#missing him today I fear……

[crybaby-bkg]

oliver completely bending over at the waist when he hugs me so his face can be pressed right into my boobs the perv 🙂‍↕️

[luminique]

I know you’re on a lighter kick currently (and honestly I cannot blame you, 10/10 boyfailure) but I was wondering, do you have any Wriothesly worms you’d like to share? Just anything that’s passed your mind recently, whether it be fluffy or angsty. I hope you’ve been doing alright, thank you so much!

- 🛞 anon (I was the one who sent in the nosebleed ask once aaa, eventually I might just make my own blog for my personal worms)

OUSGAJAVKSHS I LOVE HIM I MISS HIM COME BACK HOME WRIO 😞 thank you so much for this 🛞 anon !! i will definitely eat up anything lighter related if you decide to make your own blog 🙂‍↕️

i saw art a while back of wrio having slicked back hair but the wolf ears looking part of his hair was sticking out and it had me giggling, kicking my feet. no matter how hard he tries, it just WONT go down and i think it makes him really cute.

maybe you were invited to go see a play at the opera epiclese, so dressing your best is expected. as you both get ready, all that’s left for him was his hair. he tries gelling it down but then the little wolf ears pop right back up. ‘hmm… not enough gel?’ so he applies a bit more but it still doesn’t work. so he asks you for help and you’re telling him to sit down so that you could comb back his hair and apply the gel but it doesn’t seem to want to stay down. every time you smooth it down, it just pops right back up.

he’s frustrated but also pouting a little, basically giving up on smoothing down his hair. you reassure him that his usual style looks good anyways and you help him out a little to style it how he normally does. slowly, his demeanor goes back to usual. from a stressed puppy to an excited husky, both of you are finally ready to head out and enjoy the performance.

[imthatqueerkid]

Water girl, water girl

I am such a goddamn bitch

Water girl, water girl

I will learn to live with it

[theflyingfeeling]

I miss Aleksi's streams so much 😞

[obligatory-name-change]

thinkbing about. him

[the-cooler-king]

One of those texts I kind of need to sit on before I decide how I'm going to word it.

I never know how to start these, but I always have an idea on what to say. Your opinion of me actually matters a lot & the implication that you believe that I lie to you or I'm not doing enough is kinda hurtful. It comes across to me like my effort is worthless to you & that what I want doesn't matter at all. I wouldn't bring it up if I didn't think you cared, and I know you're going through a lot and shouldn't have to worry about me, but I'm getting mixed signals that are really throwing me off. What do you want from me? Am I asking too much of you and you don't know how to tell me? I sincerely want to be there for you, regardless of what it looks like to get to that point, but if you don't want me there you can tell me! What you want matters just as much, if not more, to me. I'm not the kind of person to be hostile about things if they don't work out. I don't want to be another source of stress or negativity for you, and I don't want you to be afraid of being honest with me. I constantly question if you're just too nice to tell me you aren't interested anymore, and even if you are, I might need more reassurance than you can give me because I don't think I'm very worth it to anyone for anything. If you don't think I'm trying hard enough then tell me what I need to do to change that! I'm at the point of just not knowing what I bring to your life, if anything at all. You don't need to deal with me on top of everything else, so, I'm sorry for this. Even if you don't text me back I'll feel better once I get it out there. The only thing I've ever been afraid of is not communicating exactly how much I care about you & how much you mean to me - even if it doesn't matter to you, or you don't believe me. If there comes a day where we aren't in each other's lives anymore for whatever reason, I don't want either of us to question what could've been said or done differently or regret not doing more.

[mothisash]

they are Not Supposed to be so tall they are not supposed to be so tall. why are younger siblings so tall. What did they put in the water

[yuwritesstuff]

The moment Satoru found out his wife was pregnant, something shifted inside him — like an ancient spell breaking open in his chest, releasing light and warmth he hadn't known he'd been missing.

He’d stared at the little test in your shaking hands, blinking under the harsh bathroom light, and when you looked up at him — nervous, hopeful — he didn’t say a word at first. He just fell to his knees and pressed his forehead gently against your stomach, arms wrapping around your hips as if to say thank you to the tiny life just beginning there.

From then on, it was like the world had flipped upside down in the gentlest, most absurd way.

Gojo Satoru, the strongest sorcerer alive, was suddenly anxious about everything. He kept one hand behind your back every time you walked as if you'd tip over without it. He scowled at the stairs as if they’d personally offended him. He triple-checked the expiration date on everything you ate, even the fruits. Apples!

“Do you think our baby likes apples?” he’d asked one afternoon, watching you crunch into one while curled up on the couch.

“I think I like apples,” you laughed.

“Okay, but we’re a team now. You and the baby are a package deal. So I’m asking for both of you!”

You'd just rolled your eyes — but smiled the whole time.

He thought your cravings were adorable. Even the 2 AM “we need fried chicken right now” kind of cravings. There was no mountain he wouldn't climb for you — and in fact, he did climb one once to get a specific type of peach you said you wanted. He’d teleport to different prefectures if needed.

Your growing belly was his favorite thing in the world. He loved watching you rest your hand on it absentmindedly, like you were already cradling the baby. He’d trace soft patterns over your skin with his fingers, murmuring nonsense stories to the child who kicked like they already had opinions.

He was fascinated by everything. The sound of your baby's heartbeat on the monitor. The way you waddled and scolded him when he called it cute — but he did think it was cute. You were beautiful like the moon — soft, whole, glowing in a way that wasn’t meant to be touched but cherished from beside.

He kept a journal. Something he never told anyone.

It wasn’t elegant or poetic — it was full of rambling thoughts, doodles, little “today the baby kicked again” notes, and things he wanted to tell them when they were older. Sometimes he wrote about how scared he was. How the world was cruel. How much he wanted to protect them. How he was afraid he wouldn't be enough. But always, at the end of the entry, he’d write:

“But your mom is here. And that makes everything okay.”

Satoru was the kind of man who laughed too loud and talked too much, but around you lately, he’d gone soft and quiet in the evenings. He loved brushing your hair back behind your ear. Loved kissing your shoulder when you leaned into him. Loved pressing his cheek to your belly and just… being. No missions. No curses. No battles. Just you.

And despite all his fears — the world, the danger, the weight of who he was — he was happy. Genuinely, finally happy.

It hit him one night when you fell asleep on his chest, your hand loosely over his heart, your child nestled between you two.

He whispered into the silence, voice rough with awe, “I think… I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

And for once, Satoru Gojo didn't feel like the last one standing in a war-torn world. He felt like a man — loved, loving, waiting for a life to bloom.

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Part One + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ mdni, sexual content, dacryphilia, daddy kink. Reader is neurodivergent.

Simon Riley is a simple man. 

Now. 

Cobwebs cleared, shattered shards of glass painstakingly swept away, lacerations stitched and glued back together. He's climbed the mountain of his mind and descended down the other side. Hurdles jumped, skeletons dragged into the light and then cut down. 

Guess that's what happens when you finally decide you want to live, instead of exist. 

At least he figured it out before he died. 

He's old now, older, signature sore back and creaky knees worse then they were ten years ago, sciatica pain when it rains, headaches whenever he's spent too long looking at paperwork (should be wearing his glasses, but can only bring himself to do it at home.) He's even soft around the middle a bit. 

Still, there are some things that never change, some things that are amplified by time. Skill, focus, dedication. Thirst. 

The thirst is what keeps everyone in line, keeps everyone's head down after a salute, eyes shifty and hands clenched. He still strikes fear. He doesn't mind. 

It's how he got here. How he ended up standing in front of a team, his team, tackling a debrief. It's only given him more of what he know nows he craves, the aspect of control that was so long missing from his life, taken from him by others, by their actions, their decisions. Now he has it in spades. He learned to indulge it, practice it, hone it, and when it reared its head in other aspects of his life, he didn't shy away. He embraced it, experimented with it, figured out what he liked, what he didn't, what he truly needed. Chewed on it, for a while. 

A casual fuck here and there, fine, but not enough, not nearly. 

He's built a house after all. 

It's all spilled over though. Run away from him and out of the base, infiltrated his home, crawled across town- 

and set it's sights on something it can sink it's teeth into. Something it won't let go of. 

Daddy's girl. 

"C-captain Riley." Your hands press to your stomach, anxiously wiping away smatterings of batter and flour, and he tries to screw his mouth into a flat line to hide his smile at the hitch in your breath. 

"Hi sweetheart." 

"What can I... what can I get for you?" He sweeps over the case, eyeing the piled high pastries and bagels, muffins and quiches still warm. 

"Just a coffee today." You nod, lip tugged between your teeth, hand practically shaking as you reach for the stack of cups. When he was a younger man, he wouldn't have patience for this, or you. Wouldn't see the bright side to this, these moments he shares with his girl at the bakery, his nervous little fawn he's finally coaxed to look him in the eye for more than ten seconds at a time. Being in your forties will do that to you, he guesses. 

Time heals more than he ever thought possible. 

"Black?" 

"That's right." He indulges himself as you turn around, tracing your curves, the swell of your ass in your leggings. You wear an apron at your waist religiously, cinching it tight, hips and thighs and everything else perfectly framed. He loves those leggings, and hates them every time he catches an overzealous prick leering at you over the counter. 

"Do you um, do you want room for cream?"  The answer is always the same, but you still ask, and he doesn't mind. 

"No, I'll just take it as is." He eyes the pan of raspberry sweet rolls sitting on the counter, cream cheese icing slowly melting across the top. They're his favorite, but he's putting on too much weight, and with the next mission around the corner, he can't afford to be too soft. You look up at him shyly, gesturing to the giant buns. 

"I made your favorite." Fuck. He can't. He shouldn't... but he can't stomach the idea of dimming your glow, killing you excitement, the eager look on your face as you wait for his approval. 

"Y'know what... the boys are always complaining I never bring them anything. I'll take the whole pan." Your eyes turn to saucers. 

"The wh-whole pan? Really?" You brighten into a sun, glowing with pride, and he rewards you with a smile. 

"Is that okay?" 

"Of course!" You blurt, half panicked, "of course I just... okay. Let me-" You go to put the coffee cup down in front of him, but the bottom nicks the edge of the counter and like everything has turned to slow motion, he watches as steaming hot liquid comes flying from the top, half splashing, half spilling all over his uniform. He catches it before it rolls off the end, but the damage has been done, and tears line your lashes. 

The woman waiting in line a few feet behind him snorts. His vision turns red and he whirls on her with a glare, satisfied when the color drains from her face and she runs off. 

“I’m sorry, I’m so s-so-sorry,” you’ve come around the corner with paper towels, trembling like a leaf as you stare at the stain on his jacket, wide eyed and frantic. 

“It’s okay, it was an accident.” 

“N-no, your uniform,” you croak horrified, “I ruined it, I’m so sorry.” You hiccup a little, trying to suck in some air while you succumb to panic, and he takes your hands in his, squeezing gently, trying to ground you. 

“It’s alright baby, it’s okay,” you don’t even notice when he calls you baby, too preoccupied by your rapidly dissipating oxygen. “Hey, look at me,” he soothes, ducking into your line of sight, grabbing your attention. “Good girl, you’re alright.” 

“I’m sorry.” You whisper, shrinking in on yourself, curling your shoulders forward. More tears, and the sight of them sends blood rushing through his body, uncomfortable pressure starting to build in his cock. 

“Nothin’ to be sorry about.” The shop is mostly empty, the woman behind him gone, and he takes the opportunity to usher you past the counter and into the kitchen where there’s a stool waiting just inside the door. He guides you up and holds steady. “Everything’s okay, I promise.” The paper towels come free from your tension filled grip, and instead of using them on the stain, he presses them to your wet cheeks, blotting away your tears. You lean into the touch, so trusting, so easily his, and he wonders what else you’d let him do. He’s hard against the teeth of his zipper as he thinks about hoisting you onto the table, spreading your legs to find what you’ve been keeping safe for him there. 

He doesn’t have many things to care for these days, outside the team, his ultimate responsibility. Keeping a special ops unit alive, planning and executing, cutting through political bullshit is more than enough, but it’s all rough and heavy handed. 

He needs something to nurture. 

You blink at him as he finishes and tips your chin back, ignoring the way your lips part in awe. “That’s better.” 

“Thank you.” The two of you breathe in tandem, silenced and walking a tightrope until you cough. “I should uh… I should go, get those rolls packaged?” He nods, and you manage a very small smile before dipping your gaze to the ground and running off to the front. 

“When did you know?” He rolls the cigar smoke around in his mouth and John cocks his head. 

“When did I know what?” 

“That you were ready,” he gestures to the house, where John’s wife Grace sleeps soundly, “for this? For her?” There’s a glint in his Captain’s blue eyes, a knowing smirk on his face. 

“I just did. At some point, life becomes more than the job, but the mission stays the same. Lead, decide, control. Keep them safe, complete your objective, give what’s needed, get it for yourself. It’s no different.” The idea is tar, sticking to every surface in his mind, gumming up his synapses and creating hallucinations so intoxicating they’re hard to believe. 

You, curled up in bed asleep with nothing but a pair of panties, or cradled between his knees in the bath as he works a chunk of batter free from your hair. You with your legs spread, knees pushed towards your ears, pussy ripe and waiting for him, only him, for the rest of his life. Hands and ankles tied together like a pretty little present. You, sitting on the couch with your thighs slung over his lap, nose creased with a little wrinkle as you thumb through a book. 

John chuckles. “Found one then?” 

Simon only nods. 

He slips through the door just before closing, little bell at the top announcing his arrival to an almost empty space. There’s someone at the register, counting cash, and she smiles at him with all her teeth. 

“We’re about to close but there are a few things left, or I could make you a tea?” The case is pretty barren, a few bear claws and croissants, a muffin or two. Stragglers. 

Next to it, a bouquet sits in a vase. They’re fresh, healthy, and the hair on the back of his neck stands. 

If someone is buying you flowers, he’ll kill them. Dump their corpse in a pit and piss on it. 

The girl clears her throat, and he shakes his head. “No, but thanks. ‘M here to see…” you push through the kitchen doors with two metal sheet trays in your hands, and freeze.

He knew you’d be surprised, caught off guard. It’s like catching a feral cat. Trying to earn a street dog’s trust. Like he’s crouched on the sidewalk, hand extended, food waiting in his fingertips. 

A fisherman, with bait on the line, patiently waiting to hook his prize. 

The incident last week has thoroughly spooked you, pushed you back inside your shell, eroded a lot of the groundwork he painstakingly laid, the foundation he’s been building, and the only time he’s been in since then, you ran into the kitchen as soon as he crossed the threshold. 

The clock has turned back to the time when you were so gun shy, you’d turn to stone at the first sight of him, hands clasped together so tight he knew they hurt. 

It’s no matter. He’s a patient man now, a far cry from who he used to be, and he’s willing to wait for the things worth it, willing to put in the work to fix it.

His body disagrees. A river of need runs consistently runs through him, wild and turbulent current thrashing in his blood, white water rapids trying to flood his lungs. His cock is heavy at night as he imagines you bent over the butcher’s block, leggings ripped open, gooseflesh cascading from the small of your back down, empty little hole clenching on nothing, begging for a fullness only he can give. He dreams about your tears, salty sweet drops soaking your cheeks as the crown of his cock bulges in your throat, as he takes your air and gives it back, over and over again. 

Ruin you, rearrange you, remold you until you only ever fit him. 

He’ll give you what you need, he’ll take away what you don’t. 

He’ll decide. 

The girl at the counter looks at you, then him, small smile pulling on her lips. “I’m going to get this deposit ready,” she announces to no one since you’re not paying her any attention, barely registering she’s disappeared as you stare at him. 

“Hi… u-um hi, Captain Riley.” You put the pans down onto the counter but miscalculate the distance, and they clatter with a resounding smack, one that makes you wince. Your chest expands with a long, deep breath, and you look away from him to the floor. “Can I get you something?” 

“No, I’m jus’ here to see you.” You jerk, gaze snapping from the floor to his face. 

“Is th-this about your uniform? Did you get it dry-cleaned? I can pay you back for-” You rush out, half panicked and cut off when his hand fits to the space between your shoulder blades with just enough pressure to move you forward. He leads, steering you to one of the little tables by the window, urging you down into the chair before taking his place on the other side. 

“You’re not paying my bloody dry cleaning bill. I’m here to see you, sweetheart.” You’re vibrating, practically rattling in your skin and he wants so badly to soothe you, tuck you into his chest and push the outside world away, but it would be too much, too soon. You’re not ready. 

“See me?” He nods. 

“Why did you run from me the other day?” 

“I didn’t I was just… I was busy.” He didn't expect the truth, not right away. You're always trying to hide your vulnerable spots. 

“Try again. No lying this time.” There’s about one eighth of his usual authority in his voice, the captain’s edge he’s honed over the years, and your lips part with a sharp, small intake of breath. 

“I thought maybe… I thought you might be upset or something and I didn’t want…” you trail off with a shrug, and he’s not surprised. He knows his reassurances from last week weren’t enough. His sweet girl is afraid of her own shadow, you need more than just a few words and your tears wiped. 

“I’m not upset.” He leans back against the rickety wood. There are a million things he could say, do. A million different pieces he could pick apart right here, right now, peel your layers back and put you on your knees with your cheek on his thigh, his hand patting the top of your head. 

“Daddy’s not mad, sweetheart.” 

You’re watching him, waiting, looking for him to give more, heal this wound, but he’s cautious. A gas pedal to the floor will only get him the kind of chase he doesn’t want. Not yet. “You understand me?” 

“Yes,” you whisper. You’re hesitating on something, holding back, but he doesn’t try to drag it out, choosing to wait, to give you the time you need, the space he knows the rest of the world doesn’t allow. “Did um… did they like them?” He cocks his head. 

“The team?” 

“Mhm,” your leg bounces under the table. You’re so fucking cute he could smother you. 

“Yeah baby, they loved them.” You beam, blooming into a pretty, perfect flower, vibrant and colorful, rare as they come. 

“That’s good, I’m so happy.” You wiggle a little bit in the chair, and he bites the inside of his cheek. Fucking hell. He wants you on his lap instead, wiggling around as he slowly sinks you down onto his cock, fingernails biting into his chest as he stretches your pussy, toes curling as you struggle to take him. “D-do you want to take some home?” 

“You have some left over?” You shrug sheepishly. 

“I’ve uh, been making them every day. I thought if you were mad at me, maybe they would… make it better.” Oh baby.

“No. You never have to appease me like that. You never have to appease anyone like that, sweetheart.” 

“Right. Okay.” You look relieved, a little bit of heaviness lifted from your shoulders, and then you give him a small smile. “But do you want to maybe have one… now? W-with me?” His sweet little fawn, navigating the world on new trembling legs, taking chances when she feels brave. 

He pulls your hand into his and strokes his thumb back and forth across your knuckles, setting up a slow, soothing rhythm. “Of course.” 

[ame-to-ame]

love being nd and have the tism wolf Inside me be so drastically uncomfortable with uncertainty that i physically cannot think about school and having to deal w the unknown of that whole situation without losing 5lbs in 2 days

[astonmartinii]

mother duck | carlos sainz social media au

pairing: carlos sainz x fem presenter!reader

carlos kissed her goodbye before she went to the rookie round table, he didn’t realise she’d come back with five ducklings of her own

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

f1

liked by yourusername, pierregasly and 1,439,045 others

tagged: kimiantonelli, isackhadjar, jackdoohan, olliebearman & gabrielbortoleto

f1: head over to our youtube channel now to get to know our crop of new drivers at the rookie round table!

view all comments

user1: i have been moved

user2: more of this type of content please

user3: i think they could’ve gotten at least a couple of hours of footage here those kids love to talk

yourusername: not what i’ve been used to but a blast nonetheless!

kimiantonelli: you will be coming to all of the races, right?

kimiantonelli: right? please!

yourusername: yes, i will be there kimi don’t worry

kimiantonelli: omg yay!

user4: oh no… they’re attached…

user5: someone call carlos sainz, is he aware he’s become a father of five overnight?

carlossainz55: excuse me?

gabrielbortoleto: hi!

carlossainz55: no no no i don’t do all of this grid kid nonsense

isackhadjar: please don’t say that i have abandonment issues :(

carlossainz55: what ???

user6: bro sat back and watched charles adopt all the kids last season but now it’s his turn

user7: ollie is meant to be charles’ grid kid…

charles_leclerc: A ROBBERY?

carlossainz55: you can keep him !!!

olliebearman: you don’t want me 😢

yourusername: carlos don’t be mean to them!

carlossainz55: what the fuck is going on right now ???

user8: carlos left his gf for one 20 minute interview and now has kids ?

user9: ugh i’ve missed this chaos

jackdoohan: can we do all media with you @yourusername ?

yourusername: i don’t think so :(

jackdoohan: so not fair :(((((

jackdoohan: if we don’t have media with you can we at least come to dinner?

kimiantonelli: i’m free for dinner!

gabrielbortoleto: me too

isackhadjar: me three

olliebearman: can we get italian?

carlossainz55: nuh uh it’s date night tonight

kimiantonelli: *our date night

carlossainz55: no?

yourusername: come on carlos…

carlossainz55: fine! but just this one time

user10: it’s going to be a long season for mr sainz i fear

yourusername

liked by kimiantonelli, jackdoohan and 381,945 others

tagged: carlossainz55

yourusername: australia that’s a wrap on qualifying - a few surprises at both ends of the grid!

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user11: i am an old man who usually hates the fluffy stuff off of track but kimi going in for a hug in the media pen was very cute

user12: i think people forget just how young he is so it’s good he feels he has other people to go to in the paddock!

user13: his poor media handler looked very confused

olliebearman: can we definitely get dinner now :( talking to you in the media pen was probably the only good thing from today

yourusername: of course ollie! i know it was a tough day but you’ll get in the swing of it with the car

carlossainz55: i thought we were going to be able to shake them for dinner :(

olliebearman: CARLOS I AM IN DISTRESS PLEASE PAY FOR MY PASTA

yourusername: he clearly needs comfort!

carlossainz55: he doesn’t need comfort he’s trying to extort us

olliebearman: so you don’t love me enough to let me extort you?

carlossainz55: no?

user14: these rookies are cracking me up

user15: please strap them down in front of a camera and let them yap

gabrielbortoleto: did you see my save?

yourusername: i did! very impressive gabi

gabrielbortoleto: did you @carlossainz55 ?

maxverstappen1: so i mean nothing to you now?

gabrielbortoleto: NO! i love you max - did you see my save?

maxverstappen1: it was very impressive bubbles

carlossainz55: definitely not a ‘b grade’ driver

gabrielbortoleto: OMGGGG THANK YOU

maxverstappen1: i give up?

yourusername: i don’t really know what’s happening right now - but just go with it max, he still loves you he spoke at LENGTH about you to me just this morning

user16: these kids be attaching to anyone who looks at them

user17: they’re just like me for real

isackhadjar: looking forward to debriefing over garlic bread :D

yourusername: you were amazing today isack!

isackhadjar: hehehehehehehehe

carlossainz55: at least this one isn’t shouting at me

jackdoohan: what about me?

carlossainz55: you know what, you’ve bothered me the least so you’re my favourite

kimiantonelli: NOT FAIR

olliebearman: but i cycle?

gabrielbortoleto: but you liked my save?

isackhadjar: all i want is some garlic bread :(

yourusername: carlos! you can’t say one of them is your favourite - that’s not how kids work

carlossainz55: i never asked for this !!!

carlossainz55

liked by isackhadjar, olliebearman and 609,285 others

tagged: yourusername

carlossainz55: back in italy for imola and on a date with my favourite girl

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user18: carlos went to italy extra early so they could have dinner without the rookies intruding lmao

user19: bro is being haunted by five kids

user20: he’s better than me because i would crumble immediately

yourusername: no one else i’d rather be with

carlossainz55: i’ve missed being with you (just you)

yourusername: we’ve had just enough alone time i think

landonorris: gross

carlossainz55: not you too

landonorris: if you think about it i was technically your first kid…

carlossainz55: ONE NIGHT WITHOUT THIS NONSENSE PLEASE

user21: i think carlos might be losing his mind

alexalbon: oh he definitely is if his loud ramblings i can hear through the driver room walls

yourusername: i think he’s just like that?

carlossainz55: huh?

yourusername: you asked me on a date because you were talking to yourself loudly before our interview about ‘how pretty my smile is’

carlossainz55: my thoughts are loud!

carlossainz55: but in that instance i’m very glad they were screaming in my head

yourusername: i’m very glad too <3

user22: omg that’s such a cute/concerning meet cute

user23: the most carlos sainz thing ever i fear

kimiantonelli: i see our invite got lost in the mail?

olliebearman: and in kimi’s home country… that’s just cruel

carlossainz55: i would like ONE romantic night with the love of my life ALONE

carlossainz55: CAN I PLEASE HAVE THAT? I DON’T THINK I’M ASKING THAT MUCH

isackhadjar: you didn’t need to be that mean about it :(

kimiantonelli: i’m sorry, i just wanted to show you the best places in imola …

olliebearman: does this mean you don’t want to go cycling on thursday anymore?

jackdoohan: can i still go for coffee with y/n?

gabrielbortoleto: we just wanted to see you guys :(

yourusername: no my babies :((( we love you and of course we want to see you! we just need to have some alone time every once in a while

carlossainz55: y/n please stop feeding into this

carlossainz55: STOP SHOWING ME THE PHOTOS THEY’RE SENDING YOU OF THEIR SAD FACES

carlossainz55: FINE! WE’LL ALL GO FOR BREAKFAST TOMORROW NOW LET ME ENJOY MY NIGHT WITH Y/N

gabrielbortoleto

liked by kimiantonelli, olliebearman and 451,058 others

tagged: yourusername & carlossainz55

gabrielbortoleto: that was a big one! i’m sorry to the team but i’m happy to say that i’ll be okay and will be back for the next race. thank you y/n and carlos for coming and keeping me company in the hospital!

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user24: okay i know we’ve all poked fun at the grid kid thing and how it’s so funny that carlos hates it but for real, i’m glad they were in the paddock and were able to be there for him

user25: that makes all the jokey stuff so much better honestly

yourusername: we’re so happy you’re all okay gabi!

gabrielbortoleto: thank you for coming! i know i’m a bit of a drama queen but my parents couldn’t come from brazil so thank you for not leaving me alone :)

gabrielbortoleto: can we have a ducky sleepover?

carlossainz55: a what?

gabrielbortoleto: y/n calls us her duckies! so a ducky sleepover would be all of us coming over (and getting ice cream)

yourusername: i think that’s an amazing idea

carlossainz55: okay, okay. but i am never calling you guys duckies.

yourusername: just you wait baby :)

user26: his radio just reminded me how young him and all the other rookies actually are

user27: i want to just wrap them all up in blankets and tell them it’s all going to be okay

user28: good thing they have y/n and carlos to do that

alexalbon: he won’t tell you this but he did run back to his drivers room to get gabi a jumper and a blanket, he’s a softy for them really

yourusername: that's my man 🥰

kimiantonelli: we’re the five duckies so please refrain from flipping into the barriers again please and thank you

yourusername: kimi?!

carlossainz55: that’s not how we word these things kimi

kimiantonelli: woah i’m trying to lighten the mood

olliebearman: everyone has been a real debby downer today - like three of us got points! (this is a joke, i am happy you’re okay gabi)

gabrielbortoleto: bring the mood back down, i’ve got some more things i want to get with my sympathy points

carlossainz55: gabi???

gabrielbortoleto: fernando taught me to take advantage of anything and everything

carlossainz55: that sounds about right…

user29: why is fernando still at the scene of the crime

kimiantonelli: he’s old! he won his last championship before i was born!

fernandoalo_oficial: @carlossainz55 control your kid

carlossainz55: excuse me? after what you’ve taught gabi?

fernandoalo_oficial: oh don’t act so innocent carlito - did isack or did isack not steal all of the goodies from the media pen because he MANIPULATED the comms girls

isackhadjar: i DID NO SUCH THING

isackhadjar: i am just a nice guy!

jackdoohan: he distracted them and i took them!

fernandoalo_oficial: scoundrels

carlossainz55

liked by landonorris, charles_leclerc and 561,093 others

tagged: olliebearman, kimiantonelli & yourusername

carlossainz55: as much as they’re annoying - i love our duckies and it’s going to take more than one DNF to turn me against them

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user30: oh wow he is a changed man

user31: i fear this is a real mark of maturity because believe me i’d be crashing the fuck out (pun intended)

user32: i mean now he’s seen it back he defo knows that it wasn’t really any one person’s fault

olliebearman: I’M SO SORRY CARLOS

olliebearman: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE FORGIVE ME

kimiantonelli: what about me ????

olliebearman: you are NOT the priority here

kimiantonelli: we have a ship name ??? does that mean nothing?

olliebearman: not right now? not when our cycling sessions are on the line?

carlossainz55: are you guys finished arguing now?

olliebearman: can you forgive me now so we can get back to arguing

carlossainz55: i told you guys there’s no hard feelings, we all got squeezed in the rain - stop stressing

olliebearman: okay thanks

kimiantonelli: thx

kimiantonelli: anyway

kimiantonelli: HOW DARE YOU NOT WANT MY FORGIVENESS FIRST?

olliebearman: omg you’re so self-involved

jackdoohan: you gonna let him say that kimi?

kimiantonelli: ME? SELF-INVOLVED?

isackhadjar: ollie i can hear him bitching from here…

olliebearman: GASP!

gabrielbortoleto: kimi… clearly he doesn’t care about the sanctity of bearnelli

kimiantonelli: i can’t believe this 😖

yourusername: right okay let’s calm it down boys

carlossainz55: no this is quite entertaining let them keep going …

yourusername: so you are the bad influence

carlossainz55: if we have to keep them around i might as well enjoy it

yourusername: really?

carlossainz55: the longer they argue and instigate, the less they are bothering us and i can actually spend time with my girlfriend

user33: this whole comment section is just one big familial domestic

user34: they are everything to me

user35: carlos can never retire now i’m sorry those are the rules

yourusername

liked by sebastianvettel, pierregasly and 892,304 others

tagged: kimiantonelli, olliebearman, carlossainz55, isackhadjar, gabrielbortoleto & jackdoohan

yourusername: omg all five of our duckies scored points and carlos was on the pdoium this weekend at silverstone!!! what an anniversary weekend, and our duckies remembered!

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user36: THE DUCKIES

user37: i don’t care how dumb the nickname is i love it so much

user38: free yourself from thinking everything is cringe

jackdoohan: so since you’re from silverstone, can we claim this as a home race so we can all say got points at home

yourusername: i’ve seen shakier logic from oscar so i’ll say yes!

oscarpiastri: RUDE

kimiantonelli: he’s just bitter because no one cares about his lil grid kid stunt in monaco anymore now we have y/n and carlos

oscarpiastri: omg ??? leave me alone

olliebearman: come say that to our faces 😡

jackdoohan: he won’t we out number him

iscakhadjar: 💪

oscarpiastri: you people are all like rabid dogs

carlossainz55: watch what you say about the duckies

oscarpiastri: this is crazy, you were the one who was constantly complaining about them

carlossainz55: yes well now i like them! and i don’t appreciate your tone

oscarpiastri: why weren’t you this nice to me as a rookie?

carlossainz55: eh?

gabrielbortoleto: he just likes us better!

carlossainz55: he’s not wrong…

oscarpiastri: fine! charles is a better grid dad anyway

oscarpiastri: and while we’re at it i’m gonna claim max as well

charles_leclerc: yeah i never complained about oscar, i took him in immediately!

maxverstappen1: i don’t know how i got roped into this but yeah - we’re better!

user39: you know what? sure

user40: i stopped asking questions a long time ago

user41: they got them gifts for their anniversary? that’s too fucking cute i can’t

user42: duckies you are so iconic

carlossainz55: i guess the duckies are good for one thing - gifts

yourusername: it’s definitely a perk!

carlossainz55: but i’ll deal with all of their chaos if it means being with you

yourusername: awwwww i love you too

yourusername: so much we have five kids before being married…

carlossainz55: is this a hint?

yourusername: i don’t know you tell me?

kimiantonelli: PLEASE DON’T PROPOSAL WITHOUT US THERE

jackdoohan: that is a threat

olliebearman: bagsy being a bridesmaid

isackhadjar: i know someone who can get you the eiffel tower?

gabrielbortoleto: omg my first wedding party !!!

carlossainz55: let’s all slow down for a second - i will propose but you little devils will not be involved…

yourusername: but they’re so cute 😢

carlossainz55: maybe… but only because i love you

fin.

note: kinda on fire today? i will be crashing in like two hours so i had to be productive while i could be

[joelsrose]

Father of the Groom

warnings - smut (as always lmao) virgin reader, cheating, spanking, unprotected sex, family dynamics, creampie ..(??!)

🕊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

You reached for another glass of champagne, your fingers trembling just enough to make the bubbles shimmer against the rim. The suite was quiet now, too quiet, after the flurry of brushes and curling irons, after the hum of music and the soft laughter of your stylist and makeup artist who had only just packed up and left. The air still held the faint scent of hair spray and roses, mixed with the deeper perfume clinging to your skin — warm, floral, soft like summer.

Your hair had been curled into delicate waves, the top pinned back with a cluster of tiny pearls that glimmered every time you moved. Your makeup was bridal perfection — a gentle glow across your cheeks, soft pink lips, lashes long and curled like whispers. You looked like a dream. You felt… like a trembling one. Nerves tangled tightly in your belly, fluttering like ribbons caught in wind. You were getting married today. Today.

The weight of it settled behind your ribs. Excitement, yes — that warm, hopeful kind — but threaded through with something sharper, more restless. The kind of nerves that made your hands fidget, that made you question if you’d eaten too much, if you should’ve worn a different shade of blush, if the weight in your chest was love or fear or… something else entirely.

You were just about to raise the flute to your lips when a knock echoed at the door — soft, deliberate.

Your heart gave a little stutter.

“Luke, I swear,” you muttered under your breath with a nervous smile, setting the glass down, “you know you’re not supposed to see me until the ceremony…”

You padded toward the door in nothing but your white silk robe — the one you’d saved for today, smooth as water and tied loosely at your waist. You pulled it tighter on instinct, fingers curling around the fabric as you turned the handle and opened the door—

—and there he was.

Joel.

Mr. Miller.

Your fiancé’s father.

🕊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

Joel Miller stood in the doorway like he’d stepped out of another world and into this one just to see you — tall and broad in his dark suit, the tailored jacket pulling across his shoulders in a way that made your breath hitch for reasons you didn’t want to examine.

His tie was a muted navy, slightly loosened at the collar like he hadn’t bothered to finish getting ready yet, and in the neat fold of his jacket pocket sat a single white rose — likely chosen to match your bouquet, the detail not missed by you. His hair had been swept back, soft curls glinting silver under the room’s warm light. He looked handsome — devastatingly so — in that older, quiet kind of way that made you want to look at him just a second too long.

“Joel,” you smiled gently, surprised, your fingers tightening slightly on the robe’s sash as you leaned your shoulder to the doorframe, “I thought you were Luke.”

His brow ticked up, but the smile he gave you was warm, touched with something that felt just a little too fond. “Well… look at you, sweetheart.” He stepped closer, eyes scanning you with a reverence that made your skin burn beneath the silk. He leaned in and kissed both of your cheeks — the roughness of his stubble grazing your skin, the warmth of his hands settling lightly on your arms. “You look like a damn dream.”

A quiet breath left you as you backed up slightly to let him in, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Thanks, Joel,” you murmured, turning toward the side table where the champagne and spirits were arranged, the glasses catching soft golden light. “Would you like a drink? There’s whiskey.”

He chuckled — low, gravelly, like it lived deep in his chest. “You know me well.”

You didn’t see the way his eyes dropped to your legs, how they lingered on the smooth line of your thigh revealed by the shift of your robe as you reached forward, silk sliding up just enough to test the limits of modesty. You didn’t catch the subtle way his jaw shifted or how his thumb dragged once over his palm before reaching for the glass you passed him.

“How’s your morning been?” he asked, voice smooth, conversational, but his gaze wandered — over the room, yes, but always returning to you.

You motioned for him to sit, and when he did, he chose the armchair closest to you — close enough that his knee nearly brushed yours. You sat down again, smoothing the robe over your legs as you sipped the last of your champagne, trying to ignore the sudden flutter of nerves in your chest that had nothing to do with wedding-day jitters.

“It’s been busy,” you admitted softly, your voice lighter now. “Hair and makeup only just left. Luke and I are getting photos done soon… in—” you glanced at your phone, “less than an hour, actually.”

Joel nodded slowly, the motion almost absentminded, though his eyes hadn’t left you once — eyes that held something too heavy to be casual, too soft to be paternal. There was reverence in them, yes, but also a flicker of something else, something deep and unspoken, as if he was trying to memorize every angle of you in that moment — the slope of your cheekbone catching the morning light, the gentle way your bottom lip stayed tucked beneath your teeth when you were nervous, the way you kept fidgeting with the edge of your silk robe like you didn’t quite know what to do with your hands now that he was sitting so close.

“You nervous?” he asked at last, his voice quieter than before — lower, almost thoughtful, like it wasn’t just a question but something weightier, an offering.

You smiled softly, almost bashful, eyes dropping to your lap where your fingers twisted the belt of your robe into a little knot. “A little.”

When you looked up again, his gaze was still locked on yours — unwavering, steady, and laced with something warm enough to make your skin prickle.

“Ain’t nothin’ to be nervous about, darlin’,” he murmured, his voice slow and syrupy, rich with something comforting and southern and familiar. “If anything, my damn son oughta be nervous. He’ll get a whoopin’ if he ain’t takin’ care of you proper.”

That made you laugh — the kind of laugh Joel always pulled out of you with so little effort, the kind that spilled out like a secret, the kind that reminded you of every dinner at their family home, of the way he always made sure your wine glass was full, how he always offered you the best slice of roast first, the way he always called you “sweetheart” like it meant something more. Holidays, birthdays, Sunday brunches — Joel was the kind of man who made you feel seen, held, steady in a world that sometimes spun too fast.

And now, as your laughter died down to a gentle smile, he was watching you again — like you were something fragile and golden and borrowed just for a moment. His hand moved slowly, resting gently on your knee, warm and solid where your skin peeked from beneath the silk. His palm was broad, roughened from years of work, but the way he touched you was soft, reverent, fingers still against your skin like he didn’t dare move.

You kept your eyes trained on his, breath catching faintly, though it wasn’t fear that fluttered in your chest. He smelled good — a mix of something woodsy and clean, a little cologne maybe, but mostly Joel — that distinct, masculine scent that always lingered when he hugged you goodbye.

He smiled a little, eyes soft, almost nostalgic. “You remind me of Tess on our wedding day,” he said quietly, and you felt that compliment bloom somewhere deep in your belly, warm and sharp. “She had this look in her eyes — somethin’ soft. Somethin’ like you got now. Though I don’t think she ever wore a robe like that 'round me before the vows.”

The last part slipped out lower, almost like he hadn’t meant to say it aloud, and you blushed instantly, lowering your eyes with a shy smile, your fingers tightening just slightly around the edge of your robe.

“Thank you,” you murmured, voice almost too quiet to hear.

Joel smiled again, tilting his head just a little, and then leaned forward, the hand on your knee giving the gentlest squeeze. “Now come on,” he said, voice teasing but kind, “stand up and give me a twirl. I wanna see my future daughter-in-law in all her glory.”

You let out a little giggle — partly from the champagne dancing in your bloodstream, partly from the way his voice held that proud affection, but mostly from the way he was looking at you. Like you were beautiful. Like he knew you were.

You gave a playful little twirl, champagne dancing in your veins and nerves making your limbs feel feather-light. The hem of your silk robe fluttered around your thighs, and you struck a mock pose at the end, one hand on your hip, the other lifting just enough of the fabric to wink at the lace garter snug around your upper thigh — delicate ivory and barely-there sheer, the one your maid of honor had slipped to you that morning with a wink and a giggle.

Joel chuckled low under his breath, the sound rough and warm and unmistakably male, like it was caught in the back of his throat. He leaned forward slightly in the armchair, elbow resting on one knee, fingers loosely wrapped around his glass of whiskey. But it wasn’t the drink he was looking at.

Your movements had swayed just enough for him to catch a flash of lace — and his eyes tracked it like they had a mind of their own.

“Hold up,” Joel said suddenly, his voice casual but the glint in his eyes not quite matching the lazy ease in his tone. He leaned forward in the chair just slightly, resting his glass on the side table as his gaze settled somewhere lower — somewhere that made heat crawl beneath your skin. “C’mere for a sec, sweetheart.”

You blinked, your breath catching as you stepped toward him with a small, hesitant smile, eyes soft with concern. “What’s wrong?” you asked, your brows furrowed as your mind spun — Did I drop something? Do I have something on my face? Did my lipstick smudge already?

But Joel didn’t answer you right away. Instead, he reached out with one hand, slow and deliberate, his fingers warm as they brushed against the outside of your thigh — the place where the hem of your robe had shifted just enough during your little twirl to reveal a sliver of ivory lace. His touch was gentle, almost absentminded, but his movements were precise. Like he knew exactly what he was doing.

“This,” he murmured, dragging his finger beneath the silk as he shifted the fabric slightly to the side, revealing more of the garter cinched high on your thigh — delicate and bridal and not meant to be seen by him. “Thought I saw somethin’. Damn near missed it.”

He was smiling — that sweet, fatherly smile he always gave you — but there was something else there too, something in the way his eyes lingered, in the way his thumb brushed the edge of the lace like he was admiring it for more than just tradition’s sake.

You froze, a flush blooming across your cheeks, your chest tightening beneath the satin as you struggled to find words. How were you supposed to explain to your future father-in-law that you were wearing a garter? That it was supposed to be seen by someone else — his son, no less. That it was part of some ancient wedding tradition meant to feel cheeky, fun, maybe even a little flirtatious, but now felt scandalous, intimate, exposed in front of the man who should’ve looked away the second he noticed.

Your voice caught in your throat, lodged somewhere between your chest and your lips, and all you could manage was a breathy, flustered, “It’s…” You swallowed hard, cheeks burning as you reached absently for the belt of your robe, needing something to do with your hands, anything to ground you beneath the weight of his gaze. “Tradition, apparently,” you mumbled. “My maid of honour gave it to me this morning.”

Joel didn’t say anything right away. His fingers — the same ones that had just ghosted over the soft skin of your thigh — trailed off with an infuriating slowness, leaving behind a trail of heat like a brand. He let go of the silk as if he hadn’t just touched something sacred, as if his hand hadn’t rested somewhere it most certainly should not have been — like the act itself hadn’t tilted the axis of the room just a fraction. Like it wasn’t so unbearably wrong you felt dizzy with it.

He leaned back in the armchair, the movement languid and unhurried, like he was stretching into the moment instead of trying to escape it. One arm draped along the back of the seat, the other resting on his thigh, fingers idly brushing his whiskey glass. His gaze moved slowly — dragging unapologetically from your legs, up the length of your body, pausing at the dip of your waist where the robe clung, the soft curve of your chest, the flutter of your pulse at the base of your throat — before finally, finally settling on your face again.

“Well,” he said, his voice warm and low, that Southern drawl folding over you like velvet, smooth but weighted, “it’s a real pretty little thing.”

He paused, his smile curling at the edge with something far too knowing, too intimate.

“Just like you.”

Your breath hitched. You blinked, eyes wide, the blush rising higher on your cheeks as you stood frozen in place, unsure what to say, unsure what could be said. You felt suddenly very young, very exposed — like a girl playing dress-up in a woman’s world, standing in a silk robe that felt too thin, with lace too intimate, in front of a man who should have looked away by now. A man who should have been like a father. A man who wasn’t.

You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, your fingers trembling slightly, your gaze darting away in a poor attempt to gather composure. But you could still feel his eyes on you — the weight of them. Gentle. Heavy. Wanting.

You sat down again, your legs folding delicately beneath you, hyperaware now of the space between you — or rather, the lack of it. His knee brushed yours when you shifted slightly, and the silk of your robe clung a little too close to your skin, made you feel a little too seen. Your skin still tingled where his hand had rested moments before.

“What are the boys doing?” you asked, your voice soft, trying to ease the thrum in your chest by returning to something normal — something safe — but even as you said it, your voice betrayed you, just a little too airy, a little too unsure.

Joel chuckled, low and warm, that rich gravel sound that lived somewhere deep in his chest. He swirled the amber liquid in his glass with idle ease. “Luke and the boys?” he said, eyes still fixed on you like you were more interesting than anything happening elsewhere. “They’re just gettin’ ready in the suite down the hall. Arguin’ over whose tie’s crooked, takin’ shots behind your mama’s back.”

You smiled, shoulders relaxing a touch, but then — then Joel shifted his wrist as he brought the glass to his lips, and just as his arm brushed yours, he fumbled.

It was subtle. Believable. Performed so naturally you would’ve sworn it was real.

The glass tilted — just enough — and a slow, honeyed trickle of whiskey spilled over the rim, slipping down the side of the tumbler and landing squarely on your thigh.

Your gasp was soft, surprised, as the warm liquid soaked into the silk, darkening it in a bloom that made the fabric cling scandalously to your skin. It rolled down your leg in a slow, sinful line.

“Shit,” Joel muttered, deep and throaty, setting the glass aside instantly. His hand followed the spill without hesitation, brushing the fabric with the back of his knuckles, trying — pretending — to help. “Damn, m’sorry, sweetheart. Wasn’t lookin’. Didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, your voice thin, fluttering from your lips like it had to push through the tightness in your chest. Your breath hitched as Joel’s fingers lingered, just for a second too long, his knuckles grazing the edge of your thigh as though he couldn’t quite bring himself to stop touching you. “It’s just—just the robe.”

He pulled back, but not far, reaching behind him for the box of tissues on the table with a low chuckle, his voice roughened by something that felt deeper than amusement. “Sorry, darlin’,” he muttered as he shook his head, pulling a few tissues loose. “Old man like me can’t do nothin’ right with these damn hands anymore. Slippery glass, nerves shot, eyesight probably goin’.”

You laughed softly, unsure whether it was the champagne or the way your heart felt like it had climbed into your throat. “You’re not old,” you murmured, looking down at your lap to avoid his gaze.

Joel didn’t respond to that — not directly. Instead, he leaned forward again, pressing the tissue to your thigh with a gentleness that made the breath stall in your lungs. His hand was warm, firm but careful, like he was scared he might hurt you, or maybe scared of something entirely different.

He dabbed at the silk uselessly, the fabric already soaked through, transparent now and clinging like a second skin.

“Damn,” he muttered again, more to himself this time as his eyes followed the trail of amber staining the pale ivory. “I’m makin’ it worse, ain’t I?”

You didn’t answer, your mouth dry, because he wasn’t really asking.

Joel looked up, his eyes meeting yours with a quiet intensity, and then back down at the fabric. “This ain’t gonna come clean like this,” he said after a moment, holding the tissue up like proof. “You’ll catch a chill sittin’ in it all wet like that.”

You hesitated, blinking. “It’s fine, really—”

“Nah,” he said gently, his voice taking on that soft but insistent tone, the one that always made people listen. “You’re gonna wrinkle that beautiful dress if this soaks through. Here—” his fingers moved to the sash at your waist before you even realized, pausing just long enough for your eyes to go wide.

“May I?” he asked, and the way he said it — quiet, kind, not pushy but so utterly deliberate — made your stomach twist with something sharp and hot, something that curled behind your ribs and settled low, where your thoughts shouldn’t be wandering.

“I—” you exhaled a shaky breath, a breathy, nervous laugh tumbling out of you. “I’m not sure—”

Joel’s smile was warm, sweet even, but his hands were already ready — positioned at your waist like he was just waiting for permission he already knew you’d give. “We gotta get you cleaned up, baby,” he said gently, glancing at the watch on his wrist like this was all just time-sensitive logistics and not a private, forbidden unraveling. “You got what… twenty minutes till the photographer shows up? Tess, Lord, she dropped every damn thing on her dress back on our day. Nerves’ll do that to ya. But this?” His hand brushed the stained silk. “This’s before the ceremony. Can’t have your wedding robe lookin’ like this in the photos, sugar. People’ll talk.”

He chuckled, soft and low, like he’d just said something harmless, like this wasn’t the most dangerous thing he’d ever done. And your voice — so small and unsure and trembling in a way you couldn’t seem to stop — came out as little more than a breath: “Okay.”

Before you even realized what was happening, his fingers worked the sash loose, slow and careful like he was handling something breakable. The robe slid off your shoulders with the softest whisper of silk and warmth, pooling at your waist before slipping down your hips entirely. Joel caught it in one hand like it was something sacred, something fragile that deserved care — but his eyes…

His eyes didn’t stay on the robe.

He pretended to examine the stained fabric, muttering something under his breath about the fibers and how whiskey sets, holding it like he was doing you a favor — but his gaze lifted a second later, and when it did, it hit you like heat.

Because now you were standing in front of him in nothing but your wedding-day lingerie.

Lace and satin hugged your body, delicate and white and unforgiving, sheer in places where it shouldn’t have been, the garter still snug on your thigh, the tops of your stockings barely visible beneath the hem of the lace. You felt bare. Exposed. Like you’d been unwrapped and laid open just for him.

And Joel — your fiancé’s father, the man who’d kissed your cheek over birthday cake, who’d fixed the broken lock on your apartment door, who’d always called you sweetheart like it was your name — looked up at you then.

His eyes trailed up the length of your legs, slowly, reverently, over your hips, your stomach, the soft line of your chest rising and falling far too quickly.

He didn’t smile.

He just looked.

And in that still, humming silence — where the only sound was the soft rustle of lace against skin and the distant echo of footsteps in some far-off hallway that no longer felt real — you realized with a throb in your chest that Joel had never looked at you like this before.

But he wasn’t stopping.

Not this time.

His eyes dragged over you slowly, reverently, so intensely it made your skin feel too tight, like you were glowing from the inside out, flushed and trembling in nothing but that thin veil of bridal lace that barely counted as clothing. His mouth parted, just slightly, like the words were trying to catch up with the way his thoughts had already unraveled.

“Well,” he drawled at last, voice low and breathless with disbelief, a wry edge of admiration curling around every syllable, “hell, darlin’... I didn’t even know they made underwear like that.”

You gasped — soft, startled — and instinctively crossed your arms over your chest, trying to shield yourself with trembling hands, but there was barely anything to cover. The silk and lace clung to you like a whisper, translucent in places it shouldn’t be, tight across curves he was now seeing for the very first time, and the heat in his eyes made your knees threaten to give out.

Joel dropped the robe without looking, the silk puddling soundlessly at his feet, forgotten, like it was meaningless compared to the vision standing before him. His voice dipped deeper, reverent but laced with something unholy, something so filthy it made your pulse stutter.

“Shit, honey…” he whispered, gaze flicking down again, breath catching as he took you in from head to toe, “…this lace don’t even cover your pussy, does it?”

You froze, stunned, lips parted in a silent gasp, your body prickling with heat that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with how the words hit you — low and wicked, like something molten pooling behind your ribs.

He shook his head slowly, as though trying to make sense of what he was seeing, as though the sight of you — flushed and trembling and wrapped in lace that did nothing to hide the soft, sacred shape of your body — was more than his tired, aging heart could bear. His voice, when it came, was hushed and aching, like it had to claw its way up from somewhere deep in his chest. “You look like heaven on earth,” he murmured, almost broken by it, like saying the words out loud wounded him in some unspeakable way. “Like somethin’ God himself made just to fuck with me.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

Your arms were still crossed tightly over your chest, but your hands had slackened, your fingers curled uselessly against your skin as if even they had surrendered to the weight of his gaze. Your lips were parted in shock, your mouth dry, and your heart was pounding so hard you swore he could see it in the way your collarbone trembled beneath the thin thread of satin. You didn’t know if you should run — throw on the robe, end this before it went any further — or reach for him, admit what your body had already betrayed.

Joel stood then, slowly, without a word, and took the few steps toward you with the calm, deliberate steadiness of a man who had made up his mind.

You didn’t move when he reached you.

Didn’t protest when his rough, warm hands slid gently over your wrists, guiding your arms down and away from your chest, until they hung limply at your sides and you were bare before him in a way you had never been before.

His gaze dropped immediately, and there was nothing coy about it now, nothing shy or hesitant in the way his eyes devoured the sight of you. His breath hitched audibly when he saw your chest, and his voice, when it came, was low and ragged and thick with hunger.

“Jesus, baby…” he muttered, his voice strained and reverent like he was confessing a sin, “I can see your fuckin’ nipples through that lace.”

The way he said it — not vulgar, not joking, but stunned, ruined, like it was a miracle he didn’t deserve to witness — sent a ripple of heat straight through your spine. You felt like you were on fire, like your skin was glowing beneath his gaze, like you were something holy being blasphemed.

“Joel,” you warned, or tried to, though your voice cracked under the weight of your own trembling.

Your brows furrowed, your breath shallow, but you didn’t pull away. You couldn’t. Because his eyes were still fixed on your breasts, on the way the sheer lace hugged the swell of them, your nipples peaked and visible through the delicate floral embroidery, the faint rise and fall of your chest growing sharper with each second his gaze remained. And Joel — your future father-in-law, the man who’d always carried himself with the kind of unshakable dignity only age could bring — just looked.

He didn’t blink. He didn’t flinch. He didn’t say sorry.

He just kept looking at you like he’d never seen anything so goddamn beautiful in his life — like the sight of you, soft and trembling in white lace that barely clung to your skin, had cracked something open in him so deep and buried he no longer remembered how to pretend it wasn’t there.

And then, in a voice so calm and so casual it could’ve been mistaken for small talk, he murmured, “Now you can’t blame an old man for admirin’, can you?”

The way he said it — low, warm, with the faintest flicker of amusement curling in his chest — made your stomach flip. Like this was the most natural thing in the world. Like you were the one being silly for acting like he hadn’t just devoured you with his eyes.

His hand rose, slow and unhurried, and settled against your hip — broad and warm, his thumb brushing bare skin where the lace ended. The contact was electric, your breath catching in your throat as you gasped softly, your eyes snapping up to his.

“You wear this for him?” he asked, tilting his head slightly, gaze trailing from your mouth to your breasts again like he couldn’t help himself. “This pretty little set?”

You couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even think. Not with his hand on you, not with his voice all low and close like that, like a secret being whispered in a confessional.

“Bet he can’t even fuck ya right,” Joel muttered, more to himself than to you, like the words had slipped out from somewhere dark and unchecked.

“Joel,” you said, eyes wide, voice trembling, every part of your body pulsing with heat and something dangerously close to arousal.

But he didn’t back away. Didn’t apologize. Just looked at you harder, darker, like he wanted to pull every secret from your lips one by one.

“Am I right?” he asked, his thumb pressing slightly into your hip, his voice rough now, frayed around the edges. “Answer me.”

“He’s—” you stuttered, struggling to find breath, to find balance. “We—”

Joel leaned closer, close enough that you could feel his breath on your cheek, close enough that your body instinctively tilted toward his like gravity itself wanted to betray you.

“What?” he asked again, quieter this time, more intimate. “Tell me, baby.”

You swallowed hard, lashes fluttering, unable to meet his gaze. “We’re waiting,” you whispered, cheeks burning. “I… I’m waiting for marriage.”

Joel stilled completely, his hand still on your hip, the silence stretching like a rubber band between you, pulled taut with something unspeakable.

“Is that right?” he said, his voice rasping out of him now — not mocking, not surprised, but so deep and low it made your thighs press together without thought.

And then, with a smirk so slow and sinful it felt like a hand dragging down your spine, he murmured—

“Wearin’ nothin’ but that little lace set… nipples hard and pussy barely covered… waitin’ for marriage?” He laughed under his breath, eyes glinting with heat as his thumb stroked over your hipbone again. “Sugar, you don’t look like you’re waitin’ for anything at all.”

You swallowed, the words catching in your throat before you could push them out, your body so tense it ached. “It’s true,” you whispered finally, barely able to look at him, your eyes darting toward the door, the hallway, the window — anywhere but the furnace of his gaze — “Joel… you should go. You have to leave.”

The reality of it struck you all at once — how easily someone could walk in, a bridesmaid, your mother, Luke, God forbid — how they’d see you like this, half-naked in white lace with your robe discarded, flushed and trembling in front of a man who wasn’t your groom but your fiancé’s father — and yet your feet didn’t move, your body didn’t pull away, your hands still resting lightly against his chest, clutching the fabric of his shirt like he was the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“Ain’t no one been in here?” Joel asked as the pad of his finger tapped once against the thin lace stretched over your cunt — then again, firmer this time — and your knees nearly gave out, a soft gasp escaping your lips as your entire body shuddered, the contact so sharp, so intimate, so forbidden you couldn’t breathe.

Your arms flew up, instinctive, desperate for balance, and gripped his shoulders for support, fingers digging into the fabric as your forehead dropped forward against his chest, your body swaying against his like it was trying to find safety in the very place it should’ve run from.

“No,” you said shakily, head turning slightly against him, your voice catching somewhere between shame and pleading. “I’m—Joel, I’m—no one’s.”

He stilled.

Everything in him seemed to go quiet, like your words had struck something sacred.

“Christ,” he breathed, low and reverent, his hand still cupping you through the lace, fingers twitching against the heat of you, “you mean to tell me…”

You felt his chest rise and fall beneath your cheek, could hear the raw edge of restraint unraveling in his voice.

“And you’re gonna let Luke be the first?”

You flinched, eyes fluttering shut as guilt and desire tangled painfully in your chest. “He’s my fiancé,” you said softly, almost defensively, even though you couldn’t lift your head from Joel’s chest, even though your body was pressing closer to his with each heartbeat. “We’re… we’re getting married.”

Joel exhaled, slow and heavy, his fingers dragging gently over the soaked lace between your legs, not quite touching, just tracing, feeling, memorizing.

His voice came softer now, but no less devastating.

“And still… he ain’t the one you’re tremblin’ for, is he?”

“I—” you tried to speak, to form a protest, a thought, anything — but your words were swallowed before they ever had the chance to live, devoured by the press of Joel’s mouth crashing down onto yours.

Warm, demanding, his lips slanted over yours with the kind of hunger that had clearly been simmering just beneath the surface, patient and quiet until now. His tongue swept into your mouth before you could process the heat of it, before you could decide whether to stop him, and his hands — large, calloused, far too steady — came to cradle either side of your face as though this were something sacred, something earned.

You gasped into him, the kiss knocking the breath from your lungs, your palms pressed flat against his chest at first as though you might push him away, but the moment was already slipping too far beyond your control. You were drowning in the taste of him, in the scent of whiskey and cologne and Joel, in the feel of his body against yours — broad, solid, unwavering — and before you could stop yourself, your lips parted further beneath his, soft and needy, a quiet sound escaping your throat as your hands curled into the front of his shirt and you kissed him back.

Joel groaned into your mouth, a deep, wrecked sound that came from somewhere low in his gut, and when he pulled back just an inch, just long enough to drag in a breath, his eyes were black with something feral.

“Fuckin’ knew it,” he muttered, almost to himself, voice rough with triumph, like he’d just uncovered a truth he’d been aching to confirm. “Little virgin with a mouth like sin… wearin’ lace for your weddin’, but kissin’ me like you’re starvin’ for it.”

His hands dropped then, feverish and impatient, fumbling with the buckle of his belt as you stood frozen, breathless, dazed beneath him, your lips still tingling, heart slamming against your ribs like it wanted to escape your body.

“A virgin,” he rasped, eyes dragging down the length of you like a man unwrapping a forbidden gift, “but still a fuckin’ whore for me.”

You whimpered — barely audible — but you didn’t deny it. Couldn’t. Because every inch of your body was betraying you, soaked and trembling and swaying toward him like gravity itself had changed direction.

Joel moved fast, years of control finally unraveling as he gripped your waist and guided you backwards, turning you effortlessly, and before you could register what was happening, you felt the soft brush of velvet behind your knees.

You bent instinctively, breath catching in your throat, and he pressed you down onto the couch — the same pale satin loveseat where your robe had been draped just minutes before — your spine arching as your knees folded beneath you, your chest bracing against the cushions.

Everything moved too quickly and yet not quick enough, your thoughts spinning, your skin burning, the cool air kissing your bare thighs as your position shifted, hips raised, your lace-covered ass now exposed, tilted up toward him like an offering.

You heard the clink of his belt dropping open.

And Joel — standing behind you now, belt unfastened — stared down at you with an expression so dark, so wrecked with lust and disbelief, you could feel the weight of it without even turning around. His breath came heavier now, the air between you thick and humid with something that felt like sin and smelled like cologne and sex, and when he finally spoke, it was little more than a gravel-coated whisper, ruined and reverent.

“Look at that fuckin’ view…”

The words made your spine arch involuntarily, heat crawling up your neck and pooling between your thighs, the lace of your panties so damp it clung to you like a second skin. You turned your head, looking back over your shoulder, your voice small and trembling, barely able to make its way past the knot forming in your throat.

“Joel… what are you doing?”

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t blink. Just stepped forward, one hand settling heavy and possessive on the curve of your ass, his voice low and casual, like this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Gonna fuck you, sweetie.”

Your mouth fell open, a breath escaping so sharp it felt like a wound.

“Joel,” you gasped, your voice cracking from the inside out, but you didn’t move — didn’t pull away, didn’t protest, didn’t stop him — and that alone told him everything he needed to know.

His palm came down fast.

The crack echoed softly against the suite walls, sharp and sudden, your body jolting from the contact as you yelped in surprise, eyes fluttering shut from the sting that bloomed across your skin.

Joel’s hand returned immediately, smoothing over the flesh he’d just struck, warm and steady, grounding you through the burn.

“Gotta be quiet, angel,” he murmured, his voice rich and amused, thick with the kind of heat that made your toes curl. “Don’t wanna spook the wedding planner. She’ll come knockin’ if she hears you squealin’ like that.”

And then, with a patience so unholy it made your head spin, he lifted his hand again — and brought it down once more.

The second smack was firmer, more confident, and this time, he watched with a hunger so intense it bordered on reverence as a soft red bloom appeared across the curve of your ass, glowing beneath the sheer lace.

He exhaled like a man in prayer.

“Fuck…” he whispered, dragging his thumb along the edge of the mark, watching the skin warm and swell beneath his touch. “Look how pretty you blush for me.”

You whimpered, your cheek pressed against the cushion, fingers curling into the fabric as your body burned with shame and need, trembling under his hands, soaked through and aching for more.

“Should be sweet,” he murmured, almost to himself now, like he couldn’t believe what he was about to do, like it hurt him in all the wrong, delicious ways. “It’s your first time, ain’t it? Should be slow. Should be gentle…”

He paused above you, the solid weight of his chest hovering just shy of your back, his breath warm and steady against your ear as he whispered like he had all the time in the world, like this wasn’t happening in the bridal suite moments before your wedding. “…But you bent over so easy for me, angel,” he murmured, the heat of his words seeping into your skin like smoke, “didn’t even need to be asked — now I’m thinkin’ maybe you don’t want it sweet.”

You whimpered his name, the sound spilling from your lips before you could stop it, trembling with the need clawing its way through your chest. “Please, Joel,” you whispered, voice raw and soaked in shame and longing.

His lips brushed your ear, low and indulgent. “Please what, baby?”

You hesitated only for a breath, the humiliation of the words curling in your throat, but it was overtaken by need, by the aching, throbbing emptiness that only he could fill. “I want you to fuck me,” you said finally, your voice cracking under the weight of it, tears slipping down your cheeks now, mascara probably smeared, dignity long gone, “please, I—I need it so bad.”

Your hand moved before your thoughts could catch up, fingers reaching between your thighs to drag the drenched lace of your panties to the side, desperate to give him access, to offer yourself up in the most obscene, pleading way.

But Joel moved faster.

He stepped in, growling something low in his throat, and pushed your hand away like you were doing it all wrong. His fingers slipped beneath the waistband of the soaked panties and yanked them down with deliberate slowness, dragging the sticky fabric over your thighs, your knees, until it slipped free completely and left your bare pussy exposed, glistening and trembling beneath his gaze.

“No,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you, his voice gravel-edged with hunger and reverence, “not to the side, baby — I wanna see all of it. Want nothin�� in the way of this sweet little pussy. S’too fuckin’ pretty to be hidden.”

You heard the soft rustle of fabric as he folded the panties once, then again, and without ceremony — like it was the most casual act in the world — he shoved them into the breast pocket of his suit jacket.

“Fuck,” he breathed, stepping back to take in the sight of you, bent over for him, lace bra hugging your chest, your ass bare and soft, and your pussy so slick it shone in the low light of the room. “She’s leakin’, baby. Soakin’ the fuckin’ air.”

You looked over your shoulder at him, your cheeks burning, your lip trembling, and when your eyes met his, you saw something wild and dark, something feral that had been buried under years of restraint and was finally, violently free.

Joel’s eyes dropped again to your cunt — pink, swollen, dripping — and he let out a low whistle, shaking his head like he was seeing something too good for this world. “Look at that,” he whispered, his thumb brushing along the curve of your ass, just shy of where you needed him most. “She’s just beggin’ to be filled, ain’t she? Never been touched, never been fucked, and already actin’ like she knows who she belongs to.”

His hand moved then, slow and reverent, fingers grazing your folds with barely-there pressure, teasing the slick mess between your legs. “You hear that?” he murmured, almost in awe as your body answered him with a wet, needy sound. “She’s talkin’ to me, baby. Cryin’ for it. She wants me bad — this pussy knows who she wants first.”

His fingers pressed deeper between your thighs now, soaked and shameless, and the way he touched you wasn’t rushed or careless, but slow and possessive — like he’d already decided that this part of you belonged to him, no matter who was waiting outside with a ring. He leaned in again, his mouth grazing the side of your jaw as he murmured low against your skin, every syllable thick with heat and power, “Tell me, sweetheart… did he ever taste you?”

Your lips parted, breath trembling, and it took you a moment to respond, because even now, as you knelt there in nothing but lace and sin, your body already given over, the shame still clung to your voice like it didn’t want to be spoken. “Yes,” you whispered finally, eyes fluttering closed, “he has.”

Joel’s hum was deep and thoughtful, his hand never stopping its slow rhythm as he circled your entrance with one thick finger, teasing you without mercy. He didn’t sound jealous, but rather contemplative — like he was trying to figure out how to rewrite every memory your body had ever known. And then, after another breathless pause, his voice dropped even lower, almost gentle now, as he asked, “And you ever suck him off, baby? Ever get that pretty little mouth of yours wrapped around his cock?”

Your cheeks burned, throat tightening, and you nodded once, eyes already glassy, tears hot beneath your lashes. “Yes,” you squeaked out, barely audible.

Joel exhaled slowly, like the sound of your voice had settled deep in his chest. And when he spoke again, it was with a reverence that made your stomach flip. “Then I reckon this tight little cunt’s still untouched,” he said, fingers spreading you open now, deliberately exposing the soft, slick heat he hadn’t even begun to take. “You’re gonna be tight, angel. Might hurt a little when I stretch you open.”

You shook your head hard, hips pushing back against his hand without even meaning to, your voice breaking apart on a moan. “I don’t care,” you gasped, the words dissolving into desperation, “please, Joel… I need it, I need you.”

The moment you said it — the moment that last piece of resistance crumbled — he moved like something primal had been set loose in him. His belt hit the floor with a low clink, and then you heard it — the sound of fabric shifting, his breath catching, the soft curse under his breath — and you turned your head, just barely, to see it.

Joel’s cock — thick, flushed, the tip already leaking — was heavy in his hand, larger than anything you'd ever taken, long and wide and veined in a way that made your knees shake. He looked down at you, still kneeling, still trembling, and the expression on his face was unlike anything you'd ever seen on him before — not protective, not amused, not even hungry — but possessive, like the sight of you below him, spread and waiting, had finally answered something inside him that had been restless for years.

Your eyes went wide, lips parting, and before you could stop yourself, the words slipped out — honest and stunned and burning hot. “You’re… you’re so much bigger than him.”

Joel’s brows lifted, his expression faltering for a moment like your soft little confession had caught him off-guard, and then his mouth curved into something dark and triumphant, a grin that held no humor, only heat. “Yeah?” he asked, voice soft but curling with something almost cruel. “That right, angel? My shy little girl just saw my cock and realized she’s been settlin’ for less all this time?”

Your face flushed deeper, but you nodded, thighs pressing together with need, your body already aching for the stretch.

Joel’s hand wrapped tight around the base of his cock, dragging the thick head through your folds, collecting your wetness and coating himself in it like it was something sacred. He let out a low groan, deep and reverent, as he whispered against your spine, “You’re about to learn what it means to be filled proper, baby — gonna ruin you so good, you won’t remember how he ever made you feel, and you’re gonna thank me for it.”

With one hand wrapped tight around the base of his cock, guiding himself with a precision that bordered on reverence, and the other braced firmly on your hip, his fingers digging into the soft swell of your flesh, Joel positioned himself behind you like a man about to sin so deeply he didn’t expect to walk away clean. He dragged the thick, leaking head through your folds one last time, gathering the wetness that clung to your skin like honey, before lining himself up at your entrance, pressing forward with a slow, relentless roll of his hips that knocked the breath straight from your lungs.

The moment his cock breached you — that first, unbearable stretch of thick muscle forcing you open for the first time — your mouth dropped open in a silent scream before the sound tore free of your throat, a strangled cry that buried itself in the pillow beneath your face as your fingers clawed at the cushions like you were trying to anchor yourself to something, anything.

Joel groaned above you, loud and ragged, like your cunt had knocked the air straight out of his chest, his breath hitching as he sank deeper into you, inch by devastating inch, until the full weight of his cock was buried inside your trembling body. “That’s it, baby,” he rasped, voice ruined and low, “that’s my good girl, takin’ it like she was fuckin’ made for it — Jesus Christ, this tight little pussy’s grippin’ me like she don’t wanna let go.”

Your thighs trembled, your toes curling, your eyes filling again with tears as you sobbed into the pillow, the fullness so sharp it hurt, a stretch so wide and foreign it felt like your body couldn’t possibly take it — and yet, the heat, the pressure, the weight of him made your entire body burn with something dangerously close to bliss.

He gave you barely a second, just enough to gasp for breath, before his hips drew back and slammed forward again, not with violence, but with intent — each thrust deep and punishing, like he’d waited long enough and now he needed all of you, needed to fuck you through the pain and into something filthy and perfect and his.

You screamed again, voice shaking, body arching up to meet him as he fucked into you, deep and fast and so much.

“Fuck,” you cried, the sound punched out of you, every word breaking on a moan as your body fought to keep up with the brutal stretch.

Joel leaned over you then, one arm bracing beside your head, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your ear as he growled, “That good, angel? You cryin’ on my cock ‘cause it feels that fuckin’ good?”

You could barely speak, could barely breathe, but you nodded helplessly, tears streaking your cheeks, your makeup a ruined mess, your pussy stretched around the thickest cock you’d ever felt in your life — and Joel, old enough to know better, too far gone to care, only fucked you harder.

Joel was relentless now, driving into you with a force that knocked the air from your lungs, each thrust impossibly deep, thick, and brutal, the sound of his hips slapping against your soaked flesh echoing through the bridal suite like a hymn made of sin. You were sobbing by then, not from pain but from the overwhelming stretch, the brutal pleasure that had overtaken your body like wildfire, every nerve lit up, every breath punched out of you, your throat raw from crying his name like it was the only thing you knew.

And then, without warning, he pulled you back — hard — one strong arm wrapping around your waist to wrench you upright until your back collided with his chest, your spine arched against the heat of him, your ass pressed flush to his groin, his cock still buried to the hilt inside your fluttering cunt.

He was still fully dressed — the open front of his suit brushing your bare skin, the crisp fabric harsh against your softness — and the contrast only made it filthier, more obscene, like you were some trembling little bride mounted by a man who hadn’t even bothered to take off his jacket before ruining you.

His hand slid up, slow and steady, until it wrapped around your throat, not squeezing, just holding — possessive and firm, a collar of ownership as he leaned down to growl in your ear, his voice thick with the sound of his own unraveling.

“Gonna cream all over this virgin fuckin’ pussy, baby,” he groaned, his cock throbbing inside you, twitching against your walls with every brutal thrust. “Gonna fill you up so deep, you’ll be walkin’ down that aisle with my cum drippin’ outta you.”

The new angle was dizzying — every stroke hitting something deeper, rougher, worse, dragging cries from your throat that didn’t even sound like words anymore. Your legs trembled violently, muscles going slack as the pleasure coiled tight in your belly, white-hot and blinding.

“I—I think I’m gonna—Joel—” you gasped, voice choked, your head falling back against his shoulder as your thighs began to shake uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he rasped, fucking into you harder now, his grip on your throat tightening just enough to make your toes curl. “Come on, baby, give it to me — wanna feel this sweet little cunt clench when she lets go — fuckin’ knew you’d come all over my cock.”

And you did — with a scream so loud it barely sounded human, your pussy clamping down around him in waves, your entire body convulsing as the orgasm ripped through you, soaking him in heat and slick and something filthy and pure all at once.

Joel cursed behind you, a deep, raw sound of something breaking loose inside him, and his rhythm faltered as his hands gripped you tight, dragging you down hard on his cock one final time.

“Fuck—Jesus, I’m gonna—shit—” he growled, voice splintering as he shoved himself impossibly deeper, grinding his hips against you as his cock pulsed violently inside your pussy.

And then he came — hot and thick and overwhelming — spilling deep inside you in heavy, pulsing waves, each thrust slower now but just as deep, his breath hot and ragged against the side of your neck as he held you still, as if your trembling body could take any more. His hand remained wrapped around your throat, not squeezing now but resting there like a vow, like he couldn’t bear to let go of the place he’d claimed. Your insides fluttered around him, spasming weakly as his cock throbbed within you, every thick drop of his cum flooding your aching cunt, the sensation so warm, so full, so all-consuming, it felt like your body wasn’t your own anymore — like it belonged to him now, marked and filled and known.

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

The heat curled through your chest like smoke, leaving you dizzy and dazed, your limbs too heavy to move as the wet, messy slickness dripped slowly from between your thighs.

Joel panted behind you, his mouth still close to your ear, his free hand still groping greedily at your breasts like he wasn’t finished, like he needed every last inch of you under his palms even after emptying himself inside you. And then, without warning, his mouth descended to your neck, kissing along your pulse point, soft and slow, then dragging lower — your shoulder, the curve of your back, the lace strap clinging to your flushed skin — every kiss a brand, every press of his lips a silent admission.

“Fucking perfect for me,” he rasped, the words spoken so quietly it felt like a confession, not meant for anyone but your skin.

Your legs gave out the moment he loosened his hold, and you collapsed onto the couch in a daze, your breathing shallow, mascara smudged, hair clinging to the sweat on your face, the inside of your thighs still trembling from the aftershocks. Joel stood, finally withdrawing from your soaked body with a low groan, his cock wet with your slick and his cum, and for a long, quiet second, he just looked down at you — completely undone, flushed and leaking, back arched against the velvet couch cushions like a vision he’d spend the rest of his life remembering.

He tucked himself back into his slacks with slow, practiced movements, the suit wrinkled now, his shirt untucked and his belt hanging loosely from the loops, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t thinking about his appearance. He was thinking about you — about what he’d just done — about the way your body still shook for him.

Then he bent down, breath still uneven, and slid one arm beneath your back, the other beneath your knees, pulling you gently until your hips were right at the edge of the couch and your legs were dangling over the side, parted just slightly from how loose and ruined you were. His large hands cradled your thighs as he looked between them, his expression dark and reverent, and he used both thumbs to part your folds, exposing your swollen, slick cunt — raw, red, flushed from the stretch — and the thick, creamy mess of his cum already beginning to spill from you.

“Shit,” he whispered, his voice cracking with awe and filth in equal measure, “look at that... she’s still full of me, baby. Still fuckin’ leakin’.”

He didn’t blink. He didn’t smile.

He just stared.

Joel leaned in again, no longer rough or wild, but slow, calm, tender, and pressed his mouth to yours with a softness so at odds with the filth he’d just whispered into your ear that it made your stomach turn with something dizzying. You whimpered into the kiss before you could stop yourself, lips parting beneath his without hesitation, and your fingers reached up to find the soft waves of his curls, threading through them like you needed him closer — like you needed him inside you again.

But just as his tongue swept into your mouth and your thighs shifted instinctively to pull him back between them, there was a knock on the door.

Sharp. Semi-urgent. A voice just outside that made your entire body lock up.

You gasped, eyes going wide, body tensing under his hands, panic flashing across your face as you turned to him in alarm, your mouth already open with a breathless, what do we do?

But Joel — calm, unbothered, still warm from the high of fucking you — only smiled, kissed your cheek once more, and moved like a man who had nothing to hide. He reached down, smoothing your sweat-slicked hair away from your face with one broad palm, and then reached for the discarded robe on the arm of the couch, holding it out with practiced ease.

“Put this on, baby,” he murmured, his voice so quiet and so casual that you almost forgot to be afraid. “C’mon now, just like that.”

Your hands trembled as you slipped the robe over your shoulders, the silk clinging to your still-damp skin, the warmth of his cum still sticky between your thighs, seeping down slowly as you stood there dazed and wide-eyed, heart hammering as Joel calmly walked to the door.

He opened it with a quiet click.

You couldn’t see much — just his body blocking most of the entrance — but you could hear the voice that followed, light and affectionate.

“Hey, honey,” Joel said, his tone so casual it made your head spin, “I was just checkin’ on her.”

And then Tess walked in.

Your future mother-in-law.

She entered the room smiling, holding a small clutch and wearing heels that clicked softly against the tile. But her smile faltered the moment she saw your face — the smudged makeup, the dampness still clinging to your flushed cheeks, the robe wrapped haphazardly over your trembling frame.

“Oh, honey,” she said, brows knitting together as she crossed the room, her voice full of concern, “your makeup’s a mess… what happened?”

You froze. You couldn’t look at her. Couldn’t speak. Could only look at Joel.

He let out a soft sigh, the kind that sounded burdened and weary, and stepped beside you like he’d been coaching you through a meltdown. His voice was soft, warm, careful — the voice of a father figure handling a delicate girl on the verge of collapse.

“Poor thing started cryin’ while we were talkin’,” he said gently, his hand brushing your shoulder like he’d been comforting you this whole time. “Think the day’s just gotten to her a bit. I was tryin’ to calm her down, but it’s all hittin’ her at once.”

Tess was already moving toward you, one hand reaching to grab a tissue, the other pulling her compact from her clutch.

“Oh, Joel,” she said with a little laugh, smacking his arm as she passed, “you always get her so emotional. You really gotta stop with all your big speeches before the ceremony, honestly.”

She was smiling, teasing, already wiping gently under your eyes, fussing with your hair, smoothing the fabric of the robe over your bare shoulders — and she didn’t suspect a thing.

But you could still feel Joel’s hand ghosting against your back.

Still feel the ache deep inside you.

Still feel the slow, hot trickle of his cum leaking from your pussy and onto the inside of your thigh.

And when he caught your gaze from across the room — his expression unreadable, calm, smug, and maybe even a little proud — you realized something awful.

You were still his.

And he wasn’t done.

🕊♡₊˚ 🦢・₊✧

maybe i am deranged and disgusting but i am free xx hope yall enjoyed

[kbwrites]

The Lord's Favorite CH.2

synopsis: "He was both a monstrous force of vengeance and your savior, intertwined in a tempest of passion and fury.."

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⚝content: trueform!Sukuna x fem! reader, slightly suggestive, mentions of blood and gore

⚝wc: 1.5k

⚝a/n: I'm still shocked this got as much attention as it did! Thank you for reading, I hope this next part pleases you.

“Please, do your best to remain still,” Uraume chides gently. They press the cotton swab soaked in alcohol to your face, the stinging sensation causing you to wince as it penetrates the cuts on your cheek. Uraume offers a sympathetic glance. “I apologize for this…”

“You don’t need to-“

“Please.” They say firmly “I was aware of the tension between the servants, I... never thought they would do something to harm one of their own.” Uraume’s voice wavers slightly. They move to the wounds on your arms.

The door to the chamber swings open, and Sukuna stands in the threshold, leaning one arm nonchalantly against the doorframe. He surveys your battered form sitting on the edge of the bed—a trace of annoyance etched on his face. Uraume rises swiftly to bow before the king, but he dismisses the gesture with a casual wave.

“My lord, I’ve treated her as best as I can.” Uraume reports.

Sukuna’s gaze shifts to your face, his demeanor cold yet betraying a hint of concern.

“Are you in any pain?”

“No.. my lord and I’m sorry-“

“You are not at fault.” He interrupts you, his voice firm as he strides over, his heavy footsteps echoing through the room. Clad in a black robe with a purple sash tied around the waist, his rippling muscles are visible through the cascading fabric. Uraume steps back, offering a brief bow before exiting, leaving you alone with him.

He scans your face with a piercing gaze, lowering himself to your level. His eyes drift to your empty wrist, narrowing with a mix of concern and intensity.

“Where. is it.” He demands. Your eyes widen as you realize the bracelet you were given today was missing.

“I… it must have fallen off when they attacked me” You piece together aloud. 

“So they would harm you as well as steal…” Ryomen’s voice grows taut with anger he clenches his fist, body tensing up. He rises from his kneeling position, figure looming over you.

“Are you able to stand?” He questions lowly. You nod.

“Good. We will be going now.”

You look up at your king, his expression is unreadable, but there’s an unmistakable intensity in his eyes—a silent promise of retribution. 

You lag behind him as he strides purposefully down the dimly lit  hallway. The evening light leaks through the dark red curtains of the hall, casting long shadows that dance along the walls. Each step of his echoes with a menacing authority. He stops abruptly at the entrance to the servants quarters. Sukuna looks over his shoulder at you, his gaze intense and unwavering.

“Do you wish to watch?” He inquires, voice low and steady.

“W…watch?” 

“Yes, do you wish to watch as I kill the ones who hurt you.”

“I—“ your heart races, Was this really happening? “No… my lord I do not.” You speak quietly. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t respond, opening the door to the room.

The servants look upon him in reverence… or fear. Ryomen Sukuna did not bother himself with his servants, so seeing him generally meant bad news. He scans the room at the trembling help who shrink under his scrutiny, ‘utterly pathetic..’ he thinks. Their eyes drift to you, standing behind him. Ryomen shoots you a sidelong glance, awaiting you to point out your offenders. 

You look up at him, conflicted. Do you really wish for them to die? He scoffs as if reading your mind.

“You would protect them, even after what they did to you?” He sneers.

 He directs his attention back to the line of servants, all bowing their heads in fear. His gaze lands on one woman, and he notices the bracelet on her wrist—identical to the one he had painstakingly crafted for you.

At the sight of the bracelet, his demeanor changes abruptly. His expression darkens with a fierce intensity. With a swift motion, two of his arms encircle you, gently but firmly covering your eyes.

“Do not open them, until the screaming stops.”

Screams of horror reverberate through the room. You hear slashes mingling with the sound of Sukuna chuckling darkly. All the while two of his arms remains protectively around you, shielding you from the brutality he’s inflicting upon the ones who dared to harm you.

The screaming fades, his breathing slows, upper left arm lowers from your eyes.

“It is done.” And as your eyes slowly open, the sight before you is gut-wrenching. Blood and carnage litter the servant’s chambers. You clasp your hand  over your mouth as you fight back a gag. 

Ryomen looks at you, a hint of annoyance for your lack of appreciation. You gaze upon his bloodied form, he was covered in it. He wipes face, turning his back on the lifeless bodies.

“Let’s go; I require a bath and new clothes.”

You sit on the edge of the porcelain tub, adding oils and dried petals. The act of bathing Lord Sukuna had become quite routine. And yet every time he entered the room your heart would skip a beat. He stood at over six feet tall, his four muscular arms and broad, chiseled chest commanding attention. The tattoos that adorned his toned body only added to his already imposing presence.

He strides confidently over to the bath, crimson eyes never leaving yours. The scent of lavender and roses wafting through the tiled room. He lowers himself into the water, groaning as the hot water enveloped his powerful frame.

You grab a sponge, wiping the dried blood from his chest. Ryomen leans his head back against the edge of the tub, sighing in relief under your touch. He’s quiet for a moment, only the sound of the water sloshing around echoes throughout the room. One eye opens slightly to observe you, your gentle hands erasing the evidence of his carnage. Massaging away his stress and tension. He speaks in a low, commanding voice.

“Join me.”

You abruptly cease your movements, looking at him in disbelief.

“You mean—“

“In the tub, yes.” You hesitate, glancing nervously between him and the water. Knowing it was not wise to disobey your king, you begin to shed your clothing, covering yourself modestly as you allow the bathwater to cloak you. You settle on the opposite side of the tub, his eyebrow quirks in mild annoyance.

“I will not harm you.” His voice almost… gentle.

You move closer to him. Albeit too slow for his taste, one arm pulls you towards his chest, settling on the small of your back. The unprecedented position of intimacy with your lord both thrilling and unsettling.

“Are you… unhappy with my actions today?”

"No… my lord." It was partly true. You were still reeling from the events that had transpired. The king to whom you had dutifully bowed had unleashed his fury... for you? The man you willingly served, had been so enraged by your injuries that he had taken the lives of those who wronged you. He was both a monstrous force of vengeance and your savior, intertwined in a tempest of passion and fury..

“Good.” Another hand reaches to stroke your hair, a touch so feather light you wondered if he thought you’d break. “I… do not wish for you to be unhappy.” He speaks softly. His finger traces your jawline. You shiver under his touch, but don’t pull away. If your heart were to beat any faster you feared it might give out altogether.  His hand trails down to your chest, placing his palm flat against the valley between your breasts.

“Your heart is racing…Are you frightened of me?” He questioned, feeling the rhythm quicken beneath his touch.

“F…frightened?” You try to keep your voice from shaking, but it betrays you quivering with uncertainty.

“It is understandable; I could kill you right now.” He grins as his words make your heart beat even faster. “I am merely stating a fact. Do not think of it.” His gaze travels from your face to your chest, lingering at the point where the water begins.

He stands up, water dripping down his body, your gaze travels down his abs to his v-line. He only grins as he sees your curious eyes widen at his lower half. It was quite hard not to look when he was so… big. The screams from his bedroom made sense after you were called to his bath the first time. 

“You are permitted to touch.” He declares, snapping your out of your daze, a shaky hand comes up to feel his abs. He groans softly under your nimble fingers, feeling his muscles tighten in response. He was a work of art, as if the gods themselves sculpted his figure.

You knew that after his bath, Lord Sukuna would typically summon one of his concubines to his chambers. This would inevitably result in several hours of indecorous moans and pained screams, audible through the door connecting your room to his. As his servant, you wanted to adhere to your place, but a part of you couldn't help but wonder... what it would be like to bask in your lord’s presence in such an intimate way.

“My lord, shall I summon someone to… attend to your needs?” 

He only chuckles darkly, one arm reaching down to gentle cup your face. His crimson eyes feasting upon your wet, naked form committing this scene to memory.

“No need,” He murmurs, his voice deep and resonant.

 “I believe your presence is precisely what I crave.”

taglist! (I know a lot a people in the previous post asked for a part two but idk if that meant you wanted to be tagged, lmk!) @haruchi-slit @gg-trini @pastelbunnelby @cauqhtz @shadava

[ladsonlads]

Impartial Hearts | Sylus - Part One

Pairing -> Boss Sylus x Non MC Reader

Parts -> Part One | Part Two

Synopsis -> You’ve been working as Onychinus’s accountant for two years, and you’ve been carrying two heavy secrets for a third of it. You were in love with your boss, and your mother was dying.

A/N -> Guys this shit is just sad icl I need to lay off the sad songs... anyways, reader is not MC but MC is mentioned I called her 'Miss Hunter' or 'MC' bc I couldn't come up with a name, sorry.

EDIT: Thanks for all the love <33333 I honestly didn’t expect so many people to want a part two, I promise it’s in the works and I’ll try to get it out ASAP.

Trigger Warnings -> Death mentioned, heart issues mentioned.

Word Count -> 7.3K

“I’m sorry, what?” The question slipped out of your lips without much of an attempt from your brain to restrain it. You regretted that instantly.

“Watch your tone, Y/N.” The scarily low timbre in Sylus’s voice threatened retribution if you didn’t.

“Sorry… It’s just that— are you sure? I feel like this is a decision that requires a little bit more contemplation. Like getting a dog!” You tried to backpedal, but from the look of Sylus’s narrowing eyes, he wasn’t happy with your response. 

“Are you comparing her to a dog?” There was a threat thinly encased in Sylus’s question and under the thick layers of fear, you felt the slightest pang of jealousy that the he felt so strongly about defending her honour. 

What a dramatic and far-fetched conclusion. You wanted to say, but instead you bit your tongue. 

“N-No! Of course not. Not at all. I’m just wondering if wiring her such a significant sum from your equity account is a good idea when you met her—” You make a show of glancing at your shabby watch “— 13 hours ago is a sound decision.”

“So you’re questioning my judgement? Is that it?” 

You couldn’t blame him for being difficult, you walked right into that one. 

“No! Well… yes?” One would think that after two years of working for Sylus, you’d have the ability to stand your ground against him. But there was only so far someone could push a man like Sylus before he deemed you irredeemable. The consequence of which involved a hollow point in your skull. 

“Wrong answer. Wire it. Now. I’ll deal with your insubordination later.” He quickly left the room that doubled as your ‘office’; you shared it with the twins who liked to use it as their reprieve from crime. You wouldn’t have minded had they chosen less rambunctious ways of cooling-down, like reading or watching a show. Instead they’d play-fight, actually fight, play video games on the loudest volume or — the worst option of all — karaoke. 

The sarcastic yes sir died on your tongue as quickly as it crossed your mind. You pissed him off far more than usual today, and he was already way more tense since her arrival. 

Miss Hunter. Sylus kept her first name under lock-and-key, said it was safer that way. You barely caught a glimpse of her as Sylus dragged her out of his office, which was across from yours. From the glimpse you did catch, she was beautiful. Fair skin, jet black hair, a fit body. Her outfit, which was the Hunter’s Association standard issue uniform, had never looked so good. 

From what you knew from shameless eavesdropping, she was extremely important to Sylus. She was part of some critical master plan you weren’t privy to. 

You hated her.

Albeit, completely unfounded, your hatred for her stemmed from an ugly feeling you could not shake. In the two years you worked as an accountant for Onychinus, Sylus touched you once. Correction, you touched him once accidentally when you had too much to drink with the twins after work. You were taking careful steps to the bar to pour yourself another glass of a gross vodka raspberry mixture when you tripped on the edge of one of Sylus’s extremely expensive rugs. Your feet pedalled forward in an attempt to keep you upright, and you clashed right into Sylus who was innocently scrolling through his phone on the wall next to the bar. 

You could recall the fear you felt vividly. You almost felt the same wedge lodged in your throat. Sylus quickly removed you from him, steadying you with his cold palms on your shoulders (an action that made you blush like a schoolgirl) before verbally deeming you cut-off from all liquor from the night.

That was the full extent of all physical contact you’d had with Sylus in two whole years, meanwhile it took Miss Hunter less than 24-hours before he was holding her hand. God, you hated her.

“Oi, Y/N, we’re using the company card for lunch today.” Luke quickly yelled out to you from the hallway, too engrossed in your self-loathing and plain old regular loathing, you forgot to remind Luke that they only had $40 left on their weekly lunch budget. 

Knowing the twins, they wouldn’t have cared anyway, creating yet another problem you had to fix.

Looking at the excel sheet that contained this month’s trial balance, you shivered at the thought of having to deal with Sylus’s wrath at yet another monthly increase in expenses. So, you shifted the remaining balance on your lunch budget, a generous $255, into the twin’s joint account. It was only Thursday morning, and they’d managed to max-out their $1000 budget. 

You hated them too.

You looked through your drawer in hopes you had a leftover snack that could sadly double as your lunch and felt a wave of relief at the sight of a protein bar. 

It wasn’t like Sylus didn’t pay you enough to afford your own lunch, in fact he was the most generous employer you’d ever had. But the only thing bigger than his bank account was corporate greed, and the blood-sucking heathens at Akso hospital were milking you dry.

Life in the N109 Zone wasn’t easy for most people, especially your mother who raised you all on her own after your father left. She worked 3 jobs to put you through university in Linkon, so the least you could do was use every last cent you made on ensuring she had the best medical treatment money could buy. 

Your mother had a bad heart ever since she was born, it was a hereditary condition that would sometimes skip a generation only to show up in the next. She had an atrial septal defect, or in another words, a hole in her heart. You were born with one too, although yours was much smaller. She’d undergone several surgeries to repair the hole, but it reopened, and now the scar tissue surrounding the surgical site was obstructing her arteries. She was now on bypass patiently awaiting a heart transplant you couldn’t quite afford, but you’d make it happen. You were sure of it. 

With half the protein bar in your mouth, you began to call Dr Zayne, the cardiovascular surgeon who was overseeing your mother’s care. You called him for updates on your mother and the transplant list every day, since a train ticket to Linkon was too big an expense to justify, you’d settle for Dr Zayne’s cold recollections of your mother’s heart function. 

“Ah, Miss L/N, I was beginning to think you weren’t going to call today.” The dead-pan sarcasm dripped from his tone. 

“Your bedside manner needs serious work.” You bit back. You weren’t sure when or how your relationship with your mother’s doctor turned so hostile, but you figured the busy chief of surgery was annoyed by your constant calls. 

“Need I remind you, Y/N, you’re not the patient.” 

“There isn’t a waking second I’m not thinking about the patient, Dr Zayne.” 

An uncomfortable silence hung in the air at your confession. You didn’t mean to make him feel guilty, in all honesty, you looked forward to the banter before the updates on your mom, it helped ease the nerves. 

“Do you want to see her?”

“Of course, but I’m working a lot.”

“No, I mean right now.”

“Are you finally letting me borrow the hospital helicopter?”

“No, but I will let you borrow my phone so you can FaceTime her.”

His kind offer caught you off guard. “Really?!”

“Sure, you caught me in a rare moment where I don’t have someplace to be.”

“It must be Christmas.”

“Rarer than Christmas. Think solar eclipse.”

“Okay, okay, I get it. Now give me my mother.”

Zayne kept his promise, and you spoke to your mother for your entire lunch break, and then some. You would’ve continued talking to her until the sunset if not for Sylus’s interruption. 

“I don’t pay you to FaceTime your friends, Y/N.”

“Sorry, I have to go. Talk to you later. I love you!” Your mother rasped out that she loved you too before you quickly hung up the phone. 

“Sorry.” Your apology fell on deaf ears as Sylus took slow, deliberate steps toward your desk. 

“Do you hate this job?” Sylus’s asked this deceivingly innocuous question while sliding a finger across the mahogany tabletop. 

“Um… no?” You placed your hands in your lap as you answered to hide the slight tremor. 

“You sound unsure.” 

“I like this job very much.” You made the declaration with as much confidence as you could muster. Your mood was already depleted from seeing your mother’s sick face for the first time in months. She wasn’t looking any healthier, and Zayne told you she’d barely moved up the list. 

107. There were 107 people who’s lives were more important than the woman who raised you. You were well aware that wasn’t the way they calculated the metric, but it didn’t make the number hurt any less. 

Sylus let out an sigh that suggested whatever he’d say next was a much tamer version of what he truly wanted to say. “Then I’d suggest you start acting like it. Remember, sweetheart, everyone’s replaceable. Especially you.” 

His comment stung like antiseptic on an open wound, though you were sure that was his intention. 

“Right. Of course. I won’t let you down.” 

“For your sake, I hope not. The twins told me they went to that seafood buffet for lunch, you haven’t let them go over the budget again, have you?” 

You quickly pulled up the online banking account connected to the company card. You saw the $189.95 charge for the seafood buffet and swallowed the lump in your throat. 

“Nope, it’s all dandy.” You gave him a smile that didn’t quite reach your eyes. He noticed. 

“Good. You wire that money like I asked?” The venom in his tone alleviated, and you were glad at least one thing seemed to have worked out for you that day. 

But alas, your joy was short-lived.

“Yes, an hour ago, but it’s still processing until you put in your access code.” You moved away from the computer to give him room to step around and put in the code like he usually did. However, his feet never moved from their position in front of your desk.

“Why didn’t you tell me that?” Just like that, his voice was all venom again. 

You were beginning to grow agitated with his misplaced anger constantly being taken out on you. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, he’d tear into you like a bear would a boxing bag and then act like everything was fine the next day. You never got an apology, you knew not to expect one. 

But lately these fits of unbridled rage came about more often than not, and Sylus took a shovel to your mole hill of resolve every time. 

“I always need your access code on transfers over $500,000. I’ve never told you before, I just assumed—” 

“Are you stupid?” You didn’t bother answering the mean rhetorical question. “What about this transaction seemed usual to you? Did I not convey my urgency effectively earlier? Or are there rocks where your brain should be?” His voice never went up in volume, but you could tell he was angry. Livid even. Seething with fury at your supposed incompetence. 

Your eyes welled up with tears at his outburst. Normally you could take whatever insults he’d throw at you with little outward reaction, but you were particularly sensitive from the sandwich-shaped hole in your stomach, and the maternal hole in your heart which ached every second, reminding you of the much bigger one your mother bore.

Before you could stop it, a tear rolled down your cheek, and the second you registered the sensation you quickly went to wipe it. 

“Stop crying.” Sylus ordered.

“I’m not—crying.” Your voice betrayed you, a hitch in your throat interrupting the sentence. The tears began to stream down faster, so fast your hands couldn’t keep up. 

You prepared yourself for a speech about how weak you were, how he wouldn’t tolerate such inane shows of infirmity. But all Sylus did was watch as you embarrassingly tried to pull yourself together. 

You weren’t sure how much time passed before Sylus moved next to you, hunching down to input his code into the transaction. His eyes glanced at the second monitor, displaying the company card’s account, and he zeroed in at the twin’s charge, and your lack thereof.

“Did you have lunch?” Sylus’s voice was softer, you attributed that to the fact that he was inches away from you. The question was so out of left-field it actually caused your tears to cease. 

“Yeah?”

“You didn’t use the card.” Your eyes followed his to the bank statement and you let out a sigh of relief. 

“Oh, I had some extra cash on me I wanted to get rid of.”

“You’re supposed to use the card, Y/N. That’s what it’s for.”

“It’s fine, I’ll have an extra big lunch tomorrow. Granted you’re not firing me?” You were only half-joking, but you could’ve sworn you saw the corners of his lips perk up in an almost-smile before he shut it straight down. 

“I won’t fire you if you tell me what’s got you this upset? I’m not so proud as to assume it was me.” It was that moment you realised Sylus was capable of feeling empathy. He was aware of how hurtful he was being all those times he’d berate you over the smallest inconveniences for virtually no reason, and he simply didn’t care. 

It was far worse to know that he did possess empathy, but chose not to extend it to you. 

“It’s just that time of the month.” You lied, convincingly. You’d mull over your blatant betrayal to feminism later, but for now you needed a means of shutting this inquiry down and quickly. You didn’t want anyone knowing about your mom, you were sure the pity would destroy you. She wasn’t going to die, and you didn’t want people to treat you like she might. 

Sylus waited for the transfer to clear before he left. You let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding when the door closed behind him.

“Are you sure we only have $105 on our lunch budget.” Luke’s question grated on your frayed nerves.

“$105 and five cents.” Your distinction didn’t do much help. 

“Come on, can’t you do your weird accounty magic and make more appear? We want steak.” Kiernan’s plea wasn’t helping either. You’d exhausted every last option, anything else would definitely cause alarms when Sylus eventually reviewed the accounts. 

“I already did all I could, I gave you an extra $255!” And a fat good that did you, now you were hungry and annoyed.

“Well, we both know there’s plenty more where that came from.”

There really wasn’t, but you didn’t tell them that. 

“I’m sorry, $105 is all you’ve got.” 

“Fine. But we’re very unhappy with you, Y/N. Very unhappy.” Luke chastised you, but you couldn’t even pretend to care. 

“Better you than Sylus, now please leave.” The twins opened their mouths with a retort, but a domineering voice interrupted them. 

“You heard her. Beat it and stop bothering my accountant.” 

The twins scurried at the sound of Sylus’s voice, and you wondered how much of that conversation he overheard.

“So, where did that extra $255 come from, Y/N?”

Too much of the conversation. Way too much. 

“My budget.” You cut your losses and told him the truth. Any other answer would have surely pissed him off. 

“I give you $300 for the whole week. Your sandwich costs $15. Either you haven’t been eating, or you've been paying out of your own pocket against my orders. Which is it?” 

Well, that was a lose-lose situation if there ever was one. You didn’t want to deal with the questions about why you were skipping meals, so you lied again. You always were an exceptional liar, your mother taught you that the less people knew about you, the less they had to hurt you with.

“I made too much food for dinner so I had leftovers. It’s no biggie.” You didn’t even look up from your screen as the lie left your lips. 

“What leftovers?” He asked. 

“Pasta.” You answered. 

“What kind?”

“Alfredo.”

“With mushrooms?”

“Yeah.”

“You hate mushrooms.” 

Shit. Why did he know that?

“I had a change of heart.”

“You’re lying.”

You bit your lip in worry, wondering how you were going to get yourself out of this one.

You stalled as much as you could, pretending to be engrossed in something on your screen, until the sound of Sylus’s phone ringing broke the tension. 

You internally thanked every deity that could possibly be watching over you as he took the call, and prayed to all of them that it would be something urgent. 

You heard the faint sounds of a feminine voice through his phone.

“Kitten, where are you?”

Wait, who’s kitten? 

“Just calm down, tell me where you are.” Sylus didn’t even give you a second glance as he quickly stormed out of your office. Leaving you to mull over the intimate pet name, knowing exactly who it was intended for.

As Sylus left the room you reflected on the cacophony your feelings created in your mind. You weren’t sure when you developed such strong feelings for Sylus — or why. His personality was the antithesis of yours. Where he would free fall off of the proverbial cliff of his life without a second thought, every risk you took was meticulously calculated. Where he was rough and respected, you were sort of a pushover. Where his deadpan sense of humour tended to elicit more fear than laughter, you had an awkward habit of cracking jokes in situations they were not appropriate.

You were polar opposites, two parallel lines that were destined never to intertwine. You figured that was why everything hurt so much around him. He wasn’t right for you, but he would be right for someone else. 

The envy you’d carried for so long began to subside for the first time in years. Sylus had an array of estranged lovers that he’d bring around his mansion every once in a while, and now Miss Hunter. But for the first time the reminder of that fact didn’t hurt as much as it usually did. 

It was Mid-September and you warned yourself that if you couldn’t eliminate all the romantic feelings you had for Sylus by the end of Autumn, you’d cut your losses and quit. 

Of course, you’d have to find another job that paid just as well, but you were willing to cross that bridge when it came to it. There was only so much turmoil your fragile heart could take, and if you were dead, your mother would be as good as dead too. 

Happy with your iron-clad plan, you opened up your notes app and began to draft ‘Operation Sylus: No More’. You could change the name later.

Operation Sylus: No More

The foolproof guide of getting rid of all feelings Sylus related by the end of November. 

Step 1: avoid Sylus and all thoughts of him at all costs.

Step 2: no more funny jokes, his laugh is seriously deadly. 

Step 3: force yourself to remember Miss Hunter in moments of weakness. She’s the one he really wants. 

Step 4: try to find love elsewhere, like the corner shop owner, he may be in his 50s and happily married but he’s kind of a silver-fox!

Step 5: do not, under any circumstances, allow yourself to be alone with Sylus for too long.

You looked back at your list, proud of the relatively easy steps to follow. This should be a cakewalk. Whoever said you couldn’t be the master of your own feelings clearly never met you. 

“Boss needs you in his office. He says bring your laptop.” Kiernan’s voice broke your focus. You were almost finished with the end of year report for this financial year, a task Sylus forced you to complete annually. It was meaningless, considering Onychinus wasn’t necessarily a legitimate business listed on the stock exchange, but you took it seriously nonetheless. 

“Okay, I’ll be right there.” You felt Kiernan’s eyes bore into you as you continued to make minor edits to the report. You’d sleep so much better once this 180 page document was out of your life. 

“He needs you now, Y/N. We’re both toast if you make him wait.” You sighed and couldn’t help but roll your eyes at Sylus’s lack of empathy for your large workload. 

You berated your past self for being so eager for this role, completing far too many tasks far too quickly, and setting the precedent that you were some sort of accounting machine. You really should learn to stick to the bare minimum. 

You walked over to the door leading to his office, and gave it a soft rap with your knuckles. The door opened by itself, or rather with the help of Sylus’s evol, to the sight of him leaning back in his chair, with Miss Hunter sitting directly in front of him on his desk.

Step 3 of your guide felt less like a friendly reminder and more like a stab in the gut. Think of corner-shop man. Think of corner-shop man. Think of corner-shop man.

“We don’t have all day, sit down, Y/N.” Sylus’s command woke you from your trance, and you hoped your envy wasn’t as obvious as you thought it was. 

This was the first time you’d seen Miss Hunter up close, and when your eyes travelled to meet hers, she gave you a warm smile. You felt like the shittiest person to exist for ever hating her.

Your eyes scanned the room for somewhere to sit. The chairs opposite his seemed like they would intrude on the intimate moment he was clearly having with Miss Hunter, so you settled on an armchair in the corner that had a coffee table in front of it. 

Sylus sighed and didn’t even bother to ask you to move before he used his evol to whisk you up and deposit your body onto the chair at his table like a rag doll. You hated when he used his evol on you, it felt like the arms of a prickly cactus. 

“In a few minutes, I’ll be getting a phone call from a possible investor. He’s extremely exclusive and known for running tests on his potential partners before agreeing to invest with them. My intel suggests he’s going to propose a joint project, but the numbers he’ll give me will be far off. I need to counter-propose numbers that would generate a high return and quickly, or he’ll hang up and I’ll never hear from him again. So, open up your laptop and prepare, because if you tank this for me, there will no longer be a place for you here. Understood?”

When Sylus did things like that, it made it easier to love him a little less. He could be a complete and utter dick sometimes, and while you’d learned to accept it as a human flaw, recently it seemed more like a permanent predisposition. 

Perhaps Sylus was nice to you because you were entertaining, now that he had someone better to occupy his time, you were nothing more than a forgotten bygone. 

“Yeah, I got it.” You opened up an excel sheet with a project analysis template. These were the types of questions you’d get in your first year accounting courses but you let Sylus think it was much harder than it actually was — just to make him sweat. 

When the phone rang, Sylus’s muscles grew tense and Miss Hunter gave him a comforting squeeze on his shoulder. You bit your lip to hide the sudden scowl on your face. Think of corner-shop man. Think of corner-shop man. Think of corner-shop man.

Your eyes bore into your excel sheet with an intensity that would’ve produced laser beams in an alternate reality. You focused entirely on the calculations, listening intently to the brassy voice of the investor on the phone. 

It didn’t take you long to generate the minimum initial investment they’d need to generate some form of return, as well as the payback period. You wrote the numbers down on a notepad, and you let him do the rest. 

When you heard the investor let out a humorous ‘I’m impressed’ you packed up your laptop and left the room without so much as a wave. You felt Sylus and Miss Hunter’s eyes follow you out of the room, but you didn’t bother looking back.

You felt the thin line between love and hate begin to grow blurry. Where Sylus was concerned, your feelings were as clear as the muddy water in a swamp. Maybe two and a half months was too much time. You needed these feelings gone expeditiously. 

You decided to take your lunch early, and you left the extravagant mansion that doubled as HQ to find your bike. You couldn’t really afford a car, or a license, but your bright yellow bike could do everything a car could for a fraction of the price. You were in the process of strapping up your helmet when Luke walked up. 

“What’s up with you lately?” His question was inevitable. You wondered how long it would take for someone to notice that you were fighting internal battles on every front. Your mother’s health, Sylus’s sudden chronic asshole syndrome flareup, your dwindling bank account. 

“Nothing, I’ve just been tired.”

“Well, we’re having a few friends over tonight. Just a small group, if you’re not too tired, you should come.” Luke was the more sociable twin, and he was most likely extending this invitation to you out of pity, but you’d take anything over being trapped in your own mind. 

“Will there be alcohol?” You quipped.

“Duh.” Luke’s response brought the first genuine smile to your face in weeks. 

“I’ll be there.” After your agreement, you cycled away toward the corner shop for lunch.

It was a quaint bakery/deli run by a Turkish man who you knew on a first name basis. He was aged-like-fine-wine handsome. Features weathered tastefully by age, with a full head of hair that quelled your fears of your future children inheriting the early onset male pattern baldness gene. 

But when you entered the store and saw Mr Demir, there were no butterflies. Your heart didn’t skip a beat. Your hands didn’t even quiver as you paid for the sandwich. In fact, they were so steady you figured you could give Dr Zayne a run for his money. 

Speaking of Dr Zayne, his daily updates were growing scarcer in detail, and you were worried that something was wrong. He insisted he was just busy and since your mother had moved up to 93 on the transplant list, you let it slide. 

“You know you’re allowed to try the other sandwiches, right?” Mr Demir’s handsome face contorted into a teasing smile, and if he didn’t own this shop with his beautiful wife, you might’ve asked him to marry you then and there. 

“I like this one. Your family is very talented.” You smiled at him, but it seemed even he could tell that it wasn’t genuine.

“You’re getting skinnier you know, and you haven’t been coming as often. Is something wrong or are you cheating on me with a salad store?” His joke brought a giggle out of you. 

You never thought that people noticed you in a way that was significant. You felt as if you were akin to a missing bird poster on a telephone pole in the middle of a busy street. People would glance at it, remember how common and undistinguishable birds are, and forget it ever existed.

Mr Demir’s concern warmed your heart, and you promised that if you ever won the lottery, you would give him half. 

“I’ve just been cooking more, that’s all. Thank you Mr Demir, say hello to your wife for me!” You gave him a small wave as you exited the shop and the weight suffocating your chest was a little lighter.

Mr Demir’s family had boundless love to share, and while their shop was small, they were happy. Maybe things would work out for you and your mother after all. 

The rest of the workday passed by like a fever dream. You finally managed to complete the annual report, a copy of it sitting in Sylus’s email, surely unopened. He left soon after that phone call with Miss Hunter, you didn’t bother to ask where.

The mansion was empty when you turned off the last monitor, and you thought you’d start pre-gaming early. Sylus always warned all of you that his bar was off-limits unless he stated otherwise, but the man had so much alcohol, you doubted he’d ever notice. 

He only drank red wine and whiskey, and you hated wine, so you settled for an almost full bottle of whiskey. You took one sip and realised you couldn’t stand the taste either, but it was still better than the wine, so you chugged glass after glass like they were shots. 

The heavy alcohol burned your throat on the way down and continued to burn in your stomach, but the feeling kept you warm so you didn’t really mind. You’d consumed half the bottle by the time the twins returned with two other men and one girl following in suit.  

“Y/N! Good, you’re here. Help me set up the drinks on the table.” You nodded your head at Luke’s request, knowing your speech would likely be slurred. 

You helped him line up the bottles of cheap tequila, vodka, fireball and a fear-inducing amount of absinthe. These cheap spirits were much more your speed.

“Alright, we’re starting with truth or dare. Pick your poison and sit around the coffee table.” Kiernan’s announcement had everyone scattering around the coffee table with cups in hand. You opted for the fireball, too scared to mix alcohol this early in the night. 

You recognised everyone from another one of the twin’s impromptu parties. They only ever threw them when they were sure Sylus would be gone overnight. You didn’t let yourself dwell on where he was or who he was with. 

The game was more entertaining than you expected, everyone had interesting questions, and when it came to dares, the twins always had something sadistic in mind. 

It was your turn when they decided to up the stakes. You were already wasted, so you committed to answering whatever question they pummelled at you. 

“Truth.”

“You’re so boring, you always pick truth.” Luke whined, his arm shaking yours in protest.

“That’s because I’m scared of your dares.”

Luke rolled his eyes but conceded.

“Fine. How many people have you slept with?”

All conversations came to a stifling halt as everyone’s eyes landed on you. Far too embarrassed to tell 5 people you barely knew that you were still a virgin, you changed your answer. There was nothing to be ashamed of, but you knew the twins would mercilessly make fun of you, and you didn't have the energy to explain that between the constant pressure to succeed for your mother, and her eventual illness, your love life had been placed on the back-burner.

“Dare.”

“You know the rules, if you switch options and refuse to do it, you have to finish everyone’s drinks.”

“Yeah, yeah. Hit me.” You glared at Luke with determination. You should’ve known that when everyone was this drunk, the dares could only get progressively more outrageous.

“I dare you to call Sylus and tell him you crashed his McLaren.” Luke looked proud of his dare, and the smile dropped from your face instantly. 

Even Kiernan’s eyes flashed with concern before he broke out into an obnoxious laugh.

“Oh- Holy shit! That’s gold.” The words left Kieran’s mouth in-between his laughter. Everyone around the table looked at you eagerly.

You knew if you finished off everyone’s cups you’d definitely die, or worse, throw up. 

“Fine.” Too drunk to realise the implications of what you were doing, you dialled Sylus. There was also the chance he just didn’t pick up, but four and a half rings later his annoyed voice resounded through the speaker of your phone. 

“What is it?” From the sound of Sylus’s tone, you’d interrupted something important. You bit down the bitter feelings that threatened to spill out, and stuck to the objective.

“I have something to tell you, but you have to promise you won’t get mad.” There was no universe in which Sylus couldn’t tell you were drunk.

In all honesty, your phone call was a welcome reprieve from his mind-numbingly boring conversation with Linkon’s politicians. He’d offered to attend this event with MC with little thought as to what it would pertain. His eyes raked over her baby pink dress, and since he couldn’t get her out of it just yet, he entertained your drunk rambling.

“I don’t have to do anything.” Sylus expected you to apologise, but all he heard was a sound foreign to him. Were you laughing? Sylus heard indecipherable voices in the background, and he found himself wondering who was making you laugh. 

“True. Okay well, you know that dark grey sports car you love soooooooooooo much?” Nice going, Y/N, remind him just how much he loves this car. You thought. The phone was on speaker, per the requests of the fellow attendees. 

Everyone bit back laughs at the situation which was extremely unfunny to anyone with a blood alcohol level under 0.05. 

“What did you do?” Sylus’s question had a deadly underpinning, but you couldn’t bring yourself to care.

“I crashed it!” At your exclamation, the room exploded in laughter, and you muted the microphone quickly before Sylus could hear it.

“You crashed it?”

You quickly unmuted to add. “Yup! Absolutely totalled.”

“Are you okay? Where are you? I’m coming.” 

The laughter immediately died down. That was not how he was supposed to react, not at all. 

Luke and Kiernan gestured for you to shut it down and you quickly began to backtrack.

“No! No you don’t have to come home. I’m fine. It was just a prank.”

“Oh, so you’re at my place?” ShitShitShitShitShit.

“Yes… The twins and I had too much to drink and we thought it would be funny to prank you. I’m sorry, I really shouldn’t have interrupted your night.”

You braced yourself for the angry lecture on how Sylus’s time was more valuable the rarest ruby, but it never came.

“Just you and the twins, right?”

Luke and Kiernan gestured for you to agree.

“Yes.”

“You should probably call an exorcist.” Were you drunk or did he actually just tell you to call an exorcist?

“Huh?” Everyone in the room looked just as perplexed.

“You know, since those three other people in my living room must be apparitions.” 

“You didn’t rig the camera?” Kiernan’s shrill scream was definitely registered by the phone’s mic. 

“Fuck! I forgot.” Luke exclaimed in response as they scrambled to pack everything up. 

“Um…” With everyone frantically running around the room, you were left to deal with Sylus’s wrath alone.

“How come you never laugh when you’re with me?” And with that question you were convinced the alcohol had induced auditory hallucinations.

“You’re not very funny.” You decided to play along, after all, imaginary Sylus was much more fun than the real one.

“Hmm, I thought I was.”

“Nope. All your jokes end in someone dying, and usually that someone is me.”

“Oh, sweetheart, those aren’t jokes.” That was something real Sylus would say. Damn, these auditory hallucinations were realistic.

“I know, I really thought you were going to kill me last week.” You let out an involuntary snort at the hilarious image of your head on a pike. 

“Why’s that?”

“Because I screwed up that wire transfer to Miss Hunter. You were soooo mad. You must reaaaalllyyyy like her.”

“I guess I do.” The line went quiet on both ends after that. 

This auditory hallucination was no fun following his confession, so you hung up. Sylus called a few times after, but you never noticed. The room began spinning and your eyes began watering, so you curled up on the floor until your head stopped pounding, but by then you were fast asleep.

Sylus returned to his mansion the next morning to find your office empty. It was still an hour before you were due to start, but you were always early. 

With an internal promise to check again in an hour, he walked toward the living room. It didn’t take long before he noticed a mop of light brown hair on his rug.

He walked toward your sleeping form with indignation, only to find every ounce of anger sucked out of him when he knelt down to find your sleeping face. 

He hadn’t been that close to you in what felt like forever. Was your face always that pale? His eyes caressed your under eye bags, and your hollow cheeks. He could’ve sworn they were fuller when he hired you. What happened to you? 

Before Sylus could give in to the urge to wake you up and ask, your phone made a sound from the coffee table. He picked it up and saw you were getting a call from Zayne.

Who the fuck was Zayne?

He answered the phone before he could think it through.

“Oh, Y/N, good. I’ve been trying to reach you since last night.”

“You should’ve taken the hint.” Sylus couldn’t help the bite in his tone. He wasn’t sure why he was so angry at this Zayne, but his emotions were beginning to confuse him more often than he cared to admit.

“Who’s this?”

Sylus could’ve said that he was your boss. He should’ve said that he was your boss. But what he said instead…

“Y/N’s mine.” His employee, but that distinction didn’t seem necessary in the moment.

“Well, could you tell her to call me back as soon as possible. I have urgent news about her mother.”

The comment about her mother perplexed Sylus even more. 

“Who are you?”

“I’m her mother’s heart surgeon. I have to go, have her call me soon.” Sylus felt stupid for the unnecessary show of hostility, but he only had more questions following Zayne’s answer.

It seemed the conversation was enough to wake you up from your slumber, and the moment you registered your surroundings, the headache you had was amplified tenfold. Your muscles hurt from sleeping on the hard floor, and you were sure your legs had morphed into jelly. 

You were never drinking again.

“Well hello, sleeping beauty.” Sylus watched as you groggily rubbed your eyes. The right side of your face had an indent matching the pattern of his rug, and your hair was dishevelled. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight.

“Sylus. I’m so sorry.” You spoke through a yawn before cradling your head in your hands. The world needed to stop spinning.

Sylus shoved an open bottle of water in your face, and you greedily snatched the peace offering before he had time to change his mind.

“Zayne called, said he had some news about your mother.”

You shot straight up, spilling some water in the process.

“What did he say? Where’s my phone?” You glanced at large Sylus’s hand which was wrapped around said phone. If you weren’t so worried about your mother, you might’ve found the sight of Sylus holding something covered in a floral case amusing. Powering through the piercing pain in your temple, you held your hand out.

“Please give it back.” 

“What’s wrong with your mother?”

“Please Sylus, I can’t do this right now.” You tried to lunge for the phone, but he was faster. Raising his hand above his head and well out of your reach. 

“You’ll have this back once you answer my question.”

“She has the flu. Now give it back.” You jumped up in a feeble attempt to retrieve the phone, but he was just so goddamn tall. 

“I didn’t know flu treatment protocol involved heart surgery now. Guess I need to brush up on the latest medical news.” His sardonic tone made you scoff. Only Sylus could be such a dick while your mother's life was in limbo.

Curse Dr Zayne and his blabbermouth. 

If it wasn’t for the severe hangover, you might’ve been able to think of an explanation. But you were so nervous you felt sick and you needed to know the news Dr Zayne had.

“Fine. She needs a heart transplant, she’s on coronary bypass and if she doesn’t get a heart soon she’ll die. Is that good enough for you?” You continued to try to reach the phone, not bothering to check Sylus’s reaction to your confession. 

He dropped the phone in your hand and you all but sprinted out of the living room to make the phone call.

The line rang once, twice, three times before Zayne picked up.

“Y/N?”

“Yes! What’s wrong? Is my mom okay? Tell me she’s okay.”

“Slow down, she’s alive, but she had a cardiac event. Not a heart attack, but it still did some damage. Her condition is worse, much worse, Y/N. I’m sorry.” 

Your back slumped against the wall of the hallway and you felt your knees give in as you slid to the floor. 

“How long does she have?” The tears streaming down your face fell onto your shirt, leaving uncomfortable wet spots in their wake.

“A few weeks, a month’s top. But this did move her to the top of the list. She might get a transplant in time.” Zayne must have heard the sadness in your voice if he’d offered words of encouragement. He never did that. 

“Thank you. I’m going to come see her.”

“I’ll get the nurses to bring in an extra bed. I’ll see you soon, Y/N.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to respond so you hung up instead. The pain in your head was now but a mere memory as your heart began to splinter into a million little pieces. 

There was so much you still had to do. You needed to buy your mom her first ever house, and help her plant the prettiest flowers in the garden. You had to get her the dog she always dreamed about and the outdoor swing she missed from her childhood home. She still had to walk you down the aisle and sing your future children the lullabies she sang to you. She couldn’t go. Not yet. 

You didn’t even notice Sylus enter the hallway until you felt him sitting down next to you. He wove an arm behind your head, bringing your face into his chest. The intimacy of the act only made you cry harder. The last person to hold you that close was your mom, a few days before she’d collapsed. 

“It hurts.” You choked on your words and they came out muffled against Sylus’s chest.

“What hurts?” He asked. 

“My heart. It really hurts, Sylus.” You sobbed harder. It felt good to finally admit that you weren’t okay. To have someone hold you as your life fell apart around you. 

“Tell me what to do, Y/N. Anything.”

“Can I have some time off?” You took deep breaths as you tried to slow your crying down. You could break down once you reached the other side of this tumultuous predicament. 

The humble request drove Sylus insane. He’d offer you his own heart to save your mother if he wasn’t sure it was severely damaged, and all you could think to ask for was time off. 

“Of course.”

“Can you give me a ride to Linkon?” 

That request was a little better, but still not enough. 

“I’ll take you now, come on.”

“No wait, I need to go home and pack some things. I’ll be back in an hour.”

“You know you can still get a DUI on a pedal bike, right?”

“I’m not drunk.”

“But there’s still alcohol in your system, and you’re very upset. It won’t be safe, I’ll take you home on the way. Let’s go.” He stood up, his hand outstretched toward you. 

And with a heavy heart, you took Sylus’s hand.

[kenniesf1]

what was that? | OP81

pairing: oscar piastri x leclerc!reader

summary: it's the 2025 monaco grand prix and yn leclerc finds out that oscar piastri is... an avid lorde fan???

yn.leclerc

liked by carlossainz55, arthur_leclerc, yourbff001, and 743,023 others

yn.leclerc she's in monaco ladies and gents! arthur can say he's not monegasque, but charlie and i know what's up :)

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user1 GUYS SHE'S GOING TO THE MONACO GRAND PRIX!!!!

user2 omg yn where have you been girl!

lando bro said she wasn't getting here 'til saturday smh

user3 LMAO she lied to lando 💀

yn.leclerc sybau and go kiss carlos or smth

carlossainz55 she's right lando, come home, the kids miss you

lando the meerkat?

charles_leclerc je ne veux pas que tu cries dans ma radio (i don't want you yelling in my radio)

yn.leclerc speak english 🤓

alexandrasaintmleux my favorite leclerc 💞 you look gorgeous

yn.leclerc ok stop talking to the mirror tf? ily

charles_leclerc share the love????

oscarpiastri photo creds???

user4 STOPPPP oscar sounds like a needy girlfriend

user5 have we ever even seen them speak

user1 no, she's taken (by me)

kimi.antonelli no, by me 🙃

yn.leclerc ANDREA KIMI GO DO YOUR HOMEWORK!

emmawatson beatiful!!!! liked by author

jackbenedwards lorde summer liked by author

charles_leclerc

liked by yn.leclerc, alexalbon, georgerussel63, and 1,203,923 others

charles_leclerc P2 in qualifiers. Not the result we wanted but we'll keep pushing. Forza Ferrari!

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yn.leclerc what was that? well, baby, what was that?

charles_leclerc don't call me baby creepo 😰

user6 i fear yn IS living lorde summer, jack edwards was so rights

oscarpiastri mdma in the back garden, blow our pupils up

yn.leclerc OSCAR JACK PIASTRI!!!! you're not coming to play, sir

user7 no way oscar is a lorde fan

user8 he def looked it up to impress yn 😭

arthur_leclerc i could've gotten p1 🤷

charles_leclerc the things i could say to you right now

pierregasly bro is lucky charles is pr trained

yn.leclerc pr? he hardly knows her

lando that made no sense

yn.leclerc your existence makes no sense kys

maxverstappen1 le curse is back

charles_leclerc BLOCKED ❌

oscarpiastri

liked by yn.leclerc, hattiepiastri, lando and 1,002,497 others

oscarpiastri Good start to the weekend. Excited for the race tomorrow. Thank you for the support!

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hattiepiastri you win at monaco or you're disowned

oscarpiastri only mum can do that?

nicolepiastri what hattie said

user9 HELPPPPPPPPP

charles_leclerc know your place tomorrow, son

oscarpiastri i can't lose my leo privileges

lando i look stupid

estebanocon tell us something new!!!

yn.leclerc wishing you luck! playing for a lot this weekend!

charles_leclerc 🤨

arthur_leclerc 🤨

user10 🤨

yukitsunoda 🤨

oscarpiastri You being here for Charles helped him last year. Maybe come to my garage and share that luck?

user11 oh he's good

charles_leclerc im boycotting you bitch

maxverstappen1 whole lot of lando...

deuxmoi posted a story!

deuxmoi Yn Leclerc has shown up to the 2025 Monaco Grand Prix wearing a McLaren dress and is currently in Oscar Piastri's garage

yn.leclerc

liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc, charlixcx, and 813,200,191 others

yn.leclerc CONGRATS TO MY BIG BROTHER ON P2 AT MONACO! it's always gonna be your city charlie!!! on a sadder note, i will never be speaking to lando norris again, evil bitch :) and i got this oceanic feeling visiting someone's garage (sorry, i'm still a scuderia ferrari girlie)

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ferrari we missed youuu liked by author

charles_leclerc monaco and my own sister betrayed me today

lewishamilton i'll be a shoulder to cry on mate

yn.leclerc hoes over bros

oscarpiastri excuse me

user12 IM FUCKING CRASHING OUT I CANT BREATH

user13 i can feel the hardlaunch, it's within reach

lando 😔

yn.leclerc pensive face emoji? hon, you should be WEEPING

user14 tell him, yn

oscarpiastri i caught that reference ms leclerc

yn.leclerc didn't throw it mr piastri

mclaren so glad to have you!

ferrari go away, your colors wash her out

francocolapinto um she should be in pink and blue and white and other alpine colors

alexalbon aesthetic!

yn.leclerc can you pay for my dinner as well as george's?

oscarpiastri yn

yn.leclerc RIGHT! never mind alex, take lily

alexalbon was planning on it 🫡

yn.leclerc posted a story!

yn.leclerc can we be boyfrien' girlfrien'?

oscarpiastri please

oscarpiastri i want more than a supercut, yn

[reanimated-owl]

((officially off of work until next wednesday :D