papayainsectorone

[papayainsectorone]

not in a million years would i have guessed that the first fic is propably going to be max?

a little more time for voting, i'm shaking in anticipation 🤭

THE ENNEAGRAM PROJECT

💬 this will be two rounds of voting: round 1: pick if we vote for type or driver round 2: decide the order for the drivers

nine types. nine drivers. nine stories about what drives them.

the enneagram is a personality typing system with nine core types, each shaped by a different set of motivations, fears, and desires. instead of just describing how people act, it digs into why they act that way — whether it’s chasing success, keeping the peace, seeking knowledge, or protecting themselves.

sleeping at last has done an amazing serious of songs about the personalities but also talked about it on their podcast and it´s been my favourite thing for years

@trisharee @sk3tchb00ks @understeeringirl @leclercsluvs @mara1999 @random-movie @diorrgrl @lifesass @norrisjpg @sparklepiastri @spikershoyo @urmomsgirlfriend1 @l4ndoflove

[papayainsectorone]

Aftertaste

practice makes perfect⁴

✦ content childhood friends, big brother overprotectiveness, “not a baby anymore” energy, stubborn girl x protective boy dynamic, making out

✦ 3,6 k words

✦ series masterlist ✦

If only Jules knew.

It was almost funny now, how completely oblivious he was, trusting Charles to shepherd you through life’s little disasters. The irony wasn’t lost on you. In your world, Charles wasn’t just a guardian or a steadying hand—he was the wild card, the complication, the very thing that could make any plan unravel.

It made you smirk again, a little to yourself this time. Jules’ faith in Charles was touching, really, but it was blissfully blind.

FLASHBACK

The streets are quieter now, the late evening air carrying the faint salt of the sea. Streetlights cast warm pools of light across the pavement, stretching long shadows between you and Arthur as you walk side by side from your first real party. He’s got his hands jammed into the pockets of his hoodie, hood half up against the chill, but you can still see the curious squint he’s giving you from the corner of his eye.

“You’ve been weird all night,” he says finally, not looking directly at you.

You keep your gaze on the sidewalk ahead. “I have not.”

“You have. You were smiling at nothing, zoning out. Like… happy zoning out, which is suspicious.”

You bite back a smile, tucking your chin deeper into your scarf. “Maybe I’m just in a good mood.”

“Uh-huh.” He draws the sound out like he doesn’t believe you for a second. “Who is it?”

That makes you glance at him. “What makes you think it’s a ‘who’?”

Arthur grins, “Because I’m not stupid.”

You walk a few more paces in silence, the sound of your boots against the stone mixing with the distant hum of a passing car. Your head is spinning—thoughts knotting and unravelling in the same breath. Do you tell him? Would he tell Jules? Would Charles be okay with it?

“Come on,” Arthur says, cutting into your spiral. “I can hear you thinking from here.”

“Arthur…”

“Come oooon.”

You glance sideways at him, hesitant. “You have to promise me to keep it a secret.”

“I’m your best friend,” he says instantly. “I’ve never told your secrets.”

You narrow your eyes. “Arthur, really. This is… different. Like, really different.”

He grins, infuriatingly curious. “Come on. I promise.”

Finally, you exhale, slow, deliberate, like you’re crossing a line. “Okay. But you cannot tell Jules. Like, really promise.”

His grin widens. “Oh, now I’m definitely listening.”

You nudge him with your elbow, trying and failing not to smile. “Fine. Charles kissed me.”

Arthur stops walking. Just stops.

“Or… I kissed Charles. I’m not sure.”

He just stares at you, unreadable, blinking like he’s trying to process the words in the right order.

“Doesn’t matter anyway,” you add, shrugging like it’s nothing. “We kissed.”

Arthur still hasn’t moved.

You take another step before realizing he’s rooted to the pavement, staring at you like you’ve just announced you’re quitting life to live as a goat herder in the Alps.

“…Arthur?”

Nothing. Just a blink.

“You okay there?” you ask, half-smiling now, because this is the first time you’ve ever seen him not have something to say.

He finally blinks again, shakes his head a little like he’s rebooting, and starts walking, slower than before, hands jammed into his pockets.

“Wow,” he says at last, voice flat but a little breathless. “I… did not have that on my bingo card.”

You bite your lip to hide your grin. “What, the Charles part or the kiss part?”

“All of it,” he admits, glancing at you like he’s still trying to picture it. “You and him…”

His voice trails off again, and you can tell he’s not sure if he’s supposed to be concerned, amused, or preparing to interrogate you.

Arthur exhales through his nose, still eyeing you like you’ve grown a second head. “Okay… so does that mean you’re in love?”

You snort, way too loud for the quiet street. “God, no.”

His brow furrows. “Okay… so what then?”

You shrug, tucking your hands into your coat pockets. “I don’t know. We just did it. I said I wanted to kiss someone, and he said it shouldn’t be a random person, it should be… you know, special. And then—yeah, well, you know the rest.”

Arthur squints at you, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s deciding if this is adorable or the start of a disaster. “Huh. Okay. So… what now?”

“Nothing,” you say brightly. “I’m gonna get really good at kissing now, and then I can show off to cute guys.”

That finally cracks him—Arthur bursts out laughing, loud and unrestrained, the sound bouncing off the buildings.

You can’t help giggling too, the tension breaking as you bump your shoulder against his. “What?”

“Nothing,” he says, still grinning. “That´s just… so you.”

Turns out, the getting really good at it part went… well. Like, really well. Apparently, you liked kissing men—who knew?

It started innocently enough. At a party: someone’s older cousin who tasted faintly of something bitter and mint gum. Then the boy from the café who asked for your number but texted exclusively in emojis. Then Jules’ teammate’s friend, on a balcony, with the kind of kiss that made your knees feel unreliable in a fun way.

You were experimenting—different lips, different styles, collecting experiences like souvenirs. It was a game, harmless and thrilling.

Then came Louis.

He was… fine. A little taller than you, smelled faintly of cedar cologne, knew how to make you laugh. You thought it would be just another regular kiss, a casual checkmark on your growing mental list. But then—midway through—he pushed his tongue into your mouth.

You froze.

You weren’t quite sure what to do with it, so you just… smiled politely, stepped back, and excused yourself to go “find your friend.” You spent the rest of the party leaning against the kitchen counter, sipping something and trying to look busy.

But you couldn’t stop thinking about it. Not in a wow, that was amazing way—more in a what the hell just happened and why didn’t I know how to handle it way.

It gnawed at you. Maybe you didn’t like it. Or maybe you just didn’t know how to like it.

You needed someone to teach you.

Even days later, Louis’ kiss was still on your mind. Not in the I’m swooning way—more in the I’ve been thinking about it too much for something so small way. You were sprawled across the couch in your family home, legs tangled in a throw blanket, staring at nothing in particular. Jules was running late, as usual. Your parents wouldn’t be home for hours. The house felt quiet in that heavy, late-afternoon way.

The doorbell rang.

You peeled yourself off the couch and padded to the door.

It was Charles.

“Jules isn’t back yet,” you said, leaning against the frame.

“Typical,” he replied, brushing past you like he’d been coming here every day for years—which, honestly, he had.

By the time you’d sunk back into the couch, he was already in the kitchen, moving with the ease of someone who knew exactly where everything was. You heard the fridge open, the clink of bottles.

Then he came back, holding two drinks. Without slowing, he tossed one your way.

“I didn’t see you having anything to drink, mon petit,” he said, dropping into the armchair opposite you like it was his own.

You caught it without thinking, twisting the cap. “Thanks.”

His eyes flicked over you, curious but casual. “You look like you’ve been thinking about something too hard.”

“Maybe I have,” you murmured, tipping the bottle to your lips.

He smiled, not pushing. Just sitting there, calm and steady, the way Charles always seemed to be when you weren’t.

Then the penny dropped.

You thought—if you were going to ask anyone to teach you something you were too embarrassed to admit you didn’t know… it would be him.

You sat up so fast the blanket slid off your lap, a grin spreading across your face before you could even speak.

Charles narrowed his eyes immediately. “Oh god. What is it?”

“Okay, hear me out.” You tucked your legs under yourself, turning fully to face him, hands braced on your knees like you were about to pitch him the world’s most brilliant idea.

His brow furrowed, already suspicious.

“So… you remember when we were on the balcony, right?”

He looked confused for half a second, then something clicked.

“At the party…” you prompted.

“Oh… uh—yeah. Of course I do.”

You leaned back, smirking. “Wow. You didn’t sound too sure there, Charlie.”

He gave a short, awkward laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, no… I just mean… we never really talked about that.”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Yeah, whatever, but—listen—I need you to do that again.”

His whole body stilled. “…What?”

“That. The kiss.” You tilted your head like it was the most reasonable request in the world. “Just—again.”

Charles blinked at you, caught somewhere between disbelief and secondhand embarrassment. “Mon petit, you can’t just—”

“Yes, I can,” you cut in, grinning. “You’re perfect for this. Zero stakes, no weird aftermath, and you actually know what you’re doing.”

“Why do you even—” He stopped, narrowed his eyes. “This is about another guy, isn’t it?”

You nodded without shame. “Yeah.”

Charles leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, studying you like he was trying to decide if he wanted the rest of the story. “And… are you giving me more context, or?”

You shrugged, playing it casual. “Just a kiss. Nothing big. Except—” You pulled a face. “It was… different. Tongue different.”

He blinked. “Tongue different?”

“Yes. Like… sudden and I didn’t know what to do, so I just sort of… left. And now I’ve been thinking about it for days, which is annoying.”

Charles’ mouth twitched like he was fighting a smile. “So, naturally, your solution is to show up at my house—”

“This is my house,” you cut in.

“—and ask me to… what? Give you a refresher course?”

You grinned. “More like advanced training.”

Charles half-groaned, the sound somewhere between exasperation and embarrassment. “Mon petit, that was a one-time thing—to keep you from having a bad first experience. It’s not like I can just… do this every time you decide you need practice.”

You tilted your head, smile faltering as he kept going.

“We’ve known each other forever. Jules is my best friend. If he finds out…” He shook his head, eyes fixed on some distant, imaginary catastrophe. “It’s not worth the mess.”

Your shoulders dropped. “Oh, Charles, he wouldn’t find out. It’s not like we’re gonna tell him. Even Arthur didn’t say anything.”

Charles froze. “…Arthur?”

You gave a sheepish little shrug. “Uhm… yeah. I told him.”

Another groan, this one muffled behind his palm as he dragged a hand over his face. “Oh my god.”

“Listen,” you said quickly, leaning forward. “If you don’t want to do it, I’ll just go find someone else. I mean, it can’t be that hard.”

That last part had his gaze snapping back to you, sharp with something almost like warning. “Don’t,” he said flatly.

You raised a brow, “Don’t…?”

“Don’t go letting just anyone teach you...touch you.”

You crossed your arms, “Well, if you won’t help me, I don’t see what choice I have.”

Charles’ jaw worked, like he was chewing over the words he didn’t want to say. “Mon petit…” He trailed off, sighing through his nose. “You really think I’m going to let you go out there and let some idiot put his hands—or his mouth—on you?”

You smirked. “What, so you are going to help me?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“But it’s what you meant,” you countered, leaning toward him now.

He shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck like he could scrub away the thought. “This is ridiculous. I shouldn’t even be considering it.”

“You’re considering it.”

Charles shot you a look—half a glare, half something else entirely. “If we do this—”

You grinned. “When we do this—”

“—you don’t tell anyone,” he finished sharply. “Not Arthur, not Jules, no one.”

You raised a hand like you were taking an oath. “I promise to not tell Jules”

“Or Arthur....”

“Charlie I can´t promise that.”

He muttered something in French under his breath, more to himself than to you, then finally sat forward, “You’re going to drive me insane.”

“Already halfway there,” you teased, the excitement buzzing in your chest.

You leaned forward, practically bouncing in your seat now. “Okay, so… how do we start? Like, do you just—” You mimed a vague leaning motion, grinning like you’d already won.

Charles’ mouth curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. “You really have no filter, do you?”

“Not with you,” you shot back. “Come on, we’ve already done this once. You survived.”

“Barely,” he muttered, but there was a trace of amusement in his voice.

You were still smirking when he finally shifted closer. His knees brushed yours. It wasn’t even a full touch yet, just the lightest press, but your breath hitched like you’d been caught doing something you shouldn’t.

The joke you’d been ready to make died somewhere in your throat.

He noticed. Of course he noticed.

“What happened to all that confidence, mon petit?” His voice was low, edged with something that made your pulse jump.

You blinked up at him, suddenly aware of how close he was, how warm his hand felt against your skin of your thigh. “I— I’m fine,” you managed, though the words came out softer than intended.

“You don’t look fine.”

“I am,” you insisted, but your legs had gone still, your usual restless energy replaced by something more fragile, more electric.

For a beat, neither of you moved. The sound of the fridge humming in the kitchen was absurdly loud, the quiet weight of the moment stretching until it felt like the air itself had shifted.

Charles’ voice was low, steady. “Okay, so… it’s just like a regular kiss, and then you just—”

Your gaze had already drifted to his mouth, and before he could finish, you cut in, almost breathless. “Charles, just—just show me.”

He stilled, eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing whether to push this or pull back.

You took a deep breath. “Please.”

The word seemed to crack something in him. His gaze softened, the faintest smile ghosting over his lips before he leaned in.

It started like your first kiss—just a soft, sure press, the kind that didn’t ask for anything except for you to stay right there. His hand shifted, cupping the side of your face with a warmth that seeped into your skin.

Then you felt it—the slow parting of his lips, the faintest catch of his breath. Your heart kicked against your ribs, the closeness suddenly a whole new kind of dangerous.

His lips barely parted, just enough to invite you to lean in more. He didn’t rush—never once did he push or demand. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, giving you space to follow, to learn.

“Relax,” he murmured against your lips, his voice a whisper you felt more than heard. “Just feel it. Don’t think too much.”

You nodded, tiny and earnest, letting him guide. His hand stayed at your jaw, steadying you, while the other lightly rested at your thigh. Every movement was deliberate, measured, like he was showing you a rhythm you could trust.

He pressed again, slow and sure, letting your lips explore the subtle give of his. “Not too much,” he instructed softly, “just enough.”

You mimicked, hesitated, then tried again, feeling the faintest tug of a smile in his kiss as he let you find the right motion. There was a push and pull, a gentle ebb, and the moment was charged—not loud, not hurried, but electric in the hush of the apartment.

“See?” he whispered when he pulled back just slightly, forehead resting against yours. “You’re doing it. Better than you think.”

“Except… it’s kind of… uncomfortable like this,” you confessed, glancing down at your half-twisted pose. Then, with a sudden burst of daring, you added, “Also… we didn’t get to the tongue thing yet.”

Charles froze, eyes widening just a fraction. “I thought you would have forgotten until now.”

You swatted his arm playfully. “Come on—you promised.”

“Mon petit…” His voice carried a mixture of exasperation.

You blinked up at him, doe-eyed, letting your expression do the work your words couldn’t.

He sighed, letting his head tilt forward for a second, a small exhale that seemed to carry the weight of inevitable surrender. “You’re really going to make me do this.”

You smiled, nodding quickly, your pulse hammering.

Another long, slow sigh, and then he adjusted himself on the couch, sliding fully back against the cushions. One hand landed on your leg, firm but gentle, the other extended toward you. You placed your hand in it, and without another word, he guided you over his lap.

Your legs bracketed his hips, and suddenly every nerve ending in your body was acutely aware of how close, how impossibly close, you were to him.

“You can still tell me to stop, okay?” His voice was low, careful, threaded with that rare, unyielding protectiveness.

You nodded, eyes locked on his, catching the slight lift of his gaze as he looked up at you.

Hands moving almost instinctively, you rested them on his shoulders. His own hand stayed on your upper thigh, steady and grounding, warm against your skin.

Your breath had quickened, the air thick between you, electric with the thrill of crossing that delicate line, and the unspoken tension of what might come next.

Charles tilted his head slightly, watching you with that calm, steady gaze that always seemed to unnerve you just a little. “Okay… we’ll take it slow,” he murmured, voice low, almost reverent.

You swallowed hard, nodding. “Slow is… good.” Your hands tightened slightly on his shoulders, trying to ground yourself in something tangible while the rest of you felt like it was spinning.

Then he leaned in, just a fraction closer, lips brushing yours, soft at first, tentative. You exhaled, a shiver running down your spine at the contact. His hand on your thigh shifted slightly, thumb stroking gently as if testing boundaries, gauging your reaction.

And then… he parted his lips just a little, and his tongue met yours in the most delicate, exploratory touch. You froze for a heartbeat, every nerve in your body alert. It was new, different, a little daring—and yet it didn’t feel wrong. It felt electric.

Your initial instinct was to pull back, unsure, but something in you didn’t want to. Instead, you mirrored his movement cautiously, letting him guide you while you tested the waters. Your hands slid from his shoulders to rest lightly around his neck, pulling him just a fraction closer without overcommitting.

Charles let out a soft, amused breath against your lips. “There… you’re catching on quickly,” he whispered, lips brushing yours.

You bit your lip, cheeks flaming, heart hammering. “I—yeah…” you stammered, almost laughing from the mix of excitement and nerves.

He chuckled softly, deep and warm, hand still holding yours on his lap. “Remember… you can stop anytime,” he reminded you, though there was no pressure in his voice—just steady, grounding presence.

You nodded again, then leaned in again, letting yourself explore the kiss with more confidence, letting your tongue meet his just enough to understand the rhythm, the teasing push-and-pull. It was intoxicating—new, daring, and deeply intimate.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, the thought flitted through: Wow… this is actually… really good. But it wasn’t about skill or showing off—it was about the closeness, the trust, and the electric thrill of being so unguarded with you.

When you finally pulled back just slightly, breathless, your forehead rested against his. Both of you sat in that quiet, warm pause, the hum of the fridge and the faint sounds of the street outside filling the space. Your chest rose and fell rapidly, and his steady hand on your thigh reminded you that this was real… and safe… and entirely unlike anything you’d experienced before.

“Thank you.” you whispered.

He was about to reply when the faint jingle of keys at the door made both your hearts skip a beat. Charles’ eyes went wide, and before you could even react, he practically shoved you across the couch, landing on the far side with a thump. Pure horror painted across his face.

The door opened, and Jules walked in, oblivious. “Oh, hey Charles, sorry for making you wait.”

Charles cleared his throat, smoothing his hair and trying to look casual—failing spectacularly. “Oh, uh… no worries. Just… chilling.” His hands fidgeted slightly, clearly not used to being caught in… whatever had just been happening.

You bit back a laugh, still catching your breath on the couch. “Yeah, just… chilling,” you echoed, the corners of your mouth twitching.

Jules raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh.”

Charles waved a hand quickly, like swatting away suspicion. “Just talking! Nothing… unusual.” His eyes darted nervously toward you, silently begging you not to add any commentary.

You, ever the troublemaker, smirked innocently. “Mhm, nothing at all. Totally normal.”

Jules shook his head with a grin. “Alright, well, I’m heading up to my room. Charles, come with me—I need your expert opinion on some stuff.”

Charles let out a quiet groan of relief and quickly followed Jules upstairs, shooting you a brief, flustered glance over his shoulder that promised… something. You waved at him from the couch, still grinning, already replaying the chaos in your mind.

Left alone for the moment, you sank back into the couch, exhaling slowly. Okay… that just happened. And just like that, the quiet, intimate moment was gone but not forgotten.

✦ previous part ✦ next part ✦

@trisharee @sk3tchb00ks @understeeringirl @leclercsluvs @mara1999 @random-movie @diorrgrl @lifesass @norrisjpg @sparklepiastri @spikershoyo @urmomsgirlfriend1 @l4ndoflove

@cosmix-stxrs @lost-library-of-violets @mel164 @camxmx @lorena-mv33 @remussbitch

[papayainsectorone]

I hate to be that kind of person, but will there be smut in future chapters of Aftertaste? 😣

be that person, ask what you want to know🧡

also yes. 100 %.

[papayainsectorone]

"I need a fic about this!"

but have you commented on an existing fic today? have you left guest kudos today on that fic you've already kudos-ed before but can't stop coming back to? have you shared a writer's post today?

have you supported your writers today such that they feel encouraged enough to write the fic you are asking for tomorrow?

[papayainsectorone]

You wanna help me stretch?

════════════════════════

inspired by this post @f1kenny121

summary: summer break is nearly over and training is starting again

content: 18+ !! nsfw, smut, fingering, overstimulation, orgasm denial, praise, slight power play, soft dom!Lando, tears of pleasure, emotional intensity, explicit language, mutual desperation

word count: 4,1 k

pairing: lando norris x female!reader

════════════════════════

The late summer sun bleeds through the windows, casting golden streaks across the hardwood floor. The house is too quiet. You’ve spent the whole day drifting from room to room, fingertips grazing along surfaces, pretending you weren’t just waiting for Lando to reappear.

Summer break is nearly over, and with the second half of the season looming, he's back to training—even if he hates every second of it. The workouts, the early mornings, the constant push to stay sharp—it’s not his favorite part. But he does it. Because he has to.

But now, standing in the doorway of the home gym, the silence pays off.

He doesn’t see you at first. He's seated on the workout bench, hunched slightly forward, three fingers gripped tightly in his other hand like he's stretching them out—or maybe nursing them. His brows are furrowed, mouth slack with focus. Sweat drips from his hairline down his neck, slicking his collarbones and tracing a line over the flex of his chest.

His thighs straddle the bench, solid and wide, every inch of him brimming with tension from disuse and the stubbornness to push through. You’ve seen him like this before—when he’s about to make a move, whether on track or in bed. This version of him, concentrated and messy, is your favorite.

You forget the words you meant to say. Something about a snack? Or that it’s too hot to be doing this? You can’t even clear your throat, let alone form a sentence. Your legs stay rooted to the floor. The air is thick. His skin glistens.

But it's not his skin that keeps you staring.

It’s his fingers.

The way they curl and flex as he stretches them, knuckles taut, tendons shifting beneath skin. He winces a little as he grips the middle three tighter, jaw ticking. You can’t tell if it’s pain or just pressure but it doesn’t matter. All you can think about is how those fingers would feel against your skin. Inside you. Around your throat. Holding you open.

Your mouth nearly waters.

You cross your legs, needing something—anything—to press against. It barely helps. You can feel your pulse between your thighs.

That’s when he notices you.

“I’m almost done, babe,” he says without much thought, voice low and casual. He glances down at his fingers, still working them slowly. The motion shouldn't feel intimate, but it does.

“Oh,” he murmurs, almost to himself, like he’s suddenly aware of what exactly you're staring at. His thumb strokes along the length of his middle finger, absentminded but devastating.

Your brain stutters back to life, though your voice is breathy when it comes out.

“Ma-maybe I’ll join you.”

His eyes flick up, wide, and for a second it’s like he stops breathing altogether. You take a step forward. Then another. You don’t break his gaze, even as it darkens with something heavier.

He drops his hand to his thigh, still spread wide around the bench, and watches you approach.

“Yeah?” he says, voice rougher now. “You wanna help me stretch?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” you say, voice light, almost innocent. “I think I would take a stretch.”

You hold his gaze, letting it drop ever so slowly—down his chest, to the gleam of sweat on his abdomen, and finally to where his fingers still rest against his thigh. His lips twitch at the corner, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just watches.

You step over the bench and straddle it, knees brushing against his. The closeness makes your breath hitch, the warmth of his skin radiating straight into yours.

“Comfortable?” he murmurs.

“I could be.”

You both glance down at the same time—at his hand. His long, slick fingers. He flexes them again, slower now, deliberately. The movement makes your mouth part on instinct.

“Can’t stop staring,” he says, voice soft and dangerous. “Bet you’ve been thinking about them all day, haven’t you?”

You don’t answer. You don’t need to. The way you shift in place, grinding subtly into the bench for friction, says it for you.

“Tell me,” he leans forward just slightly, voice just for you now, “what exactly do you want them to do, hmm?”

Your breath shudders. He lifts his hand and brings it to your knee—doesn’t even grip, just rests it there—and your whole body tenses.

“I—” Your eyes flick to his hand. “I don’t know.”

He grins. “You do know. Don´t be shy about it now.”

Then, without warning, he brings his fingers to your mouth.

“Open.”

You do. Obedient. Eager.

He slips two in, slowly, and you close your lips around them like you’ve been craving the taste. He groans low and under his breath but you catch it. You swirl your tongue around them, watching his eyes darken, his pupils blown wide as your mouth works him.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “Look at you.”

You moan around them soft, needy and the sound makes his jaw clench. His hand tightens slightly where it rests on your knee.

“Fuck,” he mutters. “You’re soaked already, aren’t you?”

You nod, still sucking, your thighs clenching around the bench. He slowly pulls his fingers out, the sound slick and sinful.

“I haven’t even touched you properly yet,” he says. “And you’re already falling apart.”

You lean in closer, desperate for more, but he just smirks.

“Patience,” he murmurs. “We’re just getting started.”

The air between you crackles, thick and heavy. His fingers are still glistening from your mouth when he slowly drops them to the bench, dragging them along the edge just beside your thigh—close enough to make you flinch, but not touch.

“I could make you come,” he says, almost conversational, “without ever fucking you.”

Your thighs twitch.

“Just these fingers,” he continues, lifting them again, letting you watch every lazy curl and flex. “Two inside, more if you’re greedy. Curl them just right. Thumb on your clit. I wouldn’t even need to move much, you’d do all the work for me.”

You swallow hard, your mouth dry again despite what just happened. You’re starting to breathe through your thighs, desperate for pressure. For anything.

“Poor baby,” he hums. “Already squirming. And I haven’t even touched you there yet.”

He reaches forward now, finally, hooking his hands under your thighs and tugging—slow, strong—until you're sliding forward, legs falling wider around his knees, straddling him open and shameless. The bench presses hard beneath you. The only thing grounding you.

You grip the sides of it to keep yourself upright, arching slightly back as he leans in, his face still maddeningly calm. Like he has all the time in the world.

“Such a good view like this,” he mutters, tugging at the hem of your shorts. “Look at you.”

You make a soft, breathless sound—half protest, half plea—but you lift your hips, let him peel the shorts down, and when he does, he curses.

“Fuck.”

His thumb brushes just barely over the soaked fabric of your underwear. He groans again, dragging the edge aside for a peek.

“Oh, baby… it’s so easy. I knew you were already this wet.”

The sound you make isn't even a moan—more like a gasp, a choke of arousal and embarrassment all in one.

He smiles, slow and sharp.

“You love it when I talk like this, don’t you?”

You nod, breath hitching again as he lifts one hand—that hand—and brings his thumb back to your mouth.

“Open.”

You part your lips again, greedier this time. He slides in with purpose now, pressing down on your tongue, keeping your mouth full while his other hand starts to move—slow, torturous circles against the inside of your thigh.

Not quite where you need him. Not yet.

You moan around his thumb, hips shifting involuntarily, trying to chase friction.

“Not yet,” he says, voice thick with control. “I’ll tell you when.”

And the worst part?

You want him to.

Your breath catches as his thumb presses down harder on your tongue. He watches the way your lips part, the way your jaw slackens around it, like he could read every desperate little thought spilling through your mind just by the way you take his touch.

“Bet you taste as good here,” he mutters, half to himself, then drags his thumb out, wet and glistening.

His other hand trails up—finally, finally—over the inside of your thigh. You feel the brush of his knuckles first, then the slight dip of his wrist as he moves in.

And then contact.

One slow stroke through your folds, slick and unbearably sensitive. You jolt at the first touch, head tipping back slightly, a broken sound slipping from your throat.

He groans softly. “Fuck, you’re dripping.”

You nod, barely breathing, back arching even further, hands gripping the bench behind you so tightly your knuckles go white.

He teases again just one finger, lazy and slow, tracing circles around your entrance without dipping in.

“You want it?” he asks, voice low and smug.

“Y-yes,” you pant. “Please.”

He hums like he’s considering it—like he hasn’t already decided what he’s going to do.

Then, slowly, he slides one finger in.

Your body clenches around it instantly, a shiver running through you at the stretch of it, even if it’s just one. His hand stills inside you, and your hips buck forward instinctively.

But he doesn’t move.

“Feel that?” he asks, leaning in close to your ear, his breath hot against your skin. “Just one, and you’re already so tight.”

You whimper, trying to move your hips again, but his free hand comes down on your thigh—firm, steadying.

“No, baby,” he whispers. “You stay still. You let me have you like this.”

Then, torturously slow, he starts to move that finger—curling it up, dragging it out, then back in. Unhurried. Deep. Precise.

You’re already shaking.

He adds a second, and you cry out, hips rocking despite his grip. He doesn't stop you this time—he lets you ride his hand for a moment, lets you get just enough friction to start climbing toward that dizzying edge.

Then he stops.

Completely.

You gasp, body tense and twitching, your walls fluttering around nothing.

“Lando—please—”

“Not yet,” he says again, with a cruel smile. “You don’t get to come just because you want to.”

You groan, your head falling forward, forehead brushing against his shoulder. You're panting now, every muscle strung tight.

He leans in, kisses your cheek so softly it makes you ache.

“I’ll give you what you need,” he murmurs. “But not until you beg for it. Not until you’re so fucking desperate you can’t say anything else.”

Then—two fingers again—thrusting deep, curling hard into the spot that makes your vision blur.

But just as you start to unravel—

He pulls away.

“Please,” you whisper—voice cracking, small. “Lando, please, I need— I need to—”

He watches you fall apart on the edge of the sentence. Your chest rising and falling, thighs trembling around him, hips twitching as if your body’s trying to finish what he keeps denying.

“Need to what?” he asks, softly cruel. His fingers are still buried inside you, unmoving, just there—reminding you who’s in control.

You shake your head, helpless. “Please. Let me come. I can’t— I need it.”

A long pause.

Then he shifts. His other arm wraps around your lower back, pulling you forward until you’re straddling his thighs completely, chest to chest. You clutch at his shoulders for balance, breath fanning across his neck.

“Alright,” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “You’ve been good.”

And then he moves.

His fingers curl up inside you again, that perfect rhythm returning like he never stopped. Deep and precise. Every stroke sends a sharp, blinding jolt through you. His palm presses against your clit now, every motion designed to undo you.

It doesn’t take long.

You’re already so close, your body trembling with the force of it, moaning shamelessly into his neck. Your hips grind down against his hand, chasing it, needing it.

And when you finally come, it rips through you like a wave—loud and messy, your body jerking, thighs clenching around his. He holds you through it, arm firm around your waist, keeping you grounded while you writhe and cry out against him.

But he doesn’t stop.

His fingers stay inside. His thumb keeps circling. You flinch from the sensitivity, but he just shushes you, his voice all dark velvet now.

“Shh… I know, I know. But you can take it.”

You barely have time to process it before he starts moving again—deeper now, slower but relentless.

You squirm in his lap, trying to lift your hips, but his arm around your back tightens.

“Oh no, baby. Not done yet.”

You’re breathing in gasps now, mind foggy with overstimulation. His fingers drag over that same spot again, and your whole body jerks.

“You think you can take one more?” he asks, voice low and thick.

You don’t know what he means—another orgasm? Another finger?

But it doesn’t matter. You nod, frantic, clinging to him.

“Good girl,” he growls. “Open up for me.”

And then—a third finger presses against your entrance, joining the others slowly, stretching you further than before. Your mouth falls open in a silent cry, head tipping back.

You’re full. Too full.

And still—you want more.

The third finger slides in slow—but it still punches the air right out of your lungs.

The stretch is too much. Too good. You collapse against him without even thinking, your body folding forward as your arms scramble to hold on to something—his shoulders, his chest, his neck. Anything to stop you from tipping over completely.

“Easy,” he murmurs, voice thick with arousal, the barest rasp curling around the word. “You feel that, baby?”

You nod barely, a choked sound falling from your lips that doesn’t resemble a word at all. Just a noise, raw and wrecked.

It goes straight through him.

Your head rests on his shoulder now, lips parted against his skin, and you're making sounds that have no place in the daylight. Unholy sounds—wet and breathy and trembling—moans that spill right into his ear, sending visible shudders down his spine.

He breathes out a curse and tightens his arm around your waist, anchoring you to him.

And then his thumb moves again.

A soft, slow drag over your clit, slick and maddening. Your whole body jerks, thighs twitching violently, but there’s nowhere to go—his hand between your legs, his body caging you in.

You try to close your thighs, instinctively trying to shield yourself from how much it is, but you can’t. Not with him there—his hips wide between yours, thighs bracketing you in place.

“Lando—fuck—Lando, I—” It’s barely a whisper, more like a sob.

You clutch at your own thighs now, hands fisting in your own skin, trying to ground yourself, to hold something through the crushing intensity—but nothing helps. Not when his fingers keep moving, deep and deliberate inside you, his thumb unrelenting.

You’re already there again. It crashes into you like your whole body is detonating from the inside out.

You go still—then trembling—hips stuttering, breath gone completely.

All you can do is whimper, face buried in his shoulder, thighs shaking around him, as your body clenches around his fingers and the high keeps going.

“That’s it,” he growls, voice right in your ear. “So fucking good. God, listen to you. Can’t even talk.”

You shake your head, still trying to breathe. Still feeling it. Still full.

And he hasn’t stopped.

You don’t even realize when he slips his fingers out—when that delicious, punishing stretch is suddenly gone. All you know is the cold shock of emptiness, and the warm, slow tease of him dragging his fingers through your folds instead. Light. Feather-soft. Too soft.

Your whole body twitches, hips trying to follow the sensation, to sink back onto him again—but there’s nothing to sink onto.

“Lando,” you gasp—voice barely there. Just air and heat.

You’re fully collapsed against him now, skin flushed and damp, face buried in his neck, breath stuttering against his pulse. Wrecked. Unraveled. His other hand strokes idly over your lower back, holding you there like you belong.

And those fingers—those fingers—are tormenting you.

They circle the rim of your entrance, slow and teasing, never pressing in. Just tracing, dragging through slick, rubbing softly through folds that are aching, twitching with the aftershocks of your last orgasm and the rising threat of the next.

You let out a broken, pleading noise that you can’t even name. Your whole body trembles against his.

He leans in, mouth grazing the shell of your ear.

“Is this what you wanted?” he whispers, and it’s maddening gentle and cruel all at once.

Your only response is a shiver, a whimper that sounds like yes. He chuckles low in his throat, and you feel it vibrate against your skin.

“I think it is,” he murmurs, dragging his mouth along the side of your neck. “Look at you. Completely gone. Just because of my fingers.”

And then he kisses you there lazy kisses, open-mouthed and slow, just under your jaw, the kind that make your head spin all over again.

“You love being like this, don’t you?” Another kiss, this time higher, nearer to your ear. “Pressed against me, soaking my lap, crying for it.”

He dips his fingers again—just once, shallow, before pulling back and brushing over your clit once and you jolt like you’ve been electrocuted, whimpering into his neck.

“Mm, yeah,” he groans softly, biting your shoulder. “You’ll beg for it again in a minute, won’t you?”

You nod, desperate. Wordless.

And still—he waits.

“Lando, it’s too much, I— I can’t,” you whisper, voice cracking at the edges, more breath than sound.

“I know,” he murmurs.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He shifts with you like it’s easy, like he’s carried you this way a hundred times. One arm stays locked around your waist, guiding you as he lays you back gently on the narrow bench, body following yours. You're still clutching him, thighs spread and shaking, hips twitching at every brush of air.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers again, hovering over you, face barely an inch away. “Say the word.”

You don’t. You can’t. You’re too far gone, trembling under the weight of his body and the ache of his absence where you need him most.

He smiles—not smug, but soft. Like he knows every part of you now.

His lips press to yours. A gentle kiss, slow and unhurried, like you're not already soaking his lap and half-crying from how badly you need him. He kisses down your neck, tongue trailing, teeth grazing, then nibbles at the curve of your ear.

You gasp again, another moan escaping you, your body arching into his even without thinking.

Only then does he finally pull his hand up from between your legs, fingers soaked, dripping, glistening in the low light. He stares at them for a beat, breath catching.

“Fuck,” he mutters, eyes dark. “Look what you did.”

You can only watch him wide-eyed, panting, almost pleading.

Then he brings those fingers to his mouth.

And sucks them clean.

Slowly. One at a time. Licking each digit like he’s tasting dessert, groaning low in his throat. His tongue flicks at the base of his knuckles, and your thighs twitch again.

You’re dizzy watching him.

And when he’s done, he looks at you again eyes smoldering now, like he's barely holding himself together.

He reaches down, trailing his wet fingers across your lips.

“Open,” he whispers.

You do.

And he slips them in.

You suck greedily, tongue swirling around them, and it’s him who moans now deep and ragged, his hips dropping hard against yours, finally chasing friction.

The contact shocks a gasp from you both.

You feel it—him—hard and heavy through his shorts, grinding slowly into your soaked heat. The thin barrier does nothing. You feel every movement, every flex of his hips as he lets himself finally take what he needs.

“God, you feel that?” he growls, pulling his fingers from your mouth, dragging them down your chest as he ruts against you. “I’ve been holding back all fucking day.”

His forehead drops to yours, breathing hard.

You’re already so open to him, thighs still twitching, lips parted around the breath you can't catch—so when he finally shifts, tugging his shorts down just enough to free himself, it feels like the world holds its breath.

You certainly do.

And then he presses in.

There’s no warning. No teasing. Just one slow, thick glide of his cock between your folds, catching at your entrance—already so soaked, so ready for him—and then he pushes, hips firm and steady.

You gasp, legs falling wider as he sinks into you inch by inch.

He fills you so deeply it makes your back arch right off the bench, your nails digging into his arms, eyes fluttering shut with a choked moan.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, voice wrecked. “So tight—always so tight for me.”

He stays there for a moment, buried to the hilt, not moving—just feeling. Letting the stretch and fullness overwhelm you both. You shudder beneath him, chest rising and falling rapidly.

Then he pulls back. Slowly. Until just the tip is left inside.

And thrusts in again deep, deliberate, like he’s staking a claim.

You cry out, head rolling to the side, breath catching.

He finds his rhythm like it’s instinct—slow, firm strokes that rock your body against the bench, controlled but possessive. Every thrust feels like a promise. Like he wants to imprint himself inside you.

“This what you needed?” he murmurs, mouth at your jaw, one hand sliding up to cup your face as he drives into you again. “Needed me to fuck you like this slow and deep, where no one else can ever reach?”

You nod, whimpering, gripping at his back now, trying to pull him impossibly closer.

His forehead presses to yours, lips brushing yours between kisses and curses and panting breaths.

He groans again, slower now, hips dragging all the way out only to slam back in, grinding against your pelvis, his cock hitting every sensitive spot with devastating precision.

“Feel so good,” he whispers. “So fucking perfect like this, spread out for me, taking it all.”

You moan louder, hands tangled in his curls now, body arching into his, chasing every drag and press of his cock like it’s the only thing that matters.

His hand slides down to your thigh, pulling your leg higher around his waist so he can sink even deeper if that was possible. The change in angle rips a cry from your throat.

He groans again, deep and low, like it’s killing him to hold back. But he does. For you.

You don’t know when the tears start.

It’s not from pain—never from that. It’s the pressure, the fullness, the way his cock keeps hitting that spot so deep inside you it turns pleasure into something unbearable, almost too much to hold.

You blink, and they fall—slow trails down your temples as you lie back on the bench, your body trembling, shuddering beneath him. His thrusts haven’t sped up still slow, still deep but they’ve gotten heavier, more deliberate, like every single one is meant to stay with you.

He sees it the second your lip quivers.

“Baby,” he breathes, the word catching in his throat.

He leans in immediately, brushing kisses to your cheeks, catching the tears with his lips as his hand comes up to cradle your face.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers against your skin. “You’re okay. I promise. You’re doing so good for me.”

His voice—low, warm, soothing—makes your chest tighten in a different way, something emotional blooming beneath the tension coiling in your gut.

You’re close again. You can feel it. Your body’s trying to run from it, hips twitching, legs shaking, but there’s nowhere to go not when he’s pressed so deep inside you, holding you so gently even while he fucks you open.

“I know it’s a lot,” he murmurs, kissing your lips now, slow and careful. “You’re so full, huh? So fucking wet, clenching around me like you can’t help it.”

You cry out at that, sobbing into his mouth, your nails digging into his back again as your body tries to contain it this aching pressure, this need to fall apart one more time.

“I’ve got you,” he says again. “Let it go. Let me feel you.”

He shifts just slightly just enough and suddenly that perfect, devastating drag of his cock has you gasping, clenching around him so hard it’s instinct, involuntary.

“Oh my—Lando—fuck—”

“That’s it,” he growls, voice tight and trembling now, his own control slipping as your body contracts around him. “Fuck, baby—God, you’re milking me—”

It tips you over like a wave crashing into shore. Your orgasm rushes up through your spine, curling you forward into his chest as your thighs shake violently around his hips. Your whole body tenses, then breaks sobbing, gasping, your cries muffled against his neck.

And that’s all it takes.

He groans a sound so raw and desperate it vibrates against your heart and his hips slam forward one final time, grinding into you as he comes, thick and hot and deep, filling you completely.

“Fuck—fuck, baby—oh, shit,” he pants, his voice wrecked. “You feel so good—so fucking good—”

His whole body shudders above you, and he collapses into your chest, still inside you, holding you like you might disappear.

You're both breathing hard now, tangled together, soaking and shaking and quiet.

He kisses you again. Your cheek, your temple, your lips. Each one soft, reverent.

“You okay?” he whispers against your mouth, voice hoarse.

“I love you like this,” he says, breath still uneven. “Fucking ruined and mine.”

You're both still trembling, bodies sticky and flushed, tangled together on the narrow bench like the rest of the world doesn't exist.

His breathing slows against your skin. One arm is wrapped tightly around your waist, anchoring you, the other hand tangled in your hair as he presses slow kisses to your temple, your cheek, your jaw.

You smile—barely, weakly—still catching your breath. Your legs feel like they’ve melted.

And then, voice low and wrecked but laced with a tease, you whisper against his neck:

“Thanks for the stretch.”

He freezes for a second—then laughs. That warm, wrecked kind of laugh, breathless and totally undone.

“Jesus,” he groans into your hair. “You’re gonna kill me.”

[papayainsectorone]

Aftertaste

preventative meassures³

✦ content

childhood friends, big brother overprotectiveness, “not a baby anymore” energy, stubborn girl x protective boy dynamic

✦ 3,6 k words

✦ series masterlist ✦

“Arthur, I literally have no clothes.”

The phone is wedged between your shoulder and cheek while you paw through your closet like a raccoon digging through a recycling bin, towel knotted precariously at your chest. Damp hair keeps slipping forward into your eyes, and every time you push it back, you feel the knot in your towel shift in a way that makes you deeply aware of gravity.

On the other end of the line, Arthur groans the way only someone who’s heard this exact complaint eight hundred times can groan. “No clothes? Please. I’m pretty sure you could singlehandedly outfit half of Monaco. And not the discount half.”

You snort. “Okay, maybe. But I need new stuff for the trip. Big difference. Are you coming with me or am I going to be tragically unsupervised?”

“I don’t know if I have time, to be honest.”

“Oh, come on—”

“I really can’t,” he says, in that unflappable tone that means no amount of wheedling will work.

You sigh the kind of sigh designed for maximum guilt projection. “Fine. See you next week then?”

“Of course. And send pics, so I can make fun of you.”

The line goes dead before you can protest, leaving you alone with the tragic state of your so-called ski wardrobe.

Calling it a “wardrobe” is generous. There’s the puffer jacket from years ago that somehow managed to look burnt without ever coming within three meters of an open flame, and a pair of thermal leggings whose threadbare state could get you arrested in some countries. They’re technically still wearable, if your definition of wearable includes, “do not bend over unless you’re prepared for consequences.” You stare at them, torn between horror and the faint thrill of danger. Either way, not exactly slope-ready.

You catch your reflection in the mirror: towel, dripping hair, and an expression halfway between despair and defiance. The only reasonable course of action involves spending an unreasonable amount of money.

An hour later, you’re striding through Monte Carlo with a coffee in one hand and your phone in the other, the December air crisp enough to make your nose tingle. The streets are busy but not rushed, the whole city dressed up like it knows it’s being photographed. Shop windows glow with curated winter fantasies, fur-trimmed parkas lounging on mannequins, boots lined with plush faux shearling, folded stacks of cashmere in pale creams, smoky greys, and icy blues that look like they’ve been pulled straight from a snowflake’s Pinterest board.

You step into the first boutique you see, all muted lighting and floors polished to a shine you could eat off. The sales associates drift over in matching black ensembles, smiling with the faint, conspiratorial air of people who’ve already decided which rack they’ll lead you to. Everything here is sleek, neutral, and very much designed for people whose idea of “skiing” involves walking very carefully from a chalet door to a heated terrace.

By the third store, your arms feel like they’ve been replaced with glorified coat racks. Shopping bags swing from each hand, their glossy paper handles biting into your fingers, each one containing something progressively more impractical than the last. The mental tally of your purchases is beginning to sound like a parody: velvet earmuffs you’ll never wear, a pair of snow-white leather gloves that would stain if you so much as breathed near them, and now you’re debating between a cropped faux-fur jacket and a knit dress so short it could pass for an ambitious sweater.

You’re holding the dress against you in the mirror, weighing its level of scandal, when a voice drifts over your shoulder—calm, accented, and unmistakably laced with amusement.

“Are you moving to the Alps permanently, or…?”

You turn, startled, to find Charles standing there, hands buried in the pockets of a black coat that somehow manages to look casual and calculated all at once. There’s a faint curl at the corner of his mouth, the kind of expression that says he’s been watching you long enough to make that comment worth it.

“Just being prepared,” you say sweetly, lifting the dress like a prize for his inspection. “What do you think?”

He doesn’t even glance at it. Instead, he steps forward and, without asking, plucks half the shopping bags from your hands with the unhurried efficiency of someone who’s already decided you can’t be trusted to carry them yourself.

“Charles—”

“Don’t drop your coffee,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You smirk. “So chivalrous.”

“Not chivalry. Self-preservation,” he replies smoothly. “You looked about two seconds from toppling over and taking an innocent bystander with you.”

“Mm. Sure. You just like carrying my things.”

His eyes flick to yours, sidelong and assessing, entirely unimpressed. “You’re not as charming as you think.”

You step closer, “I’ve been told otherwise. Many times.”

“So what about the dress?” you ask, catching his gaze in the mirror.

Charles’ eyes travel the length of it—well, the very short length—before he exhales slowly through his nose. “Mon petit… it’s a little…” He pauses, searching for a word that won’t immediately earn him an argument. “…cold, maybe?”

You pivot toward him, eyebrow arched. “You mean revealing. Not cold.”

His mouth twitches, caught, but his tone remains maddeningly even. “It says you’re planning to distract every instructor in Courchevel.”

You smirk, draping the dress over your arm like a trophy. “Perfect. That’s exactly what I’m going for.”

Charles shakes his head, muttering something in French under his breath.

“Okay,” he says finally, nodding toward a nearby rack like a man trying to redirect a hurricane. “So are you actually shopping for anything practical? A jacket, maybe? Gloves? Anything that might prevent you from freezing to death on an actual mountain?”

“Oh, I thought I’d get the essentials out of the way first.”

His brow arches again, eyes flicking pointedly to the slinky dress. “Like impossibly short dress essentials?”

“Exactly.”

He exhales, shifting the shopping bags against his side with the resigned air of someone who knows resistance is futile. “At least pick a color that will look good under a ski jacket—when you inevitably decide you’re too cold to take it off.”

You hum as if seriously considering his advice, then pluck another hanger from the rack. This one holds a sequined minidress that would catch the light like a disco ball. You hold it up with mock solemnity. “This one’s even more ‘après ski’ if you ask me.”

His eyes close briefly, like he’s counting to ten in his head. When they open, there’s the faintest curve at the corner of his mouth. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” you say, turning back toward the mirror, “you’re still here.”

“Because if I leave you alone, you’ll spend the entire day in dresses like that and forget snow is… cold.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already drifting toward the next rack, scanning it with the disinterested precision of someone who has no intention of buying anything and yet somehow ends up involved anyway. And just like that, the rest of the afternoon slips into a rhythm neither of you bothers to question.

You flit between displays, holding pieces up to the light like a jeweler examining gemstones, draping scarves over your arm in increasingly precarious stacks, debating whether the third pair of sunglasses you’ve tried on in fifteen minutes is “too much” or “just enough.”

Charles follows. Always just behind you, steady and unhurried, the quiet ballast to your restless orbit. The weight of your shopping bags grows with each store, their handles biting into his fingers now instead of yours. He doesn’t complain, but every so often his voice cuts in—low, even, practical. That coat won’t survive a week in the snow. Those boots will snap your ankle in two seconds. You can’t ski in that.

You counter without missing a beat. They’re cute though. I’m not actually here for the skiing. It becomes its own little volley, a game where the stakes are zero and yet the score somehow matters.

By the time you’re walking back toward the car, the winter light has shifted—soft and gold now, the pale streets lit like a postcard. His car is parked—very Charles like—not really neatly in a space off the main street, and without a word he pops the trunk. The two of you work in sync to cram the bags inside, the neat folds from earlier long gone, replaced with a jumble of glossy paper, crumpled tissue, and the faint scent of new leather and perfume.

When the last one’s in, Charles shuts the trunk with the satisfaction of a man completing a workout. “Okay,” he says, turning to you with that half-smile that always feels like it knows something you don’t, “You owe me one for that.”

You arch a brow, smirking. “Do I?”

His expression goes flat, though his eyes betray a flicker of amusement. “Mon petit… not what you think.”

You lean back against the car, still smiling. “Shame. I was already planning something scandalous.”

He rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth threatening to betray him. “You exhaust me.”

“Okay, so what do you mean then?” You push off the car and fall into step beside him.

Charles glances sideways, one brow raised in that slow, deliberate way of his. “I mean, I’d actually love to go to a proper store and get you a proper jacket.” The word proper lands heavier than the rest, like it’s been weighted on purpose. “That’s also what I originally came shopping for.”

You blink. “Wait… so you didn’t just wander into that boutique to save me from bankrupting myself on micro-dresses?”

There’s the faintest curve to his mouth again. “I didn’t say that either.”

A small smirk tugs at his mouth. “No. I came to keep you from freezing to death in Courchevel.” He opens the driver’s side door, nodding toward the passenger seat. “The dress will not help you when it’s minus ten.”

You slide in, tossing your hair over your shoulder with deliberate drama. “It could, if I wear it inside the chalet. With a roaring fire.”

He starts the engine, giving you a flat, unamused look that somehow manages to be entirely amused. “Yes, mon petit, but unfortunately you will have to step outside at some point. And when you do, I would prefer not to carry you back inside as an icicle.”

“Okay, fine,” you sigh, leaning into the word like you’re granting him the greatest concession of the century—already knowing you’ll find something impractical anyway. “We’ll go look at your boring jackets.”

He pulls into the street, shaking his head, but you see it. That faint upward curl at the corner of his mouth. The one that says he knows you’ll fight him on this, and he knows he’ll win, and he’s going to enjoy both parts equally.

By the time he’s herded you into a store with more down-filled coats than runway silhouettes,he doesn’t budge—standing there with his arms folded like an immovable piece of sculpture until you finally shrug into something insulated enough to survive the Arctic.

He makes you spin once, slowly, the way you might turn a rare bottle of wine to inspect the label. Then he nods, decisive, like a judge awarding points. Before you can protest, he’s already paying, receipt folded neatly into his coat pocket like the matter was never up for discussion.

The next few days pass in a rhythm of errands and anticipation. Mornings are for ticking off lists—ski passes, gloves, that thermal base layer Charles insisted on (“Yes, mon petit, it does matter”). Afternoons are for shoving things into your suitcase in increasingly haphazard piles. Every so often, the practical jacket appears draped over your chair, not so much waiting for you as reminding you who won that round.

By the third night, your bag is zipped, your boots lined neatly by the door. The trip is no longer a plan on a calendar—it’s a countdown.

The days slide past quicker than you expect; Christmas blurs into an easy loop of food, polite conversation, and the kind of background noise that makes you feel like you were only half-present for it. And then—without fanfare—it’s the morning you leave.

Jules shows up outside your building leaning on his horn, grinning like he’s already halfway through his first vacation drink. The grin falters the moment he tries to lift your suitcase.

“Holy—” He staggers a step, adjusting his grip like he’s wrestling a reluctant animal. “You’re so lucky we’re flying private with Charles, because there’s no way this would survive a normal check-in counter. They’d charge you for the extra seat it needs.”

You fold your arms, unbothered. “It’s not that heavy.”

Jules shoots you a look over the rim of his sunglasses. “This is not a suitcase. This is a small car in fabric form. Did you pack your entire apartment?”

“Just the essentials.”

He snorts and shoves it into the trunk with a final grunt. “If these are your essentials, I don’t even want to imagine the chaos your non-essentials cause.”

You smirk. “They’re in my carry-on.”

He mutters something under his breath—probably not complimentary—before slamming the trunk and jerking his head toward the passenger seat. “Get in before I change my mind about bringing you.”

You roll your eyes but slide into the seat, tugging your coat tighter. The blast of heat from the vents is instant and glorious, thawing the chill clinging to your fingers.

Jules doesn’t even make it out of the parking space before he’s smirking sideways at you. “So… let me get this straight. You’ve packed half your wardrobe, at least three pairs of boots, and God knows what else. What’s the plan? Trying to charm the ski instructors into giving you free lessons?”

You arch a brow. “Charm the ski instructors? Maybe. But why limit myself? I’m keeping my options open.”

He groans like a man who’s heard this before and regretted it every time. “Please, for the love of my sanity, don’t start with that.”

You grin, stretching your legs out as if you’ve just been challenged. “Jules, you asked. And don’t worry. I’m very well-behaved.”

Jules snorts so hard he nearly drifts into the next lane. “Yeah, and I’m the Pope.”

The car slips into the rhythm of the road, city blocks falling away into the low sprawl of the coastal stretch. The water runs alongside you, glittering in the pale winter sun, the light so bright it cuts against the cold. The further you go, the more the trip settles in your chest—a quiet, fizzing anticipation that keeps you from sitting entirely still.

Jules drums his fingers against the steering wheel, eyes flicking toward you again. “Just… try not to make me regret this, okay?”

You smile sweetly, leaning your head against the seat. “No promises.”

The airport tarmac gleams under the low winter sun, private jets lined in precise formation like impatient giants waiting to be unleashed. Jules pulls the car to a stop near one of the smaller gates, cutting the engine with a soft click. The sudden quiet makes the moment feel sharper, like the trip is finally no longer an idea but something about to happen.

Before you can unbuckle, a familiar figure appears—striding toward you with that measured, effortless confidence that only Charles seems to have. His jacket is zipped to the collar, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes flicking over you in a quick, assessing sweep. It’s not disapproval, exactly. More like he’s already mentally calculating how much trouble you could get into between here and the Alps.

“Mon petit,” he says as you step out, the corners of his mouth lifting into that rare, unguarded smile. “You really did overpack.”

You shrug, dropping your bag lightly onto the pavement. “I like options. One never knows what the slopes or the après-ski might demand.”

Charles shakes his head, stepping close enough for the cold to give way to his body heat. Without asking, he takes the heaviest bag from your hand and slings it over his shoulder as if it weighs nothing. “You always make it this hard on everyone, you know that?”

From behind, Jules groans, wrestling with the trunk. “Honestly, I think she does it on purpose. My chiropractor’s going to love her.”

You smirk in Jules’ direction but keep your eyes on Charles. “I could manage, you know. I don’t need you to carry my stuff.”

His laugh is quiet, low in his chest. “Sure. Until you drop it in a puddle or leave something behind. I’m just… preventing disaster, mon petit.”

Jules finally shoves the last bag into the jet’s cargo hold and claps his hands like he’s just completed an extreme sport. “Okay, luggage sorted. Where’s Arthur?”

You scan the tarmac, the wind sharpening against your cheeks, breath curling in small white puffs. The low, steady hum of the jet vibrates faintly through the soles of your boots.

“Inside,” you say. “Probably still flirting with the girl at security.”

“Unbelievable,” Jules mutters.

From a few steps away, Charles glances up from his phone, the curve of his mouth tilting in quiet amusement. “At least he’s consistent.”

A gust whips across the runway, tugging your hair loose. You tighten your jacket around you without thinking, and though Charles doesn’t comment, you feel the subtle shift as he steps closer, his presence taking the edge off the wind.

Jules waves something half-hearted in your direction and disappears toward the terminal, muttering about finding Arthur. The bright, biting quiet he leaves behind makes the space between you and Charles feel sharper. Above, the sunlight catches on the hangar’s winter lights, scattering flecks of gold across the pavement.

Charles’ hand lands lightly on your shoulder, a subtle tug in his voice when he says, “Come on. Let’s get inside before you freeze.”

You catch the faint curve of a smile in his expression and fall into step beside him, the leather of his jacket brushing against yours, grounding you as the jet looms closer.

The steps creak faintly under your boots as you climb. The cabin door seals shut behind you with a hiss, muting the wind and the drone of engines. Inside, the air is warmer, tinged with leather, polished steel, and a faint trace of something sweet—pastries, maybe.

Charles moves ahead of you down the narrow aisle. You slide into your seat, the leather sinking comfortably under your weight. Across from you, Charles takes his place, glancing around with that same quiet check to make sure everything is in order before finally settling in, his attention flicking back to you.

Not long after you and Charles fully settle into your seats, the cabin door swings open again. Arthur steps in first, grinning like he just won the lottery, followed by Jules, already juggling one of his bags from hand to hand like it’s made of lead.

Arthur drops into the seat directly across the aisle from you, leaning back with a sigh that’s just this side of theatrical.

Jules claims the seat next to him, muttering something under his breath about logistics and luggage. Still, there’s a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth, betraying his amusement.

Arthur catches your eye over the aisle, his grin deepening, that telltale spark of mischief already lit. “So,” he says, voice pitched low enough to feel like an invitation, “I already scored the first phone number. How long is it gonna take you?” His gaze flicks from Jules, to Charles, then back to you like he’s daring you to bite.

You tilt your head, smiling slow. “Oh, it’s a challenge then?”

Arthur smirks back, ready to reply, only to be cut off.

“No,” Jules says instantly, holding up a hand. “No, no, no. No games, no challenges, no numbers.”

You can’t help it, you laugh, the sound pulling a reluctant grin out of everyone else. Even Jules’ vaguely concerned expression loosens into something wryer.

“You know I’m still gonna do it if I want to,” you say, tipping your chin toward him.

“Yeah, I know,” Jules mutters, leaning back in his seat. “But now I’m making a schedule so there’s always one of us watching you. Preventative measures.”

You stretch out with a lazy sigh, swinging your legs up and resting them on the empty seat next to Charles. “Yeah,” you say with mock sweetness, “that’ll probably solve all your worries.”

Then, with Jules looking away from you, you send a knowing smirk in Charles’ direction.

If only he knew.

✦ previous part ✦ next part ✦

i´m really dragging the story here sorryyy, but the next one is going to be a flashback chapter regarding the if only he knew hehe

@trisharee @sk3tchb00ks @understeeringirl @leclercsluvs @mara1999 @random-movie @diorrgrl @lifesass @norrisjpg @sparklepiastri @spikershoyo @urmomsgirlfriend1 @l4ndoflove

@cosmix-stxrs @lost-library-of-violets @mel164 @camxmx @lorena-mv33 @remussbitch

[papayainsectorone]

my drafts rn are so damn cool i wish you could already read them all

[papayainsectorone]

READ PART 2 OF AFTERTASTE WOOOOOOOO 🎉

"Jules raises his brows, Arthur’s smirk goes full tilt, and his gaze flicks between you and Charles with deliberate slowness."

"Arthur glances between you and Charles, his grin practically carving itself into his face. ‘I’ll go with him. Make sure he doesn’t accidentally book us a broom closet.’"👀

In another life I want to be Arthur, imagine strolling through life with VIP backstage passes to the drama. This man wakes up every day like, “What’s on the forbidden situationship agenda today?” he is NEVER bored 🤚🏻.

Also, wanted to say this story is so easy to picture, and it just makes me happy to read <3🩷

it’s actually my first time writing with more characters than just the protagonists, and honestly… arthur is just the king of knowing everything and being in the middle of all the drama, and i LOVE it haha 🤚🏻

[papayainsectorone]

i just wanted to say that i LOVE aftertaste, I've already read each chapter twice 💘

thank you so much, it really means a lot to hear that people like it!

i’ve had a bit of a rough patch trying to get the writing how i want it to be and lately i’ve also struggled a bit because the interaction with my posts has gone down…

not that i write for the interactions, but sometimes it feels like people aren’t really enjoying it, if that makes sense.

okay, i’ll stop my tumblr trauma dumping on your lovely message haha, but i just wanted to say that i really, really appreciate you and anyone who takes a minute to share, comment, or engage with my writing 🧡

[papayainsectorone]

THE ENNEAGRAM

the enneagram is a personality typing system with nine core types, each shaped by a different set of motivations, fears, and desires. instead of just describing how people act, it digs into why they act that way — whether it’s chasing success, keeping the peace, seeking knowledge, or protecting themselves.

in this series, each piece is inspired by one enneagram type, matched to an f1 driver whose personality, story, or vibe fits that type.

nine types. nine drivers. nine stories about what drives them.

each type comes with a quote from the Atlas: Enneagram album by Sleeping At Last, a moodboard and the actual fic i wrote to correspond

this is purely based on how I personally interpret these drivers personalities from their public image interviews and media portrayals

✦ type 1 - coming soon

✦ type 2 - coming soon

✦ type 3 - coming soon

✦ type 4 - coming soon

✦ type 5 - coming soon

✦ type 6 - coming soon

✦ type 7 - coming soon

✦ type 8 - coming soon

✦ type 9 - coming soon

[papayainsectorone]

THE ENNEAGRAM PROJECT

💬 this will be two rounds of voting: round 1: pick if we vote for type or driver round 2: decide the order for the drivers

nine types. nine drivers. nine stories about what drives them.

the enneagram is a personality typing system with nine core types, each shaped by a different set of motivations, fears, and desires. instead of just describing how people act, it digs into why they act that way — whether it’s chasing success, keeping the peace, seeking knowledge, or protecting themselves.

sleeping at last has done an amazing serious of songs about the personalities but also talked about it on their podcast and it´s been my favourite thing for years

@trisharee @sk3tchb00ks @understeeringirl @leclercsluvs @mara1999 @random-movie @diorrgrl @lifesass @norrisjpg @sparklepiastri @spikershoyo @urmomsgirlfriend1 @l4ndoflove

[papayainsectorone]

Aftertaste

between brothers²

✦ content childhood friends, big brother overprotectiveness, “not a baby anymore” energy, stubborn girl x protective boy dynamic

✦ 4 k words

✦ series masterlist ✦

You wake up to the unholy duet of your phone buzzing like it’s possessed and someone pounding on your front door like they’re auditioning for a police raid.

Your head throbs in sharp, rhythmic pulses, each one perfectly timed with the pounding. The sensation is almost impressive in its precision—like a drumline in a marching band, if the marching band were actively trying to kill you. Your mouth is so dry it feels like you’ve swallowed a fistful of sand, and there’s a stale bitterness clinging to the back of your throat that makes you wonder if you actually did lick an ashtray at some point last night. It wouldn’t be the weirdest thing you’ve done at a party.

You groan and roll over, dragging the pillow over your head, the fabric rough against your temple. The muffled world is slightly quieter in here, dark and cocoon-like, and for a blissful moment you convince yourself that maybe if you ignore everything, it’ll all go away.

It doesn’t.

The pounding continues, now joined by the sound of your phone vibrating insistently against the wood of your nightstand, a noise that somehow makes your headache worse.

Arthur’s voice cuts through the door, muffled but still somehow too loud for the fragile ecosystem that is your skull right now. “Get up! We’re going to be late!”

Late for what? you think, mind sluggish, as if each thought has to wade through molasses before reaching you. You vaguely remember agreeing to breakfast last night—something about croissants and coffee, maybe—but you’re less sure about the details. At the time, it probably seemed like a cute idea. Morning You, however, would like to have a word with Drunk You about her habit of making plans for times of day that don’t exist.

You grope blindly across the nightstand until your fingers finally close around the smooth weight of your phone. Squinting against the glow of the screen feels like staring directly into the sun. Ten missed calls blink accusingly at you. Beneath them, three increasingly aggressive texts from Arthur:

Wake up.

Seriously, wake up.

I’m coming in if you don’t open the door in 30 seconds.

You groan like a martyr, peeling yourself out of the warm nest of your bed. The movement makes the world tilt slightly, and you grab the edge of the mattress for balance.

Your bare feet slap against the cool floor as you stumble toward the door, hair sticking to your cheek in a way that’s probably not cute. You’re not wearing Charles’ jacket anymore—that had come off sometime in the night—but you know where it ended up.

When you wrench the door open, Arthur is standing there with his arms folded, the picture of smug determination. His gaze flicks past you into the apartment the second you move aside.

He walks in without waiting for permission, scanning your living space with the casual nosiness of a younger brother who has long since stopped pretending he respects your boundaries.

His eyes land on the kitchen island.

On the kitchen island, Charles’ jacket is splayed out like a crime scene clue—unfolded, unmistakable, and still holding the faint shape of the shoulders it had been draped over. The dark fabric stands out starkly against the pale countertop, and for a moment Arthur just… stares at it.

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Huh,” he says, drawing the syllable out like he’s savoring it. “You have interesting taste in décor these days.”

You close the door behind him, muttering, “Don’t start.”

“Oh, I haven’t even warmed up yet,” he says, dropping onto one of the barstools like he owns the place. “Want to tell me why Charles jacket is making itself at home in your kitchen, or should I guess?”

You roll your eyes, brushing past him toward the bathroom. “Maybe it walked here on its own. Don’t be weird.”

Arthur snorts, eyes flicking toward the jacket on the kitchen island again like he’s filing it away as Exhibit A. “Right. And I suppose it also tucked you into bed and made sure you didn’t fall face-first into the toilet last night.”

You plant your hands on your hips. “You can wait here while I shower.”

“Shower? We’re already like twenty minutes late.”

“And?” you shoot back, brushing past him toward your bedroom. “I’m not leaving like this.”

You can feel him rolling his eyes behind you, but you don’t turn around. You’re moving at the speed of a hungover slug—partly because your head still feels like it’s been stuffed with cotton, partly because punctuality has never been your brand.

Your bedroom is exactly the mess you remember leaving it as. Clothes are strewn in a way that could almost pass as intentional if you called it bohemian, and the clean laundry pile has migrated somewhere you can’t immediately spot. You stand there for a moment, trying to remember whether it’s hiding in the armchair or in the basket behind the door.

Eventually you scoop up the first vaguely acceptable outfit you find and shuffle toward the bathroom. The tiles are cold under your bare feet, the air still faintly scented of last night’s perfume.

You twist the shower tap on, the water groaning through the pipes before sputtering to life. The sound is loud in the morning quiet—at least until Arthur’s voice carries in from your bedroom.

“By the way—” His tone is pure mischief. “Is it safe to sit on your bed, or am I gonna have to boil myself afterwards?”

Despite yourself, you laugh. The sound bounces off the tiles, sharper and more amused than you mean it to be. “Oh my god, nothing happened.”

There’s a pause—just long enough for you to think, Okay, maybe he’s done—before his voice returns, dripping with mock innocence. “Ohhh, so Charles took you home and nothing happened?”

You poke your head around the bathroom door, hair already piled messily on top of your head. “Well… no.”

Arthur is sprawled in your desk chair now, spinning lazily, his grin widening with every rotation. “Yeah, sure.”

You grab the edge of the doorframe and jab a finger at him. “I swear… I tried bu—”

His laughter explodes, drowning you out completely. He doubles over, clutching his stomach like you’ve just told him the funniest joke of his life. “You tried? Oh, that’s rich.”

You retreat behind the shower curtain with a dramatic sigh, the water hitting your shoulders in hot, heavy splashes. The warmth is welcome, but it does nothing to drown out Arthur’s muffled chuckles in the other room.

“Unbelievable,” he’s saying, his voice sing-song with smugness. “You are actually unbelievable.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s a tiny, involuntary smile tugging at your lips. Arthur’s the only one who knows—about the balcony years ago, about everything that followed. The only one you could tell without risking Jules finding out. And if Jules ever knew… well, the fallout would be nuclear.

Partly because you’d had to tell someone — the secret had been too heavy to carry alone. Partly because Arthur would have noticed eventually; he’s always been too observant for his own good, with that infuriating ability to read you like you’re still kids sneaking around in the paddock. And mostly because you’d needed someone to run interference so Jules would never, ever find out.

You trust in the depth of Jules and Charles’ friendship — they’ve been through more together than most people could handle. But the idea of Jules discovering that his best friend’s hands had once been on his baby sister? That his golden boy teammate had kissed you, wanted you, maybe still thought about you?

Yeah. Tricky doesn’t even begin to cover it.

You’d told Arthur about that first kiss all those years ago — the one on the balcony at the summer party, harbor lights glittering like scattered coins across black water, music pulsing faintly through the warm night air. He’d known about the way Charles’ hand had rested at the curve of your back, careful and hesitant, and the way you’d leaned in before either of you thought about the consequences.

That first kiss had been innocent. Everything after? Not so much.

Steam curls in lazy spirals around you as you step out of the shower, your skin flushed from the heat. Droplets cling to your hair, weighing the strands down against your shoulders and leaving cool trails along your collarbone. You wrap the towel around yourself, rubbing briskly until the worst of the damp is gone, then pull on jeans and the soft sweater from the top of the clean-ish pile on your chair.

You don’t even think about finding another jacket. Charles’ is still draped over the back of a chair, faintly creased from where you left it last night. The moment your fingers graze the fabric, there’s a little jolt of recognition — the faint warmth of him that still lingers in the lining, the soft, clean scent that feels dangerously familiar. It’s like slipping into a memory you shouldn’t keep. You shrug it on over your hoodie anyway.

Arthur spots it immediately from where he’s leaning against the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone like he hasn’t been waiting to pounce. “Wow. Couldn’t even go one morning without it?”

You roll your eyes, tugging the collar up around your chin. “It’s warm.”

“And smells like him,” Arthur sing-songs, all sharp edges and smugness, already tossing your keys up and catching them like he owns the place.

You shove your phone into your pocket, giving him your best unimpressed glare. “You’re so annoying.”

“Don’t blame me for noticing the obvious,” he says with a grin, pushing off the counter and heading toward the door. “Come on, Casanova, breakfast isn’t gonna wait for you to finish your little romance with a piece of outerwear.”

“Only because you make it too easy,” he grins, pushing off the counter and heading for the door like he owns the place. The grin is pure little-brother energy, but there’s a flicker of something else in his eyes — the kind of knowing that only comes from holding a piece of your history in his hands, knowing exactly where to poke to make it hurt or blush.

By the time you and Arthur finally make it to the elevator, you’re already late — again. He’s been wearing the same smirk since you locked your apartment door, and it hasn’t faded once.

“You know you’re a terrible best friend,” you mutter, jabbing the elevator button.

“I think I’m a great best friend,” he says, leaning against the wall like you’re the one making him wait.

“You literally cannot go one second without that stupid smirk on your face.”

“And you literally can’t go more than a week without thinking about my brother.”

You smack his chest, more playful than you mean to be. “That’s not true.”

Arthur tips his head, pretending to think. “I mean, if you have a boyfriend it’s not true… but we all know how that went.”

You try to glare at him but it breaks into a giggle, which only makes his smirk grow.

The elevator hums quietly as it nears the ground floor, the air between you already buzzing with your bickering. Just before the doors slide open, Arthur says, almost casually, “Maybe I’ll ask Jules one of these days if he’d prefer Charles over one of the other guys you’ve dated.”

Your head snaps toward him. “No, you wouldn’t!”

The muted ding cuts through your outrage, and the doors glide open to reveal Jules and Charles standing in the lobby.

Arthur steps out like nothing’s happened. You, on the other hand, blurt his name at a volume that turns more than one head. “Arthur!”

He glances back, that same damn smirk still plastered on his face, and mouths calm down.

He wouldn’t do it. He wouldn’t. He’s promised you — multiple times. But with Arthur, the line between promise and threat is always thin.

Jules looks like he’s been counting every single minute you’ve kept him waiting, shoulders squared, hands shoved deep into his pockets in that way he does when he’s trying not to lecture you in public.

Charles, though… Charles is still. His gaze finds you the second you step out, lingering for the briefest moment before dropping — no, deliberately lowering — to the jacket wrapped around you. His jacket. It takes a breath, maybe two, before his eyes lift again, meeting yours without hurry.

The corner of his mouth tilts, subtle enough that anyone else might miss it. You don’t. And the twist low in your stomach makes you wish you could.

“Morning,” he says, voice low, even — carrying a warmth that feels too deliberate to be casual.

You mumble it back, keeping your eyes ahead as you fall into step, doing your best to ignore Arthur’s stifled laugh beside you.

The four of you spill out into the crisp Monaco morning. The air is clean and bright, cool enough that it sharpens your lungs on the inhale. Sunlight dances on the pale façades of the buildings, throwing sharp flashes off the glass balconies, and somewhere down the hill, the sea glints like spilled mercury. There’s a faint salt-sweet tang on the breeze, the kind of scent that’s so familiar it’s almost home itself.

You shove your hands deep into your pockets, fingers brushing the lining of Charles’ jacket. It’s soft against your knuckles, the warmth of it lingering like it’s been storing the memory of last night.

Arthur is just ahead with Charles, their voices low, trading easy remarks about something you don’t catch. Jules slips into step beside you, his long stride slowing to match yours. Without a word, he drapes an arm over your shoulders, pulling you in against his side.

“You really have to stop getting yourself in trouble,” he says, his tone half-chiding, half-affectionate.

You glance up at him, feigning confusion. “What do you mean?”

He gives you a look — the one that says you know exactly what I mean. “You were pretty drunk last night. Makes me wonder what would’ve happened if you’d been alone.”

You huff out a laugh. “Jules, I’m an adult.”

“Yeah, well, you’re still my little sister,” he says, tightening his arm just enough to make the point. “And if Charles hadn’t gotten you home, you probably would’ve gotten absolutely wasted and then…” He trails off, jaw tightening slightly. “I don’t know. God knows.”

“Jules…” you soften your voice. “I can really take care of myself.”

“I know you can,” he says, and you can tell he means it. But then he shakes his head. “Still. I hate how those guys were looking at you. Like they think they can just…” He doesn’t finish, but you know.

There’s a flash of heat in his expression — not anger at you, but at the thought of anyone treating you like you’re an open invitation. It’s the same look he’s been giving since you were both teenagers and he first noticed the way older boys’ eyes lingered too long.

You nudge him with your shoulder, breaking the tension. “You’ve always been protecting me, that´s why I´m not afraid.”

He smirks faintly, eyes forward, but his arm stays exactly where it is until you reach the café.

The café is wrapped in a haze of warm light, the kind that makes the whole room feel like it’s been slow-cooked in comfort. The scent of espresso is thick in the air, tangled with warm butter, caramelized sugar, and the faint salt of something fresh out of the oven. The chatter is low and easy, punctuated by the occasional clink of a spoon against porcelain. Condensation curls at the corners of the big front windows, blurring the street outside into soft, watercolor shapes.

Your coffee is still steaming between your hands, the porcelain mug radiating heat into your palms. You take slow sips, trying to coax some life back into your system, when Jules leans forward with a look you know far too well — that particular glint in his eyes that says I’m about to rope you into something and make it sound like fun.

“So… New Year’s.” He says it lightly, almost offhand, which is exactly how he reels people in. “Arthur and I were talking about heading to Courchevel. Few days skiing, a couple nights of not remembering what we did.”

Arthur grins into his cappuccino, clearly already in on this. “A proper start to the year.”

You narrow your eyes. “Define ‘proper.’”

Jules ignores you entirely, his gaze flicking sideways toward Charles — and that’s when you know. You can see the play forming before the words even hit the table.

“What do you think?”

Charles blinks, brows lifting. “About Courchevel?”

“Yeah,” Jules says, leaning back like the answer’s already yes. “We’ll rent a chalet, bring friends. You could use the downtime.”

Arthur jumps in, grinning. “No media, no pressure. Just snow, slopes, and far too much champagne.”

Jules adds, almost too casually, “Also a ton of girls. I’m sure they’d be glad to meet a proper F1 driver.”

That one gets Charles — just a flicker — the faintest blush creeping up his neck, but also that slow, lopsided smirk he tries to hide behind the rim of his coffee.

You huff out a sharp little breath through your nose.

All three of them turn toward you like they’ve just remembered you exist.

“What?” you ask, drawing the word out just enough to make it clear you already know what.

Jules raises his brows, Arthur’s smirk goes full tilt, and his gaze flicks between you and Charles with deliberate slowness.

You lean back in your chair, arching a brow. “Oh, please. Those girls aren’t there for skiing. And of course you’d suggest it, Jules — because bringing the actual F1 driver to back up your little ‘I’m a glamorous Formula 1 photographer’ line probably works a lot better than just, you know… saying it.”

Arthur chokes on his coffee, spluttering into a napkin, while Jules glares at you like you’ve just committed high treason by blowing his cover. Charles… Charles just keeps smirking, eyes steady on yours, the curve of his mouth edged with something that feels a lot like a dare.

“Damn,” Jules says finally, shaking his head. “Don’t say it like that. We’ll be there for the skiing.”

Charles tilts his head toward him, brow raised. “I don’t even ski that much anymore.”

“Then drink and watch us break bones,” Jules shoots back with a lazy wave of his hand, as though that solves everything.

Under the table, Arthur’s foot nudges yours. “You coming?”

You blink, realizing all three of them are looking at you, waiting. The heat from your coffee cup seeps into your palms as you lean back in your chair, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make them all pay attention.

“Of course I’m coming,” you say finally, your tone light but deliberate. “Because there’s not only a bunch of girls, but also guys. And when you’re all too busy to notice, I’ll take my chances.”

Arthur bursts out laughing, head tipping back. Charles laughs too — not as loud, but with a lower, softer sound that seems to catch at the edges of his words.

Jules, on the other hand, pulls a face like you’ve just told him you’re planning to go cliff-diving without a parachute.

Charles grins at him. “Man, you put that on yourself.”

“Just stop saying stuff like that, my god,” Jules mutters, rubbing a hand over his face.

Charles turns back to you, his smirk tipping toward something warmer, teasing. “Mon petit… if you’re coming with a plan like that, I can’t say no, huh? You’ll need everyone you can get to keep an eye on you — make sure you don’t get into any dumb shit.”

The nidges you in this almost brotherly — almost — almost just like Jules would.

Jules claps his hands together like the matter’s settled. “I’ll think about taking you,” he says, pointing a finger at you in mock warning. “But otherwise, it’s settled. We’ll leave after Christmas. I’ll book the place today.”

Arthur doesn’t even try to hide the pointed smirk he shoots you, like he’s just cracked the ending of a story that’s still being written. You busy yourself with tearing your croissant into small, unnecessary pieces, pretending you don’t notice Charles’ gaze still lingering on you over the rim of his coffee cup.

The plates are eventually cleared, conversation drifting into easy bickering about ski routes and who’s most likely to land in the emergency room. By the time you step back outside, the Monaco sun is sharp but cold, the air crisp enough to sting your cheeks. Light bounces off the pale stone facades and the water beyond, a clean shimmer that makes the whole city feel like it’s been polished overnight.

Jules shoves his hands into his pockets. “I’ve got to meet someone about the chalet booking.” He’s already walking before anyone can object, strides purposeful.

Arthur glances between you and Charles, his grin practically carving itself into his face. “I’ll go with him. Make sure he doesn’t accidentally book us a broom closet.”

“Appreciate it,” Jules calls back without so much as a glance.

Arthur throws you one last, deliberate look — a smirk that’s far too pleased with itself — before jogging to catch up. You can hear their voices fade quickly down the street, swallowed by the hum of traffic and the faint clang of a harbor bell.

Suddenly, it’s just you and Charles. The space feels different without the others, quieter, like the city has turned the volume down. The air’s cool enough that each breath you take drifts pale in front of you before dissolving.

You fall into step beside him, your boots tapping softly against the pavement. Above, strings of winter lights sway between the buildings — gold loops and silver stars, glowing faintly in the pale morning sky. When Charles walks under them, the light catches in his hair for a moment, as if he’s stepped through something celestial without noticing.

“So…” you say, breaking the quiet. “Courchevel?”

His smirk is barely there — more suggestion than expression — eyes fixed ahead. “Seems I have no choice.”

“You could have said no.”

“Could I?” His voice is quiet, lower than before, carrying a weight that makes it feel less like a joke and more like a reminder. You glance over, find his gaze already on you — steady, unreadable — and something in your stomach tilts before you can mask it.

You open your mouth to respond, but he stops at the corner, turning toward you with the faintest tilt of his head. “Do me one favor while we’re there.”

You arch a brow. “That depends.”

“No falling off balconies.”

Your mouth twitches despite yourself. “No promises.”

For a beat, neither of you moves. The city flows around you — heels clicking past, the faint blare of a horn, the rich scent of roasted chestnuts drifting from a stall nearby. There’s the smallest crease between his brows when he speaks again, softer now. “Are you cold?”

You glance down at the jacket collar turned up around your chin. “No. I stole this last night. It’s warm.”

His eyes flick briefly to the sleeves almost swallowing your hands, but his attention lingers on your face for a fraction longer, as though he’s checking for something you won’t name. “Good. Just… don’t be stubborn if you are.”

You huff out a quiet laugh. “Noted, Dad.”

“Not dad,” he says, a smile pulling faintly at his mouth. “Just someone who’d rather you didn’t freeze because you’re too proud to say anything.”

You take a slow step backward, then another, walking so you’re facing him. “You worry too much.”

“Maybe,” he says, a ghost of laughter under the words. “Don’t trip.”

“Relax.” You spin lightly on your heel, turning forward again. Your pace stays easy, unhurried, but you’re aware of his footsteps behind you — always just a fraction off yours, as though he’s deliberately keeping pace in case you stumble.

✦ previous part ✦ next part ✦

@trisharee @sk3tchb00ks @understeeringirl @leclercsluvs @mara1999 @random-movie @diorrgrl @lifesass @norrisjpg @sparklepiastri @spikershoyo @urmomsgirlfriend1 @l4ndoflove

@cosmix-stxrs @lost-library-of-violets @mel164 @camxmx @lorena-mv33 @remussbitch

[papayainsectorone]

THE ENNEAGRAM PROJECT

💬 this will be two rounds of voting: round 1: pick if we vote for type or driver

vote for the driver, then find out which type i’ve connected them to or vote for the enneagram type, and the driver will be a surprise round 2: decide the order for the types/drivers

nine types. nine drivers. nine stories about what drives them.

the enneagram is a personality typing system with nine core types, each shaped by a different set of motivations, fears, and desires. instead of just describing how people act, it digs into why they act that way — whether it’s chasing success, keeping the peace, seeking knowledge, or protecting themselves.

sleeping at last has done an amazing serious of songs about the personalities but also talked about it on their podcast and it´s been my favourite thing for years

@trisharee @sk3tchb00ks @understeeringirl @leclercsluvs @mara1999 @random-movie @diorrgrl @lifesass @norrisjpg @sparklepiastri @spikershoyo @urmomsgirlfriend1 @l4ndoflove

[papayainsectorone]

what ages would the characters in aftertase be? because reading the prologue felt like a flashback. also i love your writing i am so glad i found your blog❤️

no set ages for them, but yeah the prologue is 100% a flashback to how their whole mess started

thank you, i´m glad you´re here🧡

[papayainsectorone]

DRIVER DYNAMICS

ALEX ALBON

✦ sunshine x sunshine

[papayainsectorone]

AA23 Dynamics

alex albon!sunshine x fem reader!sunshine match

DYNAMICS

✦ Two walking sunbeams. Their relationship feels like belly laughs at 2am, shared playlists, forehead kisses and way too many inside jokes. ✦ He’s soft in a way that makes people feel safe. She’s got that same sparkle, the kind of energy that lights up a room—and he gravitates to it like a plant to sun. ✦ Arguments? Barely exist. And if they happen, they end with cuddles and cookies. ✦ Their love is nurturing, uncompetitive, and built on constant “did you eat today?” and “I’m proud of you” energy.

𝗜𝗡 𝗣𝗨𝗕𝗟𝗜𝗖 | the effortlessly adorable couple

✦ Always giggling in each other’s company. ✦ Alex is the type to quietly guide her through a crowd with a hand on the small of her back. She’s the type to loudly brag about him to strangers. ✦ PDA is soft but sweet—matching bracelets, cheek kisses, sharing straws, and those lingering glances from across the room.

𝗜𝗡 𝗣𝗥𝗜𝗩𝗔𝗧𝗘 | soft doesn’t mean boring

✦ They whisper love into each other’s skin. Think slow kisses, gentle teasing, a lot of eye contact. ✦ He’s vocal—praise-heavy, always calling her beautiful, whispering how good she feels. ✦ She’s surprisingly bold when the lights go out, likes taking charge in soft ways (riding him slow, making him whimper). ✦ Their intimacy isn’t about control, it’s about connection.

𝗘𝗫𝗧𝗥𝗔 𝗦𝗣𝗜𝗖𝗘

✦ He loves being teased until he’s breathless. She’s a menace in lace. ✦ Soft dom energy, he’ll pin her down with kindness and wreck her with praise. ✦ His dirty talk? Still sweet. “You feel so good, love. So perfect for me.” ✦ Shower sex, sleepy morning sex, lazy Sunday afternoons

𝗗𝗢𝗠𝗘𝗦𝗧𝗜𝗖 𝗟𝗜𝗙𝗘

✦ Baking together. Pillow forts. Crying during Pixar movies. ✦ Matching pajamas, matching mugs. They’re that couple. ✦ Their home smells like fresh laundry and vanilla candles. ✦ Always hyping each other up. If one of them is sad, the other literally plans a whole day to cheer them up.

𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗚𝗔𝗠𝗘?

✦ Absolutely. Marriage. Rescue pets. Sunday farmers’ markets. ✦ Their fights never last. They’re built on mutual respect and too many shared smiles to fall apart.

[papayainsectorone]

okayyyyyy, just read the first chapter of Aftertaste!! I loved it. Literally kept stalling and took like 5 tiktok breaks just because i refused to let the chapter end😫

also, can we TALK about : “It’s not like we haven’t done this before.” excuse me– CONTEXT? BACKSTORY? FLASHBACK ? ANYTHING!!?!!???!

and THEN you hit us with : "He presses a brief, warm kiss to your cheek — the barest brush, but enough to send a ripple of heat through you — before reaching past to grab the seatbelt. The fabric whispers as it slides over your shoulder, his hand steady as he clicks it into place."

Be so for real. I actually had to turn off my phone and put myself in a self-imposed timeout because I was giggling like a 13-year-old with her first crush.

STOPPP this made me laugh so hard bc i can see you doomscrolling tiktok just to make the chapter last 😭💀 and listen… the “it’s not like we haven’t done this before” is me being evil on purpose. backstory? flashback? context? babe, patience… or maybe chaos, we’ll see 👀 my job here is done. 🫡