#to be fair for most of it he looked pretty hot too....

[nsfwruru]

Can you write an imagine about yn and Lara’s first time together and yn is dominant??

just imagine making cherry-popper!Lara who thinks your a sub because you “look-like-one” when she meets you at a club🫣 just for her to find out your so much more than that and leave her seeing stars😵‍💫😵‍💫

cw: smut no plot, dom!reader, sub!lara, (head giving, dirty talk, short imagine, Lara lowkey a freak lawl, drunk sex)reader being clueless as per usual, fem!reader, use of she/her, tan reader once again, play girl!lara, lowkey cockblocked cus I’m too lazy to finish

Lara never really cared for people— don’t get her wrong, she’s slept around here and there, but it never lead to any deep connection. Honestly, she typically based it all on personal aesthetics, it was most the casual ‘oh she’s cute, I wonder how good she’d look hooking up’ or ‘he’s hot enough’— and to be frank, she found almost everyone extremely boring. Well…

That was until you.

It had all been a coincidence, you happened to be dragged out and brought to the local club, where all the students from your college liked to linger around. It was all so new to you! The bright red lights, the constant hookers roaming around, the thick smell of weed and other narcotics, it had all been something so stark to your usual environments. You’ve been to your fair share of clubs before you graduated but this was a whole different experience!

The people were no different of course, they all seemed so talented in their own ways, niche musicians, published writers, even magazines designers, no one seemed to conform into a norm here. Especially the girl staring you down from the other side of the club.

Her red hairs glistened under the club lights, her arm being interlocked with another girl’s who had also been staring at you. She was beyond stunning, all her features managed to fit her facial structure perfectly, her sharp cat-like eyes, her soft glowing tan skin, even the slight eyebrow slit she bore on her right eyebrow was captivating. It almost seemed like you couldn’t take your eyes off of her— and she couldn’t either, periodically looking up at you, before looking at the black haired girl next to her and whispering.

“That must be her girlfriend…” You mumbled under your breath before reluctantly prying your eyes off of her, fixating your gaze over towards the bar, calling yourself another drink as your friends mingled with the others around the club.

From Lara’s point of view, you were equally as stunning, everything about you from the locks in your hair, to the shoes you wore, made her practically salivate. Something about you, the way you carried yourself, made you look like some meek little bunny, than a person. Completely different to all the other girls who would skim past her— you seemed like a pretty little thing she could mess with, and she wasn’t going to pass on this opportunity. And of course she used poor Sophia as her lackey to get what she wanted.

“Hey.” Sophia spoke, her voice stern, grabbing onto your shoulders to tug you back, forcing all the attention onto the Filipina. “I’ve never seen you around here.” She stated, looking you up and done, in some weird way checking you out as well.

“Ah I’m new to the city, I moved here from—“ You spoke, immediately cut off by a cough let out by Sophia. “Yeah okay, that’s nice, you into girls?” She hurried asked, looking into your eyes and back to Lara who was staring the both of you down.

“Oh uhm! I guess you could say that? I like my fair share of pretty girls, but nothing too crazy—“

“Perfect, how do you feel about my friend there?” She pried rudely, using her thumb to point behind her and at the couch where the red-head sat. Lara who looked unamused gave you a half-assed smile before waving haphazardly. “She’s hot I guess?”

“You wanna meet her?” Sophia asked bluntly once more, indicating that the Indian to move over to her. Almost like a calling card, Lara got up and moved herself over towards you. “I— I never said that?!” You defended, sensing the presence of two gorgeous women a bit too overwhelming.

“Hey, who’s this?” Lara asked, clearly trying to mask her playful attitude, but failing miserably as she leaned her cheek over to the side of Sophia’s cheek. “She’s really cute, don’t’ ya’ think Soph?” The red haired tried desperately to forge a sense of indifference, when her attitude clearly didn’t match up, as she was the one begging Sophia to get your attention first.

“Yeah yeah, whatever the hell your name was, you should get to know my friend Lara, she’s quite the charmer.” Sophia cheered, lifting her hands up to present Lara’s face like a trophy before pulling it back down. “Promise you won’t regret it.”

And that’s how the night continued, you sat thigh to thigh next to the desi girl as you talked mindlessly about random topics she happened to be well versed at. Despite her playboy demeanor, she was actually a lot more intellectual than you gave her credit for. I mean, no one could really blame you as you were practically shoved around to talk to her, but nevertheless, she was fun to talk to.

As the night treaded on, you felt the alcohol seep into your body, your eyes more drowsy, and your attitude more cocky as you continued to talk to Lara. Practically knowing everything about her after a span of 2 hours as she was talking your ear off. Of course being as observant Lara had always been, your shift in demeanor didn’t go unnoticed, finding it all the more difficult for herself drunken stare to refrain from being “normal”.

“So, you look like a nice girl…” Lara spoke, dragging her words as she carefully considered what she wanted to say, her eyes drifting from your eyes towards your torso and back to your face. “You don’t seem like a someone who’d like to sleep around…” She hinted, her voice devious as her hand slithered into your inner thigh, making you jolt for a moment. “So may I ask, why exactly are you entertaining me so much tonight?” She laughed, quickly snapping her hand away from your skin.

“I don’t know.” You answered honestly, lifting up the shot of tequila toward your lips, taking a delicate swing all the while remaining eye contact with the woman. “You just intrigued me Lara, your intentions seem so clear, yet so superficial at the same time.” You bluntly responded, inspecting her reaction as her eyebrow lifted into curiosity before returning back to her usual resting expression.

“I’m not an idiot Lara, I have a concept of context clues, why else would you ever admit to bringing Sophia over to get my attention.” You laughed, placing the shot glass harshly onto the table your gaze still fixated on hers, watching her almost like a hawk. Grabbing a tissue and wiping the edges of your mouth, Lara had even harder of a time constraining herself from jumping on you, but managed to keep herself intact by a thread.

She laughed loudly at your comment, before reaching her hand back out to cup your cheeks, gliding a thumb across the corner of your mouth before prying it slightly open. “Damn, you found me out fast, doll.” Lara responded, leaving your face heating up, leaving you giddy and a giggling mess as her thumb rested on your lower lip.

The tension between the both of you was palpable, almost as if no one could ever pull you both from the little world you created for yourselves. Despite the obnoxious light and the loud club music, you focus was forced onto her. She pulled her hand away from your face, but it only made you want her even more, the numerous shots of alcohol you took weren’t working in your favor either, you could barely even hide the restraint in your eyes as Lara stared you down. “I did?” You mumbled, pulling your face dangerously close towards her.

“You did.” Lara let out an intoxicating laugh, all the self restraint you had beforehand almost slipped away as her faced leaned into yours. You lifted free hand up and cupped her face, pulling her closer, hungry from her lips, her touch, everything she could offer, you craved dearly. You definitely caught her off guard, but she enjoyed it, pushing her lips onto yours she found it easier to kiss your plush lips than kissing and of her previous lovers.

You grabbed onto the hem of her shirt collar to pull her closer to you, her hands tightening the grip on yours inner thigh as you do so. The way you pushed her lips open with your tongue. The way you’d pull away and bite her lips to breath, the way your attitude completely shifted from before made her go feral. She’s never seen anyone the likes of you, and god was she desperately clinging onto more, never wanting this moment to end as you pried yourself off of her. “Shit…”

“You’re a lot different than I imagined.” Lara lightheartedly chuckled as her lips were sore from yours, pushing a hand on her hair to ruffle it for a moment. “I wonder, can you keep this attitude in bed, or will you fumble like everyone else I’ve tried sleeping with.”

Pulling her into your flat, you where enamored by the Desi girl, to the point that despite the fact your apartment hadn’t been all that far from the club, a 10 minute walk give or take— the whole walk had been awfully dreadful. Her teasing felt like the trip lasted for hours, trying your absolute hardest to control the fire boiling inside. You couldn’t keep your composure anymore, you couldn’t pretend that you didn’t want to taste her, to feel her hands on yours, to feel your bodies intertwine with one another.

Pushing her frame onto the oak door, you hungrily leapt your lips onto her lips, pushing your tongue into her mouth as she cupped your face. In a state of hunger she didn’t know how to react, she didn’t know whether or not to push back into the kiss or let you do all the work. She just let it happen.

“You’re beautiful.” A hurried compliment as you pulled away from her. Lara was left staring at you in disbelief, just for you to pull back your attention to her neck as you left marking after marking, inching closer to her collarbone as she whimpered. “Fuck.”

She watched as you added mark after mark, on all the bits of exposed skin she bore, your hands slithered reaching over to the hem of her crop top as you slowly pulled to over her head. Revealing a lot more than what your intoxicated state imagined. “Holy shit, you look— fuck—“ You whispered into her ears as you adored every inch of her body.

Lara mentally thanked her genetics for making her brown, because only the lord knows how red she would’ve been at the moment. Her face was flushed with the mixture of embarrassment and alcohol as she snaked her hand onto your shoulders. Her k9s biting her lower lips as you brought your hands to the slider of her jean zipper. She was definitely not used to this, she was so used to doing all the work that everything now came out as a surprise.

“Hah…” Lara breathed, taking her hand and palming your nape as she pulled you closer once more, ravenously kissing your lips, she was stuck to you like glue. Lara’s breathing hitched as you slid down under, taking your index and middle finger to her clothed cunt, rubbing your fingers firmly against the bud. Your eyes fixated on hers as she grappled onto your shoulders, her acrylics almost digging into your skin, leaving you a heaving mess, desperately wanting to feel her.

Rubbing slowly against her core, you examined ever bit of her movement, the way she shook, the way she mumbled incoherent words into your ear, and the way she slowly but surely got even more soaked. “Shit— hah— fuck…” The red haired slurred, trying her hardest to keep up her cool girl facade as you dragged your fingers all over her clit. It was almost humorous the way she acted, from what you could tell you thought she was more… kept together, but a woman could only guess.

“Y/n please…” She mumbled biting her lip as her eyes were glued to your hand which was nestled nicely between her thighs. You continued putting friction between her legs, not bothering to take off her undergarments, watching her crumble under you was more than enough. Although the way she refused to look up at you made it a little irritatin— no, it made it really fucking irritating. “Y/N—“

“Fuck can you shut up and look at me?” You bit, your head pounding from the alcohol, making her jolt, jerking her head up to meet your face. ‘Shit I didn’t know she’d be like this’ Lara huffed in the back of her mind before following your orders.

“There you go pretty.” You smiled, a shift in your demeanor, the should shift made her almost release, but you slid fast enough before she could reach her edge. “Ah…” She groaned glossing her eyes back to you and back down as she saw the missing contact from her clothed cunt, “why’d you stop.” She mumbled.

Laughing to yourself, you stare at the red haired girl intently, her confident, self centered persona, faltered slightly, as her hair disheveled and the makeup around her eye smudged. You stood there for a moment, just gawking at the sight of her, she was ethereal, no more than that, she was heavenly, it almost made you want to devour her whole. But before you could push her further both of you perked up at the sound.

Whipping your head to the side, you heard the apartment door lock jingle for a split second, before a huff went out on the other side. You look back at lara in some sick way you lived for this, seeing a pretty, confident girl crumble underneath you— and don’t get it twisted, you’d love to continue, but right now it looked like god had other plans. You practically shot out, pulling yourself away from her as your eyes darted to the door.

“Fuck, it’s my roommate,” You drunkenly— albeit embarrassingly admitted, not wanting seem like a total loser. Your eyes sheepishly darted away from her, trying to hide the fact you felt humiliated knowing the only reason you couldn’t score was because you didn’t live alone. Rubbing the your palm to your nape you tried to hide your flustered expression, but any pretty girl could see right through you.

“Haha, embarrassing— cute! But embarrassing.” She laughed creating distance between you again, her hands running through her hair as she avoided looking into your eyes. Before you both could break the awkward tension building, the door finally latched open, your roommate finally tumbling inside, drunk out of her mind.

Her blonde curly locks shuffled as she poised her head up to take a good look at both you and Lara, as she haphazardly dropped plastic bags filled with alcohol down on the floor. Her face scrunched looking at Lara before your Latina roommate began bursting out wailing, no regard to the guest that was in the shared apartment. “Y/n! That son of a bitch ghosted me again!” She cried.

You look stare at your roommate Daniela, and back at Lara who was looking more visibly uncomfortable by the second, before back at your curly haired roommate. The Indian hurriedly excused herself, leaving her number on the coffee table, before Daniela crawled over to you. This would be a long night, not the one you where hoping for nor the one you asked for NOR the one you wanted, but it was definitely going to be a long night.

[norrisleclercf1]

Plz wwrite something about Lando and reader being a kitty parents. Thank you dear <3

A/N: God this has been sitting for a hot minute and I apologize for that

"I want a dog," Lando says for the hundredth time, all the cats sitting in their little boxes as you and Lando move through the rows at the shelter.

"Lando, a dog is a lot of work, and with you traveling so much, it's not fair," You sigh, as Lando groans, throwing his head back before quickly tugging his hat back down so no one recognizes him. "I know that, but baby," Arm wrapping around your waist he tugs you back, "Should we even get a cat, wouldn't those excuses apply to a cat?" He asks and you shake your head no.

"No, they're not as high maintenance, also I want a cat instead of a dog, because if we get a dog, we're getting a big dog, not one of those toy dogs, and your Monaco apartment is not appropriate for what I want," You smack his hand making him huff and turn his head, stopping when he sees a grey cat staring at him, more so glaring.

"What?" Lando asks, like the cat would actually answer him, the tail just swishes side to side, "Don't talk to yourself," You grumble looking at one of the younger cats, "I'm not, this grey one is staring at me," Lando pats your hip, huffing you swat his hand off and turns seeing a gorgeous older grey cat sitting perfectly in his cage.

"Oh, Lan, he's gorgeous," You coo and walk over, Lando swears to this day the cat grinned. He meows softly, and moves in the small cage as you read his little white board info.

"Storm, age 8, even tempered, doesn't do well with kids, enjoys sleeping and pets," You mumble, a clap sounds behind you making you glare as Lando appears, "Can't get him, he doesn't do well with kids," Lando says, the cat turns and glares, almost hissing, Lando turns just glaring back.

"We don't have kids," You argue, "Yet," "Lando! He's 8, and so pretty, we're getting him," Lando stayed quiet as he stared at the cat, hearing your sneakers fade away as the cat sits and grins. "Ohhh you're going to be an evil little shit," He grumbles, Storm's tail just swishing slowly. "Are you sure?" A new voice sounds as two pairs of feet come back.

"Yes, the older animals deserve a home too," Lando knew you weren't backing down from this one, well at least he can ask Max for help on how to raise a cat. Maybe he can pawn him off to P and said he ran away. Oh well, he can't do that, cat doesn't do well with kids and with P and the baby, Max might really drive him off the track for that. He let's his thoughts go until you and the worker stop.

"I'll wave the adoption fee, most people bring him back after the first two days," The guy says taking his keys out and carefully opens the cage. Lando steps back letting you move and slowly hold a hand out, Storm leaning forward, soft deep purrs sound as he rubs against your hand.

"Okay, I'm going to pick you up now," you say gently, but he doesn't give you the chance and hops as you yelp, catching him as the cat just narrows it's eyes at Lando. "Thanks man," He nods to the worker and leads you out of the shelter and sighs, "Are you sure about this?" "Yes, Lan, stop asking, we already have everything at home, we just need to get a collar," You smile as Storm cuddles into your arms and purrs up a storm in the car. "Think the cat might steal you from me," He grumbles. "You're delusional,"

-------------------

"He does not like you," Max says, standing in the living room. "Really?" Lando says sarcastically, "You think I called you over here to help me feed him for shits and giggles?" Lando asks, Max just turned and shrugs, Lando just groans, "It's the first time Y/n is away and Storm just....doesn't like me, but I can't let the fucker starve, she'll have my balls,"

Max moves and slowly gets on the ground seeing the older grey cat curled up under the couch and hisses, Max just stares and jumps up, "Lando, you have the bond with cats, they feel when you don't like them," The Dutch pats his back, grabbing his coat, "Woah, woah! You're just going to leave me?" Lando says spinning as Max opens the door, "Yes, bond with your cat Lando," And closes the door.

Lando just blinks eyes, wide and groans before dropping to the floor, Storm turns and glares, green eyes bright in the dark. "Listen here, I know we don't like each other, but you can not starve when Y/n is gone, I love her very much and she'll have my balls if I allow you to starve, so please come out and eat," Lando sighs, the cat just stares before curling back up and closing his eyes.

"Fine, starve then," Lando snaps and jumps back up and puts his food bowl filled with his food down and moves heading to his game room.

The time passes and Lando turns, seeing movement and stops, Storm sitting on his desk, tail swishing, licking his lips. "So, you ate hmm" Lando mumbles as Storm just stares and moves slowly into Lando's lap who freezes. The cat moves and stretches before plopping down and Lando sighs, "Alright, you can stay there," He grumbles, but makes sure the keep it down the rest of the time, gently petting Storm once in a while.

"You keep this from Y/n, she can't know a cat won me over," He mumbles gently.

[jessieren]

Given there's no new content I present to you the latest in the series of 'When you're this hot do you even need to be naked...'

And for those of you who prefer your wednesday content old school...

[loveanddeepdick]

nerd!choso who is so unknown at school that people go, “who?” when he’s mentioned. you’re pretty sure that only five people knew who he even was.

nerd!choso who is most definitely the president of some club like chess or dead poets society. he saw you at the club fair and fell in love

he thinks he went to heaven when you approach his table at club rush. yuji, although not in chess, was helping choso recruit people since his poor brother was too shy to talk to anyone. you go up to your friend yuji, making small talk with him.

“i’ve never played chess, yuji”, you giggled

“my brother can teach you!”

you glanced over at choso, not even noticing him at first. he was.. pretty. not pretty as in a way your friends would giggle at you when they saw you in a new outfit, not pretty as in the comments you got under your instagram post, but he was a natural beauty.

yuji had to snap you out of it. of course he noticed though, the way you two looked at each other.

nerd!choso who teaches you how to play chess, not letting the two other members of the small club play with you.

nerd!choso who helps you study, helps you carry textbooks, and helps you with midterms and any exams you have.

nerd!choso who has a nosebleed when you give him a small peck on the cheek when he finally confesses to you after months of pining for you.

you two had been studying in his dorm, comfortable with each other as your head was leaning against his shoulder as you two relished in each other’s presence.

“i like you.”

“oh! i like you t—“

“no. i like you.”

you turn to him. a small smile creeping onto your face. you didn’t say anything, only pressing a short kiss on his cheek. he immediately freezes up, his hands turning clammy and sweaty.

“i—uh..”

then, a trickle of blood comes from his nose, dripping onto his cupid’s bow.

“oh my god, cho!”, you gasped as you jump up, running to grab a tissue from his nightstand where he also kept a picture of you two and a bottle of lotion

you leaned in, wiping his nose attentively. as you chide and nurse him while mumbling, choso can’t help but stare down to take a peep at your tank top. he could see the valley of your boobs and the top of your bra. he choked, letting out a startled gasp before his eyes rolled to the back of his head.

he knocked out cold on the spot

nerd!choso who keeps a special picture of you in his wallet. he’ll be at his chess club meetings, at lectures, out with his family, and he keeps a hand on his wallet, knowing you’re in there.

the picture was a polaroid he took with your camera, your eyes were just out of frame but he could see a portion of your fucked out face, his cum dripping from your mouth and splattered on your cheeks. you were completely naked and sprawled out on his bed in his childhood home

it was almost funny how a hot goddess of a girl was naked, covered in his cum, and sprawled out, pussy on display on his old lego ninjago bedsheets.

nerd!choso who dedicates every single one of his orgasms to you. if you were with him, he’d find a way to cum inside you. in your mouth or your pussy, he’s find a way inside. of course, he’d also opt for cumming on your tits or on your face, he wasn’t greedy. but what he really wants, is to cum inside your cute little ass! he’s too shy to ask, of course, but the day would come eventually

if you weren’t here though, he’d pull up his personal secret album for you, filled photos and videos with shots of under your skirt, through the crack of your bedroom, from your window, when you just walking around with a tank top. he loved it all.

but his favorites were videos you’d allowed him to take while he was fucking you from the back or in missionary. he loved watching them on repeat, never getting bored of them. after a while, he gained the courage to show you as well.

you checked your phone to see a notification from your boyfriend and gasped when you opened it.

it was an image of the picture he kept of you beside his bed, covered in his semen. in the corner of the photo was his hand wrapped around his throbbing cock.

‘i miss you 🖤’

[tsuutarr]

Rich! Yandere x Chill! Reader

Work is a drag – your supervisor expects mountains from you while allowing himself to pick pebbles. He expects you to be there before him and leave after him even though he allows himself to arrive late and leave on time. He expects you to respond to every email and ask questions but ignores emails sent his way. He condescendingly laughs at you and gets annoyed at you making mistakes even though he’s made plenty himself.

In conclusion, you’re about to lose it. Go absolutely bonkers.

Still, you gotta earn money somehow, so…

You really have no choice but to continue onwards.

But seriously, who thought a cycle of work and work and more work was a good idea? You have a few choice words for them. Especially since you’re forced to stay longer than you want to because your stupid supervisor decided to give you work at the last minute, two minutes before you clock out.

By the time you arrive home, you’re dead tired, absolutely unable to keep your eyes open. You tell yourself that you need to get changed, eat dinner, brush your teeth, catch up on your weekly show… but your body is too tired to obey any of that, so it’s lulled into a long, dreamless slumber.

When you come to, you wake up on a gorgeous bed in a gorgeous room. You’re disoriented, absolutely positive that you’re dreaming. But you don’t wake up even after pinching yourself so… this must be real?

Your thoughts are interrupted as the doors to the room open, showcasing a handsome man. You’re pretty sure you’ve seen him on the news somewhere. Probably. Anyway, the point is that he’s handsome.

“Are you feeling all right, Darling?” he asks, voice velvety smooth and deep like dark chocolate.

“I guess?” you say, feeling surprisingly calm. He blinks at you.

“Ah… are you not going to ask where you are…?”

“Oh, right.” You nod. “Where am I?”

“You’re at one of my mansions,” he responds, smoothing out his dress shirt. “I’ve selected the best one, just for you.”

“Oh wow.” Flashes of your dingy one bedroom apartment flash through your head. “That’s great.”

“And of course, you’ll have everything provided for you. If you need anything, just tell me – I can get you everything you desire.”

“That’s amazing,” you respond. “I’m in.”

“Wha–” he looks at you, shocked. “I knew you were in dire financial straits but… aren’t you going to be wary of me, Dear? I mean, I kidnapped you?”

“My guy, the economy is awful, I hate my job, and I really just want to enjoy life for once. I am not complaining.” Shrugging your shoulders, your gaze remains steady on him. “Besides, you’re easy on the eyes.”

A bright red blush splatters itself across his cheeks, forcing him to clear his throat. “W–well, I’m pleased that my appearance is desirable to you.”

“Yup,” you reply, before looking at him curiously. “So like… did you stalk me or something? Put trackers on me?”

“Wha–”

“Well, it kinda seems like you’ve been after me for a while, I guess. Sorry if I’m wrong?”

“Well, no, you’re not… incorrect. But does that not bother you?”

“I mean, social media already has all my info anyway, so…” you hum thoughtfully. “Hm. Anyway. Does kidnapping me mean that you won’t let me go out again? A lot of stories have the guy locking their love interest up.”

He blinks. “I… suppose so…?”

“I don’t entirely mind, but I feel like I’ll probably go nuts if I’m not allowed to go out at all. Can’t we compromise? Like… you can have your trackers on me or have someone follow me around. Actually, why don’t you come along?”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

“I mean, it’s a fair trade, isn’t it? I have friends and family that I gotta see so I don’t go insane, but like, I don’t mind spending most of my time here. And if I do go out, you can just keep track of that. Plus it’s not like I have money or power to actually run or something anyway.” You nod, certain.

“You… you’re certainly rather… receptive to this whole situation.”

“Again, the economy is trash and you’re hot.”

He clears his throat, looking embarrassed. “W–well, it isn’t the worst idea in the world, I suppose. However, the world at large is quite dangerous. You can’t fault me for wanting to keep you locked up. It’s the best way to keep you safe–”

“Oh, I know!” you snap your fingers. “Let’s get married.”

“...Excuse me?”

“I mean, that way you’ll legally be my family. Then you can be with me ‘til death do us apart. Or something.” Satisfied, you nod. “Good idea, don’t you think?”

Gears whir inside his head as he looks at you, completely flabbergasted by your proposal. He’s happy that you seem satisfied with the situation and want to marry him but… but…

“Good idea indeed,” he agrees, fully abandoning any notion of common sense (not that he had much to begin with). 

Your willing acceptance of your situation wasn’t what he was expecting, but… who is he to complain?

It’s working in his favor, after all.

[harrysfolklore]

but daddy i love him, part one - mv1

summary: in the world of formula 1, where competition runs deep and loyalties are tested, yn wolff and max verstappen found themselves caught in the middle . as the daughter of mercedes team principal and the rising red bull star, they must navigate the balance between rivalries and love. wc: 17k. PART TWO

folkie radio: HERE. IT. IS. FINALLY !!!!!!!! as i've stated before i'm absolutely terrified of posting this, this is my longest fic ever and different from what i've done before. i know it's a long read but i'm really proud of it and i think it's worth it. IN THIS FIC MORE THAN ANY OTHER. I ENCOURAGE YOU TO LEAVE FEEDBACK.

DISCLAIMER: as stated in the title THIS IS PART ONE!!! part two is ready in my drafts and will be posted shortly (in a week tops). i'll stop talking now. BUCKLE UP AND ENJOY (and please leave feedback okay)

Melbourne, 2015

The hotel lobby is quiet at this hour - that strange liminal space between late night and early morning when most reasonable people are asleep. But you've never been great at reasonable, and jet lag has your body clock completely scrambled.

That's how you end up in the hotel's deserted coffee shop at 1 AM, nursing a hot chocolate and trying to calm your nerves about tomorrow.

You're so lost in thought you don't notice someone else enter until they speak.

"They're still open?"

You look up and your heart skips. Of course you recognize him immediately - Max Verstappen, the 17-year-old prodigy your father hasn't stopped talking about for months. "The next big thing," Papa had said, watching testing footage. "He's going to shake up the whole paddock, just watch."

"Sort of," you gesture to your drink, trying to keep your voice casual. "The barista took pity on me. Said she'd make one last drink before closing."

He glances at the now-dark counter and sighs. Up close, he looks even younger than in the photos you've seen, but there's something in his eyes - a fierce determination that makes you understand why everyone's been talking about him.

"Here," you push your barely-touched hot chocolate towards him. "I'm not really drinking it anyway."

He hesitates. "You sure?"

"Yeah. Probably shouldn't have caffeine at this hour anyway."

He sits across from you, taking a careful sip. "Thanks. I'm Max."

I know, you think. Everyone knows. The youngest F1 driver in history, Jos Verstappen's son, the rookie everyone's watching.

"You're not from around here," you note his accent, playing along with the pretense that you don't know exactly who he is.

"Neither are you," he grins, and something warm flutters in your stomach. His smile transforms his whole face, makes him look his age.

"Fair point. Here for the Grand Prix?"

"You could say that." He studies you, and you wonder if he can hear your heart racing. "You?"

"Something like that." You're enjoying this little game more than you probably should.

"Cryptic."

You laugh. "Says the equally cryptic stranger."

"Okay, okay." He takes another sip. "I'm one of the new drivers. Toro Rosso."

You try to hide your smile. You've watched every clip of his testing sessions, heard every conversation your father has had about his potential. "Ah. The youngest F1 driver in history. That must be a lot of pressure."

He shrugs, but you can see the tension in his shoulders, the weight of expectations already heavy on him. You know that weight - you've carried your own version of it your whole life.

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Scared?"

"No," he answers too quickly, then sighs. "Maybe a little. You won't tell anyone I said that, right?"

There's something vulnerable in his admission that makes your heart ache. Behind all the hype and headlines, he's just a boy on the verge of something enormous.

"Your secret's safe with me." You lean back. "For what it's worth, I think you'll do great."

"You sound pretty confident for someone who just met me."

If only he knew how many hours you'd spent watching his karting videos. How many times you'd heard your father say "That Verstappen boy is going to change everything."

"Let's call it intuition."

He laughs - a genuine, unguarded sound that makes your pulse quicken. "You're different."

"Different good or different bad?"

"Just… different." He finishes the hot chocolate. "Most people, when they find out who I am, they either get weird about it or start asking about Jos."

"Your father?"

He nods, and you see a flicker of something in his eyes - the same shadow you sometimes get when people mention Toto.

"Well, I know a thing or two about father-related pressure, so…"

"Yeah?" He looks interested. "What does your father do?"

You check your watch, knowing it's time to end this little charade. "Oh wow, is that the time? I should probably head up."

"Wait," he stands as you do. "I didn't catch your name."

You pause at the door, turning back with a small smile, savoring what you know will be his reaction. "I'm YN Wolff."

His eyes widen. "Wolff? As in…"

"See you in the paddock, Max Verstappen."

You leave him standing there, but not before catching his surprised laugh. Your heart is racing as you walk away - from the deception, from his smile, from the way his eyes had lit up when he laughed.

The next morning, you spot him in the paddock. He does a double-take when he sees you with the Mercedes team, then grins and shakes his head. You're wearing your team kit now, no more pretending to be just another girl in a hotel coffee shop.

"Cryptic stranger," he mouths at you as he passes.

You just smile, trying to ignore how your stomach flips when he winks at you.

Neither of you could have known then - in that quiet hotel coffee shop at 1 AM - that this was the beginning of something that would change your lives.

Singapore, 2015

The paddock is eerily quiet now, the usual chaos of race day reduced to a whisper of distant maintenance and soft lighting. You're sitting on one of the team benches, the night air cool against your skin. Max is close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him, close enough that the line between friendship and something more feels increasingly blurred.

It wasn't a sudden thing, this connection with Max. It had been a slow burn, a gradual unraveling that began that night in the hotel coffee shop and grew through stolen moments between races, brief conversations in crowded paddocks, and late-night messages that became increasingly frequent.

At first, it was simple curiosity. You'd catch each other's eye across the paddock, exchange a knowing smile. Then came the texts - random observations about races, inside jokes about team dynamics, comments that walked the line between friendly and flirtatious. Max had a way of making you laugh like no one else could, his wit sharp and unexpected.

He nudges you playfully. "So, daughter of the most powerful team principal in Formula 1. Must be interesting."

You roll your eyes, but there's a smile tugging at your lips. "Not as glamorous as you might think."

"Oh?" He raises an eyebrow. "Try me."

You pause, considering. The weight of your father's reputation is something you've carried your entire life - a constant backdrop to every interaction, every moment.

"Imagine," you say slowly, "having every conversation potentially recorded, every interaction analyzed. One wrong move and it's not just about you, but about your family's reputation."

Max's expression shifts. There's understanding there - he knows something about familial expectations, about the pressure of carrying a name.

"My father," he says quietly, "Jos Verstappen. Not exactly a walk in the park."

The vulnerability in his voice catches you off guard. These moments have become more frequent - brief windows where the polished racing personas fall away, revealing something raw and real.

"Tell me," you prompt softly.

He takes a deep breath. "Constant pressure. Every race, every test, every moment - it's like I'm living not just for myself, but for some expectation he's created. Sound familiar?"

You laugh, but it's a sound tinged with something harder. Sadness. Recognition. "Absolutely."

Your conversations have been like this lately - layers peeling back, revealing something raw and real beneath the polished exterior of Formula 1.

"Sometimes," Max continues, "I wonder if I'm racing for myself or for the legacy everyone else wants me to create."

Before you can respond, a voice cuts through the night. "Little Wolff?"

Lewis approaches, his team kit still impeccable despite the late hour. His eyes narrow when he sees Max, taking in your proximity.

Lewis had been a constant in your life long before Max entered the picture. Since joining Mercedes, he'd taken on a role that was part mentor, part protective older brother. It wasn't an official designation, but in the Mercedes family, it might as well have been law.

Lewis knew everything about you - your hopes, your fears and everything in between. He was more than just your father's driver. He was family.

"Oh," Lewis says, a mix of surprise and something else - protection, wariness. "Verstappen."

Max stands immediately. "I was just leaving," he says quickly, a touch of nervousness breaking through his usual confidence. "See you around."

As Max walks away, Lewis turns to you, his protective big brother persona fully activated. "What," he says slowly, "was that about?"

You start walking together, the paddock lights casting long shadows. Lewis' stride is purposeful, matching yours.

"Nothing," you say, but the word sounds unconvincing even to your own ears, "He's my friend."

"Friend," he says, uncertainty in his voice, "Just be careful, okay? Things are never that simple in this paddock" he'd said, and you knew he meant more than just about Max.

You said nothing. But you heard him. You always did.

Barcelona, 2016

The champagne sparkles in the late afternoon sun as you watch from a secluded corner of the paddock. You smile as you watch Max on that podium - the youngest winner in Formula 1 history. Your smile is wide, uncontrolled, and you're grateful for the relative privacy of your spot. If anyone noticed that your eyes never left Max, that your smile was meant only for him, they didn't say.

You remember the first time you saw him race, really race - not just in videos or testing. The raw talent, the fearlessness that made your breath catch. Over the past year, you'd watched him grow from that confident teenager in the Melbourne coffee shop into someone who commanded respect on track. And somewhere along the way, between stolen moments in the paddock and late-night conversations, he'd become so much more than just another driver.

The past year had been a dance of almost-moments and careful distances. Shared glances across crowded rooms, text messages that made you smile at 3 AM, touches that lingered just a second too long. You'd both known the complications, the impossibility of it all - the Mercedes team principal's daughter and Red Bull's rising star. It was like a modern Romeo and Juliet, except instead of warring families, it was competing Formula 1 teams.

Later that evening, you stand in your father's office doorway, heart hammering but determined. Toto is absorbed in post-race papers, reading glasses perched on his nose, looking every bit the formidable team principal even hours after the race.

"Papa?"

He looks up, his expression softening slightly at the sight of you. "Yes, Schatz?"

"I'm going out," you say, trying to keep your voice casual while mentally rehearsing your prepared explanation.

Toto's eyebrows rise slightly. "Out?"

"With some friends," you elaborate, grateful for years of practice at maintaining your composure under his scrutiny. "To celebrate the race."

He sets his papers down, removing his glasses. "Friends from the team?"

Your heart skips. "Just… friends from the paddock," you say carefully. "Daniel invited me."

"Ricciardo?" His tone sharpens slightly.

"He's always been nice to me," you reason, which isn't a lie. Daniel has been a friend since his early days, always treating you like a friend rather than just the boss' daughter.

Toto studies you for a long moment, and you force yourself to meet his gaze steadily, even as your pulse races. You've always been close to your father - he's been your hero, your guide, your biggest supporter. The weight of potentially disappointing him sits heavy in your chest.

"Be careful," he finally says, though his tone suggests he's not entirely convinced. "You know how complicated things can be in this world."

"I know, Papa," you say softly. "I'll be careful. Promise."

Getting into the Red Bull celebration is easier than expected, thanks to Daniel's help. He meets you at a side entrance, his trademark grin wider than usual.

"Looking good, Wolff," he winks, pulling you into a quick hug. "Though I'm pretty sure your dad would kill me if he knew I was helping you sneak in."

"What he doesn't know won't hurt him," you say, trying to ignore the guilt that accompanies the words.

"Just…" Daniel's expression turns serious for a moment. "Be careful, yeah? With Max. He's my teammate and you're like my sister, and I don't want either of you getting hurt."

You're saved from responding by the noise of the party as he leads you inside. The atmosphere is electric - the joy of Max's first win filling the air along with music and laughter.

When Max spots you, his eyes widen, champagne glass freezing halfway to his lips. The surprise on his face quickly melts into something softer, more private. He excuses himself from his group and makes his way over, that familiar smirk playing on his lips - the one that never fails to make your heart skip.

"Should I be worried about Mercedes spies in our midst?" he teases, but his eyes are soft, drinking you in.

"You know me," you counter, matching his playful tone while trying to ignore how good he looks in his race winner's shirt, "I live for trouble."

"That you do, Wolff." He steps closer, just slightly, but enough to make your breath catch. "I didn't think you'd come."

"And miss your first win celebration? Never." You mean it to sound light, teasing, but your voice comes out softer, more sincere than intended.

"Still can't believe it," he says, shaking his head with a boyish grin that makes him look his age for once. "My first win."

"I can," you reply, taking a sip of champagne. "I've seen how you drive. It was only a matter of time."

He looks at you with an intensity that makes your heart stutter. "You've been watching me drive, then?"

"Someone has to keep an eye on the competition," you tease, but you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks.

"Is that what I am? Competition?" He moves closer, and suddenly the music seems far away.

"Among other things." Your voice comes out breathier than intended.

The conversation flows easily between you, as it always has. You talk about the race, about his incredible overtakes, about the moment he realized he was going to win. His eyes light up when he describes the feeling of crossing the finish line, and you find yourself caught between admiring his passion and getting lost in the way his hands move as he talks.

As the night progresses, the party gets louder, more crowded. Max notices you glancing around at the growing crowd.

"Want to get some air?" he asks, nodding toward a door that leads to a quieter area.

You follow him to a private terrace overlooking the city. The music is muffled here, and the night air is cool on your skin. You lean against the railing, city lights twinkling below.

"Better?" he asks, standing close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him.

"Much." You turn to face him, drawn in by the way the lights play across his features. "Though I have to say, you throw quite a party for a rookie winner."

He laughs, the sound low and warm. "Rookie? I've been racing since before I could walk."

"Oh right, I forgot - Max Verstappen, born in a go-kart," you tease, making him smile wider.

"You're impossible, you know that?" He shakes his head, but his eyes are fond.

"Part of my charm," you counter, feeling bold in the privacy of the moment.

"Is that what you call it?" He's even closer now, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his eyes.

"Would you rather I was predictable?" You raise an eyebrow, challenging.

"Never." His voice drops lower, sending shivers down your spine. "Predictable is boring. And you, YN Wolff, are anything but boring."

The tension between you is electric, years of carefully maintained distance crumbling in this quiet moment. Your heart is racing so fast you wonder if he can hear it.

"Well," you say, stepping into his space until there's barely a breath between you, "I think the winner deserves a reward."

Before you can second-guess yourself, you're kissing him. It's everything and nothing like you imagined - soft at first, tentative, like you're both afraid of breaking something precious. Then his hand comes up to cup your face, and the kiss deepens, becomes more urgent. You can taste champagne on his lips, feel the solid warmth of him against you. Your fingers curl into his shirt, anchoring yourself as the world spins around you.

It's a perfect moment, suspended in time, until he pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours.

"You're trouble, Wolff," he murmurs against your lips, but he's smiling that smile that makes your heart flip. "Beautiful trouble."

"Scared?" you challenge softly, echoing your first conversation in Melbourne.

"Terrified," he admits, his thumb tracing your cheekbone. "But in a good way."

You stay at the party longer than you should, caught in Max's orbit. Every smile, every touch, every shared look feels charged with possibility. But reality crashes back hours later when you return.

Your dad is waiting, his expression thunderous in a way you've rarely seen directed at you. Your stomach drops as soon as you see him, the lingering warmth from Max's kisses turning to ice in your veins.

"Would you like to explain," he says slowly, each word precise and controlled, "why did I receive a call informing me that my daughter was at a Red Bull celebration?"

"Papa, I-" you start, but he cuts you off with a sharp gesture.

"Don't." His voice is hard. "Don't try to fool me. I've seen you with Max Verstappen."

The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken words. You want to defend yourself, explain that Max isn't just the Red Bull driver he sees, that there's more to him.

"Do you have any idea," he continues, "what position this puts me in? Puts the team in?"

"It's not about the teams," you say quietly, finding your voice. "It's just-"

"Just what?" he challenges. "Just you and him? Nothing is ever just anything in Formula 1, YN. Every action has consequences. Every relationship has implications."

"That's not fair."

"Fair?" He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "This sport isn't about fair. It's about winning. About loyalty. About trust." He pauses, letting the words sink in. "How can I trust you to put the team first when you're sneaking around with our biggest rival?"

The words hit you like a physical blow. "I would never betray the team," you whisper, hurt that he could even think that.

"Maybe not intentionally," he says, his voice softening slightly. "But this… whatever this is with Max Verstappen… it can't continue. I won't tell you again. Stay away from him."

You want to argue more, to make him understand. But you recognize the finality in your father's tone, the immovable force that has made him such a successful team principal. In this world of racing and rivalry, some lines aren't meant to be crossed.

As you leave, you touch your lips, still feeling the ghost of Max's kiss. Your phone buzzes - a message from Max: "Worth the trouble?"

You stare at the screen, tears threatening to fall. Sometimes the biggest crashes in Formula 1 aren't on the track at all. Sometimes they're in the space between what your heart wants and what the sport demands.

Germany, 2016

The German summer air is thick with tension. You can feel it crackling through the paddock like electricity before a storm. Nico and Lewis' rivalry has turned the Mercedes garage into a pressure cooker, and your father's stress is palpable. Being around him feels like walking on eggshells, which makes your secret meetings with Max even more dangerous.

You've gotten good at this dance over the past few months - stolen moments between practice sessions, hidden corners of the paddock, coded messages about "casual meetings" that are anything but casual. Every stolen kiss feels like a victory and a risk all at once.

The sun is setting over Hockenheim when you slip behind the Red Bull motorhome, your heart racing with the familiar mix of excitement and fear. Max is already there, leaning against the wall with that cocky smile that still makes your stomach flip.

"Cutting it close, Wolff," he murmurs as you approach. "Your father's been prowling the paddock all day."

"Worried?" you tease, even as you glance around to ensure you're alone.

His answer is to pull you against him, one hand sliding to your waist while the other cups your face. "About your father? Always. About this? Never."

The kiss is heated from the start - months of practice have taught you both exactly how to make each other breathless. His thumb traces your jawline as he deepens the kiss, and you press closer, fingers curling into his team shirt. You love how solid he feels against you, how his breath catches when you bite gently at his lower lip.

"You're going to get me in trouble," he whispers against your mouth, but his smile suggests he doesn't mind at all.

"You love trouble," you remind him, trailing kisses along his jaw.

His hands tighten on your waist. "I love-" he starts, but cuts himself off, choosing instead to capture your lips again in a kiss that makes you forget everything else.

You lose track of time, lost in the taste of him, the feel of his hands on your skin, the way he whispers your name like a prayer. It's dangerous and perfect and everything you shouldn't want but can't resist.

A sound makes you both freeze. You pull apart quickly, straightening your clothes, but it's too late.

Jos Verstappen stands at the corner of the motorhome, his expression dark and unreadable. Your blood runs cold at the sight of him.

"I… I should go," you manage, your voice shaky. Max's hand brushes yours briefly - a small comfort - before you hurry past his father, avoiding his stern gaze.

Behind you, you can hear Jos' voice, low and harsh in Dutch, but you don't stop to listen. Your heart is pounding as you make your way back to the paddock, wondering if this is the moment everything falls apart.

Max stands his ground as his father's disapproval fills the space between them.

"What do you think you're doing?" Jos demands in Dutch, his voice controlled but sharp. "The Wolff girl? Have you lost your mind?"

"It's not what you think-" Max starts, but Jos cuts him off.

"It's exactly what I think. You're letting yourself get distracted. By a Mercedes girl, no less. Toto Wolff's daughter?" Jos steps closer, his presence intimidating despite Max now being taller than him. "You're just starting to prove yourself in Formula 1. This is when you need to focus more than ever."

"I am focused," Max argues. "My results prove that."

"For now." Jos' voice turns cold. "But girls like that, from families like that - they're nothing but distractions. She'll get in your head, make you soft. And then what? You think Toto Wolff wants his daughter with a Red Bull driver? You think this ends well?"

Max clenches his jaw, fighting back the urge to defend you, to explain that you're different, that you understand the sport as well as he does. But he knows his father won't listen.

"Stay away from her," Jos says finally, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Focus on what matters. On winning and being champion. That's what we've worked for all these years. Don't throw it away for some girl."

The words hit harder than Max wants to admit, echoing his own doubts, his own fears about what this thing with you means. But he can't forget the way you look at him like you see past the racer, past the name, to who he really is.

Jos leaves him there in the growing darkness, with only the weight of expectations and the lingering taste of your kiss on his lips.

Monaco, May 2017

Another year, another dance of stolen moments and secret smiles. If anything, the warnings and opposition have only made whatever this is between you and Max more intense. Like a forbidden drug, each stolen moment leaves you craving more, even as the risks grow higher.

"This is a terrible idea," Max whispers as you pull him through your back door, "Your dad is literally upstairs."

"He's dead asleep," you assure him, carefully closing the door. "He took sleeping pills for his flight tomorrow. Besides, he sleeps like the dead anyway."

Max still looks like he's ready to bolt at any second. "YN, if he catches me here-"

"He won't." You tug him closer by his shirt. "Unless you keep talking so loud."

He glances nervously at the stairs. "Your room is up there? Past his?"

"Scared, Verstappen?"

"Terrified, actually." But he follows you anyway, both of you carefully avoiding the creaky third step you'd mapped out years ago during teenage sneaking attempts.

You're almost at your door when Max freezes. "Was that-"

"Just the house settling," you whisper, but your heart is racing too. "Come on, we're almost-"

A door opens down the hall.

Max actually whimpers. You shove him into your room just as Toto's voice calls out, "YN? Is that you?"

"Just getting water, Papa!" you call back, praying your voice sounds normal. "Go back to sleep."

"Everything okay?"

"Fine! Those pills should be kicking in, right?"

A yawn. "Ja, starting to feel them. Goodnight, Schatz."

"Night, Papa!"

You wait until you hear his door close before slipping into your room. You find Max standing perfectly still in the middle of the floor, looking absolutely terrified.

"I think I'm having a heart attack," he announces in a whisper. "I'm actually having a heart attack. I can see the headlines now: 'F1 Driver Dies of Fear in Team Principal's House.'"

You try not to laugh. "You're being dramatic."

"Dramatic?" His voice rises slightly before he catches himself. "YN, your father was ten feet away from me. Ten feet! Do you know what he would do to me if he found me here?"

"Well, first he'd probably have a heart attack himself-"

"Not helping!"

"Then probably murder you-"

"Still not helping!"

"And Lewis would hide the body-"

"Why did I agree to this?" He runs his hands through his hair. "I'm a professional athlete. I have championships to win. I can't die in Toto Wolff's house because his daughter is too pretty to say no to."

You wrap your arms around his neck, grinning. "You think I'm pretty?"

"I think you're trying to kill me." But his hands settle on your waist automatically. "If your father walks in right now-"

"He won't."

"But if he does-"

"Max." You kiss him softly. "Stop talking about my father when you're in my bedroom."

"Missed you," he murmurs against your mouth, hands already sliding under your shirt. "Watching you in the paddock all day, not being able to touch you…"

You smile against his lips. "Poor baby. Must be so hard being professional."

He responds by lifting you up, making you laugh as he carries you toward your bed. "You have no idea."

Hours later, you're tangled in your sheets, his fingers tracing lazy patterns on your bare skin. The city's lights cast shadows across his face, making him look older than his twenty years.

"We should sleep," you say, even as you press closer to him. "You have meetings tomorrow."

"Meetings are overrated," he mumbles into your hair, but you can hear the smile in his voice.

"Says the guy who's already breaking records." Your fingers trail down his chest. "Future world champion can't skip meetings."

He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "Future world champion can do whatever he wants."

You fall asleep like that, wrapped in each other, pretending the world outside doesn't exist. But morning comes too soon, sunlight streaming through your windows and your alarm blaring way too early.

Max groans, burying his face in your neck. "Five more minutes."

"You said that twenty minutes ago," you remind him, even as you run your fingers through his hair. "You're already going to be late, and my father is still next room, remember?"

He lifts his head, giving you that boyish grin that still makes your heart skip. "Worth it."

But reality can't be held at bay forever. Max rushes to get dressed, stealing kisses between looking for his scattered clothes. You watch from your bed, sheet wrapped around you, trying to memorize how he looks in the morning light.

"Tonight?" he asks, pausing at your bedroom door.

"Text me," you say, and he gives you one last smile before he's gone.

Max is still smiling when he arrives at the Red Bull office, nearly an hour late for his morning meeting. The smile dies on his lips when he sees his father waiting outside, arms crossed and expression thunderous.

"You were with that girl weren't you? Nothing's changed" Jos demands without preamble, switching to Dutch.

"I was just-"

"Don't lie to me." Jos' voice is low, dangerous. "Are you trying to destroy everything we've worked for?"

"I'm not destroying anything," Max argues, frustration creeping into his voice. "My results-"

"Your results could be better," Jos cuts him off. "You could be focused on becoming champion instead of sneaking around with Toto Wolff's daughter. Do you think this is a game?"

"It's not a game-"

"Then what is it?" Jos steps closer, his presence still intimidating despite Max being taller now. "Love?" He spits the word like it's poison. "You think love wins championships? You think that girl is worth throwing away everything we've sacrificed for?"

Max clenches his jaw, the weight of years of his father's expectations pressing down on him. "I can handle both-"

"No." Jos' voice is final, absolute. "You can't. And you won't. This ends now. Cut her off."

"Or what?" The words slip out before Max can stop them, a rare challenge to his father's authority.

Jos' eyes turn cold. "Or I'll make sure Toto knows exactly what his precious daughter has been up to. How do you think that ends for her? For her relationship with her father? For her position in the paddock?"

The threat hangs in the air between them. Max feels his stomach turn to ice, knowing his father well enough to know this isn't an empty threat.

"Your choice, Max," Jos says, already turning away. "But make it soon. This distraction ends now, or there will be consequences. For everyone."

Max stands there long after his father leaves, the taste of your kisses still on his lips, now bitter with the weight of choices.

Monza, 2017

The Italian late summer heat feels suffocating as you finally corner Max behind the Ferrari motorhome - neutral territory. He's been dodging you since Hungary, responding to texts with one-word answers before stopping altogether. You've seen that look in his eyes when he spots you in the paddock - the way he quickly turns away, finds somewhere else to be.

"Hey stranger," you say, aiming for casual despite your racing heart. "Been a while."

He looks everywhere but at you, hands shoved deep in his pockets. "YN…" There's a warning in his voice that you choose to ignore.

"I've missed you," you continue, taking a step closer. "We haven't talked since-"

"We can't do this anymore." His words cut through the air like a knife.

You freeze, the practiced speech you'd prepared dying in your throat. "What?"

"This." He gestures vaguely between you, still not meeting your eyes. "Whatever this is. It has to stop."

"Just like that?" Your voice comes out steadier than you feel. "After everything?"

"I need to focus on racing." He sounds like he's reciting a rehearsed speech. "Just racing. No distractions."

The word 'distraction' hits you like a physical blow. "Is that what I am? A distraction?"

Finally, he looks at you, and for a moment you see something crack in his carefully constructed facade - pain, regret, something more. But then it's gone, replaced by a coldness you've never seen directed at you before.

"This was never going to work," he says flatly. "We both knew that. It'll only cause trouble - for you, for me, for our families. It's better to end it now."

You think about all the stolen moments, the late-night conversations, the way he'd look at you like you were the only person in a crowded room. All reduced to 'trouble'.

"Fine." You straighten your spine, channeling every ounce of Wolff pride you possess. "See you around, Max Verstappen."

You turn and walk away before he can respond, each step measured and controlled despite feeling like your world is crumbling. You make it all the way to the Mercedes motorhome before the tears start to fall.

You duck into what you think is an empty corner, trying to get yourself under control, when a familiar voice makes you jump.

"Little Wolff?"

Lewis stands there, concern etched across his features. He's known you since you were a kid, has watched you grow up in the paddock. In many ways, he's your brother.

"I'm fine," you say automatically, wiping at your eyes. "Just… allergies."

"Right," he says softly, not believing you for a second. "Because Monza is famous for its allergies."

A sob escapes before you can stop it, and suddenly Lewis is pulling you into a hug. You break down against his chest, all your carefully maintained composure crumbling.

"Hey, hey," he soothes, rubbing your back. "What happened? Who do I need to beat up?"

You laugh wetly against his shoulder. "Nobody. It's stupid. I'm stupid."

"You're one of the smartest people I know," he counters. "So whatever it is, it's not stupid."

You pull back slightly, wiping your eyes. "I just… I thought…" You shake your head. "It doesn't matter what I thought. Clearly I was wrong."

Understanding dawns in Lewis's eyes. He's not blind - he's probably noticed more than most about your relationship with Max, even if he's never mentioned it.

"Sometimes," he says carefully, "people make choices out of fear rather than what they really want. Especially in this world."

"He said I was a distraction," you whisper, the words still burning.

Lewis's expression hardens slightly. "He's young. And scared. And probably being pulled in a hundred different directions." He pauses. "Doesn't make it hurt any less though, does it?"

You shake your head, fresh tears threatening to fall.

"Come here." He pulls you into another hug. "For what it's worth, I think he's an idiot. But maybe this is for the best, he's not good for you."

You stay there for a while, letting Lewis comfort you, grateful for his presence and his wisdom. But you can't shake the image of Max's face, that moment when his mask slipped, and you'd seen the pain in his eyes. You wonder if Lewis is right - if this is really about fear rather than feeling.

But in the end, you suppose it doesn't matter. A choice is still a choice, even if it's made for the wrong reasons.

Monaco, Summer 2018

The bass thrums through your body as you down another shot, Lando cheering beside you. The club is packed - all of Monaco's elite young crowd mixed with racing's next generation. Your father would have an aneurysm if he saw you here, but that's half the fun.

"Another!" Lando shouts over the music, already signaling the bartender. He's technically too young to be here, but money and fame open most doors in Monaco.

"You're a bad influence, Norris," you laugh, but you don't stop him.

"Me?" He clutches his chest in mock offense. "I'm an angel. You're the one corrupting the youth."

"You're literally younger than me."

"Details, details." He hands you another shot. "To being young and irresponsible!"

You clink glasses with him, the alcohol burning pleasantly as it goes down. This is what you needed - no paddock politics, no disappointed looks from your father, no thoughts of…

"Oh shit," Lando says suddenly, following your gaze. "We can move to another section if you want."

Max has just walked in with a group of friends. He looks good - he always looks good - in dark jeans and a fitted black shirt. Your stomach does that familiar flip before you forcefully squash it down.

"Why should we move?" you say, perhaps a bit too loudly. "We were here first."

Lando gives you that knowing look he's perfected over the past year of friendship. "YN…"

"Don't start," you warn him. "I'm fine. It's fine. Ancient history."

"Right," he drawls. "That's why you drunk-called me crying about him last month."

"I did not!"

"'Lando,'" he mimics in a high voice, "'why doesn't he want meeeee?'"

You shove him playfully. "I hate you."

"You love me." He grins. "I'm your favorite driver now."

"You're not even in F1 yet."

"Yet!" He wraps an arm around your shoulders. "Next year though. Then I'll be beating your ex's ass on track."

"He's not my ex," you mutter. "We were never actually together, remember?"

"Right, just sneaking around making out for like a year and a half. Totally casual."

You're about to retort when movement catches your eye. Max is at the bar now, and there's a girl with him. Tall, blonde, model-beautiful. She's touching his arm, laughing at something he's saying, and he's leaning in close to hear her over the music.

"YN…" Lando's voice has that warning tone.

"I need another drink," you announce, turning back to the bar.

Three shots later, you're on the dance floor with Lando, trying to forget the scene playing out at the bar. But your eyes keep drifting over, watching as Max gets closer to the blonde, his hand now on her waist.

"Stop torturing yourself," Lando says in your ear.

"I'm not-" you start, but the words die in your throat as you watch Max lean down and kiss the girl.

Something inside you snaps. You scan the crowd, spotting a guy who's been eyeing you all night. He's good-looking enough - dark hair, nice smile, probably a trust fund kid like half the people here.

"YN," Lando tries to grab your arm, but you're already moving.

You approach the guy with purpose, channeling every ounce of confidence the alcohol has given you. "Want to dance?"

He looks surprised but pleased. "Absolutely."

You let him pull you close, perhaps closer than necessary. You can feel eyes on you - Lando's concerned ones, and maybe, just maybe, someone else's too.

The guy - you think he said his name was Alex or Alec - is a good dancer. His hands are respectful but firm on your hips as you move to the music. When he leans down to kiss you, you let him.

It's not a bad kiss. He knows what he's doing. But he doesn't taste right, doesn't feel right. His hands aren't calloused from racing. He doesn't smell like motor oil and expensive cologne. He's not… him

But you kiss him anyway. When you finally pull back from the kiss, Lando is at your elbow.

"I think we should head out," he says, glancing meaningfully at your nearly empty glass.

"I'm having fun," you protest, even as the room spins slightly. Alex-or-Alec's hands are still on your waist.

"YN." Lando's voice is firmer now. "Come on."

You turn back to Alex-or-Alec, pulling him down for another kiss. It's messy and desperate and you can taste the expensive whiskey on his breath. You're proving something, you think, though you're not sure what or to whom anymore.

Through the haze of alcohol and bass-heavy music, you hear a familiar voice.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Max is standing there, his face tight with anger. The blonde from earlier is nowhere to be seen, but there's another girl hovering behind him - brunette this time.

"Having fun," you say sweetly, pressing closer to Alex-or-Alec. "You should try it. Oh wait, you already are."

"You don't even know this guy," Max snaps.

"His name is Alex." You pause. "Or Alec."

"It's Adrian," the guy supplies helpfully.

"Whatever." Max steps forward. "You're drunk. You need to go home."

"And you need to mind your own business." You turn to Adrian with an exaggerated smile. "Want to get out of here?"

"YN," Lando pleads. "Don't."

"Sure," Adrian grins, clearly oblivious to the tension. "My place isn't far."

Max moves so fast you barely register it, suddenly between you and Adrian. "She's not going anywhere with you."

"Excuse me?" You push at his chest. "You don't get to decide that. You lost that right when you-" You cut yourself off, aware you're saying too much.

"When I what?" Max challenges, his eyes dark. "When I did exactly what you're doing right now?"

"No," you laugh, but it comes out bitter. "When you decided that sneaking around was fine until it wasn't. When you started showing up to every event with a new girl on your arm. When you-"

"YN," Lando tugs at your arm. "Not here."

You shake him off. "Go back to your girlfriend, Max. Or girlfriends. I lost count tonight."

"You're being ridiculous."

"And you're being a hypocrite." You grab Adrian's hand. "Let's go."

Max's hand closes around your wrist. "You're not leaving with him."

"Get your hands off me." Your voice is ice cold. "You don't get to play protective boyfriend when it suits you. Go find another model to add to your collection."

Something flashes in his eyes - hurt maybe, or anger. "Fine. Do what you want. You always do anyway."

"Exactly. I do what I want." You turn to Adrian. "Sorry, but I've changed my mind. Turns out I have standards."

You shake off Max's grip and push past him, heading for the exit. Lando hurries after you, already calling for a car.

"YN, wait-" Max calls after you.

"Go to hell, Verstappen."

Outside, the Monaco air is cool against your flushed skin. Lando wraps his jacket around your shoulders as tears start to fall.

"I hate him," you whisper.

"No, you don't." Lando pulls you into a hug. "That's the problem."

The morning sunlight streaming through the windows feels like actual daggers in your skull. You're nursing your third cup of coffee, wearing sunglasses indoors like the walking cliché you are, when your father's voice cuts through your hangover haze.

"Would you care to explain these?"

Toto slides his phone across the breakfast table. Your stomach drops as you see the photos - you dancing with Adrian, Max confronting you, your tearful exit with Lando. The Monaco nightlife paparazzi are relentless, and you were too drunk to notice them.

"Papa, I-"

"No." His voice is quiet but firm. That's worse than yelling. "This stops now, YN. This... rebellion phase of yours. It stops."

Lewis and Valtteri are suddenly very interested in their breakfast plates. Susie, your stepmother, places a gentle hand on your father's arm, but doesn't contradict him.

"It wasn't-"

"Wasn't what?" Toto's accent gets thicker when he's angry. "Wasn't you, drunk in a club, making headlines again? Wasn't you creating another PR nightmare for the team?"

Your head throbs. "I'm not part of the team."

"No? Then why does every tabloid headline read 'Mercedes Boss's Daughter in Club Drama with Red Bull Star'?"

You wince. Both at his words and at the volume.

"The drinking, the parties, the public scenes - it needs to stop." He leans forward. "You're not just any teenager, liebling. Everything you do reflects on this family, on this team."

"That's not fair."

"Life isn't fair." He softens slightly. "I know this past year has been... difficult."

You feel Lewis shift beside you. He knows - of course he knows. He's probably the only one at this table who knows the full story of you and Max.

"But this self-destructive behavior cannot continue." Your father's voice is final. "You're grounded."

"I'm twenty one!"

"And living on my yacht, in my house, representing my name." He raises an eyebrow. "Would you prefer to go back to boarding school?"

The threat lands. You sink lower in your chair.

"No, sir."

"Good." He turns to his own coffee. "No more clubs. No more parties. And for God's sake, no more scenes with Max Verstappen."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You know without looking it's probably Lando checking on you. Or worse, Max.

"YN." Your father's voice draws your attention back. "I mean it. Whatever is going on between you two... it ends now."

"Nothing is going on," you mutter.

"Then it should be easy to maintain distance."

Susie finally speaks up. "Why don't you come work with me for a while? Help with the She Moves Forward initiative?"

You know it's a peace offering - a way to keep you busy and out of trouble. But the thought of structured days and responsible tasks makes your hangover worse.

"Fine," you concede, if only to end this conversation.

Lewis nudges you under the table - a small gesture of solidarity. Valtteri offers a sympathetic smile.

"Good." Your father stands. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have damage control to handle."

After he leaves, Lewis slides a bottle of Advil towards you. "Here. You look like death."

"Thanks," you grumble, dry-swallowing two pills.

"He's right, you know," Lewis says quietly. "About Max."

"Not you too."

"YN." His voice is gentle. "You can't keep doing this to yourself. The drinking, the acting out - it's not going to make it hurt less."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't." He stands, squeezing your shoulder. "Just... think about what you're really angry at. Because I don't think it's your father, or the team, or even Max."

"I'm going back to bed," you announce to no one in particular.

"Honey," Susie calls after you. "This doesn't have to be a punishment. Maybe it's an opportunity."

You pause at the door. "For what?"

"To figure out who you are without all the drama. Without..." she hesitates. "Without defining yourself by who you're trying to hurt."

You think about Max's face last night, about the girls he was with, about how none of it made you feel better.

"Yeah," you say quietly. "Maybe."

The air feels thick and oppressive as you stumble out of another club, the world spinning slightly. You're not entirely sure how you ended up here - after the disastrous night a few weeks ago, you'd promised yourself (and your father) that you were done with the party scene. But one text from Lando about needing to "get out" had quickly spiraled.

Except Lando had bailed last minute with food poisoning, and you'd gone anyway. Because you're nothing if not stubborn.

The familiar figure of Charles Leclerc materializes beside you. "YN? Are you okay?"

"Charles!" You throw your arms around him, nearly losing your balance. "My favorite Ferrari boy!"

He steadies you with practiced ease. "How much have you had to drink?"

"Lost count," you admit cheerfully. "But it's fine. Everything's fine."

Charles sighs, pulling out his phone. "I'm calling Lewis."

"No!" You grab for his phone but miss entirely. "Not Lewis. He'll tell Papa."

"Good. Maybe he should."

You slump against the wall, suddenly exhausted. "Everyone's so disappointed in me."

Charles' expression softens as he puts the phone to his ear. "We're worried, not disappointed."

Twenty minutes later, you hear the distinctive rumble of Lewis's car. He jumps out, concern etched on his face.

"YN? What were you thinking?"

"That alcohol makes feelings go away?" you offer weakly.

Lewis turns to Charles. "Thanks for calling me."

"Of course. Take care of her."

The ride home is quiet until Lewis finally speaks. "This has to stop."

"I know," you whisper.

"No, I mean it really has to stop. You're hurting yourself, and for what? To prove something to Max?"

"It's not about Max."

"Isn't it?"

You stare out the window, tears forming. "I need to get away from here."

"What do you mean?"

"The paddock, the drama, all of it." You turn to him. "I can't keep doing this. Being the Mercedes princess, the ex-whatever of Max Verstappen. I need… space."

Lewis is quiet for a moment. "Maybe that's not a bad idea. Take some time, figure out who you are away from all this."

"Will you help me convince Papa?"

"Yeah," he says softly. "I'll help. But you have to promise me - no more nights like this."

You nod, the weight of everything finally catching up to you. "I promise."

As Lewis helps you out of the car, you freeze. Toto is standing in the doorway, still in his sleeping clothes. Your stomach drops and fresh tears spring to your eyes - this is it, the final disappointment.

But instead of the anger you expect, your father simply opens his arms.

You practically fall into them, suddenly sobbing. "I'm so sorry, Papa. I'm so sorry."

"Shh," he soothes, holding you tight like he did when you were little. "You're alright, liebling. You're alright."

"I can't-" you hiccup against his chest. "I can't do this anymore. I need to get out of here."

"Out of where?"

"Monaco. The paddock. All of it." You pull back slightly to look at him. "I need space. To figure out who I am without… without all of this."

Toto exchanges a look with Lewis over your head. "I know," he says softly, surprising you. "I've seen it coming."

"You have?"

He cups your face in his hands, wiping away tears with his thumbs. "You're my daughter. Of course I have. I just needed you to realize it yourself."

"I'm tired, Papa," you whisper. "Of being the Mercedes princess, of the gossip, of seeing…" You trail off, but they all know what you mean. Who you mean.

"Then go," he says simply. "Find yourself. The paddock will still be here when you're ready."

"You're not mad?"

He laughs softly. "Oh, we'll discuss tonight's adventure when you're less drunk. But no, liebling. I'm not mad. Sometimes we need to step away to see things clearly."

Lewis steps forward, placing a hand on your shoulder. "We've got your back, little Wolff. Whatever you need."

Fresh tears fall as you're overwhelmed by their support. "I love you both so much."

"And we love you," Toto kisses your forehead. "Now, let's get you to bed. We can make plans tomorrow."

As they help you inside, you feel lighter somehow. Like maybe this isn't an ending, but a beginning. A chance to become someone new - or maybe to find who you've been all along, underneath the labels and expectations.

Austria, 2020

The familiar scent of rubber and fuel hits you as you step into the Mercedes garage for the first time in almost two years, your heart doing a little flip at being back after so long. Everything looks exactly the same, yet somehow different - or maybe you're the one who's different now.

"Little Wolff!" Lewis' voice booms across the garage before you're engulfed in a bone-crushing hug that lifts you off your feet. "Finally back where you belong!"

You laugh, squeezing him back just as tight. "You literally saw me at Christmas, Lewis!"

"That's not the same and you know it," he sets you down but keeps his hands on your shoulders, studying your face. "Christmas is family time. This," he gestures around the garage, "this is home."

Looking at him now, you can see the genuine joy in his eyes. Lewis has always been your second father, and these past two years, he's been your biggest cheerleader from afar, always sending encouraging messages when you were climbing mountains in Nepal or teaching English in Thailand.

"She's hardly been here five minutes and you're already monopolizing her, Lewis?" Your father's voice carries that familiar warmth that makes your chest tight with happiness. Your relationship with him has transformed during your time away - all those long phone calls and video chats where you really talked, not just about racing but about life, dreams, fears. Distance made you both realize what you'd been missing.

"Papa," you smile, walking into his open arms. He holds you close, pressing a kiss to your temple.

"Welcome home, liebling," he murmurs. "The garage hasn't been the same without you."

"I missed you too," you say, then pull back with a grin. "But I need to go see someone else before he thinks I've forgotten him entirely."

Toto laughs. "Go on then. Lando's been asking about you non-stop since he heard you were coming back."

You practically skip your way to the McLaren garage, your heart light. The past two years have given you perspective, helped you understand yourself better. You're not the angry, lost girl who fled Monaco anymore. You're stronger now, more sure of who you are outside of being "Toto Wolff's daughter" or "Max Verstappen's conquest."

"YN!" Lando's screech of delight echoes through the garage as he launches himself at you. "You're back, you're finally back!"

"I missed you so much, you idiot," you ruffle his hair, noting how he's grown even more into himself. He's not the shy rookie anymore - he's coming into his own as a driver.

"Group hug!" Carlos appears, wrapping his long arms around both of you. "Welcome back, pequeña. It's been too quiet without you here to keep this one in line."

"Oi!" Lando protests, but he's beaming.

You're in the middle of telling them about your adventures in Japan when movement catches your eye. Your words trail off as you see him - Max, walking past the garage with Christian. He's filled out more, shoulders broader, face more mature. Your heart does that familiar stutter-step it always did around him.

Two years haven't completely erased the memory of his hands on your skin, his laugh against your neck, the way he used to look at you like you were his entire world. First loves leave permanent marks, and Max Verstappen had branded himself onto your heart when you were both too young to understand the weight of it all.

He must feel your gaze because he turns, and for a moment, your eyes lock. There's something there - recognition, remembrance, maybe even regret. You see him swallow hard, his step faltering just slightly. But neither of you moves to bridge the gap.

You turn back to Lando and Carlos, forcing a smile, but your mind is still with that brief moment of eye contact. You're not that lovesick teenager anymore, but part of you wonders if you'll ever fully get over Max Verstappen. If anyone ever really gets over their first love, or if they just learn to live with the echo of what could have been.

"YN?" Lando's voice brings you back to the present. "You okay?"

You look at your friend's concerned face and give him a genuine smile this time. "Yeah, I am. Just… remembering."

Carlos squeezes your shoulder knowingly. "The past is the past, si? You're here now, that's what matters."

You nod, grateful for their understanding. You're not the same person who left two years ago, running from heartbreak and confusion. You're stronger now, wiser. Ready to write a new chapter.

Even if sometimes, just sometimes, you still feel the ghost of an old love story tugging at your heart.

Barcelona, 2020

The Barcelona night is warm and heavy with memories as you sit at the outdoor terrace of the restaurant. Daniel's telling some ridiculous story about a kangaroo, but your attention keeps drifting to the other end of the table where Max sits, deliberately positioned as far from you as possible.

Five years ago, you'd kissed him for the first time just a few streets from here. After his first win, giddy with freedom and teenage rebellion.

"So how was Bali?" Charles asks making your come back to your senses,"The surfing photos were insane."

"Almost died about twelve times," you laugh. "But worth it."

"She's exaggerating," Max comments casually, surprising everyone at the table. It's the first time he's directly addressed anything about your travels. "I saw the videos. Your form wasn't that bad."

You catch his eye across the table. "Been keeping tabs on me, Verstappen?"

He shrugs, a hint of that old smirk playing at his lips. "Hard not to when you're all over everyone's Instagram stories."

The tension at the table shifts slightly - not gone, but different. Lando kicks your foot under the table, raising an eyebrow when you look at him. You ignore him.

The conversation flows easier after that, stories and laughter bouncing around the table. You find yourself watching Max when he's not looking - the way he's grown into his features, how his laugh is deeper now, how he still runs his hand through his hair when he's trying not to smile.

As the night winds down, you end up being the last two waiting for cars. The others had filtered out gradually - Daniel dragging Charles off to some club, Lando claiming early training, Carlos heading home with his father.

"So," Max breaks the silence first, hands in his pockets. "Two years."

"Two years," you echo, leaning against the wall. "Feels longer sometimes."

"And shorter," he adds, then glances at you. "You look good. Happy."

"I am. Mostly." You study his profile in the streetlights. "You've changed too."

He laughs softly. "Had to grow up sometime, right? Can't be the paddock's problem child forever."

"No more sneaking around in garages?" The words slip out before you can stop them.

His eyes darken slightly at the memory. "Bit harder to get away with that these days. Plus, there hasn't been anyone worth the risk."

The weight of unspoken things hangs between you. All those stolen moments - behind motorhomes, in empty conference rooms, dark corners of victory parties. Never official, never acknowledged, but burning so bright it scared you both.

"Want to come up to my place?" he asks suddenly. "Just to talk. Properly. Without…" he gestures vaguely at the paddock world around you.

You should say no. But two years of distance have made you forget how magnetic he is, or maybe just made you brave enough to pretend you can resist it. "Okay."

The penthouse is exactly what you'd expect - sleek and modern, with a view that makes you catch your breath. You walk to the windows, Barcelona sprawling below like a constellation.

"Remember that night after your first win?" you ask softly. "When we snuck onto the roof?"

"Papa Wolff nearly had a heart attack," Max comes to stand beside you, close enough that your arms almost touch. "Worth it though."

"Was it?" You turn to look at him. "All of it? The sneaking around, the fights with our families, the constant hiding?"

"You know it was." His voice drops lower. "At least, it was for me."

"Max…"

"I've missed you," he admits quietly. "Not just… not just the physical stuff. I missed talking to you. Making you laugh. The way you'd roll your eyes every time I said something stupid in press conferences."

"I still do that," you smile despite yourself. "Some things don't change."

"Maybe they shouldn't." He steps closer, and suddenly you're eighteen again, heart racing at his proximity. "Maybe some things are worth holding onto."

When he kisses you, it feels like muscle memory. Your body remembers this dance - the way his hands find your waist, how he tastes like wine and possibilities. It's softer than the desperate kisses you used to share in dark corners, but somehow more dangerous for it.

You pull back first, breathing hard. "We can't."

"Why not?" His thumb traces your cheekbone. "We're not kids anymore. Who cares what anyone thinks?"

"I do," you step away, wrapping your arms around yourself. "I left to get away from this, Max. From sneaking around, from being the paddock scandal waiting to happen. I built a life where I'm not defined by who I'm secretly sleeping with or whose daughter I am."

"It wouldn't be like before-"

"Wouldn't it? The politics haven't changed. Our families still wouldn't approve."

"I don't care about any of that," he reaches for you but you step back.

"That's the problem," your voice cracks. "I had to live with all of it. The whispers, the judgment, watching my father's face every time there was another rumor about us. I can't go back to that."

"YN, please-"

"I should go." You grab your phone from the counter. "This was a mistake."

At the elevator, you turn back one last time. He's still by the window, silhouetted against the city lights. "For what it's worth," you say softly, "you were my first love. Maybe that's why we have to let it stay in the past."

The elevator doors close on his response, and you lean against the wall, heart pounding. Some part of you will probably always want Max Verstappen. But you've worked too hard to become your own person to let that want destroy everything again.

Even if walking away feels like leaving part of yourself behind.

Monaco, 2020

The yacht party is winding down, the late hour thinning out the crowd until somehow you find yourself alone on the upper deck. The Mediterranean breeze carries fragments of music and laughter from below, but up here it's quiet enough to hear your own thoughts - dangerous, when they all seem to revolve around him.

You hear his footsteps before you see him. You don't need to turn around to know it's Max - your body has always been attuned to his presence, like a compass finding north.

"Hiding?" His voice is soft as he comes to stand beside you at the railing.

"Just needed some air." It's not entirely a lie. "Shouldn't you be downstairs? This is your best friend's party."

"Daniel can handle it on his own," he shrugs, looking out at the harbor lights. "Needed some air too."

The silence that follows should be uncomfortable, but it isn't. That's the problem with Max - everything still feels as natural as breathing. Two years away hasn't changed how your body relaxes in his presence, how the air seems to crackle with possibility when he's near.

"Remember that party in Singapore?" he asks suddenly.

You smile despite yourself. "When we hid from Lewis for half of the night?"

"You were wearing that blue dress," he continues, and something in his voice makes your heart skip. "I couldn't take my eyes off you all night."

"Max…"

"I still can't," he admits quietly. "Even now. Even when I'm supposed to be focusing on other things, my eyes just… find you."

You grip the railing tighter. "We can't do this again."

"Can't we?" He turns to face you now. "Because ever since Barcelona, since that kiss…"

"That was a mistake."

"Was it?" He steps closer, and you fight the urge to move away. "Because it didn't feel like a mistake. It felt like coming home."

The words hit you right in the chest, because he's right. That's exactly what it felt like - like every cell in your body recognizing where it belonged.

"Nothing's changed," you say, but your voice wavers. "The politics, our families, the media…"

"Everything's changed," he counters. "We're not those kids anymore, sneaking around without putting a label on it because we didn't know better. I know exactly what I want now. Who I want."

"Max, please-"

"Two years, YN. Two years of watching you live your life through Instagram stories and paddock glimpses. Two years of trying to convince myself I was over you." His hand finds yours on the railing. "But the truth is, a part of me has belonged to you since that first night in Melbourne, and I don't think that's ever going to change."

You should pull your hand away. Instead, you turn it over, letting your fingers intertwine with his. "I tried so hard to become someone new," you whisper. "Traveled the world, built this whole independent life. But the moment I saw you again…"

"I know." His other hand comes up to cup your face, and you lean into the touch instinctively. "Because I felt it too."

"It scares me," you admit. "How easy it is to fall back into this. How right it feels when it should feel wrong."

"Maybe that's exactly why it isn't wrong." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "Maybe some things are just meant to be, despite everything else."

When he kisses you this time, it's different from Barcelona. That kiss had been hesitant, testing. This one feels like surrender, like finally stopping a fight you were always meant to lose. Your hands find his chest, feeling his heart racing under your palm, matching the erratic rhythm of your own.

He pulls back slightly, resting his forehead against yours. "I love you," he whispers. "You're the first girl I ever loved, and I think maybe you'll be the last. I know it's complicated, I know there are a million reasons why we shouldn't, but I don't care about any of them. I just want you."

You close your eyes, overwhelmed by the truth in his words, by how perfectly they mirror your own feelings. "I never stopped loving you," you confess. "I tried. God, I tried so hard. But it's like… it's like a part of me just belongs to you, and no amount of distance can change that."

"Then be with me," he pleads softly. "For real this time. No more running."

"How?" But you're already melting into him as he pulls you closer. "Nothing's changed, Max. My father would still lose it, Christian would still disapprove, the media would have a field day…"

"So we don't tell them." His hands slide to your waist. "We keep it between us. No sneaking around in garages this time, no risky moments in the paddock. Just us, in private, doing this properly."

You should say no. You know all the reasons why this can't work. But as his lips find yours again, you realize you're tired of fighting this magnetic pull between you.

"If anyone finds out…" you start.

"They won't," he promises. "We'll be careful. We're not those reckless kids anymore."

And maybe that's the key difference - you're not acting on impulse anymore, not diving in blindly. You're choosing this, fully aware of the consequences, of what you both stand to lose.

"Okay," you whisper against his mouth. "Okay."

When he kisses you again, it feels like every kiss you've ever shared and completely new all at once. Like coming home and starting an adventure. Like an ending and a beginning wrapped into one.

Later, you'll figure out the logistics, the careful dance of secrecy. But for now, you let yourself exist in this moment.

Some things, you realize, are worth keeping secret. Some loves are worth protecting, even if it means hiding them from the world.

Morning light filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Max's apartment, painting everything in soft gold. You're awake before him, taking in the familiar weight of his arm around your waist, the steady rhythm of his breathing against your neck. It feels surreal - like stepping back in time, but with the sharp edge of awareness that comes with being older.

You feel him stir, his arm tightening slightly around you. "You're thinking too loud," he mumbles against your shoulder.

"Sorry," you turn to face him, finding his eyes still heavy with sleep. "Hard not to."

He props himself up on an elbow, studying your face. The morning light makes everything feel more raw, more real. "Having second thoughts?"

"No," you say honestly. "Just… thinking about how we make this work."

"We managed before."

"And look how that ended." You trace a pattern on his chest absently. "We were reckless then. Every stolen moment was a near-miss."

He catches your hand, bringing it to his lips. "So we're smarter this time. No more risky moments in the paddock. No sneaking around where anyone could see us."

"It's not just that." You sit up, pulling the sheet with you. "Max, if this gets out… it's not just about our families being angry. It could affect your career, the team dynamics. And my father-"

"Would probably try to have me assassinated," he finishes with a half-smile, but you can see the seriousness in his eyes. "I know. Trust me, I've thought about all of it."

"And you still want this?"

He sits up too, cupping your face in his hands. "More than anything. The question is, do you?"

You lean into his touch, closing your eyes. "You know I do. That's what scares me. How much I want this, despite everything."

"Then we figure it out." His thumb brushes your cheekbone. "We're not kids anymore. We know how to be discreet. Your place, my place, private locations only. No public appearances together unless we're with the whole group. No suspicious social media activity."

"No telling anyone," you add. "Not even Lando or Charles."

"Especially not them," he agrees. "The fewer people who know, the safer it is."

You open your eyes to find him watching you with that intense focus he usually reserves for racing. "It's going to be hard," you warn. "Pretending there's nothing between us in public. Watching you from a distance at races."

"We've had years of practice at that," he reminds you softly. "At least now I get to hold you afterward."

The simple statement makes your heart clench. You lean forward, pressing your forehead to his. "When did you get so good with words?"

"Must be all those media training sessions," he smirks, but then turns serious. "I meant what I said last night. I love you. Whatever we have to do to make this work, I'm in."

"I love you too," you whisper back. "God, I really do."

He kisses you then, slow and deep, like he's trying to memorize the moment. When you pull back, you're both breathing harder.

The morning light is brighter now, reality creeping in with the rising sun. Soon, you'll have to leave separately, go back to pretending there's nothing between you. But for now, you let yourself sink into his embrace, memorizing the feeling of being here, being his.

"This is crazy, isn't it?" you murmur against his chest.

"Probably," he agrees, pressing a kiss to your hair. "But some of the best things in life are a little crazy."

You know there will be challenges ahead - difficult moments, close calls, the constant strain of secrecy. But as Max pulls you back down onto the pillows, his lips finding yours with familiar hunger, you think maybe he's right.

Some things are worth the risk. Some loves are worth keeping secret.

The key card clicks softly as you slip into Max's Monaco apartment late on September 30th. You'd made your excuses to your friends early - a headache, an important call - knowing they wouldn't question it too much since they'd already planned Max's official celebration for tomorrow.

But tonight is just for the two of you.

You find him in the kitchen, already changed into sweatpants and a soft t-shirt, pulling something from the oven. The domestic scene makes your heart flutter.

"Is Max Verstappen actually baking?" you tease, dropping your bag.

He turns with that smile that's become exclusively yours - soft, unguarded, real. "It's just heating up the cake Victoria made. I'm not completely useless."

You cross the space between you, wrapping your arms around him from behind. "Happy birthday, baby."

He turns in your embrace, backing you against the counter. "This is already better than last year's birthday."

"Mm, because last year you weren't secretly dating your rival team principal's daughter?"

"Because last year I couldn't do this," he murmurs, before kissing you deeply, hands sliding under your shirt to find bare skin. You melt into him, fingers threading through his hair, pulling him closer.

The timer dings, making you both jump and then laugh.

"The cake can wait," he starts, but you push him back gently.

"Let's do this properly. Cake first, then presents, then…" you trail off suggestively.

"Fine," he sighs dramatically, but his eyes are sparkling. "But I'm holding you to that 'then'."

You sit cross-legged on his massive couch, sharing pieces of Victoria's chocolate cake straight from the tin. It's comfortable in a way that still surprises you sometimes - how easily you've fallen into these private moments, these glimpses of normalcy in your decidedly abnormal situation.

"Got you something," you say, reaching for your bag.

He raises an eyebrow. "Thought you were my present?"

"Cheesy," you throw a pillow at him, which he catches easily. "Here."

He unwraps the small package carefully. Inside is a simple leather bracelet, dark brown with a subtle pattern worked into it. "Turn it over," you say softly.

On the inside, barely visible unless you know to look, are your initials and the date from Monaco - the night everything changed.

"YN…" his voice is rough as he runs his thumb over the engraving.

"I know we can't do obvious things," you explain. "But I wanted you to have something… something that's just ours. Something you can wear without anyone knowing what it means."

He pulls you into his lap, kissing you with an intensity that makes your head spin. "I love it," he murmurs against your lips. "I love you."

"I love you too," you whisper back, heart full with how natural those words feel now. "Even if you are getting old."

He retaliates by tickling your sides until you're both breathless with laughter, ending up horizontal on the couch with you pinned beneath him.

"Twenty-three isn't old," he protests, pressing kisses down your neck.

"Ancient," you tease, but it turns into a gasp as he finds that sensitive spot below your ear. "Max…"

"Mm?"

"The cake…"

"Can wait," he finishes, hands already working on the buttons of your shirt. "Right now, I want to unwrap my other present."

Later, much later, you're tangled in his sheets, your head on his chest as he plays with your hair. The city lights twinkle through the windows, creating patterns on the ceiling.

"Thank you," he says softly.

"For what?"

"For this. For making my birthday special even though we have to hide. For loving me despite everything."

You prop yourself up to look at him, trace the line of his jaw with your finger. "Thank you for making it worth it."

He catches your hand, pressing a kiss to your palm. "Sometimes I wish we could just tell everyone. Walk into the paddock holding your hand, take you on real dates, post about you on Instagram like a normal couple."

"I know," you sigh, settling back against his chest. "Me too. But…"

"But it would cause chaos," he finishes. "I know. Doesn't stop me from wanting it though."

You lift your head again, kissing him softly. "Maybe someday. But for now, I'm happy just having you like this. These moments are ours, just ours."

His arms tighten around you. "I love you," he says again, like he can't help himself. "More than racing, more than winning, more than-"

"Don't," you laugh, pressing a finger to his lips. "Don't say more than racing. We both know that's a lie."

He grins, rolling you under him again. "Maybe it's a tie?"

"I can live with that," you smile up at him, pulling him down for another kiss.

The world outside keeps turning - tomorrow there will be the official party, the public celebrations, the careful distance you'll have to maintain. But tonight, in this space that's become your sanctuary, you can just be Max and YN, two people in love, celebrating another year together.

Even if the rest of the world doesn't know it yet.

Monaco, 2021

You're curled into Max's side on your couch, some Netflix show playing in the background that neither of you is really watching. His fingers trace lazy patterns on your arm while you scroll through your phone, both enjoying the calm before tomorrow's storm - the start of a new season, new expectations, new pressure.

"Nervous about tomorrow?" you ask, tilting your head to look at him.

He shrugs, but you can feel the slight tension in his shoulders. "Not nervous. Just… ready. The car feels good, testing went well."

"Mm," you press a kiss to his jaw. "Maybe this is your year."

"Maybe," but his smile is confident as he turns to capture your lips properly. "Though right now I'm more interested in-"

Your phone buzzes loudly, Lando's name flashing on the screen. You answer it without thinking.

"Hey Lan-"

"I'm outside your place!" his cheerful voice cuts through. "Charles and I brought wine and that awful reality show you love. Open up!"

Your heart stops. "What?"

"Come on, it's freezing out here! I can see your lights on."

You sit up straight, panic flooding your system. "Lando, I-"

"Don't even try to say you're busy. It's the night before the first race, I know you're just sitting there overthinking everything."

Max is already moving, gathering his shoes and jacket silently. Your eyes meet across the room, both knowing how catastrophic it would be if Lando found him here.

"Give me five minutes," you say into the phone, trying to keep your voice steady. "I'm… I need to put clothes on."

"Gross, too much information," Lando laughs. "Five minutes!"

You hang up, heart racing. "Shit, shit, shit."

"It's fine," Max is surprisingly calm as he pulls on his shoes. "I'll go out through the back stairs."

"What if they see you?" You're already scanning the room for any evidence of him - his Red Bull cap on the coffee table, his phone charger by the couch.

"They won't." He grabs his things efficiently, muscle memory from two years of sneaking around kicking in. "I'll text you when I'm clear."

Another knock at the door makes you both freeze. "YN!" Charles's voice this time. "We can hear you moving around!"

Max pulls you in for a quick, hard kiss. "I love you. Don't worry."

"Be careful," you whisper against his lips.

He flashes that cocky grin you love. "Always am."

You watch him disappear through your bedroom toward the back stairwell, then take a deep breath, running your hands through your hair to mess it up slightly - making your "just got out of bed" excuse more believable.

When you open the door, Lando immediately pushes past you with wine bottles clinking. "Finally! What were you really doing?"

"Told you, getting dressed." You accept Charles' hello kiss on the cheek, praying your face isn't as flushed as it feels.

"Your shirt's inside out," Charles points out, smirking.

You look down - shit, he's right. You'd thrown it on hastily after… earlier activities. "I was sleeping," you say quickly. "You guys interrupted my pre-race nap routine."

"At 9 PM?" Lando's already making himself at home on your couch - right where Max was sitting minutes ago. "Sure, sure."

Your phone buzzes with a text: "All clear. They didn't see me. Missing you already x"

Relief floods through you as Charles pours wine and Lando queues up the show. You settle into the evening, letting their familiar banter wash over you, trying to act normal even as your skin still tingles from Max's touch.

"You seem different lately," Charles observes suddenly, studying your face. "Happier."

"Just excited for the new season," you deflect smoothly, a skill you've perfected over the past year.

"Mm," he doesn't look entirely convinced. "No secret boyfriend we should know about?"

You laugh, the sound only slightly strained. "Right, because that worked out so well last time."

"Last time was Max," Lando points out. "Thank god you're both over that whole thing."

If only they knew. But you just smile and take a sip of wine, letting them move on to discussing tomorrow's race.

As the evening progresses, the wine flows and the reality show plays in the background. You're carefully avoiding any topics that might make Charles or Lando suspicious, laughing a bit too loudly at their jokes.

Lando, ever restless, decides to raid your kitchen for snacks. "Where do you keep the good stuff?" he calls out, opening cupboards.

Your heart immediately races. You know exactly what might be lurking in those cupboards - Max's favorite energy drink, a Red Bull can he'd left behind last time he was here. You stand up quickly, "I'll get it for you-"

But Lando's already moving, pulling open the refrigerator door. "Found it!" he announces, then pauses. His hand emerges holding a Red Bull can, but something else catches his eye. A water bottle with a distinctive Red Bull Racing team logo sits next to it.

"Huh," Charles looks over. "Isn't this Max's water bottle?"

You feel the blood drain from your face. "Oh, um-" Your mind races, searching for an explanation. "I... must have picked it up from somewhere. You know how these things get mixed up."

Lando turns, one eyebrow raised. The playful smile slowly morphs into something more knowing. "Mixed up, huh?"

Charles is watching you now, that sharp observant look that made him such a good racing driver now focused entirely on you.

"Yeah, I must've picked it up by accident, didn't even realize."

Lando shrugs and cracks open a packet of chips, seemingly satisfied with your explanation. But Charles continues to study you with that piercing gaze that makes you want to squirm.

Keeping this a secret is becoming harder and harder.

Silverstone, 2021

The English countryside blurs past your window as Max takes another curve, maybe a bit faster than necessary. It's nearly midnight, and you should both be resting before tomorrow's race, but these night drives have become your thing - the only time you can be truly alone during race weekends, truly free.

"You're showing off," you accuse, but you're smiling.

"Me? Never." He takes his eyes off the road for a second to grin at you, his hand finding yours across the console.

The radio plays softly in the background, some British pop song you don't know. The summer air rushing through the open windows carries the scent of grass and freedom. It feels perfect. Until it isn't.

It happens so fast - a deer appears out of nowhere, Max swerves to avoid it, but the road is narrow and dark. The tires lose grip on loose gravel, and suddenly you're spinning, the world turning into a kaleidoscope of shadows and panic.

The impact when it comes is brutal. Metal crunches, glass shatters, and everything goes still.

"YN?" Max's voice is tight with fear. "Baby, are you okay?"

You do a quick mental check. Everything hurts, but nothing seems broken. "I'm okay. You?"

"Fine." He's already trying to open his door, but it's jammed. The front of the car is wrapped around a tree, steam hissing from the hood. "Fuck. Fuck!"

Your phone is somewhere on the floor. When you retrieve it, the screen is cracked but working. "We need help."

"We can't call emergency services," Max says immediately. "It'll be all over the news in minutes."

He's right. You can already see the headlines: "Verstappen in Late Night Crash with Mercedes Boss's Daughter."

"Christian?" you suggest.

"He'll kill me. We have a race tomorrow." Max runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "We need someone who can be discreet, who has the resources to handle this quietly, who-"

You both realize it at the same time.

"No," Max says.

"He's the only one who can help us without this becoming a scandal."

"YN, he's the last person-"

"Max." You reach for his hand. "We don't have a choice."

He knows you're right. With a resigned sigh, he nods.

Your hands shake slightly as you dial Lewis's number. It rings three times before he answers, voice groggy with sleep.

"Little Wolff? It's midnight, what-"

"Lewis, I need your help. And I need you to not ask questions."

There's a pause, then rustling as he presumably sits up. "Are you okay?"

"Yes, but… we're stuck. Had an accident on the back roads near Silverstone. We need help getting the car towed without anyone finding out."

There's a pause. "We?"

You close your eyes. "I'm with Max."

The silence that follows is deafening. "Send me your location. Don't move. I'll be there in twenty minutes."

True to his word, headlights appear eighteen minutes later. Lewis steps out of his car, taking in the scene - the wrecked vehicle, you and Max standing by the roadside, the unspoken truth of why you were together at this hour.

"Are you both alright?" He asks first, concern overriding any other emotions.

"Just bruised," you answer. "The car took the worst of it."

He nods, already on his phone. "Angela's on her way with a tow truck. She'll be discreet."

Max steps forward. "Lewis, I-"

"Don't." Lewis holds up a hand. "I'm not doing this for you. I'm doing it for her." He looks at you, something sad in his expression. "How long?"

"Since last year."

He lets out a low whistle. "Well, that explains a few things."

The wait for Angela is tense. Lewis keeps his distance, occasionally speaking quietly into his phone. Max doesn't let go of your hand, thumb rubbing circles on your skin.

When Angela arrives with the tow truck, she doesn't bat an eye at the situation. The car is loaded efficiently, and arrangements are made to have it repaired at a private garage Lewis trusts.

"I'll drive YN home," Lewis says, and it's not really a question.

Max tenses beside you, but you squeeze his hand. "It's safer this way," you whisper. "Less suspicious if anyone sees us."

He knows you're right, again. "Text me when you're home?"

"Promise."

The drive with Lewis is quiet at first. Then the storm pours down.

"Of all the stupid, reckless things," he mutters, running a hand over his face. "A year? You've been sneaking around with him for a year? Again?"

"Lewis-"

"No." He turns to face you, anger and worry warring in his expression. "Do you have any idea what could happen if this gets out? What your father would-"

"I don't care!" The words burst out louder than intended, making your head throb. "I don't care what anyone thinks anymore."

"Well, you should!" Lewis's voice rises to match yours. "This isn't some game, YN. This is your life, your career, your family-"

"You think I don't know that?" You bite back. "You think we haven't spent the last year terrified of exactly that? Hiding everything, sneaking around, lying to everyone we care about?"

"Then why?" He throws his hands up in frustration. "Why risk everything for him?"

"Because I love him!" The words echo in the car. You lower your voice, tears threatening to fall. "I love him, Lewis. And he loves me. Isn't that enough?"

Lewis' expression softens slightly, but the worry remains. "Love isn't always enough, YN. Not in this world. Not with everything at stake."

"It has to be," you whisper. "Because I can't do this anymore - pretending I don't feel what I feel, acting like my heart doesn't race every time he walks into a room. I'm tired of hiding."

"He's not good for you," Lewis says quietly. "You remember how broken you were after-"

"He was nineteen," you cut him off. "We were both kids, both scared. Things are different now."

"Are they?" his voice is gentle but firm. "Because from where I'm standing, you're still sneaking around in the middle of the night, still hiding from everyone. That doesn't sound different to me."

You sink back into your seat, suddenly exhausted. "I'm not asking for your approval, Lewis. I'm just asking for you to trust that I know what I'm doing."

"Do you? Because getting into a car accident at 2 AM doesn't exactly scream good decision-making."

"That wasn't-" you start to defend, but he holds up a hand.

"You shouldn't have been out there in the first place. These secret meetings, these late-night drives… it's not sustainable, YN."

"I know," you admit quietly. "We know. We've been talking about telling people, about doing this properly."

Lewis studies your face for a long moment. "And what happens when the media finds out? When your father finds out? When the pressure becomes too much and he runs again?"

"He won't." Your voice is firm despite your injuries. "He's not that scared kid anymore, Lewis. He knows what he wants now."

"And what is that?"

"Me." You meet Lewis's gaze steadily. "He wants me. All of me, no matter what it costs. And I want him."

Lewis sighs deeply, rubbing his temples. "I can't support this, YN. I've watched him hurt you too many times."

"I know," you say softly. "And I love you for wanting to protect me. But I'm not asking for your support. I'm just asking you not to make this harder than it already is, I know you're worried. But please… please don't tell anyone. Not yet. Let us do this our way."

He doesn't respond, just pulls up the car outside your hotel and unlocks it so you can get out.

Silverstone, 2021. Race day

Your hands are still shaking slightly as you make your way through the paddock. Last night's crash left more than just physical bruises - the tension with Lewis, the close call, the reality of how fragile your secret is, it all weighs heavily.

The Mercedes garage is already buzzing with pre-race energy when you spot Lewis by his car, going through data with Peter. You wait until he's alone before approaching.

"Lewis," you say softly. "Can we talk?"

He glances around before responding, voice low. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Please. What you did last night-"

"Was a mistake," he cuts you off, finally turning to face you. "I should have called emergency services, protocol be damned."

"You know why we couldn't-"

"No, YN. You couldn't because you're sneaking around like teenagers. Do you have any idea what could have happened? If that tree had been a few inches to the left-"

"But it wasn't," you interrupt. "We're fine."

"Fine?" He scoffs. "You're both bruised, his car is wrecked, and I'm now complicit in your little romance."

"It's not a little romance-"

"Then what is it?" His voice rises slightly before he checks himself. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks like the same pattern as before. You, him, secrets, lies."

"I told you last night - I love him."

"Love?" He lets out a bitter laugh. "Love doesn't hide, YN. Love doesn't put people in dangerous situations. Love doesn't-"

"Don't." Your voice cracks. "Don't pretend you understand what we're dealing with."

"Oh, I understand perfectly. You're playing girlfriend with my biggest rival while there's a championship at stake. You're risking everything - your reputation, your father's position, the team's integrity-"

"This isn't a game to me!" The words come out sharper than intended. A few mechanics glance your way, and you lower your voice. "This isn't about the championship or the team. This is about me and him."

"Nothing in this paddock is ever just about two people," Lewis says coldly. "You of all people should know that."

Before you can respond, Bono approaches. "Lewis, strategy meeting."

"I need to focus," Lewis tells you, his expression hardening. "I suggest you figure out where your loyalties lie before someone gets really hurt."

He walks away, leaving you standing there with a hollow feeling in your chest. Angela catches your eye, her expression sympathetic, and you wonder how much she knows.

The pre-race preparations pass in a blur. You go through the motions, smile when appropriate, but your mind keeps drifting to Max. You haven't seen him since Lewis dropped you off last night - you both agreed it was safer to stay apart until the race.

Then you're in the garage, watching the formation lap. Your father stands beside you, discussing something with the engineers, but their words sound distant.

Lap one. Copse Corner.

The contact happens so fast - Lewis's Mercedes alongside Max's Red Bull. The touch of wheels. Then Max's car is airborne, spinning, crashing into the barriers with devastating force.

The garage erupts in chaos. Screens show the replay from every angle. Your father is immediately in discussion with the stewards.

You can't breathe. Can't move. Your eyes are fixed on the smoking wreck of Max's car, willing him to move, to get out, to be okay.

"Racing incident," Toto argues. "Lewis had the line-"

Their voices fade to background noise as you watch the medical team reach the car. Your phone feels heavy in your pocket, but you can't check it - not here, not with everyone watching.

"YN," Angela touches your arm gently. "You look pale. Maybe some water?"

You follow her away from the garage, grateful for the excuse. As soon as you're out of sight, your composure breaks.

"I don't know if he's okay," you whisper, hands shaking. "I can't- I can't check my phone, I can't ask anyone, I can't-"

"Breathe," Angela steadies you. "Just breathe."

"I should be there. I should be with him. After last night, after everything-"

"I won't say anything," she promises quickly. "But YN... this is bigger than just keeping a secret now."

"I know," you admit. "God, I know. But I can't- I can't even ask if he's okay without raising suspicions."

The race continues. Lewis gets a ten-second penalty but fights back to win. The garage celebrates, and you have to join in, have to smile and cheer while your heart is somewhere else entirely.

Hours pass with no news. Social media is full of speculation, but nothing concrete. You catch snippets of conversation - "hospital for checks" and "conscious but shaken" - but nothing official.

It's torture, pretending everything is normal. Pretending you're just concerned in a general, professional way. Pretending last night never happened, that you don't still have bruises from a different crash, that your world isn't falling apart all over again.

Finally, after what feels like years, you manage to slip away to the Red Bull motorhome.

The motorhome is quiet when you enter. GP looks up from his laptop, surprise crossing his features.

"YN? You shouldn't-"

"Please," your voice breaks. "Please, I need to see him."

GP studies you for a long moment, then sighs. "Last door on the right. But be careful - he's pretty beaten up."

You find Max lying on the small bed, eyes closed but breathing steady. The room smells of medical cream and defeat.

"Max?" Your voice is barely a whisper.

His eyes open immediately, finding yours in the dim light. Despite everything, his lips curve into a small smile.

"Two crashes in twenty-four hours," he mumbles. "Must be some kind of record."

"Don't," tears spill over finally. "Don't joke. Not now."

"Come here," he tries to move over but winces.

"Careful," you rush to his side, perching carefully on the edge of the bed. "How bad is it?"

"Everything hurts," he admits. "But nothing's broken. Well, except my championship lead."

"I was so scared," your voice breaks. "When I saw the crash, and then I couldn't- I couldn't even ask if you were okay. I had to stand there and pretend like I wasn't terrified."

"Hey," he reaches for your hand, wincing at the movement. "I'm okay. Well, relatively speaking."

"This is my fault," you whisper. "If I hadn't called Lewis last night-"

"Stop," he squeezes your hand. "This had nothing to do with last night."

"Didn't it? He was so angry this morning, about us, about having to help us-"

"Lewis and I race hard regardless of personal feelings," Max says firmly. "What happened today was racing. Stupid, dangerous racing, but still racing."

You study his face in the dim light, cataloging every bruise, every sign of pain he's trying to hide, "Max, don't you think it's time?"

"Time?"

"To tell people. About us." The words rush out now that you've started. "I can't keep doing this - watching you race and pretending I don't care, hiding how I feel, lying to everyone we know. Today made me realize… if something had happened to you, really happened…"

He's quiet for a long moment, thumb tracing patterns on your hand. "What about your father?"

"I don't care anymore. Well, I do care, but… not more than I care about you. About us." You meet his eyes. "When the season's over. Before next year starts. We tell everyone."

"You're sure?"

"Are you?"

He pulls you closer, carefully, until you're lying beside him. "I'm sure if you are."

"Even with the championship? The media circus it'll cause?"

"Especially then." He kisses your forehead. "Today… when I hit that barrier, all I could think about was you. Not the championship, not the points, just… you. And how much time we've wasted hiding."

You curl into his side, mindful of his bruises. "So we're agreed? After Abu Dhabi, whatever happens with the championship…"

"We tell everyone." He lifts your chin to kiss you properly. "No more hiding."

"Promise?" You need to hear him say it.

"Promise," he pulls you closer, careful of both your injuries. "Besides, after last night's adventure and today's crash, I think we've filled our drama quota for a while."

You stay there, tangled together in the quiet darkness, both battered from different crashes but somehow still whole.

"I should go," you whisper eventually. "Before someone comes looking."

"One of the last times we'll have to say that," he reminds you.

"Promise me something else?"

"Anything."

"No more late-night drives for a while?"

He laughs, then grimaces in pain. "Deal. Although technically, both crashes were Lewis' fault."

"Max..."

"Kidding," he kisses your forehead softly. "Kind of."

You stand carefully, already missing his warmth. "Text me when you're feeling better?"

"Text me when you're home safe," he counters.

At the door, you turn back one last time. He's watching you with those eyes that made you fall in love twice - once when you were too young to know better, and again when you were old enough to know exactly what you were risking.

"Max?"

"Hmm?"

"I love you. Even when I have to pretend I don't."

His smile, despite the pain, lights up the dark room. "I love you too. Even when Lewis Hamilton tries to kill me. Twice in twenty-four hours."

You shake your head, but you're smiling as you slip out into the night. A few more months of hiding, of pretending, of careful distances and secret meetings. Then everything changes.

You just hope you're both ready for whatever comes next.

Abu Dhabi, 2021

The final showdown. Equal points, one race to decide it all.

The morning of the race, you slip into the Red Bull garage before sunrise. Max is already there, going through his pre-race routine, but his face softens when he sees you.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks, pulling you into his arms.

"Not really," you nestle into his chest, breathing in his familiar scent. "Too much going on in my head."

"Talk to me."

You pull back slightly to look at him. "I'm nervous. For you, for the race, for what comes after…"

"Hey," he cups your face gently. "Whatever happens today, we're in this together. Remember?"

"I know," you try to smile. "It's just… everything's going to change after today."

"Good changes," he kisses your forehead. "No more hiding, remember?"

You've had this conversation countless times over the past months, planning how you'll handle the revelation of your relationship. Your father still doesn't know, though you suspect he's noticed something's different.

"I brought you something," you reach into your pocket and pull out a small charm - a tiny silver racing car. "For luck."

Max takes it, turning it over in his hands with a soft smile. "You're my luck."

"That was incredibly cheesy," you laugh, but your heart swells.

"You love it," he pulls you closer, kissing you properly this time. "And you love me."

"I do," you whisper against his lips. "So much it scares me sometimes."

You stay like that for a while, wrapped in each other's arms, before reality intrudes again.

"I should go," you sigh. "There's something else I need to do before the race."

Max knows without asking. "Lewis?"

"Yeah," you bite your lip. "I can't let things end like this between us."

"Go," he squeezes your hand. "Just come back to me after?"

"Always."

Finding Lewis proves harder. He's been avoiding you since Silverstone, your relationship reduced to professional nods and carefully maintained distance. But you finally spot him in the Mercedes garage, alone with his thoughts.

"Lewis?" your voice is hesitant.

He tenses but doesn't turn around. "YN."

"I know you probably don't want to talk to me-"

"Then why are you here?"

You take a deep breath. "Because you're my brother, Lewis. Not by blood, but by choice. And I can't stand how things are between us."

He finally turns, and the pain in his eyes matches your own. "You chose him."

"I chose love," you step closer. "That doesn't mean I stopped caring about you."

"You could have told me," his voice cracks slightly. "Before Silverstone, before any of it. I thought we told each other everything."

"I was scared," you admit. "Scared of exactly this - losing you, losing my family, losing everything I've known."

"So instead you just lied? Snuck around?"

"I know it was wrong," tears prick at your eyes. "And I'm so sorry, Lewis. Not for loving him, but for hurting you. For breaking your trust."

He's quiet for a long moment, studying your face. "Does he make you happy? Really happy?"

"Yes," you whisper. "More than I ever thought possible."

Lewis sighs deeply, running a hand over his face. "Come here, little sister."

You practically fall into his arms, tears flowing freely now. He holds you tight, like when you were kids and he would protect you from everything.

"I'm still mad at you," he mumbles into your hair.

"I know."

"And I still think you're crazy."

"Probably."

"But," he pulls back to look at you, "I love you. And I miss you. And if he ever hurts you, I'll end his career so fast-"

You laugh through your tears. "There's my overprotective brother."

"Someone has to look out for you," he wipes your cheeks gently. "Even if you make it incredibly difficult."

"I'm sorry," you say again. "For everything."

"I know," he kisses your forehead. "We'll figure it out. After today."

"About that…" you hesitate. "We're planning to go public. After the race."

Lewis nods slowly. "I figured something like that was coming. The way you look at each other isn't exactly subtle."

"You noticed?"

"YN, everyone with eyes has noticed. They're just too scared of your father to mention it."

You both laugh, and for a moment it feels like before - easy, comfortable, safe.

"Lewis?" you grab his hand. "Whatever happens today… I'm proud of you. Always have been, always will be."

He squeezes your hand. "Right back at you, little Wolff. Even if you have terrible taste in men."

"Hey!"

"I'm just saying, there are other drivers-"

"Goodbye, Lewis," you start walking away, but you're smiling.

"YN?" he calls after you. "For what it's worth… he better know how lucky he is."

An hour later, you're standing in the Mercedes garage, heart in your throat, watching the screens as though your life depends on it. In a way, it does. Six years of loving Max in secret, two years of running away from it all, and now here you are - watching the man you love fight your father's driver for the championship in the most intense finale you've ever witnessed.

When Nicholas Latifi crashes, everything changes. The safety car comes out, and suddenly the garage erupts with activity. Your father's voice cuts through the chaos, sharp and authoritative as he argues with race control. You've never seen him like this - the usual composed Toto Wolff replaced by someone desperately fighting against what feels like destiny shifting.

"No, no, no, Michael, that is so not right!" Your father's voice booms through the garage as the lapped cars are allowed through. You flinch at the fury in his tone, at the way he slams his headset down.

The final lap is unbearable. You watch Lewis getting hunted down by Max on fresh tires. Your nails dig into your palms, torn between family loyalty and the love you've kept hidden for so long.

When Max makes the pass, when he crosses the line as World Champion, the Mercedes garage falls silent. The contrast between the Red Bull celebrations on screen and the devastation around you is stark.

Your father looks destroyed, a mixture of anger and disbelief on his face. But it's Lewis who breaks your heart - the way he sits in his car, processing what just happened, the dignity with which he eventually emerges to congratulate Max.

You find Lewis in the drivers room a few hours later, away from the cameras. His eyes are red, his shoulders slumped in a way you've never seen before.

"Lew," your voice breaks.

He looks up, and suddenly you're both crying. You wrap your arms around him as he breaks down.

"It wasn't supposed to end like this," he whispers.

"I know," you hold him tighter. "I know."

You stay with him, through the protests, through the appeals, through the obligatory congratulations he has to give. You stay because he's family, because he needs you, because some things are more important than celebration.

Through it all, you catch glimpses of Max - being crowned champion, celebrating with his team, searching the crowd with eyes that keep finding you. But you stay where you're needed most.

Hours pass before you make it to Max's hotel. The celebrations are still going on somewhere, but he's in his room when you arrive, pacing like a caged animal.

"Where were you?" he demands as soon as you enter.

"I was with Lewis."

His face darkens. "Of course you were. Consoling the Mercedes garage while I won my first championship."

"Max, don't."

"Don't what? Don't be upset that my girlfriend wasn't there to celebrate with me? That she was too busy comforting the opposition?"

"That 'opposition' is my family!" Your voice rises to match his. "Lewis is like my brother, my father is devastated-"

"Your father?" He laughs bitterly. "The same father you've been lying to for years? The one we're supposedly telling about us after this race?"

"Are you seriously doing this right now?"

"When else am I supposed to do it? When you're ready? Because I've been waiting for you to be ready since 2015!"

The words hit like physical blows. "That's not fair. You know why I left in 2018, the way you cut me off like I was nothing, it tore me apart."

"Yeah, because it got too hard. Because loving me was too complicated." He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. "And now here we are again. I just won the World Championship, and where were you? With them."

"They're my family!"

"And what am I?" He steps closer, eyes intense. "What are we, YN? Because right now it feels like I'm still your dirty little secret."

"That's not-"

"Then prove it. Let's go tell Toto right now. Let's end this charade."

"Today? After everything that happened? Are you insane?"

"Why not today? When will it be convenient enough for you? When will loving me not conflict with your perfect Mercedes family?"

Tears are falling freely now. "You're being cruel."

"No, I'm being honest. Finally." He sits heavily on the bed. "I love you. I've loved you through everything - through you leaving, through you coming back, through all the hiding and sneaking around. But I can't do this anymore."

Your heart stops. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I want all of you. Not just the parts that are convenient, not just the stolen moments between races. I want to celebrate with you when I win, hold you when I crash, build a life with you in the open." He looks at you, and you see the tears in his eyes too. "But I don't think you want that. Not really. Not enough to risk everything else."

"Max…"

"Go home, YN. Go console your father. Go be the perfect Mercedes daughter." His voice breaks slightly. "Just… don't come back unless you're ready to choose me. All of me. The rival, the champion, everything."

You stand there, frozen, both of you crying. Everything you've built, every secret moment, every whispered promise, feels like it's crumbling around you.

"I love you," you whisper.

"I know." He doesn't look at you. "That's never been our problem."

As you stand in the doorway of Max's hotel room, the weight of seven years of love, secrets, and choices bears down on your shoulders. The championship trophy gleams on the table behind him, a symbol of everything he's achieved and everything that's torn you apart.

[hyoer]

Swear Jar

pairing. David!Clark Kent x reader

synopsis. Clark is the office goody two-shoes. Can you really make him swear?

warnings. lots of cutie clark!! no use of y/n. lois is just as cool and suave as ever, no lois hate here. some angst and lots of fluff so don't worry. oh and some?ish swearing.

word count. 3k (oneshot)

Notes at the end.

“Shit”

The remnants of the blueberry latte you’d picked up for Lois were currently completely soaking your new trousers. The woman in question is standing in front of you, staring up at you apologetically while dabbing furiously, not that the paper-thin napkin is doing much.

“It’s the jitters.”

“Lois, you have withdrawls.” she waves you off “Same thing sweetie.”

From across the room, Clark taps at the swear jar.

“C’mon, I just got in hardass,” you groan.

“You know the rules.” He chimes, voice light and airy and mocking.

You scowl and trudge past him toward your desk.

 Shit, all of your files are soaked. Perrys going to be so pissed when you hand in your first drafts later.

“You're so mean Clark.” You huff.

“Hey,” he says with a shrug, rolling back to his desk while spinning his stupid pen around, “you’re the one that said you wanted a challenge.”

Even when you’re annoyed, you can’t help staring at him.

His curls are soft, framing his face in a way that kind of remind you of a cherub. The rest of him not so much. Despite the oversized blue suit he wears every day to work, you’d been lucky enough to catch a peek at his absolutely ridiculously large biceps a few months ago when the office got too hot.

Still somehow not as hot as him.

Even his dimples are perfect, both of them placed perfectly at each side of his face, coming out to say “Hi” every two seconds because of how often the large man smiles at you.

Anyway back to the ridiculous swear jar.

For some reason someone had suggested that the office should take part in a no-swearing competition. The incentive? Whoever swore the most would have to hand over the contents of the swear jar to the person that swore the least.

Full ceremony, full knighting.

Everyone knew Cat or Perry would be knighting; that part was absolute.

But guess who was in the lead to win? Well ok it wasn’t just Clark, Ron was giving him a run for his money. The man barely had a crease of his suit most the time, let alone breaking his composure enough to swear. So there were fair odds going.

Sitting at the edge of your desk, playing with the pens that had definitely already dried out you look up at Clark and ask “You suggested this competition knowing you’d win right.”

“Mmmmmmaybe,” he cheekily glances up at you through his glasses, “Not my fault I have morals.”

“Not even going to get into this debate with you again.”

You always ended up in that same argument: the correlation between swearing and intelligence. You said it was a sign of linguistic expression. He said it was laziness.

Across the room, a collective groan breaks out.

A tally under Ron’s name on the scoreboard appears, the man in question lets out a pained sigh, pulling a book over his face in shame.

The only person that hadn’t groaned is sitting pretty, chewing on a piece of gum. You could imagine his smug face as he knelt down to receive his crown, the prince of virtue himself.

You could not let that happen.

“Guys, surely this is unfair.” Flapping her hands around “When have any of us actually heard Clark swear?”

Jimmy muttered out in deep thought “I heard him say the s-word once.”

“Shut the f- front door!” Cat said, her eyes wide, well-manicured fingers slapping Jimmy’s shoulder. “Where and when, we need all the deets.”

Jimmy blinked, booting the memory up. “We were at a conference for LexCorps new clean energy plant, total bull obviously. HIs leather journal caught on fire somehow, something to do with the electronics next to his bag. But it was weird I don’t remember anything flamable-“

Lois clicks her hands in his face to get him out of his trance. “Focus. Are you sure?”

He shakes himself awake “Anyway, look the point is the guys human, he can slip up.”

Time to ragebait Clark Kent.

5 days till crowning

Your first idea is simple.

Stan Lex Luthor.

Out of all the men on Earth, only two could reliably work Clark Kent into a frenzy: Bruce Wayne and Lex Luthor. Talk about either and he’d transform into Mr Hyde, frothing and pounding on his desk like a man possessed. Sure, you’d have to deal with a sermon about truth and justice for at least an hour after the mention of Lex, but you’d live.

So of course, that morning you waltzed into the office fully committed to the bit. Thick black shades covered your eyes, and a long black t hugged your frame. The entire thing screamed soft cosplay. A few LutherCorp-branded pens peeked out of your pocket and you held a mug you’d “borrowed” on your last visit to LuthorCorp.

Also to be extra subtle, you hung framed keychain of the bald deviant on the side of your bag.

The change wasn’t lost on clark.

“What on earth is that?” he asks, pointing with genuine horror to the keychain.

“You like it?” you grin. “I decorated it myself!”

Clark turns to Steve at the next desk. “Get your phone out. She’s lost it. Call 911.”

His hand reaches out and presses against your forehead, checking for a fever or maybe checking that you aren’t being mind controlled somehow. You bat his hand away, heart hammering traitorously from just a light touch.

“What?” you say, trying to sound genuine. “Is it so wrong to admire a man as great as Lex Luthor?”

Clark gapes at you. “Are you being serious?”

“Oh, I loooove the guy,” you say, dragging the word. “He’s so hot—”

“Perfect,” comes a voice from behind. “Since you like him so much kid, you can take over Cat’s article on the LuthorCorp building redesign. You’re on interview duty for the rest of the week.”

You jump. “What?!”

Where the hell had Perry come from? He looms over you, staring hard enough that, if it was a sport, he’d be rivaling Serena Williams in her prime.

“What I meant was wow! I’m so excited,” you say, voice sliding into a what you hope sounds like an enthusiatic tone.

You exhale in relief as he seems satisfed with your answer and walks away.

Clark is already halfway down the hall when you hear him laugh and nod to himself.

“What the hay.”

4 days till crowning

Your second idea is a lot better.

A lot better.

Clark’s glasses are practically superglued to his face. Like, not even metaphorically. You once saw Jimmy barely reach for them, as a joke, and Clark had reacted like he was about to be unmasked in front of a firing squad. He’d turned pale and physically backed away from Jimmy.

So yeah.

They were a good source of fear for the guy.

Getting them off his face wasn’t going to be the easiest task.

He was clumsy, sure- he was constantly tripping on wires and bumping into chairs. When it came to those glasses? He was precise. Always adjusting, always repositioning.

You’d wanted to try them on once but like smeagol with the ring he just, wouldn’t give them up.

So you brought in Jimmy. It was simple Jimmy would “accidentally” spill something on Clark’s face.

Right between the brows.

Jimmy hesitates before speaking. “You want me to- just, what, throw a drink in his face?”

“Not throw. Spill. You’re perfect for this.”

Jimmy scowls. “Rude.”

If only a certain superhero wasn’t listening in on your plan.

Ten minutes later, there you both are- you’re perched at your desk, watching like a hawk as Jimmy approaches Clark with a smoothie in one hand and a tremor in the other.

“Hey, Clark! Try this—banana, kale-

Clark turns to greet him with his singature corn-fed, wonder-boy smile, and then-

Splash.

Jimmy gasps like he’s just committed murder.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!”

You had to give the kid credit he could put on a good performance.

Smoothie splatters across every inch of Clark’s face and glasses. Perfect time for you to now swoop in and steal them.

And then Clark… chuckles?

“No worries,” he says, already pulling off his glasses with two fingers and reaching for a napkin, not even giving you time to snatch them away. “Happens all the time.”

You stare.

Jimmy stares.

Everyone stares.

Clark just wipes his face, a small knowing smile twitching at the corners of his mouth.

What?

“Thanks for the drink,” he adds lightly, patting Jimmy’s shoulder as he stands up. “You saved me from falling asleep at my desk.”

Then he walks away.

You slowly turn to Jimmy. “Fudge nuggets”

“Did you.. just say fudge nuggets?”

Clark, in the bathroom, quietly taps away at his phone. The faint shimmer of Mr. Terrific’s hypno-contacts glint for just a second before he put his glasses back on.

3 days till crowning

“I give up,” you mutter, slumping forward onto your desk with a dramatic sigh. “The guy’s a no-swearing patience machine.”

Lois pats your shoulder with a sympathetic smile. “Don’t worry. You’ll get him next time, tiger.”

But deep down, you both know the truth.

Clark is going to win.

So when everyone is packing up for the day and slowly shuffling their way out of the office, you turn to him and say it out loud- because what’s there to lose?

“You win, Kent.”

He glances over, eyebrows raised. A small smile pulling at his lips like he knew your admittance was coming. “Took you long enough to come around.”

You walk side by side with Clark, the summer air finally bearable enough to not sweat while on a stroll. The sounds of cars and people hum around you both.

But halfway to the train station, you pause. “Hang on,” you say, eyes locking on Mo’s bakery. “We’re stopping.”

Clark follows your gaze and gives an approving nod. “For Mo’s cupcakes?”

“Mo’s cupcakes.”

Inside, the store is cool and delicious, smelling of cinnamon and blueberry. But your eyes aren’t focused on the rows of decident desserts in front of you. No. They're somewhere else entirely. The cashier working the espresso machine- tall, blonde, and enough forearm on display that you feel like a victorian man seeing an ankle for the first time.

He glances up and smiles when he sees you. You smile back, just a little too long.

Clark notices.

As you joined the short queue, you whisper to him, “The cashier’s so cute, right?”

Clark blinks. “What?”

“You don’t think he’s cute?”

He glances toward the counter, narrowing his eyes like he’s x-raying every inch of him. “I mean… yeah, he’s a good-looking guy, I guess.”

He looks deeply confused and unsettled, like he can’t figure out what’s going on.

“Wait,” he says slowly, “did you come here just for him?”

You scoff while looking flushed, nudging him with your elbow. “No! Don’t make me sound like some kind of fanatic. It’s like Great Earl Grey cupcakes and a hot guy that occasionally brushes hands with me? That’s a nice end to my day.” You sigh dramatically, hand over your heart, and Clark lets out a noise somewhere between a huff and a groan.

“Find us a table, please?” you say sweetly, waving him off like a well-trained puppy.

Clark obeys as always.

He’s like your own personal puppy.

At the counter, the cashier gives you his full attention, smiling with that well-practiced corporate charm. He leans in just slightly, and you tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear without even thinking.

You order two cupcakes and a couple of drinks, and before Clark can even get up to help or offer to pay, you already swipe your card. Then, just as the cashier hands you your change, he slides you a small folded slip of paper.

You don’t open it until you’re halfway back to Clark.

“Oh my god. He gave me his number!”

Clark looks up, startled. His jaw tightening. He takes a slow sip of his coffee and says deadpan “That’s great. Fantastic. Really, happy for you.”

2 days till crowning

Clark walks in like a cat who didn’t get the cream and wants the world to stop turning because of it.

You, on the other hand are in a good mood, a very good mood.

Texting under your desk with a giddy little half-smile you don’t bother hiding. The guy from the bakery- Dan, had messaged you back almost instantly after you texted last night. Smooth, charming, and just the right amount of funny. You have a dinner date with him tomorrow night.

Maybe you’ve finally found the Jerimiah to your Isabela.

Clark’s chair creaks with every look he gives you throughout the day. His typing is uncharacteristically aggressive, and he glares at his screen like it owes him money.

“What do you think I should wear?” you whisper, leaning over to Cat

She raises her perfectly sculpted eyebrow. “For who?”

You just grin and tilt your phone towards her. She lets out a quiet noise of appreciation.

“What about the black dress you wore last month?” Grabbing at your phone.

“Heels too” she says with a slow nod “Definitely heels.”

You’re so caught up in it all- scheduling a nail appointment in your head, planning the jokes- that you almost forget about your dinner plans tonight with Lois, Jimmy, and Clark.

By the time the three of you are halfway done with dinner, you’re still rambling about tomorrow’s date.

“—he said he knows this place that has a set menu that just does french fries and ribeye steaks. You can get the fries and sauce on tap, isnt that great?” You laugh lightly, not noticing the look Jimmy gives Lois.

She looks at him, gesturing towards you silently.

Clearing her throat, she draws your attention to the man sitting next to you. “Why are you so grumpy, mister?” She asks Clark.

“I’m not,” he says flatly, adjusting his glasses awkwardly.

“You didn’t even smirk when Steve lost out on the Centennial Park story this morning. That man fell into a pond chasing a source, Clark. You always laugh at that kind of thing.”

“I’m just… feeling tired,” he says, not even bothering to look at any of you. “I think I’m gonna head out.”

You blink. “Oh. Okay.”

He leaves without letting any of you speak.

You watch him go, tall frame disappearing onto the street, his shoulders sloped down, strangely defeated. The other two continue on rambling about the Justice Gang's latest blunder.

You feel the smile fade from your face, just a little.

1 day till crowning

Your date day extraveganza is finally here.

Not that Clark’s keeping track.

At all.

The cup in his hand is from a place downstairs that definitelty is a rip-off. $10 for an oat milk hojicha latte? But what can he do, he’s decided to non-offically boycott Mo’s until barista Dan is fired. He hasn’t come up with the exact crime he’s commited but hes a journalist he’ll find out.

Not only is his coffee overpriced but the rest of the office isnt making his life any easier.

Every time you so much as mention your dinner plans, they all look over at Clark with the saddest, most sympathetic glances humanly possible.

Whatever. He doesn’t care…

Actually he really does, time for a plan.

Clark catches you on your way back from the printer, hovering near your desk like he’s waiting for something, but pretending to not be.

He clears his throat as you pass, then gestures vaguely toward the store closet.

“Hey, uh- can I grab you for a sec? I need help finding some A3 paper.”

 You stare at him, one brow raised. “You need my help… to find paper.”

“Yeah,” he says quickly, his voice sky high.

You follow him despite his strange behaviour. “Okayyyy, weirdo.”

 He stops in front of the supply closet door and glances over his shoulder before opening it and letting you in.

“Is there a reason you’ve cornered me into the supply room or am I great at sniffing out non-traditional paper sizes?” Your comment draws no reaction from him, and you stare at him inquisitively.

He isn’t really sure what to do now.

He takes a step towards you and reaches out to grip the top of your shoulders, his arms are big and warm and you feel the urge to go limp and have him pull you flush against him. Snap out of it.

“Don’t go out with him,” he says quietly, his voice hoarse like the words have been sitting in his throat all day.

You blink. “Clark, what are you—”

“Just…” His grip tightens slightly, not painful, just desperate. “Please promise you won’t.”

You step back a little, frowning. “And why would I not?”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. Stammers. Still holding your arms, still looking at you like you’re slipping out of his grasp and he doesn’t know how to stop it.

And you? You’re frustrated.

Heat is rising in your chest at the ridiculous request and Clarks inability to give you an answer.

“When you figure out why I shouldn’t go out with a hot guy that asked me out and actually likes me, let me know. Until then? Mind your damn business.”

You move out of his grasp and turn to leave and as soon as your hand tocuhes the handle his voice calls out.

“it is my business.”

You expect him to add on a joke, because theres no way in hell he just said that to you.

You turn, “What did you just say to me?”

Clark stans tall now, brows drawn tight, chest heaving slightly. You step towards him, eyes narrowing, chest puffed out.

“And why the hell would it be your business?”

Clark’s eyes are closed, his shoulders up to his ears, hands balled into fists. It almost looks like he's Wile. E. Cyote the way he’s stood so taught.

“BECAUSE I FUCKING LIKE YOU!”

He continues on, eyes still closed pushing the words out like they’re painful “I like you more than I’ve ever liked anyone and Idon’twantanyonetohaveyoubutme?”

You step forward, voice softer. “Clark… hey. Look at me.”

His left eye cracks open.

“I like you too, idiot.”

And just like that, all the tension bleeds out of him. Shoulders dropping, fists unclenching.

He looks stunned, hopeful, a little dumbfounded.

“Shit,” he breathed. “You do?”

You grin. “You think I go out of my way to hand-bound leather journals for just anyone? Please.”

He laughs- a breathless laugh- and then your lips meet his.

His lips are soft, his top lip smaller than the bottom, meaning he has to press deeper into you in order to taste you. Not that you’re complaining. Clarks hands began to fumble about but finally find their place, one on your waist, the other twisting its way to the back of your head. Yours are roaming his chest, shaky while you press against his firm pecks.

You decide that you’d really like to breathe now, and even after you pull away Clarks lips attempt to chase you back to his. His eyes are desperate and glazed over. God, he looks wrecked.

Then you leave your starry-eyed lover in the dust and run up to the office scoreboard to draw a crisp two tallies under Clark’s name.

Clark smiles as he watches Ron kneel in front of Perry, the office cheering for the new “Prince of Prig”.

Totally worth it.

I'm so obsessed with Superman. 😜😜😜 I had this cheeky fic locked and loaded last week but thought I'd post rn!!

Also, pls tell me I'm not the only one suddenly majorly interested in switching from law to some kind of journalist role 🙏🏻.

[lockefanfic]

Last Chance

“Come over?”

You knew what the message meant, what she was asking for. What else could she mean, sending you that text at near midnight on a Friday night? 

The night air is crisp as you leave your friend’s apartment, where his yearly Inbetween-Christmas-and-New-Years party was raging. It seemed to only get colder as you stood on the sidewalk waiting for your ride, and the Uber driver’s seeming reluctance to crank up the heat in his car meant that the ride across town to her apartment was almost equally as chilly. 

Her building was a lot warmer, thankfully, and when she opens the door and greets you with a smile she gives you all the warmth you need.

“Come in,” Chou Tzuyu says with a small wave of her hand and nod of her head. “Drink?”

“I’ve had plenty at the party,” you admit, “but wouldn’t say no to water.”

“Good choice,” she says with a sly smile, cracking open her fridge to pull out a jug. “Gotta stay hydrated.”

You watch as she pours you a glass, her back turned to you as you enter her small but nicely furnished kitchen. She’s wearing a short, tight t-shirt and what were probably the tiniest pair of green cotton shorts known to man. The fit left much of her midsection and all of her long, shapely legs bare, highlighting the wideness of her hips and the fullness of her thighs. You hadn’t thought it possible, but she almost looked as attractive with the flimsy scraps of cotton on her as she did without them.

She hands you your glass of water, tapping it with her own as you both take sips and step into her living room. 

“Had a real shitty week,” she says, unprompted, as though she somehow felt the need to justify calling you over on a Friday night, felt the need to justify what the both of you were about to do. “Kind of need to blow off some steam.”

“Fair enough. Work again?”

“Yeah,” she says with a sigh under her breath, leaning against the arm of her couch, where you join her. “Big project due next week that’s kept me at the office most nights. And…”

“And?”

“There’s this guy.”

You sigh, inwardly, hiding your reaction behind another sip of water. You feel a sting somewhere in the depths of your heart, one you do your best to keep hidden behind the barrier of nonchalance that you’d worked hard to maintain with her.

“Oh?” you manage.

“Co-worker,” she says, softly, after another sip. “Yeah, yeah, I know, ‘don’t date co-workers.’ But I’m pretty sure he’s into me, y’know? And I’ve been into him since, well, forever ago. But I’m so frustrated, because he won’t make a fucking move, no matter how many signals I send his way.”

“...and you’re into him?” you ask, even as the words hurt to say.

She fumbles a bit with the glass in her hand, staring down at it as though she were looking for the answer to your question in the transparent liquid that it contained.

“Well, yeah,” she admits. “I know I should really keep it professional, considering how long we’ve been working together and how much I rely on him at work, but… I dunno. I dunno what to make of it, that’s all. I just wish he’d call me or something, get it over with, one way or another. Was kind of hoping he’d ask me out over the holidays, but nothing.”

“Ah,” you admit. “Maybe he’s just not into girls that aren’t hot enough to be invited to  Inbetween-Christmas-And-New-Year’s parties,” you tease. “I wouldn’t be either, to be honest.”

Tzuyu smirks and gives you a playful swat on the arm, the smirk turning into a warm smile. “Thanks for coming over,” she says, softly. “I need this.”

“I mean, I had to leave an above average Inbetween-Christmas-and-New-Year’s party because my moderately attractive friend across town needs my dick in her so she can get over some guy at work, but sure, I guess I kinda need it too.”

Tzuyu giggles - a soft, musical sound you never tired of hearing. 

She locks eyes with you for a moment, and in that split second you feel disarmed, as though she sees right through you, right through the humor and sarcasm and other defenses you’d put up to keep her from seeing the real you. You worry, for a moment, that she sees right through your sarcastic, aloof facade you forced yourself to wear lest she see how you really felt about her.

The moment is fleeting, though, and after she takes your glass of water and places it on the coffee table next to hers, the look you find in her eyes is altogether different. There’s hunger there now, and need.

She pulls you to your feet, wraps her arms around your neck, and your heart stops beating for a moment when your lips touch. 

Gentle, soft at first, as it always was, because despite being friends with benefits for a year or so and friends for much longer you both never quite got over that initial awkwardness, those odd, clumsy moments when you both knew what you wanted but weren’t quite sure how to go about initiating the process to get it.

You liked to think it was because you were both hopeless romantics at heart, and something within you both thought that sex without the feelings was beneath you, was something only indulged in by desperate single people who couldn’t get into a relationship to save their lives. Perhaps it was because neither of you wanted to be the one to admit, at least on the outside, that this was just for pleasure, that you were using a friend for an orgasm or two and that was it, end of story, we now return you to your regularly scheduled programming.

But the feeling quickly fades amidst the feel of another body pressed to yours, and soon the kiss becomes heated. Tongues dance, mouths open, your lips crush against each other. Your hands roam - yours around that tiny waist of hers, hers around your neck, fingers furrowing into the hair at the back of your neck. You pull her against you and her body molds to yours, warm and soft and pliant.

You break the kiss, eager to have more of her, your heart pounding now, so loud you fear she might hear it pounding out of your chest. She gasps as you dive into her neck, her hands weaving further into your hair, nails digging into your scalp. She tilts her head to the side, gives more of herself to you.

“Fuck,” she hisses, between gritted teeth. “Fuck. Need this.”

You devour her neck, finding and fixating on those sensitive spots where you knew she loved to be kissed. Your hands slide up her back and cup her ass and you’re thankful again that she decided to wear such a flimsy outfit that did little to hide the wonders of her body. 

She pulls away for a moment to pull her shirt up and over her head and she’s topless now, her hands working on your own clothes and divesting you of your button-up and t-shirt you wore beneath it. You come together again and the thrill of her soft, warm breasts pressing against your chest takes the breath away from your mouth for a moment, even as she covers your newly breathless lips with a kiss. The stiff peaks of her nipples press against you, tight and needy, sending a shiver up your spine.

You reach down, pick her up with your hands beneath her ass - and she giggles again as you carry her toward her bedroom. Her legs wrap themselves around your waist, her arms around your neck, but she weighs nothing against the need for her that gives you all the strength you need. She’s smiling and laughing and she’s everything you could ever want, right there in your arms.

She’s yours, and she’s not.

You drop her onto her bed, where her landing gives those small, perfect breasts of hers a delightful looking bounce. Your eyes find hers and for a moment, a split second, you’re afraid again - that she can see right through you, find the way you really feel about her beyond the hunger and lust and need. 

Because Chou Tzuyu is perfect - when she’s topless on her bed, lips slightly parted, eyes hooded, yes - but she was also perfect when you met her in your senior-level psychology lecture, perfect when you helped her move into this very apartment, perfect when you went out for dinner after she landed her first big job in her field; the very same one where she’d meet the guy she was apparently so very into, the same guy you most decidedly were not, the same guy you were apparently a substitute for on a lonely Friday night.

You need her - that perfect, tight body, the wide hips and full thighs, the round, perky breasts and the beautiful smile - but in ways beyond the physical. You need her beyond lonely weeknights and 2am weekend hookups. You need her for Sunday mornings at the grocery store where you both plan your lunches for the week, you need her for vacations in Fukuoka and Amsterdam and Vancouver. You need her for random, candid photos on your phone during a coffee date where she believes, ridiculously, that she were anything less than perfect in your eyes.

But she’s not yours - at least, not in the way you would like. She’s half-naked on her bed and you’re between her spread thighs and she’s looking at you like she wants to devour you whole and somehow, someway, that’s not enough. It would never be enough. But it’s all you have. It’s all she can give you.

You bend to kiss her, and being past that clumsy, awkward initial phase, the kiss is heated, passionate. It’s also a short one, because the rest of her body beckoned, and you didn’t possess the patience or self-control to deny yourself what was yours to take. You indulge in the delights of Chou Tzuyu’s body because it’s a distraction from the feelings that you fear might take over if you indulge them, if you let yourself dream about what your life would be like if she weren’t just a friend, weren’t just a Friday night fuck.

You kiss a path down her neck, to her sharp, prominent collarbones, each soft peck eliciting a little gasp or hiss from her lips. When you reach her breasts she’s practically begging, back arched off the mattress, desperate to have your mouth on her. She loved having your hands on her small mounds, your lips locked over her nipples, licking and sucking. Smaller boobs are more sensitive, she’d said once, only half-jokingly, and you never forgot it.

You give her what she wants - what you both want. Your mouth latches on to one breast, lips closing over her tight nipple and sucking, licking, lightly biting.

Tzuyu moans - a long, languid sound of pleasure, her loudest of the night. You never tired of hearing the pleasure leaving her lips in long, wordless drawls. It was like music. It was a song that only she knew the lyrics to, that she performed only for you, and you never tired of hearing it play.

Your mouth and hand swap, your lips latching tightly to her other nipple while you squeeze the other one with an open palm, relishing the feel of the soft flesh beneath your fingers. 

You spend a little longer on her right breast, because you knew it was somehow more sensitive than the other one - just another of those small things you knew about her body that no one else did. Another fact about Chou Tzuyu that belonged just to you, that you held tight against your chest and treasured greedily. You loved knowing that you knew things about her body no one else did. 

You loved knowing that you were the only one who knew these dirty, filthy little things about her, and that you were the only man on earth she trusted with them. The thought of sharing that knowledge with another man - or even worse, of losing access to it altogether, having it taken away from you by some random asshole who didn’t know these things, hadn’t worked to learn them - made you feel something dark and upsetting, something between fear and anger.

Tzuyu is a moaning and sighing mess now, her legs wrapped around your lower back, her own back arching up and off the mattress in an attempt to offer more of her body to you. Her nails dig little spikes of pain into your scalp with each suckle you draw from her nipple. Her thighs part even further and you feel the warmth between them pressing against your belly, even through the green shorts riding up her hips. She moans and writhes beneath you and if you’d spent the rest of the night with her breasts in your mouth and under your palms you would’ve been satisfied with that alone.

But she has other ideas - wants more, craves more. The fingers she’s woven into your hair push you downward. You release her stiffened nipple from between your lips with a pop, gazing up momentarily to find her looking back at you, cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded, a sigh on her lips. Their corners perk up in a barely noticeable, shy little smile.

Her tongue darts out, moistens her full pink lips, and you catch the unspoken request.

You bend your head again, returning your lips to her skin, starting a trail down her flat stomach, taking care to press a soft kiss on that cute belly button of hers. You open your eyes to watch her abs flex with every movement, delighting in the sight and feel of the tight muscle beneath the perfect, creamy skin. Hers was a body she’d spent many long hours in the gym and pilates studio for, and you were more than happy to make sure she knew how worth it it all was.

You reach her shorts, eventually - the flimsy strip of soft green cotton that was just barely enough to provide her with some measure of modesty. You take a moment to admire the way they sat on her hips, the way her full, flushed thighs look spread beneath them. She squirms under your gaze, her hips searching for friction, begging you to get them off her.

Your patience outlasts hers, because she’s the one to reach for the buttons keeping the shorts closed. You consider stopping her and undoing the buttons yourself, but there is a part of you that needs to see her undress herself for you, needs to watch her reveal her most intimate parts to you and you alone.

Thin, dainty fingers make quick work of the button, and she raises her hips, hooking her thumbs into the waistband and pulling them off her hips. You make way as she pulls the shorts off the long, endless length of her legs. She tosses them aside, over the side of the bed, where for all intents and purposes they cease to exist.

Her thighs remain tight together for a moment, only a few moments - and in those seconds her eyes are locked on yours, capturing and holding every ounce of your attention. Her thighs part, her legs spread and allow you back between them, but your eyes hold her gaze regardless. Her eyes tell you she wants you to relish the way she looks, naked and vulnerable, her body spread and laid out for you to take, to make yours for the rest of the night.

“Fuck, Tzuyu,” you mumble, unable to really say anything more than her name.

She smirks, those wonderful lips of hers curling into a smile. Without further word she grasps your skull with her palms and gently pushes you down towards her waiting pussy.

Her cunt is beautiful, like the rest of her - flushed and pink and glistening in the soft light of her bedroom, the insides of her thighs already moist with her juices. You bend down and give her a long, slow lick from the base of her opening to the top. The taste of her floods your palette just as the sound of the gasp that leaves her lungs fills your ears - a sound that is quickly muffled by the closing of her warm, moist thighs around your cheeks and face.

You do it again, give her another lick from bottom to top, then a third. You swirl her juices around on your tongue, relishing the taste of her. She’s squirming now, writhing, waiting for you to really commit to pleasuring her, her back arching and her nails digging more incessantly into your scalp.

You take a glance up at her - a viewpoint that you were truly blessed to bear witness to - past the flat planes of her stomach, between her heaving breasts, and finally to her face, flushed and pink, lower lip tucked under teeth, eyes fixed on you. She does it again - communicates her need without words, telling you, begging you, to give her the pleasure she so desperately needed. 

And so you do, bending and closing your lips around the tender bud of her clit, your tongue darting out softly, gently, avoiding the sensitive nub and instead licking around it, tracing soft, slow circles around it, just the way you knew she liked. 

The wordless song that has been leaving her mouth all night hits a higher tone, another octave as you work her over with your tongue. Everything intensifies for Tzuyu - the pleasure coursing up her spine, the wetness between her legs, the volume of the moans leaving her mouth. Her head falls back, eyes shutting, mouth now permanently ajar.

It intensifies for you, too - the pinpricks of irritation her nails are digging into your scalp become painful nails, the wet warmth of her thighs closes ever more around your cheeks, and the slick wetness of her cunt increases, making your lips and chin slick. You continue to swirl your tongue around the tender flesh surrounding her clit, neither increasing nor decreasing in pace - simply maintaining your current one, knowing from experience what made her body work, what would give her the most pleasure.

Tzuyu becomes a mewling, quivering mess beneath your tongue. The moans and profanities leaving her lips continue unabated. She forces herself every now and then to open her eyes, glance down at the top of your head nestled between her spread legs, the mere sight of you there, in her most intimate area with your lips around her clit, enough to send yet another spike of pleasure up her spine and into her addled brain. 

“God, fuck, that feels so good,” she manages to gasp, her brain barely able to form recognizable words out of the stream of sounds leaving her mouth. “Fuck, keep going.”

You knew where exactly where she was, what level of pleasure she was experiencing - knowledge that was the product of many a night doing exactly this, pleasuring her just the way you were now. You knew that she was right there, dangling on the precipice, and that she needed just that one last nudge, one last push.

You slip your right hand from where it was wrapped around her thigh, sliding it beneath her, bringing your fingertips to her drenched opening. She gasps as she feels your fingertips at her thus far neglected entrance, knowing what it means, knowing what is about to come. You can almost feel her pussy writhe and ripple around your fingers, now a knuckle deep, urging you, begging you deeper.

“Please,” she gasps, and you oblige. You slide your index and middle fingers inside her, palm up, and the effect on her body is immediate. Her moans cut out, her entire body goes rigid for a moment, as though shocked by lightning. The silence left by the cessation of her moans leaves only the sound of her body writhing on the bed to fill your ears, along with the wet slickness of your fingers moving inside her.

Throughout it all your tongue is swirling around her clit, merciless, unwavering in its pace and depth and pressure. Your fingers are ones pushing her, upping stakes, sliding slowly deeper inside her slickness, curling upward, searching, finding, then teasing.

It takes only a few seconds of your fingertips grazing that most sensitive part of her before Tzuyu orgasms, taking herself by surprise almost as it did you. Her world explodes, her body goes stiff, her eyes shut and for a few wonderful moments all she sees is stars.

You almost have to fight to hold her down with your free hand flat on her tense belly lest your mouth lose contact with her spasming cunt. You fight to keep your tongue and fingers moving, if at a slightly slower pace, letting her ride it out, letting her feel and relish every second of the pleasure coursing its way through every fibre of her being. She’s quiet through it all, mouth frozen in a silent scream, which was rare - she was usually one to announce and talk through her pleasure, but here she was, rendered unable to even moan.

“Fucking hell,” she spits, sometime later when she is able to form words again. Her body is suddenly boneless and sinking into the mattress, utterly drained. Her thighs finally loosen around your head, much to your chagrin, because you’d grown fond of the sticky warmth you’d found between them.

She pulls your face up toward her, and you delight in the tour you’re given of her breathless, sweaty body beneath you as you crawl up the bed until you’re face-to-face. When you reach her lips she captures yours in a tight, passionate kiss, her tongue finding yours and tasting herself on its surface.

“I need you now,” she hisses, eyes boring into yours. You need her too. You always have, truth be told, but perhaps not in the same ways that she needed you. You want to say something, lying here, inches from her face, her eyes needy and vulnerable. But the words never come. The moment passes.

Before you can react any further her hands slide from your head to your shoulders, where she gives you a gentle push onto your back on the bed. She rolls atop you, straddling your hips.

There’s a coy smile on her lips as she undoes the belt at your waist before undoing the button and fly of your jeans and pulling them down your hips. She lets out a soft giggle as you raise your hips and pull the clothes off your legs as though they were on fire. This is all a game to her, a release, a fun, if momentary, distraction. The realization of that stings a little, somewhere deep inside you, where she can’t see the hurt she’s caused to you.

When you’re finally as naked as she is, she straddles you again. Your eyes find hers, as they always did, drawn to them, magnetically, as though you could always find what you needed in them. The small moment of levity and amusement she gained from watching you desperately undress disappears, replaced again by need and desire. 

Her tongue slips out between her lips when she gazes down and sees your cock, hard and aching. Her hand reaches out to grasp it and you feel the air rush out of your lungs at this first intimate contact. She brings your tip to her entrance, dragging the head up and down through her lips, lathering it with her slick juices.

You want to say something, want to tell her how utterly captivating she looks on your lap, your cock at her entrance; you want to tell her how much you wish you were about to fuck your girlfriend or your wife and not just a friend; you want to tell her how the very thought of another man being where you are, right now, upsets you more than you had any right to be.

The moment passes - again. You slide inside her, and suddenly words don’t exist any more.

The sight of Chou Tzuyu impaled hilt-deep on your cock is like nothing else you’ve ever experienced, like nothing else you ever will. She’s feminine perfection, right here, on you, wrapped around you. 

Her head is tilted back, mouth open in a silent moan, eyes shut, brow furrowed, as though deep in concentration. Her breasts are perfect and round and her nipples taut. Her abs flex - defined, toned. And her thighs - perfect, full, flushed. She’s more than you can take. She’s more than you can keep.

It’s a feeling that is only intensified when she begins to move, begins to use those strong, firm thighs and hips of hers to move herself up and down your cock, slowly, with soft, measured movements. She lets herself get used to you, get used to that delicious stretch of you inside her. It’s painful, in a way, how slowly she’s moving - it takes more self-control than you’d care to admit not to just hold her hips down and piston into the wonderful slickness of her cunt.

But hurting her was the last thing you wanted. If only she’d known how much she was hurting you. You wonder if she would stop if she knew. You wonder if she would even care.

Eventually she ups her pace as her body molds itself around you. She’s beginning to sigh and gasp now, mostly on the downstroke as your cock slides inside her, spreading her apart and stretching her out, sending shocks of pleasure throughout both your bodies with each entry. Your hands are firm on her hips, resisting for now the temptation to reach up and play with her softly bouncing breasts, or pull her back down onto your cock with more force. You’re content, feeling her, watching her take her pleasure from you.

Watching her use you.

Tzuyu feels your eyes on her, roaming her body, drinking in the sight of her. One hand reaches up to her breasts, capturing one, teasing the taut nipple for a moment with long, dainty fingertips, giving you a show. Eventually she brings both her hands to her scalp, gathering her hair, pulling it above her head and holding it there. She’s a vision, then and there - her hands above her head, back arching, breasts bouncing wildly as she continues to ride you.

“Jesus, Tzuyu,” you spit, the profanities tumbling from your mouth before you even knew you were speaking them. “Fuck, you’re perfect.”

She lets her hair fall from the top of her head in a chocolate waterfall. Her hands cup her own breasts, fingertips playing with her aching nipples.

“You like me like this, baby?” she hisses, a question she knows the answer to. “You like me like this, bouncing on your cock, all tight and wet for you?”

“Fuck, yes, Tzuyu, fuck.”

Her lips curl into a wicked smile, before her lower lip curls under a perfect white tooth. She lets something deep and guttural escape her throat behind her bitten lip.

She bends over you, hands on either side of your head, hair framing a face twisted in pleasure.

She ups her pace, riding you fiercely now, hips slamming down onto yours at a pace that is almost violent. Your hands grasp her thighs, fingers clawing into the soft flesh, feeling the muscles beneath them work to throw their owner against you over and over and over.

“Fuck me,” she snaps, and you oblige.

You thrust upward to meet her, timing each movement of your hips to match with the downstroke of hers, and soon you are slamming your bodies against each other at a merciless pace.

Tzuyu shrieks - loud, sharp. She swears and spits and she’s becoming a loud, mewling mess atop you, but throughout it all she manages to keep riding you, keep bouncing that perfect body of hers atop your cock. Her cunt pulsates, squeezes you like a velvet glove. She’s so wet, leaking with so much arousal, that every slamming of your hips against each other is muffled by the wet stickiness that has coated much of your lower bodies.

“Oh god, oh god, I-” she begins, each word punctuated with a thrust of your cock into her cunt. “Oh fuck, I, so good-”

You watch her, watch that perfect face of hers twist in pleasure, watch as that perfect body of hers takes your cock. Your brow furrows and your hips burn with the effort but you feel none of the fatigue, none of the weariness of the physical effort. All that matters is her pleasure. All that matters is making sure she-

“Cumming-” she hisses, just barely before she does. 

Her eyes shut, body stiffens, just as it did when she came on your mouth - and her cunt tightens wonderfully around your cock, pulsating, squeezing. You bury yourself inside her to the hilt, wanting to feel every second of her orgasming around you. You can feel the shocks of pleasure radiating from her, reaching her limbs, flooding her brain with sensation. 

When she remembers to breathe she lets out a long, drawn out breath. Her arms, shaky, finally give way and she collapses atop you, head next to yours. For a few long seconds she does nothing but breathe heavily against you, the gasps and sighs that leave her mouth loud against your ear. Your hands roam her sweat-slick back, fingertips tracing a path down her spine and pulling a soft sigh from her tired lips.

“God,” she says into your ear. “Fuck, that was so good, baby.”

You loved and hated when she called you that. It was a pet name for lovers - and she only used it during sex. She only ever called you by your first name anywhere outside the bedroom. Another reminder of the boundaries. Of the limits.

“You feel amazing, Tzuyu,” you say, truthfully. Her cunt is still pulsating softly around your painfully stiff cock as the last waves of her orgasm leave her body. The warm slickness of her around you made a pleasant distraction from your emotions. Pleasant, but not easy.

You feel her lips curl into that sly smile of hers again against your cheek. She plants a few kisses under your ear, tracing a path along your jaw, until she finds your lips. Her hips begin to move again, side to side - not taking you in and out of her body, but just moving you around, swirling your stiffness inside her.

“Your turn, baby,” she whispers, half-lidded eyes locked on yours. “How do you want to cum in me?”

You’d had her in every position imaginable over the time you’ve been fuck buddies. But you always enjoyed one of them more than the others.

“Want you from behind-” you begin. “-Tzu.” you finish, resisting the temptation to call her ‘baby.’ Some small, bitter part of you felt she didn’t deserve to be called that, not if she was going to tease you, hurt you with its use, make a weapon out of it that she wielded carelessly, inconsiderately.

Thankfully, she doesn’t notice your momentary hesitation - maybe she was still recovering from the high of her orgasm, or maybe she was too focused on gyrating her hips around the stiffness still hilt-deep inside her.

“Alright, baby,” she says, again, the word stinging even if it was laced with the sweet honey of her voice. The smile on her lips is proof of how oblivious she is to the damage she wreaks with each wreckless use of it. 

You didn’t blame her. How could you? How could you expect someone to know what you felt internally when you continually denied it externally?

You’d promised each other, when you first started this little arrangement, that you’d put an end to it if either of you found yourselves with anything even remotely resembling feelings for the other. But how could you end it, when you’re in her bed and you’re both naked and she’s wet and ready and on her hands and knees, looking over her shoulder at you, slick pink lips opening to say-

“Come take me, then.”

A stronger man would have ended this a long time ago. You were not that man, not today. You doubted there were many men in the world with that level of strength.

You bring yourself behind her, admiring the sight of her - perfect, as she always was, perfect in every sense of the world. She’s creamy skin and a tiny waist and those hips and thighs, my god, those hips and thighs. She’s there and wet and ready and wanting and who could say no?

You bring your tip to her opening, parting her lips with your head, swirling it, swiping it up and down her slick flesh, sending a shiver of pleasure into both of your bodies. She sighs and her back arches delightfully, the dip of her spine sharp and prominent in the low light of her bedroom. She mewls and sighs, her hips pushing back against you, needy, wanting.

“Fuck, baby, come on,” she sighs, she begs. 

You loved her voice, soft and light, like silk spun into air - but you loved it most when it was begging, needy.

Her hips continue to push against you, the round cheeks of her ass pressing against you, trying to pull you inside her herself. “Please,” she continues, airy and breathless. “Put it in me. Don’t you want my pussy? Don’t you want me?”

You did. You wanted her, but in more ways than this. Chou Tzuyu is on her hands and knees in front of you and she’s dripping wet and begging and somehow it’s not enough.

One of her hands slides down her body, and her fingertips part the slick lips of her pussy. She’s glistening and pink and pure distilled need, right there, right here, ready for you to take. 

And she doesn’t give a damn about your feelings, is blissfully oblivious to everything but the emptiness between her legs. All she wants is a fuck. That’s it. That’s all you are. You’re everything and nothing, all at once.

“Look how empty I am without you inside me, baby. Come fill me up.”

You slide inside her - how could you not, after hearing that? She’s so tight and hot and wet, and you forget, momentarily, everything other than the feel of her cunt wrapped around you.

You fuck her - hard, firm, your pace fuelled more than you would care to admit by a darkness inside you that you weren’t proud to admit to. Jealousy, of some man you’d never met, some man who made her feel like you never could? Anger, at her, for not seeing how you felt about her, how amazing you could be together?

Whatever it was, it was ugly and came from a dark place, and you didn’t want to acknowledge it. But you fuck Chou Tzuyu with it running through your veins - fast, hard. And she sighs and moans and thinks you’re just especially turned on today, want a harder fuck than usual. She doesn’t know any better. Doesn’t know that you’re using her body the way you are, as an outlet for your frustration and anger as much as an outlet for your pleasure.

You reach forward, running your fingers through her hair with a surprising gentleness, even as your cock hammers in and out of her body, rocking it, pounding her.

Then your fingers close, pull. She yelps, gasps.

Her spine arcs sharply backward as you pull backward on her hair. You use her hair like a leash, pulling back as you thrust forward. Tzuyu can do nothing but take it, her body given to you fully. The spasming and quivering of her cunt around you is evidence of her acceptance, her submission. 

Your hips slap wetly against her ass with each hard thrust you make into her tight, slick pussy. The bedroom fills with it - flesh hitting flesh, wordless sighs and moans that turn into begging, profanity, name calling - the lewd soundtrack of sex.

“Fuck, fuck,” Tzuyu manages, “You’re so fucking deep, fuck, more, fuck me more-”

You shut her up. The hand pulling her hair wraps around her scalp, pushes her face down onto the bed. You pin her down, your palm flat against the back of her neck and upper shoulders. Throughout it all you are fucking her, using her, just as she uses you, even if it’s for different reasons, with entirely different depths of emotion.

Her mouth muffled against the bed, she’s unable to say or do much more. And you prefer her this way, because every word she says - even the ones that spur you into fucking her harder, faster, deeper - will only make it harder to leave her when you’re done.

Not that you needed much motivation to fuck her the way she liked - hard, deep, but not wild or uncontrolled. You maintain your pace, enjoying the way her cunt squeezed and tightened rhythmically around you. Tzuyu knew how to communicate with her body, knew how to tell you exactly what she wanted without words.

You watch her beneath you, relished the sight of her helpless and unable to do much of anything but take your cock again and again. Her moans and sighs are muffled by the cotton of her bedsheets, but you heard enough of them to tell you you were hitting just the right spots inside her. She’s under you and she’s yours and you do your best to stay in the moment, enjoy the feeling of her wrapped around you.

You feel that feeling in your core, the telltale building of pleasure in your gut that heralds your impending orgasm, tells you to fuck her harder and deeper and bury your cum inside her. She must have felt it too, somehow, in the slightly more erratic rhythm of your thrusts, or the tighter grip of your palm against the back of her neck.

Tzuyu turns her head enough to clear her mouth of the bedsheets, despite your palm on the back of her neck.

“Fucking cum in me,” she hisses, “Please cum inside me. Make me yours.”

The perfect words, on any other night - but on this night they only hurt you. 

Because she isn’t yours, might never be. Tomorrow, she might be another man’s. Even as you thrust harder and harder and your orgasm comes closer and closer all you can think of is how empty this feels, how even if she’s under you and taking your cum she’s not what you want her to be, what you need her to be.

But for a moment, a fleeting, blissful moment, you forget all that. Your hand leaves the back of her neck to join the other one at her hips, pulling her hips back against yours as you crest your peak, burying yourself inside her and letting go.

She moans as she feels you pulse inside her, each movement of your cock signifying another rope of warm, thick cum that fills her thirsty, needy little cunt. You give her a few more short, sharp thrusts before you bury yourself inside her for the last time. She’s so fucking full of you that your juices begin to overflow from her stuffed pussy, around the lips still tightly wrapped around your shaft, down your balls and her flushed thighs.

Time freezes, becomes irrelevant, and for a few blessed minutes you forget everything about the way you feel about Chou Tzuyu.

When your senses return and your brain has recovered long enough to process thought, the first thing you’re aware of is her voice.

“Fuck,” she’s saying, “God, that was… god.” And then she’s saying your name, and it makes you wince, as though hearing her say it caused you pain. 

You slip out of her, and she winces herself - although hers is borne of the emptiness you’ve left inside her and not out of any deeper emotion. She makes no effort to get off her hands and knees, staying frozen there, her ass in the air like some lewd testament to the sinful acts you’ve just committed. You watch, absent-mindedly, as your cum drips from her well-fucked cunt, down her thighs, staining her bed.

Eventually she falls onto her side, facing you. You’re sitting there, on your knees on the bed, watching her. Her cheeks are flushed and her eyes are glassy. She’s so perfect, so desirable - and you curse yourself for the millionth time that night that you lacked both the wisdom to find the words to say and the courage to say them.

But it doesn’t matter, because you’re not the guy she wants, not the one she’s waiting for a call from. And that’s when it hits you, dark and ugly and painful - you wonder if she were pretending you were him this whole time, pretending it was his cock fucking her, making her cum, cumming in her, using you like some fucktoy replacement for the real thing.

You turn away from her, as though the very sight of her were somehow painful to you, despite the fogginess of your post-orgasm haze. Before you know it, you’re climbing off the bed, finding your pants on the floor, throwing them on.

“Are you-?” she begins, her words soft as you find your t-shirt and button-up, throwing them on.

“I, uh, I have to get back to the party,” you stammer, hoping she would buy your flimsy excuse for an exit. But you had to leave, had to do anything to get out of that room. The thought of losing her, the thought of this being your last time together - it hurt, it was too much, and every fibre of you screamed to get away from it.

“Oh,” she says, softly. You turn to find that she’s sitting up on the bed now, her arms wrapping around her knees.

“There’s, uh, my friend, he, he introduced me to this girl,” you mumble, fabricating a story, trying to come up with some way to hurt her, just as she’s hurt you. “I told her I’d, uh, get back to the party. She likes me, I think,” you add, the words tasting like ashes in your mouth.

“Right,” she says, surprise and something else in her low voice. Her knees come up closer to her chest. “So, um, hey, about that guy-”

“Good luck with him,” you spit, cutting her off, afraid of what you might hear if you let her continue. “Uh, let me know how it goes.”

There’s a short silence, one that drags on for longer than you’d like. You don’t look up at her, unable to muster the courage to do so. You fumble with your shirt buttons, fingers numb.

“Sure,” she says, finally. “I… I think I’m going to call him tomorrow.”

“Right. I, uh, I should go. I’ll. Uh. I’ll talk to you later,” you say, as you turn towards her bedroom door.

You think you hear her say something, a couple of words.

Your eyes finally look up at her, but she’s looking away. You look for confirmation on her face, but she’s turned away from you, and her expression is unreadable. She suddenly looks small and vulnerable.

“Did- did you say something, Tzuyu?”

“Nothing,” she says, a hand pressed against the side of her face, her eyes shut, as though she were suddenly fighting a headache. But just as quickly it appears, it’s gone, and Tzuyu manages a weak smile, even if there’s no happiness or mirth in her eyes. “It’s nothing. Be safe getting back to the party, okay? And don’t forget your jacket - it’s cold outside. Let me know when you get there.”

“I, I will, Tzuyu,” you say, words shaky, unsure. “See ya.”

You leave her, leave her hot, stifling apartment.

The night is cold.

Author’s Note: High five to you if you guess what she said.

[dooberific]

❝𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘔𝘳. 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘢.❞

harumasa x afab!reader

genre/warnings: suggestive, nsfw mentions, he’s just a boy loser guys idk what you want me to say

summary: you are order, and he is chaos. He thinks you’re his type, and you think he deserves a good tease for the trouble he’s caused you.

wc: 1.8k

Asaba Harumasa was convinced that Deputy Chief Tsukishiro had made up her mind to finally put an end to his existence.

Now sure he liked to skimp on his paperwork every now and then, or call out sick for multiple days in a row, or do whatever he could to clock out early, or fall asleep at his desk (all things he firmly understands don’t help his case), but this? Convincing the Chief to let her handpick an “executive assistant” to run the Section 6 office like a real prison? He was sure it violated some law against war crimes and torture.

You were everything his existence in the unit contradicted and he knew it from the moment you stepped through the doors of their suite in a perfectly pressed skirt suit and a terrifyingly cool expression on your face.

It was like Yanagi spawned a twin of herself, one that’s sole purpose was to work every kink in the system out by force and relieve the paperwork load so effectively that even the dedicated Deputy Chief was able to clock out of work on time. Your critique was swift and harsh, and the execution of your corrections to the administrative side of their work just as damning. Within a week the sound of your heels clicking on the tiles was enough to draw a fear response out of him and Soukaku (though she was spared more of your wrath and gained your affections, further solidifying his theory that you are yanagi’s more evil twin).

You were order. You were dependable. You were the warden of a paper prison that ruled with an iron fist.

And you were totally his type.

He didn’t even realize it in the beginning, after all, you were like a monster from one of his nightmares. Very little slipped past your keen eye, forcing him into the submission of not cutting corners and actually doing his job. You were particularly hard on him, but he had to contribute most of that to the fact that he resisted the change as long as he could before he lived in fear of the snap of a folder of incorrect paperwork back onto his desk and a disapproving glare on your face.

Maybe it was the fact that you were never inherently mean about things too. You were very fair and worked diligently to boost morale, he couldn’t count the times you footed the bill for drinks after a big mission, and you always offered praise for improvements. You had everyone’s coffee order memorized too, everyone coming into the office bright and early to a hot coffee or tea of their preference already on their desks next to a neatly printed agenda customized to their schedules. Oh, and those tight little skirts you wore over your sheer stockings certainly didn’t help him to not like you, but that was neither here nor there.

The first to arrive and the last to leave, your dedication pretty much knew no bounds, and that’s exactly how he ended up in the position he was in now.

He had made it through his night shift by the grace of whatever powers existed in the universe, and promptly crashed on the sectional tucked into the corner of the office, choosing not to expend the energy to walk back to his apartment when he would have to be at the office first thing in the morning for a big meeting anyways. The plan was to wake up early enough to hit one of the locker room showers to freshen up and get himself looking half decent.

The plan died immediately upon him snoozing his first alarm. Then it shriveled a little more with the second snooze. The third snooze was him digging the plan up to kill it again. By the fourth time he was basically dancing on the grave of his plan and digging his own grave while he was at it, because there was no plan conceived that involved you showing up early.

It was muscle memory triggered by the click of your heels as you entered the suite that shocked him out of sleep as he practically rocketed upright with bleary eyes and a sleep muddled brain struggling to catch up with his body’s dramatic response. It was enough that you fully paused in your tracks, coffee cup hovering millimeters from your lips as you eyed him with thinly veiled confusion.

“Good morning, Mr. Harumasa.”

“Good morning, Miss (y/n).” He yawned out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he squinted into the bright office lights.

While you found it humorous to watch the wheels in his brain slowly begin to turn in real time, the brutal hand of time waited for no one and you were nothing if not punctual. Your lips quirked momentarily as you checked the time, eyes darting from your dainty wristwatch back to your dear newly awakened coworker.

Asaba Harumasa’s lack of care for the precision of his work uniform was a hill you had chosen not to die on from the very beginning. You weren’t the dress code police after all, and he wasn’t so dramatically out of regulation that it irked you or anything like that. Most days. But today wasn’t most days, because most days you had a solid hour of silence to prepare for your day, and he would saunter in fashionably late, pass you some lame pickup line, then slink back to his desk where he promptly assumed the look of a kicked puppy until his paperwork was done and he could leave. He had been so methodical about this routine that this disturbance almost took you by surprise.

Almost.

It did bring you a new challenge however. He looked like a total wreck. His hair was matted on one side while the other dramatically cowlicked out in three directions, there were sleep marks on the side of his face from the couch upholstery, his tie was loosely hanging on to one side just pinned enough by his rumpled collar that it hadn’t fully fallen off, his shirt was wrinkled to high heavens and unbuttoned down to his navel revealing a very well sculpted chest, and were those the outline of abs you were seeing—?

You cleared your throat as you averted your eyes, thanking your lucky stars that he was still half clinging to this side of reality. How embarrassing it would have been to be caught practically ogling his body like some degenerate teenager! You are not one to stare, let alone ogle. It was completely uncharacteristic, you were a dedicated administrative assistant after all, you were immune to anything that threatened the routine flow of your workplace.

Right?

Right. Your carefully crafted defenses had not failed you, and it was simply an undiagnosed heart condition that had rendered you breathless every morning for the past three months as you locked yourself in a stall in the women’s bathroom to calm the hot flush that burned your cheeks and the thundering of your heart behind your ribs at the coy tone of his voice as he hammered you with another pick up line before walking away like nothing ever happened.

This was simply a new hurdle to your morning. Nothing more, nothing less, and you had a duty to perform on the behalf of your entire section to ensure the morning went off without a hitch. Definitely no ulterior motives.

You sighed heavily as you set your coffee and bag down on the edge of his desk before propping yourself upon the flat surface, a hand coming down to tap it impatiently.

“You look like a wreck. Come here, Asaba.”

If hearing his surname fall from your pretty painted lips wasn’t a wake up call for his brain enough, the sight of you in all your glory seated upon his desk certainly was. He practically scurried from his spot on the couch to you as if efficiency was going to save him from the wrath of the office warden, electrifying eyes dancing nervously as he attempted to readjust his tie.

“Take it easy on me boss, I had a long night and—,” he never finished his thought as your manicured nails wrapped around his tie, yanking him forward till his hands braced against the desk on either side of you, caging you between him and his own designated workspace.

This close and he could smell the pretty floral undertones of your perfume as he sucked in a shaky breath, eyes blown wide compared to your own ever-cool expression. You met his gaze, stifling the smirk that threatened your lips.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Harumasa? Not feeling chatty this morning?” You pressed, your thighs parting just enough to slot his body between them.

He really hoped there was a merciful god out there somewhere that was orchestrating all of this, cause he was feeling so damn tired but he was ready to die a happy man between your thighs if you’d let him. He swore your skirt had to be a little shorter today ‘cause how else was that lace edge of your stockings peeking out from under the hem of your skirt? If you slid your leg up a little higher he’s sure he’d get a peek of your pretty thigh fat bulging over the edge of the elastic band snuggly bound around your upper thigh.

His fingers twitched as he felt his blood run south at the very thought, catalyzed by the way you leaned in so close, hands running from his chest to his waistband in a sinfully slow manner.

“Oh, don’t tell me no one’s ever…,” your tone was sultry as your breath tickled his ear, your fingers latching around his buckle as you slid your body closer to the edge of the desk, feeling him shudder as he failed to stifle a nervous squeak.

“Helped you get ready?”

He would love to say that he pinned you to his desk and gave you exactly what you were asking for, that he kissed you stupid as he wrestled that damn skirt up just high enough to press aside those lace panties he just knows you love and sink into your pretty cunt and make you beg for him. That your nails left a burning impression down his back that seared his skin as perfectly as the hot kisses that stained the column of his neck every shade of your favorite lipstick. That the office of Section 6 sounded more like a filthy wet dream straight from a porno than a sterile work environment, and that he would never be able to look at his desk without remembering how pretty you looked bent over it crying for him.

There’s a lottttt of things he would love to say. At this point mostly profanities as he blinked stupidly back at you, your hands busy as you neatly fastened his tie all the way up to the base of his throat, his shirt now perfectly tucked and buttoned as well.

You hummed in satisfaction at your work, hands bracing his shoulders as you guided him away from his desk so you could slide gracefully off it yourself, pausing just to smooth your skirt.

“See, isn’t that better?” You said with pride, swiping up your coffee cup as you took a sip, marching to your little desk in the corner as if nothing had ever transpired.

“Now go fix your hair and get ready for the meeting, the others should be arriving soon.” You called over your shoulder, never looking back in fear of your expression cracking at how bewildered he looked.

Oh, he would certainly be fixing something in the bathroom, but his hair was the least of his concerns right now.

Rey 2024, crossposted to ao3

[blythedolly]

6 days later

—♡ synopsis: when leon tries to confess his feelings, his lack of self control takes over once again.

—♡ warnings: pervy leon (he’s kinda gross but in a hot way), innocent girly reader, possessiveness, teasing, loss of virginity, fingering, handjob, oral sex (reader receiving), biting, choking, aftercare, confession of feelings, fluff, best friends to lovers. not for minors. read part one here!

it had been 6 intensely slow days since leon had painted a very confusing picture between your legs with his tongue, and you had absolutely no intention of bringing it up. you were unsure if it was shyness, or fear of ruining the sweet friendship you shared with him. you decided if anyone was going to bring this up first, it would be leon. he was the one who initiated it, so it's only fair. 

you had seen him almost every day since, your usual friendly (nearly too friendly to be considered platonic in any form) ways of showing affection to each other were established. as always. leon’s large hands drawing pictures on your sweet thighs as you sat between his legs. back resting against his hard chest. his other hand busy playing with the pretty pink bows in your hair. the differences in styles was one of leon’s favorite things. you were always wearing the most girly attire, tonight was a pretty pink tank and those pj shorts that are very familiar to him, meanwhile, he was wearing a black tank and grey sweats. 

obviously, you couldn’t stop thinking about what had happened, and it was making you mad that he hadn’t brought it up. but tonight was movie night and you were staying over. in which you always talked each other’s ears off. surely he was going to bring it up, right? 

blush crept up on your cheeks at the thought of the event, and your cotton panties grew wet as you recollected how his tongue felt as it separated your folds in the most erotic and obscene way. the effect he had over you has always been quite ridiculous, but now it has just gotten worse. so much worse. 

you used your smart brain, which he always complimented and praised and thought of the sweet memory as your fingers desperately swirled around your clit. every single night since. you wondered if he touched himself at the thought too, you hoped he did. 

god, you hoped that he did. 

you looked back at him carefully as your head rested against his muscular shoulder, his eyes focused on the screen whilst the movie played, his hand still resting on your bare thigh. 

why isn't he saying anything? was I just a one-time fling? 

his eyes were heavy, he was getting tired. you sighed and looked away from him, but felt your tummy flip once you realized how loud it sounded when it escaped your mouth. 

he noticed immediately and his eyes traveled down to you. 

“are you gonna tell me what's wrong, doll?” he asks, as if he didn’t already know what you were thinking. 

“no,” you muttered, staring blankly at the screen. he repositions himself, and you. moving you from between his legs so you were facing each other. you huff, crossing your legs as he rests his head against his headboard. 

“tell me. now.”

“leon n-”

“it wasn't a question, tell me what’s on your mind,” leon moves his hand back onto your thigh. fuck, why is he doing this?

“why are you doing this to me, leon?” you ask, your tone as serious as it could possibly sound. leon tried to fight off a smile, it just sounded so cute to him. but he knew it irritated you when people didn’t take you seriously. 

“doing what?” he asks, you roll your eyes.

“you had your mouth between my legs not even a week ago and now you’re acting as if nothing even happened? I thought you liked me but obviously I was just a stupid fling of yours or something,” you blurted out, tears brewing in your eyes. he could hear the pain in your sweet voice, and it made him frown. you moved quickly to stand up, but his hand wrapped around your arm. pulling you back to him. 

“that's not what that was at all, oh my god. I do like you, so much more than a friend,” he says, wiping away a tear that fell from your eye. “I was just.. ashamed that I didn't tell you, and I just acted out my feelings by not being able to control my impulses. I was horny, and I couldn't control myself around you anymore.” you blinked many times as he spoke, listening to his words closely. 

“i get horny too, leon. really horny. i’m not some prude. you don’t have to treat me like i don’t know anything about sex just because you’re more experienced than i am,” you tell him, finally gaining the courage to meet his eyes. “I wear this kind of stuff around you for a reason,” you add, barely above a whisper. 

leon’s demeanor abruptly changes due to your confession, his grip on your arm growing tighter. “say that again,” he demands. you gulp nervously.

“i.. I wear that stuff around you on purpose... I wanted you to see my... my pussy when i bent over,” you say shyly, he groans. feeling himself twitch in his boxers.

you were disgusting, just like him. and he fucking loved it. 

he pulls you onto his lap roughly, plushy thighs straddling his waist. you gasp, enjoying the way his roughness hurt your skin. your cushiony cheeks blushing as you met his eyes once again. his hand creeps towards your inner thighs, watching your facial expressions closely. your lips were slightly agape, eyebrows furrowed and your eyes were heavy. convinced he could cum alone just by the effect he has over you. over your sweet body. 

“i bet you've thought about my tongue a lot. huh, sweet girl?” you nod your head, distracted by the way his fingers circled the skin of your inner thighs. so close to your beating little button. 

“i’ve thought about it too,” he leans forward, his lips not even a centimeter from your own. “think about my mouth on that pretty little cunt all the fucking time,” you whined, hips instinctively bucking forward to seek friction. unable to hold himself off any longer, his hand finally made contact. gripping your plushy pussy over your shorts. 

“same ones you wore when I buried my face in here, huh? how cute..” you moaned, nodding your head. “y-yeah, knew you liked them so...”

“I do like them, but I also want to rip them the fuck off,” he says, his tone sounding aggressive, yet so sexy and desperate. it was only making your cunt throb. “and your panties. think you can do that for me, baby?” you whine softly at the pet name. 

you move off his lap for a moment, slipping your pj shorts and soft panties down your legs before straddling him once more. placing both of your hands on his strong shoulders. he bit his lip at your eagerness, and his perviness was making you so fucking wet. 

“you’re dripping, disgusting little thing you are,” he smirks, sliding his fingers through your puffy lips. you gasped, his pupils dilating at the sight of his fingers between your legs “getting a wet pussy over my gross words and lack of self control..”

“mhm,” you mutter, eyes fluttering closed as his fingers touch every crevice between your sensitive folds. 

“what am I going to do with you? hmmmm...” he knows exactly what he's going to do with you. he just had fun taunting you. his desperate, dumb, sweet angel.

“n-need you to touch me again... please,” your hands squeeze the material of his tank, naked hips humping his hand as it explores your cunt. “do you wanna.. do you wanna fuck me, leon?” you ask, your sweet voice making him melt. 

“of course I do, baby,” he smiles, finally pressing his lips to yours. he immediately pushed his tongue inside of your mouth. the kiss was messy and borderline disgusting, but you loved it. every time you whined into his mouth, he added more pressure with his fingers between your legs. then suddenly, two of his thick fingers pushed inside of your dripping hole. you screamed into his mouth at the intrusion, the stretch of his fingers bringing tears to your eyes. his self control had clearly been thrown out the window once again, but you didn't care. because it felt so good. 

“such a good girl,” he praises, causing your walls to clench tightly around his fingers. he uses his free hand to grab ahold of your own, lowering it between leon’s legs. “gonna make you cum so many times tonight. think you can make me cum too, yeah?” he says against your lips, you nod your head. 

“atta girl,” he smiles, moving your hand into his sweats. “just do exactly what you think you should, think you can be a good girl and do that for me, baby?” you blush, nodding your head even more eagerly than the first. you do as he says. slipping your fingers into his sweats and boxers, wrapping your fingers around his rock hard cock. he groaned, bucking his hips into your hand. “fuck, good fucking girl.”

you were a little unsure of what you were doing, but leon's reactions and words reassured you that you were doing good. his own fingers became relentless inside of you in return, your soft moans filling his room every time he hit a sensitive spot inside you. you moved your soft hand up and down his shaft continuously, your thumb swiping the bead of precum off his tip which made his eyes roll back. “just like that, mhm,” he moaned, moving his head back so he could watch your face contort. he knew you were close, you were breathless, humping his hand like a bunny in heat. 

“gonna cum all over my fingers, pretty baby? is that why your face is all scrunched up?” he asks, and you nod. he speeds up his fingers, and you fall apart with no warning. you scream as your body convulses on his lap, your glistening cum painting his hand and wrist. the way you were shaking caused his own orgasm, muttering profanities as he came inside of his boxers, his cum leaking onto your fingers. he slowed his fingers inside of you as he grabbed your hand, moving it up to your mouth. you lick his semen off of your fingers with delight, looking into his eyes. you could've sworn his eyes went dark at the sight, like there was a demon inside of him trying to escape. 

you giggle as he watches, making a little show out of it.

“dirty little thing, fuck,” he smiles, finally removing his fingers from your warm pussy. he licks your wetness off, groaning at your sweet taste. before you could finish coming down from your intense high, he threw you down on the bed. pinning you down with his large body. just about tearing off your tank top, leaving you completely bare beneath him. 

“god, look at you,” he mutters, looking down at your body. “could do anything to you and you'd just fucking take it.” you whine as he lowers his head, tracing his nose along your jawline and neck. he inhales deeply. he's making you feel like prey. he’s the hungry wolf, and you're the poor animal he's about to feast on. you almost feel ashamed that your cunt is pulsing by his actions. you love it so much. 

he moves his way down your body, biting at your breast before taking your nipple into his mouth. he sucks hard, making your back arch off his mattress. your whines only making him more devious. he moves his attention to the other one momentarily before biting and licking his way down your torso. leaving as many marks as he possibly could. 

“gonna fucking destroy you, sweetheart. make you mine forever,” he smirks against the skin on your tummy, before biting reasonably hard. you gasp, the action causing you to spread your legs wide for him. he settles between them, gripping your thighs hard enough to leave bruises. he sucks dark marks onto your soft thighs, biting them until he could taste your sweet crimson blood on his tongue. he wasn't ashamed at being disgusting with you anymore, what was the point in holding back when you were just as disgusting as him?

he licks over the teeth shaped wounds, collecting every drop of your blood. you found yourself wanting to beg, beg for his tongue on your pussy, but you were enjoying it all too much. you never wanted it to end. 

“don't even need to do this, since you're so fuckin wet,” he says, sliding his tongue painfully slow against your dripping wet hole. “but this is for me.” he groans, before latching his mouth onto your entire pussy. 

you moan loudly, back arching off the bed. your hand flies down to his hair, pulling the golden strands harshly. he groans into your cunt, his lips sucking on your clit as if he was put on earth solely to please you. “l-leon, oh god...” you whine, leon groans into your pulsing cunt. shaking his head from side to side. he was relentless. 

the coil in your tummy was already on the verge of snapping, leon could tell by the way you were clenching around his tongue. he raised his hands to pinch both of your nipples, desperate to have you falling apart all over his mouth and tongue once again. 

you gripped his hair tight and bucked your tired hips into his face as you came, gushing into his mouth and all over his tongue. your screams filled the room, and the way you convulsed on his face just made him wanna stay like this forever. 

he finally moves his head, and you whine as he gets up. towerring over your exhausted frame. “relax, baby.” he smirks, pulling down his sweats and boxer shorts. 

your eyes travelled down his body, breath hitching as he revealed his cock to you. you gulped, it was very big. at least 7 inches, veiny and perfectly curved. you bit your lip, legs still wide open at his despair. 

“i’m gonna fuck that pretty pussy for real now, okay?” you whimper, nodding your head. making sure your thighs were spread open as far as they could go. he moves between your thighs, hovering over you, feeling his warm cock hitting your inner thighs. he captures your lips in a messy kiss, letting you taste yourself as he slid his cock up and down your dripping core until it was covered in your cum. 

he wastes no time, lining it up with your entrance and sliding it in slowly. it gave everything in his not to thrust it all in at once, but this was your first time. he may not have had self control, but he'd never want to scare or hurt you. he went in inch by inch, paying close attention to your gasps and facial expressions. since you were so prepared, needy and wet, he bottomed out in no time. 

once he was fully inside you, you couldn’t stop yourself from clenching around him so tightly. it felt so good being so full. full of him. the sting almost had you drooling. his eyes rolled back as he appreciated your tightness, stretching your delectable pussy open for the very first time. he felt so privileged.  

“feel too good… fuck. are you ready for me, baby?” he asks through an abundance of groans, and you nod your head. with that, he began fucking you. he started out with slow thrusts, moaning into your mouth as your tight walls sucked him in impossibly deep. he was able to control himself, but as soon as the words, “please, more leon,” fell from your pleading lips, it was over. 

he began drilling into you, hard and fast. you screamed for his repeatedly and your nails clawed down his arms. he was groaning loud as he abused your hole, he couldn't help but watch your pussy as he slid his cock in and out. god, it was sinful. he could've started drooling when he saw the ring of cream your cunt had left at the base of his cock. 

your hands moved to his back, scratching pretty marks into his skin as he kept up his relentless pace. 

“god... look at you, taking me like you were fucking made for me,” he says breathlessly, eyes still locked onto the sight of your cunt sucking him in. you tried to respond, but the pleasure was too intense, all you could do was pathetically whine. “you were made for me. all this time... I’ve known it. you’re fucking mine,” you moaned at his words, feeling the familiar tingles in your stomach once again. 

“yours... all yours... always,” you whine, and before you could think anymore, you were cumming around his relentless cock. your back arched and your torso pressed against yours as leon’s ears were met with the most sinful scream he'sever heard. you were convulsing and drooling. he came at the same time. how could he not? groaning loud as his hot load flooded into you. he couldn't stop staring at you as you came for him. he slowed his thrusts once you had finished, wrapping his arms around you once he had eventually stopped. his cock still buried inside of you. 

“oh my god, baby,” he laughs, pressing a soft kiss to your jawline. you smile, wrapping your arms around his neck. he held you close, feeling you shake in his arms. he was so proud of himself. 

“lost control again.... hm?” you mutter out with a smile. he laughs, nodding his head. 

“maybe a little bit,” he replies, a gentle blush creeping up on his cheeks. 

“mhmmm, me too,” you add, looking up at his. he leans down kissing your lips. this one being soft and delicate, not like the others. you smiled, brushing a loose strand of his hair behind his ear. before either of you could say anything else, he pulled out slowly. he kisses your head gently before moving off of you. you whine as his presence moves further away from you. he heads into the bathroom, grabbing a warm wet towel for you. he comes back and cleans you up, so gently and carefully. he grabs one of his clean shirts and you sit up as he pulls it onto your body. he smiles to himself, so different to the clothes you’re usually wearing. he moves his attention to your soft hair, fixing the loose strands. you blushed. smiling down at your lap. 

once he was done, he sits back on the bed and pulls you onto his lap. “gonna take you out to dinner tomorrow night,” he blurts out, and you smile.

“oh really?” you ask, playing with the hem of the shirt you now wore. 

“mhm, i need to do this right. without the temptation of a bed nearby,” he jokes, and you giggle. 

“sounds good,” you say shyly, which he notices. 

“oh come on, how could you still be shy after all of that? my cock was just inside of you for fuck sake,” he chuckles, his words making you hide your face in your hands. 

“leonnnn, stop,” you whine, laughing nervously. he grabs your hands and moves them away, kissing them both. 

“it’s okay, baby. don't you hide from me,” he says, fiddling with your fingers as he spoke. you nod your head softly, you look at his, his heart skipping a beat as he stares at your beautiful features. 

“i’ve fallen so hard for you, i hope you know that,” he adds, hearing the nervousness in his tone. you smiled, finally hearing the words you wanted to hear. your best friend liked you back, as more than just a best friend. holding in your excitement was almost impossible, but you did it. 

“i’m yours, leon. in every way,” you say as your eyes meet his. “i’ve always been yours,” you cup his cheeks in your hand, kissing his lips softly

he felt so lucky. you were his girl. his sweet, precious girl. always.

[snail-day]

Tw: Lactation, pregnant reader, slight possesive Suguru, breeding kink mentioned, unedited. mdni

All the momma's boy suguru talk got me thinking...

Suguru is unbearably attentive when you're pregnant. Maybe it’s the excuse to pamper you endlessly or the excuse to touch you whenever he wants, to keep you in soft clothes and even deal with your moody outburst (his favorite is when you cry about nothing because you curl up so sweetly on his lap).

But most of all, it’s the claim, the way your body, swollen with his baby, speaks louder than any wedding band ever could.

“You’re glowing again,” he murmurs one morning, lips brushing the shell of your ear as his hands glides over your swollen belly, fingers tracing over stretch marks, ones that he kisses every morning.

He has the habit of always behind you lately, pressing up close, keeping his hands on you at all times. Claims he just really loves his wife but seeing you pregnant does some primal things to him.

His voice stays low, rich with affection. An edge of teasing. “My pretty little wife. You look so beautiful carrying my baby. I should’ve knocked you up sooner.”

He just loves taking care of you, reminding you each and every moment that he enjoys this.

But he’s never smugger than when your breasts start to ache.

You try to hide it, crossing your arms over your chest, biting your lip when you wince.

But Suguru notices everything. Notices how full you look lately.

“Still sore, baby? Need my help?” he asks, already moving to loom over you, tugging your shirt up with one hand, violet eyes already drifting to the soft swollen buds that seem to be begging to be touched. “You’ve been hiding these from me. Not very fair, baby.”

He’s smiling when he leans in, breath hot against your skin. Eyes a bit darker when they flick up to meet yours. “You know I love taking care of you.”

Broad fingers trace over your swollen breasts, calloused thumbs brushing your nipples until they stiffen under his touch. When he leans down to kiss one, it’s almost reverent, slow, open-mouthed, tongue curling until,

A bead of milk forms.

And that’s when he groans.

“Oh, baby,” he purrs, lapping it up with obscene pleasure, “you’re leaking already? And you weren’t going to tell me?”

You whimper, flustered, and he just grins against your skin.

“Don’t pout,” he coos, licking the milk off his lips like honey. “It’s natural, remember? I’m just making sure my girl’s not in pain.”

Then he’s suckling, deep and slow, hands cradling your back, holding you so sweetly while his mouth works one nipple, then the other. He hums around you, tongue lazily lapping up the droplets, he could spend hours like this. In fact, he just might.

“You taste so sweet,” he breathes against your skin. “Just like always. You were made for this, weren’t you? For me to take care of.”

You’re already trembling when he switches sides, murmuring praises between licks, “Gonna be the best mama. So beautiful like this. So full.”

When you finally sag against him, flushed and panting, your chest soft and empty, Suguru presses kisses to your belly, to the slope of your ribs, up your throat.

“Another one,” he whispers into your skin, sucking a mark, spreading your legs with one of his palms, moving to settle between your thighs “After this. You’re too good at this not to do it again.”

[hsnlv]

can u do a jake x pregnant reader too?

warnings: 18+ mdni!, overstimulation, fingering(?), jake coming untouched :(

giggles because it’s cute

>>>>>>>

on most days, it’s normal to have jake clinging to you like you’re his only source of air, his face buried against your neck, lazy kisses pressed into your skin.

but ever since your little bump showed up, it’s like he’s been fucking starving for you. constantly touching, caressing, kissing, whispering the filthiest praises into your skin until you’re squirming in his lap.

“fuck, baby,” he groans, dragging his mouth across your throat, sucking hard enough to leave a mark. “how do you look this fucking good carrying my kid? s’not fair.”

his hand slides low, finding your panties soaked, and he doesn’t waste a second before shoving them aside and plunging two fingers deep into your dripping cunt.

the stretch has you gasping, clinging to his shirt, but jake just growls low against your neck, rutting his hips into nothing as he fucks his fingers into you with rough, desperate thrusts.

“shit—look at you,” he pants, the sounds of your wetness loud between you. “taking my fingers like a fucking angel… my sweet, perfect girl. always so fucking ready for me, aren’t you, pretty thing?”

you moan brokenly, clenching around his fingers, and he chokes on a groan, hips bucking against you helplessly like he’s the one getting ruined.

and without warning, without even touching himself, he’s coming — hard.

he bites down on your shoulder with a muffled cry, his whole body shuddering violently as he spills into his boxers, hot and messy and completely wrecked just from the feel of you and the filth spilling out of his mouth.

as soon as he realizes what just happened, his face burns hot with shame.

“fuck—shit, i’m sorry,” he stammers against your skin, still fucking his fingers into you even as his body trembles. “i’m sorry, baby, couldn’t help it—you’re so fucking perfect—couldn’t even hold it—”

he sounds breathless, half-wrecked, half-apologetic, babbling like he’s not even sure what he’s saying anymore, face hidden against your neck like he’s trying to disappear.

but he doesn’t stop. if anything, he fingers you even rougher, angling his hand just right to bully your g-spot, thumb grinding mercilessly over your clit.

“gonna make it up to you,” he pants, voice rough and shaking. “gonna make you come so fucking hard, pretty girl. c’mon, fuck—need you to soak my fucking hand, baby, please—”

his hand is relentless, fingers slamming into you, wrist flexing as he chases your orgasm like a man possessed.

“be good for me,” he growls lowly, hips still jerking weakly against you from aftershocks. “let me feel it, come on, baby—wanna feel you make a fucking mess on me.”

you break apart with a cry, clenching down hard around his fingers as you come violently, your slick coating his hand and dripping down your thighs.

and jake just holds you through it, whispering rough, reverent praises into your ear, still mumbling, “so good, so fucking good… ‘m sorry, i love you, baby—so fuckin’ perfect for me…”

your whole body trembles against him as you come, thighs shaking, clenching so hard around his fingers you almost trap them inside you.

but jake doesn’t stop.

if anything, the way you break for him only seems to snap whatever thin thread of control he had left.

“fuck, that’s it,” he growls, sounding half-feral as he keeps fucking his fingers into you, dragging the swollen, overstimulated walls of your pussy against his knuckles again and again. “you’re so good for me… so fucking good…”

you whimper, hips twitching, trying to shy away, but his free arm wraps around your waist tightly, holding you down against him.

“no, no, baby,” he mutters, voice shaking, messy with how desperate he is for you. “need more… need to feel you do it again… can’t stop… can’t fuckin’ stop.”

your hand scrabbles at his wrist, weakly pushing, but he just shushes you softly, his lips dragging across your damp cheek.

“i know, sweet girl, i know,” he whispers, almost soothing but still ruthlessly grinding his palm against your clit. “so sensitive, huh? s’okay. just one more, baby. gimme one more, you can do that f’me, can’t you?”

you’re crying now, little broken sobs slipping from your lips as your body convulses from the overstimulation, but it just makes jake worse.

“fuck, you’re so pretty when you cry,” he rasps, hips grinding uselessly against your ass, his cock still achingly hard even after he came. “so fuckin’ beautiful like this… just a mess for me.”

he kisses your tears away, messy and desperate, his fingers never relenting — thrusting deep, curling wickedly, rubbing your clit in tight, brutal circles until you’re completely mindless.

“sorry, baby, i’m sorry,” he keeps babbling, breath hot and fast against your skin. “you’re just so perfect… i can’t fuckin’ help it… pussy’s too good, you’re too good, fuck—”

you scream when the next orgasm tears through you, harder and meaner than the last, your cunt spasming around his fingers so violently it knocks the breath from your lungs.

jake moans, actually moans, like he’s the one coming again, squeezing his eyes shut as he feels you soak his hand, slick dripping down your thighs, making a filthy mess all over his lap.

“that’s it, that’s my girl,” he whispers hoarsely, kissing your temple, your jaw, your trembling mouth. “so good for me… made for me… fuck, i love you so much…”

he finally, finally slows down, easing his fingers out carefully while you twitch and sob quietly in his arms, every muscle in your body spent.

he hugs you close, kissing your forehead over and over, murmuring low, broken apologies into your hair.

“‘m sorry, baby… fuck, i’m sorry… you’re too perfect… couldn’t help myself… i love you so much,” he mumbles, rocking you slightly like he’s trying to calm you both down.

but even then, his hands can’t seem to stop roaming, sliding over your thighs, your hips, your bump — still touching, still needing you like he hasn’t even begun to get enough.

[innerfare]

Blowjobs 

Summary: What are they like when you go down on them?

Characters: Luffy, Zoro, Sanji, Ace, Sabo, Law, Kid

Genre: pure smut

CW: NSFW // blowjobs

——— 

Luffy: Goes a little crazy when you wrap your lips around him, moaning and groaning, his voice extra raspy, can’t stand it when you tease him. And he counts anything to do with his balls as teasing because they're so sensitive. "That's not fair!" He’ll grab your hair to control the pace, pulling your mouth up and down his throbbing cock. Doesn’t mean to be such a control freak, just can’t help himself. He’s so fucking greedy, it’s unreal. Never cums from a blowjob anywhere but in your mouth, and he really wants you to swallow. His favorite thing in the world is when his cum spills out of your mouth and you need a little help cleaning it up. He’ll swipe his thumb across your chin and chuckle when you suck the cum from his finger. This will probably lead to a second blowjob (multiples are not unusual with this man), probably with the two of you 69ing. 

Zoro: Lays back with his hands behind his head and his legs sprawled out, ready to watch you go down on him. So smug, smirks and goads you into taking more of him into your mouth until you’re choking on his length, then pokes fun at you for taking on more than you can handle. "What's wrong? Is daddy's cock too much for your princess mouth? You said you could handle it." You taking more of him into your mouth than you can handle and choking a little is definitely his favorite part. When he’s not teasing you, he’s watching you like a hawk, pushing his hips up a little to get himself deeper down your throat. Is actually really good at holding back his orgasm, which is good because he wants you to go down on him for a while but he also wants to cum inside you, so once your jaw is locked and cramping, he’ll pin you beneath him and fuck his cum into you. 

Sanji: Also ends up fucking you after a blowjob, but not because he can last for a very long time. Rather, it’s because he can get hard again so fast, almost as soon as his orgasm is finished. So, after you’ve wrapped your lips and hands around his length and drained his first load out of him, he’s pushing you onto your back and rutting his hips against yours. His favorite part is when you suck on his balls, but you have to be careful doing this because he’ll cum almost instantly from it; he’s cum in your hair countless times, most of them because you were sucking on his balls. If you’re going to do this, it’s better to do it toward the beginning. Oh, and when you’re finished, he’s eager to kiss you on the mouth, deep but short kisses. He’ll thank you so many times, too. "You did such a good job, babygirl. I love you so much."

Ace: He enjoys when you politely ask him if you can suck his cock. He’s surprisingly restrained as you lick up and down his length, looking up at him with your doe eyes. He’ll bite his bottom lip and rub a hand up and down his muscular chest and abdomen, the other resting on your head as it bobs up and down. He might buck his hips a little bit, but he won’t fuck your face; doesn’t think it’s hot when you choke, actually hates it. He’ll stroke your hair and groan a bit, his voice extra deep, and swear when he cums. “That’s my girl. You're mine, all fucking mine. Nobody else gets to feel your lips around their cock.” And his favorite part, perhaps one of his favorite things in the entire world, is cumming on your face. He doesn’t mean anything disrespectful by it, doesn’t even view it as dominating you in any way. It’s actually a soft gesture when he does. He just thinks you look so pretty with his cum on your face, and it makes him feel so loved that you enjoy his cum so much. 

Sabo: He can be a sadistic prick and mischievous little demon when the two of you are behind closed doors, but all that melts away when you have his pretty cock in your mouth. As soon as your head is between his legs, he turns into a whining mess (baby boy Sabo, uwu), subduing him such that you have a hard time believing this was the same man who just had you bent over his knee. His favorite part are those sweet kisses you place on his balls before you work your way up the length and lick the tip like a lollipop. Likes to watch you but usually doesn’t because it makes him cum so quickly and he wants to enjoy the blowjob a little longer. "Please don't make me cum yet. Feels so fucking good." He doesn’t really have a favorite place to cum. Or rather, he goes through phases. He likes switching it up a lot and enjoys when you ask him where he wants to cum (you deferring to him at the end makes him feel a little better about turning into putty in your hands). 

Law: Please let him cum in your mouth. Please, please, please. He might even say please, which is a pretty big deal for a man like Trafalgar Law. "You know I like it, why do you keep making me say it?" So annoyed at you, but all that goes away when he cums and you open your mouth to show him his cum before swallowing. Was actually hesitant to let you suck him off at first because he felt like he was giving up control. Allowing you to pleasure him was difficult, struck by the fear of letting himself get lost in your touch and doing something embarrassing like whining, but he didn’t hold out for very long, and his resolve to only allow you to do it only on occasion collapsed entirely after the first time you swallowed his cum. He tries to stay quiet while you suck his cock, but he’ll grunt if you hum or moan with him in your mouth; he’s definitely whimpered before, though he’ll never admit it. He usually screws his eyes shut and tries to keep himself from coming undone entirely. His favorite part is when you lick your lips afterward, like it was a treat for you, too. 

Kid: Basically can’t function without a blowjob. That being said, he understands that a man of his size can be difficult to suck off, so he’s very patient. The bully you often have sex with rarely, if ever, makes an appearance when you’re going down on him. He’ll stroke your hair and offer you sweet words of encouragement, biting back a devilish grin when you choke on his length. “I know it’s big, but you can handle it. Nice and slow, just like that. Make sure to breathe.” He’ll even help you out by stroking his cock or playing with his balls. His eyes are glued to you the entire time for fear he’ll miss his favorite part: when you tear up a little bit. He’s happy to cum anywhere, but your chest is by far his favorite place. You learn quickly to take your shirt off when you go down on him because he won’t aim away, even if you’re wearing a new top or have somewhere to be afterward. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[slashingdisneypasta]

Beetlejuice x AFAB!Reader || Drabble+Smut

Plot: You bet him he couldn't leave you alone (stop harassing you) for even one day, not realising that he would take winning s o seriously, but he's a stubborn old fuck so now its been weeks, and he still wont give in. And well... now you kinda miss him. Ironic, huh?

Warnings: Smut. Reader is DOWN BAD, FED UP AND WANTS THAT PERVERT DICK. A little daddy kink, panty stealing, creampie (WRAP IT BEFORE YA TAP IT. Especially with this guy 😅 We dunno what he has 😅), at points its even kinda f l u f f y?? I tried to connect with different facets of Beetlejuice 😅🤣 XD Unedited.

"Stay fucken still." That raspy voice sounding a hundred shades of pissed o f f creeping directly in your ear, as well as the boner you're sitting on, do absolutely the opposite to what he wants. They do not deescalate anything- in fact, you just feel even more turned on. Jesus christ, who knew it would only take 2 weeks no-contact for you to find him attractive.

But-- b o y, do you see it now.

Yeah he's mucky, but thats part of it?? The harsh mossy stubble and forearm hair (When he rolls up his sleeves), the deep greasy racoon bags around his dark beady eyes, the crazy hair that will not be tamed, everything. You know its kind of fucked up, but you have never wanted someone so bad. And if it weren't for that stupid bet 2 weeks ago-- you would have him! Goddamnit. You and your big mouth.

"Come on BJ," You urge softly, using the tip of your finger to guide his face towards you even as every muscle in his face fights to stay strong and remain stern- and most importantly, avoid looking at you. "Look at me." The ghost with the most hadn't looked at you since he accepted the bet, afraid of seeing you and immediately losing. Immediately being unable to keep his nasty eyes- hands- mouth, off of you.

He's been so strong. So boneheaded-ly strong.

Meanwhile you've been going crazy thinking about him stuffing you with his cock and then keeping your dirty underwear after.

Now sat atop his lap, face-forward, you intend to get him to look at you again and break his resolve. If it is the last thing you do tonight. Or for the week.

"I am lookin' at you." His face barely moves; the words coming out forced and humourless. No tone at all. But you can feel his cock painfully hard stretching the seam on his pants, and your underwear. Probably an embarrassing wet spot, too. "Whadaya mean."

You're so close he can surely feel your warm breath on his face. Giving his nose a cute little brush with your own, you feel his dick twitch in his black and white striped pants and a slow grin worms it way onto your lips. "No you're not... come on. Please, BJ?" With round eyes, you pout a little. "I miss you."

With that, he gives a frustrated and animated groan, and finally looks down from just past your head- to your eyes, causing a delighted smile to slip across your face. "Come on now baby- thats not fair at all. Come on."

You throw your arms around his neck as a familiarly slimy, hot, sex-crazed grin spreads across his grimy mouth. That wild look that apparently you love appearing in his eyes again, looking down at you- all over. Licking over your pretty willing body with just a look. "You didn't give me a choice!!"

"Hey, hey, hey- you bet me, sugar- "

"Hey. You gonna take your chance and fuck me, or not?"

He shrugs. "Well when you're right, you're right." Then he kisses you open-mouthed and all-tongue and just how you imagined he would kiss, and swallows any giggle you were going to give. Along with all your thoughts.

~

Neither of you can bring yourselves to perform any foreplay- even though you want to. Want to enjoy this; grind in his lap a while longer, feel his tongue in your cunt, tease him with your lips warm and tongue damp over the top of his pants- But you're more then wet enough already, the fabric of your underwear sticks to your pussy lips, and his obviously rock-hard boner fights to tear a hole in its confines. You'll have time for all that fun stuff later, anyway.

You barely have time to properly taste each other's tongues for the first time before his greedy fingers are digging under your skirt, underneath your underwear, and slipping easily right into you. Too easily, shit. He gives a filthy groan, getting 3 of his fingers good and drenched in your slick; feeling your pretty cunt squeeze 'em. "Fuck, honey, I think this is the best pussy I ever had."

Breathless, you give a giggle; forehead pressed into his shoulder at just the feeling of his fingers invading you; hips juttering slightly into is hand. "You haven't even had me yet."

"Lets fix that, then, shall we? Now."

Your fingers go down to the button on his pants and eagerly, with deft fingers, undo it. He's not wearing underpants, predictably, so you just have to reach in and carefully finagle his fat cock free. Then you swipe a finger over the insanely leaky tip for fun and watch his head fall back against the wall, listening to the wildly horny, gutteral groan come out of him at the feeling.

He clicks his fingers and your underwear disappears. You see it reappear in his hand a last time, just before he shoves it in his jacket pocket; flashing you a cheesy grin. "Souvenir."

When finally, finally you sink down on his gross cock you both let out sighs of utter satisfaction. 2 weeks was a hell of an edge.

You're almost happy to just sit there with him stretching you open, milking him with your pussy, but when he shifts his hips, just getting more comfortable and laying his hands on your hips, the movement sparks a change of mind. "BJ... " You wrap your legs more securely around him, around the back of the chair he's sat in, and lift your hands to grip the lapels on his jacket. Your eyes meet his very dark, lusty ones. Just watching you; a little scary and a little smug and a little pussy drunk. "... fuck me."

"P l e a s e?"

"Please, daddy."

His eyes roll into the back of his head and dramatically huffs, making you giggle. "Oh fuck, baby, you really know howta murder a guy." With all his strength, he pulls himself back together; straightening up again. "Alright, alright- hold on, daddy's gonna take you on a ride."

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can even make noise, you blink and you're in another position entirely. Off the chair now, you find yourself pressed against a nearby wall, your legs still wrapped around him and his cock still throbbing inside you.

While you're feeling dizzy from teleporting, Beetlejuice pulls almost all the way out of your messy cunt and thrusts all the way back in- hard. He does it again. Then the pace picks up and he's pounding you into the wall at an inhuman pace that has you hiding your face in his shoulder again and knotting your fingers tight in his greasy hair.

Your orgasm builds up at a record pace, due to all the build up. It would be embarrassing, if he wasn't fighting not to paint your insides already himself. "I gotta- I gotta be honest, sweetie, I- I don't think daddy's gonna last long in this cat. Not this time. The way you're suckin me in- Ughhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh fuck. Pullin' my hair- Damn, shit, Fuck!- " Finally, BJ mashes his groin against yours and holds himself there; cumming hard inside you.

That causes your orgasm, rolling your hips against him and riding it out, making him shudder out a sigh. A vulgar dopey grin flickers across his jawline and black teeth.

... After a few minutes of heavy breathing- you catching your breath, and him just 'livin in it', enjoying the feel of breather meat for a while longer, you finally pull yourself together and raise your head carefully off his chest. "Um... " Suddenly you feel awkward. But not uncomfortable. You give a small, tired smile. "I don't know what to say?"

"... " He ducks down and presses his forehead to yours, and you're fooled for just a moment that this might be a sweet moment. "Uh. How about 'you win the bet, handsome?'."

Quickly you swat him, laughing. "Oh- Never!"

[oh-no-its-bird]

"They were roomates" obkkrn au where obito and Rin are an established couple who live together. And bc reasons, Kakashi needs a place to stay for a while. So obviously, yk, Kakashi comes to stay with his besties as he looks for a new apartment

What follows is a comedy of errors as Rin and Obito proceed to be absoloute fucking freaks about Kakashi. They are throwing themselves at him in increasingly desperate, concerning, and honestly at times kind of creepy tactics.

Kakashi makes them dinner as thanks and Rin makes a joke about how he should stay forever and be their housewife and Obito laughs just a little bit too hard (under the table he's clutching at his thighs so hard they're gonna bruise)

Kakashi's clothes begin to go mysteriously missing and Obito starts not to subtly suggest he just borrows his instead :))) as Rin is going "oh Kakashi you're soooo forgetful, it really makes me worry about you, you know... Maybe you just need someone to take care of you, there's no shame in that! Teehee <3"

Kakashi gets sick and Rin very seriously considers giving him fake medicine so he can stay sick (and under her care) longer

Kakashi complains ab how expensive housing is and how he can't afford any of this shit on his salary, and Obito "jokes" a little too enthusiastically that he should just quit his job and find a hot sugar daddy. Or something. Wouldn't that be funny. Right Kakashi? Right? Right? Hey, you know Obito himself is pretty wealthy ahahahaha—

Kakashi remains completley oblivious.

Genma comes over for dinner one day, and at that point things have escalated so much that several of the weird comments and behaviors on Obito and Rin's side are the new "normal." So Genma just sits there through, what is from his perspective, the weirdest and most uncomfortably charged dinner of his fucking LIFE.

When he leaves, Genma just puts a hand on Kakashi's shoulder and tells him good fucking luck. Kakashi remains confused.

Uhhh endgame Genma tells Kakashi to open his fucking eyes bc Obito and Rin want him BAD. And after the initial disbelief, Kakashi begins to test the waters of leaning into/indulging in Obito and Rin's newest freak behavior and seeing what they do

And just Kakashi subtly fucking with them both by playing into whatever the fuck is happening in their heads, just to see what happens. He's thriving actually

Anyways I'm coming to learn that my favorite obkkrn dynamic is just.

Obito 🤝 Rin -> being freaks about Kakashi together

To be fair tho: it's REALLY funny. And also makes total sense.

Because ofc Nohara "Obito apologist even in death" Rin, and Uchiha "Rin was a perfect angel who I will put on a pedestal till my dying day and destroy the world in the name of creating a new world she could have been happy in" Obito would make eachother INFINITELY worse!!

Obito is incapable of seeing his own or Rin's possible wrongs, and Rin literally was on Obito's side even through the genocide, Kakashi stalking, child murder, detailed plans to take over the world, etc. There is no way in hell these two could actually ground eachother, sorry. In my eyes they would only make eachothers freak factors infinitely worse.

Every time either one of them gains even a SHRED of self-awareness, the other is right there to comfort them and insist that "nooo ur soooo normal, I promise <33" and "its ok if you're a little bit of a (stalker, murderer, obsessed with Kakashi) freak... it's not ur fault u have ptsd..."

Rin and Obito both suffer from the Kakashi Illness(tm) but it presents itself in different ways and they feed into eachothers fixation on the guy in the worst (best) ways

[afterglowsainz]

obsessed | oscar piastri

summary: in which oscar, your boyfriend, is obsessed with franco, your ex

pairing: reader x oscar piastri, reader x ex!franco colapinto

fc: kaia gerber

a/n: overdone concept with a little twist😋

—

liked by oscarpiastri, lilymhe and others

yourusername date night🍷

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liked by kimi.antonelli, juanmanuel and others

francolapinto break well spent 🇦🇷 now back to the office

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liked by pierregasly, oscarpiastri and others

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tagged francisca.cgomes

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username pls not oscar shamelessly copying franco’s caption 😭

username to be fair it’s a pretty common caption

username manifesting a podium this weekend 🕯

username oscar x senna’s livery 🥹

yourusername 💛💚

oscarpiastri ❤️

username y/n and oscar flirting in that nonchalant way of theirs 🥰

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yourusername saw this banner omw to the casino

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username omg y/n’s attending the grand prix!!!

username finally! she hasn’t been there in a while

username and franco’s driving there this weekend too

username do we think she’ll watch him? 👀

username i meaaan since she’s already there 🤷🏽‍♀️

landonorris how much money did you lose?

yourusername have some faith in me 😋

username face card is insane

username omg not franco liking this 😭

username he’s so messy 🤣

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yourusername bebiendo mucha champaña🍾

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username y/n bad bunny fan confirmed

username the most beautiful couple

username fan of your relationship 😍

yourusername 😭

username y/n always delivering the perfect oscar boyfriend content

username they’re so good together

username she was so cute looking at him at the podium and oscar was so happy smiling at her the whole time 😭

oscarpiastri 💛💛💛

yourusername so proud of you!🧡

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francolapinto happy mother’s day💙

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username awww he was so cute as a baby

username happy day to my mother-in-law!

username i’m sorry oscar but hello franco 🥰

username the cutest fr

username okay you won me over

username the way he hasn’t changed at all 🥹

username lovely!

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oscarpiastri tbt

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username what is happening 😭

username right after franco’s post too?

username franco’s was a mother’s day post…

username yeah but the baby pictures … idk is just …

charles_leclerc i see red has always been your color

mclaren never! 🧡

username the cutest baby🥰

yourusername oscar pls 😭😭

oscarpiastri 🤭

username franco is stronger than me fr

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yourusername my boyfriend and his head full of original thoughts🧡

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landonorris your boyfriend the attention whore*

oscarpiastri hey!

username no way she wrote that caption 😭

username she knows!!

francisca.cgomes time to get a new hobbie😁

yourusername on it!

logansargeant a few jokes here and there never hurt nobody 🤭

yourusername 😑

francolapinto a machine on track too

oscarpiastri thanks mate👊🏽

username oh!