#we would both kill and die for her. and | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

norristrii · 9 days ago

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LET’S GET MESSY.

“There’s nothing like the first time we met.”—It started as a stupid bet with your friends— pull someone your ex would hate. You thought it was just a game for both of you. But somehow, you changed everything. The way people saw him—the cocky, cold player was gone. For the first time, everyone saw Lando Norris completely, undeniably in love.

pairing. Lando Norris x fem! reader.

warnings. fast romance, 10k+ words, double pov (multiple, probably going to be confusing), kinda fuckboy! lando, partying, drinking alcohol, suggestive, sexual tension, overthinking, slight angst, implied timeskips.

music. The First Time by Damiano David // Ordinary by Alex Warren // Messy by Rosé.

YOU WERE EVERYTHING OTHER GIRLS WANTED TO BE.

Pretty, popular, born into the kind of wealth that didn’t just open doors—it built them. Monaco was your playground, your runway, your perfectly manicured backdrop. It was where you spent summers on yachts and winters in private chalets. Where champagne was practically breakfast, and your group chats were filled with plans for nights that blurred into mornings you’d barely remember.

Here, being rich wasn’t rare—it was expected. But being you? That was different.

You had the wardrobe. The last name. The effortless charm that made people stop talking when you walked into a room. Your closest friends—each of them a headline waiting to happen—were just as glossy, just as golden. Together, you were untouchable. Beautiful, bored, and always just a little too fast.

Monaco was everything to you.

It also happened to be home to one of the most dangerous boys you’d ever met.

And one of those boys was Lando Norris.

He wasn’t just rich—he was F1 rich. The kind of wealth that came with international fame, private jets, and a team of people to manage his smile. He was young, devastatingly handsome, and carried himself with the kind of cocky ease that only a man who drove 300 km/h for a living could. Lando was Monaco’s golden boy and its worst-kept secret.

Everyone knew what he was: a fuckboy in a race suit. Girls fell for him like dominoes—stunning, smart, even cynical ones—believing, just for a moment, that they’d be the one to make him stay. But Lando didn’t stay. Not in beds, not in relationships, not even in cities for long. His only loyalty was to McLaren, the car, the team, the speed. Everything else was fleeting. Everyone else was replaceable.

He was the beautiful disaster your friends warned you about. The kind you swore you’d never fall for.

───

It was supposed to be just another Friday night. The kind you’d lived a hundred times over—fast music, faster drinks, and the comfort of your girls dancing under kaleidoscope lights. The air inside the club was heavy with perfume and bass, the world spinning just slow enough to feel invincible. You were dressed to kill, glowing in that effortless way that came when you were surrounded by people who knew you, loved you, and matched your energy drink for drink.

But then you saw him.

Your ex.

Cutting through the crowd like he still owned the room, hand-in-hand with some new girl who looked like she’d been styled to be the version of you that didn’t talk back. Polished, dull, and clinging to his arm like a watch he didn’t even check anymore. Your stomach twisted, sharp and unexpected. Not heartbreak—you were far past that—but annoyance.

Your friends noticed immediately. Of course they did. They were your ride-or-die girls, and no one knew the history better than they did. The shared eye-rolls were instantaneous, but it wasn’t pity they offered—it was challenge.

“Y/n, I dare you to pull someone your ex would absolutely hate,” one of them said, the mischief already alive in her voice as she nudged you with her shoulder.

You let out a low laugh, the kind that tasted of tequila and rebellion. “Seriously?”

The worst part? You didn’t even hesitate.

You turned slowly, scanning the room like a queen surveying her kingdom. There were options—plenty, actually. A wall of beautiful, wealthy men trying far too hard. But you weren’t looking for just anyone. You were looking for someone who would sting. Someone who could eclipse that smug little performance your ex was putting on without even trying.

And then your gaze landed on him.

Lando Norris.

Too rich, too famous, too unattached. His hair was tousled like he’d run his hands through it between drinks, a half-laugh curling on his lips as he leaned over to say something to a group of guys in the VIP corner. Even across the room, you could see the spark in his eyes, the type of grin that spelled out nothing but trouble. He was reckless, charming, and exactly the kind of person who would send your ex into a spiral. Were you playing with fire? Absolutely. Did you mind? Not even a little.

You leaned back into your circle, lips curling into a smirk. “What about Norris?”

Your friends froze for half a second, their jaws dropping in unison before breaking into a chorus of gasps and laughter. One of them nearly spilled her drink.

“Lando?” She asked, eyebrows lifting as she leaned in closer, barely audible over the thump of the music. Her voice dripped with disbelief—and a touch of admiration.

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, your eyes remained fixed on him.

He was lounging with the kind of careless elegance that came from knowing he didn’t have to try. One arm thrown over the back of the couch in the VIP section, his head tipped back in laughter at something one of his friends had said. His smile—God, that smile—was lethal. Sharp, boyish, a little cocky. It was the kind of smile that had broken hearts in five countries before breakfast.

You turned back to your friends, an edge of mischief in your voice.

“Yes. Lando.”

Now they were all looking, trying not to be obvious but failing completely. You watched their expressions shift—shock, disbelief, then the slow, dawning realization that you were serious.

“Y/n,” one of them said, half-laughing, half-panicked. “You cannot be serious.”

“Oh, she’s serious,” another cut in, a wicked smile already forming. “And I’m so here for it.”

“She’s not just pulling someone her ex would hate. She’s aiming for his final boss.”

You smirked, shoulders relaxing into the confidence that came so naturally to you in moments like this. You weren’t some starry-eyed girl getting in over her head. You knew exactly what you were doing.

“Look,” you said, draining the last sip of your drink and putting it on the table behind you. “It’s not like I’m marrying him. I’m just going to talk to him.”

Lando sat slouched into the plush corner of the velvet couch, a lowball glass resting loosely in his hand, the amber liquor catching the neon lights like liquid gold. It was supposed to be a low-effort night—just the boys, some drinks, loud music, and the usual parade of girls orbiting around the VIP section like moths to flame. Monaco nights blurred together lately. Same scenes, same faces, same games.

But this time, the game had changed.

He noticed you before anyone said your name. You moved through the club like you belonged to it, heels clicking softly over polished floors, a flash of silk and confidence cutting through the haze of cigarette smoke and strobe lights. He’d seen you around—everyone had. You were Monaco royalty in your own right, the kind of girl who didn’t chase attention because she never had to. It followed you. Like a shadow. Like a promise.

“Lando?”

He turned at the sound of his name, eyebrow cocked.

“I bet you can’t make Y/n stay ‘til morning.”

The words came from Max, one of his closest mates, a little too tipsy and definitely too cocky. It was stupid. Reckless. But that’s what their nights always were—games built on ego and alcohol. And tonight, Lando was bored enough to play.

He let out a short laugh, more of a smirk than a sound, and swirled the ice in his glass.

“You think I can’t?” he said, voice low, eyes still tracking your slow approach from across the club.

Max grinned. “Not a chance. She’s way out of your league, mate. Smart. Cold. Probably sees right through all your lines.”

Lando’s grin sharpened. “I don’t need lines.”

Lando pushed himself up from his seat, the smirk still lingering on his lips as he stepped away from his friends, moving toward the crowd with effortless confidence. The moment stretched as his gaze found yours, locking onto you with an intensity that sent a quiet thrill down your spine.

It was like you knew—like you had already played this scene out in your mind before it even happened, like the night was shifting into something neither of you had planned but both of you understood.

"See you tomorrow, boys," he tossed over his shoulder, voice easy, amused, filled with something dangerously certain.

His friends laughed, some whistled, but Lando didn’t look back. Because right now—his focus was entirely on you.

You swayed in the middle of the crowd, lost in the rhythm—or at least, that’s how it looked to everyone else. In reality, every movement was intentional. Every roll of your hips, every flick of your hair, every slow drag of your hands over your body was done with a purpose. You moved like a siren on stage, like your skin was the music and the dance was a language only a certain kind of man would understand. Your fingers ghosted over the curve of your waist, tracing the edge of your dress like you were imagining someone else’s touch. It wasn’t subtle. It wasn’t meant to be.

And it worked.

You felt him before you saw him. Lando. Each step he took closer sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the bass shaking the floor. You didn’t turn to look. Not yet. You didn’t have to. You could feel his eyes on you like heat, sharp and possessive and hungry in a way that made your pulse spike with anticipation.

You let your hand slide down the side of your thigh, slowly, teasingly, until your fingertips brushed the hem of your dress. You didn’t break rhythm. You just danced, like you didn’t even know he existed, like you weren’t already thinking about the way he’d taste, the way his voice would sound against your neck. You smiled to yourself—dark, satisfied.

That boy didn’t know what he was walking into.

Occasionally, you let your gaze flicker sideways—past the lights, past the crowd, past the haze of expensive perfume and cologne—until it found what it was looking for.

Him. Your ex.

Still standing on the far side of the room, still clinging to the girl he’d brought like she was a trophy he’d only half-earned. But he wasn’t looking at her anymore. No, his eyes were glued to you—watching the way you moved, watching the way Lando was closing in like a storm at sea. You caught the flicker in his expression. That cold realization. That bruised ego. That spark of jealousy that came from knowing he was no longer the one who made you glow like this.

You looked again, the only direction that mattered now—your eyes cutting through the bodies and lights and smoke until they found him. Lando was even closer than before. Closer than you expected. Closer than was safe.

His gaze met yours with that same heat, that same spark, but now it was laced with something cocky, something hungry. He moved like a man who already knew the outcome, like the game was over before it started. Your heart thudded against your ribs, but you didn’t step back. If anything, you wanted him closer.

“All that for me, L/n?” he asked, voice low and smug as hell. There was a crooked smile playing on his lips, one that sent heat straight down your spine.

And then his hand slid around your waist.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t ask. Just took—like you were already his, like the whole night had been choreographed for this exact moment. His palm pressed firmly against the small of your back, pulling you into him in one smooth, confident motion. Your bodies aligned instantly, the fabric of your dress whispering against the expensive weave of his shirt. He smelled like danger and desire and something you could get addicted to far too easily.

You arched a brow, letting him see the fire in your eyes. “Cocky much?”

“Only when I’m right,” he said, eyes dropping to your lips for a fraction of a second—enough to make your breath catch.

You felt the warmth of his hand through your dress, steady, unbothered, like he had no doubt you’d stay exactly where you were. And the worst part?

You didn’t want to move.

You let your fingers rest lightly on his chest, feeling the subtle thrum of his heartbeat beneath your touch—fast, like yours. But he didn’t let it show. He was all charm and control and heat, and it wrapped around you like smoke, like silk, like a warning.

“You know what you’re doing, darling,” he murmured, lips close enough that you could feel the shape of his smirk as he spoke. His hand moved slowly beneath your dress, calloused fingertips grazing your bare skin like he’d already memorized every line of your body. It was intimate—too intimate for something that wasn’t supposed to mean anything.

Fuck. Fuck.

You were supposed to be in control.

This was your game. Your idea. Your revenge.

It had started as a joke. A dare whispered between friends. Pull someone your ex would hate. Someone high-profile, untouchable, impossible. Lando Norris had been the obvious choice—rich, beautiful, notoriously disinterested in anything resembling commitment. The ultimate heartbreaker.

Perfect, you’d thought.

But standing here, pressed against him, his hand on your inner thigh and his breath in your ear, it didn’t feel like a joke anymore.

You reminded yourself this was about your ex. About making him watch. About making him regret. You weren’t supposed to feel anything. Especially not for Lando.

Especially not now.

But then he said it—like the idea had just occurred to him, like it wasn’t sending your pulse into a full sprint.

“What about us going for a little drive?” he asked, voice low and laced with something dangerous. “Alone. Just us.”

Your breath caught.

He said it so casually, like it was nothing. Like slipping away into the night with you would be just another Monaco thrill. But his eyes… they didn’t lie. There was heat in them, yes, but something else too. Curiosity. Interest. Like he wanted to know who you really were, beneath the glitter and the dress and the calculated smirk.

For some reason, you couldn’t say no.

The word danced at the edge of your mouth, light as air, easy as breath. You could have said it. You should have said it. But the second his eyes met yours again, the rest of the club blurred around you—colors bleeding, music dimming, the crowd reduced to shadows. All that existed now was him and the heat between you.

It wasn’t just about the bet anymore. It hadn’t been for a while. You wanted more.

More of him.

More of the way his voice dipped when he leaned closer. More of that subtle, possessive way his hand moved across your skin, like he had every right to touch you like that. More of the way he didn’t rush, didn’t fumble, didn’t second-guess. He was calm. Confident. Like he’d done this before—but somehow, with you, it felt different.

You tried to remind yourself he was Lando Norris.

Notorious. Untouchable. The boy who lived his life on the edge of impossible curves and camera flashes. He had the world at his fingertips, and he never clung to any of it. You’d heard the stories. Monaco knew him too well. Girls came and went like seasons, and he never once looked like he regretted any of it.

So why did he feel different now?

Why was he looking at you like this?

Then he leaned in again, his lips so close to your jaw you could feel the warmth of his breath dancing across your skin. His voice came softer this time, lower, almost like he was confessing something he didn’t know how to carry.

“I don’t do promises,” he said, his words slow, precise. “But I don’t play games either.”

The silence that followed felt heavier than the music pounding around you. It pressed against your ribs, coiled in your lungs. You blinked, the sharpness of his honesty slicing through whatever careful story you’d been telling yourself. That this was casual. That it was control. That you were in charge.

It wasn’t a declaration of love. It wasn’t even affection. It was just… real. And in a place like this, with people like you—used to masks and illusions—that kind of honesty hit harder than any kiss.

You stared at him, trying to figure out what kind of boy said something like that. What kind of boy meant it. And more terrifyingly—what kind of girl you were becoming, now that you cared.

But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t run.

Instead, you pulled yourself together and tilted your chin just slightly, just enough to let him know you weren’t scared—even if your heart was in freefall.

“Then here’s the deal,” you said, voice low and razor-sharp. “No promises. No pretending. Just tonight. We don’t ask questions, and we don’t look for more.”

He didn’t blink. Didn’t look away. His eyes stayed locked on yours, and slowly, the corner of his mouth curved—not into a smirk, but something deeper. Something closer to agreement.

“That supposed to scare me?” he asked, like he was testing you now.

“It should,” you whispered, and you meant it.

But it didn’t. You both knew it.

Instead of pulling away, he reached for your hand. Not by accident, not with casual detachment—but deliberately. He laced his fingers through yours with a quiet intimacy that caught you off guard. No flash, no swagger, no performance. Just skin to skin. Warmth to warmth.

And that terrified you more than anything he’d said.

“Alright,” he murmured, thumb brushing yours. “Just tonight.”

You walked from the club, the night warm and alive around you, Lando’s arm heavy and comforting around your shoulders as his voice spilled with laughter. The wind off the marina tousled your hair, and the echo of bass from inside still pulsed faintly behind you like your heart hadn’t quite caught up to the fact that you were here, next to him, smiling so wide your cheeks ached.

“But Max took it better than I expected,” Lando said, chuckling to himself as he opened the car. “He looked pissed for, like, ten seconds. Then he kind of… sighed and just laughed. I think even he couldn’t believe it.”

You leaned into the car door as he opened it for you, still laughing. “I remember watching that live,” you said through a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. “And I never watch F1.”

He paused for a second, giving you a sideways glance. “Wait, really?”

You nodded. “Yeah. I was on the couch, half-asleep, and suddenly I hear the commentators losing it. I look up, see this guy waving a champagne bottle around like it’s a sword, and then crack. Trophy’s in two pieces.”

He was already laughing again, sinking into the driver’s seat beside you. “And you thought…?”

“I was like, ‘what kind of idiot is that?’” you said, shaking your head with a grin.

He looked over at you, brows raised, lips twitching into a slow smirk. “And now you’re in a car with said idiot. Interesting turn of events.”

You buckled your seatbelt with an exaggerated sigh. “Life comes at you fast.”

The engine of his McLaren roared to life with a thunderous growl that rolled through your chest, electric and alive. You barely had time to catch your breath before Lando pressed the accelerator with a grin that warned you something reckless was about to happen. The car jolted forward, smooth but sudden, and the force of it pressed you back into the seat.

“Oh my god, Lando!” you shouted, your voice caught somewhere between shock and disbelief. You instinctively grabbed for the door handle with one hand and threw your other across your stomach, trying to steady yourself as your laughter burst out without warning — loud, raw, and uncontrollable.

Wind rushed through the open windows like a wave, pulling at your hair and tugging at the hem of your dress. The lights of Monaco blurred around you — gold, white, pink — a kaleidoscope of movement and motion that matched the adrenaline rushing through your veins. The speed, the music, the laughter — it all crashed together until the world outside the car didn’t feel real anymore.

You turned your head to look at him, breathless from laughing so hard, your cheeks aching. And that’s when you noticed it.

He wasn’t looking at the road.

He was looking at you.

His eyes were locked on your face like it was the most captivating thing he’d seen all night. Maybe all week. Maybe longer. The corners of his mouth curled up slightly, not in amusement this time, but in quiet fascination. It wasn’t flirtatious. It was real.

“What?” you asked through the last of your laughter, brushing hair from your eyes, suddenly aware of how long he’d been watching.

He shrugged one shoulder, his grin softening into something more thoughtful. “Didn’t think you were the kind of girl who laughs that hard.”

You blinked. That caught you off guard. “What kind of girl did you think I was?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Bitchy. Untouchable. Spoiled daddy’s girl.”

You turned fully toward him, your jaw dropping, half offended and half… entertained. “Seriously? That’s what you thought of me?”

He glanced at you again, lips twitching upward as if he already knew you were going to give him hell for it. “Come on. You live in Monaco. You move like you’ve never waited in line a day in your life. And that face you make — you know the one — like everything around you is boring.”

You scoffed. Loudly. “Wow. Okay. Brutal honesty night, is it?”

He laughed under his breath. “I’m just saying. I didn’t expect you to laugh at a dumb story about breaking Max’s trophy like it was the funniest thing you’ve ever heard.”

“Well,” you said, crossing your arms playfully, “maybe you should consider that your assumptions suck.”

The car hummed smoothly beneath you, tires rolling over the quiet asphalt as the coastline glowed in soft blinks of gold and silver. Your laughter from earlier still lingered in the air, blending with the thrum of the engine and the music that pulsed low through the speakers—something chilled and distant, like a memory.

You sat with your legs curled slightly in the seat, the night wind streaming in through the half-cracked window. Your skin was warm from the club, your heart still a little high from the way he made you laugh—really laugh—without even trying. The city behind you had slipped into something blurry, unreal. And beside you, Lando hadn’t spoken for a while.

But it wasn’t an uncomfortable silence. It felt like a necessary breath between moments. The kind of pause you only take when something real is about to be said.

Then he broke it—his voice easy but weighted, like he’d been holding the thought in for a while.

“People always make comments, you know. About us.”

You blinked, turning toward him slowly. His face was lit by passing lights and the dim glow of the dashboard, sharp lines softened by shadows. “Us?”

“Yeah,” he replied, his tone casual, though the way his hand tightened slightly on the wheel betrayed something more. “You and me. I’ve heard it more than once—‘You two would kill each other or fall madly in love.’ That kind of thing.”

You let out a surprised laugh, tilting your head slightly as the corners of your mouth curved. “Seriously? That’s dramatic.”

He gave a one-shoulder shrug, eyes still on the road, but you could tell he was listening for your reaction. “Monaco people love drama.”

You smiled to yourself, your gaze drifting out the window as the lights from the harbor flickered in the distance. There was a beat of silence before the question slipped from your lips, quieter than before.

“What do you think?”

There was a subtle shift in the air, a tightening between seconds, like the moment had just stepped closer.

Lando didn’t answer right away. His jaw tensed slightly, and his gaze flicked to the sea of dark road ahead before returning to the curve of the coastline.

“Nah. I think we’d scare the shit out of each other.”

Your laugh came quickly, light but genuine, though the words clung to you in a way you didn’t expect. “How so?”

His lips pulled into the smallest of smiles—one that didn’t quite reach his eyes but felt honest all the same. “Because you’re not what I thought. And I’m probably not what you thought either. That messes with people.”

You turned your face toward him again, studying the edges of him—the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his mouth, the focused way he watched the road like it kept him grounded.

“What did you think I was?” you asked, your voice low.

His reply came easily, like it had been there waiting the whole time. “Someone who wouldn’t waste her time on me.”

The words hit you harder than they should have. Not because they were dramatic, but because they were honest. Because they stripped away the layers you were both so used to wearing.

And maybe it was the wine still in your system, or the way the wind kissed your skin, or the way this whole night had unraveled in the most unexpected way—but something in you softened.

Before you could even answer, the hum of the car shifted as Lando eased his foot off the accelerator. The smooth glide of speed slowed to a gentle stop, and when you looked up, the lights of his apartment building loomed above you—sleek, modern, all glass and angles glowing against the night.

He pulled into a quiet corner of the private drive, the low purr of the engine lingering for a beat before he turned the key and killed it. Silence fell, but it wasn’t awkward. It was charged—like the car itself was holding its breath.

You blinked, heart ticking a little faster now as the realization settled in. You weren’t heading to some scenic overlook. He’d brought you here.

Before you could ask why—before you could even think—he turned toward you, leaning back slightly in his seat. His eyes didn’t leave yours, calm but unreadable.

“You don’t have to come up,” he said, voice low, unpressured. “I just didn’t feel like dropping you off with… whatever this is still hanging in the air.”

There was no smirk on his lips this time. No playfulness in his tone. Just honesty. Soft and a little vulnerable, like he didn’t quite know what came next either.

You couldn’t end it like this. Not when everything in the air was still humming—unspoken words, unfinished moments, unsatisfied tension. You didn’t even say anything as you unbuckled your seatbelt. Just moved, quietly, naturally, like the answer had already been written somewhere between the laughter and the silence, the glances and the confessions.

Lando opened his door and came around to yours, not because he had to, but because he wanted to. His hand brushed your back gently as you stepped out into the soft hush of the night, the click of the car door closing behind you sounding louder than expected. You followed him toward the entrance of the building, heels clicking softly against the pavement, heart loud in your chest.

The lobby was quiet, minimalist, clean. The kind of expensive that didn’t need to try. You stood beside him as the elevator doors opened with a soft ding, and he pressed the button for his floor without a word. The ride up felt slower than it should have, tension stretching between you like a pulled thread.

Still, no words. Just stolen glances. A small, nervous laugh from you when you caught him watching you again. He didn’t smile this time. Just kept looking, a quiet intensity in his eyes like he was trying to figure you out before either of you crossed another line.

Then—ding. The doors slid open.

You walked out into the hallway together, footsteps muted by thick carpet. His place was at the end, and when he unlocked the door, the soft glow of city lights poured in from the full-length windows lining the living room. Everything was clean but lived-in. Not flashy, but somehow still unmistakably him—warm tones, a couple racing helmets on display, sneakers kicked off in the corner, a hoodie slung over a chair.

You stepped inside slowly, your eyes sweeping across the space, fingers brushing the edge of the kitchen counter as he closed the door behind you. He didn’t try anything, didn’t touch you, didn’t rush.

He just watched you like he was waiting to see if you’d regret it. If you’d change your mind.

You turned to face him, arms loosely folded in front of you, and said quietly, “I didn’t think I’d end up here tonight.”

He stepped closer, slow but deliberate. “Neither did I.”

He looked at you, you looked at him. And in that breathless stillness—between the soft city light spilling through his windows and the low hum of silence—you both knew. No more teasing. No more pretending. Whatever this was, whatever had been building from the moment your eyes met in the club, it had finally reached its boiling point.

You didn’t wait for him to make the first move.

Your hands moved on instinct—grasping the sides of his face, fingers sliding into the softness of his curls, grounding yourself in something real. You pulled him toward you like you couldn’t bear another second of space between you. He didn’t resist. He didn’t hesitate.

Your lips met his in a kiss that wasn’t delicate or unsure—it was urgent, full of heat and hunger and everything you’d tried to suppress all night. His hands found your waist in a rush, gripping tightly as if afraid you’d change your mind. But you wouldn’t. You couldn’t.

He kissed you like he’d been thinking about it for too long. Like he wanted to make up for all the moments he hadn’t.

His arms lifted you like you weighed nothing, setting you down onto the cool kitchen counter, but all you could feel was the burn of his hands on your skin. His lips never left you—not your mouth, not your jaw, not the hollow of your neck where his breath hit hot and fast. He kissed you like he didn’t know how to stop, like the moment he did, he might lose something.

And you didn’t want him to stop either.

Your fingers curled tightly into the fabric of his shirt, anchoring yourself in the middle of the whirlwind building between you. His body pressed into yours, close and sure, and still not close enough. His scent—clean, warm, something faintly expensive—wrapped around you like a second skin. Your pulse pounded in your ears, drowning out everything else except the sound of him.

“Fuck, Y/n…” he breathed against your neck, his voice rough and low, like the words had been dragged straight from his chest. “You’re driving me crazy.”

The way he said your name—like it meant something. Like it was more than just tonight. Like he’d never said it like that before.

───

You were halfway to the door, heels in one hand, your dress barely zipped, when you heard the bed creak behind you—his voice following a second later, low and rough, not yet fully awake.

“You’re leaving?”

The question hung in the quiet of the morning like smoke. You paused, eyes dropping to the floor for a beat before you turned to face him. He was sitting up now, the sheet pooled around his waist, curls sticking up in every direction, his skin kissed by golden light spilling through the curtains. He didn’t look like the cocky version of himself you saw in the paddock or at parties. No grin. No posture. Just Lando, raw and honest, blinking through the confusion of waking up to find you already trying to disappear.

“I just figured…” you started, voice softer than you expected, “I figured it’d be easier this way. You know, before it gets awkward. Before we ruin whatever… this was.”

You tried to sound casual. Detached. Like you hadn’t just spent the night tangled in his sheets, in his hands, in the kind of chemistry you couldn’t fake. But it didn’t quite land. You were stalling, hiding, hoping he wouldn’t see how quickly you were trying to protect yourself from something that already meant more than it should have.

Lando didn’t reply immediately. He just sat there, elbows on his knees, hands clasped loosely together, like he was holding something he couldn’t quite name. His eyes were on you, but not in the way they were last night. This wasn’t hunger or mischief. It was curiosity… mixed with something quieter. Something a little more careful. You had the sense he wasn’t looking at your body anymore—he was just looking at you.

And that made it harder to stand there pretending you didn’t care.

“I was thinking,” he said after a long beat, his voice still a little hoarse, “maybe we could go grab lunch. I know this place not far from here. They make this insane pesto ravioli. You’d like it.”

You blinked. Lunch? That wasn’t how these things usually went. You were supposed to ghost each other. Or at best, trade a half-smile at the next party and pretend you didn’t remember what it felt like to fall asleep with his arms around you.

“Lunch?” you repeated, more surprised than dismissive. Your voice had a cautious edge, like you were afraid to believe he meant it.

He shrugged, glancing away for the first time. One hand raked through his messy curls, his mouth pressing into a thin line as if he hated how unsure he suddenly felt. “Yeah. I mean… unless you’ve got somewhere better to be.”

He said it like it didn’t matter. Like if you said no, he’d brush it off. Go back to sleep. Forget all about it.

But you knew better.

Because beneath the light tone, behind the almost-casual smile, something in his eyes was different. There was a flicker of hesitation, not because he regretted last night, but because it meant something. And maybe he hadn’t planned on it. Maybe it caught him off guard. But he didn’t want to let it go just yet.

You nodded slowly, lips parting on a faint breath as the words tumbled out, soft but sure. “Yeah… just lunch.”

You said it like a promise to yourself, a casual agreement, something that didn’t weigh more than it should. Something light. Harmless. Manageable.

But beneath that calm tone, you felt the quiet swell of something more dangerous. Something warmer. Like stepping into sunlight after too long in the dark.

Just lunch.

That’s what you told yourself. That’s all it was going to be.

What could possibly go wrong?

You were older now. Wiser. Sharper around the edges where once you’d been all softness and wishful thinking. You didn’t fall like that anymore—not for pretty boys with jawlines sharp enough to slice you open. Not for quick smiles and fast cars. Not for someone like Lando Norris, who had the world wrapped around his finger and still somehow looked at you like you were the only person in the room.

You weren’t that girl.

Not anymore.

You wouldn’t fall just because he kissed like he meant it. Just because he touched you like he’d been waiting a long time to do it. Just because for a few quiet moments, you forgot the world and everything that came with it.

You wouldn’t fall.

Lando’s smile was soft as he pushed off the bed, stretching slightly before grabbing a shirt from the back of a chair. He rubbed the back of his neck, curls tousled and wild in the golden morning light. “Give me ten minutes,” he said over his shoulder, his voice still scratchy from sleep. “I’ll be quick.”

He disappeared into the bathroom, the door clicking shut behind him. And just like that, you were alone.

You stood there for a moment, barefoot on the cool wooden floor, still holding your heels in one hand, your dress from last night now looking more like a memory than a choice. The room smelled like him—warm cotton, something faintly citrus, and underneath it all, the scent of last night: heat, closeness, something heady and fragile that hadn’t quite faded.

You let out a breath and looked around. The sheets on his bed were a mess. Your lipstick was faint on a glass by the sink. His jacket was draped on the back of a chair you didn’t remember using.

There was no reason to stay.

No real one, anyway.

But you weren’t ready to go.

You pulled your dress over your shoulders slowly, running your hands down the fabric to smooth it into place. Your reflection in the hallway mirror caught you off guard for a second—hair tousled, lips pink from kissing, your eyes just a little softer, like something had cracked open in the night and never quite closed again.

You didn’t look like the version of yourself you always showed the world.

You looked… more honest.

You blinked, gathering your things. The plan was simple: you’d get through lunch, maybe say something clever, laugh at his jokes, and walk away with your head held high. That was all. That’s what you’d trained yourself to do.

But a quiet voice in the back of your mind whispered something else.

A question.

What if you didn’t walk away?

What if you let yourself stay—just for now—not because you were weak, not because you wanted something from him, but because… maybe he wanted something too?

Something real.

Something more than just a night.

And if he didn’t? If this was just a flicker in the dark?

Then at least you’d know.

At least you gave the moment a chance to become something more than a memory you’d spend weeks trying to forget.

───

You walked through Monaco like it was yours. The soft clack of your shoes on the cobblestones, the sea breeze dancing around your shoulders, and the warmth of Lando’s arm beneath your hand—it all felt too perfect. Too easy. Your fingers rested lightly around his bicep, every now and then squeezing involuntarily when another ridiculous part of his story made you lose it with laughter.

He was animated now, telling you about a night that clearly lived in the “shouldn’t have survived that” category. “So we’d already had, like, way too much tequila,” he said, still grinning like he couldn’t believe the memory was real, “and Carlos was convinced he knew where the keys to this golf cart were. I don’t even know who the cart belonged to. I think it might’ve been from a hotel we weren’t staying at.”

You doubled over, one hand on your chest, the other clinging to his arm as you laughed uncontrollably. “You stole a golf cart?!”

“Borrowed,” he corrected with a wink, “for, like, fifteen minutes. But then Carlos tries to turn this tight corner—while we’re singing Despacito, by the way—and just… boom. Straight into the tree.”

You were crying with laughter, trying to catch your breath, shaking your head in disbelief. “You’re joking.”

Lando laughed with you, but his eyes lingered on you a moment longer than the joke required. He watched you—really watched you. The way your eyes crinkled at the corners, the way you leaned into him like it was instinct. And then, something shifted in his chest.

He hadn’t told that story in a long time. Not because it was some secret—plenty of people knew bits and pieces—but because he didn’t usually care enough to give the real version. He never felt the need. But with you, it came out so naturally, like the only thing he wanted was to make you laugh again. And again. And again.

What surprised him most, though, wasn’t the way you laughed. It was the way he felt when you did.

Because somewhere in between that story and your reaction to it, he realized something he hadn’t wanted to admit—not to himself, not to anyone.

You made him feel something.

Actually feel something. Something heavy and warm and dangerous in its comfort. Like he was waking up in a version of his life that didn’t revolve around racing lines and calculated risks. Like this—you—could mean more than he planned for.

Even the thrill of crashing that golf cart into the tree with Carlos—wild and reckless and hilarious—didn’t touch the high he got from seeing you smile at him like this. From hearing your voice mix with the sound of the city and the sea. From walking next to you and not wanting to be anywhere else.

He swallowed hard, his grin faltering just slightly as he looked ahead.

He was getting attached.

Too fast. Too deep.

And you didn’t even know it.

Then you glanced up at him again, eyes sparkling with amusement and a little disbelief. “You’re actually insane, you know that?”

He chuckled, slow and quiet, but there was something else behind it now. Something real. Something vulnerable. His eyes didn’t leave yours.

“Yeah,” he said softly. “But you’re still here.”

───

Did it really surprise anyone that you didn’t go home after lunch?

Because to be honest, it didn’t surprise you anymore. At some point between laughing over coffee and letting him walk you back upstairs with his hand resting lightly on the small of your back, you stopped trying to find an excuse to leave. You should’ve, probably. That was always your move—be charming, leave first. Keep the upper hand. But right now, you were cross-legged on Lando Norris’ living room floor, hair a mess, legs bare beneath a hoodie far too big to be yours.

He was behind you, sunk deep into his sim setup, muttering under his breath every time he missed a corner. You’d been teasing him for the last half hour about how he should stick to real cars. He shot you a middle finger over his shoulder when you said that, laughing.

The ease between you had crept in quietly. It wasn’t forced. It wasn’t fake. And that was dangerous.

You were still grinning when your phone buzzed again. And again. A wave of notifications hit all at once.

You opened Instagram.

And froze.

There you were, in crisp, crystal-clear paparazzi shots. The walk through Monaco. Your arm linked with his. Your eyes half-closed in a laugh. His looking at you like… like you were the only thing that mattered. It was everywhere.

You scrolled lower, reading the first few captions out loud.

“F1’s fastest flirt… finally slowing down?” “Player no more? Lando’s mystery girl revealed.”“Caught in Monaco: Norris and new flame looking cozy.” “Lando’s Not-So-Secret Soft Side: Who’s the Girl Making F1’s Favorite Player Smile Like That?”

“Um,” you started, your voice light but laced with disbelief, “we’re… kind of all over the internet.”

Lando immediately paused the sim and twisted around in his seat. “Already?”

“Yup,” you said, scrolling quickly through the tagged photos. The images were everywhere — you two walking together in Monaco, mid-laugh, your arm looped through his. There was even one of him glancing down at you, and it didn’t feel staged or performative. It looked… real. And maybe that’s what made your heart skip just a little.

“Look,” you added, holding up the screen for him to see, “walking photos, laughing photos, and… oh. This one’s cute. You’re staring at me like I’m your screensaver.”

Lando groaned and pushed himself up, padding barefoot across the floor before dropping beside you with a soft thud. “Oh no,” he sighed, resting his elbow on his knee. “They caught my weak side.”

You snorted, the sound slipping out before you could stop it. “You have a weak side?”

Without missing a beat, he leaned just a bit closer, glancing at the screen before his eyes met yours. “Apparently, it’s you.”

You blinked, heat blooming in your cheeks. You rolled your eyes, trying to shake it off. “Gross.”

“Oh, come on,” he teased, nudging you with his shoulder. “That was smooth.”

“Barely,” you muttered, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you — lifting into a reluctant smile.

You were glad you were here with him.

You were.

But still… something in you twisted. A familiar shadow that curled deep in your chest, whispering doubts you didn’t want to listen to. You fought some kind of demon in yourself—quiet, persistent, always waiting. The part of you that still thought this couldn’t be real. Couldn’t be lasting. Couldn’t be safe.

Should you fully let him in this early?

Should you let anyone?

Your eyes dropped to your intertwined hands again, and for a moment you considered pulling away—not because you didn’t want to be close, but because it scared you just how natural it already felt. How much of your heart he had access to without even asking.

What if this was just temporary? What if you were just an adrenaline rush, a novelty, a brief distraction between races?

───

“You’re falling, buddy,” Max said, not even trying to be subtle. He held his phone out toward Lando, screen lit up with yet another article plastered with your face next to his, the two of you mid-laugh, framed in that golden Monaco sun like it was a movie still.

Lando didn’t even look at it. He leaned back against the wall of the motorhome, arms crossed tightly over his chest like that would keep the weight of Max’s words from hitting too deep.

“No I’m not,” he muttered, shaking his head as if saying it enough times might make it true. As if convincing Max would somehow help convince himself. “It’s just… two days. Chill.”

Max gave a slow, sarcastic nod. “Right. Because you’re totally known for having girls stay over two nights in a row. That’s classic Lando behavior.”

Lando’s jaw tightened. “It’s not like that. She’s cool, that’s it.”

“‘Cool,’” Max echoed with an incredulous snort. “You’ve said that three times now. You trying to sell it to me or yourself?”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

Max rolled his eyes, clearly over the denial. He stepped closer and leaned on the edge of the table. “Okay. Fine. Then prove it.”

Lando glanced up, brows pulling together. “What do you mean?”

“A bet,” Max said casually, like he was offering a game of cards. “One week. You bring her to the next race. Spend real time with her. And at the end of it, if you can look me in the eye and swear you don’t feel a thing? Cool. You win.”

There was a pause. The kind of silence where everything settled heavy in the air, pressing in with the weight of unsaid truths.

“And what do I get out of that?” Lando asked eventually, forcing a little smirk even though his voice came out a bit quieter than usual.

Max’s grin widened, knowing he’d hooked him. “I’ll take your entire media schedule in Canada. Interviews, photos, all the annoying stuff you always complain about.”

Lando let out a short laugh, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You really think I’m falling for her?”

“I know you are,” Max said, leveling him with a look that was almost brotherly. “The only question is whether you’re gonna admit it before you ruin it.”

Lando looked away for a moment. He thought about your voice still lingering in his head, the way you looked curled up in his hoodie, how fast everything felt when you laughed. Too fast. But maybe it had always been heading this way.

“Alright,” he said at last, voice low. “You’ve got yourself a bet.”

Max held out his hand. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Lando shook it, already unsure whether this was a challenge or a setup — because deep down, he wasn’t sure he could spend one more day with you without falling harder.

And now? He had seven.

───

You still couldn’t wrap your head around how you got here. Not just here as in Spain, but here with him—standing in the paddock beside Lando Norris like you belonged there. Like this was normal. Like any of it made sense.

It all started so casually, a passing comment over dinner when the music was low and his hand had been resting on your knee like it had always been meant to be there. “What are you doing this weekend?” he’d asked, eyes catching yours mid-laugh. Then came the follow-up, so casual it nearly slipped by you: “Come with me to Spain. To the race.”

You’d hesitated. Of course you did. Because you weren’t supposed to be the girl at his races. You weren’t supposed to be seen stepping off a private jet next to him, smiling politely as cameras turned your way. It was supposed to be one night—two, at most. Not mornings tangled in sheets, or dinners filled with laughter so warm you forgot to guard your heart.

And yet, you said yes.

Now, you found yourself walking the paddock, trying not to shrink beneath the weight of a thousand unspoken stories. You were used to attention, sure—but this was different. This wasn’t admiration or curiosity. It was dissection. Speculation. Headlines practically writing themselves with every step you took beside him. You could already imagine them.

But the noise faded once you were back in the hotel, the sun setting in soft orange behind the sheer curtains. The window was cracked open, letting the balmy air drift through the room. You were curled up in bed, wearing one of Lando’s hoodies, your phone forgotten beside you.

The door creaked open, and a moment later the mattress dipped beside you as he slid in beside you, damp hair curling at his temples, skin warm from the shower. He didn’t speak right away, just reached for you—his head settling on your chest like he belonged there, like he’d always belonged there.

Your fingers moved without thinking, curling through his hair, your nails gently scratching his scalp the way you’d already learned he liked.

After a beat, he spoke, voice muffled by your collarbone. “You didn’t seem bored out there.”

You smiled, fingers still in his hair. “Watching you fight for second place? I’ve seen worse.”

He huffed a laugh, the sound soft against your skin. “Could’ve been worse. Could’ve come in fifth.”

You were quiet for a moment, both of you just breathing in sync. Then he shifted, just slightly, enough to lift his head and look up at you.

“I don’t know,” he said, his voice lower now, more hesitant. “Lately I’ve been feeling like… I drive better when you’re around.”

Your heart skipped something uncertain. It wasn’t just the words—it was the weight in them. The uncertainty. The rawness. Like he hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

You didn’t reply right away. What could you even say?

Because you were feeling it too—that strange pull. That terrifying warmth. And suddenly it wasn’t about bets, or flings, or proving something to someone.

It was about this. Him. You. And something that felt dangerously close to real.

You were quiet. You just smiled.

God damn it—stop smiling.

You weren’t supposed to feel like this. This fluttery warmth in your chest, the way your body relaxed with him beside you—it wasn’t part of the plan. You were meant to stay detached, to keep it casual. One night, maybe two, and that was it. But now, your hand was moving through his curls like it had done it a hundred times before, and that quiet peace in your chest was starting to feel dangerously close to comfort.

Your smile gave too much away. You could feel it. It wasn’t just polite or playful. It was soft. It was real. And when you looked down and saw Lando looking up at you from where his head rested on your chest, you knew he saw it too. He didn’t smirk like he usually would. No teasing glint in his eyes. Instead, there was something careful in his expression—something honest. And in a way, it made you want to run.

But you didn’t.

“You’re my lucky charm,” he murmured, barely louder than the breeze drifting in from the balcony. “I like having you by my side.”

His voice was quiet, almost unsure, like he wasn’t used to saying things like that out loud. And maybe he wasn’t. Maybe this wasn’t typical for him either. That thought struck you like a pulse—sharp and warm all at once.

You blinked slowly, your fingers pausing in his hair before moving again gently, threading through like you were holding onto something delicate. You wanted to answer, but you didn’t know what to say. What did you say to someone who made you feel this seen? This wanted?

And worse—what did you say when you were starting to want him just as much?

───

The streets of Barcelona stretched ahead, quiet and calm in the late hours of the night. The afterparty had ended, the music and laughter fading into the background, leaving only the distant hum of the city and the occasional flicker of headlights passing by. The air was warm, carrying the scent of summer and the faint traces of alcohol lingering between you and Lando as you walked side by side.

You weren’t even that drunk—though the world felt softer, the edges of reality blurred just enough to make everything feel lighter. But Lando… he was past that. His steps were uneven, his weight leaning into you more than he probably realized, his arm draped over your shoulders in a way that was both protective and dependent. You could feel the warmth of him, the way his body swayed slightly with each movement, and you knew he needed to sit before he lost his footing completely.

"You want to sit for a while?" you asked, glancing at him, taking in the way his eyes were heavy-lidded, his smirk lazy, his usual sharpness dulled by the alcohol.

He just nodded, letting you guide him toward the nearest bench. You sat him down carefully, standing in front of him as he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, head tilted slightly as he looked up at you. His breathing was slow, steady, but there was something in his gaze—something hazy, something unguarded.

Then, suddenly, he moved—too fast, too unsteady. His large palms found your thighs, his touch warm, grounding, sending a jolt of something unexpected through you. Your breath hitched, your body stiffening for just a second, unsure of what to do, unsure of what this meant.

"You are so pretty, Y/n," he murmured, his fingers tracing slow, absentminded patterns against your skin, his voice softer than usual, more vulnerable.

You didn’t answer.

His gaze lifted, those damn green eyes locking onto yours, hazy but sincere, searching for something he wasn’t sure he’d find. "You know, Y/n," he said, voice quieter now, more thoughtful, "I didn’t know what I was doing before I met you."

You opened your mouth, ready to say something, ready to stop whatever this was turning into—but before you could, he spoke again.

"I mean, I was just a boy who fed his ego with girls and cockiness."

His words hung between you, heavy, raw, more honest than you had ever heard him be.

"Lando, you’re drunk," you reminded him, forcing a small smile, though it felt bitter on your lips. You didn’t know if he meant what he was saying. But you wished he did.

You knew you were screwed. This wasn’t a game anymore. It was supposed to be stupid bet to pull someone your ex would hate. It wasn’t supposed to be this.

"I’m serious," he murmured, his voice quieter now, more certain than it should have been in his state. "I mean every word. I’ll tell you everything again once I’m sober if you want."

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, your heart beating just a little too fast.

"I was nothing before you, Y/n."

The weight of Lando’s words settled between you, thick and unshakable, pressing against the quiet night air. The city hummed softly around you, distant voices and the occasional flicker of headlights passing by, but none of it mattered. Not now. Not with him looking at you like that.

His fingers still rested against your thighs, warm and grounding, his touch absentminded but deliberate.

"I was nothing before you, Y/n," he murmured again, his voice quieter now, more careful, more real.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry, your heart beating just a little too fast. The words felt too big, too heavy, too true.

"Lando…" you started, hesitating, unsure of what to say, unsure if saying anything at all would make it better—or worse.

He tilted his head slightly, his drunken haze evident but not enough to dull the sincerity in his eyes. "What?" His voice was soft, almost cautious, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hear whatever you were about to say.

"You’re drunk," you reminded him again, even though it wasn’t really the problem. Even though you knew it wasn’t the excuse you wanted it to be.

He let out a breath, slow, uneven. His fingers flexed slightly against your skin before he pulled away, leaning back into the bench, running a hand through his messy curls.

"I know," he admitted, voice barely above a whisper. "But that doesn’t mean I don’t mean it."

The honesty in his tone made something twist inside you—something you weren’t ready to unpack.

He exhaled, shaking his head slightly, as if frustrated with himself, as if frustrated with the way the words were coming out. "I didn’t know what I wanted," he murmured, his voice quieter now, more careful. "I had everything but it felt like nothing. I was nothing."

He looked up at you then, his green eyes locking onto yours, holding something deeper, something real.

"But now I know what I want."

And the way he said it—the certainty in his voice, the way his gaze didn’t waver—made it terrifyingly clear.

The silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken thoughts, with emotions neither of you were ready to name. You could feel the weight of his confession pressing against your chest, making it harder to breathe, harder to think.

You wanted to believe him. You wanted to let yourself believe that this wasn’t just drunken words, that this wasn’t just the alcohol talking. But you also knew that if you let yourself believe it, there would be no going back.

Lando stayed quiet for a moment, his head still resting against your shoulder, but you could feel his fingers flexing gently against your thigh, like he was trying to find the courage to keep going. The alcohol loosened his tongue, but what he was saying wasn’t just drunken nonsense — it came from somewhere much deeper.

“You know what scares me the most?” he finally whispered, his voice rough. “I’ve spent years building this version of myself. The one that’s always fine. The one who wins, who laughs, who flirts and moves on like none of it ever means anything. And it worked for so long.” He laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “I didn’t even realize how fucking lonely it felt until you showed up.”

Your breath caught, but you stayed still, letting him speak.

“I see the way you look at me,” he continued, his voice lowering even more, “and for the first time in a long time… it’s not because of the car, or the fame, or the headlines. You see me, don’t you? The real me. And I don’t know how you do it, but it scares the shit out of me, Y/n.” His grip on your thigh tightened slightly as if he was trying to anchor himself.

He finally lifted his head to face you fully, his eyes glossy but sharp, locking with yours. “You’re dangerous,” he whispered, almost like an accusation, but there was a tenderness behind it. “Because you make me want things I promised myself I wouldn’t want. Things that feel… permanent.”

You swallowed hard, your heart pounding so loudly you were sure he could hear it.

“I thought I could control this,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I thought I could keep you at a distance, just have fun, not let it get serious. And then suddenly you’re in my bed, you’re in my head, you’re here, and I—” he stopped himself, his voice breaking slightly. “I don’t know how to not want you.”

His thumb brushed gently over your skin, slower now, softer. “I didn’t think I’d ever want someone like this again.”

babsie radio ! hey babess!!! It’s heree!! But yk, i had like a week break from this fic, so I kinda forgot how I wanted to continue it… soooo…..kinda open ending ? sorry i’m evil👹

1K notes · View notes

astonmartinii · 9 months ago

Text

the king of monza can do what he wants | charles leclerc social media au

pairing: charles leclerc x fem alonso!reader

the king of monza can win the race, have his relationship exposed and challenge his soon-to-be father-in-law to a duel, he can do what he wants.

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

oscarpiastri

liked by olliebearman, danielricciardo and 432,095 others

tagged: lilyzneimer, yourusername, charles_leclerc

oscarpiastri: double header means we crashed on my adoptive parents' couch and forced them to cook for me (only y/n, obviously)

view all comments

user1: does he know this isn't his private account?

user2: SHUSH DON'T TELL HIM

user3: we need to enjoy this while it lasts

jackdoohan: oscar, there's still time to delete this

oscarpiastri: why would i delete this?

oscarpiastri: oh

oscarpiastri: oh no

jackdoohan: you might want to warn your kinda dad you've exposed the identity of your kinda mum as your kinda grandad is probably putting out a hit on him as we speak

fernandoalo_oficial: don't call me a grandad 👿🤬😡😠💢😤

jackdoohan: OSCAR QUICK HE'S DISCOVERED EMOJIS HE MUST BE REALLY MAD

user4: fernando, are you okay?

fernandoalo_oficial: i want that frenchies head on a stick

charles_leclerc: i am monegasque!

fernandoalo_oficial: so you do actually want to die?

yourusername: okay let's calm down old man

fernandoalo_oficial: SILENCE I WILL NOT CALM DOWN! THAT'S THE MAN?

yourusername: yes!

fernandoalo_oficial: no.

charles_leclerc: i object!

lancestroll: his eye hasn't stopped twitching since

charles_leclerc: i don't care! he might be crazy but I'M IN LOVE SO BRING IT OLD MAN

user5: wtf have i woken up to this morning

user6: the public execution of the prince of monaco

yourusername: just because he has a samurai tattoo doesn't mean he knows how to use a sword

fernandoalo_oficial: i will tear him apart with my bare hands

user7: i fear this comment section alone has undone all of his funky grandad tiktok PR

user8: he's going to make charles cry in the press conference

yourusername: oh well, charlie is hot when he cries

user9: and how do you know that...

yourusername: that's none of your business 😈

yourusername

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1 and 2,312,088 others

tagged: charles_leclerc

yourusername: italy has my heart and so do you <3

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user11: queen got exposed and immediately started flexing her unbelievably sexy bf

yourusername: why wouldn't i? he's so damn FINE

charles_leclerc: teehee (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

user12: you might as well have told me to kill myself

fernandoalo_oficial: enjoy your weekend charles, it will be your last

charles_leclerc: and if i win? i think suspended sentence?

fernandoalo_oficial: @carlossainz55 i have a proposition for you

yourusername: why are we acting like he wouldn't do that for free

carlossainz55: excuse me?

yourusername: i'm calling you a jealous bitch xx

carlossainz55: what is your price nando?

fernandoalo_oficial: i'm not fucking paying you, i was assuming you'd do it in a jealous rage anyway

carlossainz55: ???

user13: the way carlos is being jumped from both sides unprovoked

user14: which ever alonso it is, they choose violence

oscarpiastri: so ... am i off the hook yet?

yourusername: you know we can't say no to you

fernandoalo_oficial: oscar you might actually be my favourite now, thank you for bringing this to my attention

oscarpiastri: sure i'll take it!

charles_leclerc: you can have my heart and everything else for as long as you want

yourusername: looks like you'll never get it back ;)

charles_leclerc: that's fine by me if i get to spend it with you

yourusername: i love you :P

charles_leclerc: i love you more ( > 〰 < )♡

fernandoalo_oficial

liked by jensonbutton, aussiegrit and 1,209,566 others

fernandoalo_oficial: cash prize for anyone who can actually track down this little rat - i just want to talk i swear

view all comments

user15: it's official everyone, he's gone crazy

user16: as crazy as he is at least he's bringing the DRAMA 🤩

yourusername: this isn't very peace and love of you

fernandoalo_oficial: that has never been the way in this family

fernandoalo_oficial: but let me make this clear, i mean in a destroy all of your enemies way rather than a jos verstappen way

maxverstappen1: ???

yourusername: destroying our enemies does not mean you can do your best jos verstappen impression and drive your aston martin into charles

fernandoalo_oficial: don't be stupid y/n, the aston martin is too slow, i'm going to steal his brakes

yourusername: and how will you do that boomer

fernandoalo_oficial: ferrari are stupid they probably still haven't changed the passwords or locks since i left

yourusername: @scuderiaferrari excuse me???

scuderiaferrari: ....

user17: so like this is a genuine hit?

user18: mob boss!fernando alonso you are so special to me

user19: sorry charles but it's so sexy

charles_leclerc: drop the address senor i'm not scared of you

lancestroll: he brought the samurai sword btw

yourusername: @f1 DO YOU PEOPLE HAVE ANY SECURITY MEASURES ???

f1: it made a good tiktok 👍

yourusername: you people are useless

charles_leclerc: no worries my love it's all under control

fernandoalo_oficial: i will carve you like a christmas turkey

yourusername: you go anywhere near charles with that sword we're both going romeo and juliet style

user20: what on earth is going on

user21: just smile and wave i think we're watching collective hysteria

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri and 3,562,778 others

tagged: charles_leclerc

f1: CHARLES LECLERC WINS FOR FERRARI AT MONZA

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user23: bro heard fernando was gonna steal his brakes and simply just drove so fast he didn't need them

user24: he was like 'oh you want my head on a stick? TRY AND CATCH ME'

yourusername: pretty boy is so so talented it's not fair

yourusername: who am i kidding

yourusername: STUNT ON THOSE HOES I LOVE YOU BABY

charles_leclerc: thank you baby, i simply had to drive so fast so i could give you a kiss

charles_leclerc: and also so i could tell your dad to SUCK ON THAT OLD MAN

user25: he's had too much champagne and might actually get himself killed

user26: i will throw myself in front of that sword for him

yourusername: you and me too buddy - i'll cover your drinks for this evening

fernandoalo_oficial: i still want him dead

charles_leclerc: what the fuck do you want from me? i just won? did you see that freak of an orange car? i look after your daughter like i looked after those tyres

yourusername: so romantic 🤭

fernandoalo_oficial: he just compared you to tyres? have some standards i raised you better?

yourusername: believe me, i do have standards - he's special xx

fernandoalo_oficial: i also won monza with ferrari he's not that special

user27: at least he's stopped with the samurai sword talk?

user28: he did say he still wants him dead though

maxverstappen1: @yourusername why couldn't you have dated lando? would've made this championship a lot easier

landonorris: HUH?

yourusername: please refer to my previous comment about standards

charles_leclerc: hehehehehe

landonorris: HUH???

charles_leclerc

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1 and 4,523,099 others

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charles_leclerc: grazie mille tifosi !! this is for you and all of your support. i'm glad my family and my love were here to see this win as well. fernando, bring your sword, i'll fight for your daughter's hand.

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user29: i love this family and i've known them a week

user30: fernando might have to go through me as well at this point

yourusername: i love you so much and you have deserved this and more for so so long xx

charles_leclerc: i couldn't do it without you (and our weird little grid family)

yourusername: you're my favourite person in the world and i just love to see you happy

charles_leclerc: you make me the happiest man in the world

yourusername: i love you

charles_leclerc: i love you too

user31: as cute as all this is ^^ where is this duel

user32: can someone PLEASE STREAM IT !!!!! I WILL PAY

user33: I NEED IT I NEED IT

fernandoalo_oficial: come outside

lancestroll: he spent all of the debrief sharpening the sword btw

charles_leclerc: i'm ready girlypop

fernandoalo_oficial: GIRLYPOP ???

yourusername: PEACE AND LOVE BOZO

maxverstappen1: can we get this show on the road please?

lewishamilton: charles please hurry up i've got some serious cash on this tussle

yourusername: how much we talking?

charles_leclerc: i might die and you're checking the wager?

yourusername: because i have faith in you !!!!

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, fernandoalo_oficial and 2,136,344 others

tagged: charles_leclerc

yourusername: he's alive and he's a winner! the king of monza can do what he wants

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user35: prince of monaco? king of monza? bro is collecting titles

yourusername: my husband next 🤞🏻

charles_leclerc: bet

user36: is ANYONE GOING TO TELL US WHAT HAPPENED IN THE DUEL

georgerussell63: it was extremely unprofessional and there will be an extensive powerpoint covering how this won't happen again

fernandoalo_oficial: i'll fight you next time george

user37: don't go off TOPIC

charles_leclerc: i out strategised him lol

oscarpiastri: what he means is that he surprised fernando from behind and wouldn't stop hugging him until he agreed that he wouldn't skewer him like a kebab

charles_leclerc: and it worked! now look he's on my boat giving me his blessing

user38: you're telling me charles hugged his way out of the conflict?

user39: perhaps the most babygirl he's ever been

user40: we need the pictures SHOW IT TO ME RACHEL

fernandoalo_oficial: fine, i guess he's okay. i'm not calling him the king of monza though

yourusername: i knew you'd come around

fernandoalo_oficial: i love my daughter SORRY

yourusername: don't lie to me you only calmed down and accepted it because i called in the reinforcements

user41: i'm crying she called babysitters for her dad

yourusername: jenson and mark, idk how you deal with him

jensonbutton: the stress of him and his antics keep me skinny

aussiegrit: i think we're all trauma bonded

charles_leclerc: i'll be the king of monza, if you'll be my queen

charles_leclerc: and i will continue to do what i want

yourusername: i'll be your queen anywhere you want

yourusername: and if doing what you want includes fighting my dad... let's turn it down a lil

charles_leclerc: for you, i'll do anything

fin.

note: here yall go - this was in my drafts half done from monza weekend but life got crazy

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 instagram au #f1 x you #f1 #f1 social media au #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc fluff

5K notes · View notes

solxamber · 9 months ago

Text

Trash Novel Chronicles: Please Let Me Live - Vil Schoenheit x reader

You get isekai'd into the worst novel you've had the misfortune of reading because apparently your life is a cosmic joke. Now all you have to do is not act like the character you've possessed and it'll be fine, you think? Your fiancé being Vil Schoenheit makes it a little harder to behave like a human being with functional braincells, but hey, atleast he likes you, you think?

Series Masterlist

You'd avoided it for so long. For months, your best friend had been pestering you to read the shoujo isekai novel of the year. According to them, it was the epitome of romantic drama, the kind that would "turn your heart into a mess of feelings" and "change your life." So, finally, after a particularly grueling week, your willpower hit rock bottom. You caved. You bought it, poured yourself a drink, and figured, "How bad can it be?"

Turns out, really bad.

You’d barely made it past the first few chapters before your brain began to leak out of your ears. Every overused villainess plot point imaginable was crammed into the story like a contest of "how much nonsense can we fit in here before the reader gives up?" The evil fiancée everyone inexplicably hated? Check. The perfect cinnamon roll male lead everyone adored even though he had the personality of wet cardboard? Double check. The heroine who was so pure that even her sneeze would be enough to unite warring nations who also happens to be the saintess? You had to put the book down and take a moment when she gave a speech about friendship that was so saccharine, your teeth hurt.

Grumbling and filled with regret, you got up to refill your drink… only to slip on bubble wrap you swore yesterday that you were going to pick up later, fall face-first into the kitchen counter, and began to bleed out.

It was a comically stupid way to die. You knew that as you lay there, watching the light fade from your vision, your last thoughts being, This is the dumbest thing that’s ever happened to me.

And then, darkness.

You woke up with a groan, your head pounding. As your vision cleared, you noticed you were lying in a very, very fancy bed. Silk sheets, gold trimming on the canopy, the works. And you were dressed in something frilly, layered, and far too complicated for someone who just woke up from a near-death experience.

"What the…"

You sat up, rubbing your eyes, only to freeze as the realization hit you. This was not your bed. This was not your apartment. This was… Oh god, no.

You whipped your head around the lavish room, recognizing it from the novel you’d been hate-reading just last night. The massive mirror above the dresser, the tapestry with an overly detailed family crest, the obnoxiously large bouquet of roses that smelled way too sweet.

You’re in the book.

Panicking, you scrambled out of bed and rushed to the full-length mirror by the wall. The reflection staring back at you was not your own. Instead, you saw an unfamiliar face—her face. The one mentioned once, maybe twice, in the whole novel before being discarded like an old shoe: the betrothed of the villain.

The fiancée who dumps him for the male lead. The fiancée who gets themselves killed in the process.

“Oh, come on!” you groaned, slapping your forehead. “I’m the villain’s betrothed? I’m that idiot who leaves Vil Schoenheit because I fall for the human incarnation of a sugar cube?”

But there was no escaping it. You were now stuck in the body of a side character so irrelevant that even her death was treated as an afterthought. The one who leaves her handsome, ambitious, gorgeous fiancé for… Neige.

No. No, no, no. You were not about to die over a soggy cinnamon roll.

Determined to change your fate, you gathered your wits and opened the door to leave the room. But of course, you ran headlong into a tall figure, knocking you both back.

“Oof! Careful there!” a smooth, yet stern voice said. You looked up—and froze. Standing before you, looking like something straight out of a high-fashion magazine, was Vil Schoenheit. The man whose heart you were supposed to break, the villain who would later descend into madness after you ditch him.

And wow. In person, he was even more stunning than the novel had described. His golden-blond hair shimmered in the sunlight pouring through the window, his purple eyes were as sharp as they were beautiful, and his posture screamed confidence.

You blinked up at him, utterly dumbfounded. You’re supposed to leave him? For Neige? You nearly gagged at the thought.

Vil raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed by your wide-eyed staring. “Is something the matter?”

You gulped. Right. You were supposed to be cold and dismissive toward him, weren’t you? But how? This man looked like he could make the heavens weep with his beauty. How had your character ever even considered leaving him?

“No, nothing’s the matter!” you blurted out, a little too enthusiastically. “Actually, everything’s great! You look fantastic! I mean, not that you don’t always look fantastic—because you do—but, you know, extra fantastic today!”

Vil’s eyes narrowed. “You’re acting strange.”

Abort. Abort!

You quickly cleared your throat. “Uh, I’ve just been… thinking. About us.”

His gaze became sharper. “About us?”

You nodded, plastering on your most sincere smile. “Yes! I’ve realized… I haven’t been very, uh, appreciative of you lately. And I’m sorry for that. Really, I am. So from now on, I’ll be the most appreciative fiancée ever!”

Vil looked at you as though you’d just told him the sun was cold. He clearly didn’t trust this sudden change in attitude. “What exactly brought this on?” he asked slowly, suspiciously.

Time for Plan B. “Oh, you know, just… reflection! Self-improvement! I thought, ‘Why would I ever look anywhere else when I’ve got someone like *you* right in front of me?’ You’re… amazing, really.” You cringed internally at how corny that sounded, but Vil didn’t seem entirely put off.

“Hm,” was all he said, but his piercing gaze stayed locked on you, watching for any sign of deceit.

You were sweating bullets, but at least he wasn’t storming off. Yet.

You knew from the moment you read the back cover that this novel was going to be a dumpster fire of clichés, but you were not prepared for the sheer chaos of it all.

So, first off, we have the heroine—the Saintess—who has somehow never faced a single hardship in her life, despite the fact that she’s supposed to be the kingdom’s beacon of virtue and a symbol of overcoming hardship. She’s engaged to the crown prince, who conveniently disappears on a diplomatic mission and dies offscreen, probably to make room for her new love interest, Neige LeBlanche. Neige. That sparkly ray of sunshine who is so perfect and pure that you feel like you need sunglasses whenever his name is mentioned. Because apparently, what’s more romantic than falling for a guy immediately after your fiancé kicks the bucket?

Then there’s the second male lead, the brooding Duke of the North, who checks all the boxes: tall, brooding, handsome, tragic backstory—yawn. Of course, he’s madly in love with the Saintess, and like any self-respecting second male lead in a trashy romance, he sacrifices himself for her later. Because nothing says “I’m irrelevant” quite like noble self-sacrifice.

And don't even get started on the heroine's best friend. She’s basically there to fawn over the Saintess and then inexplicably fall for Vil, the Grand Duke, after she pressures him into apologizing for insulting the heroine's dress. Like, why? Was his dress critique that alluring?

Now, Vil Schoenheit. The Grand Duke. The guy you’re currently stuck with as your fiancé. He’s actually a decent character—powerful, intelligent, not falling over himself to worship the Saintess like everyone else. But in the novel, he’s wasted. Why? Because he’s engaged to the character you’re now possessing—Miss Mean and Cold—who treats him like dirt because she’s too busy fantasizing about Neige. You know, the guy she has no shot with because he’s destined to fall for the Saintess. Then, when your character eventually dumps Vil for Neige, she dies in a freak accident. Vil, who actually loved her (for reasons no one understands), is so heartbroken that he turns into the main villain.

Yes, that’s right—this whole mess of a plot ends with Vil going full villain mode because the love of his life ditched him for the living embodiment of a children’s snowman and then died in a way that no one can explain. Cue the Saintess and Neige teaming up to defeat him and live happily ever after.

And that’s the story. A tangled web of nonsensical relationships, conveniently dead characters, and more emotional whiplash than you can handle. And the cherry on top? You're stuck in it, watching everything unfold firsthand. It's honestly a wonder the book didn’t end up as kindling.

A few days passed, and somehow, miraculously, you managed to keep up the act. Every morning you would wake up, still half-expecting to snap out of this bizarre isekai nightmare, but instead, you were met with Vil’s meticulous morning routine and the low hum of his voice offering helpful reminders about skincare.

And the more time you spent with him, the more baffled you became.

How the hell could the original character have messed this up?!

Sure, Vil was particular—okay, maybe borderline obsessive—about appearances. His lectures about proper sunscreen application could rival the length of the Odyssey. And yes, the daily inspections of your outfit choices felt a little like going through customs at a royal border.

But… he was kind? Like, actually caring?

Every meal was an event because he made sure you were eating properly and not just shoving random food into your mouth like the gremlin you clearly were before. He listened when you rambled about your day, offering advice with this gentle patience that honestly made you want to weep. How could anyone leave this?

You found yourself in front of a mirror one afternoon, pacing and gesturing wildly at your reflection, as if you could summon the spirit of the character you’d possessed. "What the actual hell was wrong with you?!" you hissed at the glass. “What kind of brain rot would make someone ditch a man like Vil?! Are you missing brain cells, or was your skull just a rental with nothing in it?!”

You paused, glaring at your reflection as if it could offer answers, but nope. It just stared back, helpless.

“Like, hello?!” you continued, throwing your hands up in exasperation. “You had a golden opportunity here! He’s literally gorgeous! He’s got hair that looks like it was hand-spun by some ancient beauty god, his fashion sense could kill a lesser mortal, and he—*gasp*—cares about your well-being?!”

You slapped your forehead dramatically. “How did you mess this up? Were you allergic to good things? Did you wake up every day and choose to be a feral raccoon instead of, I don’t know, appreciating this actual masterpiece of a human being? What, did you look at his perfect face and go, ‘Nah, I’d rather yeet myself into self-destruction?’ Because clearly, that’s what happened!”

Your reflection remained silent, offering no help, which only fueled your rant further.

“You absolute donut! You ridiculous bottle of poorly mixed potion! You—” You stopped mid-sentence, running out of sufficiently creative insults to throw at the former owner of this body. Because seriously, what kind of fool would’ve thrown Vil away?

You gripped the sides of the vanity table, leaning forward, narrowing your eyes at your own reflection. "If I find out that you gave up on this because he once asked you to wear a face mask or told you to drink more water… I swear, I'm going to find a way to repossess you just to kill you again for making me deal with this."

A soft knock at the door startled you out of your self-directed tirade. You nearly jumped out of your skin, spinning around to see Vil standing in the doorway, one perfectly groomed eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Talking to yourself again?” he asked, his voice smooth but with a teasing edge. “You know, that’s usually a sign of stress. Perhaps we should revisit that meditation routine I mentioned.”

You stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless, wondering how much he’d overheard. But then you caught sight of that soft smile he reserved just for you, and your brain short-circuited all over again.

Right. The original character was definitely an idiot.

The first major hurdle hit you when you least expected it.

It all started with what should have been a calm afternoon—a brief moment of peace where you and Vil could actually spend time together, no schemes, no weird confrontations, just enjoying tea. You were finally getting comfortable with each other, slowly building the trust that had been so fragile at the start. Finally, you thought, things were moving smoothly.

Then the overused villainess trope decided to rear its ugly head.

Vil was talking about an upcoming event he’d be hosting, his voice calm, his usual stern features softened just slightly by the moment of peace. You were finally letting your guard down.

That was until the door creaked open and in waltzed the heroine’s best friend, a girl with wide, doe-like eyes and a penchant for stirring up unnecessary drama. Behind her, looming in the doorway, was the second male lead—your eternal source of frustration from the novel. He was tall, brooding, and always, always popping up at the most inconvenient moments. A defeated looking Epel walked in behind them, with a look that screamed 'trust me I tried to stop them.'

“Oh no,” you whispered under your breath, recognizing this scene before it could even play out. You knew what was coming, and you braced yourself for the utter absurdity of it.

Vil’s sharp gaze flicked from the two intruders back to you, his brows furrowing in mild irritation. “What is it now?” he muttered, already sensing the impending nonsense.

The heroine’s friend, ever the bringer of chaos, marched right up to your table with a dramatic flair that could only come from someone who believed they were the only purveyor of justice. “I can’t stay quiet any longer!” she declared, pointing an accusatory finger in Vil’s direction. “Vil, how could you treat the heroine this way?! You’ve been so cold, so distant—and it’s clear that you don’t truly care for anyone but yourself!”

You blinked. Excuse me?

Vil’s lips pursed, the irritation growing on his face. “And what, pray tell, did I do?”

“You know what you did!” she exclaimed, crossing her arms like she’d just delivered the most damning statement in history. “You’ve been ignoring her, brushing her off, and acting like she doesn’t even exist. She’s heartbroken because of you!”

You groaned internally. Oh no, this was that scene. The one where, because Vil once made an offhand comment about the heroine’s poor choice in dresses at a ball, suddenly he was painted as some cruel villain who was emotionally tormenting the delicate heroine. It was such an incredibly stupid misunderstanding that you distinctly remembered wanting to throw the book across the room when you’d first read it.

To make matters worse, the second male lead, standing silently but brooding in the doorway, was glowering at Vil like he was ready to challenge him to a duel at any moment. Because of a comment about a dress.

“Are you serious?” you blurted out, the frustration bubbling up before you could stop yourself.

The heroine’s friend gasped, her eyes wide. “Excuse me?!”

“Let me get this straight,” you said, rising from your seat with a groan, “you’re upset because Vil, what, didn’t shower her with praise at the last event? And now you’ve decided to come in here, storming into our tea time, to complain about it?”

The second male lead’s brooding scowl deepened, his jaw tightening. “Vil has been cruel—”

“About a dress.” You cut him off, waving your hand dismissively. “Vil made one comment about her dress. That’s it. And now we’re doing this whole song and dance like he’s some kind of evil tyrant?”

The room was already tense, the heroine’s best friend visibly fuming, but you couldn’t help it. The words just came out before you could stop them.

“And while we’re at it,” you said, your voice dripping with mock innocence, “let’s talk about that dress. You know, the one you’re all so upset about. I mean, I’m no fashion expert, but who in their right mind thought wearing that shade of mustard-yellow was a good idea?”

The friend’s mouth fell open, but you weren’t finished. “I mean, she walked into the ballroom looking like a sad banana trying to go to a high society function. I get it—saintess and all that—but there’s no reason to dress like the interior of an overripe cantaloupe.”

Vil made a choking sound next to you, and you dared to glance at him. His eyes were wide with shock, but there was an unmistakable glint of amusement. Oh, he wasn’t pleased with the crudeness, but he definitely wasn’t going to stop you either.

“And you,” you said, turning to the second male lead, who had been standing there like a silent, brooding statue, just staring at the two of you menacingly. “What’s your excuse? You came in here with all this brooding energy, acting like you’re about to duel someone over the fate of the heroine. But seriously, what’s with your whole tragic hero act? Is your personality just permanent raincloud or do you practice that in the mirror?”

Vil covered his mouth with his hand, and you could see his shoulders shaking slightly. He was losing the battle to keep his composure, but he was trying—for dignity’s sake, of course.

Epel, on the other hand, had completely given up. The moment you’d said “sad banana,” he had fallen off his chair, doubled over in laughter, his face red as he clutched his sides. You weren’t sure if it was your insults or the second male lead’s thunderstruck expression, but either way, Epel was in hysterics.

“I—” the heroine’s friend sputtered, but you interrupted her again.

“Oh, and you.” You looked her up and down with a condescending smirk. “You really want to talk about fashion? Because I don’t know who told you that wearing ruffles with plaid was a look, but they were wrong. You’re out here looking like you got lost in a fabric store and fell into the clearance bin.”

This time, Vil snorted. Actually snorted. The sound was so out of place that it almost derailed your tirade, but you powered through, buoyed by his reaction.

The second male lead looked like he was ready to explode, his aura now bordering on murderous. “You can’t just—”

“Oh, can’t I?” you shot back, crossing your arms. “Because it seems like all of you came in here with the intent to stir up drama over something as trivial as a constructive remark. If you’re going to go to war over fashion, at least wear something that doesn’t look like you picked it out with your eyes closed. Scratch that, I couldn’t imagine picking that up even with my eyes closed.”

By now, Epel was rolling on the floor, laughing so hard he could barely breathe. “C-couldn’t pick it out… with your eyes closed!” he wheezed, slapping his knee.

Vil, despite himself, let out a low giggle, shaking his head in disbelief. “Well,” he said, his voice steady but filled with mirth, “I suppose subtlety was never your strong suit.”

The heroine’s friend, now red-faced and flustered beyond belief, grabbed the second male lead by the arm and yanked him toward the door. “This isn’t over,” she spat, glaring at you. “We’ll see who’s laughing when the heroine—”

“Yeah, yeah,” you waved dismissively, “when the heroine what? Realizes she’s been pining for someone who can't tell mustard from elegance? Trust me, I’m not worried.”

With that, they both stormed out, slamming the door behind them in a huff of embarrassment and frustration. The second they were gone, you let out a breath and sank back into your chair, grinning at Vil, who was now openly smiling.

“You really didn’t hold back, did you?” Vil said, his amusement evident despite his usual calm demeanor. “I don’t approve of such… crude insults, but I must admit—” his lips twitched— “it was rather effective.”

Epel, still recovering from his laughing fit, managed to haul himself back into his seat, wiping tears from his eyes. “That was… that was the funniest thing I’ve ever seen,” he said between gasps for air. “I can’t believe ya said that right to their faces!”

“Glad to be of service,” you said with a grin, though your heart was still pounding in your chest. You couldn’t believe you’d actually said all of that out loud. But judging by Vil’s pleased expression and Epel’s ongoing laughter, it had been worth it.

Maybe surviving this trash novel wouldn’t be so bad after all.

You’d barely had time to process how bizarrely normal your life as the villain’s fiancée had become when the next absurd isekai plot point decided to rear its ugly, trope-filled head again.

It all started at yet another lavish tea party. Honestly, you’d begun to lose track of how many of these events you were forced to attend. They all blurred together into a haze of polite smiles, floral patterns, and far too much sugar.

This time, you were seated next to Vil, who, as always, looked like he had just stepped out of a renaissance painting. You, on the other hand, were trying not to spill tea on the new dress he’d insisted you wear. The dress itself was lovely, of course—Vil had impeccable taste—but the whole setting made you feel like you were constantly walking on eggshells. Especially since she was here. The heroine.

Today, though, you were determined to get through it without any drama. Just smile, nod, and let the heroine do her thing. Easy, right?

Wrong.

Everything had been going smoothly, too. The heroine, in all her sunshiney glory, was seated at the table, surrounded by her usual group of admirers. You had been doing a great job of fading into the background until someone—the hostess, perhaps?—brought up your previous adventures.

“Oh, didn’t you once accompany the Grand Duke to deal with that bandit problem on the eastern border?” the hostess asked, fanning herself with interest. “What a thrilling ordeal!”

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, feeling the weight of too many eyes on you. “Well, I wouldn’t say thrilling exactly…” you began, trying to downplay it, but your nerves had other ideas. “I mean, the heroine here was probably off rescuing some poor lost puppy while I was just, you know, holding down the real danger.”

The air went cold.

The moment the words left your mouth, you froze. The table fell silent, save for the quiet clinking of teacups being set down. Every eye was on you. The heroine’s wide, eyes blinked at you, full of hurt and confusion. And across from you, the second male lead—Mr. Tall, Dark, and Brooding—looked like he was ready to leap across the table and strangle you on the spot.

Oh no. Oh no no no. Why did you leave your filter at home?

You opened your mouth to apologize, but before you could, the second male lead slammed his cup down on the table, the porcelain rattling ominously. “You dare insult her honor?!” he roared, rising from his seat like some kind of vengeful storm cloud. “I will not stand for this!”

*Why did I say that?* You cringed internally, face turning a bright shade of crimson. "I-it was a joke—"

“No,” he declared dramatically, pointing a finger at you. “I demand satisfaction! A duel for her honor!”

You were still too stunned to respond, your brain scrambling to make sense of the situation. A duel? Over this? All you’d implied was that the heroine wasn’t exactly… battle-hardened. Surely that wasn’t duel-worthy? This man was acting like you’d called his mother a turnip or something worse.

The heroine, ever the epitome of grace, tried to intervene. “There’s no need for—”

But Mr. Broody wasn’t having it. “No! Her honor has been besmirched, and I shall defend it with my life!”

Vil, who had been watching this spectacle unfold with an expression of mild disgust, finally rose from his chair. His cool gaze swept over the table, landing on the second male lead with all the intensity of a snake about to strike.

“If anyone’s honor has been besmirched,” Vil said icily, “it’s mine. And I will not allow my betrothed to be disrespected by the likes of you.”

You blinked up at Vil, stunned. “Wait, you’re going to duel him? Yourself?”

Vil turned his piercing gaze to you, and though his face remained calm, there was a glimmer of something softer in his eyes. “Of course,” he said. “I would never entrust such a matter to anyone else. Besides…” His lips curled into a smirk. “It’s been a while since I’ve put an upstart in his place.”

You gulped, suddenly feeling a bit light-headed. Was it getting hot in here?

The second male lead, apparently unaware of just how screwed he was, smirked triumphantly. “Very well! Let’s settle this once and for all.”

The duel was set for the next day in your estate gardens. You spent the time leading up to it pacing back and forth in your chambers, wringing your hands in nervous anticipation. Somewhere along the way, you’d decided that you needed to do something—anything—to support Vil. So you had spent hours learning how to embroider a handkerchief, your fingers aching from the effort. By the time you finished, you were practically shaking, but you were proud of the result.

You didn’t expect Vil to be touched, let alone notice that you’d worked so hard. But when you handed him the handkerchief just before the duel, his eyes widened in surprise.

“You made this?” he asked, holding it delicately between his fingers, as if it were some priceless artifact.

You nodded sheepishly. “I figured, you know, for luck. Or to rub it in his face after you beat him. Whichever.”

Vil chuckled, his usually sharp expression softening. “Thank you,” he said, his voice low. He then noticed the small needle marks on your hands and frowned. “You hurt yourself.”

You quickly hid your hands behind your back. “It’s nothing! I mean, I’m fine. Just a few pricks here and there.”

Vil’s expression softened even further, and for a moment, he looked almost… touched. He carefully tucked the handkerchief into his coat pocket, a small but genuine smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I’ll be sure to put this to good use.”

You didn’t swoon. Well, maybe just a little.

The duel was, in a word, ridiculous.

The second male lead strutted around like a peacock, his sword gleaming in the afternoon sunlight as he swung it dramatically for the small crowd that had gathered. “Prepare yourself, Schoenheit!” he bellowed, pointing his sword at Vil.

Vil, on the other hand, looked utterly unimpressed. He barely glanced at the man before calmly removing his coat and handing it to you. “Hold this, will you?”

You took the coat with a nod, trying not to pass out from how effortlessly graceful he looked even in the midst of preparing for a fight.

The second male lead lunged forward with all the finesse of a drunken ox, his sword clashing loudly against Vil’s. For a moment, it looked like a real duel—until Vil, with a single fluid motion, disarmed the man in one clean strike. The second male lead’s sword went flying, landing in the bushes several feet away with a pathetic thud.

The crowd gasped, and you had to stifle a laugh. It had barely been five seconds, and the duel was already over.

The second male lead stood there, stunned, his hand frozen mid-air where his sword had been. He blinked once, twice, then turned bright red with embarrassment. “W-what?!”

Vil, ever composed, didn’t even break a sweat. He sheathed his sword and gave the man a cold, dismissive look. “This duel is over. Consider your demand for satisfaction... fulfilled. Now, kindly leave before you embarrass yourself further.”

You bit your lip, trying not to giggle as the second male lead sputtered and tried to come up with an excuse, but it was clear to everyone that he had been utterly humiliated. Even the heroine, standing off to the side, looked like she was struggling to keep a straight face.

As the second male lead stumbled off, defeated, Vil turned to you and offered his hand. “Shall we go?”

You took his hand, still trying to process how easily he had won. “You were amazing,” you blurted out, your heart fluttering as you gazed up at him. “Seriously, that was… wow.”

Vil smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching with amusement. “Of course I was.” He then leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a whisper. “And I expect a proper reward later for defending your honor.”

Your face went beet red, and you were pretty sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.

Yep, you thought as he led you away, his hand still in yours, surviving this trash novel might not be so bad after all.

It happened at one of those overly extravagant banquets the royal court liked to throw. You spotted Neige from across the room, all bright eyes and an innocent smile. He was the epitome of purity, as if his very presence could summon woodland creatures to frolic at his feet.

And you hated him on sight.

You watched in disbelief as everyone around him melted into puddles of admiration. He was practically glowing, and his overly cheerful, squeaky voice was grating on your ears.

The overly saccharine male lead stood there, looking like a cross between a baby bunny and a sentient cupcake. Everything about him screamed "pure-hearted." You nearly gagged on your drink, hoping no one noticed your grimace.

Vil noticed your sour expression and leaned in. “Is something the matter?”

“That’s him, isn’t it?” you said through clenched teeth. “The one I used to follow around?”

Vil followed your gaze, and for a moment, his lips twitched in the faintest show of amusement. “Yes. That’s Neige.”

You snorted. "I can't believe anyone in their right mind would prefer him over you."

Vil's lips curled into a smirk, and he tilted his head slightly. “Oh? Is that so?” His voice was silky, dangerously low, but you could see the flash of satisfaction behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” you muttered, still glaring in Neige's direction. “I mean, look at him. He’s so… good. And not in a ‘wow, what a decent person’ way. It’s like he’s one bad haircut away from sprouting fairy wings and breaking into song.”

Vil let out a low chuckle, right next to you ear, (Lord, have mercy) the sound sending shivers down your spine. “I never thought I’d hear you speak this way about him. You’ve been fawning over Neige for as long as I can remember.”

You rolled your eyes, throwing your hands up. “That was the old me. The dumb me. I mean, have you seen you?” You gestured dramatically toward him. “How could anyone even look at Neige when you exist?”

Vil was quiet for a moment, watching you intently. His violet eyes glinted with something unreadable, but you could tell he was pleased. Oh, he was very pleased.

“You certainly have changed,” he murmured, the smirk never leaving his lips. “And I must admit, I find it rather… delightful.”

Before you could respond, a very familiar voice rang out from behind you. “Ah! What a beautiful reunion this is! A moment filled with l’amour, sparkling like the stars in the sky!”

You nearly jumped out of your skin as Rook Hunt appeared seemingly out of thin air, his hands dramatically clasped together as he beamed at you both. “I have seen many couples in my lifetime, but none quite so radiant as you two.”

You blinked, trying to recover from his sudden appearance. “Rook… were you just… hiding in the curtains again?”

Rook, ever the dramatist, placed a hand on his heart and smiled wistfully. “Ah, but how could I stay away when the beauty of your love draws me in like a moth to a flame?”

Vil raised an eyebrow. “Rook, you’re not helping.”

“Non, non, mon ami,” Rook insisted, twirling in place with a flourish. “I am merely basking in the glow of what is surely a love for the ages! The way your eyes meet, the subtle tension in the air—it is magnifique!”

You sighed, shaking your head, though you couldn’t help but chuckle at Rook’s antics. Meanwhile, from the other side of the ballroom, Epel was watching the scene unfold with barely concealed amusement. He caught your eye and shot you a grin, raising his glass as if to say, Good luck with this.

But the fun wasn’t over. Oh no. Neige, the human embodiment of a children’s choir, started making his way toward you. As he approached, his bright eyes locked on yours, his smile so innocent and wide that you almost felt bad for what you were about to do.

Almost.

“Good evening!” Neige greeted you, his voice as sweet as sugar. “I don’t believe we’ve had the chance to properly meet.”

You stared at him for a moment, unimpressed. “Yeah, uh-huh.”

Neige blinked, clearly taken aback by your lack of enthusiasm. He probably wasn’t used to people not immediately falling at his feet. “It’s truly wonderful to meet you! I’ve heard so much about you.”

You squinted at him. “Mm-hmm.”

Vil, standing beside you, looked positively elated. You could practically feel the smug energy radiating off of him. He wasn’t even hiding his smile anymore.

Neige continued, oblivious to your complete disinterest. “I’m so glad we’ll have the chance to spend time together in the coming months! I hope we can—”

“Yeah, no, I’m good,” you interrupted, turning away and pointedly ignoring his very existence.

Neige blinked again, looking like a lost puppy. You almost felt a little bad. Almost.

Vil, on the other hand, looked like Christmas had come early. His arm slipped around your waist, his touch gentle. “I must say,” he murmured into your ear, his voice laced with amusement, “I’ve never enjoyed one of these balls quite so much.”

Yup, maybe this novel isn't that trashy after all?

Everytime you think this novel might not be that bad, it manages to prove you wrong.

The day had finally arrived: the Founding Day Ball. The event to end all events, where the kingdom’s most distinguished were honored in a grand ceremony. And, of course, at the top of the list of honorees was Vil, who might as well have been carved into the actual history of the kingdom itself with how perfect he was.

As his partner for the evening, you were dressed to the nines, dripping in elegance you didn’t even know you were capable of. When you caught your reflection in one of the massive ballroom mirrors, you had to do a double-take.

"Who is that?" you whispered, eyes wide. "Oh. It’s me."

Honestly, if there was a chance of impressing anyone here, you were impressed with yourself.

The ceremony went as expected. Vil was awarded the highest honors, his name met with thunderous applause as he gave a speech that left the crowd swooning. You found yourself half-clapping, half-gawking, wondering how this man kept getting more perfect. Like, was he actually human?

But as the evening progressed, the dreaded scene you despised the most crept into the evening, like a bad smell at a gourmet dinner.

After the ceremony, it was time for the opening dance. Naturally, Vil, being the epitome of grace and nobility, was the prime candidate to lead it. You were fully expecting him to ask you, but before he could even turn in your direction, the heroine — yes, that heroine — appeared out of nowhere, like she was materializing straight from the pages of the worst romance novel ever written.

“Vil,” she said in a voice that sounded like honey and broken promises, “I trust you’ll grant me the honor of the first dance.”

You blinked. *Excuse me?*

She said it so confidently, as if it were a foregone conclusion, like she was used to the world revolving around her whims. It was the equivalent of someone just cutting the line in front of you at the store and expecting applause for their audacity.

Vil, for his part, didn’t even flinch. His expression was as cool and elegant as ever, but you could see a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

“I’m afraid,” he said, voice smooth and polite, “I already have a partner for the first dance.”

The heroine’s face froze in a way that almost made you choke on your own breath. “W-What?” She blinked rapidly, as if her brain couldn’t process the fact that someone had just told her no.

You, too, were a little stunned, for a seperate. Was she actually planning on throwing a tantrum right now? In public? At a literal state function?

“B-But you always dance with me,” she stammered, voice rising in disbelief, her face turning an alarming shade of pink. “I’m supposed to be your first dance!”

You physically had to stop yourself from snorting. Always? He has never even looked at her for longer than five seconds! You couldn't recall a single time Vil had given her anything beyond basic pleasantries. The only reason she’d be in his line of sight was because she was constantly putting herself there.

Vil’s lips twitched slightly, though whether it was out of irritation or amusement, you couldn’t tell. “I don’t recall ever dancing with you,” he said calmly, as though she were discussing someone else entirely.

The heroine blinked, clearly taken aback. “W-What?”

Vil’s voice dropped to an even icier tone, leaving no room for misunderstanding. “In fact, I dislike the very idea of it.”

The heroine made a strangled sound behind you, like a baby bird trying to scream.

You looked around the room, half-expecting hidden cameras to pop out, because this had to be a prank. Who acts like this?!

And as you floated onto the dance floor with Vil, you couldn’t help but marvel at the absolute insufferable nature of the scene you’d just witnessed. This was, without a doubt, the moment that solidified your hatred for the trash-tier novel world you’d been trapped in. People like her actually existed here?

Behind you, the heroine stomped her foot like a petulant child, completely ignored by the crowd. It would’ve been almost sad if it wasn’t so ridiculous.

And as you twirled under the chandeliers, feeling Vil’s warmth beside you and the heroine’s tantrum echoing faintly in the background, one thing became crystal clear:

This novel may have been trash, but at least you were the one dancing with the prince of perfection.

It hit you like a ton of bricks one day—completely out of nowhere. You had been sitting in Vil’s study, watching him work. He was meticulously going over some documents, his brow furrowed in concentration, his golden hair falling perfectly in place despite him having been there for hours. You were supposed to be reading through some kingdom protocol book, but instead, your gaze kept drifting over to him.

He’s so… beautiful.

You blinked, the thought suddenly snapping you out of whatever trance you’d fallen into.

Wait…

Your eyes widened. Oh no. Oh no no no no no.

You slammed the book shut, startling Vil from his work as you stood up abruptly. “I-I need some air.”

Vil raised an elegant eyebrow, clearly amused by your sudden panic. “Something the matter?”

“No! Nothing’s the matter!” you said, far too quickly, your voice an octave higher than usual. You stumbled over your chair in your haste to get out of the room, nearly tripping on your own feet. “I just—need to—um—fresh air, yes, exactly!”

Before Vil could say anything else, you bolted from the study and down the hall, your heart racing as though you’d just run a marathon. You darted into the nearest empty room and pressed your back against the door, your mind swirling with confusion.

Am I falling for him?

You slapped a hand over your mouth, horrified by the realization. “No… no, this isn’t happening. This can’t be happening. I’m in love with a character from this awful, brain-numbing novel?”

You slumped against the door, groaning as the full weight of the situation sank in. How could this happen? How could my first true love— you gagged at the phrase —be from this trash novel?

There was no escaping it now. The butterflies in your stomach every time Vil looked your way, the way your heart skipped a beat whenever he smiled, the fact that you wanted nothing more than to be close to him… it was all painfully obvious.

You buried your face in your hands. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die of embarrassment in this ridiculous world.”

And the worst part? It wasn’t even one of the good isekai novels. You’d somehow gotten stuck in what could be considered objectively the worst one, and yet here you were, head over heels for a character who—against all odds—turned out to be the most amazing person you’d ever met.

“Oh god,” you muttered to yourself, sliding down to the floor, your head falling back against the door with a thud. “I'm in love with Vil. I’m doomed. Completely doomed.”

“Mon Dieu! What a revelation!” a voice suddenly rang out from the shadows.

You yelped, whipping around to see none other than Rook Hunt—perched in the corner of the room like some kind of overly dramatic bird of prey, his hat casting a mysterious shadow over his eyes. His entire being radiated excitement, and you swore you saw actual sparkles in the air around him.

“Rook?! How long have you been there?!”

“Long enough, my dear,” he said, voice hushed with reverence, as though you had just confessed your deepest, most tragic secret. “Ah, love! The torment, the longing! The exquisite despair you must be feeling!” He took a step forward, eyes gleaming with unbridled enthusiasm. “But fear not, mon ami, for I, Rook Hunt, shall be your faithful cupid! Together, we shall make Vil see the truth of your affections!”

You blinked, stunned. “Uh… I’m not sure that’s—"

“Ah, but you must!" Rook declared, swooping down to kneel dramatically before you. “Love, once realized, must be pursued with all one’s passion and determination! Do not let this opportunity slip through your fingers like sand in the wind! I shall assist you!”

You opened your mouth to protest, but the sheer intensity of his expression made you falter. Rook was looking at you like this was the most important mission of his life.

Honestly, what did you have to lose at this point?

With a deep, exhausted sigh, you muttered, “Fine. Fine! I’ll do it. Help me, Rook.”

Rook’s grin stretched so wide it was borderline terrifying. “Excellent! This will be an adventure for the ages!” Before you could even process what you’d agreed to, Rook leaped to his feet and clapped his hands together. “But we will need more help. A certain someone with a youthful spirit and just enough mischievousness to add that je ne sais quoi to our plans.”

Oh no.

Cue Epel.

“What the hell are you ropin’ me into?” Epel grumbled as Rook dragged him into your predicament not five minutes later.

“I have volunteered you for a most noble cause, mon petit pomme,” Rook said, not even breaking stride as he swept Epel into the room. “Our dear friend here is head over heels for our Vil, and we are going to help them win his heart”

Epel paused, blinking at you in disbelief. “Wait, Vil? That Vil?” He gestured vaguely in the direction of where Vil’s office was.

“Yes, that Vil,” you said flatly, already regretting every life decision that had led you to this point.

Epel gave you a dubious look. “And you agreed to let Rook help you?”

You groaned, dragging a hand over your face. “Don’t remind me.”

“Alright, fine. I’m in.” Epel shrugged, a wicked grin creeping onto his face. “If we’re gonna do this, we’re gonna do it big.”

Thus began the most absurd, over-the-top, and borderline catastrophic schemes in an attempt to prove your love to Vil Schoenheit.

It started innocently enough. You wanted to make Vil his favorite tea. Simple, right? But Rook insisted that it couldn’t just be any tea. No, it had to be presented with an air of mystery and allure.

“Bring it to him while reciting a sonnet of devotion!” Rook suggested. “Declare your admiration with each step, so that he understands the depth of your feelings!”

“I’m not reciting a sonnet, Rook.”

Epel, on the other hand, was far more pragmatic. “Or you could just… write him a note and leave it with the tea?”

That seemed normal. Rational. You’d take Epel’s advice. So, you snuck into Vil’s room, left the tea and a note on his desk, and slipped out before anyone noticed.

The next morning, Vil eyed you suspiciously over breakfast. “Did you leave tea in my study last night?”

You nodded, trying to play it cool. “Yeah, I thought you’d appreciate it.”

Vil’s eyes narrowed, but you swore you saw the corner of his lips twitch into the faintest smile. “I see. How thoughtful.”

Then came Operation: Compliment Vil at Every Opportunity.

Rook, of course, insisted you be poetic. “Tell him his beauty rivals the very stars in the sky!”

“I’m not saying that.”

Epel chimed in with a much more straightforward approach: “Just tell him his hair looks nice. It’s always nice.”

But Rook’s enthusiasm was contagious, and before you knew it, you found yourself blurting out, “Your radiance is blinding today, Vil! Truly, I must shield my eyes from such ethereal beauty!”

Vil, who had been in the middle of inspecting his reflection, froze. His eyes darted to you, and he gave you a strange look.

“Are you… feeling alright? Did you perhaps get bitten by a stray Rook?”

You shook your head vigorously, your face heating up from how ridiculous you sounded. “Totally fine! Just… appreciating your beauty! Yep. Normal stuff.”

Vil didn’t say anything, but you could see a hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He looked amused—and maybe a little pleased—but more than anything, he seemed confused.

At least he didn’t think you’d lost your mind. Yet.

You were convinced this novel had it out for you from the beginning, but this? This was a new low. The memory loss trope, the final attempt to make your life as ridiculous as possible, had arrived—right on schedule.

You knew how it was supposed to go. You’d hit your head (a complete accident, obviously), wake up with no memory of Vil, and immediately make the worst decisions possible, like falling for that knockoff prince, Neige. Cue dramatic heartbreak, public humiliation, and eventual abandonment. Classic trashy novel shenanigans.

But apparently, the universe—or whatever cosmic force was in charge of your suffering—had decided to take a vacation after all the work it had been putting in. Because when you opened your eyes and saw Vil leaning over you, worry etched into his perfect face, instead of forgetting him, you were… immediately smitten?

What?

And it didn’t stop there. When he took your hand in his, gently kissing your knuckles in that heartbreakingly tender way, it was like a light switch flipped. Your memories came rushing back, completely bypassing the whole convoluted plot about amnesia and bad decisions.

Because of course in this disaster of a novel, the solution to everything was true love's kiss. The most overdone, eye-rolling cliché in the history of romance, and yet here you were, living through it.

You almost laughed out loud. Of all the tropes this novel had thrown at you—evil fiancées, jealous heroines, duels for honor—this had to be the funniest. It was as if the universe had taken one look at your situation and said, “You know what? Let’s skip the suffering and go straight to the ridiculous happy ending.”

True love’s kiss. Really. This novel is mocking me at this point, you thought, fighting the urge to scream. But hey, at least you didn’t have to deal with more drama. And as Vil’s concerned gaze softened into a relieved smile, you couldn’t help but think that, maybe, this was one trope you didn’t mind after all.

You'd almost given up on confessing. Maybe you'll just live like this forever, your fate was sealed. The novel clearly doesn't want you to tell him how you feel.

But there was another ball (because apparently that's the only place that nobility had be at in this novel. What was this? the 108th ball of the year?) You'd decided that you'll ask him for a stroll under the moonlight and just tell him.

Of course, the novel is not on your side. What's new?

The ball was going well—well, for you and Vil, anyway. You’d just finished dancing, and he looked absolutely stunning, as usual. You were basking in the afterglow of all the whispered praise and envious stares. That is, until you overheard someone bad-mouthing Vil.

Of course, it had to be the heroine’s best friend, who was apparently using this grand occasion to air her grievances.

“I just don’t understand why Vil is always so cold to her,” she whined, loud enough for everyone within a three-mile radius to hear. “She’s the saintess! She deserves kindness and adoration, not disdain.”

Cue the dramatic gasps from the crowd. Ah, here we go.

You shot Vil a look, but he merely shrugged, rolling his eyes. He clearly didn’t want to start any trouble. But you? Oh, you were about to flip the table on these idiots.

“Excuse me,” you began, stepping forward, the crowd parting like the Red Sea as you made your way over. “I couldn’t help but overhear your incredibly loud complaints about my fiancé.”

The heroine’s best friend froze, clearly not expecting you to get involved. You smiled sweetly, but your eyes were throwing daggers.

“Let me set the record straight. Vil isn’t cold to her because she’s the ‘saintess,’” you air-quoted the title, “He’s cold to her because she’s an insufferable brat who’s so used to getting her way that she throws a tantrum every time someone says ‘no.’”

More gasps from the crowd. You could see Neige stiffening across the ballroom, already sensing where this was going. But there was no stopping you now.

“And don’t get me started on you,” you pointed at the best friend, your tone dripping with sarcasm. “You’re out here defending her honor like you’re some knight in shining armor when, let’s be real, you’re just as bad. You fawn over her like a lost puppy, expecting her to shower you with praise when all you do is enable her delusions.”

Vil, somewhere behind you, was probably trying not to laugh. But you weren't done.

“And as for your precious Neige over there?” you tilted your head toward the prince-wannabe, who was looking more and more uncomfortable by the second. “He’s not some perfect angel either. He’s just a guy with an unsettling talent for showing up at the most convenient times, with that same doe-eyed, clueless expression, making everyone feel sorry for him.”

You didn’t stop at Neige.

"And as for you," you said, spinning toward the brooding Duke of the North, the infamous second male lead, who had been leaning against a pillar, looking every bit the tall, tormented, handsome cliché. “You’re not fooling anyone either. You’re the king of melodramatic entrances. Always lurking in the shadows, trying to look mysterious, but really, you’re just sulking because no one’s paying attention to you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—are you brooding? Again? Let me guess, you’re thinking about some dark secret that you’ll drop at the most inconvenient moment to make things worse for everyone, right?” You mimicked his deep, serious voice. “‘It’s the burden I must bear… alone.’” You threw your head back in mock agony, hands dramatically placed on your chest.

He straightened up, clearly offended, but you didn’t give him the chance to speak.

“And stop pretending like you’re some tragic hero,” you added, lowering your voice with a sharp edge. “You’re just a guy with commitment issues who sacrifices himself because you can’t handle the fact that the heroine doesn’t want you. Let it go.”

There was dead silence. You half-expected a chandelier to drop just for the dramatic effect. Even Vil had to look away for a moment, probably to hide the fact that he in tears, about to burst out laughing.

The heroine was slack-jawed, her best friend looked like she wanted to melt into the floor, and Neige… well, Neige just looked confused. As always.

Satisfied, you dusted off your hands and turned back to Vil, who was looking at you with a mixture of shock and awe, as if he’d just witnessed some divine intervention.

You let out a satisfied huff and turned to leave. "Come on, Vil, I can't stand to be in the same room as these second-rate characters any longer, let's bounce"

Once outside, you saw Vil was still recovering, a smirk pulling at his lips. “I think you may have traumatized half the ballroom.”

“Good,” you huffed, crossing your arms. “They deserved it. Especially that brooding Duke. ‘I sacrifice myself for the greater good.’ Ugh, give me a break.”

Vil chuckled, sliding his arm around your waist. "Still, you didn’t have to go to such lengths for me."

You stopped in your tracks, spun around, and looked him dead in the eye. “Of course I did! I love you, Vil. I couldn’t just sit there and let them trash you like that.”

The moment the words left your mouth, you froze. Oh. Well. There it was.

Vil’s eyes widened, a rare, unguarded expression crossing his face. For a moment, he just stood there, taking in your words. Then, without a word, he cupped your face in his hands and kissed you, soft but sure, like he’d been waiting for this moment as much as you had.

When he pulled back, his smile was the softest you’d ever seen. “You love me,” he repeated, almost like he couldn’t believe it.

You nodded, a bit breathless from both the confession and the kiss. “Yes, Vil. I love you. Even with all your ridiculously high standards and obsession with skincare.”

Vil laughed, the sound warm and genuine. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to hear you say that.”

Vil pulled back slightly, his hands still resting on your waist, and asked with a quiet, almost teasing tone, "Well then, since you love me so much... should we get married?"

You blinked, your brain taking a second to catch up. "Wait—what? Married? Like, right now?" You stared at him, heart racing, before suddenly, an idea lit up your face like a firework. “Oh my god, yes! Let’s do it. Let’s get married ASAP. Like, today. Right now. Do we even need a ceremony? We can find an officiant and—boom—done. Just tell me where to sign!”

Vil’s eyes widened, taken aback by your sudden enthusiasm. “Are you… serious?”

You grabbed his hand, absolutely buzzing with energy. “Of course, I’m serious! Why wait? This dumbass universe keeps throwing garbage tropes at us, and honestly? Getting married right now is the perfect way to flip the script! Take that, fate!"

Before Vil could respond, an overly excited voice erupted from behind a nearby pillar. “Oh là là! Mon cœur can hardly handle this romance!” Rook leaped out from the shadows, practically sparkling with joy, as if he had been waiting for this very moment all his life. "The passion! The declaration of love! And now, a spontaneous wedding? Magnifique!”

“Rook!?” Vil’s voice was a mix of amusement and exasperation. “Have you been spying on us?”

“Spying?” Rook gasped dramatically, placing a hand on his chest. “Non, non, Vil! I was merely ensuring your well-being as any devoted friend would!” He gave a wink, clearly pleased with his role as an unintended audience.

“Me too!” Epel poked his head out from behind another pillar, grinning sheepishly. “I mean, who’d wanna miss out on somethin’ like this? Y’all are gettin’ married!”

Vil let out a long, tired sigh, but you could see the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I can’t believe this is happening,” he muttered.

“Oh, it’s happening,” you said, grabbing his arm again and dragging him forward. “We’re doing this, and it’s going to be the best wedding in this entire stupid book, Rook, Epel, you’re both invited. Wait, scratch that, you’re both in the wedding party now!”

“C’est incroyable!” Rook twirled dramatically, hands clasped together, already imagining his outfit for the occasion. “I shall be the most loyal and stylish groomsman! Oh, l’amour!”

“And I get to wear somethin’ fancy, right?” Epel asked, already envisioning something much cooler than his usual attire.

Vil was now fully grinning, his initial surprise turning into genuine amusement as he looked at you with sparkling eyes. “You really are something else.”

“Yeah, and now I’m gonna be your something else forever.” You beamed up at him, still holding onto his hand like you might drag him to the altar yourself right now.

“Well then,” Vil sighed, leaning down to kiss your forehead. “Let’s get married.”

Before you could even start plotting where to drag Vil to find someone to officiate, Rook suddenly gasped, clasping his hands together dramatically. "Mon dieu! How could I forget? I am more than prepared for this moment!"

You and Vil exchanged puzzled looks. "What are you talking about, Rook?" Vil asked, raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

Rook grinned, remviong his hat and and dramatically pulling out a folded piece of parchment. "Behold!" he announced, waving the paper with a flourish. "A certified license to officiate weddings. I took the liberty of acquiring it long ago, knowing that one day I’d be the one to unite you and your beloved. C’est le destin!"

“You’re… licensed?” Vil blinked, looking at Rook like he had officially lost it. "And you're walking around with the license in your hat?"

Rook nodded with a dazzling smile. “Why yes, I’ve been preparing for this glorious day! Every flower petal, every gust of wind, every glance of love I’ve witnessed between you both has been leading to this fated moment!” He struck a pose, the parchment still dramatically held aloft.

You stared at him, then back at Vil. "Okay, I know this is ridiculous, but honestly? This is the funniest thing I’ve ever heard, and I kind of love it. Let's just let him do it."

Vil put a hand to his forehead, trying to suppress a chuckle. "Are we really doing this?"

“Yes!” you declared, squeezing Vil's hand. “If we’re going full chaos, we’re going all the way. Rook, officiate the hell out of this wedding!”

Epel, watching the entire spectacle, burst into laughter. “Only in this house, I swear…”

Rook practically sparkled with joy, bouncing on his feet. “Oh là là, it will be my greatest honor! I’ve been rehearsing my officiating speech in front of the mirror for months”

“Months?” Vil repeated, a mix of disbelief and exasperation in his tone.

“Mais oui! Every day, I’d wake up and say, ‘Today could be the day!’” Rook sighed dramatically, already tearing up. “And here we are. It’s everything I’ve ever dreamed of. Now, shall we begin? I have the vows prepared, unless you have your own?”

You leaned into Vil, barely holding back laughter. “I have zero regrets about this. Absolutely zero.”

Vil sighed again but couldn’t stop smiling. “Only you could make something this absurd seem perfect.”

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

Okay, this became way longer than I expected it to be but to be fair, i was on an extreme caffeine high and i'd just finished an assignment that had been beating my ass

also sorry for the neige slander, I don't hate him but vdc broke me

#Vil x reader #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twst x reader #au: nobility #vil schoenheit #vil schoenheit x reader #trash novel chronicles #fem reader

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on-the-clear-blue · 9 months ago

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Little idea wiggling about in my brain...

So like *holds Danny and Billy up by the scruff of their shirts* these two bastards won't leave my brain, and for punishment I will make them kiss...

Just, the Rock of eternity technically is Shazam's (the wizards) haunt? He has been dead for a long time, living only though his champion, what if Ghost King Danny gets slapped with a post it note that reads like

"Daniel, you're required to assist the Champion of Magic as the High King of the Realms, even Pariah helped the previous Champion Black Adam."

And Danny is like, "Sure, why not, Magic is real and so are ghosts."

And like....

Sparky Danny meeting Literal Sun Beam Billy, they are both 14, it's puppy love at its finest. Danny doesn't know what to do with gay panic and Billy is just straight up "This man is my soul mate, he shall be mine." (Call iy Zeus bestowing more than just lightning)

The leauge is very concerned why Captain Marvel seems to have a seeming underage partner.

Superman squinting very hard and trying to figure this out: So...just how old is Phantom?

Billy, unaware how bad this looks: Oh I don't know honestly, it's kinda hard to tell with beings from the Realms! Though he died when he was 14!

Superman, gripping the table (which cracks a little) :And how exactly long has he been 14?

Billy, taking out his phone and flipping out pictures: Like I said, I don't really know how old he is, but there is Egyptain hieroglyphics of him! Look!

Superman, blinking at the very real looking pictures: Ahh. Fun cool cool cool...a-and how are you again Cap?

Billy mindlessly swiping the photos, excited to show off his boyfriend:Never said it, but he is definitely older than I am.

(Danny is older by a month, Billy calls him an old man for it.)

Billy gets to live full time in Danny's haunt in the Zone, Danny built him like the best house, Tucker and Sam get to meet Billy and they just are flabbergasted that Danny "I can't get a girl to date me or else she ends up wanting to kill me" Fenton has a boyfriend that has been going steady for a few months.

My brain sees like, Maddie and Jack are 100% backing Danny, they are fully supportive of their bi/gay/pan son, but in no way would they support him if he was a ghost, like they are organizing Amitys first ever Pride parade, but there is a shoot ghosts on sight order.

And just the reveal is like...

Danny gets finally tells them he is a ghost: if you start shooting me, your shooting the only Gay person you know, not very ally of you mom and Dad.

Maddie mouth open in horror: Oh no...Jack are...are we homophobic?

Jack sharing her look of fear: Great Scott...Dann-o a-are you sure...its...it's a life style right? Y-you chose this?

Danny, trying very, very hard not to laugh: It's not a life style dad! I didn't choose to Die!

Anyway, thank you for coming to my brain word vomit, I haven't slept in 20 hours.

#dc x dp #dpxdc #danny phantom #danny is a little shit #ghost king danny #billy batson #shazam #captain marvel #hiding this in the tags #but...Black Adam/Praiah Dark anyone?#i can see it #i am so tired #god let me sleep

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maenefa · 5 months ago

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Why does Eowyn want to die?

Because Aragorn won’t love her? Because she feels trapped in her feminine gender role?

These are the explanations we get in the text. However, none of the characters really acknowledge Eowyn’s darkest fear: being taken alive by the enemy.

There are some bad takes on Eowyn that boil down to patronizing her and downplaying the seriousness of her problems. People say that she had a naive desire for glory and Faramir teaches her that war isn’t actually fun. Then there’s the whole “Eowyn was a deserter who selfishly ran away from her duty” argument.

You can only say these things if you ignore how dire the situation was, how close Sauron was to winning, and how gruesome Eowyn’s fate would have been if he won. She knew that death or capture likely awaited her, and she knew that dying in battle was the least bad option. (She also knew her own worth and believed that she was too useful a warrior to be left behind with the civilians. And she was right.)

Eowyn’s actions are ruthlessly practical! She wants to die fighting because that’s better than waiting around for The Horrors. Let’s be real, Eowyn is too sensible to be suicidal over an unrequited crush.

Here are some of her most revealing quotes:

“All your words are but to say: you are a woman, and your part is in the house. But when the men have died in battle and honor, you have leave to be burned in the house, for the men will need it no more.”

“And those who have not swords can still die upon them.”

“Nor is it always evil to die in battle, even in bitter pain. Were I permitted, in this dark hour I would choose the latter.”

“But I do not desire healing…. I wish to ride to war like my brother Éomer, or better like Théoden the king, for he died and has both honour and peace.”

In the end, Eowyn only stops wanting to die after Sauron is defeated. Just before the Ring is destroyed, she tells Faramir:

“I stand upon some dreadful brink, and it is utterly dark in the abyss before my feet, but whether there is any light behind me I cannot tell. For I cannot turn yet. I wait for some stroke of doom.”

Eowyn can’t turn to light and life until the war is over. Hope is too painful; death at least offers “honor and peace.” This passage is so important because it EXPLICITLY links Eowyn’s despair to the outcome of the war and makes it clear that she is not simply having a meltdown because Aragorn rejected her.

There are two important moments where Eowyn is threatened with violence. The very first time we meet her, we are told by Gandalf that Wormtongue planned to turn her into a sex slave after Saruman conquered Rohan. Even though this threat is dismissed quickly, it’s a disturbing reminder of what could happen to Eowyn if Sauron wins.

Then we have the most triumphant moment of Eowyn’s story: her battle with the Witch King. Once again, Eowyn is not threatened with death, but with captivity and torment:

“Come not between the Nazgûl and his prey! Or he will not slay thee in thy turn. He will bear thee away to the houses of lamentation, beyond all darkness, where thy flesh shall be devoured, and thy shrivelled mind be left naked to the Lidless Eye.”

Eowyn laughs at him and makes sure to announce that she is a woman before killing him. Her victory is all the more satisfying because the Witch King has just threatened her with captivity, loss of agency, the violation of her body and mind—all threats that Eowyn has faced before. But the Witch King’s words continue to haunt Eowyn and us. He threatens to withhold death; and death is therefore framed as an escape, a gift. Eowyn is taken to the Houses of Healing, but she is obsessed with returning to battle and fighting until she dies.

When Eowyn says that she fears “a cage,” this is a brilliantly simple metaphor for the entire spectrum of oppression she has faced: from the well-meaning restrictions of her culture to the horrifying enslavement threatened by Wormtongue.

Once the war is over, Eowyn is able to laugh at her fears. She teases Faramir: “And would you have your proud folk say of you: there goes a lord who tamed a wild shieldmaiden of the North!” Her fear of being caged has been turned into a bit of flirtatious banter. She feels completely safe with Faramir, and the idea that he “tamed” her is nothing but a joke between them.

#eowyn #tolkien #lotr

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georgeplease · 5 months ago

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The One Where We Have to Fuck or Die

Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader

Fred gives Reader his test vial of a new love potion for the store. They quickly realize if they don’t have sex then it’ll kill her.

Tags: Porn Logic, Aphrodisiac, fucking like rabbits, both reader and Fred are in their late 20s-early 30s

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT

It started as a normal Saturday for (Y/n). She had slept in, made some breakfast, cleaned her flat, and had been getting ready to relax for the rest of the day. That was until a familiar owl had found its way to her window, dropping off a letter with her name scrawled across the front. The handwriting was all too familiar, making her roll her eyes as she retrieved it from the owl before sending him on his way.

Having met the twins in her first year at Hogwarts was a pivotal moment, developing a fast friendship with the both of them after a prank gone wrong. That fateful afternoon sparked a 12 year long friendship between the twins and her.

Yet, there was always something between her and Fred, others may say they were destined together, they chose to believe they were just really good friends. It’s part of the reason he could send a letter like this, asking for her to rush down to his shop and help him. As annoyed as she would act, she would always rush to his side.

It didn’t take long for her to get dressed and make her way to Diagon Alley, easily finding her way through the busy street to her favorite store. As (Y/n) entered the shop she turned waving to George as she passed through toward the back. The store was as crowded as it usually was for a weekend, causing her to weave through several other customers before she was able to each the employees only section. The letter she had received from Fred to come to the store said it was an urgent matter, but having known him long enough, she was positive he was lying. But yet, here she was.

Not wasting anytime, she pushed into his office, seeing him sat at his desk, feet resting as he smirked upon seeing her enter.

“Well, if it isn’t my most loyal test subject.”

“What is it now, Fred?” She asked, crossing her arms, clearly not assumed by his mood.

Standing up, Fred walked around his desk, handing her a glittery pink vial, causing her to raise an eyebrow as she grabbed it from him. Looking at it, it was clear what it was supposed to be, having seen many of the Twin’s famous love potions before.

“A love potion? Don’t you already have several different kinds?” She asked, curious as to where this was leading.

“Not just any love potion, this is specifically for our older couples. You know, to help them spicy up their lives.”

“Like Viagra?”

Fred raised an eyebrow, not understanding what that was. He quickly shrugged it off, turning back to his sales pitch. “No, no. This is better than any muggle product.” Moving behind her, he put his hands on her shoulders. “What’s the number one reason most people get divorced?” He gave a second for her to think before answering for her. “That’s right, lack of passion. Imagine how many people we could help if we sold passion in a vial. How ‘bout that?”

“Work on your sales pitch, but I do like the idea.” placing a hand in her chin, she observed the vial closely. “I figure you want me to test it?“ Looking over her shoulder she sees Fred nod. “Have you tested it on anything else?”

“Tested a few drops on some plants, didn’t kill them so it should be fine for human consumption.”

“That sounds promising.” She teased, sliding away from his grasp. “What’s in it for me?”

“Besides being so horny there’s no way you won’t have an amazing orgasm once you go home?” He teased, before continuing his pitch. “Usual price, 50 galleons and unlimited supplies if you so need it.”

Fred stuck his hand out, waiting to see if she’d take his offer. After pondering for a few seconds, she reached out with her free hand shaking it. A deal with the devil, some would say.

Uncorking the vial, she pressed it to her lips, swallowing the liquid. Luckily, he had been able to get it to taste more pleasant than his other attempts, reminding her of fresh strawberries with cream. Her eyes moved to look at the ceiling, waiting for the desired effects to happen. Awkwardly she began to look around the room to pass the time, feeling a little weird to test this kind of potion in front of her friend, but money is money. And she trusted that Fred would not kill her.

As she took a look behind him, her attention was drawn to his work station. Her eyes were drawn to the ingredients he had used, haphazardly tossed about. There were the components to making a love potion, a rather simple potion. No, what caught her eye was the other ingredients he had mixed, a good amount well known aphrodisiacs along with an odd collection of ingredients that have her an uneasy feeling in her stomach. Walking over, she got a better look at them, understanding why she felt so uneasy. Mixing these ingredients together are well known for causing the person who took the potion to die if certain conditions weren’t met.

Wide eyed, she snapped to look at Fred, her body feeling warm as she felt it begins to take effect. He seems none the wiser to his fatal error, his arrogant smirk pissing her off. Throwing the empty vial at him, she turned on her heel to face him.

“You fucking moron.” She spat, panic raising in her voice, her legs subconsciously clenching together as that heat began to grow between her legs. “You didn’t make a better love potion, you made an aphrodisiac with poison.”

Fred’s face contorted, not understanding why she seemed so ticked off. His brows pushed together, as he walked over to her, trying to better understand the situation, while also a little ticked off she had thrown the small vial at him. He began to watch her more closely than before, thinking that something about his potion had caused her reaction.

Trying her best not to act on the deep ache, she moved farther from Fred. The feeling was almost too much, her hand subconsciously moving toward her crotch, wanting to swirl circles to dull the ache. Instead, her other hand moved to hold the other one, interlocking her fingers together behind her back.

“What are you on about?” Fred asked as he moved closer.

“Fred, this potion is going to kill me. How fucking dense are you?” (Y/n) ran a hand through her hair, tugging at it to try and regain her focus as her thoughts grew more perverse.

“You’ve gone mental. Don’t tell me you never been horny before, love?” Fred teased, watching the way her face flushed like a virgin.

“I’m being serious.” She said, fanning herself as she felt her body warm up. “You’ve basically just signed my death warrant if I don’t get shagged as soon as possible.”

“So you’re saying, you need dick not to die?” He laughed, almost not taking her seriously.

“Shut up.” She spat, moving away from him as he moved closer.

“Have you gone sick in the brain?” He asks, reaching to take her temperature, which she skillfully dodged. “Honestly, woman, if you wanted me that badly you didn’t need to make up such an insane lie.”

“Fred, fucking listen to me.” She said, stepping forward and grabbing his face to look at his ingredients. “Think real hard about what these ingredients do. I know potions wasn’t your strong suit, but fucking think.”

As Fred surveyed the ingredients, he tried his best to recall his potions class. As his mind ran through all the things Snape had said, he came to the same horrifying conclusion she had come to moments ago. His head whipped around, noticing how want she looked, her eyes struggling to stay locked on his face, and the way her legs shook as they clenched together.

“Oh, I fucked up.” He mumbled, his brain racing as he tried to think of an antidote. Fred bolted from his spot, looking at what ingredients he had left. His mind was racing trying to figure out how to make an antidote before his potion killed her.

Her eyes watched him, panic rising through her body as she felt how the heat began to rise within. The potion Fred had brewed was a lot more fast acting than she was expecting. Even though her brain was being quickly consumed with impure thoughts, she began calculating how much time she had before it would inevitably kill her, but her thoughts kept getting interrupted.

Her eyes trailed down his body, wanting nothing more than to pull his trousers down and go wild with him. It felt insane, she had known him since they were teens and they had never once come close to hooking up, despite all the rumors that had swirled saying otherwise. Speaking of rumors, her mind couldn’t help but focus on the rumors of how good Fred was in bed, remembering how they spoke so highly of his ability. How the girls he did hook up with swore he was the best fuck they had ever had.

Letting out a drawn out whine, she stomped her foot, closing her eyes tight as she tried to fight back from thinking of him like that. It felt so shameful, like she was no better than a common pervert to think that way about Fred. Shaking her head, she used all her brain power to push the impure thoughts out, which she was successfully able to do.

Given the large amounts of aphrodisiacs he had mixed in, she figured they had less than 30 minutes before the effects became irreversible. No matter how fast her and Fred worked, she would still be dead before he figured the correct concoction. The only solution was that they had to have sex now. Eyes widening, she felt a new emotion besides instensely building lust, dread.

“We don’t have fucking time,” she cursed, her breathing becoming more labored as she tried to speak, “we have to do it.”

“It?!”

“It!!!” She shot back, already moving to throw her shirt off her body, exposing him to the way her chest heaved.

Fred nearly had a heart attack seeing her chest. It wasn’t like he was a virgin or anything, he had seen his fair share of tits, but this was his best friend. His insanely hot best friend he has had a massive thing for for years now, but still his best friend. His best friends who was surprisingly good at removing her clothes as fast as she can, most of her clothes now thrown about his office. His best friend who looked as if she was going to jump him any second now.

“We don’t have time for you to guess who to brew the antidote, unless you’d rather I die than fuck me.” Her voice was strained, trying hard to focus on her words than succumbing to the lust.

Fred didn’t respond immediately, causing her to look at him, worried he might just let her die rather than fuck her. Most of her clothes were already thrown around the room, she felt way too exposed for a serious moment like this. Raising her eyebrows, she shot him a concerned look, silently pleading that he wouldn’t just let her suffer for his mistake. It seemed to have knocked some sense into Fred, who quickly responded.

“Right,” he stuttered out, “you’re right.” He quickly said, beginning to unbutton his shirt, his mind racing with a million thoughts. “I am so bloody sorry, (Y/n).”

“Shut up, if you get all sad and shit it’ll be difficult for you to get hard.” She replied, trying her best to seem cold and calculated. Her thoughts were only occupied on getting this done as soon as possible, no need for feelings. “You can think of ways to make this up to me after I’m no longer dying.”

“Wait,” Fred said, making (Y/n) stop in her tracks, “let me just…” he reached over, pushing her close to him before apperating them both into the apartment above the store, right in his room. “This will be better.”

The environment from his office to his room was definitely better, no longer could they hear the muffled sounds of customers from within the store. Fred’s room was messy, clearly he hadn’t assumed this would be how his day would be going. As he threw his clothes onto the floor where the rest of his laundry seemed to end up, he tried to think of sexy thoughts to get himself aroused. But looking back at his friend, who was giving him the most fuckable bedroom eyes he had ever seen did the trick.

(Y/n) ripped off her underwear, tossing them into the room before laying on the bed, crawling backwards as she let out a shaky moan, her mind unable to fight off the lustful thoughts anymore. Her hand reached between her legs, trying to relieve some of the pressure, but only making her more needy. Some part of her felt humiliated, to be reduced this easily from a potion, no longer able to spit out any kind of insult at him as she stared up at him. All she was able to do was speak directly from her lust, not able to cover it up with any kind of quick witted reply as she normally would.

“Fuck,” she shakily moaned, her eyes then locking onto Fred’s, “need you. Badly.”

Now, here’s how Fred’s usual hook ups turn out. He charms them into his bed and then shows them how it’s done. Never in his life had he ever been lost for words, yet a situation like this rarely occurs. So you must forgive him for not knowing what to do watching his best friend of over ten years touch herself and talk to him like that.

Fred made his way to the bed, sliding in between her parted thighs. He felt like a total prat for even struggling to take control of the situation and fuck her. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath, Fred steadied himself, reaching down to stroke himself a few times. His cock stood tall and proud, making her clench in need as she looked down.

As he lined himself up with her entrance, he found the situation awkward given their history. She deserved better than a standard fuck, a little romance and, though he hates to say it, a little passion. Looking down at her, his hair falling perfectly over his face, he spoke.

“Can I kiss you?”

(Y/n) looked at him incredulously, already completely naked in front of him. The rational part of her brain wanted to tell him no, to keep their feelings out of this and just do what they have to to keep her from an early grave. But god, did she want to kiss him. To not feel like this decision is inevitably going to ruin your friendship.

She quickly nodded her head, her lust answering for her as she shot forward, wrapping her arms around his neck.

It should’ve been awkward, like kissing a sibling. They both should’ve hated the kiss, but instead it was electrifying. Their mouths melded perfectly together, as if they were meant to be.

As they made out, Fred got to work, rubbing the tip of his cock against her cunt, trying to coat it in her slick before he slid in. His eyes almost rolled back when he felt just got wet she already was, groaning into her mouth as his hips subconsciously pushed forward. (Y/n) whined against his mouth, her eyes screwing up as the tip of his cock bumped into her inflamed clit, mumbling out his name.

It was all too much, her body felt on fire as she began to beg him to fuck her, tears welling as the potion came to a head. Her head was swimming with lust as she felt his length press against her.

Fred began to push in, trying to go as slow as possible. God, it felt way too good to be true, as if she was meant for him the way she perfectly sucked him in. As he pulled back from the kiss, he couldn’t help but watch the way he stretched her open.

“You feel s’good,” Fred groaned as he was fully sheathed in her.

“Fred-,” her voice called out, the air from her lungs having been knocked out from the feeling. Her nails were digging into his back as she felt him bottom out, his words almost too much to hear at the same time. “Move. Move now, need it,” it would’ve sound like her usually bossy tone if it wasn’t as whiney as it had been.

His hips moved back, almost agonizingly slow before snapping forward with enough force to move her up the bed. She couldn’t tell if it was the potion or if Fred was actually this good in bed, but it was driving her crazy how good she felt. A part of her feared she may be ruined for life, that nobody else would ever make her feel this good ever again. Not that she’d ever admit that to him, his ego already too inflated for his own good.

“Need me that bad that you’ll beg for it?” He smugly spoke, his hips snapping forward to accentuate his point. “Need me to fuck you nice and hard?” He teased, clearly not feeling as awkward as he once did.

Reaching out, his finger masterfully found its way to her clit, swirling around it. (Y/n) threw her head back, loudly whining as she ground against him. Her hands went to cover her face, embarrassed that she knew the potion wasn’t entirely to blame for how horny she felt in this moment. That fucking her best friend was better than any rumor she had ever heard.

“Come on, tell me how good you feel, (Y/n).”

God, did she want to smack him upside his smug head, to wipe that grin off the cocky bastards face. But she couldn’t hide the way his words made her feel, how he cunt clenched tightly around him each time he spoke. Bringing her arm over her face, she attempted to hide from him, too flustered by his dirty talk. Nobody had ever talked to her like this and she definitely didn’t expect Fred would be the one to do so.

His hips started to slow, causing her eyes to snap open. Panic began to rise in her chest, both sides of her brain not wanting this to stop. It was a bluff, he felt way too good to stop. And he didn’t want her to die either.

“Need you to tell me how bad you want this cock.”

Exasperated by his sudden need to hear her, she let her lust driven brain speak freely. Throwing her head back, she didn’t even filter her thoughts out.

“Please fuck me, need to feel you fill me up. Feels so fucking good, Fred.” Her hips attempted to grind up against his, but felt his hand hold her down. “Wanted this, wanted to feel you stretch me out for so long.”

“You’re so bloody perfect.” Fred’s his snapped back into hers, a new sense of vigor taking over as he pounded into her. “Gonna make this pussy mine.”

His eyes met hers and for the first time they saw each other since this whole mess started. She stared up at him with her pupils blown out in lust, but with so much trust in him.

His hips stuttered as he felt unbelievably close, his mouth opening as his eyes shut, letting out a groan. “Oh, fuck. Feels so good. Not gonna last much longer.”

As he spoke, her hips began to rise, grinding against his groin as she met his thrusts. The deep need to release filling her mind to the brim. Her head moved to look at the clock on the wall, but Fred’s hand moved to stop her from looking.

“Focus on me,” he spoke, his voice deep as his hips began to hammer into her harder, “just focus on me.”

Looking into his eyes, seeing how he looked at her for the first time was eye opening. All the love and adoration he felt for her as his hips continued to pound into her made her legs lock around him, keeping him in place. Throwing her head back, her vision turned white, her voice cracking from the intensity she felt as her body tensed up around him, finally releasing.

And Fred was right, this was one of the best orgasms of her life. Mind shattering, earth breaking, pure bliss from such a tiny vial of poison.

His hips began to slow as she clenched around him, sucking him deep. Feeling him twitch inside her as he shot his load into her, his hips pressing firmly against hers as he released his seed. Her eyes clenched shut and her nails dug into his shoulder blades, hard enough to leave marks.

Unexpectedly, he leaned down, pressing a passionate kiss to her lips, his hips still pressed firmly against her. (Y/n)’s hands flew to his hair, tangling into his ginger locks as she kissed back, riding out their climaxes together.

Once the emotions came down, he rested his forehead against hers, savoring the remaining moments before he had to pull away. Looking back down, he pressed a tender kiss to her forehead, then pulling out, apologizing as he saw her wince at the feeling.

As Fred pulled out, (Y/n) felt her body begin to feel normal again, no longer under the control of the potion. Between the mix of sweat and the feeling of his cum leaking out of her, she felt that her thoughts were finally hers, no longer clouded by lust. Looking over, she saw Fred running a hand through his hair, seeing him in entirely new light than before. And suddenly everything made sense to her.

All those failed dates, countless nights spent wondering why nobody ever made her feel like this. It all clicked into place in her mind.

They were both laid in Fred’s bed, staring at the ceiling, coming to terms with everything they just did. No longer with the looming threat of death, it gave them a moment to reflect on what this meant for them. It was clear that they could not ignore this and move on from it, not when they both felt the same.

Fred makes the first move, moving closer to her, doing that thing where he pokes at her head when she’s over thinking. He gets one of those smiles that just lights up the room before he speaks to her.

“Soooo… round two?” Fred half heartedly joked.

Her hands reach to grab her pillow and push it into his face, softly smothering him. She playful pulled away from his embrace, needing to run to the bathroom to clean the mess.

“Shut up, I need to get cleaned up.” She spoke, trying to sound irritated but the smile on her face betrayed her.

He playfully reached out, missing her warmth next to him as she searched the room for something to cover herself with.

“Hopefully that afternoon crowd will keep George busy, because I’m not done with you.” Fred yells after her, laughing at her embarrassment as she wrapped a blanket around her and ran down the hall to his bathroom. “I have years to make up for not doing this.”

“Yeah, you can think of ways to make up for nearly killing me while your waiting.”

Tag list: @lowdownlolo @samsamsantos @clpritchett @almostpurplelady @wwmalufa @artzygurl @shininjjongg @hellohelohelo @multi-fandom-imagine @hehehhe1d @novausstuff @h-0-error @tatumrileyslover @marauderslover18 @renaholicss @vyxz-00 @lunacurlclaw @buendiabebeta @theacreativity @lousypotatoes @starziux @erika5373919882920 @rotravelsblog @stupidfer @liviacarol88-blog @calablack @aki-ham @elizabethblood9 @itsaperiwinkleworldv2 @reenfluffmarshmallow @liviacarol88-blog @

#fred weasley x reader #fred weasley #fred weasley smut #writes #hp x reader #fred weasley x fem!reader

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