#CHAOS PRACTICE MATCHES

[skipppppy]

The life of Stanford Pines must be so bizarre from the perspective of a random townsperson who doesn’t know him. Imagine you live in a sleepy lumber town, where the most interesting thing you’ve heard this week is that a plot of land on the outskirts of the woods was sold and someone has started constructing a cabin on there.

You later learn by word of mouth that he’s a phd student doing some kind of long-term research project. You don’t see his face until one night he comes blasting down the street on a trail of destruction, eyes yellow and glazed over, trashing public property, inflicting gruesome injuries on himself, and laughing like he’s on an erratic, drug-fuelled bender. He then goes home and locks himself in his cabin again. This becomes a cycle; he stays isolated for weeks, then comes out once in a blue moon to wreak havoc and be a nuisance to the authorities.

Then one day it stops. He doesn’t come back out. The next time you see him he’s at a grocery store looking completely different to how you remember; his hair is grown out, he’s put on weight, his clothes are completely different and he’s stopped wearing glasses. Some townsfolk finally work up the nerve to talk to him and you learn that he invited them to his cabin on a tour. His home is apparently FULL of dangerous research equipment and the scientist, who had allegedly been very quiet and level-headed on the days he wasn’t having his “episodes,” has had a complete personality change, he’s loud and confident and less than honest and a little sleazy but a damn good salesman and entertainer.

He hosts tours out of his home for the next 30 years. Over time he’d changed it into a museum of sorts that sells overpriced knickknacks to unsuspecting tourists, but aside from his shady business practices he’s a well known member of his community. He changes up the exhibits every few months, brings his niece and nephew to stay one summer and they become town darlings, and even exposes a beloved public figure for running a spyware scheme.

One day you hear he got visited by the FBI. They start going round town asking about him. A week or so later he gets arrested. The town goes CRAZY theorising why but then there’s a massive earthquake and in the chaos of that you forget what happened to him. One minute you hear that the feds were surrounding his house and the next they’re all leaving like they forgot what they came for. Another week later he resurfaces and announces he’s going to run for Mayor, dominated the polls, wins the popular vote, but loses his position immediately due to an extensive criminal record.

Then there’s gossip that he completely changed his appearance again. He’s lost his fez and is walking around in a coat and cable knit turtleneck in the middle of the July heat. Then you hear from someone else that he looks the exact same and didn’t change anything. Then you see two identical men walking down the street, one matching the description you saw. People are BUZZING to know what happened and you eventually learn that the “new guy” was actually the same Scientist and the guy that had been running the museum was his twin brother who stole his identity after he went missing. Then the apocalypse happens

[pucksandpower]

Wild Goose Chase

Oscar Piastri x soulmate!Reader

Summary: in which Oscar is terrorized by the soulmate goose of enforcement … until he runs into you (literally)

Oscar Piastri is not one to get flustered. It’s kind of his thing — cool under pressure, calm in the face of chaos, composed when the world around him loses its mind. But right now, he’s seconds away from losing his.

“Bloody hell,” he mutters under his breath, scanning the area around the paddock, eyes darting from side to side.

The coast looks clear, but Oscar knows better by now. The stupid goose is lurking somewhere, probably eyeing him like he’s the world’s most wanted criminal. He barely makes it five steps before he hears the familiar, grating honk.

“Oh, come on!” Oscar yelps, whirling around to face the persistent bird. Sure enough, there it is, waddling towards him like it owns the place, beady eyes fixed on him with the intensity of a predator stalking its prey. “What do you want from me?”

The goose doesn’t answer, obviously. It just keeps coming, wings fluttering slightly as if gearing up to make his life a living hell for the umpteenth time that day. Oscar takes a cautious step back, then another, but the bird matches his pace, honking louder, as if it’s mocking him.

“This is ridiculous,” he mumbles, glancing around for any sign of help. But the paddock is nearly deserted — most of the crew are inside, probably watching the CCTV footage of his latest goose chase and having a good laugh at his expense. He sighs, resignation settling in as the goose inches closer, its beak snapping in a way that’s far more menacing than it has any right to be.

“Fine, you win,” Oscar concedes, hands held up in surrender. “But you’re not biting me again.”

He takes off, jogging towards the gate that leads out of the paddock, hoping to shake the bird off. It’s a fool’s hope, really. The goose gives chase, honking triumphantly as it gains on him. Oscar barely makes it through the gate before the bird nips at his ankles, forcing him into a full-on sprint down the sidewalk.

“I don’t even know where I’m going!” He shouts over his shoulder, like that might actually make the goose reconsider its life choices. It doesn’t. Of course, it doesn’t. The bird just keeps at it, relentless as ever, as if this is its sole mission in life.

Oscar rounds a corner, nearly colliding with a group of tourists who scatter like pigeons at the sight of the manic goose. He mutters an apology, hardly slowing down as he bolts across the street, narrowly avoiding a car. The goose, undeterred by traffic, flies over the vehicle and lands in front of him, honking like it’s conducting some kind of victory parade.

“Alright, alright, I get it! Just leave me alone!” Oscar’s practically pleading now, breath coming in short bursts as he darts into a nearby alleyway, hoping to lose the bird in the maze of narrow streets. But the goose follows, nipping at his heels like a relentless shadow.

He’s so busy looking back at the bird that he doesn’t notice you — at least not until he crashes into you, the impact sending you both sprawling to the ground. Time seems to slow as he twists mid-air, instinctively trying to cushion your fall with his own body. He hits the pavement first, the breath knocked out of him as you land on top of him in a tangle of limbs.

“Ow,” you groan, pushing yourself up on your elbows, blinking down at him in confusion. “What the hell was that?”

Oscar’s too winded to answer immediately. He blinks up at you, dazed, trying to process what just happened. The goose, victorious, waddles in front of you both, honking one last time before it saunters off as if it has better things to do.

“Did … did that goose just attack you?” You ask, incredulity coloring your voice as you roll off him and sit up.

Oscar finally catches his breath, nodding as he pushes himself into a sitting position beside you. “Yeah,” he pants, running a hand through his hair. “That’s … been happening a lot, actually.”

You stare at him, wide-eyed. “Seriously?”

“Unfortunately,” he replies, shooting the retreating goose a glare. “It’s like it has some kind of vendetta against me.”

You can’t help it — you laugh. It’s a startled, slightly hysterical sound, but it quickly turns into something genuine as you take in the absurdity of the situation. Oscar joins in, the tension in his shoulders easing as the laughter bubbles up between you.

“This is so weird,” you say, shaking your head as the laughter dies down. “I’ve never heard of a goose doing that before.”

“Neither have I,” Oscar agrees, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye. “But here we are.”

There’s a beat of silence as you both catch your breath, the ridiculousness of the situation settling in. Finally, you look at him, curiosity shining in your eyes. “So … what’s your deal? Did you, like, offend the goose gods or something?”

Oscar chuckles, shaking his head. “Not that I know of. I’m just trying to do my job, and that bird’s decided it doesn’t like me.”

“And what’s your job?” You ask, genuinely curious now. “Are you, like, a bird whisperer or something?”

He laughs again, this time a bit more ruefully. “No, nothing like that. I’m a driver. For McLaren.”

You blink, clearly not recognizing the name. “Is that, like, a taxi service?”

Oscar blinks back at you, momentarily stunned into silence. “No, it’s … it’s Formula 1. Racing.”

Your eyes widen in realization. “Oh! Right, that makes sense. Sorry, I don’t really follow sports.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says, waving off your apology with a grin. “Most people don’t get chased by geese for a living.”

You smile at that, the tension between you easing into something more comfortable. “So, what brings you here, then? Besides being terrorized by a bird, I mean.”

“Just in town for a race,” he replies, glancing around as if the goose might come back at any moment. “But, uh, I didn’t expect my biggest challenge this weekend to be a goose.”

You laugh again, shaking your head in disbelief. “I can’t believe this is happening right now. You’re probably the last person I’d expect to crash into on a random street.”

“Believe me, the feeling’s mutual,” Oscar says, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “But, I guess if I had to crash into someone, I’m glad it was you.”

You raise an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk playing on your lips. “Oh? And why’s that?”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, the goose makes a reappearance, honking loudly as it charges at him again. His eyes widen in alarm, and he scrambles to his feet, pulling you up with him. “Because you might be able to help me get rid of this thing!”

You yelp in surprise as he grabs your hand, dragging you along as he takes off down the street. The goose gives chase once more, honking furiously as it flaps its wings in a bid to catch up.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” You shout, barely keeping pace with him as he pulls you around a corner.

“Not a clue!” Oscar admits, breathless but grinning as he glances back at you. “But it’s either this or let the goose win!”

You can’t help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation catching up to you again. “Okay, okay, I’m in! Let’s outsmart this goose!”

You round another corner together, darting into a small park in the hopes of losing the bird in the greenery. The goose, however, is nothing if not persistent, and it’s not long before it spots you again, honking in triumph as it barrels towards you both.

“Any bright ideas?” You ask, glancing around frantically for an escape route.

Oscar scans the park, his mind racing. “There!” He says, pointing towards a small, man-made pond. “If we can get across that bridge, maybe we can lose it in the water.”

You nod, and the two of you take off towards the pond, the goose hot on your heels. As you reach the bridge, Oscar lets go of your hand, urging you to go first.

“Ladies first!” He shouts, grinning despite the situation.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the smile that tugs at your lips as you sprint across the bridge. Oscar follows close behind, and for a moment, it seems like the plan might work. But then the goose decides it’s had enough of running and takes flight, swooping low over the water and landing directly in front of you on the other side of the bridge.

“Seriously?” You exclaim, skidding to a halt as the bird blocks your path, its beady eyes glinting with what can only be described as malicious glee.

Oscar stops short beside you, hands on his knees as he catches his breath. “Okay, new plan,” he says between gasps for air. “We … we try to reason with it.”

You stare at him like he’s lost his mind. “Reason with a goose? Are you for real?”

“Do you have a better idea?” He shoots back, straightening up and taking a cautious step forward. “Hey, uh, Mr. Goose? We, uh, we come in peace. There’s no need for any more … biting or chasing or-” He flinches as the goose lets out a loud, aggressive honk, cutting him off mid-sentence.

You try not to laugh, but a snort escapes anyway, earning you a sidelong glance from Oscar. “I’m just saying,” you whisper, “this is probably the weirdest thing I’ve ever been a part of.”

“You and me both,” he mutters, still watching the goose warily. “Okay, new plan … again.”

“Run?” You suggest, but there’s no real conviction in your voice. It’s clear neither of you has much hope of outrunning the bird, especially now that it’s in full attack mode.

“Actually, I was thinking maybe we just …” Oscar hesitates, then sighs, “Sit down.”

“Sit down?” You’re incredulous, but he’s already lowering himself to the grass, crossing his legs like he’s about to meditate. The goose, now only a few feet away, seems puzzled by this new development. It tilts its head to the side, honking softly, almost as if it’s confused.

“Worth a try,” Oscar says, motioning for you to sit beside him. “I have no idea if this will work, but we’ve tried everything else.”

You give him a skeptical look but eventually lower yourself beside him, crossing your legs and mirroring his posture. The goose blinks, looking between the two of you, as if it’s trying to figure out what the catch is.

For a moment, nothing happens. The three of you sit there, locked in a bizarre standoff, with you and Oscar on one side and the goose on the other. Then, to your surprise, the bird takes a cautious step forward. Then another. And another, until it’s standing right in front of you both, its head tilted as if it’s studying you.

“What now?” You whisper, barely daring to breathe.

“I don’t know,” Oscar admits, his voice just as low. “Maybe … maybe it just wanted us to stop running.”

You exchange a glance, both of you too stunned to do much more than sit there and wait for whatever’s going to happen next. The goose seems to consider you for a long moment before it lets out a soft honk — nothing like the aggressive sounds from earlier. Then, with a final bob of its head, it turns and waddles away, disappearing into the bushes on the other side of the pond.

“Did that just happen?” You ask, still half-expecting the bird to reappear and resume its attack.

Oscar blinks, as if coming out of a daze. “I think … I think it gave up.”

You look at him, and then suddenly the absurdity of it all hits you like a tidal wave. You laugh, loud and unrestrained, doubling over as the stress and tension of the chase evaporate. Oscar joins in, his laughter rich and full, and before you know it, you’re both lying back on the grass, staring up at the sky, tears streaming down your faces.

“I can’t believe that actually worked,” Oscar says between fits of laughter, his voice filled with disbelief.

“Neither can I,” you manage to gasp out, wiping away the tears from your eyes. “What even was that? I feel like I’m in some kind of weird dream.”

“Tell me about it,” Oscar says, finally catching his breath. “I’ve faced some crazy stuff on the track, but this … this takes the cake.”

You both lie there in silence for a moment, the sky above you turning a soft shade of orange as the sun begins to set. The chaos of the day feels far away now, replaced by a strange sense of peace that settles over you both.

“I’m glad I crashed into you,” Oscar says suddenly, his voice quieter now, more thoughtful.

You turn your head to look at him, surprised by the sincerity in his tone. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he nods, his eyes still on the sky. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I could’ve done without the goose situation, but … I don’t know. Maybe it was worth it.”

You smile, a warmth spreading through your chest. “I guess if a goose had to chase you down, it’s kind of nice that it led you here.”

“To you,” he adds, his eyes meeting yours, something unspoken passing between you.

The air between you shifts, the playful banter from earlier giving way to something more serious, more charged. For a moment, neither of you says anything, just holding each other’s gaze as the reality of what’s happened settles in.

“Do you think …” you start, then hesitate, unsure of how to put it into words. “Do you think the goose was trying to, I don’t know, tell us something?”

Oscar chuckles softly, but there’s a seriousness in his eyes as he nods. “Maybe. I mean, it’s a pretty crazy thought, but after everything that just happened … I don’t know. It’s almost like it was trying to push us together.”

“Like fate or something?” You suggest, half-joking, but there’s a hint of curiosity in your voice.

“Yeah,” Oscar agrees, the word hanging in the air between you, heavy with meaning. “Like fate.”

Another silence falls, this one filled with unspoken possibilities. Then, slowly, Oscar reaches out, his fingers brushing yours. It’s a small gesture, tentative, but it sends a jolt of electricity through you.

“Maybe this is going to sound weird,” he says, his voice a little unsteady, “but I feel like I’ve been looking for something — or someone — for a long time. And today … I don’t know, it feels like maybe I found it.”

You swallow, your heart pounding in your chest. There’s something about the way he’s looking at you, like he’s seeing you — really seeing you — for the first time. And it makes you wonder if maybe he’s right. Maybe all of this wasn’t just random. Maybe the goose, as ridiculous as it sounds, was trying to show you both something that you wouldn’t have seen otherwise.

“I think maybe I have too,” you admit softly, your voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar’s eyes light up at your words, and he squeezes your hand, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in a way that’s both comforting and intimate. The connection between you is undeniable, and for the first time all day, the world feels like it’s stopped spinning out of control.

“So what now?” You ask, a small smile playing on your lips.

“Well,” Oscar says, a grin spreading across his face, “how about we get out of here? Maybe go somewhere the goose can’t follow us.”

You laugh, nodding in agreement as you both stand up, brushing the grass from your clothes. “I like that idea.”

Oscar doesn’t let go of your hand as you start to walk away from the park, the warmth of his palm against yours sending a thrill through you. As you leave the park behind, you glance back over your shoulder one last time, half-expecting to see the goose watching you, but it’s nowhere to be seen.

Maybe it’s gone for good. Or maybe it’s just done what it needed to do — bringing you and Oscar together in the most bizarre, unexpected way imaginable.

“So,” you say as you walk side by side, your steps in sync, “where do we go from here?”

Oscar looks at you, his smile soft and genuine. “Wherever we want.”

And just like that, the world feels right again.

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 225

Klarion is EXCITED. He's absolutely DELIGHTED even, unable to sit still as he flits from place to place. His baby cousin! Is! Visiting! Which OBVIOUSLY means he, as the older one, must make sure the main places are still standing so he can show his itty bitty baby cousin EVERYTHING! After all, he's never gotten to be the older one! He's always been the youngest in the family! But now he has an itty bitty toddler cousin- form recently shifted to match- to teach the ways of Chaos to! He's so EXCITED!

The League and heroes on the other hand, are Very concerned about Why the Witch Boy has been spotted in practically every major city in the US in the last few days. What is he planning?!

[helen-with-an-a]

You always have an excuse

Hi. So this is a request and I really liked the idea. Hopefully, I did it justice. I hope you enjoy

Barca Femeni x reader

Description: R always has excuses but eventually slips up.

Part 1 : Part 2

Word Count: 3.8k

Shit. Shit. Shit. You were late. You were so late. But it wasn’t your fault; indeed, honestly, it wasn’t your fault. Your parents were not the greatest at being parents. They had you when they were just 16 and far too young to be having children. Sure, they paid for your football stuff and gave you a lot of what you asked for, but it was to keep you quiet and out of the house. You didn’t mind too much. It was easier when you only had to look out for yourself, never telling your parents where or who you were with. You always had a range of excuses ready for anyone who asked – lying and telling your friend’s parents that someone else would be taking you home, saying your mum was just around the corner, she had work so couldn’t come to your matches. It was fine. You knew nothing different.

You signed for La Masia when you were 10. The training was intense, but you loved it. You thrived under the pressure, quickly working your way up the ranks. Your debut for the first team happened shortly before your 16th birthday. You had never felt prouder of yourself.

“And here we have it. At just 15 years old, Y/F/N Y/S/N, making her debut for FC Barcelona Femeni. She’s homegrown, working her way up La Masia ranks. She is definitely a future star.” The commentator said as you made your way onto the pitch. This is what you have been dreaming of since you discovered football. This was the dream that only some people achieved. And you were one of them. A professional footballer. Your life’s goal was achieved.

The game was an easy win. The other team was fighting a relegation battle, as Barca slipped 10 goals past their keeper.

“Vamos,” Patri shouted as she shook you by the shoulders. “A debut and a brace. Is that a Ballon d’Or I see in your future?” You laughed as she wrapped you in a fierce hug.

“Neña, what a performance, hey?” Mapi called as Alexia affectionately hit the back of your head.

“Where’s your Mamí? I’m sure she wants to see you after that performance.” You didn’t even bat an eyelid as you smiled sweetly at Marta

“Oh, she said we’d meet outside by the main gates – saves us from trying to find each other on the pitch and in the crowd.” You waved at the chaos surrounding you. You knew your mother was nowhere near the football stadium – you doubted she even knew you had a football match, let alone your senior debut. It was easy to slip away from the changing rooms; you had significant practice doing it most of your life.

And now you were running so, so late. You had woken up on time, but the food in the house looked a little off, so you rushed to get something from the bakery on your way to the bus stop. But the line was bigger than anticipated, so you were rushing to catch the bus. A man walking in the other direction wasn’t paying attention and crashed into you, causing you to drop your stuff and spill hot coffee all over yourself. That had disrupted your flow, and you missed the bus, having to wait 5 minutes for the next one, which wasn’t a big deal. However, the metro system was delayed. And now you were 10 minutes behind, and then the bus you were supposed to catch from the metro station to the training centre never showed up, so you had to catch an alternative one, making you 30 minutes late. You had texted Jona to tell you you were running late but you knew you had laps waiting for you when you actually got there. You arrived at the pitch hot, sweaty, and tired. This was not an ideal start to the morning.

It was a known ‘Alexia Rule’ that every minute late to practice without a reasonable excuse was a lap. As you arrived at the huddle, one boot on, one still in your hand and your shirt stained with coffee, you could tell she was unimpressed. With all your rushing, you had forgotten to think of an excuse. You didn’t want to tell her the real reason; you had a feeling ‘Oh, sorry Alexia, I’m late because my parents are really shitty, forget they have a kid sometimes, and they haven’t been home in over a week, and the food in the fridge looked a little funky’ would not go down too well. She arched an eyebrow at you.

“Um …” You floundered, thinking about what to say. You could tell her the semi-truth that the metro was delayed and you had missed the buses, but they thought you got dropped off at the top of the road by your dad on the way to work. You could tell them there was traffic, but they all drove, so they knew you were lying.

“You have 30 laps to run at the end of training,” Alexia had a stern voice that you knew meant she was serious. 30 laps? That was basically 10k. Your eyes widened to comically sized proportions. 45 minutes of running around in a circle … after training? She was trying to kill you; you were convinced of it.

“You can’t be serious?” You gawked at her. Her other eyebrow rose to join the other one.

“Deadly.” She said icily and walked away.

Holy fuck. You were really, royally fucked this time. You were so dead. You had to miss training. But again, it hadn’t been your fault. The boiler had broken in your house, which wasn’t a big deal – it was late spring in Barcelona, and you didn’t need heating. But you did need the hot water. You had tried to ask your parents to stay home whilst someone fixed it, knowing that you had training and they could definitely work from home for a day. They had dismissed you with a flippant wave of their hands and continued what they were doing. You phoned the company, asking them to come and fix it as soon as possible. But, as expected, they told you they would be there before lunch, which was the best they could offer. It was now 2.30pm, and there was no sign of them. You had texted Jona this morning, offering a weak excuse of feeling a little rough. You hadn’t expected him to tell Alexia that you were feeling bad, and it sounded like you were home alone.

The knock on the door had you running towards it – thinking it was the person coming to fix the boiler. “Gracias, Gracias. Es el …” You rushed the explanation, not realising that it was not a plumber but rather your irate captain. You froze as you looked up. Shit.

“You look fine, neña. You don’t look like you’ve … what was it? Ah, yes, ‘picked up a little something’.” She was far too calm. You could see her anger bubbling under the surface, though.

“Ale, I-” you tried to explain.

“No, no quiero escucharlo,” she cut you off, a hand raising to stop you. “You lied. You skipped training. Was it worth it? Was it so much more important than training?” She hadn’t bothered to come into the house, standing at your front door, a bag of things meant to help you feel better in her hand. “Here,” she shoved it at you. “You’re on the bench until you can prove that you want to be a part of Barcelona Femeni.” And with that, she stormed off.

Tears welled in your eyes. She hadn’t let you explain … but what could you say? ‘Sorry, Ale, my parents are arseholes and don’t realise that I have a life and a job as well’? ‘Sorry, Ale, I had to wait for the plumber to come and fix our heating and hot water, and no, my parents – the adults in the house – couldn’t do it because they think their time is so much more important than mine’? ‘Sorry, Ale, I’m currently trying to raise myself, and whilst I’m usually ok at it, sometimes I fuck up’? You couldn’t say those things to her. You couldn’t tell her how tough your life could be sometimes … most of the time. You couldn’t tell her that your parents don’t even know you have a game, let alone watch it or attend it. You couldn’t tell her you often wake up in an empty house for weeks because your parents jetted off somewhere again. You couldn’t tell her that you doubt your parents could even tell you your full name and birthday.

She thought you didn’t want to be a part of Barca. Barca was your saving grace. Barca was the only thing that got you out of bed. The friendships you made were the closest thing to a normal family you had. Jana, Vicky, Martina, Patri, Claudia, Bruna, Esmee, Salma … they were your crazy cousins, always making you laugh and willing to go along with your mad ideas. Ona, Aitana, Lucy, Cata, Mapi … they were your big sisters, always protecting you on and off the pitch and lightly teasing you. Ingrid, Caro, Keira, Mariona, Frido … they were the calming aunts that helped you through any predicament. Marta, Paños, Irene … Alexia … they were your motherly figures, the people you could always rely on to love you regardless of what else was happening in your life. Did they think you didn’t want to be there? Barcelona was the single most greatest thing that had ever happened to you.

You looked at the bag Alexia had shoved at you. It was full of healthy smoothies, nutritious snacks, and your favourite chocolates. You could even see a soft teddy instructing you to ‘Get Well Soon’. It made you sob even harder. Eventually, you moved to the sofa. Once you started crying, you couldn’t stop. You cried over everything – disappointing Alexia, having no hot water, being benched, your parents' dislike of you, your seeming lack of support system, how you appeared to fuck up the one good thing in your life. You cried yourself to sleep on the sofa, clutching the bag to your chest and feeling so incredibly sorry for both you and the girls you had failed.

The next morning, you looked horrific – puffy, red eyes, dishevelled hair, blotchy skin. You didn’t even try to hide it as you made your way to the bus stop, ignoring the weird looks thrown your way. You were in a daze as you walked through the metro system and onto the second bus, forgetting to hurry down the side alleys instead of the main road. You didn’t see Ingrid’s car as it drove past you, a concerned Mapi, Ingrid, Ona, and Lucy in it.

“Era que?” Mapi asked, pointing over her shoulder.

“Y/N? Sí, fue” Ona nodded.

“Why, though? She said she gets dropped off by her dad on his way to work.” Ingrid was just as perplexed. You seemed to know exactly where you were going and had stepped off the bus with an ease only known to someone who took the same route every day.

“Maybe it was a one-off? He couldn’t take her today, so she had to get the bus? Although I don’t know why she wouldn’t just ask one of us – she lives on most of our routes to work.” Lucy pondered, all of them confused over you.

“Hey,” Ingrid said as you walked into the changing rooms. You didn’t even smile at her, just nodding and moving to your cubby. “Um … so, how come you were on the bus?” You froze. How did she know you got the bus?

“It’s just that we saw you as we were driving in. If you needed a lift, you could’ve just asked; you know we’d all be more than happy to —” Ona explained.

“Yeh, my d-dad only told me this morning that he couldn’t take me the whole way, so … he dropped me off near the metro, and I just got the bus from there,” you lied, rushing to gather your boots and head to the pitch. It was a blatant lie. Your voice was too high, and your hands shook slightly as you tried to devise a realistic excuse.

“Todas sabemos que era una mentira, verdad?” Mapi looked around as the door swung shut.

The following month in training was awkward, to say the least. After your slip-up with the bus, you made sure to take the earlier trains, getting to training before most people had even left their beds. You figured you’d use the time to prove to Alexia and the others that you wanted to be there. You were still benched, but your name was still on the game day sheet, so you liked to believe they weren’t thinking of selling you or cancelling your contract after the season ended. The issue was getting home. If you stayed late, you were often questioned, but if you were seen walking out of the car park, you were also questioned. You really needed to learn how to drive ... quickly.

Eventually, Jona could no longer justify you sitting on the bench. Barca had the Champions League semi-finals coming up, and everyone noted your absence on the pitch.

“Y/N, you will be playing the next match. You’re going to be a sub around 60 or 70 minutes.” It was a short announcement, but you couldn’t help your heart soar. Did this mean they finally believed you when you said that Barca was the best thing that happened to you? Alexia still hadn’t looked at you since That Day, but she was no longer actively seething, which you took as a win. But now you would be playing in the home leg of the Champions League semi-finals. You were nervous, but not because of the match; you were on a 0 – 3 aggregate, and you were going to be playing at Camp Nou – it was an almost guaranteed win –but because you knew the team would be more suspicious of your lack of parents.

You decided to do what you always did – never look to the crowd, do a lap of the stadium for the fans, hurry back into the changing rooms, and slip away. Simple. Easy. You had been doing it all your life. But you hadn’t accounted for how attentive the team would be. They watched you wearily from a distance, concerned when you made no effort to look to the friends and family section during warm-ups or after the match when everyone usually went to see their loved ones. You stayed back, signing more things for fans, and then headed straight to the tunnel. After the celebration in the changing rooms, you gathered your things and disappeared before anyone could bring them up. You had mastered the art of vanishing like a ghost after matches.

But now it was the final. It was obviously an away game, but everyone’s family came. Even the coaching staff brought their loved ones. Not you, though. Your parents hadn’t known you’d left the country, let alone understood that you were playing in the most prestigious match in Europe for clubs. You were in the Starting XI, but you weren’t nervous. You knew you could win this match; this Champions title was yours for the taking. You didn’t realise that the fact that you had no family would be exposed the minute the final whistle went.

You played the full 90 minutes and an extra 5 for injury time. You were exhausted, but that didn’t matter as soon as the clock ran out. You had done it. Champions of Europe. The screams and shouts were so loud it hurt your ears, but you didn’t care. You felt unstoppable.

“Vamos, pequeña. Donde esta tu mamí? Quiero finalmente conocer a la mujer a la que debemos agradecer por regalarle al mundo contigo.” Mapi said as you sat on the grass, your medal around your neck.

“Más tarde. I just want to sit here and soak this all in.” You waved her away. She took you at your word but made meaningful eyes at Alexia, having an unspoken conversation as you moved away. Alexia watched as you leaned back, resting on your arms, legs outstretched, and eyes shut – head tilted to feel the sun on your skin. She waited for 10 minutes, watching you make no effort to see your family. It was the first thing she had done after the trophy celebration. She had run straight to her mother and sister, thanking them profusely for all their sacrifices and expressing so much gratitude towards them – throwing her sweaty body at them and tackling them into long, tight hugs.

“Do you want to see your family now?” It was the first non-football-related words she’d said to you in well over a month.

“No, I’m ok. I’ll see them later,” you dismissed her quickly.

“Do you know where they are? We could bring them down onto the pitch if you don’t want to stand up.” She wasn’t letting this go. She had an inkling that she hoped was wrong.

“It’s alright, Ale. Honestly. I’m fine sitting here, soaking this all up by myself.” You hadn’t opened your eyes, so you had assumed from the quietness she had moved away. “It’s not like you’d find them anyway,” you whispered as an unwanted tear escaped you.

“Qué quieres decir, cariño?” Your eyes snapped open, coming face to face with Alexia, Ona and Keira. You sat up, trying to hide your face.

“Oh, noth-”

“No me mientas. Dónde están tu mamí y papí?” Alexia asked sternly. You misunderstood her, thinking she was angry at you. You shook your head, refusing to answer.

“Neña, are your parents here?” Ona asked quietly, coming to sit next to you. You took a deep breath.

“No. They aren’t.”

“Do you want to phone them?” Keira suggested, hoping that it was just because they couldn’t take time away from work to attend in person. She also sat down, gesturing her phone to you as an invitation to use it. You took another deep breath.

“I don’t think they even know I had a football match, let alone a Champions League final.” Another tear slipped down your cheek. Alexia sat in front of you, reaching for your hands.

“Qué quieres decir?” She asked again, thumbs rubbing gently over the backs of your hands.

“My parents … I don’t really know how to say it,” you paused, Ona gently rubbing your back comfortingly. “My parents don’t really … parent?” You chuckled lightly.

“They don’t support you?” Keira asked, her hand resting on your knee.

“They don’t care enough. They leave for weeks on end without telling me. I get food and stuff like that on my own. I’m basically raising myself at this point. I don’t think they know I have a contract with Barca. I doubt they even know I play football. They just let me do whatever I wanted as long as I was out of the house, not causing trouble and quiet; they didn’t care. They’re lucky I haven’t turned into a criminal or something.” You tried to add a joke to lighten the mood.

“But you said you meet up with your parents after home matches,” Ona couldn’t imagine achieving half the things she did without her family supporting her from the sidelines.

“And you told us your dad drops you off every morning on the way to work,” Keira added, equally disbelieving – her parents were her biggest fans.

“Yeh, I lied. I just go home after matches. And I get the metro to training.”

“But training is nowhere near the metro, and you don’t live near a metro station either.” She still didn’t want to consider what you were saying to be true.

You explained, “I get a bus from mine to the metro and then a bus from the metro to training.”

“That’s why you were getting off the bus that day when we saw you,” Ona realised. She hadn’t trusted your story but had considered no other possibilities.

“That’s why you're late to training sometimes? Because of the buses and trains?” Alexia asked, her hands never leaving yours.

“Yeh.” You looked down, ashamed of your situation and lying to them.

“And that day when you missed training. You weren’t sick. What happened?”

“I … um … the boiler broke, so I had to wait for someone to come fix it. Which they never did, by the way. I had to phone some random company that massively overcharged me, and the water definitely doesn’t get as hot as it used to.” You babbled nervously. “It wasn’t because I don’t want to be at Barca. It’s the only thing that keeps me going, knowing that I have you guys looking out for me. It makes everything else seem not as bad,” you whispered, needing them to know just how important Barca was to you. You looked around. Patri and Pina tried to do the perfect chest bump as Jana and Bruna filmed. Lucy was chasing her niece and nephew. Ingrid and Mapi were with Ingrid’s parents, smiling widely as they talked. Marta and Caro were sat off to one side, talking quietly. You could see the others dotted around the stadium, talking to fans, speaking to parents, and enjoying the support.

“Cariño, I am so sorry,” Alexia implored. I shouted at you and benched you. I’m sorry I made you think I didn’t believe you took Barca seriously.”

“Why didn’t you tell us, neña?” Ona asked.

“We only want what’s best for you, kid,” Keira added.

“Um … I don’t really know. It doesn’t really matter. It’s been like this my whole life, so…”

“Cariño. It does matter. But we know now, and that’s all that matters, sí?” Alexia stood up, dragging you with her. “Let’s go see my family. Mi Mamí has been asking to meet you for ages. And before you say no, she already has plans for you to come round for dinner one night. Y en secreto, ella siempre quiso una tercera hija.” She said, wrapping an arm around your shoulder as Ona took your hand.

“Oh, Eli will have to fight my Mama on that one, Ale. She always wanted a goal-scoring daughter.”

“Well, my mum says you are more than welcome to stay at her house if you ever visit the UK as long as you cook her paella.” Keira smiled.

Maybe your biological family was shite, but your found one certainly wasn't.

I hope you liked it <3

[eroselless]

─────────────── somebody else // 1

series summary: you just work in hospitality for McLaren and he’s their star driver. what happens when your paths cross and you find yourself questioning your feelings for each other? [2.8k]

[lando norris x reader]

masterlist 

warnings: insecure reader

note: thank you to the anon that requested this! i absolutely loved writing this. although the anon didn’t specify if they wanted this as a multi-partner, i feel like i wouldn’t be able to do it justice with just one part. i tried my best to make this a little bit of a slow burn without dragging it out too much. happy reading!

The hum of the engines reverberates through the paddock as the sun begins to dip below the horizon. It casts long shadows over the track, the sky painted in soft pinks and purples. You huff as you move around the backroom, not yet used to the fast-paced world of Formula 1, the chaos that comes with each race still new to you. You’ve been working as part of the McLaren hospitality team for a few weeks now, moving from city to city, country to country as the season unfolds quickly. It is a demanding job, with long hours and high expectations, but you wouldn’t change it for the world.

You were introduced to the sport later in life, in your late teens. Your father had been involved in karting, often taking you to his races, but he had never considered going any further. You had grown accustomed to the roar of the cars, the smell of burning rubber, the palpable tension in the air – it became intoxicating, thrilling, and nerve-wracking. You had slowly pushed yourself to become more involved, snagging a job that you had anticipated for a long time. Working in F1, even just in hospitality, was a dream that could open doors for you.

Like any other race weekend, you are on your feet from sun up till sun down. You ensure that everything runs smoothly for all the guests that come and go in the McLaren suite. You move through the crowds with a practiced grace, offering smiles and the most attentive service to VIPs, sponsors, and team members alike.

You reach over the table, pouring out champagne to a group of executives, feeling a tinge on the back of your neck. Glancing up, you can feel someone’s eyes trained on you. There is a rush of chatter, a group of young children, all dressed in matching orange attire.

You see Lando standing among them, a smile on his face as he speaks to them. His eyes flicker up to you, attention divided as he tries his best to keep track of what a young boy is telling him and watching you move around the room.

It becomes harder to ignore as the day drags on, his gaze following you whenever he comes in and out of the suite. You try to think nothing of it; you are one of a handful of servers, you would be noticed, of course. It is nothing, right?

“Need a hand with that?”

The sound of Lando’s voice pulls you from your thoughts, startling you slightly. You turn from your spot at the bar, a tray of empty glasses in your hands, ready to be sent to the kitchen for washing. He leans casually on the counter, fingers fiddling with a homemade bracelet he undoubtedly got from a fan. There’s a twinkle in his eyes, a familiar and warm glint you’d only ever seen from afar. He gestures to the other tray that sits on the bar, equally as full as the one you’re carrying, a lopsided grin on his face.

Forcing a smile, you try your best to push down the flutter in your chest. “I think I can manage, thanks.”

Lando leans in slightly, his voice low. “I’m sure you can, but it never hurts to have a little help, right?”

His close proximity makes your stomach burst with butterflies, but you keep your composure. You shift one tray in your hands, holding up one before grabbing the other one and balancing it on your fingers. “I appreciate the offer, really, but you’ve got a race to focus on. Can't have you getting distracted.”

“Maybe I like distractions,” he quips, his gaze following you as you begin to move away from the bar. He meets your eyes as he raises his eyebrows. “Plus, I’m pretty good at multitasking—driving fast and helping with drinks. Can’t be that different, right?”

You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to hold back the smile that threatens to pop out. You shake your head as you take another step, breaking away from his stare. “I’ll keep that in mind when I see you out on track.”

He chuckles, his laugh warm and genuine. “You do that. And I’ll keep an eye out for you.”

With that, he saunters off, leaving you standing there slightly confused and trying to process what had just happened. As you watch him go, he turns back slightly to give you another smile and a nod before exiting through the front doors. You can’t help but feel lightheaded as you make your way to the kitchen, biting your lip as you do. Jesus Christ, what was that?

The rest of the day passes in a blur of activity, the memory of Lando’s casual smile lingering in your mind. It doesn’t leave your thoughts as you continue to run into him at the next few races. He pops in before the day descends into full chaos to see how you’re doing and checks on you at the end of the day, always ready with something to make you feel lighter on a stressful race day.

You find yourself expecting his presence, your banter becoming a regular part of your day, a little slice of normalcy in the otherwise hectic and fast-paced environment. He teases you about your work, making light-hearted comments about how serious you’ve become or how you’re in the know about everyone’s gossip. He pulls you into hugs or gives your nose or cheeks a gentle pinch whenever he gets the chance. In return, you tease him about his racing, jokingly offering tips on how to handle certain corners or shave a couple of seconds off his lap times.

One afternoon, he slides into an empty seat, panting as he sinks into the chair. “Hey, you,” he greets, pulling his hat off and placing it on the table in front of you. “Busy day?”

“You could say that,” you reply, glancing up from your work. “How about you? Surviving the media circus?”

“Barely,” he jokes, rolling his eyes. “But it’s all part of the job, right?”

You nod, smiling. “I guess so. You seem to handle it well, though.”

He shrugs, that easy grin still in place. “It’s all about keeping a cool head. Speaking of which, how about you? How are you handling everything?”

“Me?” you question. “I’m just trying to keep up.”

“Well, you’re doing a great job,” he says, his tone sincere. “Seriously, everyone’s noticed how well you’ve fit in around here.”

Your cheeks warm at the compliment, and you duck your head, suddenly interested in a spot that won’t come off a spoon. “Thanks, Lando. That means a lot.”

There’s a brief silence, the kind that’s beginning to feel familiar between the two of you—comfortable, yet charged with something unspoken. You can feel his eyes on you, observing your gentle movements. When you finally look up, he’s still watching you, a tranquil expression on his face. It makes your heart skip a beat, his blue-green eyes almost admiring you.

“So, what are your plans after this?” he asks, his voice casual but tinged with curiosity.

“I’m not sure yet,” you admit, trying to keep your tone light, not wanting to reveal that his gaze is melting your resolve. “Maybe just relax, take in the sights. I haven’t really explored much outside of work.”

His smile widens. “Well, if you ever need a tour guide, you know where to find me.”

You laugh, gratefully nodding at him, but your mind races with possibilities you quickly shove away.

It’s not until the next race weekend that you see him again. You’re busy arranging the seating in the hospitality suite when you feel a presence behind you, followed by the gentle sound of cutlery clinking. Before you can turn around, Lando’s voice drifts over your shoulder.

"Straighten up those forks, will you? We wouldn’t want our guests to think we’re unprofessional."

You laugh, rolling your eyes as your fingers move to adjust the silverware he’d nudged out of place. "I’m pretty sure they’re here for the racing, not the table settings."

"Well, if the racing doesn’t impress them, maybe your impeccable attention to detail will," Lando teases, leaning against the back of a chair as he watches you continue to move things around.

You turn to face him, a hand on your hip while the other twists a rag you’ve been using to wipe down the tables. A smile tugs at your lips as you meet his gaze. "And what about you? Do you think my attention to detail is impressive?"

Lando’s smile widens, eyes sparkling with mischief. "Oh yeah, I think you’re impressive, full stop."

You shake your head, looking down at a box full of cutlery rolls, trying to hide the blush creeping up your neck. "Flattery will get you nowhere, Norris."

"Who said anything about flattery?" he retorts, his tone light but sincere. "I’m just stating the facts."

"Facts, huh?" you glance over your shoulder at him, raising an eyebrow. "What other facts do you have for me?"

Lando pretends to think for a moment, leaning back in his chair. "Well, let’s see… You’re always the first one here in the morning and the last to leave at night. You keep calm under pressure, even when the kitchen’s on fire—literally. And you have this little tick when you smile—which, by the way, you don’t do enough—you look away or cover your laugh with your hands."

His words catch you off guard, and you pause, unsure of how to respond. You'd grown used to his teasing, but this felt different. He rambles a little as if he can’t get the words out fast enough. It could mean anything, but your mind refuses to acknowledge that it might be more than platonic teasing. You hear the sincerity behind his words, and it makes your heart race slightly, in a way that is both exciting and terrifying.

You quickly mask your uncertainty with a playful roll of your eyes. "And you’ve been keeping track of all this?"

"Maybe," Lando admits, not backing down. His smile softens as he watches you closely, an unspoken question lingering in his eyes.

Before you can respond, the sound of approaching footsteps breaks the moment, and you’re both reminded of where you are. A group of VIP guests enters the room, and you immediately slip back into work mode, offering them a warm smile as you direct them to their seats.

Lando lingers for a moment, his gaze lingering on you before he too slips away, back into the bustle of race day.

Your casual banter continues throughout the day and as the weeks pass. But the more time you spend around Lando, the stronger the urge to pull away becomes. He is so easy to talk to, so genuine in his interactions, but you can’t shake the feeling that you might be reading into things too much. A voice in the back of your mind keeps reminding you of the reality of your situation. He’s Lando Norris—a world-famous racing driver, adored by millions, with the world at his feet. You never doubt your skills, but you are just a hospitality worker, a coworker who happened to become a friend. Just a friend, right?

:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

A few races later, after a hectic race, the team gathers for a small celebration. Both Lando and Oscar had performed well, amplifying the mood around the whole paddock. You're busy fixing drinks and chatting with guests, your thoughts still drifting back to Lando. You feel your heart flutter every time you catch a glimpse of him, whether he is laughing with Oscar or signing autographs for fans that are brought in. You have no doubt that he is an attractive person and are determined not to let your feelings grow further than they already have, but every touch, every brush of his fingers, or his hand on your back, sends your mind spiraling. Could you be seeing something that isn’t there? Is he just being overly friendly now that you have established a connection?

The questions swirl endlessly in your head as the evening wears on, and by the time the celebration winds down, you feel overwhelmed. Stepping outside for fresh air, you find a quiet spot on the balcony overlooking the track. You let out a sigh as you sit down on the ledge. You lean your head back on the wall, trying to clear your head. Your eyes water up a little as you let yourself relax, but you are quick to wipe them away when you hear footsteps approaching.

Turning, you spot Lando. His hands are shoved in his pockets, a gentle smile adorning his lips.

“Mind if I join you?” he asks, his voice soft.

“Of course not,” you say, shifting over a little to make room for him. He sits down next to you, a sliver of space between your two bodies. You sit in silence, the night air filled with the distant sounds of the paddock winding down. You can feel warmth radiating from him, a familiar tension beginning to crackle between you. It is a comfortable silence, weighted down by so many questions and unspoken words.

“Tonight was fun,” Lando speaks up after a while, his tone relaxed. “The team did great.”

You hum in agreement. “Yeah, it was a good day,” you say, glancing over at him. “You did great.”

He smiles, a soft, almost shy smile. It's a smile you have grown used to, always paired with rosy cheeks and a bashful look in his eyes. Your heart betrays you as it flutters in your chest. “Thanks. But I couldn’t have done it without the support of the team—including you.”

You smile, turning away instinctively, suddenly aware of the tick he had pointed out just a few weeks ago. “I’m just in hospitality, doing my job.”

“Maybe,” he says, his voice dropping to a more serious tone, “but you do it well. I’ve noticed how hard you work, how much you care about what you do. It’s one of the things I like about you.” He leans back on his hands, watching as you search for what to say.

The words hang in the air, heavy with something you don’t want to acknowledge. The voice in your head speaks again, denying, denying, denying. He’s just being kind, nothing else.

“I—thank you,” you stammer, trying to keep your voice steady. “That means a lot coming from you.”

He looks at you then, really looking at you. His eyes are hooded, eyebrows drawn together slightly. It’s as if he can see right through the defenses you’ve been trying to keep up. There’s something in the way his eyes peer out at you, a vulnerability that seems to mirror yours. There it is again, the nerves and the ache in your chest.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he says softly. “I just wanted you to know.”

There is a beat of silence, and before you can respond, the doors open behind you. Your name is called, and you are quickly pulled back, retreating into the safety of professionalism. You’re needed inside.

“I should get back,” you say hastily, blinking the haze out of your eyes. “There’s still a lot to do.”

Lando clears his throat, sitting up, his expression unreadable. His voice is now deflated. “Yeah, of course.”

As you walk away, you can feel his eyes on you, but you don’t dare look back. There are so many emotions swirling in your mind—confusion, longing, and an ever-growing sense of fear. You want so badly to let yourself believe that there could be something growing between you, but there will always be doubts rearing their ugly heads. There will always be whispers telling you that it is all in your head, that you are only setting yourself up for disappointment. As soon as you pass the glass door, you let out a deep breath, a knot forming in your throat.

a/n: thank you so much if you’ve made it to the end! i am already in the process of writing the next part so it should be out soon! any feedback, reblogs and likes are very much appreciated, i love seeing your reactions and notes! 

[woso-dreamzzz]

Leaving VII

Alexia Putellas x Teen!Reader

Summary: Olympic chaos with your sister

Y/NPutellas.S has started a live video. Click to join!

"-Got two backpacks," You're saying as Alexia clicks on your video," I think one of them might become my racket bag because the one I'm using right now is falling apart."

You shove the bags away, glancing around the space as you drag more towards you.

"There's a toiletry bag as well which is full of stuff I probably won't even use."

You pause as you scroll through the comments.

"What sport am I competing in? Oh, I'm doing tennis...Who will be the hardest to play against? Iga, always. I train with her most of the time and I think I've only beaten her a few matches this year. She's scary. Coco always gives me a good competition too. I think she text me a few hours ago but I haven't answered just yet."

You go back to showing off your haul.

You're very complimentary of all of the shoes but you seem confused as to why you've been given so many socks.

Alexia takes a screenshot of a weird face you make while trying on the bucket hat and hastily makes it her profile picture.

"I'm not a fan of the opening skirt," You tell your followers," It's not really my style. I'll wear it because I have to but...What's that? My sister's here?"

You crowd a bit closer to your phone, brows furrowed as you scroll up looking for Alexia's comments.

She feels triumphant at the look of horror on your face when you see her profile picture.

"Alexia!" You shriek," Change it back! My eyes aren't even open! Ale, please!"

Alexia does not change it back and you swear under your breath at her.

"I'm telling Mama!"

Alexia Putellas: Go ahead, you little snitch

"I'm not a snitch!"

Alexia Putellas: Yes, you are

"Don't listen to her guys! She's such a liar!"

You've always been more active on social media than Alexia and fans eat up any content you post on your TikTok. Most of your fans are just people that watch tennis but you've gone viral overnight when you posted a video of you and Iga reuniting at the Olympic Village.

Suddenly, everyone wants content from you and you're posting more than you ever have before.

A lot of it still centres around your tennis, out on the practice courts with the rest of team Spain but there's more domestic things like you retaping your racket grip and showing off everything in the Olympic Village.

Something in Alexia snaps when you make a video complaining about how uncomfortable your cardboard bed is. Suddenly, she's stitching your video.

Her camera pans across her normal hotel bed and ends with her giving a thumbs up to the camera with a smug grin on her face.

Her own fans go crazy over her posting something outside of sponsorships and it's strange to see that some people don't even know who you are.

woso.alexia.engen: Who was the first person in the video???? -> captainklittle: Alexia's little sister! She's representing Spain for tennis!

A second stitch appears hours later, piggybacking off a video of you complaining about your lack of AC. There's no sound apart from the very deliberate flick of Alexia's own AC switch.

It seems every complaint you post, Alexia finds a way to show off how much better she has it in a hotel outside of Paris.

You decide, perhaps a little pettily, to show off what she's missing.

"Hi, guys!" You say," I know a lot of people were wondering about pin trading so I thought I would bring you along for the ride! I've already got a Poland one from Iga and a US one from Coco but I've been wanting a Team GB one and I'm also meeting up with Paolini so she can give me an Italy one."

It's another live video and thank god there's a break in training, so Alexia can jump onto it again.

Jenni and Misa crowd around her at the same time, curious as to what's going on with you.

"I was talking to Carlos at breakfast and he was telling me that the coaches have ordered us all mattress toppers because the beds have started to affect how we're performing."

Alexia Putellas: Sucks to be you, doesn't it?

"Alexia, I swear to god if you keep bullying me then I'm telling Mama and she'll fly out to whoop your ass!"

Alexia Putellas: 🤪

"And Jenni I knew that it's you that just sent that because Alexia doesn't understand emojis."

"Fuck," Jenni mutters.

"Wait, give me the phone. I'll fix it," Misa says.

Alexia Putellas: Who's Jenni?

"Misa, I know that's you as well. Stop trying to cover for each other and I'll tell Mama and she'll whoop all of you."

Alexia doesn't get her phone back for the rest of your live but she does get a strongly worded text from Eli after it's over to grow up and not let her friends bully you.

Alexia calls you a snitch.

You remind her that she should stop bullying you.

"Look who it is!" Jenni cajoles as you come running out of the village to crash into Alexia," Baby Putellas!"

But you're not really listening to her as Alexia presses her forehead against yours, whispering fast Catalan to you as you giggle.

"Aw..." Misa continues where Jenni left off," Look at them! Two sisters! Reunited!"

You and Alexia push each other away, turning your back and pretending that you weren't hugging just a few moments ago.

You turn back to her quickly, hand out. "Can I have your pins?"

"What? No! They're mine!"

"You're not even in the Village! You can't use them!"

"Yes I can!" Alexia splutters out," I've been trading them!"

"Yeah? With who?"

"Jenni!"

"Liar! You've got the same pins! Come on, Ale. Give them over!"

"I will...for a price."

As Alexia lays out her terms, you bring everyone up to your room.

Jenni and Misa split off briefly to check out the dining hall but Alexia comes straight up with you.

"It's actually cardboard," She says, poking at your bed frame.

"Yeah? Do you think we were all lying about that? It's proper cardboard. You can draw on it if you want."

A smile splits your sister's face open.

"Never mind. I don't want you drawing on my bed."

Alexia pokes it. "Do you think it's true? That two people can't get on it at the same time?"

You shrug, rummaging through your bedside table. "I don't know. Why?"

You never get your answer though.

Arms are around your waist suddenly and you're being hauled backwards as Alexia slams herself onto your bed, dragging you back with her.

You may not get an answer but Alexia certainly does because the moment the two of you land, there's an almighty ripping noise and your bed goes to ground very quickly.

"Oops," You sister says.

"Alexia!"

"Sorry?"

"You don't sound very sorry at all."

"Yeah...You're right. I'm not sorry in the slightest. Hey! Stop hitting me!"

"You're lucky I'm not beating you with my rackets!"

"Hey. Hey! It's fine! You can get a new bed."

"Jenni and Misa are going to take the piss out of me! How could you do this, Ale?"

As annoying as your sister is, she at least has the decency to push the blame off onto her friends as you both hastily raise your bed up again and wait for Jenni and Misa to arrive.

They seem to have the same idea as Alexia, jumping onto your bed without so much of a greeting.

But, as planned, the bed collapses under them and the shock of their faces is enough for Alexia breaking your bed to be worth it. Their faces are even funnier as they head downstairs to ask for a new one for you.

Behind your back, Alexia passes you a handful of pins.

JenniHermoso10 has started a live video. Click to join!

"Forward! Forward!"

"I am going forward!"

"More forward! When I say forward, it doesn't mean shuffle! It means walk forward! You're a person not a pigeon!"

"And here we have Olympic football player Alexia Putellas and Olympic tennis player y/n Putellas, attempting to climb onto the rings," Jenni narrates from behind the camera.

"It's not going well," Misa says, as Alexia nearly throws you from your spot on her shoulders," Alexia is clearly struggling."

"I'm not struggling!" Alexia insists, yelping as you twist her hair in your hands.

"Forward!

"This is as forward as I can get!"

"That's such bullshit! Move closer!"

"I can't!"

"You can!"

"I don't think they're ever going to make it," Jenni says," It's like they can't-"

"Stop! Ale, stop! Left a bit. No! Too left. Right again. Left! Right! Left!"

"Left, right, forward, back," Alexia mutters," Make up your mind."

"Left and...got it...Wait! Don't let go!"

You haul yourself from your sister's shoulders onto the centre ring, positioning yourself perched on the sliver of the yellow ring that enters the black one.

"Alright," Alexia says," Give me a hand."

"What? No! You'll pull me off!"

"Give me your hand!"

"No!"

"Yes!"

"No!"

She braces herself on the lower rings and grabs your hand, pulling herself into the centre ring before you can even shove her off.

"Oh," She says," That was pretty easy." Alexia grins at you but the smile drops from her face when she notices the pensive look you're wearing. "What is it?"

"I've just realised," You laugh in disbelief," When Mama said she wanted a picture of us and the rings. I think she meant in front of them. Not in them."

"Oh."

[arlertwhore]

pairing: paige bueckers x fem! reader

warning(s): nsfw/18+, fighting (verbal/physical), toxic relationship stuff, fingering, thigh riding, pussy eating, squirting,

synopsis: the bitchy, possessive, and temperamental gf who paige thinks she can handle proves her right!

word count: 2.4k

Author Note: got my first lil hate comment the other day 😜 i feel like an actual writer now lmao! here goes draft #6, comin’ in lit 🔥

Fuck knows what you're complaining about this time. She's straight from practice — from a rigorous, exhausting, and intense practice, frustrated with her own performance, only to find you waiting at the door, already irritated about something entirely. Perhaps it was how she didn’t answer you at all today—or how you saw her looking too close for comfort to another 'fan' as she claimed, though you never trusted it—or maybe she even fucking sighed at you the wrong way upon entering through the door because the littlest of things ticked you off—you—her bitchy, demanding, and infuriatingly sexy girlfriend, whom Paige has to constantly remind herself she willingly got involved with, knowing full well she was signing up for the being the figurative property of the brattiest, bossiest, most high-maintenance girl on campus.

"Are you even listening to me?!" you fume as Paige storms past you, stripping a trail of her clothes all the way to the bathroom, letting her hair fall loose from its low bun as she saunters away from your chaos, massaging her temples.

"Seriously, Y/N, now's not the time, I gotta-" - "I don't give a fuck!" you explode, chasing after her and grabbing her arm to spin her back around. "I don't care about your shitty day or your shitty excuses. Why the fuck didn't you text me back, hm?" Paige sighs, avoiding your eyes with an air of exasperation, her gaze shifting to the ceiling in an attempt to not roll them. At her silence, you feel your anger boil over, frustration evident in the clenched fist at your sides and the tense set of your jaw. "You're the fucking worst, Paige!" you snap, "You think just because I'm understanding that means you can take pictures with all these other bitches, post all on your Instagram, but then NOT text me back!"

Paige knew she was the man, the kind of person who could handle any challenge, which is why she thought dating someone like you—a real piece of work—would be a good match. She believed you could keep her on her toes, pushing her to become mentally stronger, more confident, and dominant—qualities she hoped would shine on the court, but on days like this, when you demanded drama and chaos, she wondered if she was truly cut out for it. Her honest, no-bullshitting, no-pretense attitude of: My girlfriend is so sexy opinion? Nah. And she promptly proved that stance when she spat out, “Alright, I’m sorry, baby… Is that what you want me to say? That I’m sorry I have things to do and you act like a bitch about it?” her voice venomous and defensive, stunning you. “Man, get the fuck out of my way right now. I don’t feel like fighting with you, for real,” she demanded, trying to brush past you. You couldn’t believe she actually spoke to you like that—she was usually so considerate of your feelings. In a fit of rage, you squared up to her and pushed her back by her shoulders with a strength you didn’t know you had over the 6ft wall of strength she was. Growling, you commanded, “You’re gonna stand here until WE’RE done talking!”

Paige stands with her hands on her hips, clenching at her sides with such restraint that her basketball shorts ride up, revealing her boxers underneath. She warns, "Stop playin' with me, yo. Step aside." and as she advances again, trying to get to the bathroom door behind you, you block her path, arms crossed and eyes flashing. Sneering, you challenge defiantly, "No. What are you gonna do if I don’t step aside, P? Hm? You gonna hit me?"

She takes a deep breath, drops her head, and shakes it exasperatedly before a light chuckle escapes her, broad shoulders bouncing. “Whatever, ma,” she mutters, turning around and picking up the clothes she’d left scattered on the floor. “I’m gonna go shower at Mikayla’s — forget this.”

You don’t have enough time to be angry about her saying she’s visiting Mikayla’s house—the slut you’d warned her to stay away from. Instead, you sprint to the front door, grab her keys off the rack, and hide them behind your back. Coldly, you say, “You’re mine, Paige. Turn around and get your ass in bed, NOW! You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Paige knows you and your past well enough to recognize that you aren’t joking about this possessiveness. However, she’s far from intimidated at the moment. Instead of backing down or appeasing you like she usually does for her princess, she glares at you with a fiery defiance. Her voice is firm as she refutes, “Give me my keys, Y/N.”

You gaze at her, a smirk forming on your face as you watch her façade of nonchalance crumble. Her face turns a subtle red, veins bulging in her hands as she holds them open, waiting for the keys, her lips curled inward and cheeks hollowed. She stands there expectantly, like a statue, until you bristle as she seizes your wrist, slamming it against the door while reaching for the keys with her other hand. Instinctively, you counter with your free hand, pushing her away. She’s lost her calm and collected demeanor. It’s scarier how she doesn’t run but still chases you with the relentlessness of a predator. Her eyes blaze with determination as she follows your running with a steady, purposeful stride. You taunt, “Come and get it, doggy! Yeah, you little bitch!” luring her toward the bathroom, the only room in the house with a lock, and Paige knows exactly what you’re up doing. Just before you can slam the door in her face, Paige lunges for it and forces it open, stepping inside and backing you against the door. This time, she tries a different approach to get the keys—she clasps your waist, holding you in place with her knees pressed against your smaller legs, effectively immobilizing you. As she tussles with you for the keys, you keep a tight grip on them. The struggle is fierce, and you're both panting in each other’s faces, exchanging only ragged breaths. You finally manage to break free from the bathroom and run for the bedroom with Paige hot on your heels. As you glance over your shoulder to see where she’s at, you realize too late that she’s no longer focused on reclaiming her keys. With a swift tackle, she takes you down onto the bed, pinning you there and forcing you into submission. The keys fall out of your hand, but Paige remains on top of you, her anger unrepairable as she growls, “Wanna bitch at me like that when I’m tired?” Her big hands begin to untie your nightrobe. “Wanna piss me off when I’m trying to be nice about things?”

She moves with an almost animalistic quality, yanking you down the bed by your legs and sending your clothes flying off with the force of her pull, baring your body to her hungry blue eyes. She hisses against your neck, “Little bitch?” and you nod rebelliously, “Yeah..fuck,” you heave, “look at you, so pissed, hm?” Her words are unbearably sexy when she vows, “I’ll show you a little bitch.” Mere moments later, she’s seated on the edge of the bed, with you draped over her lap like a ragdoll. You’re writhing, still trying to resist, biting and clawing at her thighs, but Paige’s grip is unyielding. Under her strength, you’re completely powerless.

Her hands spread your ass open, giving her a clear view of your dripping pussy. She chuckles cockily, the smirk evident in her voice even though you're not looking at her when she drawls, “This is why you’re really bitchin’ out, huh, ma?”

You whine at her words, stuttering and squirming, “Let me go, Paige, f-fuck!”

She tuts dismissively. “Aw, but that’s not what you really want, baby... you just need this pussy fucked, don’t you? To get fucked back to your senses—make you my good girl again, my princess...” she purrs, her fingers sliding through your slick and teasing your asshole. Then you hear the dirtiest, most sinful suck of fingers in her mouth you’ve ever heard.

Hips arched high with her strong arm restraining you from running, pressed firmly into your lower back, punching pressure deep within and outside of you, all aligning on the inside, she works her fingers into your soaking wet cunt with precision. She curls and bruises against your walls, relentlessly hitting that spot that makes you squirm like a torture puppet and cry out, "Ah!" for your dear life.

Her smarmy, taunting response? “I know, baby, I know, fuck… too tight for it, I know,” she bellows, feeding off your whimpers and whines with a sadistic delight. That smirk on her face—the one you wish you hadn't turned back to see—tells you she's savoring this victory a little too much and has no intention of letting you go anytime soon, even if you've clearly accepted that you're the little bitch. “Please,” you plead, sinking your nails into her thigh, but it doesn’t seem to perturb her in the slightest—if anything, it only eggs her on, makes her devilishly speed up. “It won’t happen again—I-I won’t act like a bitch anymore, daddy, I’m sorry,” you submit, hoping for some mercy, but she’s unforgiving. She chuckles darkly, yanking you up by your hair so you’re forced to look her in the eye, even if hers aren’t fully focused on yours, watching how your tits bounce as she fucks you senseless. “One more time,” she stares at them, biting her bottom lip with a smirk before she refocuses and demands it sternly. Without hesitation, you repeat it louder before she even finishes her command: “I won’t act like a bitch anymore, daddy, I’m sorry!” She smirks, her grip tightening. "I know you won't. Not after I'm done with you." She releases your head, and you fall forward hard, your back arching under what feels like tons of weight as she drives into you overwhelmingly, making you cry out in shock. "Shit!" you gasp, involuntarily pushing back against her long fingers to soften the blow and the jam, so forcefully that your ass claps with each thrust as she fucks into you.

“Say my name, baby, who’s fucking you,” Paige demands. You groan, clenching around her thick, long fingers and spilling spurts of slick arousal as you pant, “You, Daddy!” Paige tilts her head, unsatisfied. “Nah.” Her hand, once forcing down your back, quickly wraps around your throat, clasping firmly as she whispers, “Tell me, Ma.” With the blonde holding you tightly, despite your attempts to escape, with no leverage, she easily grips you by the throat like a puppet, forcing you back onto her fingers with insane speed and force. She thrusts into you even faster, your clit now grinding against her thigh. You hike a leg up in a desperate attempt to run or crawl away, but she's got you firmly in place.

“Paige! Paige, Paige, Paige, you’re fucking me!” you cry out.

“And you like it, baby? Like how my fingers feel fucking that tight pussy?” she taunts, flexing her leg muscles and increasing the friction.

“Aww shit,” you moan strainedly, feeling the familiar coil in your stomach emerge. Your body still tries to crawl away, but your brain forces you to stay put, losing all the air inside you.

“Stop fucking running, ma, take it,” she commands. “Take it, baby, just cum for me, kay? Cum for me, give me your cum.”

You listen to the sound of your cunt, feel it pulsing and clenching around her fingers before you give up and stop fighting and allow all the pleasure crash over you, your body convulsing as your orgasm hits. You gasp and cry out, surrendering to the intense sensation as your cunt tightens rhythmically around her fingers, your clit throbbing against her thigh. She fucks you through your orgasm, continuing even after that, giving you no recovery time, no chance to catch your breath before she has you on your back, legs still spread and a wet mess beneath you. Leaning in, she murmurs, “Be good for me, be still, kay? Let me clean you up—jus' lemme taste you, baby.”

Your hand comes up to cover your face, crying out as you feel her tongue glide through your folds. Gripping onto her hair tightly, you sob—a genuine cry from the overstimulation. Through your tears, you manage to gasp, “Fuck, baby, it hurts so good, ugh!”

You shout and clamp your legs shut, burying her with a guttural scream once her fingers scissor your folds and hold them open, her tongue flicking exactly against your clit, making direct contact.

She pries your legs open inhumanly, like an uncaring monster, her voice resounding and vibrating in your cunt, "Hold your ankles in the air." a command.

You obey, and she’s even nice enough to help, her strong arms holding your legs apart as she laps and slurps up all your cum like she’s parched, her swallows audible and incredibly sexy.

You look down at her and watch her head shake around wildly, losing herself in the abyss, entranced. You try to push her away by bucking into her face, hands occupied, but you end up unintentionally pushing her closer instead. You whine out desperately, your toes, nipples, and cunt especially on fire. "Pl-PLEASE!" you gasp, "I c-can't, I’m gonna—" Her fingers replace her tongue on your clit, while her tongue dips inside you as she murmurs, "Mhm," You cover your face, and the last thing you hear before you pass out is the frantic noise of her tongue fighting to slip even deeper inside you. There’s the sound of a leak, then the subsequent opening of your eyes after what feels like days. You look down at your girlfriend to find her face glistening in a pool of arousal, juices smeared everywhere. Her first instinct? To lick around her mouth, trying to savor the taste as she smiles at you smugly, knowing she’s clearly gotten her point across to your fucked-out self.

Needless to say, Paige has proven herself to you as she knew she would always: she is NOT someone to be underestimated.

MASTERLIST

AUTHOR NOTE #2: uhh so i reread this and i just wanna know if anybody else reading this who writes, is it crazy i reread my own work and blush at it like a viewer 😅 am i a freak guys 😅😅😅 do you do that too?? ANYWAY GUYS PLS INTERACT WITH ME ILY ALL MWAH!

[sirenedeslily]

𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐎 ‎𐦍 𝐦atthew 𝐬turniolo

❛ adore me, hold me and explore me. ❜

(⊹ֹ 𝐢𝐧 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 ) ──── ⟢ your shy, out-of-place boyfriend navigates the glamorous chaos of new york fashion week to support his supermodel girlfriend.

𝒏𝒆𝒘 𝒚𝒐𝒓𝒌 𝒇𝒂𝒔𝒉𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒘𝒆𝒆𝒌 was nothing short of surreal, and for matt, it might as well have been another planet. the glossy black suvs, the red carpets rolled out in front of towering venues, the swarms of paparazzi snapping photos like their lives depended on it — none of it was remotely close to the quiet, grounded life he was used to.

matt wasn’t a model. he wasn’t famous. he was just a boy from boston who followed his brother to la for a hockey scholarship, who spent most of his free time in oversized hoodies, playing video games or studying. he wasn’t made for the spotlight — and certainly not for the world of high fashion.

but he was here, and he was here for you.

the two of you had arrived at the venue, his hand nervously gripping yours as you led him through the chaos. your name was everywhere, from the lips of stylists hurrying backstage to the flashes of cameras that seemed to follow your every step. matt had known dating a model would come with some attention, but this? this was insane.

he felt out of place, like a little kid on his first day of school, wide-eyed and trying not to trip over his own feet. you, on the other hand, were in your element. you glided through the crowd, exchanging greetings with designers and fellow models like you had been born into this world. and maybe you had. but matt? matt was just some guy who liked to take blurry photos of you laughing during game nights or falling asleep with your face squished against his chest.

"you okay, honey?" you asked, your voice soft and laced with concern as you glanced over at him, his doe eyes scanning the room with a mixture of awe and terror.

matt swallowed nervously, nodding. "yeah, just... there’s a lot of people."

you chuckled, squeezing his hand. "welcome to fashion week, baby."

the show hadn’t even started yet, and matt was already sweating. he fidgeted with his collar, tugging at it like it was strangling him, though you had reassured him a thousand times that he looked amazing. he didn’t believe you. he never did. especially not now, surrounded by a sea of perfectly styled, impossibly tall people.

matt was, for lack of a better word, a dork. he still had an instagram account that only existed so he could stalk your posts, his notifications constantly buzzing with every new photo you uploaded. he knew how to tie a perfect ribbon into your hair but couldn’t figure out how to post his own stories without fumbling. and yet, here he was, sitting front row at one of the most exclusive shows in the world, like he somehow belonged.

but when the lights dimmed, and the show finally began, he forgot all about how out of place he felt.

he knew you were coming out soon, had watched you rehearse your walk in front of the mirror, had seen you practice that fierce, unattainable look in your eyes — the one that made people gasp when you stepped onto the runway. but nothing prepared him for seeing you in that moment.

when you walked out under the blinding lights, every camera turning toward you, matt’s heart did a funny little flip. his breath caught in his throat. he’d seen you countless times — in sweats, in pjs, in fancy dresses, even without makeup first thing in the morning — but this? this was something else.

you looked like a goddess, ethereal in a way that made everyone in the room stop and stare. but matt didn’t see the untouchable model everyone else saw. he didn’t see the girl on the magazine covers, the one plastered across billboards. he saw his girl. the same one who insisted on matching rings with their initials engraved into them, the one who made him binge-watch romcoms just because. the one who, even now, was probably holding back a laugh at how starstruck he looked.

and when you made it halfway down the runway, your eyes glanced toward the audience, finding his face in the sea of strangers. you didn’t smile, didn’t break character, but there was a flicker in your gaze — a secret, silent exchange between the two of you. It was all matt needed.

he fumbled for his phone, almost dropping it in his lap as he shakily tried to capture the moment. his hands were sweaty, the screen smudged, but he managed to snap a few photos of you as you turned at the end of the runway and made your way back.

by the time the show was over, matt was grinning like a fool, his face flushed with pride. he turned to the person next to him — some sleek fashion editor or designer, he didn’t know — and blurted out, “that’s my girlfriend.”

the editor raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the enthusiasm of this awkward boy sitting in the front row, but matt didn’t care. he was too busy replaying the sight of you on that runway in his mind, too proud to be embarrassed.

backstage was even more chaotic, but you found Matt waiting for you, standing awkwardly by the snack table, clutching a bottle of water like it was a lifeline. when you rushed over to him, still glowing from the adrenaline of the show, matt’s face lit up.

"did you see me?" you asked, breathless, your eyes wide with excitement.

matt nodded, his grin stretching from ear to ear. "are you kidding? i got, like, fifty pictures. you looked amazing, princess. like... unreal."

you laughed, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him into a tight hug. "i can’t believe you’re here."

"me neither," he mumbled into your hair, still a little dazed by the whole experience. "i feel like I’m in a movie or something."

you pulled back, gazing up at him with a soft smile. "my pretty boy, thank you for doing this."

matt shrugged, blushing slightly as he rubbed the back of his neck. "i just... wanted to be here for you. even if i have no idea what’s going on most of the time."

the two of you managed to escape the afterparties and crowded events later that night, slipping away to a quiet rooftop overlooking the new york skyline. matt had planned it, knowing how much you hated the post-show madness. he had brought a blanket, some snacks, and set up a little picnic under the stars. it was simple — nothing like the extravagant parties going on below — but it was perfect for the two of you.

as you sat beside him, wrapped in the blanket, your head resting on his shoulder, matt couldn’t help but feel a sense of awe. you, the girl who could make headlines just by walking down the street, had chosen him. him, the boy who couldn’t even figure out how to post on instagram without asking you first.

"next time," you murmured, your voice sleepy and content, "i’m dragging you to the milan shows."

matt chuckled, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "only if you promise to make me look cool in-front of asap and tyler."

"deal," you whispered, your fingers lacing with his under the stars.

ᨳུ⠀𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ! @carvedtits @et6rnalsun @wovenribbons @flouvela @l34n @sturniolossss @eternaldecisions @lovingregulusblack @cl1tlover3000 @mattslolita @mattssgf @le4hsblog @brvtall @chratts-left-ball @fiowerbeds @fratbrochrisgf @jetaimevous 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒆 𝒂𝒅𝒅𝒆𝒅 𝒄𝒍𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆 🎀🐇

𝒢𝜚 💭 ࣪ ✸ 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 ∿ requested fic based on this ask, and i’m hoping it didn’t disappoint. the drastic 360 from my last fic is laughable 😭😭 buuut 1.2k w.c !!! also did anyone notice the new acc setup it’s giving that sullen blythe girl realness :3

my inbox is always open !!! pls feed it some content ꫶ࣺ᭮᭰ likes, comments & reblogs are highly appreciated. xoxo

© SIRENEDESLILY

[iconchae]

DRIVEN BY DESIRE ➽ P.SH | 18+ | MDNI

pairings: non idol au! enemy sunghoon × fem! reader

synopsis: at a bustling party thrown by mutual friends, you and sunghoon are arch-enemies, constantly clashing and exchanging snide remarks. the evening takes an unexpected turn when your friend, who had promised to give you a ride home, drunkenly forgets to take you with her. left stranded, you reluctantly accept sunghoon's offer for a ride, knowing that it's your only option. by the time you reach your destination, the night has taken a surprising turn.

genre: enemies to lovers, smut

warnings: smut so mdni, making out, contains cuss words, nsfw, kisses, not proofread so i'm sorry if there're any mistakes, risky driving, sex in the backseat, a little dirty talk (?), unprotected sex (please don't), a little breast play (?), stroking, little bit fingering (?), everything is consensual!

word count: 5.02k

YOU sat at the far end of the table, nursing a glass of alcohol that you took to down more frequently than you’d admit. The room was a whirl of color and sound, but your focus was zeroed in on Sunghoon, your sworn enemy. His hands were casually draped around Yuna, a vision of charisma and confidence that seemed to make everything around her glow. She was everything you weren't: vibrant, self-assured, and undeniably magnetic.

Yuna’s laughter rang out above the din, mingling with the music and the murmur of conversation. It was clear she was the life of the party, effortlessly captivating everyone around her. Meanwhile, you were the antithesis—quiet, reserved, and content to observe from the sidelines. It was a familiar feeling, one you’d experienced countless times before, but tonight, it stung a bit more

You tried to distract yourself by focusing on the plate of food in front of you. You cut a piece of fish with a little too much enthusiasm, the knife slicing through it with a satisfying squelch. As you popped the morsel into your mouth, the taste was a burst of comfort—a culinary hug for your soul. The fish was seasoned just right, flaky and tender, and you let out a sigh of contentment, momentarily forgetting the party’s chaos.

“Why am I even here?” you muttered to yourself, staring glumly at the half-empty glass of wine in front of you. Your best friend had practically dragged you to this party, her enthusiasm for socializing only matched by your dread of it. Now, as she likely made out with some guy in a dark corner, you were left to your own devices.

As you shoved another piece of fish into your mouth, you could feel the alcohol loosening your tongue and your inhibitions. The room was spinning slightly, but not in a bad way. It was like the alcohol was encouraging you to embrace the absurdity of your situation—stuck at a party you didn’t want to be at, watching your rival play the charming prince.

You glanced over at Sunghoon again. He caught your eye for just a moment before turning back to Yuna, who was now laughing at something he’d said. You rolled your eyes, though a faint smile tugged at your lips. If nothing else, the situation was somewhat amusing. You were caught in a strange mix of jealousy and reluctant admiration for both Sunghoon and Yuna.

You took another sip of your drink, letting the warmth spread through you. At least you had your fish, your alcohol, and the knowledge that despite the chaos, you’d get through the night. And who knew? Maybe the evening held more surprises than you expected—surprises that could turn your grudging acceptance of the party into something more memorable.

BUT night had taken a turn for the worse. You stood on the sidewalk outside the party, your mood as stormy as the dark clouds gathering overhead. Your best friend, who had promised to be your ride and your guardian for the evening, was now being chauffeured home by a guy you didn’t know, her own car in tow. From what you could see, she was clearly too tipsy to care about anything other than whatever was happening in the backseat.

You huffed angrily as you watched the car pull away, the taillights glowing like the last beacon of hope in the night. It was almost poetic in its cruelty—your friend ditching you in a sea of strangers, leaving you stranded in a party that had long since lost its charm.

You looked around, hoping against hope that an Uber or any form of transportation would magically appear. But the street was as barren as a deserted island, and the more you stared at your phone, the more you felt like you were pleading with a cosmic entity that had long since stopped listening.

“Seriously, where is everyone?” you muttered, glaring at the empty street as if it had personally betrayed you. “Is this some kind of joke? Am I stuck here forever?”

You tried calling a cab, but every time you spoke to the operator, it felt like you were asking for a miracle. “Sorry, no available cabs in your area,” they’d say, as if mocking your predicament. You could practically hear the smirk in their voice as they turned you down for the fifth time.

The party had now turned into a distant, muffled roar behind you, and you felt a wave of frustration that bordered on rage. You’d managed to lose your dignity, your evening, and now your patience. You shot a venomous look at the neon lights of the party’s venue, feeling an irrational hatred for the entire building, as if it had conspired to make your night a disaster.

A group of drunk partygoers stumbled out, their laughter and incoherent babble only adding to your growing irritation. “Can someone please explain how to use a ride-share app to a sober person?” you shouted after them, though they were far too gone to even register your plea.

You paced back and forth, the heels of your shoes clicking sharply against the pavement. Each step felt like a futile march towards an elusive solution. It was as if the universe had conspired to make you wait here, like a comedic twist in a bad sitcom.

YOU stood there, seething in frustration, feeling the cold night air bite at your skin as you glared at Sunghoon’s red luxury car. The sleek vehicle had pulled up just as you were about to surrender to the absurdity of your situation. Of course, he would show up now—of all the possible times, it had to be when you were at your lowest.

The familiar annoyance you felt towards Sunghoon was now amplified by the mix of exhaustion and alcohol. His smirk was like a punch in the gut, and his voice dripped with a patronizing tone that made your blood boil. “Aww, is the little baby scared and alone?” he taunted, leaning against his car with an air of casual mockery.

Your eyes flashed with a mixture of rage and desperation. “Mind your own goddamn business, Sunghoon,” you snapped, your voice more venomous than you intended. The alcohol was making you less guarded, and you felt every bit of your frustration and helplessness spilling out.

Sunghoon’s smirk widened, but there was a glint of something almost genuine in his eyes. “I was just trying to help, but you clearly don’t want my help,” he said, his tone now layered with a semblance of concern that didn’t quite match his usual demeanor.

You didn’t trust him, not for a second. This was the same guy who had made your life a living hell, who had always found a way to criticize and belittle you. The notion of him actually offering help felt like a cruel joke. “You wouldn’t have done that,” you shot back, your voice dripping with suspicion and defiance.

Sunghoon’s face took on an exaggeratedly innocent expression. “I totally would’ve done that,” he said, his tone feigning sincerity as he stepped out of the car and opened the door for you.

You hesitated, your mind racing with doubt. The idea of accepting his help felt like swallowing poison. Why was he being so nice now? What was he plotting? Your instincts screamed that this was just another one of his games, another way to get back at you for the countless times you had crossed paths in the past.

But as you looked around, the reality of your situation hit you hard. The streets were deserted, and the few people left at the party were either too drunk or too indifferent to offer any help. The creeping fear of being left alone in the dark made your hesitation waver. You couldn’t afford to let your pride get in the way if it meant risking your safety.

The thought of something terrible happening, of being vulnerable on a street with nothing but the echoes of drunk laughter in the background, pushed you to accept his offer. You shook off the dark thoughts, focusing on the immediate need to get out of the cold and back to safety.

“Fine,” you muttered, your voice resigned but edged with bitterness. You slid into the passenger seat, the leather of the car’s interior feeling both foreign and oddly comforting. Sunghoon’s car smelled like expensive cologne and polished metal, a sharp contrast to the grime of the street you had been standing on.

As Sunghoon closed the door and got back into the driver’s seat, you could feel his eyes flicker over to you, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. The ride was filled with an awkward silence, the tension between you thick enough to cut with a knife. The hum of the engine was the only sound, a stark reminder of how you had been dragged from one uncomfortable situation into another.

You watched the city lights pass by, your mind a whirlpool of frustration and doubt. It wasn’t just the irritation of the night; it was the realization of having to rely on someone you despised, someone who had always been a source of irritation. The anger simmering within you was a reminder of how out of control you felt, and Sunghoon’s presence was an uninvited reminder of that helplessness.

The drive was a blur of neon lights and silent rage, each turn of the wheel and shift of the gears a stark reminder of your predicament. The closer you got to home, the more your mind raced with questions and doubts. Why had Sunghoon offered to help? Was this his way of getting one up on you, or was there a genuine side to him that you had never seen before?

THE pulsating bass of Sunghoon’s car stereo was like a relentless hammer against your temples, each beat a jarring reminder of how your night had taken a turn for the worse. You tried to focus on the blur of city lights outside the window, but the loud music made it impossible to think straight.

“Can you lower the volume?” you muttered, your voice barely audible over the thumping beats. The headache was starting to take its toll, and the thought of enduring this incessant noise only added to your growing frustration.

Sunghoon glanced at you with a smirk, his eyes twinkling with a mischievous glint. “No. I like it loud,” he said, his tone as unapologetic as it was smug. He seemed to revel in the irritation he was causing you, and it only made you want to slam your head against the window.

Of course he would be like this. You berated yourself internally for letting your guard down and accepting his help. His idea of helping was clearly more about torturing you than offering any genuine assistance. But, despite your better judgment, you had to admit that having a ride was better than standing alone in the cold, so you gritted your teeth and tried to focus on anything but the music.

The car’s interior was filled with the harsh, pounding beats, making your irritation bubble to the surface. And then, as if to add fuel to the fire, Sunghoon decided to poke at an old wound. “Remember the time you slipped and spilled the paint all over the teacher?” he said, his voice dripping with amusement. “It was fun seeing you get scolded.”

The mention of that incident made your cheeks flush with a mix of anger and embarrassment. You could vividly recall the mortifying moment when you had been the center of attention for all the wrong reasons. Sunghoon’s mocking tone only served to intensify the humiliation. “Shut up, I’m not in the mood,” you snapped, your voice tinged with frustration.

Sunghoon seemed to take perverse pleasure in pushing your buttons. “Then what mood are you in?” he asked, his tone suddenly shifting to something suggestive. He lowered the volume slightly, and his voice took on a smooth, almost seductive edge that caught you off guard.

“Huh?” Your breath hitched, and for a moment, the pounding music faded into the background. The unexpected shift in Sunghoon’s tone made you feel like you had been thrown into a different, more confusing realm. His suggestive voice was a stark contrast to his previous taunting, and it left you feeling disoriented and vulnerable.

Sunghoon’s smirk widened, clearly enjoying your reaction. “You seem pretty tense. Maybe I’m just trying to lighten the mood,” he said, his voice carrying an undertone that you couldn’t quite place. It was a mix of playfulness and something more intimate, and it made your heart race despite yourself.

You shifted uncomfortably in your seat, the intensity of the situation making your anxiety spike. The last thing you needed was to be thrown off balance by Sunghoon’s unpredictable behavior. “Why the hell would you speak like that?” you asked, trying to mask the nervousness in your voice. “And why now?”

Sunghoon chuckled softly, his gaze focused on the road ahead but with a hint of something almost contemplative in his eyes. “I just thought you might need a distraction,” he said, his tone now softer but still layered with that suggestive edge. “And, honestly, it’s not every day I get to see you flustered like this.”

You were torn between wanting to crawl into a hole and confront him about his strange behavior. The mix of anger, embarrassment, and the odd flutter of something else left you feeling utterly disoriented. “Well, I’m not in the mood for games,” you said, trying to sound resolute despite the churning emotions inside you.

Sunghoon’s smirk remained, though it seemed a bit more subdued. “Alright, alright,” he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. “I’ll be good. Just trying to make this ride a bit less painful for you.”

AS the car glided through the rain-slicked streets, the rhythmic patter of raindrops against the windows seemed to create an intimate backdrop, amplifying the charged atmosphere within the vehicle. The rain, combined with the dim glow of streetlights, cast a soft, hazy light over the interior, accentuating the tension between you and Sunghoon.

You were barely holding it together, the sound of the rain mingling with the pulsing beat of your racing heart. The car’s interior felt warmer than usual, and the intimate setting was doing little to quell your unease or the strange stirrings inside you.

Sunghoon drove with an unnerving calm, his focus entirely on the road. But then, something unexpected happened. His hand, which had been casually resting on the gearshift, moved slowly and deliberately to your thigh. The touch was unexpected, his fingers making contact with the skin of your bare thigh, sending a shiver up your spine.

You froze, the initial shock leaving you momentarily speechless. “Sunghoon?” you managed to mutter, your voice laced with confusion and a hint of panic. You turned to look at him, searching his expression for any sign of clarity or apology.

“Hmm?” he replied, his voice nonchalant and almost soothing, as if he was entirely unconcerned about the boundaries he was crossing. His hand continued its slow, deliberate movement, the warmth of his touch contrasting sharply with the chill of the rain outside.

The sensation of his fingers stroking your skin was both electrifying and unsettling. His touch was gentle, almost tender, as his hand moved upwards, pushing the hem of your skirt higher. You were paralyzed by a mix of confusion, discomfort, and a strange, reluctant curiosity.

“What are you doing?” you finally asked, your voice trembling slightly as you struggled to comprehend his actions. The question felt inadequate, given the storm of emotions and sensations swirling inside you.

“Nothing,” Sunghoon said casually, his eyes still fixed on the road. “Just thought you looked pretty tonight.” His fingers continued their delicate exploration, tracing light patterns on your thigh, as if memorizing the feel of your skin.

His words were a strange juxtaposition to the boldness of his actions. The sincerity in his voice contrasted sharply with the intimate nature of his touch. You could feel his fingertips moving in thin lines, each stroke both electrifying and maddeningly soothing.

The sexual tension in the car was almost tangible, mingling with the sound of the rain and the soft hum of the engine. You were caught between the impulse to pull away and the overwhelming desire to lean into his touch, to surrender to the unexpected intimacy he was offering.

Every time you tried to push his hand away, it seemed to defy your attempts, creeping higher and higher under your skirt. The confusion and anger bubbling inside you were overshadowed by the unexpected sensations his touch was creating.

"Sunghoon, stop," you managed to say, your voice strained with a mix of frustration and something else you couldn't quite name. But his hand, persistent and insistent, continued its path, brushing against the fabric of your panties.

The gentle, almost teasing circles he made were creating sensations you couldn't ignore. The unexpected pleasure made you let out a soft, involuntary moan. The sound was muffled by the rain and the music, but it felt as though it had echoed through the confines of the car.

Sunghoon's focus remained firmly on the road, his demeanor casual and almost detached as if this was a normal part of his driving routine. His fingers moved with a deliberate slowness, exploring your most intimate areas with a mix of curiosity and assuredness.

You were caught in a whirlwind of emotions—anger, confusion, and an undeniable physical response to his touch. The contradiction between your frustration and the physical pleasure was disorienting. You struggled to reconcile the image of Sunghoon as your sworn enemy with the sensations he was evoking.

"What are you doing?" you tried to ask again, but your voice faltered as his touch grew more insistent. Each movement of his fingers was calculated, designed to elicit a response from you.

Sunghoon's smirk, barely visible in the dim light, suggested a blend of amusement and confidence. He seemed to be enjoying the control he had over the situation, and the way he maintained his focus on the road while his hand continued its exploration added to the surreal nature of the encounter.

As the car weaves through the night, you can't help but feel your heart pounding in your chest. The alcohol has started to take effect, making your thoughts hazy and your movements sluggish. Suddenly, you feel his hand inside your skirt, cupping your pussy.

Sunghoon's gaze flickers back and forth between the road and your face, a wicked grin playing on his lips. He asks the question with a smolder in his eyes, "how wet would you be by the time we reach if I keep my hand here?"

You let out a soft moan, your face heating up as you try to resist the urge to grind against his hand. The sensation is almost too much to bear, and you can feel the wetness pooling in your panties. You plead with him, "Sunghoon... please.. focus on the road."

But he doesn't listen, keeping his hand in the same position, his fingers pressing against your clit. You can feel his thumb rubbing small circles on your outer lips, sending shivers down your spine. The car swerves slightly, and you gasp, "Sunghoon! Pay attention!"

He chuckles darkly, his eyes glinting mischievously. "I am paying attention," he says, "to both the road and you." His hand moves slightly, and you grasp the door handle tightly, trying to anchor yourself to something as waves of pleasure wash over you. "Sunghoon..."

Suddenly, he removes his hand from your panties, leaving you feeling empty and wanting. You look at him, confused and disappointed, but then he takes one of your hands and places it on the bulge in his pants. "Now focus on me,"

The world outside the car blurs as you focus on the task at hand. The leather of the steering wheel creaks softly under his grip, and he swallows hard as your fingers tentatively grope him through the material of his pants.

Sunghoon's jaw clenches as he concentrates on the road, the muscle twitching slightly. He can feel your hesitant touches through the fabric, and he enjoys the way you're so uncertain, so shy. "That's right," he murmurs, "keep doing that."

The car wobbles slightly as it drives down the road, and you suddenly remember where you are and what you're doing. Your hand pulls away, but he reaches down, grabs your wrist, and brings it back to his crotch. "Don't stop now," he growls.

You tentatively touch him again, feeling the heat and hardness beneath his pants. He sucks in a sharp breath as you gingerly stroke him, and you notice that his knuckles are white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. "Sunghoon," you whisper, "what if... what if you crash?"

"Then we'll crash together," he replies gruffly, his eyes fixed on the road ahead. "Just keep... keep touching me like that. It feels so good." He takes a hand off the wheel to place it over yours, guiding your movements and pressing your palm more firmly against his erection.

You can feel his breath hitching as you rub him through his pants, your own face flushed with warmth. The car speeds up slightly, and you grip his thigh with your free hand, bracing yourself against the dashboard with the other. "Sunghoon... please, be careful..."

"I'm always careful," he responds, his voice tight with restraint. "Especially when... when I'm driving and... and you're touching me like that." He spreads his legs wider, encouraging you to explore more, and you can feel him hardening even further beneath your touch. "Keep going..."

The scenery outside the window becomes a blur as you focus entirely on Sunghoon, your hand moving rhythmically over his crotch. His hand covers yours, guiding your movements and pressing your palm more firmly against his erection.

THE abandoned road stretched out before the parked car, an eerie silence filling the air. Inside, Sunghoon's hands moved with a sense of urgency as he pinned his sworn enemy beneath him in the back seat. The soft fabric of the skirt and blouse gave way easily under his fingers, revealing the delicate lingerie beneath.

He tore off the bra and shredded the lace of your underwear, baring you to his gaze. A fleeting emotion flickered across his face - a moment of vulnerability amidst the raw desire. He quickly masked it, focusing instead on unbuckling his own belt and unzipping his pants.

Beneath him, you squirmed, your hands reaching out to clutch his shoulders. Your breath hitched in your throat as you took in the sight of his naked form, the powerful muscles sculpted by years of training. He lowered his head, his lips brushing against your neck, your collarbone and your breasts.

The patter of rain against the roof of the car created a soothing rhythm, contrasting with the heated passion inside. Sunghoon's breath was hot against your skin as he continued to kiss and caress you. You could feel his hardness pressing against your thigh, a testament to his arousal.

His hands roamed over your body, gripping your hips, your thighs, your back. You moaned softly, your fingers digging into his back. He growled against your neck, his teeth gently scraping against your skin. He positioned himself between your thighs, his hands gripping your knees to spread you wider.

"You're so beautiful," he murmured against your ear, his voice barely a whisper.

"I never thought I'd admit that to my enemy." You laughed softly, your arms wrapping around his neck. "And I never thought my enemy would be so gentle," you replied, your voice breathy.

Your lips met in a passionate kiss, tongues dueling for dominance. He moaned against your mouth as you tilted your hips up, seeking more friction. Both of your words were forgotten, replaced with soft sighs and whispered curse words.

The smell of leather and sex filled the car, the dark interior their own private world. His hand slipped into your pussy, his fingers finding your wetness. You gasped at his touch, your head falling back against the headrest.

"You're so ready for me," he whispered hoarsely, his fingers continuing to stroke you. You could only whimper in response, your hands clutching his shoulders tightly. He removed his fingers and aligned himself with your entrance. "Look at me," he commanded.

You met his gaze, their eyes locking in a heated stare. He pushed forward, his length spreading you open as he sank inside you. You both groaned at the sensation, your bodies fitting together perfectly. He paused for a moment, savoring the feeling, before pulling back and pushing forward again.

The car rocked back and forth as he thrust into you, the leather seats creaking in protest. Your back arched off the seat as he pounded into you, his balls slapping against you with each stroke. You were soaked, your juices dripping down his cock and onto the seat.

He reached down and grabbed your thighs, spreading them wider apart to accommodate his thick girth. He picked up the pace, his hips slamming against yours with brutal force. The car's windows fogged up from your heated breaths and the sweat dripping from your bodies.

"You love it, don't you?" he hissed through gritted teeth, his hands gripping your wrists and pinning them above your head. "Taking your enemy's hard length in the backseat of a car. answering with breathy moans, your hips bucking against his, urging him deeper."

Your eyes rolled back in ecstasy as you felt him hit a particularly sensitive spot inside of you. "Fuck, yes!" You screamed, your voice echoing through the car. "I love it! I love taking your cock in public, making you fuck me in the most inappropriate places!"

His face contorted in pleasure as he listened to your dirty words. "Fuck, you're so filthy," he groaned, his hips snapping forward in a frenzy of thrusts. "I'm gonna fill this pussy up with my cum, right here in the backseat."

"Please," you whimpered, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist as he mercilessly pumped into you. "Please, come inside me. I want to feel you dripping out of me onto these leather seats."

He growled possessively, his arms wrapping around your thighs and lifting your hips off the seat for an even deeper angle. "You're going to be soaking wet and messy by the time I'm done with you."

"Harder!" You demanded, your nails digging into his back. "I want everyone to know we've been messing around in this car." The car filled with the sounds of their slapping flesh, heavy breathing, and the occasional honk from passing cars.

"Your wish is my command," he hissed, his pace quickening until the car shook with the force of his thrusts. "I want every potential driver out there to hear us, to know that my girl is getting stuffed in the backseat."

The smell of sweat and sex filled the car, mixing with the sounds of their heavy breathing. You gasped as he bit your earlobe, his fingers digging into your hips as he drove himself into you again and again. "You're mine," he growled, his voice rough and raw with pleasure.

He brought one hand up to your breasts, squeezing and kneading the tender flesh as he continued to pound into you. "These are mine too," he growled, his fingers toying with your peaks. "I love how they bounce when I thrust into you."

"Yes!" You cried out, your fingers tangling in his hair as he bent down to take one of your nipples into his mouth. His tongue swirled around the sensitive tip, sending tremors of pleasure coursing through your body. "You're going to make me cum,"

"Not yet," he commanded, his voice firm as he pinned your wrists above your head once more. "You're going to wait until I say so." His pace increased, his hips moving like a piston as he drove into you over and over. "Only then will you be allowed to fall apart for me."

You moaned, your head thrown back as you writhed beneath him. Your hips bucked up to meet his thrusts, desperate for release. "Please," you begged, your voice low and husky with desire. "Please let me cum."

"Not until I say," he repeated, his voice firm as he continued to thrust into you. "You're so close, I can feel it. Your body is begging for permission." He grinned wickedly, knowing that he was driving you mad with desire. "Maybe I'll make you beg some more."

"Please," you hissed through gritted teeth, your head thrown back against the seat. "It's too much...I can't...I need..." Your words dissolved into a desperate whimper as he shifted his hips, hitting that spot inside you that drove you wild.

"You can take it," he growled, his voice low and commanding. "You're going to come with me, understand? We're going to fall apart together." He increased his pace, his breath hot against your neck as he buried his face in your hair.

Your nails raked down his back, leaving red welts in their wake. You could feel yourself reaching your peak, your body trembling and twitching as you clung to him with all your strength. "I...I'm there...I'm going to..."

"Look at me," he ordered, his voice firm. You forced your eyes open, gazing into his intense, stormy gaze as he continued to thrust into you, his own face contorted with pleasure. "Together," he grunted, his voice strained. "Now."

And so, with a final cry, they tumbled over the edge together. His body convulsed, his hips jerking against yours as he spilled into you. You shattered around him, your own release washing over you in powerful waves, your limbs going slack as you slumped back against the seat, completely spent.

You both stayed like that for a long moment, your hearts pounding in unison, your breaths mingling in the stillness of the car. Finally, he pulled out of you, his softening length slipping from you trembling opening with a wet sigh.

He collapsed on top of your body on the backseat, his arm draped across your waist as he nuzzled into your neck. "We may have been enemies before," he murmured, "but right now, there's no place I'd rather be than buried inside you."

[its-avalon-08]

Hello! Can I req ln4 x reader where they are secretly married, but the entire world just know they're bestfriend. One day an interviewer ask if they are a thing and they say they're married but sarcastically (like Chris Evans and Elizabeth Olsen on Ellen show) and in the end they decided to just reveal it. Thank you!!

🗣️avaspeaks: i love this request so much!!! and i thoroughly enjoyed writing this one, and i hope i did it justice!

we decided to break the internet (ln4)

'•.¸♡ ♡¸.•''•.¸♡ ♡¸.•''•.¸♡ ♡¸.•''•.¸♡ ♡¸.•''•.¸♡

introduction - lando and y/n were practically inseparable since childhood. building sandcastle empires on the beach, trading pokémon cards at recess, navigating the awkwardness of middle school together - they'd seen it all. what neither quite admitted, not even to themselves, was the secret crush simmering beneath the surface of their friendship. every time lando tried to impress a girl with his skateboard tricks, y/n would "accidentally" trip him mid-grind. and whenever y/n had a date, lando would "forget" to return her favorite dress, the one that made her feel invincible. their sabotage was childish, sure, but it stemmed from a fear of losing the other entirely. one summer night, sprawled on the hood of lando's beat-up car, gazing at a sky exploding with stars, something shifted. maybe it was the whispered secrets shared, or the way their laughter mingled with the chirping crickets. in that moment, childhood friendship flickered, ignited by a spark of something deeper, a love waiting to prosper.

the air crackled with anticipation as lando norris and a stunning y/n settled into the interview chairs. formula one fans adored their playful dynamic, convinced they were just best friends. little did anyone know, they'd been secretly married for over a year and a half.

"so," the interviewer began, a sly smile on his face, "the fans are curious. is there anything going on between you two, romantically?"

lando shot y/n a mock glare. "absolutely! infact we're married!!!," he deadpanned, throwing his head back in exaggerated shock.

the room froze. cameras flashed. y/n, stifling a laugh, gasped dramatically. "married and absolutely smitten with eachother! lando, haven't you told them about movie night and all the crying over sappy rom-coms?"

the audience erupted in gasps and whispers. even the other drivers, strategically placed in the back row, looked bewildered. carlos, oscar,max,charles,daniel,alex and george laughed silently into their hands.

lando, playing along, clutched his chest. "oh no, you can't tell them about that! what will the neighbors think of all the late-night screaming about popcorn refills?"

y/n doubled over, tears welling up (from laughter, not the fake movie marathons). "and the screaming matches over who gets the last slice of pizza? lando, you monster!"

the room buzzed with confusion. were they…? weren't they…?

the interviewer, clearly flustered, stammered, "wait, so… you're saying you have movie nights and… screaming matches?"

lando winked at the camera. "the usual newlywed stuff, you know?"

y/n, wiping a fake tear, added, "don't even get me started on the scooter races in the paddock."

the room descended into chaos. reporters scribbled furiously, phones buzzed, and drivers peeked over their chairs, jaws slack.

lando, barely able to hold back a real laugh, reached for y/n's hand. "alright, alright," he conceded, "we might be exaggerating a tad. movie nights are definitely a thing, though. y/n's a terror with the remote."

y/n swatted him playfully. "hey! at least i let you pick the action movies sometimes."

suddenly, y/n did something unexpected. with a flourish, she turned her hand, revealing a simple gold band with a sparkling diamond. the room fell silent.

"oh by the way we've actually married for about two years now," y/n raised an eyebrow at lando, a wide, mischievous grin spreading across her face. "forgot to mention that detail, did you?"

lando, speechless for once, could only stare at the ring, then back at the stunned faces around him. the dam broke. laughter, loud and genuine, erupted from them both. the tension in the room evaporated, replaced by a mixture of shock, amusement, and a touch of awe.

as the interview wrapped up, the secret was out. lando and y/n, f1's favorite "best friends," were husband and wife. the post-interview scrum was a whirlwind. questions flew, cameras flashed in their faces, and congratulations poured in. through it all, lando and y/n stuck together, their laughter echoing through the room, a testament to their love and their ability to surprise everyone, even the f1 world.

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

well i hope you liked it! thank you for sending in your request and do send more! thanks for reading!

leave a like, leave a comment!

🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️🏎️

[nottsbitch]

The Alchemy - T.N.

Based on the Taylor Swift song

✩✩✩✩

To say that you were stressed was an understatement. You were currently in your seat at the Quidditch World Cup, where your boyfriend, Theo, was about to begin playing the biggest game of his career.

“Calm down, would you?” came from Draco on your left. Next to him was Daphne, and on the other side of you were Blaise and Pansy.

You glanced around at your friends, their presence offering a mix of comfort and distraction. Draco, with his usual air of nonchalance, was trying to ease your nerves, while Daphne’s calm smile was a soothing contrast to the chaotic energy of the stadium. Blaise and Pansy were on the other side of you, their faces set with a mix of anticipation and support.

“I’m trying,” you said, gripping the edge of your seat. “But it’s easier said than done.”

Pansy leaned in, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. “You know, I’ve seen Theo practice, and he’s exceptional. If anyone can handle this pressure, it’s him.”

Blaise nodded in agreement. “Pansy’s right. Theo’s worked incredibly hard to get here. Just focus on the game. He’ll give it his all.”

Draco gave you a reassuring pat on the back. “Remember, it’s just a game. It’s important, yes, but it’s not the end of the world. He’s already made a huge achievement by getting this far.”

Daphne’s voice was steady and calming. “And no matter what happens, you’re all here to support him. That’s what matters most.”

As the announcer’s voice boomed, signaling the start of the match, the stadium’s roar grew louder, drowning out all other sounds. The players took their positions, and you watched, heart racing, as the game began.

Draco, Daphne, Blaise, and Pansy cheered enthusiastically as the teams flew across the pitch. The intensity of the game was reflected in their faces—Draco’s eyes were sharp and focused, Daphne’s were filled with quiet confidence, Blaise was almost vibrating with energy, and Pansy was practically bouncing in her seat.

The match was competitive, with both teams demonstrating incredible skill. Theo’s team was holding their own, but it was clear the game was going to be a nail-biter. Every goal, every maneuver, every close call had you on edge.

At one particularly tense moment, Draco turned to you with a grin. “Remember how you said you didn’t want to be here for this? You’re doing great.”

You managed a shaky laugh. “I think I’m the only one who’s more nervous than he is.”

Blaise chimed in, “That’s probably because you care so much. It’s a good thing. Theo's lucky.”

The game continued with relentless energy. The Seeker from Theo’s team was weaving through players, searching for the elusive Golden Snitch. The tension was palpable as the Seeker and the Snitch seemed to be locked in an almost eternal dance.

Then, in a flash of gold and green, the Seeker’s hand closed around the Snitch. The whistle blew, and the crowd erupted into a thunderous cheer. The match was over, and Theo’s team had won.

You jumped up, your emotions spilling over as you celebrated with Draco, Daphne, Blaise, and Pansy. The sense of shared joy and relief was overwhelming. Theo’s victory was not just his; it was a testament to the support and belief of everyone who had been with him on this journey.

In that instant of triumph, the world seemed to narrow down to one person—Theo. The moment he saw the Snitch in the Seeker’s hand, his eyes locked on yours, cutting through the chaos and noise of the celebration.

With his heart pounding and adrenaline coursing through him, Theo pushed through the crowd of players and supporters. Every step was a surge of pure focus as he sought you out. His face was a picture of exhilaration and relief, his eyes scanning the stands until they found you.

Ignoring everything else, Theo sprinted towards you, his gaze never wavering. As he reached you, he threw his arms around you, pulling you into him. Before you could say anything his hands were on your face pulling you in for a long-awaited kiss. When you pulled away his breath was heavy and quick, his voice trembling with emotion.

“I did it! We did it!” he shouted, his voice choked with tears of happiness.

You hugged him tightly, tears streaming down your face. “You were incredible! I knew you could do it!”

Theo held you close, his eyes shining with the intensity of the moment. “I couldn’t have done this without you. This trophy is ours.”

Draco, Daphne, Blaise, and Pansy joined you, their cheers blending with everyone else's in the stadium. “We wouldn’t have missed it for the world,” Daphne said warmly.

Pansy nodded, her eyes sparkling. “You were amazing out there. This is a dream come true!”

Blaise clapped Theo on the back, grinning broadly. “You’ve earned this moment. Enjoy every second!”

As the celebration continued around you, the sense of joy and accomplishment was overwhelming. But you couldn't focus on anything beside the man next to you and the smile on his face.

✩✩✩✩

[lxndonorris]

his lucky charm - Lando Norris

Y/N x Lando Norris Theme: Smutish, light touching you're Lando's lucky charm for qualifying x word count: 1440+ taglist: @game-set-canet gif by me open for requests, reader or ships welcome :)

The bustling Suzuka circuit hums with anticipation as the Japanese Grand Prix approaches its crucial phase—qualifying. Dressed in the vibrant Mclaren team shirt and cap, courtesy of Lando's team, you find yourself standing in the heart of the Mclaren garage, surrounded by the familiar hum of engines and the frentic energy of race day preparations. 

Your heart races just as fast with excitement as the Mclaren standing a few feet away from you as you watch Lando prepare for qualifying, his presence commanding attention even amidst the chaos of the garage.

You approach Lando's Mclaren, tracing its cold outline with your fingers, completely lost in your thoughts, when hands run along your waistline, pulling you back into a warm embrace. Right away, the familiar scent of Lando's cologne gives him away as he rests his head on your shoulder, humming right into your ear.

Turning around, you smile at the sight of him wearing his racing gear. A surge of admiration washes over you. The sleek lines of his racing suit accentuate his athletic physique, highlighting every contour and muscle beneath the fabric. He looks every bit like the confident and skilled driver that he is. 

His curls frame his face perfectly, adding a touch of youthful charm to his rugged appearance. The hint of stubble along his jawline only serves to enhance his allure, giving him an air of casual confidence that is utterly irresistible.

There is something undeniablely magnetic about seeing him in his element, his passion and determination shining through in every movement and gesture.

"How do you like my baby?" He tilts his head teasingly and lets his hand glide across the car as well, following your prior movements easily.

"Just as pretty as its driver." You smirk, a rush of warmth flooding through you as you trace your fingers lightly over his chest, feeling his firm muscles even though his suit.

Lost in the moment, you almost forget where you are, the world around you melting away as you stand in your own little bubble of intimacy. The scent of his cologne envelops you, a heady mixture of excitement and desire lingering in the air. 

With a tender kiss, Lando prepares himself for the challenge ahead, donning his helmet and gloves with practiced precision.

"Good luck." You say when he approaches you one last time before jumping into the car. With an appreciative nod, he climbs into the cockpit of his Mclaren, and you can't help but feel a surge of pride swell within you. 

With a headset in hand, you tune in to the team's communications, eager to follow Lando's progress. The voice of his race engineer crackles to life, providing updates and encouragement as he navigates the twists and turns of the Suzuka circuit.

With each lap, your heartbeat matches the rhythm of the roaring engines, and your breath catches in your throat as you follow Lando's progress with bated anticipation. And then, the moment of truth arrives.

"P3!" comes the triumphant cry over the radio, followed by Lando's own celebration—a moment of pure elation, a testiment to his passion and skill. The exhilaration in his voice is palpable as he giggles through the radio again; his joy infectious and uplifting. In that moment, you feel an overwhelming sense of happiness wash over you, knowing that you might have played a small part in his success.

As he emerges from the car, his face flushed with the thrill of earning part of the second row, you watch with admiration as he celebrates with his mechanics, his confidence and self-assurance radiating from every pore. And then he turned to you before taking his helmet and balaclave off, revealing a bright smile and his eyes filled with an unmistakable spark of affection.

With a swagger in his step, he approaches you, pulling you into him, relishing the warmth of his embrace, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat echoing your own. Adrenaline and excitement surge through your bodies, binding you together in a shared moment of triumph.

"You're my lucky charm," he whispers huskily, his words sending a shiver down your spine. 

Blushing, you steady yourself against his frame while his hands are on your waist, holding you close.

You can sense a shift in his demeanor—the excitement of qualifying ignited a fire within him, and his touch feels more possessive and urgent than before. As you stroke his firm chest, you feel the tension in his muscles, his racing suit stretched taut against his body.

His breath is ragged against your ear as he whispers again, his voice even huskier and rougher with desire. "You have no idea how much I was thinking of you during the last lap. It made me so...hard."

You feel a rush of heat flow through you at his words, a delicious thrill coursing through your veins. You let your hand roam his chest once more before you let it wander down his body. When he bends his hip against the palm of your hand, his desire now firm against your touch, you let out a quick sigh, swallowing in a dry throat.

"I can't stop thinking about you," he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper. "Your hand on my skin, it drives me crazy."

"Lando." You growl, his words sending shivers down your spine. The intensity of his emotions radiates from his entire being; his desire is tangible in every glance, every touch.

But even amidst the intensity of your shared desire, there is a tenderness in his touch, a depth of emotion that transcends the physical.

"You're unbelievable." You stroke his chest again, and you feel the rumble of soft growls vibrating against your fingertips. You can't help but smile, delighting in the primal response elicited by your gentle touch. 

His reaction, however, only serves to fuel the flames of desire burning within your belly, igniting a passionate intensity that pulses between you.

"It's true, though." He purrs happily, and you run a hand through his hair, "I felt you so close; it was amazing." Feeling the soft strands of his messy hair beneath your fingers, you can't resist running your hand through it again and again, relishing the tousles feel against your skin. His hair, disheveled from the intensity of qualifying, only adds to his irresistible charm.

"So I helped you?" You breathe as you caress his cheek, tracing the contours of his face with gentle strokes. 

With a soft smile, Lando leans into your touch, his eyes reflecting the depth of his emotions. "You always do." He smiles warmly.

As your hand lingers on his chest, a mechanic's voice breaks through the moment, reminding us of Lando's obligation to attend the qualifying celebration with Max and Checo.

You feel a pang of disappointment at the interruption, wishing for just a few more minutes, but you know that duty calls him, and Lando earned the right to bask in the glory of his achievement alongside his fellow drivers.

With a reluctant sigh, you withdraw your hand, watching as Lando exchanges a quick glance with me, his eyes filled with an apology and a promise of more time together later. You nod in understanding, offering him a reassuring smile as he turns to follow the mechanic toward the others.

As you sit among the audience, watching the press conference unfold, your heart swells with pride, seeing Lando bask in the attention he so rightfully deserves. His confidence and harisma shine through as he fields questions from the media, his responses poised and articulate.

But amidst the flurry of activity, your gaze keeps returning to Lando, drawn to him like a magnet. And as your eyes meet, a silent understanding passes between you. 

You can't help but smile as you notice Lando's unconscious gesture, his hand drifting to his chest in a subtle yet unmistakable motion. It is as if he is reaching out for you, seeking the comfort and warmth of your touch even in the midst of the conference.

All of him is longing for one thing: you.

Then, a question from the press jolts him back into reality. His gaze falters as he struggles to recall the question, a hint of embarrassment coloring his cheeks.

With a playful giggle, he apologized for his momentary lapse, his charm quickly winning over the crowd once more as he answers the question with ease.

But as he glances back at you, a mischievous twinkle dances in his eyes, and he can#t help but bite his lip. 

With a knowing smile, you return his gaze, your eyes filled with a mixture of love and desire., knowing that this is far from over.

[pucksandpower]

Brake Balance

Charles Leclerc x mafiosa!Reader

Summary: something about the brake issues that Charles had to deal with in Bahrain just seems off … so you take matters into your own hands while your boyfriend is none the wiser

Warnings: depictions of violence and minor-character murder

You make your way through the paddock of the Bahrain International Circuit, weaving between team members and mechanics as they go about their pre-race routines. The energy in the air is electric, everyone buzzing with anticipation for the first race of the season later tonight.

You flash your paddock pass at security and head into the Ferrari garage, eyes scanning the organized chaos for the familiar mop of brown hair.

There he is, sitting in his red race suit that matches the iconic color of the Ferrari he drives, focused intently as his mechanics make some last minute adjustments. You walk up behind Charles and place your hands over his eyes.

“Guess who?” You say playfully.

Charles reaches up and removes your hands, a smile breaking across his face as he turns in his seat. “Ah, mon cœur! My favorite surprise.”

You lean down and kiss him softly. “How are things looking for today?”

“Good, good,” he nods. “The team had to change the left front brake duct exit deflector earlier, just as a precaution. But I’m feeling optimistic, the car has been solid all weekend. I think I might even be able to challenge Max for the win if everything goes to plan.”

His confidence makes you smile. Charles has been working so hard, both physically and mentally, to start this season strong. You know a win today would mean the world to him.

“I’ll be cheering the loudest when I see you on that top step today,” you say.

Charles grins. “We’ll see. Still have a race to get through first.”

You lean in to give him a quick kiss and head to the back of the garage so you’re out of the way. The mechanics are in full focus mode now, choreographing their dance around Charles’ car with practiced precision.

Charles goes through his usual pre-race routine — sips of water, reviewing data on the screens, and loosening up his muscles. He’s the picture of calm, but you know him well enough to see the coiled adrenaline thrumming just under the surface, ready to be unleashed once he settles into the cockpit.

The time comes to head out to the grid. Charles pauses before he puts his helmet on, meeting your gaze. You close the distance between you and cup his face in your hands, kissing his lips sweetly. Then you take the helmet from him and slide it gently into place, brushing your lips over the smooth surface where his would be.

“Be safe out there,” you say softly.

He nods, face disappearing behind the tinted visor, and climbs into the Ferrari. You watch as the car pulls away, weaving between other vehicles making their way to the starting grid. With a deep breath, you head deeper into the garage and take a seat next to Charles’ performance coach, Andrea. He hands you a headset so you can listen to Charles’ radio during the race.

“Let’s hope for a good one today,” Andrea says.

You nod, butterflies fluttering in your stomach as you fit the headset over your ears. On the monitors, you see Charles lining up on the grid in P2 after the formation lap, Max Verstappen’s Red Bull beside him on the front row in P1. The lights go out and the cars leap forward, engines roaring to life. Charles gets a good start, but Max keeps the lead through the first few turns.

The pack of cars higher up on the starting grid stays bunched up through the first few turns, but then you notice Charles starting to fall back little by little. His lap time slows as Max opens up a gap in front.

“The car doesn’t feel right, something with the front end,” Charles says. Your brow furrows in concern.

Only a lap later, George Russell in the Mercedes overtakes Charles on turn 4. Then Perez in the other Red Bull breezes past not long after.

“Come on Charles, stay focused,” you murmur under your breath. But things only seem to be getting worse. Carlos battles with Charles and eventually gets by, which frustrates you to no end. Charles fighting his own teammate for position is the last thing you want to see.

“Something felt very wrong with this set, the fronts were locking up like crazy,” Charles reports over the radio. Your heart sinks. Andrea shakes his head, equally perplexed.

The issues continue to persist. “What’s going on with my front left?” Charles asks, audible tension in his voice. “I just cannot get out of front locking. Everywhere ...”

Xavi, his race engineer, replies calmly, “We have temperature imbalance, higher front left.”

“How much is the imbalance?” Charles asks.

“Around 100 degrees.”

You grimace. That kind of discrepancy could make the car undriveable. Sure enough, Charles continues to struggle. It’s clear he’s fighting with the car now rather than racing the drivers around him.

“My car is fully going to the right when I am braking. With this I cannot fight, it’s dangerous,” Charles says, frustration seeping into his tone. You chew your lip anxiously. The rational part of you wishes Charles would just retire the car before he gets himself hurt trying to wrestle with it. But you also know that’s never been in Charles’ nature — he’ll keep fighting until the very last lap, no matter what.

Lap after lap, Charles battles to keep the car under control. “I think we can forget about driving now. It’s pulling everywhere,” he finally concedes. For a brief moment, you wonder if he’ll pull into the pits and call it a day. But no, your boyfriend is never one to simply give up. After the radio, through sheer force of will, Charles somehow overtakes George to reclaim P4. You can only imagine how hard he must be having to fight to keep the car in the track.

In the end, it’s a disappointing P4 for Charles while his teammate makes it on the podium in P3. As Carlos is lead to the cooldown room with Max and Checo, you watch Charles, frustration etched across his face as he tugs off his helmet and balaclava. He doesn’t even glance your way before the mechanics descend on him to start looking over the car.

Clearly the brake issues have cost him any chance at challenging for the win today. Most other drivers would have given up even trying to reclaim P4. But not your Charles. Never your Charles. Your heart aches for him.

Charles gets led away swiftly for the usual post-race weighing and interviews. You know from his body language that he’s utterly deflated by today’s results.

While the reporters pepper him with questions, you pull out your phone and scroll through your contacts. Enough is enough — something is clearly not right with Charles’ car and you want answers.

Your finger hovers over the call button as you contemplate who to reach out to. The last thing you want is for Charles to have to fight against his own machine again. A solution needs to be found immediately, and you know just the person who can help.

With a determined nod, you press call and lift the phone to your ear, ready to get to the bottom of these brake issues once and for all.

***

The phone only rings once before a gruff voice answers. “Boss?”

“Hello, Gianluca,” you say. “I need you to do something for me.”

You go on to explain in detail the brake issues Charles faced during the race, how the problems started right after they replaced the left front brake duct exit deflector.

“I don’t think it was just bad luck,” you say. “Something seems off about the whole situation. I want you to look into it, see if anyone on Charles’ side of the garage could have tampered with his car.”

Gianluca is quiet for a moment. “Sabotage, you think?”

“Possibly. I just … I can’t shake this feeling that someone meant for this to happen to Charles’ car. He truly thought he could at least try to challenge Max for the win, then suddenly it’s like he’s driving an entirely different machine. Too much of a coincidence for my liking.”

“I’ll look into it boss, don’t you worry,” Gianluca says. “I’ll go through the team with a fine tooth comb, see if anything seems out of the ordinary. If someone did intentionally compromise Charles’ car, I’ll find out who and how.”

You let out a breath. “Thank you, Gianluca. Let me know as soon as you learn anything. Charles can’t afford issues like this again.”

“You got it. I’ll be in touch.”

The call ends and you lean back against the garage wall, gaze fixed unseeingly out across the pit lane. Your mind turns over the events of the race, Charles’ baffled frustration over the radio. He’s worked too hard for too long to have valuable points stolen away by something like this. If there is sabotage afoot within the team, you’ll get to the bottom of it.

A few days later you’re back in your study after flying home from Bahrain. A knock at the door interrupts your work and you call for them to enter. Gianluca steps in, an uncharacteristically grim look on his face.

“Boss,” he greets you. Wordlessly, he steps forward and places a thick manila folder on your desk. You flip it open, eyes scanning over photos, documents, even what looks like stills of CCTV footage. Gianluca remains silent, allowing you to take it all in.

“I went over every inch of security camera video from the Bahrain paddock and garage,” Gianluca finally says. “And I found something.”

He leans over your desk and flips to a page in the folder, tapping a finger on a freeze frame showing one of Charles’ mechanics.

“This is Tomaso, one of the brake technicians,” Gianluca explains. “I noticed him acting strange all race day. Fidgety. Nervous. He was trying to hide it but his body language gave it away.”

Your eyes narrow as you study the photo. There is a shifty, almost guilty look about the man as he glances over his shoulder.

“I watched him like a hawk after that,” Gianluca continues. “When the team went to change the brake duct exit deflector, that’s when I saw it happen.”

He flips to another page, this one showing screen captures of CCTV footage in the Ferrari garage a few hours before the race start. You can make out Tomaso slipping the replacement deflector into his pocket before taking out another piece and installing it in Charles’ car. Your blood turns cold.

“He tampered with the part,” Gianluca confirms grimly. “There’s no doubt in my mind he switched that deflector with a compromised one. Sabotage, just like you suspected.”

You sit back, shaking your head in disgusted disbelief. “Why? Why would he do this?”

Gianluca shrugs. “Hard to say for sure. Could be someone paid him off, wants to see Charles fail. But what I know for certain is that he meant to damage Charles’ car.”

You drum your fingers on your desk, thinking hard. This level of betrayal from someone Charles trusts, it’s unthinkable. An affront you won’t let stand.

“You’ve done excellent work, Gianluca,” you finally say, meeting his gaze. “Thank you for getting to the bottom of this. I’ll handle it from here.”

Gianluca nods. “Of course, boss. Let me know if you need anything else.”

He turns and leaves your study, closing the door quietly behind him. You lean back in your chair, fingers steepled under your chin. Your expression is stone, but internally your thoughts roil with anger. Tomaso will pay for this, you’ll see to that.

Charles has enough challenges to face without sabotage from his own team. Your resolve hardens — you won’t stop until justice is served and he can race with full confidence again. The treachery ends now.

***

After Gianluca leaves, your mind turns over what to do about Tomaso. The team flew straight from Bahrain to Saudi Arabia to prepare for the next race, so he’s out of your reach for now. Still, you won’t let him slip away that easily. You pick up your phone and call a trusted associate, instructing him to organize a surveillance team to keep constant eyes on Tomaso until you arrive in Jeddah yourself.

The days crawl by painfully slow as you wait to confront the saboteur. You resist the urge to call Fred Vasseur and have Tomaso removed from the team immediately — better to handle this yourself. Finally, it’s time to fly out for the Saudi Arabian Grand Prix. Upon landing, your associate meets you at the airport.

“We have eyes on the target,” he reports. “He’s currently at the hotel bar, quite intoxicated.”

You nod curtly. “Good. Let’s pay him a visit.”

You’re led to the hotel and pointed towards the bar. Sure enough, there’s Tomaso, stumbling drunkenly out the door into the night. Now is your chance. You follow him down the street, waiting until he turns into a shadowy alley to make your move. In a flash you have him by the collar, shoving him against the brick wall.

“What the hell, let me go!” Tomaso slurs, trying to shove you off. But drinking has made him clumsy and weak.

“I don’t think so, Tomaso,” you reply coldly. “We need to have a little chat.”

His eyes widen in fear and confusion. You press on before he can respond.

“Let’s see, Tomaso Barbieri, born May 5th, 1992 in Turin. Moved to Maranello in 2021 to begin work as a mechanic with Scuderia Ferrari. Parents Lucia and Giacomo Barbieri, both schoolteachers. Sister Cecilia studying abroad in London.”

As you rattle off details about his personal life, Tomaso’s eyes grow wider and wider.

“What the hell, how do you know all that?” He stammers. “Who are you? Does Charles know the ugly truth about his girlfriend?”

You fix him with an icy stare. “Who I am doesn’t matter. What matters is that I know exactly who you are, Tomaso. A mechanic for Ferrari … and apparently a master of espionage and sabotage in your spare time.”

Tomaso’s eyes dart wildly, still trying to make sense of the situation in his inebriated state. He attempts an unconvincing laugh.

“What are you talking about man? Sabotage? I think you’ve had too much to drink ...”

Your response is to slam him hard against the wall, causing him to grunt in pain. You lean in close, anger simmering in your eyes.

“Let’s cut the bullshit, Tomaso. I know what you did in Bahrain, switching out the brake duct deflector to sabotage Charles’ car. Did you think you could get away with it? That there wouldn’t be consequences?”

Up close, you can see the color drain from his face, eyes wide with fear. He tries to retain some composure.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he repeats weakly. “I would never sabotage Charles’ car, I want him to win ...”

You slam him against the wall again, cutting off his lies.

“I said, enough bullshit!” you snarl. “We have you on video. We saw everything. We know you pocketed the real deflector and installed a defective one instead.”

He is trembling now, any hint of drunkenness replaced by sobering fear.

“Please,” he whimpers pathetically. “I’ll do anything, just please let me go. I made a mistake ...”

You shake your head in disgust. “A mistake? You betrayed Charles’ trust and tried to ruin his race out of what? Jealousy? Greed?”

Tomaso says nothing, eyes downcast in shame. You take a breath and continue in a low, menacing tone.

“Here are your options. One: you go directly to Vasseur first thing in the morning and resign from Ferrari immediately. You will leave the team and ensure you are never so much as in the same country as Charles again. Two: I deal with you myself, in a much less pleasant manner. The choice is yours, Tomaso. What’s it going to be?”

He meets your steely gaze again, jaw clenched. “I can’t just quit,” he says hoarsely. “My job is my life. You might as well just kill me.”

You purse your lips and shake your head. “I was afraid you’d say that. Very well.”

In one swift motion you draw your gun from its concealed holster and press the barrel firmly under Tomaso’s chin. He recoils in terror, plastered back against the wall.

“Last chance,” you say calmly. “Walk away from Ferrari and never look back, or your days end tonight in this alley.”

Sweat drips down his brow as the gun digs harder into his throat. His eyes are saucers of fear, flitting between your steely gaze and the weapon poised to end his life.

“Well?” You ask after a long silence. “What’s it going to be?”

Tomaso swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing against the gun barrel. When he speaks, his voice is a terrified croak.

“I … I won’t quit. I can’t.” He closes his eyes in resignation, awaiting his fate.

You click your tongue in disappointment. “That’s unfortunate. I wish it hadn’t come to this.”

Your finger tightens almost imperceptibly on the trigger …

“Wait, wait!” Tomaso cries out, hands raised in desperation. “I’ll do it, I’ll quit! Just please, don’t hurt me!”

You pause, gun still aimed steadily at his throat. “And why should I believe you now?”

He swallows hard, eyes brimming with tears. “I swear, I’ll resign first thing tomorrow. You’ll never see me near the team again. Just let me go, I’m begging you!”

You consider him coldly for a moment before lowering the gun. Tomaso sags back against the wall in relief. But you’re not done with him yet.

“Who paid you?” You demand. “Who put you up to sabotaging Charles’ car?”

The blood drains from his face again. “I can’t tell you that. They’ll kill me, and my family ...”

In a flash the gun is back at his throat, your grip like iron on his shirt collar.

“I assure you, I can do much worse than they ever could,” you say menacingly. “Now give me a name, or you can say goodbye.”

Tomaso shakes uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face. You can see the internal struggle, debating which is the lesser evil — defying you or those he conspired with. Finally, he slumps in defeat and leans in close, voice barely a whisper.

“It was ...”

He utters a name directly into your ear. Your eyes widen briefly in surprise before narrowing again. You release Tomaso and take a step back, processing this new information.

“I see,” you say slowly. You nod over your shoulder and two of your associates emerge from the shadows.

“Get him out of my sight,” you order. They grab Tomaso roughly by the arms. He sags between them, the fight gone out of him completely. You fix him with an icy stare.

“My men will escort you to the airport,” you inform him. “You will be on the first flight out of this hemisphere. And you are never to go near Ferrari or Charles again — don’t even think about trying to contact the team to explain yourself. As far as they will be concerned, you simply resigned. Am I clear?”

Tomaso nods wordlessly, defeated. The men begin dragging him away towards a waiting black SUV.

“Oh, and Tomaso?” You call after him. He glances back warily. “If I ever see or hear of you so much as setting foot in a paddock again, you won’t get a second chance. You’ll simply disappear. Permanently.”

The color drains from his face one final time. Then he is shoved into the back of the SUV, the door slamming shut behind him. You watch impassively as the vehicle drives off into the night, carrying the saboteur away for good.

Or so he thinks.

Unbeknownst to Tomaso, you have contacts everywhere, including at his destination. The second he steps off the plane, thinking he’s escaped your wrath, your local associates will be waiting. And his life will be ended swiftly and permanently, as promised. You don't make idle threats after all.

Betrayal of this magnitude must be punished, no matter how far Tomaso runs. The message will be clear — cross you, and nowhere on Earth will be safe. You've given the order, and your associates are nothing if not ruthlessly efficient. By the time the sun rises, there will be one less threat to Charles’ success. The sabotage ends here and now. You'll see to that personally, no matter the cost.

For a moment you simply stand alone in the dark alley, processing everything. This is bigger than you initially realized. Tomaso was clearly just a pawn, the sabotage orchestrated by someone higher up the chain — someone with enough power and influence to scare a man into risking his career and life.

Your jaw clenches as you think about Charles being targeted like this, not only being robbed of a deserved finish but also put in danger as collateral. Well, it ends now. The shadowy orchestrator thinks they can get away with playing games in the dark? They’re about to realize just how big of a mistake they’ve made.

Now that you have a name, you can start unraveling the web, tracing every thread back to find where it leads. And when you do find the spider at the center? You’ll make sure they can never endanger Charles again. For good.

Satisfied with this plan, you straighten your dress and exit the alley onto the brighter streets. Time to put your considerable resources to work. Phone records, financials, travel records — you’ll dig through it all, leave no stone unturned.

And you have a feeling the name Tomaso gave you is only the first thread. This goes deeper. But it doesn’t matter. You’ve dealt with far more dangerous criminal elements before. These shadow games don’t scare you. You’ll keep following the threads until you reach the source, uprooting the entire enterprise in the process.

By the time you reach your car, your phone is already buzzing with incoming calls and updates from your associates. They know the drill by now — when you give the word, they mobilize into action immediately, utilizing the full extent of your influence and power.

For you, they’ll tap every resource, call in every favor owed. Because you protect what’s yours at all costs. And Charles? He’s under your protection now, whether he knows it or not. So for his sake, you’re going to find the ones trying to undermine him, and you’re going to tear out the threat root and stem. Permanently.

Let them keep playing their games for now, oblivious to the axe hanging over their heads. They’ll find out soon enough that nobody crosses you and gets away with it. And when that time comes, no mercy will be shown. No loose ends left to unravel.

Time to remind them exactly why your reputation precedes you in certain circles, why your name is uttered only in hushed whispers. They’ll regret the day they dared threaten someone you care about. You’ll see to that personally.

With your jaw set in determination, you climb into the idling car. Time to go hunting.

***

Two days after dealing with Tomaso, you make your way through the Jeddah Corniche Circuit paddock towards the Ferrari motorhome.

Your stiletto heels click along the pavement and you glance down, frowning slightly at the flecks of blood still staining the pointed toes of your red soles. Such a shame about these Louboutins, you really love this pair. But a bit of blood is a small price to pay for protecting Charles, especially after personally dealing with the orchestrator who had been paying Tomaso off.

You had tracked them down and made sure they could never threaten Charles’ success again. Subtly, you crouch down and wipe at the stains, managing to remove the worst of it.

Satisfied, you straighten and continue on your way. The familiar bright red motorhome comes into view and you sweep inside, immediately spotting Charles standing with some team members. His face lights up when he sees you, excusing himself to rush over.

“Mon amour, you made it!” He exclaims, enveloping you in a tight hug. You melt against him, breathing in his familiar scent.

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss seeing you race for anything,” you reply, pecking his lips sweetly.

Charles takes your hand, leading you to a quiet corner where you can talk. “I missed you so much while you were away,” he says. “But I’m so glad you’re here now.”

You smile and stroke his cheek. “Me too, darling. But I’m here now and I’ll be cheering the loudest for you all race.”

Charles’ grin falters a bit. “It’s been a strange few days actually. Tomaso, one of my mechanics, just up and quit in the middle of the week. No explanation or anything.”

You school your features into a look of surprise. “Really? That’s so odd.”

Charles nods. “Very weird timing to just resign like that. But maybe it’s for the best if his heart wasn’t fully in it anymore.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” you agree. “The team is better off without any negativity.”

Before Charles can reply, Andrea enters the motorhome. “Charles, time for some quick physio before the race.”

Charles sighs but nods, giving you a swift kiss before following Andrea out. You watch him go fondly before making your way trackside to the Ferrari garage. The mechanics are in race mode, voices terse and movements precise as they make final adjustments on Charles’ car.

You stay back, letting them work, thoughts drifting back to everything you did to get to this point. A small price to pay to ensure Charles can race with a fair chance again.

Finally it’s time for Charles to get in the car. You approach as he’s putting on his helmet and balaclava, stealing a tender kiss that he returns happily. Then you lift the helmet and slide it gently into place, brushing your lips softly over the smooth surface where his lips would be. Your ritual.

“Be safe out there,” you murmur. Charles squeezes your hand, then lowers himself into the cockpit. You watch tensely as the car pulls away, the lights of the circuit glittering against the dark night sky.

In the garage you pace anxiously throughout the race, listening to the radio chatter. Again Charles qualified P2, behind Max Verstappen’s Red Bull. But this time, you have no sabotage to worry about. The Ferrari proves fast and consistent all race, not quite keeping pace with the Red Bull but allowing Charles to maintain P2 smoothly.

The SF-24 doesn’t have the speed to challenge Max, but there’s no issues, no sudden grip loss or components failing. Your shoulders finally uncoil with relief as Charles crosses the line to take P2, securing a podium finish.

The garage explodes into cheers and applause as Charles pulls into parc fermé. He’s beaming as he climbs from the car, pulling off his gloves and balaclava. You run over to the barriers and throw your arms around him ecstatically as soon as he nears.

“I’m so proud of you!” You exclaim. Charles hugs you back tightly.

“Thank you, mon cœur,” he says warmly. “It felt good to finally have a clean race again.”

You just smile knowingly, heart bursting with joy at seeing Charles on the podium where he belongs. During the celebrations, he keeps meeting your gaze in the crowd, smiling and pointing down to you in the crowd of red. As he sprays champagne with Max and Checo, he looks utterly elated and at peace. No frustration or disappointment, just the satisfaction of a hard fought race with the result he deserved.

Afterwards, in the privacy of Charles’ room, he takes you into his arms again. “I don’t know what changed or why, but the car just felt right this weekend,” he says. “It makes me so optimistic for the rest of the season.”

You stroke his face gently. “You deserve it. All your hard work is paying off.” Inside, you allow yourself a small, satisfied smile. Charles doesn’t need to know just how much work went on behind the scenes to get here. He only needs to focus on driving his heart out, and securing the championships you know he’s destined for. The rest is simply details.

“Thank you again for being here,” Charles murmurs, pulling you close. “Having your support means everything to me.”

You rest your head on his shoulder contentedly. “Always, my love. I’ll be right by your side.” And you mean that with every fiber of your being. No matter what happens going forward, whoever tries to interfere or stand in Charles’ way, they’ll have to go through you first.

You won’t let anyone toy with Charles’ performance and safety again. The lesson has been sent — Charles is untouchable now. Dare to threaten the success that is his, and you’ll come for what’s theirs.

But Charles doesn’t need to carry that burden. He just needs to keep his head held high and drive his heart out. You’ll handle the rest. It’s the least you can do for the man you love more than life itself.

So as Charles holds you close, you silently promise to always shield him from the ugly underbelly that lurks beneath the glitz and glamour of Formula 1.

He gives so much of himself already in pursuit of greatness. Let others vie for power and influence through dirty tricks and mind games. That’s not Charles’ way, which is why you’ll ensure he remains untainted. For him, you’d walk through fire without a second thought.

So really, what’s a little blood on your Louboutins in the grand scheme of things? A man like Charles Leclerc deserves that and so much more. And you’re going to give it to him, no matter the cost.

Let them keep playing their games in the shadows. Little do they know, you’ve already checkmated them all.

[bunny-1111]

How the Slytherin boys would react to you getting into a physical fight with another student

Tom:

he would be so nonchalant

he would see, you all hands on deck

break it up

pull you away

when he's walking you off, you're catching your breath

he would say, "Pull yourself together" so sternly

"I don't need people saying I'm dating a classless troll, hear me"

when you nod with embarrassment, he would roll his eyes

leading you to his dorm, you would gather the courage to ask where he's taking you

"teaching you not to use your fucking hands; I'm never above hurting the enemy; you want to hurt someone? I'll teach you a few spells" he would say, stoic

"fighting with her hands like a fucking muggle" you would hear him scoff under his breath, shaking his head in disapproval

Matteo:

Honestly, Matteo would love a psycho girl. You can't tell me different

when he heard chanting 'Fight!' he ran to the scene

Matteo would never miss a good brawl

when he pushed through the crowd and realised it was you amidst the chaos, he smiled

"Come on Baby! swing" he would clap, telling the bystanders that was his girlfriend

when the boyfriend of the girl you were fighting started talking too much shit, he rolls his own sleeves up

couples who fight together stay together?

Theodore:

when the two of you went to the library for a late night study, the lights were dim, and Theodore wasn't able to see you properly

when you were walking back to Dungouns, it was windy, and the your jumper had slipt slightly off your shoulder, revealing a small bruise

Theodore would stop you immediately "what's this?" he would question pulling the fabric down even further to see if more followed

"what happened." he would say

"I bumped into a bookcase?" you try

"I was with you all night, no you fucking didn't. I'll ask you one more time. What. Happened?"

"I got into a little fight" you admitted

"Huh? Who, when" he would start

"Doesn't matter Theo, I won. This is my battle scar" you smiled pulling your jumper back up

"It was with a girl right? No guy hit you" he sternly continued his interrogation

"No Theodore, it was a Gryindor, alright a girl"

"Good, I wasn't in the mood to have to kill someone... long day" he huffed opening the door for you, entering the common room

Lorenzo:

you and your friends would be in the hall eating dinner

when Blaise says, "Hey, y/n, any reason why (the person you fought) ended up in the hospital wing and you didn't even need to pay Pomfrey a visit?"

Why would you go to Pomfreys? enzo would ask mouth full of food

"oh? you didn't hear about the cat fight in the corridor today" Blaise laughed

Enzo practically choked on his food.

"You got into a fight?" he looked up

you didn't reply. To Enzo no answer was an answer

"My little angel got into a fight and didn't tell me... did you win?"

Draco:

he would make such a fuss

"it was Ginny Weasley" you laughed

"What!?"

"Yeah, we got into it because he was talking shit about you, so I started talking shit about Harry, and it escalated" you smiled

"And?" he pried

"Gryifindors arent as courageous as they say," you say

"That's right darling, let's go walk past their common room, wanna torment Potter bout this" he smirked

Blaise

he would be on the quidditch pitch, playing

when a girl next to you was talking about how he's not a good player, how her boyfriend on the opposing team would smash them

"you wanna get smashed by my fist next? that's my boyfriend you're talking about," you would say

"well tell your boyfriend he's eating shit this match?" she smiled back

pouncing through the bleachers you attacked

when Blaise caught sight of Pansy pulling you off her, and the girl running off with a blood nose, he smirked

he played so well the rest of the game

walking out of the locker rooms, he found you "I won on the pitch, you won off the pitch hunny" he would smile wrapping an arm around you

"Do you know what she said?" you started to rile up again

"She said that-" you started

"No, no, you took care of it, that's it" he smiled down at you

[helen-with-an-a]

Welcome Home - Beautiful Girl Series (18+)

Hiiiii - so I have deciede to expand this into a little universe type thing that I will be updating as and when I feel like it. I hope you enjoy.

Beautiful Girl Masterlist

Alexia Putellas x Reader

Description: Alexia comes home from the Olympics.

Word Count: 9k

TW: Smut, 18+, talking through an orgasm, self-doubt, SoftDom!R

Alexia was exhausted – so, so tired. But it wasn’t just her body that was weary. Sure, the Olympics had pushed her to her physical limits. The gruelling schedule of Euro qualifiers, the relentless training camps, and the fierce competition itself had left her muscles aching, her joints stiff, and her energy reserves depleted. Every stride on the field had demanded more from her than she thought she could give. Yet, it was the mental strain that truly wore her down, leaving her feeling hollowed out from the inside.

The pressure had been immense, an ever-present weight pressing down on her shoulders. Every match, every practice, had required her to be in peak mental form – focused, strategic, unyielding. The expectations of her country, her team, and herself had been a constant whisper in her mind, never letting her forget what was at stake. The emotional highs and lows, the anxiety before each game, the sleepless nights replaying every mistake, every missed opportunity – it had all built up, slowly eroding her mentally.

She had fought battles on the field, but the real war had been within her own mind. Now, as she sat in the quiet aftermath, the silence was deafening. It wasn’t just physical fatigue that made her feel so drained, but the mental and emotional toll of weeks, months even, of pushing herself to the brink. She was running on empty, not just in her body but in her soul. The exhaustion was deep and pervasive, and it clung to her like a shadow she couldn't shake.

Alexia wasn’t sure what to expect when she walked through the door to your shared home. Her mind raced with possibilities, each one a small beacon of comfort she desperately needed after everything she’d been through. Maybe you would be there waiting for her, the door opening to reveal your warm, familiar smile. She could almost feel the way your arms would wrap around her, pulling her into a gentle hug that seemed to melt away all the tension she’d been carrying for so long. The thought of your soft voice murmuring reassurances, telling her how proud you were, how happy you were to have her back, sent a wave of warmth through her. She imagined you guiding her gently to the couch, where she could finally let go, sinking into the cushions as you tucked a blanket around her, making her feel safe and cherished.

Or perhaps, as she walked in, you’d greet her with a cup of chamomile tea, its soothing aroma already filling the air. You knew it was her favourite, the one thing that could calm her mind and ease her into relaxation. The steam would rise in delicate curls, and she’d close her eyes as she took that first sip, letting the warmth spread through her. Beside the tea, maybe there would be one of her favourite snacks – something simple but perfect, just what she needed after the chaos of the past weeks. You would take her bags without a word, knowing she didn’t have the energy to deal with them right now, and quietly carry them into the bedroom to be unpacked later, when she was ready.

What she didn’t expect was you standing just behind the door, so close that she almost bumped into you as she stepped inside. The proximity startled her, making her jump slightly, her hand instinctively going to her chest as her heart skipped a beat. But the surprise quickly melted away into a smile, a mixture of relief and affection spreading across her face.

Before she could say a word, you were already there, closing the door behind her and enveloping her in your arms. “Welcome home, my beautiful girl,” you cooed softly, your voice a soothing balm to her frazzled nerves. The words were simple, but they meant so much to her.

You had been able to attend her group games, cheering her on from the stands with that infectious energy she loved so much. Every time she glanced up at the crowd and caught sight of you, it filled her with a surge of pride and determination, knowing you were there, sharing in her victories and frustrations. But the demands of preseason back home had called you away sooner than either of you had wanted. Just when the tournament was heating up, when the stakes were getting higher, you had to leave France and return to your own commitments. She understood, of course – the preseason training took precedence for you – but that didn’t make the parting any easier.

It had only been a few days since you’d left, but to her, it felt like an eternity. The days without you dragged on, each one longer than the last. Every time something happened on the field, whether it was a brilliant play or a tough moment, she found herself instinctively wanting to look for you, to share the experience with you. But you weren’t there. The seat you’d occupied during those first few games was now empty, a stark reminder of your absence.

She tried to focus on the competition, on the training sessions, on the strategy meetings, but there was an ache in her heart that she couldn’t quite shake. She missed your voice, your reassuring presence, the way you’d always know exactly what to say to calm her nerves or fire her up. The brief video calls and text messages you exchanged were a lifeline, but they weren’t enough. She wanted to feel your hand in hers, to see your smile in person, to hear your laugh echoing around her again.

Even the few days apart had felt like a lifetime. Every night after the games, as she lay in bed alone, she found herself reaching out, hoping to find you there beside her, only to be met with the cold, empty sheets. She missed the way you’d hold her close, the sound of your breathing lulling her to sleep. Without you, the victories felt a little less sweet, and the tough moments a little harder to bear.

You pulled her into a hug right there in the hallway, not caring that her bags were still slung over her shoulder or that her hair was tousled from the long journey.

She felt the tension in her body begin to dissolve as she leaned into you, breathing in the familiar scent that she had missed so much. “Hola, mi amor,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper as she let herself relax completely.

Your embrace was strong yet gentle, your firm body providing the perfect support as she melted into you, allowing you to take her weight without hesitation. It was as if all the exhaustion and stress she had been carrying evaporated in that moment, leaving her feeling lighter, freer. You held her close, your arms wrapped securely around her, one hand rubbing soothing circles on her back while the other cradled the back of her head, pressing her even closer to you.

“You did so well,” you whispered, your voice filled with genuine pride as you held her close, your lips brushing against her ear in a way that was both comforting and reassuring.

But she couldn’t let herself fully sink into your embrace, not when the weight of disappointment still hung so heavily on her shoulders. “We lost,” she said bluntly, her tone edged with frustration and a trace of bitterness. It was a simple statement, but the finality in her voice spoke volumes. Forcing herself to step out of your arms, she created a small distance between you, her gaze dropping to the floor as if to avoid the kindness in your eyes. The warmth of your hug, which she had longed for during those endless days apart, now felt almost too much to bear. She couldn't let herself be comforted when all she could think about was the sting of defeat.

“You came fourth,” you countered, your voice firm yet gentle, refusing to let her diminish her achievement. “That’s not losing, baby.” Your words were meant to soothe, to remind her of the incredible feat she and her team had accomplished, even if it wasn’t the outcome she had hoped for. But you could see the stubborn set of her jaw, the way she crossed her arms tightly over her chest as if trying to hold herself together. She wasn’t ready to let go of her disappointment just yet.

“We won the World Cup,” she argued, her voice tense with the pressure she had placed on herself. The memories of that triumphant victory were still fresh in her mind, the euphoria of being the best in the world. “We should have won this too.” Her words came out in a rush, tinged with self-reproach, as if by not winning, she had somehow failed to live up to her own expectations – or worse, to yours.

You looked at her, your eyes softening with understanding. “It’s more than I’ve ever done,” you said with a raised eyebrow, your tone light but with an underlying seriousness that you hoped would break through her self-imposed guilt. It was your way of gently reminding her that not every battle could be won, that her worth wasn’t tied to a single result, and that you were proud of her no matter what. The eyebrow raise was your little challenge, a playful nudge for her to see the bigger picture.

But more than that, it was an invitation for her to acknowledge her own greatness – not just as an athlete who had once stood at the pinnacle of the world but as someone who had given everything she had, time and time again. You didn’t need her to be perfect, to win every trophy, for her to be your hero. You admired her not just for her victories but for her courage, her tenacity, and the way she kept fighting even when the odds were against her.

She met your gaze, and for a moment, the tension in her features softened. There was a flicker of something in her eyes – a hint of acknowledgment, maybe even a touch of the humour that had always been between you. But it was fleeting, and she quickly looked away, still struggling with her own expectations. Even so, your words lingered, like a seed planted in her heart, waiting for the right moment to take root.

You had been expecting this – the self-deprecation that crept into her words, the harshness with which she judged herself. It was a familiar pattern, one you had seen many times before, but it had grown more intense since her return from injury. She had always demanded excellence from herself, setting standards so high that even her most extraordinary achievements seemed like mere steps on a ladder she was forever climbing. But now, her expectations had spiralled into something almost unattainable. Perfection wasn’t just a goal; it had become an obsession, and anything less than flawless felt like failure in her eyes.

Since that injury, the one that had taken her out of the game she loved and forced her to the sidelines, she had been on a relentless quest to prove herself again – not just to the world, but to herself. She believed that every move, every play, every decision had to be executed with absolute precision. There was no room for error, no space for the human imperfections that naturally came with being an athlete, especially one who had battled back from the brink.

But flawless was a standard she could never quite reach, and deep down, you knew she realised that. It was as if no matter how well she played, no matter how many accolades she earned or how many times she was hailed as a hero, she could always find the cracks, the tiny flaws that no one else noticed but that loomed large in her mind. She would fixate on them, replaying them over and over in her head, as if by dissecting every mistake, she could somehow erase it from existence.

You had watched her after games, seen her sit in silence with her head bowed, her mind churning as she picked apart her performance with a ruthless precision. Even when she had been the best player on the field, she would find something – anything – to criticise. Maybe it was a pass she hadn’t made, one that in hindsight seemed obvious, but in the heat of the moment had slipped by. Or perhaps it was a pass she had made, but it hadn’t gone as planned, the ball intercepted or misdirected, and she would berate herself for not seeing a better option.

Then there were the tackles – those split-second decisions where she would question whether she had gone in too soft or too late, or if she had hesitated when she should have acted. She would remember every press she hadn’t started, every time she hadn’t been quick enough to close down space, and those moments would linger in her mind, gnawing at her confidence. It was never enough for her to simply have done well; she needed to have done everything perfectly, and that was a burden she carried alone, even though you were always there, trying to help her see just how incredible she truly was.

You understood that this self-imposed pressure came from a place of love – love for the game, love for the team, and love for the standard she believed she needed to uphold. But it also came from fear. Fear of not being good enough, of not being the player she once was, of letting others down. And that fear had taken root during her recovery, blossoming into an unyielding drive for perfection that was as much a curse as it was a motivator.

You had seen it in her eyes, the way they would cloud over with doubt even as others celebrated her success. You had heard it in her voice, the way it would falter when she spoke about her performance, as if she couldn’t allow herself to take pride in what she had done. It was as though she believed that acknowledging her brilliance might make it slip away, that if she didn’t keep striving for more, she would somehow fall short.

And so, as she stood before you now, her posture tense and her expression guarded, you weren’t surprised by her reaction. You had known this moment was coming, the one where she would downplay her achievements and focus on the mistakes, no matter how minor they were. But what she didn’t realise was that in her pursuit of perfection, she had already achieved something far greater. She had fought her way back from injury, not just physically but mentally, and had returned to the game with a resilience and determination that few could match.

She might see the flaws, but you saw the brilliance – every single time.

“Ale, baby, I need to ask you something,” you began, your voice steady but laced with concern. You took a small step closer, ensuring she could see the seriousness in your eyes, feel the weight of the words you were about to speak. “And I need the truth from you, okay?”

Her gaze met yours, a mixture of curiosity and slight apprehension flickering across her face. She could sense that this was more than just a casual question, that what you were about to say carried significant importance. You reached out, gently taking her hand in yours, your thumb brushing soothingly over her knuckles as if to reassure her that whatever she said, it would be alright.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to,” you continued, your tone softening, letting her know that there was no pressure, no expectation, only the need for honesty between you. “Or if you think it might be too much right now.” You paused, giving her time to process, to understand that this was a safe space where she could express herself freely, without judgment or fear of disappointing you. “But I really need your honesty.”

She looked at you, her eyes searching yours for a moment, and you could see the internal struggle she was grappling with – the desire to be strong, to push through, to keep going despite the exhaustion that weighed on her, both physically and mentally. But beneath that, there was also a flicker of vulnerability, a quiet plea for understanding, for permission to admit that maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as okay as she tried to appear.

You waited patiently, giving her the space to respond in her own time, your hand still holding hers, grounding her in the moment. Finally, she gave a small nod, a silent acknowledgment that she was ready to hear what you had to ask.

“Is it too much for you right now?” you asked, your voice gentle, filled with nothing but concern and care. The question hung in the air between you, and you could feel her tense slightly, the weight of the words settling over her. You knew how hard it was for her to admit when she was struggling, how much she prided herself on being resilient, on pushing through whatever challenges came her way. But you also knew that everyone had their limits, and you needed to make sure she wasn’t pushing herself past hers.

You watched her closely, seeing the conflict play out in her eyes, the way her brow furrowed as she considered your question. You could almost hear the thoughts racing through her mind, the internal dialogue as she weighed the expectations, she had placed on herself against the reality of how she was feeling. You squeezed her hand gently, offering silent support, letting her know that whatever she decided, whatever she needed, you were there for her.

And as she looked back at you, there was a moment of quiet understanding between you – an unspoken recognition of the love and trust that bound you together, and the knowledge that she didn’t have to carry this burden alone.

“Sí,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, yet the weight of that single word was enough to break your heart. You nodded, feeling a deep ache settle in your chest as you looked at her. The strength she usually carried seemed to have faded, leaving behind only the raw vulnerability that she rarely allowed herself to show.

“Do you need me to make it better?” you asked softly, wanting nothing more than to take away the pain, to ease the burden that had become too heavy for her to carry alone.

“Sí,” she said again, her voice a little stronger this time, but still tinged with that same quiet plea for help. It was a simple answer, but it carried the full weight of her exhaustion and her need for care. She was finally letting herself admit that she needed you, that she couldn’t do this alone, and that small surrender filled you with a fierce determination to be everything she needed in that moment.

“Ok,” you whispered, your voice steady even as you swallowed the lump in your throat. You wanted to be strong for her, to guide her through this moment with the gentle care she deserved. “I want you to go upstairs and shower,” you said, smoothing a hand over her hair in a soothing gesture. You felt her lean into your touch, seeking comfort in the simple act of you being there for her.

“I want you to make the water nice and warm, and take as long as you need,” you continued, your voice filled with a calm assurance that you hoped would ease the tension you could feel radiating off her. “At least five minutes, but you can take longer if you need it.” You chose your words carefully, emphasising her needs rather than her wants. You wanted her to understand that it was okay to prioritise herself right now, to take the time to care for her body and mind, to let go of the pressure she constantly placed on herself.

“When you’re finished,” you added, keeping your tone gentle and steady, “go to the bedroom and lie down for me. I’ll be up very soon.” You wanted her to know that she wasn’t alone in this, that you were right there with her, ready to take care of her, to make sure she felt safe and loved.

As you spoke, you pressed a gentle, reassuring kiss to her lips, a tender promise of your unwavering support. It was a brief moment, but it conveyed everything you felt – your love, your concern, your commitment to being there for her no matter what. You felt her respond to the kiss, a small sigh escaping her as if the simple act of being close to you allowed her to release some of the tension she had been holding onto for so long.

She pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting yours, and in that moment, you saw the gratitude mixed with the fatigue. She didn’t have the strength to say much more, but she didn’t need to. The trust in her gaze, the way she leaned into you, spoke volumes. You gave her a small, encouraging nod, and she turned slowly, heading upstairs with the kind of weary steps that told you just how much she had been holding in.

You watched her go, your heart heavy with the knowledge of how much she had been carrying alone. But now, she didn’t have to. You were here, and you would make sure she got the care and rest she so desperately needed.

As the sound of the shower started upstairs, you took a deep breath, already thinking of what else you could do to help her feel better, to bring her some peace. This was just the beginning of making sure she knew that in her moments of weakness, she could always count on you to be her strength.

You could tell this was going to be a difficult road to navigate, one that required a delicate balance between understanding her needs and guiding her through the storm of emotions that swirled inside her. You knew her well enough to recognise the signs – how she would retreat into herself, seeking an outlet that would let her escape from the relentless pressure, from the weight of her own expectations.

She would want you to be rough, to push her beyond the edge of her thoughts, to make her brainless through sharp commands and intense physicality. It was a dynamic you had shared before, one that allowed her to relinquish control, to lose herself in something raw and primal. When everything else in her life felt like it was slipping out of her grasp, she craved that release, that moment where she didn’t have to think, where she didn’t have to be perfect. She needed to let go, to surrender completely to you, trusting that you would guide her through the darkness, but you knew this wasn't just about physical release.

This time, it wasn’t just about intensity or escape; it was about her deeper need to be cared for, to be understood in a way that went beyond words or actions. She needed to feel safe in her vulnerability, to know that even in her most fragile state, you would be there to catch her, to hold her, to bring her back to herself.

But navigating this would require more than just responding to her desire for roughness. It would mean reading between the lines, understanding the nuance of what she was truly asking for, even if she couldn’t articulate it herself. You would need to be attuned to every subtle shift in her mood, every flicker of doubt or hesitation that crossed her face, and respond with a mixture of firmness and tenderness that would allow her to feel both challenged and cherished.

There would be moments when she might push you away, trying to test the boundaries, trying to see if you could really handle all that she was feeling. In those moments, you would need to stand your ground, to be the rock she could lean on, even when she was fighting against the very support she needed. You knew she might want you to be rough, but you also knew that you couldn’t let it go too far – that beneath the surface, she needed your guidance, your patience, your unwavering presence.

You would have to walk this line carefully, giving her what she craved while also protecting her from the depths of her own frustrations. It would mean being firm when necessary, issuing commands that would help her shut off the noise in her mind, but also knowing when to soften, when to pull her back from the brink and remind her that she was more than the sum of her failures and frustrations.

You started the ascent up the stairs, making your way over to the dresser in the corner of the room, your steps purposeful but measured.

Inside, there was a neat row of toys, each item meticulously arranged, each one holding its own set of possibilities. The collection was a blend of colours and textures, each piece chosen with care, not just for their functionality but for the unique experiences they could create. You ran your fingers lightly over the array of plastic dildos, each one varying in sise and shape, each capable of evoking a different response, a different sensation. The cool, smooth surface of the toys was a contrast to the warmth of the room, and the familiarity of their weight in your hand brought a sense of calmness and control.

Next to the dildos were a few vibrators, each one powerful in its own right. You knew how to use them to draw out her pleasure, how to make her lose herself in waves of sensation, leaving behind the thoughts and worries that so often clouded her mind. The quiet hum of these devices was a promise of escape, of a release that went beyond the physical, allowing her to focus on nothing but the feeling of being overwhelmed in the best possible way.

Nestled beside the vibrators was a small bottle of lube, the clear liquid glistening in the dim light of the room. It was a simple yet essential tool, one that ensured comfort and ease, allowing you both to explore without hesitation, without any barriers between desire and action. You picked it up for a moment, feeling the coolness of the bottle in your hand, before setting it back down carefully, knowing you would reach for it again soon.

And then, there were the soft, fuzzy red handcuffs, resting at the far end of the drawer. The bright red fur was a playful contrast to the metal underneath, their purpose clear but their execution gentle. They weren’t about confinement or punishment; they were about surrender, about giving her the opportunity to let go completely, to trust you to guide her through the experience, to hold her safely in a space where she could finally release all the tension she had been carrying.

You reached for the items you had chosen, the carefully selected tools laid out before you. Your fingers brushed over them with a sense of purpose and anticipation. The time you took to pick out each piece reflected the care you wanted to show Alexia, knowing that every touch, every choice mattered in creating the experience you both sought.

You then turned your attention to your own clothes, removing them with a deliberate slowness. Each article of clothing was shed with a mix of intention and reverence, as if the act of undressing was part of the ritual of preparing for this moment. As you slid out of your shirt and then your pants, you could feel the fabric falling away, leaving you with a growing sense of readiness. The process wasn’t rushed; it was part of the anticipation, a way to connect more deeply with the moment and with Alexia.

Once you were down to just your underwear, you paused for a moment, taking in the way the soft fabric clung to your skin. The sensation was both intimate and grounding, a reminder of the shared vulnerability that was about to unfold. You felt a gentle thrill at the thought of Alexia waiting for you, her trust in you a constant source of motivation.

You knew she would be on the bed, likely lying there with a mix of expectancy and quiet submission. The thought of her waiting, possibly feeling a blend of nervousness and excitement, added a layer of intimacy to your movements.

You were right; Alexia was exactly as you had envisioned. As you entered the room, the sight before you confirmed your expectations. She was lying on the bed, positioned exactly how you had requested, her body relaxed and open. Her blonde hair was spread out across the pillows, cascading in a cascade of soft waves that framed her face and shoulders like a golden halo. The contrast between her pale skin and the rich texture of the bedding created a striking visual that had your blood thrumming.

Her hands rested by her sides, palms open and fingers slightly curled, as if she had consciously chosen to display her openness and surrender. The act of leaving her hands unguarded was more than just physical – it was a testament to her willingness to let go of control, to embrace the moment without reservation. She showed no attempts to hide herself or shy away, even though she was completely naked. There was no self-consciousness in her posture, no sign of hesitation or discomfort. Instead, there was a raw, unfiltered trust that emanated from her, a profound assurance in your presence and in the dynamic you shared.

Her complete nudity wasn’t just a physical state but a symbolic one, representing her willingness to be vulnerable and exposed, both emotionally and physically. It was a reflection of the trust she had in you, a trust that you would honour her needs and desires with the utmost care and respect. The way she lay there, seemingly at ease, was a powerful display of her belief in your ability to guide her through this experience, to help her find the solace and release she sought.

In this moment, Alexia had relinquished the burden of her thoughts and anxieties, surrendering them to you with an unspoken plea to make them vanish. She was not just seeking physical pleasure or release but a deeper form of escape – a chance to reconnect with herself, to rediscover the parts of her that were lost or obscured by stress and self-criticism. You were acutely aware of this, recognising that your role was to bridge the gap between her current state and the peace she yearned for.

She trusted you to make her Ale again, your beautiful girl.

You were prepared to honour that trust with every touch, every word, every action. Your goal was clear: to erase the stress and worries that had been clouding her mind, to restore her sense of self and allow her to be nothing but your beautiful girl once more.

“Well done, baby,” you cooed softly, your voice rich with affection as you walked over to her. The warmth of your words was like a gentle embrace, meant to soothe and affirm. The sincerity in your tone conveyed how deeply you appreciated her willingness to follow your guidance, her openness to the experience you were sharing.

As you approached her, your gaze took in every detail of her delicate form, lying gracefully on the bed. The sight of her – vulnerable, trusting, and completely present – filled you with a profound sense of gratitude and love. You could see the subtle flush on her cheeks, a testament to the emotional and physical journey she had undertaken. The glow of her skin, warmed by the moment and the intimacy of your shared experience, made her even more radiant in your eyes.

You reached out, your movements slow and deliberate, as if you were savoring each second of the connection you were building. Your fingers traced a gentle path over her cheekbones, the light touch designed to convey both reassurance and tenderness. The sensation of your fingers dancing across her flushed skin was meant to be soothing, a delicate caress that spoke of your deep appreciation and care.

The way your fingers moved was deliberate and graceful, each touch lingering just long enough to be felt but not so long as to disturb the serene atmosphere you had worked to create. Your touch was meant to connect with her on a deeper level, to reinforce the trust she had placed in you, and to remind her of the intimate bond you shared. You could feel the subtle texture of her skin beneath your fingertips, the slight warmth that spoke of her emotional openness, and the gentle rise and fall of her breath as she relaxed into the moment.

As your fingers continued their exploration, you allowed yourself to fully immerse in the sensation of the moment. You let your touch convey all the unspoken words and feelings that were so important in this shared experience. Your caress was a silent affirmation of how much you valued her effort, how deeply you cherished her willingness to be open and vulnerable with you.

“You are such a good listener for me,” you added, your voice infused with admiration and tenderness. Your touch continued to explore, tracing the contours of her face with gentle precision. You let your fingers move with a lightness that was both comforting and intimate, allowing her to feel the full extent of your care. Each stroke was a promise, a reassurance that you were there to guide and support her, to help her find solace and connection in the experience you were sharing.

“Por favor, mi amor. Quiero volver a ser Ale, no Alexia,” she murmured, her voice tinged with a blend of longing and vulnerability. The request was both a plea and a declaration, a tough one for her to make.

“Oh, my beautiful girl,” you responded, your voice softening with a mixture of affection and reassurance. The words flowed out of you comfortingly, settling over Alexia like a soft blanket. “Thank you for telling me what you want.” Your appreciation was sincere, recognising the courage it took for her to voice her desires so openly.

You moved with deliberate care, positioning yourself to straddle her, your presence becoming a tangible anchor in the sea of her emotions. As you settled over her, you let the bright blue vibrator slip from your grasp and fall onto the bed beside her. The vibrant color of the toy stood out against the bedding, its presence now a clear indication of what you had planned for the night. You allowed her to see it, its promise of intense, controlled stimulation adding a new layer of anticipation to the moment.

“Can you tell me what you need, though?” you asked, your tone gentle but insistent. Your question was more than a simple inquiry; it was an invitation for her to articulate her deepest desires and requirements. You wanted to ensure that every aspect of the evening catered to her needs. You knew that what she wanted sometimes was what she needed.

You watched her closely, noting the way her eyes softened as she considered your question. You hoped she would feel empowered by your willingness to listen and adapt, finding comfort in the fact that you were committed to meeting her needs with sensitivity and care.

As she began to speak, you tuned in with complete attentiveness, your focus unwavering on both her words and the emotions they conveyed. Her voice, though hesitant and laced with vulnerability, was filled with a deep, earnest need. “I … I need … I need to be good again. I need to be good for you.” Her admission was a fragile thread of hope, a cry for reassurance that she could reclaim a sense of self that felt lost or diminished. “Ya eres buena. Ya eres tan buena para mí.”

You could see the conflict in her eyes, the struggle between her self-perception and the reality of your feelings for her. “I will help you be Ale again,” you continued, “but I need you to know that you already are la chica más perfecta del mundo.” Your declaration was a heartfelt promise, a commitment to guiding her back to a place of inner peace and self-acceptance.

“I do not feel it,” she admitted, her voice breaking slightly as she spoke. Her words were a testament to the gap between her self-perception and the image you held of her. It was clear that she was struggling to reconcile her inner turmoil with the love and admiration you offered.

“I know, and that’s ok too,” you reassured her, your tone steady and understanding. “But you are kind, and beautiful, and strong, and good.” Each descriptor was chosen with care, meant to address different facets of her being that you saw and cherished. The kindness that defined her interactions, the beauty that radiated both inside and out, the strength she demonstrated in facing her challenges, and the inherent goodness that made her who she was – these were the qualities you wanted her to remember, even when she struggled to see them in herself.

You leaned down, your movements slow and deliberate. Your lips met Alexia's in a kiss filled with all the passion and tenderness you felt for her. The kiss was soft at first, but it quickly grew more fervent, a dance of affection and desire that mirrored the intensity of your feelings. You poured your emotions into the kiss, letting the heat of your passion blend seamlessly with the gentleness of your touch. Each movement was a deliberate act of intimacy, meant to reassure her and to let her feel the sincerity of your love.

As you pressed your lips against hers, you felt her sigh softly into the kiss. The sound was a subtle but powerful affirmation of her surrender and trust. It was a release of the tension that had been building within her, a moment where she could let go and simply be present in the shared intimacy.

Her body seemed to melt into the bed. The way she relaxed into the mattress spoke of the safety and peace she felt in your presence. It was as if the kiss was a balm, soothing away the anxieties and stresses that had been weighing on her. She let herself be enveloped by the sensation of your touch, the softness of the bed providing a supportive backdrop to the warmth and intensity of your kiss.

The kiss continued, a blend of passion and tenderness that flowed effortlessly between you. Your hands cradled her face gently, your thumbs stroking across her cheeks. The movements of your lips were synchronised with the rhythm of her breathing, creating a harmonious exchange that was both comforting and exhilarating.

“So beautiful,” you murmured, your voice barely above a whisper as you gazed intently at her. The words were a soft exhalation of admiration, a reflection of the profound appreciation you felt as you took in every detail of her face. Your eyes traced the delicate contours of her features, from the gentle curve of her lips to the soft arch of her brows. Each nuance of her expression seemed to radiate a captivating beauty that was both physical and emotional, captivating in its sincerity and depth.

In response, she offered a tender compliment of her own, her voice warm and affectionate. “Tu también eres hermosa, mi amor,” she said, her words wrapping around you like a comforting embrace.

“Thank you, baby,” you replied, your voice carrying a note of gratitude and warmth.

“Ale, I want you to do something for me, can you do that?” you asked softly, breaking the moment of love-filled silence that enveloped you both. Your voice was tender not wanting to pop the bubble you had created.

She looked at you with a mix of curiosity and openness, her voice carrying a gentle sigh as she responded, “Cualquier cosa.”

“I want you to take this vibrator,” you said, reaching over to pick up the toy from where it was resting on the bed. “And I want you to use it on yourself.” As you spoke, you noticed a wave of panic flicker across her face. Her initial reaction was one of concern, a surge of anxiety about the unfamiliar direction in which you were guiding her.

“Hey, no, shhhh, it’s ok,” you reassured her gently, your voice taking on a soothing tone as your hands carded through her hair. “I’ll still be here, I’ll be right here.” You shifted your position, climbing off her and laying down on your side beside her. The movement was deliberate, meant to provide her with the reassurance that you were not retreating but rather preparing to support her in a new way. As you settled into your new position, you maintained eye contact, your gaze steady and comforting.

“I’m going to walk you through it, ok?” you said, your voice firm yet gentle. The promise of guidance was meant to provide her with a sense of direction and support, to help her navigate this new experience with confidence. “And I want you to listen to me. Can you do that, beautiful?” The question was both an invitation and a challenge, encouraging her to trust in your words and follow your lead.

She hesitated a little, her hazel eyes wide with nerves and uncertainty. “Don’t worry, Ale,” you said softly, your voice a steady anchor in the sea of her anxiety. “I will do all the thinking for you. You just have to follow what I say.”

She took a deep breath, her resolve firming as she nodded slowly. Her eyes flickered back to the vibrator in your hands, a mixture of curiosity and nervousness reflected in her expression. With deliberate care, she extended her hand towards the toy, her fingers trembling slightly as she grasped it from your grasp. She held it in the air for a moment, waiting for you to tell her what to do next.

“Ok, beautiful,” you said, your tone warm and encouraging. “Turn it on for me and put it on your stomach, trail it up and down – do whatever feels good.” Your instructions were clear and gentle. You leaned in, pressing a soft, reassuring kiss to her temple.

Alexia jumped slightly when the toy made contact with her skin. She traced the vibrator slowly up and down her abs, each deliberate pass enhancing her sense of confidence and control. As the gentle hum of the toy made contact with her skin, she began to feel the initial waves of anticipation, each movement helping to melt away her lingering tension. The soft vibrations worked in tandem with her growing self-assurance, guiding her into a deeper state of relaxation and enjoyment.

Your hands soon joined the vibrator in its exploration, adding an extra layer of sensation to the experience. You moved with a mixture of intent and tenderness, scratching light, teasing patterns on her skin that complemented the vibrator's rhythmic pulse. Your touch was deliberate, tracing a path along her abdomen with a feather-light caress, heightening the overall sensory experience.

Every now and then, you allowed your hands to wander higher, reaching up to pinch gently at her nipples. The slight, sharp sensation of your touch contrasted with the vibrator's steady hum, creating a thrilling interplay of pleasure and sensitivity. Your fingers, confident and skilled, occasionally grasped and squeezed her breasts more firmly, sending pulses of sensation that made her gasp and moan softly. Each touch, whether gentle or firm, was designed to enhance her pleasure and deepen her sense of connection with the experience.

“Such a good girl,” you whispered softly into her ear, your voice gentle and reassuring to avoid startling her. Your words were a caress in themselves as Alexia let the thoughts slip further from her mind.

As you spoke, you felt her body respond with a soft whimper, a deliciously melodic sound. “You look so sexy,” you continued, your voice rich with admiration. She swallowed at the praise, her breath increasing with every passing heartbeat.

The sight of her reaction was incredibly rewarding, and you took a moment to truly appreciate the scene before you. The way her body responded to your compliments, the way she seemed to melt into the experience, was something you would never forget.

“Open your legs for me,” you instructed softly, your tone laced with the same affection and care that had marked your previous words. The command was gentle, intended to guide her without pressure, to encourage her to further engage with the sensations you were both creating. You reached out, skimming her face in a gentle touch. Your fingers lingered on her skin, feeling the warmth and softness of her skin.

She complied with your request without hesitation, her movements smooth and responsive. As she followed your instructions, you let out a contented hum, a sound of approval and satisfaction that conveyed how pleased you were with her responsiveness.

“Are you wet for me, Ale?” you asked softly, your voice carrying a note of genuine curiosity. You didn’t really need to ask, you knew how easily Alexia could get wet, but it was a way to check in with her.

“Sí,” she stuttered, her voice betraying a mix of anticipation and vulnerability. Her response was tinged with a breathless quality that had your mind reeling. You responded to her admission with another tender kiss, this time pressing gently against her cheek.

You let your hand find hers, gently halting her movements. Your touch was purposeful and deliberate, designed to guide her without disrupting the flow of her pleasure. Slowly, you manoeuvred the vibrator between her thighs, positioning it in a way that would maximise the sensations she felt.

“Let yourself feel this, baby,” you instructed, your tone soothing and encouraging. Your words were a gentle nudge towards whatever she felt like doing. “Do what feels good, what feels right.” The emphasis was on her autonomy and pleasure, encouraging her to listen to her body and respond to her own needs.

“If you need to cum, you can do,” you added, your voice filled with a supportive warmth. “If it’s too much, you must stop,” you continued, your tone shifting to a more serious but caring note. The instruction was a crucial part of maintaining her comfort and safety. “I’ll know if you push yourself.” The reminder was a protective measure, meant to ensure that she was aware of her own limits and that you were attuned to her well-being.

She nodded furiously at your words, her eagerness palpable as she prepared to follow your instructions. Her eyes were tightly shut, her breath coming out in short, sharp huffs. “Go on, beautiful girl,” you murmured softly in her ear. “Show me how good it feels.”

With a gentle but deliberate motion, you finally pressed the vibrator against her clit, its vibrations meeting her sensitive skin with a precise and exhilarating touch. The moment of contact was electric, her reaction almost visceral.

The moan that escaped her lips was nothing short of cinematic, raw and unrestrained in its expression of pleasure. It was a sound so primal and expressive that it felt almost otherworldly, as if the sheer intensity of her feelings had transcended the ordinary. Alexia had always been vocal in her pleasure, her sounds often coming out unabashed and proud. But this moan was unlike anything you’d ever heard before.

As you continued to hold the vibrator in place, you could see the impact of your touch on her body. Her breathing became more erratic, each inhale and exhale a testament to the waves of pleasure she was experiencing. Her body responded with a mixture of shudders and tremors, her hips pressing further into your hand.

As each compliment left your lips, you watched Alexia’s body react in increasingly intense ways.

“You look so fucking good, baby,” you murmured, your voice thick with admiration. The impact of your words was almost immediate. Her body responded with a shiver, a visible tremor that coursed through her as if your praise had ignited a spark of pleasure. Her eyes fluttered open briefly, locking with yours before slamming shut again as another wave of ecstasy coursed through her.

“So wet for me,” you continued, your tone filled with a blend of appreciation and desire. As you spoke, her breath hitched, and her hips instinctively arched slightly in response. She let out a soft moan, her body moving rhythmically with the vibrations.

“Look at you, beautiful. Letting yourself feel good,” you said next, your voice gentle yet filled with admiration. She gasped, letting her shoulders relax as she let out a contented sigh, her body seeming to melt further into the bed. Her face contorted in pleasure; her mouth thrown open in a silent scream as she surrendered to the sensations with an almost ethereal grace.

“I’m so proud of you, Ale,” you said, smiling as her cheeks turned crimson. Her back arched slightly, her chest heaving as she absorbed the warmth of your pride. Her entire form seemed to radiate a mix of pride and pleasure telling you just how much she needed this.

“Una chica muy buena,” you whispered softly, your words laced with endearment. You knew how much you speaking Spanish turned her on.

She began to jerk slightly, the rhythmic, involuntary movements a clear indication that she was on the verge of reaching the peak of her pleasure. Each slight twitch of her body was a telltale sign that she was just about to tip over the edge into the intense, exhilarating climax she had been building towards. Her entire form seemed to quiver with anticipation

“Mi amor,” she gasped, the term of endearment escaping her lips as she forced her eyes open. Her gaze was filled with a mix of desperation and longing, a visual cue of her need for connection and reassurance as she approached her climax. Her breathing was uneven, each gasp a clear sign of her struggle to maintain control amidst the surging waves of pleasure.

“I’m here, baby,” you responded softly, your voice a soothing balm amidst her heightened state. You leaned in close, pressing a quick, tender peck to her lips. The kiss was brief but intimate, a way to anchor her to your presence as a soft murmur of encouragement and praise. “You’re doing so well for me. So pretty, so sexy.” Each compliment was carefully chosen to help guide her to release.

“You’re my good girl, aren’t you, Ale?” you asked, your voice filled with a mixture of affection and anticipation. The question was a gentle prompt for her to finally let go. Her answer came in the form of a shout, a loud, expressive confirmation of her pleasure and the intensity of the moment. The shout was a raw, uninhibited sound that told you just how much she needed this.

In that instant, she came hard, her body reacting with a powerful intensity. The climax was sudden and overwhelming, her body twitching violently in response to the peak of her pleasure. Her entire form seemed to convulse with the intensity of the orgasm, her muscles contracting and releasing in rapid succession.

You continued to talk her through it, your voice a steady, soothing presence amidst the storm of sensations she was experiencing. Your words glided over her body like a gentle caress, each phrase carefully chosen to enhance her pleasure and provide comfort as she squirmed and writhed in the throes of her climax.

"Just let it happen," you murmured. “"You're so beautiful like this, so perfect. Feel every bit of it, let yourself go."

As she squirmed, you adjusted your touch to stay in sync with her movements. The gentle pressure of the vibrator, combined with your affirming words, created a harmonious rhythm that matched the ebb and flow of her climax. "You’re so amazing, Ale," you continued, your voice infused with admiration. "I love seeing you like this, so open and free."

When she finally pushed your hand away, you could immediately sense a shift in the dynamic between you. It was as if the push was a punctuation mark on a deeply satisfying experience, an unspoken acknowledgment that she had reached her limit and was ready to transition from the intensity of the moment.

The way she moved your hand away was deliberate, though not harsh – more of a gentle nudge than a forceful shove. Her fingers, slightly trembling, brushed against your skin as she guided your hand away, and the contact was a tactile reminder of how much effort and energy she had expended. The push was accompanied by a deep, ragged breath, a sign that she was feeling the aftershocks of her climax and needed a moment of reprieve.

As your hand left her body, you could see the immediate change in her expression. Her features relaxed, and her eyes, which had been wide with the intensity of her pleasure, were now soft and partially closed. There was a look of exhaustion mingled with satisfaction – a sign that she had given everything she had to the moment and was now in a state of blissful fatigue.

“Was … was I good?” The question carried with it a subtle hint of self-doubt, despite the overwhelming evidence of her pleasure and the constant stream of words from you. Her inquiry was more than just a question; it was a reflection of her desire for affirmation and connection. You knew she wasn’t asking about the sex either – her question was layered with deeper significance. The last few years had been incredibly taxing on her, leaving her emotionally drained and often in need of reassurance. The demanding pressures of her career, coupled with personal challenges, had created a landscape where her self-esteem and sense of validation were frequently put to the test.

“So good, my beautiful girl.”

[darlingghoulette]

blame the “hitting on your mom as a punishment” tiktok i just saw that literally blew my brain up. established because they’re disgustingly in love and because i say so

Eddie would normally consider himself pretty immune to the roar of arguing teenagers. Chaos surrounds their little Party. They’re not a quiet bunch when all together. It’s all shoving and yelling, giggling and roughhousing. Carpet-burned battle scars from the floor of Steve’s living room.

Lord knows Eddie himself wasn’t an inside-voice kind of person. He was certainly wont to standing on coffee tables and screeching demands for the remote when it was unjustly stolen away by villainous hands.

Eddie loved these people to death, and they were a lot of fucking fun to hang out with, it’s just this...this was an unreal level of noise. A normal sleepover night turned a little too rowdy, the adolescents celebrating the start of Summer with a bang.

Steve had already asked them to keep it down four times this evening. Nothing seemed to calm them. Not requests. Not threats of being sent home. Usually their Dungeon Master threatening their characters’ souls did the trick, but no go. 

Getting teenagers to listen? A feat more impossible than defeating creatures from an alternate universe. 

Dustin and Erica were in a bitching match about the best D&D class. Lucas and Mike had been fighting over movie choices for the last half hour. Eddie’s money was on the VHS player breaking before that, the constant mishandling and shoving of tapes had the poor thing practically smoking.

Will, ever the diplomat, was trying to be an impartial party when asked his movie opinions. Which, of course, caused more yelling. 

Max and El had been the only ones being semi-quiet, but that quickly ended when they followed through on their surprise attack pillow fight, pummeling the boys senseless and causing the already unbearable volume to kick into overdrive. Eddie could practically feel Steve’s migraine building, even from where the dude had retreated to the kitchen. Dinner had been pizza. Quick. Easy. Clean. Or, it would have been if it hadn’t had been for the food fight. Steve was still in there scrubbing cheese out of his parents’ tiled backsplash. Dishes clattered in the distance when the cacophony hit its crescendo. 

It was the proverbial straw. 

“Alright, that’s it! Hey. Come on, guys. Knock it off,”

Nothing. 

“HEY!”

He maybe overdid it that time, but the absolute ear-splitting boom of a yell he let out stopped the ruckus dead. 

Silence rang for a beat.

Huh. Maybe Eddie should try out incorporating that into his music. He honestly hadn’t known he could get to that range. 

The teenagers in the room stared at him, not cowed in the slightest, but curious enough to know what the hell Eddie’s problem was. Max was the first one to quirk an eyebrow at him.  “Geez, need attention much?” 

Eddie folded his arms to show he meant business. “Steve has asked you guys to tone it down. You’re waking the fucking dead. Why don’t you guys, like, actually go be good human beings and help him clean up your mess you all made in the kitchen, huh?” 

Lucas snorted. “Yeah, okay, mom. Why don’t you go help him, you guys will probably just make out in there, anyway.” 

It was a teasing comment. Meant to jokingly rib before getting back to doing whatever the hell they wanted to do.

But, see. That just gave him an idea. 

Never let it be said Eddie couldn’t be creative with his punishments. He was a DM after all. 

“Alllllllright. New plan. Listen up or suffer, ankle biters,” 

He really didn’t appreciate the snickers that brought about when he was trying to be intimidating. Rude. 

“You going to send us to our room or something? I’m real scared,” Erica’s scathing, dry wit was unparalleled, truly. 

“Nope. Better. It’s a new rule: You little shitheads give me attitude and don’t listen, I hit on your babysitter.”

It was silent for a minute, brains audibly computing that statement and coming up ERROR. Will hesitantly spoke up. 

“Uh, Eddie, I really don’t think that’s--”

“Yeah, what the fuck?” Mike interrupted. “Why would you beating up Steve hurt us? I mean, like, I guess it would emotionally, but that’s fucked up, man.” 

Eddie rolled his eyes, still smirking wickedly as his plan solidified.  “Oh, I don’t mean that kind of hitting, young Wheeler. Though, it may yet get physical--Hey, Steve?” He called out. The sink in the kitchen shut off after a second.

“Yeah?” 

“Can you come here?” 

The kids shuffled around on the floor warily as the other man walked into the living room. The energy had obviously shifted, it was probably an odd vibe to walk in to, but Eddie cut Steve off before he could ask any questions.

“You tired?”

“Uh, no. I’m fine--”

“It’s just you just keep on runnin’ through my mind constantly. I figured you’d be exhausted, sweetheart,” Eddie purred, the words cloyingly sweet and full of exaggerated charm. 

There was a countdown, three, two, one...

A collective groan let out. A few uncomfortable laughs.  “Dude, what the hell?” 

“You guys agreed not to be gross in front of us!”

“Oh, my god, can I actually get sick from how cheesy that was?” 

Eddie had to work at keeping in character when his very first line had pulled the intended reaction. He was already reaching forward to curl an arm around Steve, pulling him in in a slow, sultry attempt at being smooth. 

“What? Can’t I be sweet on my guy? You all will understand when you’re in love one day. Right, sugar?” 

Fake gags and retching sounds, too dramatic to be real protests, but still indignant and annoyed. Eddie was pretty sure Dustin slapped a hand over his eyes.

“Uh...yes?” Steve, who had previously looked like a car accident had happened directly in front of him, was catching on to the play. He eyed the disgruntled floor-children with a growing grin and let Eddie snuggle up to him.

God, his baby was so clever. He always knew what Eddie was thinking. 

Too busy having a non-verbal conversation with Steve on how to best annoy the kids, Eddie didn’t see Mike turning his attention back to the tv. He did, however, hear him telling the others to “Just ignore them, they’ll get all gushy and leave us alone.” 

Oh, Michael, Michael. Wrong move. 

“How you doing, babygirl?” Steve flushed, deep and red and--huh. Okay. Revisiting that one in the future. “You good? You need anything? Your head hurting, sweet thing? I can kiss it better,”  Eddie ducked forward to kiss Steve’s cheek. It was chaste, a sweet little thing...that Eddie made infinitely worse by the smacking, obnoxious kissy sounds he emulated there. The chorus of groans and protests started up again. He didn’t even pull his face away to call over to them. 

“I’m sorry, is that attitude? Am I hearing more attitude?”

“Dude, Eddie, noooo!” 

“Jesus, it’s like watching your parents make out, oh my god.” 

“You guys, let’s just go already,” 

“Yeah, I’ll take washing dishes over this,” 

The grossed out teenagers whooshed past them. Grumbling and glaring--except Eleven, who smiled up at them sweetly--leaving Steve and Eddie standing in the living room, still wrapped up together. 

It was too tempting then, with the kids safely out of range, for Eddie to resist the temptation to drop his kisses a little lower down Steve’s neck. To let them get a little less chaste. Just a little.

What can he say? He’s a weak man. 

“That was evil,” Steve hummed. His shoulders dropped, though, relaxing into Eddie’s hold, the closest thing they’ve had to quiet all night settling in. 

“Hey, I accomplished two things. Got them to chill out and I get the perk of feeling you up in the middle of sleepover night. It’s a win-win.” 

A crash and a muffled argument broke out in the kitchen before Steve could respond to that. 

The audible scuffling was cut off by Eddie calling out “Your ass looks great in these jeans tonight, Harrington!” 

The fierce whispers and shushing were enough to get both of the older boys cackling loudly.