobbling voice sounding squeezed from her trachea, “I thought—“

“You thought you were living next door to a criminal,” Harry supplies. When he tilts his head, a rogue curl flops over his forehead.

Finally, the young woman moves, burying her face in her hands. This will haunt her, she thinks. Forever.

From the corner of his eye, the man can tell that most of the tenants have gone back to their regularly scheduled repertoires of stalled misery. And despite the absolute PR mess her blunder has induced— his eyes wander over her, the way she’s cupping her face like she wants to melt into her own hands and seep off into the pavement— he feels oddly… bad. Not secondhand embarrassed (firsthand, definitely firsthand), but Y/N looks like she’s going to combust. It’s tragic, really. The kind of pitiful that makes him purse his mouth and stare down at her in contemplation.

“Honestly,” his voice cuts through the haze in her throbbing, hot skull, all even-toned sincerity (which is worse, so much worse), “if I was in your position, yeah? I’d do the same thing.”

The admission coaxes her into a horrified peer through the wedges between her fingers. The warmth pressed to her palms feels borderline pyrexic.

“And if that were the case, you’d be the neighborhood hero. So.” He raises a shoulder nonchalantly.

Y/N doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, she soaks in the crime scene, doused in the blinking blue and red.

“I’m not sure neighborhood hero is how I’ll be remembered,” the young woman finally answers, groaning through her hands, and then pressing her fingertips into her temples.

Harry hums. Then, he sighs. “No, you’re right. I’d say misguided vigilante. I reckon it’s a bit better than violent felon, though.”

Y/N makes another sound. This one sounds a little more wounded.

Next part here

#harry styles #harry styles x reader #harry styles one shot #harry styles smut #harry styles dirty one shot #harry styles dirty fanfiction #harry styles writing #harry styles fanfic #harry styles fic #harry styles fanfiction #dom!harry x sub!reader #harry styles au #harry styles x y/n #harry styles x you #harry styles one shots #dom!harry

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umbrace-rambles · 1 month ago

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TBHX Top 10 Character Info

Actually let me just do a text version of the whole thing so I can easily edit it w more info in the future <3

As of Year 41 after Commission (Lin Ling's arc)

01. X

Real Name: ???

Age: ???

Birthdate: 6th of June (???)

Sign: Gemini

Height: 190cm [6'3"]

Weight: 75kg [165 lbs]

Blood Type: 0

Agency: None

Hobbies, interests and special skills: Gathering information, sweets (strawberry milk, carbonated drinks), piano, magic

Abilities: ???

02. QUEEN

Real Name: Liu Yuwei

Age: 27

Birthdate: 18th of October (14AC)

Sign: Libra

Height: 180cm [5'11"]

Weight: 62,5kg [137 lbs]

Blood Type: 0

Agency: DOS

Hobbies, interests and special skills: Heavy metal, horse riding.

Abilities: Can set any rules of her control within a boundary, everything inside of this boundary has to obey her rules.

03. DRAGON BOY

Real Name: ???

Age: 23

Birthdate: 14th of February (18AC)

Sign: Aquarius

Height: 178cm [5'10"]

Weight: 69kg [152 lbs]

Blood Type: B

Agency: Mighty Glory

Hobbies, interests and special skills: Classical music, local volunteer activities.

Abilities: ???

04. GHOSTBLADE

Real Name: Wang Yi

Age: 41

Birthdate: 28th of August (0AC)

Sign: Virgo

Height: 180cm [5'11"]

Weight: 76kg [167 lbs]

Blood Type: AB

Agency: Mighty Glory

Hobbies, interests and special skills: Assassination, cooking, general housework.

Abilities: ???

05. THE JOHNNIES (Little Johnny)

Real Name: ???

Age: 28

Birthdate: 8th of August (13AC)

Sign: Leo

Height: 170cm [5'7"]

Weight: 60kg [132 lbs]

Blood Type: B

Agency: DOS

Hobbies, interests and special skills: The internet, latest technology, asset management (which he has repeatedly failed at)

Abilities: ???

06. LOLI

Real Name: Luo Li

Age: 18

Birthdate: 1st of December (23AC)

Sign: Sagittarius

Height: 160cm [5'3"]

Weight: 45kg [99 lbs]

Blood Type: 0

Agency: FOMO

Hobbies, interests and special skills: Mechanical engineering, work, long distance running

Abilities: Fights using a battle suit made from an alien material that can negate the effects of Trust and Fear. Also uses a variety of weapons Wang Nuonuo and her made together.

07. LUCKY CYAN

Real Name: Renamed Cyan. Original unknown.

Age: 21

Birthdate: 24th of March (20AC)

Sign: Aries

Height: 166cm [5'5"]

Weight: 53kg [116 lbs]

Blood Type: B

Agency: DOS

Hobbies, interests and special skills: Singing, playing instruments (especially guitar)

Abilities: Has absolute luck and can transfer it to others.

08. AHU

Real Name: ??? (assuming same name)

Age: 13

Birthdate: 4th of April (28AC)

Sign: Taurus

Height: 30cm [12"]

Weight: 10kg [22 lbs]

Blood Type: -

Agency: FOMO

Hobbies, interests and special skills: Sunbathing, patrolling, cat food evaluation

Abilities: ???

09. E-SOUL

Real Name: Yang Cheng

Age: 27

Birthdate: 11th of November (14AC)

Sign: Scorpio

Height: 185cm [6'1"]

Weight: 80kg [176 lbs]

Blood Type: A

Agency: Mighty Glory

Hobbies, interests and special skills: Bicycling, stage performance

Abilities: Various skills such as super speed and the ability to release electricity, condense it and fire it like a bullet. Can inject it into objects

10. THE COMMONER

Real Name: Lin Ling

Age: 21

Birthdate: 22nd of May (20AC)

Sign: Gemini

Height: 180cm [5'11"]

Weight: 75kg [165 lbs]

Blood Type: A

Agency: Treeman

Hobbies, interests and special skills: Creating PPT presentations and planning ideas

Abilities: Can punch real good

--. NICE

Real Name: ???

Age: 25

Birthdate: 11th of July (16AC)

Sign: Cancer

Height: 180cm [5'11"]

Weight: 75kg [165 lbs]

Blood Type: 0

Agency: Treeman

Hobbies, interests and special skills: Real state and stock investments, redevelopment projects

Abilities: Has all the abilities people believe a "perfect hero" should have

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mixterglacia · 1 month ago

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Baron Head Canons:

-Yes, he lost an eye. However, he has a mechanical one behind his little Vegeta visor. This is what he uses to generally observe the world, but he uses his 'good' eye to read his instruments.

-Lost half of his locs in a near fatal crash early on in his development of his hunting style. Intentionally decided to amputate the rest so they didn't get in his way while flying.

-Has some level of prosthetics going on with his legs.

-Is technically the runt of his litter. (not by much, mind you.)

-Partially helped develop the hook tech.

-Has been watching human aviation develop, just WAITING for them to get good enough to give him a fun fight.

-Very much has a 'watch this' attitude. (That engine burn? That was 1000% a bet that he couldn't.)

-Often just taps into human radio communication for fun. They're easy to break into and he's highly amused by human drama.

-Let's his actions do the bragging for him. Trophies, apprentices, numbers. He just quietly keeps them on display, but will totally show his favorites when asked.

-Personally modified his ship to be more mobile.

#yautja #predator killer of killers #headcanon #predator franchise

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kaelor0409 · 9 months ago

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A fun thing I noticed about Flying Circus and its Chariots of Steel expansion is that in both systems combat is extremely isolating, but they isolate in opposite ways.

Combat in Flying Circus is agoraphobic (or more accurately it is kenophobic). You might be part of a team, but you are alone in a vast blue void. It's so big that getting lost in a clear sky is a genuine possibility. Things appear as if from nowhere and disappear the moment you take your eyes off them. Someone who was in your gun sights one minute might be on your tail the next, and you have no idea how they got there. Even if you are lucky enough to have a backseater, you can't really talk to them unless you shell out for an intercom. Unless everyone installs expensive and bulky radio equipment you can't talk to the rest of your team either. If things go far enough off script you can literally go down in flames and your friends won't know until they find your smoking crater...if they ever do.

In contrast, Chariots of Steel is claustrophobic. If you are a tanker, you are stuck in a cramped metal box. You can't hear anything over the engine, and you can barely see anything out of the tiny vision slits. Sure you have crew, but unless you pay extra for an intercom your only means of talking with your crew will be strategic kicks. Infantry have it just as bad. Soldiers in the open are better known as "target practice", so you'll spend a lot of time huddled behind stuff with your head down, praying that there isn't someone sneaking closer with a grenade. This status quo of blind terror is enforced through the Suppression and Morale mechanics, which are critical to how fights work in CoS.

The extent of this isolation is obviously going to vary based on the tone of your game, but it's baked into the rules of both systems. Even figuring out where people are and what is going on usually requires a roll, and communication is complex and crude unless you jump through a lot of hoops. Teamwork is still possible and often key to success, but this isn't D&D where everything is laid out neatly on a grid and talking is a free action. When the bullets start flying it's just you and your instrument-shaped character sheet. You can't focus on the entire battle, just your little corner of it.

It's a truly unique approach, and I really like it.

#flying circus rpg #chariots of steel #flying circus #chariots of steel rpg

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kompot505 · 2 months ago

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and here are the kompot!af2 designs! morward, pasless and voixer aren't really my favorites so they didn't get a spot. and verfection is not in af2 o_o

if you guys want me to draw any stuff of these guys please lmk?! or ship art... i ship everyone here (Excluding Cyalm!!) with everyone so ask and you shall receive. i want to interact with the fandom even if its small :-)

ramblings, artist commentary and design notes below! (it's a LOT)

holy crap it's finally done. i've been chewing on this for at least a month. not because i had no ideas for the designs (most of the time) but because drawing this many characters is so tedious...

it was even worse than the kompot!regretevator references i did, which had 17 characters! LORD

general design notes:

all of the points' bodies are completely made of glass, through and through. it's "anomalous" glass because they move like people obviously but you get it

all of the points must have their gradients be very prominent. in fact, when stylizing, you can just omit all of the details and color them in only as their gradient lol

all of the points must have their symbol on their clothing, except solgon, naen and yawgate, which have cyalm's symbol instead!

they are wearing pants trust me its just.. gradient pants.. h

SPEAKING OF THE LEGS THEY LOOK LIKE THAT DUE TO LAZINESS. no need to tell me .

per character notes/inspirations (WALL OF TEXT apolocheese):

👽 kompot: who is this guy? you might recognize his hands from the new af2 icon! he's my design for ss2, just an oc :-) if anyone wants to know about him feel free to inquire! (inb4 "isn't he you?" - he's more of a mascot than a sona!)

☁️ cyalm: supposed to look angelic, classy and have a holier-than-thou vibe. clothes are always perfectly pristine. the cloud patterns are animated! the wings are optional, the halo is not!

🛠️ shallare: engineer/mechanic thingy. always carries tools and spare nuts n bolts around. their glasses are safety goggles! also they have soot or oil stains on them most of the time.

🎶 signol: performer, bartender, classy lil thing! their sleeves are rolled up for the sake of playing instruments more easily. long ass coattails and for what... the pizazz...? tch

❄️ compale: cozy winter dweller. kinda russian-esque... i'm balkan so forgive me for that. the inside of their coat is super fluffy! can have optional mittens!

🪓 ploque: woodworker/woodcarver type design. has two bandannas for no reason, but uses the one on their neck while working to deal with the sawdust. only has one protective glove on their non-dominant hand!

⭐ anshine: their outfit is meant to match the angels'/residents of maytown's clothes. wings optional, halo mandatory! their watch is also heavily preferred. their 'sleeves' are a separate, singular piece of fabric draped around their arms

🌒 ulipse: supposed to look like they live in the desert! very covered up to protect from the sun. their shawl/scarf has dangling moon symbol charms all around!

🐉 arrolin: sorry i just love qipao so much.. LNY chinese festivities based! the shawl/scarf draped around their elbows has floaty properties and always remains in place. the dragon patterns are animated!

🤖 mino: robot!! their torso is completely exposed, the only clothing they have is the shrug and the stirrups! the antenna extends, mostly for comedic effect lol

🌔 ixol: probably the one i took the most liberties with? tropical vacation mixed with weirdo freak vibes! their cape is animated like a flame at the bottom! the cracks on their arm are permanent and display a glitched screen. the flame around their head doesn't hurt.

❌ stratosfear: their cape is similar to ixol's, but it tears instead of "burning". their stinger is part of their body despite being disconnected - it also wags LOL. supposed to have both a hero and villain vibe? ended up a cowthey??

⁉️ solgon, 💲 naen, 🔒 yawgate: cyalm's lackeys! they all have the same uniform styled differently. solgon and naen swap their bandannas every few days for fun! yawgate's is based on a conductor's and stewardess' uniform!

thank you for coming to my yapfest..! i hope it was fun to read. i want to talk about af2!!

#af2 #adventure forward #adventure forward 2 #roblox #roblox art #roblox fanart #kompot artpost #oc #roblox oc #k!af2

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callsigns-haze · 10 months ago

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You knew? Part 2 of 3

Part 1

Pairing: Bradley Rooster Bradshaw x Reader! Callsign Ace

Chapter Summary: A week after Ace's near-fatal crash, she finally wakes up in the hospital, recovering from her injuries. Rooster, who has avoided seeing her since the email debacle, finally gathers the courage to visit her. Their conversation is tense and filled with unresolved emotions, as Ace confronts him about the betrayal she felt after discovering he was behind the anonymous flirtatious emails.

This chapter contains themes of emotional conflict, betrayal, and recovery from a near-death experience. Expect tense dialogue and unresolved emotions.

The sun cast a golden glow over the runway as the Daggers prepped for another intense day of training. Jets roared to life, ready to take off into the clear sky. The Dagger Squadron was assembled, but there was a noticeable shift in the air.

Ace, usually vibrant and at the centre of their group, had been distant for the past two months. Ever since the email incident, she’d cut ties with Rooster, Phoenix, not really Hangman as he was her wingman so she forgave him, steering clear of their usual hangouts at the Hard Deck and avoiding meals with the squad.

Now, she focused solely on her flying. Her interactions were brief, professional, and limited to the cockpit. As she strapped into her Dagger and prepared for the upcoming dogfight training, the silence between her and the rest of the squad was deafening. Today’s exercise was set: a mock dogfight in the air, with Ace flying solo against Coyote in his own Dagger, while Payback and Fanboy flew as a pair.

The jets ascended into the sky, climbing higher until the blue expanse stretched endlessly beneath them. The radio crackled with orders as they spread out, the simulated combat about to begin.

"All right, Ace, you’re up. Let’s see what you got," Coyote’s voice buzzed through the comms, a hint of competitive energy in his tone.

Ace’s eyes narrowed in concentration, her fingers gripping the controls as she scanned the sky for her opponents. She banked sharply to the left, cutting through the clouds as she trailed Coyote from above, attempting to line up her shot.

"You’ve gotta be quicker than that, Ace," Coyote taunted, pulling into a sharp climb to shake her off.

She smirked, pushing her Dagger to match his altitude, refusing to give him an inch. Behind them, Payback and Fanboy weaved through the air, keeping their distance while searching for an opening to strike.

The chase was fast and relentless. Ace and Coyote danced through the sky, trading sharp turns and evasive manoeuvres. The thrill of the hunt filled the airwaves, with each Dagger trying to gain the upper hand.

Then, without warning, Ace’s jet jolted.

"Warning: Engine failure. Malfunction detected," the voice in her cockpit announced in a cold, mechanical tone.

Her heart rate spiked as she checked her instruments. Something was wrong. The controls were sluggish, her jet unresponsive to her commands. She tried to stabilize, but the Dagger began to spiral out of control.

"Ace, what’s going on? You’re dropping altitude!" Coyote’s voice crackled over the radio.

She fought against the controls, panic clawing at her as the Dagger dipped into a sharp nosedive. The ground rushed toward her, but her body felt heavy, her vision blurring at the edges. She was slipping into G-LOC—G-force-induced loss of consciousness. Her breath became shallow, her body unable to react.

"Ace! You need to eject!" Payback’s voice boomed over the comms, urgency bleeding through the static.

But no one saw her eject. Her Dagger spiralled, falling faster as she lost the battle to stay conscious. On the ground, the entire squad was glued to the monitors, watching the terrifying descent. Rooster, Phoenix, Hangman, and the others stood frozen, their eyes trained on the screens, waiting for the tell-tale flash of her ejection.

But it never came.

"Come on, Ace… pull the damn handle!" Rooster muttered under his breath, his fingers white-knuckled around his headset.

"She’s not ejecting. Is she unconscious?" Phoenix asked, her voice tight with fear.

Coyote pulled his Dagger up beside Ace’s, trying to get a visual. But it was too late. Her jet continued to plummet, the altitude rapidly decreasing.

"Mayday, mayday!" Coyote called out, desperation lacing his voice as he watched helplessly.

From the ground, they saw her jet spiral down until it disappeared from the screen. Silence filled the control room, the team paralyzed with shock as the realization hit.

"Did she—" Hangman started, but his words were caught in his throat.

No one saw her eject.

Coyote, Fanboy, and Payback, who had been up in the sky with her, were immediately recalled back to base. The radio buzzed with orders.

"Coyote, Fanboy, Payback—return to base. Now," the voice over the comms was firm, but there was no mistaking the urgency.

"Roger that," Coyote responded, his voice unusually sombre. He felt a weight pressing against his chest. None of them had seen Ace eject, and the sinking realization of what that might mean gnawed at him as he flew back.

The three Daggers touched down swiftly, their wheels skidding across the runway as they taxied to a stop. Before they could even unstrap from their jets, the rest of the squad came running, concern etched on their faces.

Rooster was the first to reach Coyote, grabbing his flight suit as he yanked him toward him, eyes wide with fear and questions. "Did you see her eject? Did she make it out?"

Coyote shook his head, face grim. "I didn’t see anything. I tried to get close, but she wasn’t responding. I couldn’t—"

Rooster let him go, stumbling back slightly as his mind raced. "No... no, no, no..." he muttered under his breath. Phoenix and Hangman rushed to Fanboy and Payback, their faces pale, voices rapid with questions.

"How low was she?" Phoenix asked, her voice trembling. "Did she even have time?"

"She was already in a nosedive when I saw her," Fanboy said, his hands shaking slightly. "It happened so fast."

Payback wiped his face with his gloved hand, trying to steady his breathing. "She didn’t respond to any of the comms. I don’t think she had time to eject."

Behind them, Maverick appeared, his expression stern and focused. He didn’t ask questions. Instead, he headed straight for the medical search plane, already prepared to take off. Without a word, he boarded, motioning for the search crew to follow.

"Let’s go. We need to find her," Maverick ordered, his voice commanding, though there was a heaviness to his tone that wasn’t missed by the others.

As the search and rescue plane lifted off, the remaining Daggers were left on the tarmac, standing in a tense, suffocating silence. Rooster, Phoenix, Hangman, Coyote, Fanboy, Payback, and Bob all stood in a loose circle, watching the horizon, their minds racing with the possibility of what they might hear next.

Minutes passed like hours. No one said a word. The weight of what might have happened to Ace settled over them like a heavy blanket, each of them replaying her crash in their heads, trying to make sense of it.

Finally, the radio crackled.

"We’ve located her Dagger," a voice came through. "Wreckage is extensive... no sign of an ejection. We’re sending in the medics now."

Rooster clenched his fists, trying to hold himself together. Phoenix closed her eyes, a silent prayer forming in her mind. Hangman paced back and forth, unable to stand still, his face tight with worry.

Maverick’s voice came next, calmer, but tense. "We found her. She’s alive, but barely. She’s in bad shape. Get the medics ready at base—she’ll need immediate attention."

The relief was immediate but short-lived, crashing against the rising tide of panic. "Alive" didn’t mean safe. Rooster stepped closer to the comms, trying to catch every word, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table.

"Severe condition," Maverick continued. "Multiple injuries, possibly from G-LOC and impact. We’re stabilizing her now, but it’s critical. She needs to be flown out immediately."

Phoenix covered her mouth with her hand, her eyes wide with tears she fought to hold back. Fanboy turned away, unable to face the others as the reality hit. Hangman stopped pacing, his fists clenching by his sides. The usually cocky pilot was quiet, his expression unreadable, but the tension in his posture was clear.

The medical team on base was already on standby, rushing toward the landing area as the search plane prepared to return. The remaining Daggers gathered near the runway, standing in a tight group, waiting for any sign of Ace. Each of them wrestled with their thoughts, guilt creeping into their minds—wondering if there was something they could have done, something they missed.

Minutes later, the medical search plane landed with Ace on board, strapped to a stretcher and surrounded by medics. They worked quickly, moving her onto a gurney as they rushed toward the base’s medical centre. Maverick followed closely behind, his jaw set, but the worry was clear in his eyes.

Rooster watched, his heart pounding in his chest. The brief glimpse he got of her was enough to make his stomach drop—she was pale, her body bruised and battered, a mask over her face supplying oxygen. It was clear she was hanging on by a thread.

"Is she going to make it?" Hangman asked quietly, his voice uncharacteristically subdued.

No one had an answer. The squad stood in stunned silence, watching as their teammate, their friend, was whisked away to the medical wing, her fate uncertain.

Phoenix swallowed hard, her voice barely above a whisper. "She has to make it. She has to."

Ace was rushed through the hallways of the base’s medical centre, her stretcher surrounded by a flurry of medics shouting urgent commands. The sound of her ragged breathing through the oxygen mask was barely audible over the hurried footsteps. Her face was pale, her body still and battered from the G-LOC and subsequent crash. The medics moved with precision, wheeling her straight to the emergency trauma unit.

“We need to get her into surgery now!” one of the medics yelled, pushing open the doors to the operating theater.

The surgeons were already scrubbed in, awaiting her arrival. IV lines were attached, monitors were set up, and the sound of beeping machines filled the room. Her vital signs were weak, teetering on the edge of stability. The head surgeon quickly assessed her injuries, noting the signs of severe trauma from both the high G-force and the crash impact.

"She’s got multiple fractures, possible internal bleeding, and signs of severe G-LOC trauma," the surgeon announced, as they began prepping for surgery.

The doors to the operating room swung shut, and the medics filed out, leaving Ace in the hands of the surgical team.

In the Hallway

Outside, the Dagger Squad sat in the waiting area, the tension suffocating. None of them had said much since Ace was wheeled away. Rooster leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, staring at the ground as if trying to make sense of the last few hours. His mind was racing with worry and guilt. He’d been tough on Ace, both in the air and on the ground, and now she was fighting for her life.

Phoenix sat next to him, her foot tapping nervously against the floor, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She couldn’t shake the image of Ace’s jet spiralling out of control, nor the sight of her pale, motionless body when she was brought in. "Come on, Ace," she whispered under her breath.

Hangman paced the length of the hallway, his usual bravado completely absent. His jaw was clenched, fists balled tightly at his sides. He’d been the one who set up the whole email situation, thinking it was just some harmless fun. Even though she forgave him, they still weren't back to normal. Now, guilt gnawed at him with every step he took.

"She’s tough. She’ll pull through," Hangman muttered to himself, but it sounded more like a prayer than a statement of confidence.

Coyote sat further down the row, staring blankly at the door leading to the operating room. He replayed the training flight in his head, going over every detail, wondering if there was something—anything—he could have done differently to prevent the crash.

Fanboy and Payback sat together, whispering to each other every now and then, though their voices were low and full of worry. Bob, the quietest of the group, sat against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, his face a mix of worry and helplessness.

The minutes dragged on. Every time a nurse or doctor walked through the hall, the squad straightened, hoping for an update, but the news never came. The tension was thick in the air, each of them lost in their own thoughts, consumed by fear for their friend.

Maverick entered the hallway, his face a grim mask of calm. He had been overseeing the rescue efforts, but now that Ace was in surgery, there was nothing more he could do but wait. He exchanged a few silent nods with the group before sitting beside Rooster.

“How is she?” Rooster asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

“They’re doing everything they can,” Maverick replied, his tone steady but strained. He knew better than anyone how critical the situation was, but he didn’t want to add to their already overwhelming fears.

Hours seemed to pass as they sat in silence, the only sounds in the hallway being the occasional shuffle of footsteps or the distant hum of medical equipment. No one knew what to say, and the weight of uncertainty hung heavily over them all.

Every so often, one of them would glance toward the operating room doors, hoping to see a doctor emerge with good news. But the doors remained shut, and the tension in the room grew thicker with each passing second.

Finally, the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall. The squad all turned toward the noise, holding their breath. A nurse approached, her expression neutral, but the look in her eyes was serious.

“The surgery’s still ongoing,” she said, her voice calm but firm. “It’s going to be a long one. She’s stable for now, but it’s critical. The doctors are doing everything they can.”

“Stable,” Phoenix repeated, the word a fragile lifeline she clung to. “That’s something.”

The nurse nodded. “It is. But it’s still touch and go. We’ll keep you updated.”

The squad nodded in unison, though the news wasn’t as reassuring as they’d hoped. The wait continued, with everyone’s minds now filled with images of Ace in the operating room, fighting for her life.

Each of them sat, stood, or paced, trying to pass the time, but every second felt like an eternity as they waited for any sign that Ace would be okay.

----

One Week Later

The sterile scent of the hospital room lingered in the air, blending with the steady beeping of the machines that monitored Ace’s vitals. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting soft shadows across the room. Ace lay in the bed, her body still aching from the injuries she’d sustained, but she was finally awake. Her head throbbed faintly, and her muscles felt weak, but she was conscious—and alive.

It had been a week since the crash. A week of surgeries, recovery, and slowly regaining her strength. The Dagger Squad had visited her throughout the week, offering support and well-wishes, but Rooster hadn’t shown up once.

She wasn’t surprised. After the email situation, their relationship had soured more than ever. The betrayal she’d felt after realizing it was Rooster on the other end of those flirtatious emails still stung, even more so after the crash. She had expected him to stay away.

As she stared at the ceiling, lost in thought, the door creaked open. She looked over, and her eyes widened slightly as Rooster stepped inside, his expression uncertain.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice a little rough, like he had rehearsed what he was going to say a thousand times but still wasn’t sure how to begin.

Ace tensed slightly but didn’t say anything right away. Her eyes flickered with a mix of surprise and something else—resentment, maybe—but she masked it quickly, keeping her face neutral.

Rooster took a few hesitant steps toward the chair by her bed. He looked uncomfortable, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his flight suit as he stood awkwardly by the door, unsure if he should sit or not.

“I—uh, I thought I should come by,” he continued, finally deciding to sit down. He ran a hand through his hair, the familiar nervous gesture she had seen countless times before, but now it felt different. “It’s been... a lot.”

Ace raised an eyebrow, though the movement sent a dull ache through her head. “A lot,” she repeated, her voice flat.

Rooster winced at her tone but didn’t back down. “I know I should’ve come sooner. I just—didn’t know what to say after everything. After what happened with the emails and then... this,” he gestured vaguely toward her, indicating her injuries.

Ace remained silent, her eyes focused on him but her face giving nothing away. She wasn’t ready to make this easy for him, not after everything that had happened between them.

He sighed, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees as he rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, I know I screwed up with the whole email thing. I didn’t mean for it to... go the way it did, I didn't know it was you at the start either. It was supposed to be some dumb fun, but it hurt you, and I’m sorry.”

Ace’s jaw tightened, her mind flashing back to the moment she had discovered Rooster was the one behind the anonymous emails. The betrayal still felt fresh, even after weeks of avoiding him.

“You have no idea,” she said quietly, her voice cutting through the room like a blade. “You have no idea how much that messed with my head, Bradley.”

Rooster flinched at the use of his first name, a sign of how serious things had gotten. She almost never called him that. “I know. I get that now.”

“No,” Ace interrupted, her voice stronger now, though strained from disuse. “You don’t get it. You thought it was a game. I thought... I don’t know what I thought, but it wasn’t that. You led me on, Rooster. And for what? A joke? Some sick competition?”

Rooster looked down at his hands, guilt written all over his face. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t—” He paused, searching for the right words. “I didn’t mean to hurt you. It just got out of hand.”

Ace clenched her fists beneath the hospital blanket, frustration bubbling up inside her. She had spent weeks—months—trying to figure out why she had been so blindsided by him. It wasn’t just the betrayal, it was everything leading up to it—the animosity, the tension, the constant bickering. And then, suddenly, the emails had made her think there was something different, something more.

“Out of hand?” she echoed, her voice bitter. “You humiliated me.”

Rooster’s gaze shot up, his expression pained. “I didn’t mean to.”

Ace exhaled sharply, leaning back against the pillows, exhausted from the conversation but too frustrated to stop. “And then you didn’t even come to see me. Not once. I almost died, Rooster.”

He looked like he had been punched. “I know. I was... I didn’t think you’d want to see me. After everything.”

“That’s your excuse?” she asked, her voice laced with disbelief. “I’ve been lying here, dealing with all of this, and you just couldn’t be bothered to show up because you were afraid?”

Rooster opened his mouth to respond but stopped, realizing there was nothing he could say that would make it right. He couldn’t take back what he’d done, and he couldn’t fix the way he’d hurt her.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly, his voice raw. “For everything. For not coming sooner. For the emails. For being an idiot.”

The room was thick with tension, the air heavy between them. Ace watched him, her anger simmering beneath the surface. She didn’t know if she could forgive him—not yet, maybe not ever—but part of her was too tired to keep fighting.

“I’m just glad you’re okay,” Rooster added, his voice almost a whisper. He looked at her with genuine concern, the guilt and regret clear in his eyes.

Ace didn’t respond right away. Instead, she closed her eyes and let out a long, slow breath. “I don’t know what to say to you right now, Rooster.”

He nodded, standing up slowly. “I get it. I won’t push you. But I’m here if you ever want to talk. I mean it.”

Ace opened her eyes, watching him as he moved toward the door. He hesitated for a moment before glancing back at her. “Take care of yourself, Ace.”

And with that, he was gone, leaving her alone with her thoughts, the weight of their conversation settling heavily on her shoulders.

Please comment, like and reblog!

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zal-cryptid · 2 months ago

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how common is santa giving toyfolk away as gifts?

There was once a fat and bunchy velveteen rabbit. He was one of the toyfolk - living playthings made by the Shadow of St. Nick. As with all toyfolk, he had once been a man, a wayward ne’er-do-well who had landed himself on the Naughty List. Seeing how he failed being a man, the Demon of Christmas (as some people called him) felt he was far better suited in a different role - that of a toy.

And so, one December night, He-Who-Punishes came for him. Molding his body like clay, his skin turned to velveteen, his insides turned to stuffing, his eyes turned to sateen, and his hair turned to thread. And like pottery in a kiln, he was placed in the Land of Toys to bake. A magical place where toys learn how to play nice.

He-Who-Takes had taken his humanity, had taken his realness. Wanting to get them back, the Velveteen Rabbit sought out He-Who-Gives, that right jolly old elf he knew as Father Christmas. But he should have known better, for the Toymaker does not give gifts to toys, he gives toys as gifts.

The next Christmas morning, the Velveteen Rabbit awoke, sat wedged in the top of a Christmas stocking with a sprig of holly between his paws. There were other things in the stocking; nuts, oranges, a toy fire engine, chocolate almonds, and even a clockwork mouse, but the Rabbit was quite the best of all.

For at least two hours the Boy who had gotten him had loved him, and then Aunts and Uncles came to dinner. There was a great rustling of tissue paper and unwrapping of parcels, and in the excitement of looking at all the new presents, the Velveteen Rabbit lay forgotten.

It was only when he was alone, or in the presence of the Boy, that he was able to move – for toys are for children, and a toy needs to be played with for life to be breathed into it. A toy is an instrument for imagination, and imagination is magic in its most basic form.

For a long time, he lived in the toy cupboard or on the nursery floor, and no one thought very much about him. He was naturally shy, and being only made of velveteen, some of the more expensive-looking toyfolk snubbed him. The mechanical toys were very superior and looked down upon everyone else; they were full of modern ideas, and pretended they were real as they spiraled into toy fugue. Even Timothy, the wooden lion, began putting on the air and pretending to be a king – something that the King of Toyland would not find amusing had he known. The terrified little Rabbit was made to feel himself very insignificant and commonplace, and the only person who was kind to him at all was the Skin Horse.

To Be Continued...

#misfits in toyland #lore #the velveteen rabbit #rabbit #christmas #krampus #santa claus #toy #plush #stuffed animal #fic #fanfic #ask #my art

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elladreams · 11 months ago

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The Perfect Setup (Zandvoort) // LN4

summary: Zandvoort '24. A young engineering prodigy, recruited by McLaren to solve complex F1 challenges, grapples with media scrutiny and an undeniable chemistry with driver Lando Norris. As tensions rise during a crucial race, they must balance professional duty with their growing personal connection.

warnings: she/her reader, smut (18+), unprotected (shower 😳) sex, size kink.

words: 6.9K

The roar of engines filled the air, a symphony of power and precision that reverberated through the paddock. The smell of burning rubber and gasoline mixed with the salty breeze from the nearby coast, creating an intoxicating atmosphere that signaled another race was about to begin. The McLaren garage was a hive of activity—mechanics making last-minute adjustments, engineers poring over data, and drivers mentally preparing for the challenge ahead. Amidst the controlled chaos, you stood, a pillar of calm in a world of speed.

You have always stood out, a prodigy in a field where experience often outweighed talent. But here you were, at the heart of one of the most prestigious teams in Formula 1, your hands and mind guiding the finely-tuned machinery that could make or break a race. At just twenty-two, you were already a respected figure in the paddock, known for your brilliance in engineering and your unyielding dedication to the sport.

Your family had sacrificed so much to help you reach your potential. You were always miles ahead of the other kids. While they were playing with dolls or video games, you were more interested in how those things worked. At six years old, you were already taking apart remote control cars, not to play with them, but to understand the intricate systems that made them move. By the time you were ten, you were building small engines from scratch, fascinated by the power and precision of mechanical systems.

Your parents quickly realized they had a prodigy on their hands. They encouraged your curiosity, enrolling you in expensive science and engineering programs meant for kids much older than you. You thrived in these environments, always eager to learn more, to push the boundaries of what you could create. By the time you were a teenager, you had already won several national engineering competitions, earning a reputation as a young genius in the world of mechanics.

When you first discovered Formula 1, everything changed. The speed, the technology, the sheer complexity of the cars—it captivated you like nothing else. You devoured everything you could find about F1 engineering, learning about aerodynamics, power units, and the delicate balance between speed and control. While other teenage girls were dreaming of prom dresses and much older boyfriends , you were dreaming of being in the garage, fine-tuning the machines that drove the world of motorsport.

Your parents knew that pursuing a career in F1 was a long shot, especially for a young woman, but they supported you every step of the way. They worked multiple jobs and sacrificed their own dreams so that you could chase yours.

Thankfully, your talent didn’t go unnoticed. By the time you were 16, you had caught the attention of several top engineers in the F1 world, earning an internship with Mercedes. You quickly made a name for yourself as a technical genius, capable of understanding and improving complex systems that seasoned engineers struggled with. The paddock buzzed with stories of the young girl who was instrumental in Mercedes' dominance.

With your newfound fame came an onslaught of media attention. Reporters from major news outlets were relentless, hounding you for interviews and prying into every aspect of your life. They asked invasive questions about your personal relationships, sought your opinions on the sport's latest controversies, and even pressed you to address misogynistic rumors linking you romantically with certain drivers. The spotlight, once a place of professional pride, had become a battlefield where your every word was scrutinized, and your achievements were often overshadowed by baseless gossip.

Zak Brown fought tooth and nail to bring you to McLaren, recognizing that you were the missing piece they needed to conquer the new regulations. When it became clear that the team was struggling to master the latest specifications, he knew they needed someone with your unique blend of technical expertise and innovative thinking. Zak saw in you a mind that could bridge the gap between theory and practice, someone who could not only understand the intricacies of the new rules but also translate them into real-world performance on the track.

But today, on the day of Max Verstappen's home race, there was an unmistakable charge in the air—tensions were higher, the stakes more personal. It wasn’t just another race; it was a proving ground, not only for the car but for you, the team, and especially for the driver who had become both your greatest challenge and your fiercest ally: Lando Norris.

Lando, the young, fiercely talented star of McLaren, had a natural charm that made him a media darling, but it was his relentless drive to win that truly defined him. From the moment you joined the team, your relationship with Lando had been anything but smooth. Your strong wills collided over every detail, every decision. He saw you as a nuisance, someone who constantly questioned his instincts and pushed him beyond his comfort zone. To you, Lando was stubborn, even arrogant at times—a driver who needed to understand that perfection on the track wasn't just about raw talent but about achieving the perfect synergy between man and machine. And today, that’s exactly what you were trying to achieve.

Standing in the garage, you reviewed the data on your tablet for what felt like the hundredth time. You had pulled an all-nighter, fine-tuning an experimental setup that you believed could give Lando the edge he needed on this notoriously challenging circuit. But convincing him to trust your untested approach was another matter.

Lando stormed into the garage, the top part of his race suit hanging low on his hips revealing his fire proofs, his expression a mix of frustration and determination. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, glancing at the setup specs displayed on the screen. “This is what you’ve been working on all night?”

“Yes,” you replied, meeting his gaze without flinching. “This setup could give you the downforce you need through the corners without sacrificing speed on the straights. I’ve run the simulations a dozen times—it works.”

“Simulations?” Lando scoffed, running a hand through his curls in agitation. “Simulations aren’t the same as the real thing. We can’t afford to take risks like this, not here, not today.”

“This isn’t a risk, Lando,” you shot back, your voice steady despite the tension. “This is a calculated decision based on hard data. I wouldn’t be recommending it if I didn’t believe it would make a difference.”

He crossed his arms, his jaw set in that stubborn way you’d come to recognize all too well. “You’re asking me to trust a setup we’ve never used in a race, in front of Max’s home crowd, no less. What if it doesn’t work? What if it costs me the race?”

“And what if it wins you the race?” you countered, stepping closer to him. “You know as well as I do that playing it safe isn’t going to cut it against Verstappen on his home turf. We need every advantage we can get, and this setup is that advantage.”

Lando stared at you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of doubt. But you didn’t waver. You believed in this setup, and more importantly, you believed in him.

Finally, he relented, nodding slowly. "Fine. But if this doesn’t work, I swear I will never let you live it down."

“It will” you interrupted, a small tired smile tugging at the corner of your lips. “I’ll be right there with you, making sure it does.”

A ghost of a smirk played on his face, his eyes betraying the glimmer of a sparkle. For a moment, the garage was silent, the two of you standing closer than you realized, caught in the intensity of the moment. The intoxicating blend of his dark, amber-scented perfume mingled with the unmistakable and familiar scent of the paddock, created a heady aroma that threatened to cloud your senses entirely.

Your breath hitched as his gaze dropped to your lips, lingering there for a fraction of a second before flicking back up to your eyes. You could feel your cheeks burning as his gaze caressed you.

Lando cleared his throat, breaking the spell and stepping back.

"Well, let's get this done." he said, his usual light tone returning as he ran a hand through his hair again. "Wouldn't want to keep the adoring crowd waiting." He winked.

You rolled your eyes and smiled, thankful for the change in energy.

You both turned back to the screen to finalize the setup adjustments. As you worked side by side, the air between you felt different—not just charged with the usual tension, but with a deeper, more intimate connection. It was almost as if a switch had been flipped, and you had moved from being teammates to something more.

The race was minutes away, but for the first time, you felt like you were truly part of a team—Lando’s team. And that, more than anything, was what mattered. The moments before the race were a blur of final checks and hurried conversations. You stood by Lando’s car, your heart pounding with adrenaline, not just from the intensity of the race but from something deeper—something you were trying desperately not to acknowledge. As the sun dipped lower in the sky, casting a golden hue over the Zandvoort Circuit, you caught Lando’s eye. He was already in his race suit, helmet in hand, but there was a softness in his gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the connection you’d both been dancing around for months.

The starting grid was tense with anticipation. Lando had secured pole position in a spectacular qualifying session, and the team was buzzing with excitement. But everyone knew this race wouldn’t be easy—not with Verstappen starting right behind him, eager to impress his home crowd.

The lights went out, and the roar of the engines filled the air as the cars launched off the line. Lando got a good start, but so did Verstappen. As they barreled into the first corner, Verstappen made a daring move, diving down the inside and taking the lead. The crowd erupted in cheers, the sea of orange on its feet as their hometown hero took charge.

“Hold steady,” you whispered under your breath, your eyes glued to the screen. Lando had lost the lead, but the race was far from over.

The next few laps were a blur of precision and strategy. Lando stayed close to Verstappen, not letting him get away, but it was clear that the McLaren’s setup was allowing him to conserve his tires while maintaining pace. The tension was palpable, every corner, every straight a testament to the fine-tuning you and the team had worked so hard to perfect.

As the race approached its midpoint, an opportunity presented itself. Verstappen, pushing hard to maintain his lead, began to show signs of tire degradation. You watched the data closely, your fingers gripping the edge of the console.

“This is it, Lando,” you said over the radio, your voice steady but laced with anticipation. “His tires are gone. You’ve got this.”

Lando didn’t respond, but you knew he’d heard you. His driving became more aggressive, more precise, as he closed the gap to Verstappen. And then, on lap 47, the moment you’d been waiting for arrived. Lando set himself up perfectly coming out of Turn 9, using the slipstream to his advantage. As they approached the hairpin, he made his move, diving down the inside with the confidence of a driver who knew his car—and his own abilities—were more than a match for the challenge.

He retook the lead, and this time, he wasn’t about to let it go.

“Nicely done, Lando!” you cheered into the radio, unable to keep the excitement out of your voice. The entire team erupted in applause, but your focus remained on the car, on the driver who had just reminded everyone why he was one of the best.

The final laps were a masterclass in control. Lando maintained his lead, keeping Max at bay and managing his tires to perfection, while also building a substantial gap. As he crossed the finish line, taking the checkered flag, the McLaren garage exploded in celebration.

“You did it, Lando! You won!” The words burst out of you, the relief and joy evident in every syllable.

Lando’s voice crackled over the radio, filled with the same emotion. “We did it. The car came alive.” A flush of pride warmed your cheeks. This was your win, too—your idea, your hard work, your dedication to perfection.

As Lando pulled into the pit lane, the world seemed to slow down. He stepped out of the car, removing his helmet to reveal a smile that lit up his entire face. You had joined the team to celebrate alongside Lando. Before you knew it, he was walking toward you, his eyes locked onto yours. The team was cheering, clapping him on the back, but Lando didn’t stop until he was right in front of you. He reached out, taking your hand in his, the contact sending a jolt through you.

“Thank you.” He said simply, the words full of meaning.

Your smile widened as you squeezed his hand, the rush of adrenaline and pride filling you with a new kind of certainty. In this moment, the only thing that mattered was him, and you. You squeezed his hand, your heart racing not from the adrenaline of the race, but from the intensity of the moment between you. “Thank you for trusting me, Lando.”

There was a brief silence, the noise of the celebration fading into the background as the world narrowed to just the two of you. Then, with a quick glance around as if to check that no one was watching too closely, Lando leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, his breath warm against your skin.

“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he repeated, a whisper that sent your heart into overdrive.

You smiled, feeling the warmth spread through you. “And we’ll do it again.”

The race had been a victory, but this moment—standing with Lando, the connection between you undeniable—felt like something even more precious. It was the start of something new, something that went beyond the garage and the racetrack.

—-

The podium celebration had been nothing short of electrifying. The roar of the crowd, the spray of champagne, and the sight of Lando beaming as he hoisted the trophy high above his head was a moment you knew you would never forget. As the McLaren team gathered to celebrate, you found yourself on the podium alongside Lando, representing the team that had worked tirelessly to secure this victory. It was a whirlwind of emotions—pride and undeniable joy.

But as you made your way back to the garage drenched in Ferrari champagne, the adrenaline of the win still pulsing through your veins, you rounded a corner and nearly collided with Chiara, McLaren’s senior PR manager. Her usually composed expression was tense, and you could tell immediately that she had something on her mind.

“Great job out there,” Chiara started, her voice measured but tinged with concern. “The team couldn’t be happier, but we need to talk.” Your stomach sank as a sense of foreboding crept over you. Chiara had been your main point of contact for media communication since joining the team, and you knew that if she was this worried, it must be something serious. You felt a knot form in your stomach. The way she was looking at you told you that this wasn’t just about the race. “What’s on your mind, Chiara?”

She glanced around, making sure no one else was within earshot, then pulled you aside into a quieter corner of the garage. “Look, I don’t want to rain on your parade, but we need to be careful about how things appear. The media and fans are already buzzing about you and Lando, especially after that little moment after the finish.”

Your mind flashed back to the celebration, to the kiss on the cheek Lando had given you, the way his hand had lingered on yours just a bit longer than necessary. It had felt private, special, but of course, nothing was truly private in the world of Formula 1, especially not when the cameras were always rolling.

“You know how it is,” Chiara continued, her tone softening slightly. “Fans are passionate, and the media loves a good story. They’ll spin anything to make headlines. I’m not saying you can’t have…whatever it is you have with Lando, but we need to manage the optics. The last thing we want is for this to distract from the team’s success.”

You nodded, understanding her concerns. The last thing you wanted was to give the press ammunition to turn your hard-earned victory into tabloid fodder. But the idea of keeping your newfound feelings for Lando hidden, of pretending there was nothing between you, felt like a bitter pill to swallow.

“I get it, Chiara,” you said finally, meeting her gaze with determination. “I’m not going to let them turn this into a scandal. Lando and I…we’re professionals first. We’ll handle this.”

Chiara smiled, relieved by your response. “I know you will. Just keep in mind that perception is everything in this sport. And right now, you both have the world’s attention.”

With that, Chiara gave your arm a reassuring squeeze before heading off to her next order of business. You stood there, rooted to the spot for a moment, letting her words sink in. The exhilaration of the victory still buzzed through you, but it was now tinged with the sobering reality of the situation. The weight of her advice pressed down on your shoulders, reminding you that nothing in this world came without its complications.

You sighed, running a hand through your hair, dislodging tiny droplets of champagne that sprayed out like glittering confetti. The sticky remnants of the podium celebration clung to you, a tangible reminder of the night’s highs. What you needed now was a serious shower—something to wash away not just the champagne, but the lingering tension from your conversation with Chiara.

As you made your way toward the team’s private quarters, the hum of activity in the paddock slowly faded, leaving you alone with your thoughts. Chiara’s words echoed in your mind, a reminder of the reality you both lived in—a world where every glance, every gesture, could be dissected and spun into a narrative you had little control over. The media would indeed be relentless, and the fans, always watching, would be insatiable in their curiosity. But how could you distance yourself from something—or someone—that had become so central to your life, to your happiness? The chemestry you shared with Lando was undeniable, and no amount of PR maneuvering could erase what you felt for him.

As you reached the lockers, you turned on the shower, eagerly anticipating the soothing warmth of the water to ease the tension knotted in your muscles. The promise of relief was a welcome thought after the intensity of the day.

You let out a small sigh, beginning to discard your champagne-soaked clothes. The polo that had clung to your skin now felt heavy, both physically and metaphorically, as you peeled it off and tossed it into the laundry bin. The day’s victories and challenges seemed to weigh on you all at once. The exhilaration of the win, the tension with Lando, the quiet moments where everything between you felt so effortless—they all mingled in your mind, creating a cocktail of emotions that left you feeling both intoxicated and exhausted.

You stood there for a moment, stripped down to your underwear, the cool air of the locker room a welcome contrast to the heat of the day. Lost in thought, you hadn’t even noticed Lando entering until you felt his presence, a subtle shift in the air that made the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stand on end. The realization of how exposed you were hit you all at once—half-naked and vulnerable in more ways than one.

Your first instinct was to cover yourself, but something in the way Lando looked at you made you pause. His eyes, darker now with an intensity that was impossible to ignore, roamed over your body, lingering on the curves and lines revealed by your lack of clothing. The heat that flushed your cheeks had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with the way his gaze set your skin ablaze. You couldn't meet his gaze fully, not when you were absolutely sure it would burn you from the inside.

He murmured your name, his voice low, vibrating with a tension that matched the fire in his eyes. The way he said it, the way his gaze traced over you, made it feel like a caress. “Look at me.”

There was a challenge in his tone, and you met it head-on, your breath catching as your eyes locked with his. In the fluorescent lighting of the locker room, his features seemed more defined, his jawline sharper, his lips fuller.

There was no mistaking the desire that simmered just beneath the surface, a reflection of the same need that pulsed through your veins. It was as if the world had narrowed to just the two of you, the space between you crackling with a chemistry that had been building for far too long.

Lando took a step closer, his gaze never leaving yours, and with each inch he closed, the air around you seemed to thicken, heavy with anticipation. He was close enough now that you could feel the warmth radiating from his body, the scent of his skin—champagne and amber with a hint of the adrenaline that still lingered from the race—filling your senses.

The silence stretched between you, and yet, it was as if an entire conversation was taking place, unspoken but understood. Every fiber of your being was attuned to him, the tension between you palpable. "I can practically hear that big brain of yours working overtime." he said, his voice even lower now, almost a rumble. His hand reached out, fingertips brushing lightly against your arm, leaving a trail of electricity in their wake. The touch was gentle, but it was enough to make you shiver, your skin hypersensitive to every point of contact.

The last remnants of your resolve began to crumble, and you could see the same struggle playing out in Lando’s eyes. There was a flicker of hesitation, a silent question hanging in the space between you—whether to cross this line, to take what you both so clearly wanted.

But then he stepped even closer, his hand sliding up your arm to your shoulder, his fingers tracing the curve of your collarbone. The touch was light, almost reverent, but it carried the weight of everything unsaid between you. His eyes followed the path his hand made, and when he looked back up at you, there was no more hesitation, only a hunger that mirrored your own.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he whispered, his voice rough around the edges, as though he was barely holding himself back.

You could feel the heat pooling between your legs, a familiar ache begging to be satisfied. With every brush of his fingers, you felt your resolve crumbling.

You tilted your chin up, your lips parting in invitation. The look in his eyes was pure need, a reflection of the desire coursing through you. He leaned in, his breath warm on your lips, his scent simply intoxicating now that it was mixed with the sharp fruity champagne.

It was as if time had slowed down, and all you could focus on was the heat of his body, the anticipation of his touch, the promise of everything that would come next. And then, finally, he closed the distance between you, capturing your lips in a kiss that sent a jolt of electricity through your body.

The feel of his lips on yours was electric, sending sparks racing across your skin. His mouth moved against yours, hungry and demanding, his tongue tracing the seam of your lips, seeking entrance. You opened for him, letting him deepen the kiss, savoring the taste of him. It was like nothing you had ever experienced before—the combination of the champagne, the adrenaline, and the sheer relief of finally giving in to the chemistry that had been simmering between you was enough to make your head spin.

As his hands roamed over your bare skin, igniting a trail of heat wherever they touched, you could feel your body responding, the desire building with every passing second. He kissed you like a man starved, and you met his hunger with your own, matching his pace. Your hands found his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart under your palms, the heat of his skin drawing you in like a magnet. He was solid and real beneath your touch, and you pressed yourself against him, the sensation of his body against yours igniting something primal and uncontrollable inside you.

Lando’s breath hitched at the contact, his hands splaying across your back, fingers digging in just enough to send a shiver down your spine. His mouth hovered just inches from yours, his breath warm against your lips, and you could feel the tension coiling tighter between you, ready to snap.

“Lando,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, more a plea than anything else.

That was all it took to break the final thread of restraint. There was no gentleness now, only the raw, urgent need that had been simmering between you for what felt like forever.

You kissed him back with equal fervour, your hands sliding up to tangle in his damp curls, pulling him even closer as his hands roamed over your back, your waist, every inch of skin he could reach. The heat of his body, the taste of him on your lips—it was overwhelming in the best possible way, drowning out every thought that wasn’t about him, about this.

Lando’s hands found the clasp of your bra, and with a practiced flick, he had it undone, the fabric slipping away as his hands moved to cup your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples in a way that made you gasp against his mouth. The sound seemed to fuel him, and he deepened the kiss, his tongue sweeping into your mouth as he backed you up against the lockers, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the heat between you.

You could feel the solid press of his body against yours, his arousal evident as he pinned you to the lockers, his hands never ceasing their exploration. Reaching your panties, his fingers slid under the band, tugging them down in one smooth motion, his movements sure and confident, as if he knew exactly what he wanted. The sheer contrast of standing before him completely naked while he remained fully clothed amplified the raw vulnerability of the moment, making it feel intensely intimate and charged with a potent, almost primal, energy.

Your own hands moved lower, sliding down his clothed chest, his hard abs, until you reached the waistband of his pants. The feel of his muscles tensing under your touch sent another wave of desire through you, and you wasted no time in slipping your hand beneath the fabric, finding his impressive length and trying to wrap your fingers around him.

His forehead resting against yours as he sucked in a sharp breath, his eyes closing as the friction elicited a rush of pleasure that had him breaking the kiss to let out a curse. For a moment, he just stood there, his breath ragged, his hands tightening on your hips, as if trying to steady himself.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire, and the raw honesty of it sent a thrill through you.

“Good,” you replied, your own voice husky with need, your hand beginning to move with deliberate strokes that had him groaning, his head dropping to your shoulder as he tried to keep himself in check. He reached for his fireproofs and pulled them off, his movements almost frantic. You helped him, pushing the fabric over his hips, revealing the perfection of his physique.

You couldn't help but stare at him, taking in the lean, sculpted lines of his body, the taut muscles that flexed with each movement. You inhaled a sharp breath as your eyes finally landed on his cock, hard and swollen with desire. You were no stranger to the male anatomy as your hormones and curiosity had gotten the best of you in the past, but you were starting to become nervous about taking his impressive size inside of you.

Before your brain could spiral too far, you felt Lando's hands on you, his touch firm but gentle, his calloused fingertips sending shivers of pleasure through your body as he traced patterns along your skin, as if he was trying to memorize every inch of you. The chemistry between you had ignited into a full-blown inferno, and neither of you had any intention of putting it out.

In a fluid motion, Lando lifted you, your legs wrapping around his waist as he carried you over to the shower that had been steaming in anticipation. You giggled as the warm water hit your skin, the tension between you melting away as the shower cascaded over you both.

"I've been wanting to do this since the moment I saw you," he said, his voice low and rough, the sound of it sending a shiver of anticipation down to your core.

"Then don't make me wait any longer," you replied, a challenge and a plea, and the heat that flared in his eyes at the words was enough to make you burn for him.

He lowered his mouth to yours, the kiss slow and deep, a delicious contrast to the urgency. His hand reached between your legs, finding the wetness there and stroking with just the right amount of pressure, his thumb circling your clit and making you gasp into his mouth. He seemed to know exactly what you needed, and he used it against you, building you up slowly but surely, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter with every expert movement of his hand.

You clung to him, your nails digging into the slick skin of his back, a desperate attempt to anchor yourself against the waves of pleasure that threatened to consume you. He entered two of his thick fingers making you whimper at the stretch. His free hand was on the side of your face, tilting it up to capture your lips with his, kissing you with a tenderness that belied the urgency of the situation. You knew he was trying his best to prepare you for his cock, but it was a lot. He was a lot.

"I don't think you're going to fit," you whispered, feeling embarrassed, but he just smiled, his fingers still working their magic.

"Oh, I will," he promised, and you felt a jolt of desire shoot through you at the certainty in his voice.

The words sent a rush of heat through you, and you felt yourself clenching around his fingers, the pleasure intensifying as he stroked your g-spot with precision. Lando swallowed your moans, the feel of his body pressed against yours, the warmth of the water surrounding you, and the expert movements of his hand bringing you closer and closer to the edge. He was relentless, his fingers working you relentlessly until the pleasure became too much, the tension snapping and sending you crashing over the edge.

The orgasm tore through you, leaving you trembling in its wake, and Lando held you close, his hands gentle now as he supported you. You were gasping for air, the feeling so intense it was almost overwhelming. He murmured your name, his voice soft and low, the sound of it making something inside you ache.

You looked up at him, meeting his gaze, the intensity of his eyes almost enough to make you forget how to breathe.

"I've got you," he murmured, his voice full of emotion, and in that moment, you believed him.

Slowly, the haze of pleasure began to clear, and you became aware of the tension coiled in his body, the way his muscles were taut with restraint, the evidence of his own desire pressed against your thigh. He was still rock-hard, and you suddenly wanted nothing more than to feel him inside you, to experience that connection on a deeper level.

"I'm ready," you breathed, your voice laced with a need that you could no longer deny.

He nodded as he turned you around, pressing your face against the cool tile, a sharp contrast to the warmth of the water. Your breath hitched as he lined up his cock with your entrance, the blunt tip already threatening to breach you. He gathered some of your moisture by rubbing his tip against your folds, sending jolts of pleasure through your body.

"I'll go slow," he whispered, as his other hand grabbed your neck, forcing you to arch your back. He took a moment to burn this very image in his mind. He had thought about this moment countless times before, but now that it was happening, it was even better than he could have imagined.

With a slow, deliberate push, he was able to get the head inside. Your eyes shut as you felt the stretch, his girth much more than you were used to. You let out a whimper as you reached for the hand currently holding your neck, seeking his support. You could hear him mutter under his breath, the words too quiet for you to make out. You assumed it was a string of curse words, but you didn't dare look.

With his hand gripping your hip, he pushed deeper, slowly but steadily, inch by inch. You could feel every vein on his perfect cock, the stretch dancing on the edge of pain and pleasure. He kept stopping, pulling back a bit and then pushing deeper again. You could tell he was doing his best to let you adjust to his size, but it was still a struggle.

Once he bottomed out, he groaned as you let out a sound that you've never heard yourself make before. A mixture between a moan and gasp. His hands traveled up your body, finding your breasts and giving them a squeeze, before settling on your shoulders. You could feel the water trickling down your back as the steam created a haze around the two of you. You were both panting, trying to catch your breath. You could feel his hot breath against your ear.

"Are you okay?" he asked, his voice rough, a mixture of desire and concern.

"Yes," you answered, not even recognizing your own voice, "I'm just a little...full."

He chuckled at that, his cock twitching inside you. He slowly started moving his hips, the drag of his cock against your walls lighting up every nerve in your body. You couldn't string two thoughts together as he started creating a torturous rhythm. One of his hands travelled down to your bundle of nerves, pinching it with every thrust.

"Fuck," you cursed, "fuck, fuck, fuck." You couldn't believe how drunk you were on him.

He chuckled as he grabbed you from the now warm tile, resting you flat against his front. The new angle allowed him to reach deeper, making you whimper and whine with every thrust. His hands reached for your jaw, tilting it so he could stare deeply into your eyes. He was watching every reaction, every change in your expression.

"Tell me what you feel." he demanded, his voice hoarse, and you forced yourself to open your eyes, meeting his gaze. The intensity of his stare was almost enough to send you over the edge again, but you clung to the last threads of your self-control, desperate to prolong this moment.

"I feel...I feel everything," you gasped, the words barely more than a whisper. “I’ve never felt like this b—"

He silenced you with a kiss, swallowing the rest of your words. It was a clash of tongues and teeth, a battle for dominance that neither of you could win. The heat between you was unbearable, the need for release consuming every thought. You knew he was close, could feel the tension coiling in his muscles, the way his thrusts were becoming more erratic, less controlled. But you weren't ready to let go, not yet.

You pulled away from the kiss, forcing him to meet your gaze. "Please don't stop," you begged, your voice rough with need, "I need you, Lando."

That was all it took. His eyes darkened, and he let out a growl, his grip on your jaw tightening as he captured your lips again, the kiss almost violent in its intensity. It was as if a switch had been flipped, the raw hunger between you reaching a new level.

He fucked into you with wild abandon, his hips snapping as he chased his release. The pleasure was blinding, the sensation of his cock filling you, stretching you, sending you spiraling toward the edge. You could feel the tension building, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter until you could no longer hold back.

The orgasm crashed over you like a wave, stealing the air from your lungs as your body shuddered in his arms. Your eyes closed, the white light behind your eyelids pulsing in time with the waves of pleasure washing over you. You couldn't breathe, couldn't think, could only cling to him as you rode out the storm.

Lando buried his face in the crook of your neck, his lips finding the delicate skin there, sucking and nibbling. You could feel the pleasure building again, the combination of his cock inside you, his hands gripping your hips, his lips against your neck sending you hurtling toward another climax.

"I'm close," he panted, his voice rough with need, "so close, fuck."

The words sent a surge of heat through you, and you clenched around him, feeling him shudder as his own release washed over him. You grabbed as his curls, forcing him to look at you, the intensity of his gaze pushing you over the edge again, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.

"Fuck, I can feel you," he gasped, his cock twitching inside you as your core milked him, the sensation of his release triggering another wave of pleasure.

You both clung to each other, riding out the waves, the intensity of the moment rendering you speechless. You were both gasping for air, the aftershocks of pleasure coursing through your bodies. Lando buried his face in your neck, his lips ghosting over your skin, the sensation almost too much to bear.

You stood there for what felt like an eternity, wrapped in each other's arms, the only sound the steady beat of the water as it cascaded over you. You couldn't remember the last time you'd felt so sated, so utterly spent.

Finally, Lando pulled back, his eyes searching yours, his expression a mix of emotions—relief, contentment, and a hint of something else, something that sent a thrill through you. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch gentle, almost reverent.

"That was...fuck," he said, his voice rough, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You grinned, the joy and satisfaction evident in every line of your body. You could feel him slowly softening inside you, and you reluctantly unwrapped your legs, letting him slide out of you. You gasped feeling yourself become sore already. He chuckled as he noticed, turning off the water and wrapping you in a towel, gently drying you off before lifting you up in his arms.

"You're gonna kill me," he muttered, a spark of humor in his voice, and you laughed, the sound echoing off the tiles, the sound carefree and light.

You kissed him, slow and deep, the kiss full of promises and possibilities. This was only the beginning, and you both knew it. You pulled back, gazing at him with a mixture of awe and admiration, your heart full of the realization of what you'd found, the connection between you now undeniable.

"Get that perfect ass to media duty before they start sending out a search party," you teased, a chuckle escaping as you watched the realization of his looming responsibilities flicker across his face.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, giving you a quick peck on the lips before setting you down, "but just know, this was the best shower I've ever taken."

You smirked, unable to hide the blush creeping across your cheeks. "I'll keep that in mind."

As he left, a sense of calm washed over you, the satisfaction of the moment lingering in the air like a sweet perfume. The memory of his touch, the weight of his body against yours, the deliciously filthy sounds he had coaxed from you, would stay with you forever, a private treasure. You sighed, reveling in the warmth and comfort that seemed to envelop you, the afterglow of your tryst still humming through your veins.

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