#Different Types of Freight

[megaspeedcargo]

Freight shipping is the backbone of global trade, enabling the movement of goods across vast distances with efficiency and speed. In 2024, businesses and individuals have more options than ever for shipping freight, ranging from air to ocean and everything in between.

But understanding the differences between the types of freight is key to selecting the best method for your needs.At Megaspeed Cargo, the best shipping company in Dubai, we specialize in offering customized freight solutions to ensure your cargo reaches its destination smoothly, safely, and on time.

This guide will explore the various types of freight services available in 2024, breaking down the pros, cons, and ideal use cases for each method.

[babyspacebatclone]

Alas, I would end up the vampire still complaining about never having time to do hobbies.

Because

A) I view crafting like Pokémon.

B) I view crafting tools like Pokémon.

And thus I am tied to the need of acquiring wealth perpetually, despite whatever advantage long term interest grants me, because

A) I need places to store all supplies.

B) Have you seen the price of fiber and fabrics???

[transglobals]

Understanding the Different Types of Ocean Freight

Ocean Freight by Transglobal offers reliable and efficient shipping solutions for businesses and individuals. As a leading freight forwarder, they provide comprehensive services, including FCL (Full Container Load) and LCL (Less than Container Load) shipments, tailored to meet the needs of global customers. Their expert team handles all aspects of ocean transportation, from booking and documentation to customs clearance and delivery. Transglobal’s extensive network of carriers ensures competitive pricing and timely deliveries. Whether shipping large volumes or small consignments, their ocean freight solutions are designed to provide cost-effective and seamless transportation across international waters.

[d-emeter]

Types of lingerie they'd go a little feral over — plus-size!fem!reader x cod characters

Includes: Price, Soap, Ghost, Gaz, König, Graves, Alejandro, Rudy, Valeria

CW: mid/plus-size reader, photos of people wearing lingerie!, mentions of sex/sexual activities

Photos are not indicative of reader's body type/skin colour/other physical attributes! Just meant to be examples, but us bigger girls deserve some rep on here (but also why is it so hard to find cute pics of mid/plus-size girlies that aren't ads or extremely edited?)

All rights go to owners of the photos! I tried to crop out their faces as best I could <3

John Price

Price would love anything feminine. He adores when you play into his housewife kink, parading around the house in babydoll dresses and fur-lined robes (preferably sheer). He wouldn't even bother with taking the pieces off once he gets his hands on you, simply pulling and adjusting where necessary. Not above ripping either, but don't worry, he'll gladly buy you some new sets. Maybe he should get you some of those crotchless panties, poppet, would save him a lot of hassle.

Johnny 'Soap' Mactavish

Listen, as much as he loves it seeing you all dolled up, there is nothing that gets him going quicker than you in some raggedy, hole-ridden comfy clothes, preferably when they're his. His boxers framing your plump ass so nicely, digging into your flesh a bit when you move and his shirt doing nothing to hide the jiggle of your tits while your nipples poke through the fabric. If he sees you like this, his hands are all over you in a split second. God forbid your shirt is cropped, showing off your soft tummy and the underside of your breasts — you couldn't pry him off with a crowbar.

(you cannot tell me Johnny doesn't own some dumbass boxers like this)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley

In fear of repeating myself, I think Simon would also go a little dreamy-eyed over you in your comfies. Except, unlike Johnny, he loves those sweet little pj-sets you wear. He's still a little taken aback every time he comes home to you curled up on his — your — couch. The realization that he has something this sweet to come home to — that he has a home at all, hitting him like a freight train. Like Price, doesn't bother taking your pajamas off when he pounces on you. Just makes it easier for him to tuck you into bed after he's done with you.

Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick

Garters, belts, straps, buckles, the whole thing. And best believe he's the one picking them out, too. You'll randomly find boxes on your bed, the contents in different styles, colours, fabrics. He insists you model them for him, or send him pictures if he's deployed. The sets are an absolute nightmare to get into, but he'll gladly help you take them off, darlin'. Don't mind him though, if he snaps a photo or two in the process. Also loves it when you wear lingerie as part of an actual outfit. What can I say, the man loves showing you off (with the knowledge he's the only one that gets to see the full sets and everything underneath them later).

König

Anything resembling some cheap halloween costume from party city. It honestly doesn't matter to him what; sexy secretary, naughty nurse, you name it. Literally whatever. He will lose his mind a little if you go as far as to engage in some roleplay pertaining to whatever you're wearing — acting like he's your boss or your patient. Oh, a pair of animal ears can and will make his eyes roll back in his head. (He will, however, ensure that your outfits are of relatively good quality — they've gotta outlast a least a few rounds, Schatzi).

Philip Graves

Ugh, he's so nasty (affectionate). He wants you to look hyper-feminine. His perfect little all-american wife (even if you've never set foot in the usa, or don't yet wear a ring on your finger) in her hyper-feminine lingerie, waiting for her soldier to come home. Frilly bras, lacy undies and silky night dresses in white or pink or any pastel shade. He gets off on the innocence they exude — makes him want to ruin you. And then wife you up. Maybe give you a baby or two.

Alejandro Vargas

Corsets!!! Or anything somewhat structured, really. This man adores the shape of your body no matter what, and the way the corset only accentuates the curve of your waist and pushes your tits up so deliciously has him rock fucking hard. If you choose to add some thigh-highs to that with the plush fat of your thighs spilling over the edge you may as well have killed him. He also has this weird infatuation with the marks the corset leaves on your skin after you (or he) take it off.

Rodolfo 'Rudy' Parra

This poor man nearly faints the first time you wear lingerie for him (and pretty much every time after that). It doesn't particularly matter to him what it is, but he does like it when you stick to the classics: simple lacy bra and panty set. He likes that it makes you feel confident and (relatively) comfortable, as your comfort is always his number one priority. He also just thinks the simplicity of the sets helps accentuate the beauty of your body, rather than distract from it.

Valeria Garza

Anything expensive. Like, crazy expensive. She has the money, amor, why not spend it on something she enjoys? She'll make sure you only wear the highest quality fabrics (and that goes for all your clothing, by the way, she likes taking care of her girl). There are diamonds glittering all over your body, highlighting all your curves and twinkling with every move you make, and a nice string of pearls disappearing between your folds.

(I couldn't find ANY photos of this type of lingerie on bigger bodies, my apologies. Rest assured Valeria will get everything custom-made for you — remember, only the best for her girl)

[wilwheaton]

What we’re witnessing online during and in the aftermath of these hurricanes is a group of people desperate to protect the dark, fictitious world they’ve built. Rather than deal with the realities of a warming planet hurling once-in-a-generation storms at them every few weeks, they’d rather malign and threaten meteorologists, who, in their minds, are “nothing but a trained subversive liar programmed to spew stupid shit to support the global warming bullshit,” as one X user put it. It is a strategy designed to silence voices of reason, because those voices threaten to expose the cracks in their current worldview. But their efforts are doomed, futile. As one dispirited meteorologist wrote on X this week, “Murdering meteorologists won’t stop hurricanes.” She followed with: “I can’t believe I just had to type that.” What is clear is that a new framework is needed to describe this fracturing. Misinformation is too technical, too freighted, and, after almost a decade of Trump, too political. Nor does it explain what is really happening, which is nothing less than a cultural assault on any person or institution that operates in reality. If you are a weatherperson, you’re a target. The same goes for journalists, election workers, scientists, doctors, and first responders. These jobs are different, but the thing they share is that they all must attend to and describe the world as it is. This makes them dangerous to people who cannot abide by the agonizing constraints of reality, as well as those who have financial and political interests in keeping up the charade.

I’m Running Out of Ways to Explain How Bad This Is - The Atlantic

[olderwomenenthusiast]

southern accent (spencer reid)

PAIRING: spencer reid & fem reader DESCRIPTION: spencer is fascinated, maybe more than by your southern accent CAUTION: swearing, the usual smut, a flustered spencer WORD COUNT: 4.6k AUTHOR'S NOTE: proof read? obviously not x

You were frustrated. More than frustrated, actually. Your fingers gripped the edge of the desk in the BAU bullpen, knuckles turning white as you glared at your computer screen. The case report you had painstakingly typed up had just disappeared into the void of your glitchy system. And then, to top it off, the printer jammed when you tried to get a hard copy of what little had been saved.

Spencer had been watching you for a while. He always did, though he’d never admit it. But this time, he noticed something different - something fascinating.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you muttered under your breath, voice sharper than usual.

He tilted his head slightly. There was something about your voice… a shift he couldn’t quite place at first. Then you exhaled harshly and muttered again, this time with an unmistakable drawl, “Lord help me, I swear this stupid thing is ‘bout to get thrown across the room.”

Spencer’s breath hitched. That was not how you usually sounded.

He blinked, taken aback, his analytical mind scrambling for an explanation. He had known you for quite some time now, and while you had once casually mentioned growing up in the South, your accent had always been faint, almost nonexistent. But now? Now it dripped from your lips like honey, slow and warm, curling around your vowels and stretching them out in ways that sent an unexpected shiver down his spine.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to focus on the situation at hand and not the way his stomach suddenly felt like it was flipping over itself. He knew accents could resurface in moments of high emotion, but knowing that intellectually did nothing to prepare him for the way yours affected him.

“Are you okay?” he asked, voice slightly uneven, betraying his intrigue.

You groaned, pressing your hands to your temples. “No, Spencer, I ain’t okay. This dang system just ate my report, and now the printer’s actin’ like it was built in the Stone Age.”

There it was again. That thick, sweet twang wrapping around every syllable. Spencer felt his pulse quicken. He wasn’t sure why this was affecting him so much, but he couldn’t ignore it. He found himself leaning in slightly, completely absorbed.

“I—uh—I can help,” he offered quickly, clearing his throat. He hoped you didn’t notice the faint pink rising to his cheeks.

You sighed, frustration ebbing slightly as you finally turned to look at him. “You sure, sugar? ‘Cause at this point, I’m ‘bout ready to throw in the towel.”

Spencer sucked in a sharp breath. Sugar. You had never called him that before. He suddenly felt like his brain had short-circuited.

“I—uh—yeah. Yes. I’m sure,” he stammered, quickly reaching for the keyboard to avoid making eye contact.

You didn’t seem to notice his internal crisis, but Derek, who had been passing by, certainly did. Morgan shot Spencer a knowing smirk, arching a brow before strolling off without a word.

Spencer took a deep breath, trying to regain his composure. He was going to fix your computer. He was going to focus. He was definitely not going to think about how much he suddenly wanted to hear you frustrated more often.

Or worse, what else that accent would sound like in different circumstances.

Later, in the breakroom, Spencer found himself cornered by Morgan, who was leaning casually against the counter with an all-too-knowing grin.

"So, pretty boy," Morgan started, crossing his arms. "You got a thing for accents, or just hers?"

Spencer nearly choked on his coffee. "W-what? I don't..I mean, it's just. It's fascinating how regional dialects can resurface under stress. It's purely academic."

Morgan snorted. "Right. Purely academic. That's why you looked like you'd been hit with a freight train back there." He smirked, watching Spencer squirm. "Be honest, man. You like it when she gets all riled up, don't you?"

Spencer opened his mouth to protest but, before he could stop himself, he blurted out, "I'd like to hear it in my bed."

The room went silent. Spencer’s eyes widened in horror as Morgan's grin stretched impossibly wider.

"Oh-ho, Reid," Morgan laughed, shaking his head. "Now that is something I did not expect."

Spencer groaned, burying his face in his hands. "This is going to haunt me forever, isn't it?"

Morgan laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. "Oh, pretty boy, you have no idea. This one's getting filed under 'Reid's Greatest Hits' - right at the top."

Morgan, of course, didn’t keep it to himself. Over the next few hours, he made sure to drop little hints whenever you were around.

“You know, sweetheart,” he said casually when you grabbed a file from his desk, “it’s real funny how some people find accents so… intoxicating.”

You arched a brow. “Uh-huh. And what’s that got to do with me?”

Morgan smirked. “Oh, nothin’. Just an observation.”

Later, when you reached for your coffee, he muttered just loud enough for you to hear, “I bet that drawl sounds even better behind closed doors.”

You nearly choked on your drink. “What the hell, Morgan?”

He just laughed and walked off, leaving you thoroughly confused - and curious.

By the time you finally cornered Spencer, you had a strong suspicion that whatever Morgan had been hinting at involved the good doctor himself.

“Okay, what the hell is goin’ on with you?” you finally demanded, catching him in the hallway when he thought he was in the clear. Your accent was softer now, but still present, and Spencer cursed the way it made his stomach twist.

“W-what do you mean?” he asked, adjusting his satchel, avoiding your eyes.

You crossed your arms, narrowing your gaze. “You’ve been actin’ weird all day. Avoidin’ me like I got the plague. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you were runnin’ from me.”

Spencer swallowed hard, knowing he was caught. His brain was screaming at him to say something, anything that wasn’t the truth. But instead, his mouth betrayed him. Again.

“I, um… I just—I didn’t mean to say that earlier.”

You blinked. “Say what?”

Spencer turned red. “What I said to Morgan. About… your accent. And my—uh—bed.”

Silence stretched between you, thick and heavy. Spencer wished the ground would swallow him whole. But then - then you smiled. It wasn’t mocking, nor cruel. No, it was slow and teasing, a wicked glint in your eye.

“Well now, Dr. Reid,” you drawled, voice dipping into that honeyed Southern lilt. “That’s quite the confession.”

Spencer’s brain short-circuited. Again. He opened and closed his mouth, his thoughts scrambling like papers caught in a windstorm. He had no idea how to recover from this. How did one backpedal from such a blatant admission?

“You—uh—weren’t supposed to hear that,” he finally managed, cringing internally because he basically just told you that himself – aloud. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, gripping the strap of his satchel like it was a lifeline.

You took a slow step forward, and Spencer, for all his intelligence, had nowhere to run. He was effectively trapped, his back against the wall, your voice curling around him like a warm, velvety ribbon.

“So… you like my accent, huh?” You let the words roll off your tongue lazily, like you had all the time in the world to watch him squirm.

Spencer’s breath hitched. “I...it’s—um—linguistically speaking...”

“Oh, bless your heart,” you teased, reaching out to lightly tug at his tie. It was barely a touch, but Spencer felt it like an electric shock. “You can dress it up however you like, sugar, but the way you reacted earlier tells me all I need to know.”

Spencer swore his heart was trying to escape his chest. “I—uh—”

You leaned in, just close enough that he could feel the warmth of your breath against his ear. “And just so you know… I don’t mind one bit.”

His brain completely flatlined.

You pulled back, giving him one last lingering glance before turning on your heel and sauntering away, hips swaying just enough to be intentional.

Spencer stood there, stunned into silence, pulse racing, mouth slightly parted.

“Oh-ho, pretty boy,” came Morgan’s unmistakable voice from behind him. “You are so screwed.”

Spencer groaned, pressing his forehead against the wall.

He was so in trouble.

The bullpen was eerily quiet now, empty save for the two of you. Everyone else had left ages ago, even Morgan, though not without throwing Spencer one last knowing smirk before heading out.

Spencer had tried, like really tried to shake the feeling that had been simmering in his chest ever since your little exchange in the hallway. But it was impossible when you were still here, moving around like you had no idea what you were doing to him.

He stole a glance at you as you gathered your things, your soft hum filling the silence, that accent of yours still lingering in his mind like an unsolved puzzle he desperately wanted to figure out.

He was so screwed.

“Y’ready, sugar?” you asked, snapping him out of his thoughts.

Spencer blinked rapidly. “Uh yeah. Yes. Ready.”

You smirked, clearly amused by how frazzled he still was, and led the way toward the elevator. The ride down was quiet, but not awkward. The air was thick with something unspoken, something Spencer wasn’t quite sure how to navigate.

When you stepped outside, the night air was crisp, carrying the distant hum of the city. You started toward your car, and Spencer, ever the gentleman, fell into step beside you.

It was a short walk, but with each step, Spencer felt his nerves coil tighter. He knew he should say something, should at least attempt to recover from his earlier humiliation, but his words failed him.

Finally, as you reached your car, he shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels. “Well, uh… goodnight,” he said, voice slightly higher than usual.

You raised a brow, lips quirking as you leaned back against the car door. “That’s it?”

Spencer frowned. “What do you mean?”

You tilted your head, studying him, clearly enjoying the way he fidgeted under your gaze. Then, before he could register what was happening, your fingers hooked around his tie, giving it a gentle tug.

Spencer barely had time to gasp before your lips crashed into his.

A soft, muffled sound of surprise escaped him, but he didn’t pull away. No, he melted into you, his hands instinctively coming to rest on your waist, fingers twitching against the fabric of your blouse.

Your lips moved slowly, deliberately, and Spencer - despite his usual awkwardness - was a quick learner. He responded in kind, his breath hitching when you deepened the kiss just slightly, your body pressing against his.

It was intoxicating.

Everything about you, the warmth of your skin, the way your fingers tightened around his tie, that damn accent still lingering in the air, had him utterly undone.

When you finally pulled back, Spencer’s lips were parted, his breathing uneven, his pupils blown wide.

You smirked. “Goodnight, sugar.”

Spencer stood there, frozen, his mind struggling to catch up with what had just happened. You had kissed him. You had kissed him. And it had been… electrifying.

He swallowed thickly, adjusting his tie like it would somehow fix the fact that his entire body was burning from the inside out. His lips tingled, still carrying the warmth of yours, but he forced himself to take a step back.

“Uh - goodnight,” he said again, voice weak, shaky.

Then, like an absolute idiot, he turned and started walking away.

You watched him go, amusement flickering in your eyes as you leaned against your car. Bless his heart, you thought, shaking your head.

But Spencer only made it a few steps before something inside him snapped.

No.

No, he couldn’t just walk away from that.

Without another thought, he spun on his heel and strode back toward you, determination flashing in his eyes.

Before you could even register what was happening, Spencer’s hands were on your face, cupping your cheeks with a newfound confidence.

Then he kissed you.

Not hesitant, not unsure - this time, it was fierce.

Your back hit the car as he pressed against you, his fingers threading through your hair, tilting your head just the way he wanted. His lips moved against yours with a hunger you hadn’t expected from him, but damn, you weren’t about to complain.

A soft noise escaped you, and that sound, that sound, sent a shiver down Spencer’s spine. His grip tightened slightly, one hand slipping to your waist, pulling you flush against him.

It was overwhelming, the way he kissed you now. Like he’d been holding back for far too long. Like he needed to make up for the mistake of walking away in the first place.

And God, he was good at it.

When he finally pulled back, his breath was ragged, his forehead resting against yours.

“That,” he murmured, his voice low, rough, “was the actual goodnight.”

You blinked up at him, dazed, lips still tingling. Then, with a slow, wicked smile, you whispered, “Well, sugar… if that’s how you say goodnight, I might need you to stay a little longer.”

Spencer’s breath was still uneven, his hands still gripping you like he was afraid you might disappear. Your words echoed in his head - if that’s how you say goodnight, I might need you to stay a little longer - and something inside him snapped.

He kissed you again, harder this time, as if the act itself might ground him, might make you more real in this fleeting moment. His body pressed against yours, his fingers digging into your hips, and you let out a soft moan against his lips, the sound like a spark to dry tinder.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured against your mouth, his voice hoarse, desperate, like he was fighting a battle with himself.

You exhaled a shaky breath, fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him even closer, your heart racing with both anticipation and something deeper, more vulnerable. “Don’t you dare stop, sugar.”

That was all the permission he needed.

With a low growl, Spencer’s hands moved quickly, his fingers fumbling with the car handle before it gave way with a soft click. His urgency had you breathless as he guided you inside, never breaking contact, never letting you slip away from him. The car was cramped, but neither of you cared.

The moment you pulled Spencer into the backseat with you, any hesitation he might have had melted away. His body pressed flush against yours, his lips moving hungrily over your own as the car door slammed shut behind him.

It was rushed, desperate, like the two of you had been holding back for far too long, and now that the dam had broken, there was no stopping the flood.

Spencer’s hands were everywhere - trailing down your sides, gripping your hips, sliding up under your shirt to feel the warmth of your skin. He groaned against your mouth when your nails raked lightly over his scalp, tugging at his curls just enough to make his hips jerk against yours.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice shaky as he rested his forehead against yours. “You.. this..God, I want you so bad.”

His confession sent a shiver down your spine, and you rolled your hips against him again, grinning when you felt just how hard he was through his slacks.

“I can feel that, sugar,” you teased, your accent dripping, knowing damn well what it did to him.

Spencer let out a strangled moan, his grip tightening on your waist. “You’re gonna kill me,” he murmured, but there was no frustration in his voice - only pure need.

“Mm, not before I make it worth your while,” you whispered, slipping your fingers down between your bodies to work at his belt.

His breath hitched, his entire body tensing as you made quick work of the buckle, then the button, then the zipper. The second your hand slipped beneath the fabric, wrapping around his cock, Spencer whimpered.

“Jesus Christ --”

His head dropped to your shoulder, his hips jerking into your touch as you stroked him slowly, teasingly, savoring the way he trembled beneath your fingers.

“You’re so sensitive, baby,” you mused, kissing the shell of his ear.

Spencer groaned, his teeth grazing over your neck before he retaliated, his fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your pants, slipping between your folds.

“Shit --” Your back arched, a gasp tearing from your lips as he teased your entrance, his breath hot against your skin.

“You’re so wet,” he murmured in awe, sliding one long finger inside of you, then another, curling them just right. “Is this all for me?”

You moaned, rocking against his hand, your grip tightening around him. “All for you, baby. Just you.”

Spencer groaned at your words, capturing your lips in another desperate kiss as he worked you open, his fingers moving in slow, deliberate strokes.

The car windows were completely fogged now, the space thick with the sound of your heavy breaths, your moans, the slick slide of skin against skin.

And then, just as you were teetering on the edge, he pulled away. His hands suddenly gripping your hips as he pushed you back against the seat, his eyes dark with hunger.

“I need to be inside you,” he rasped.

You didn’t hesitate.

You lifted your hips, shoving your jeans down just enough, and Spencer did the same, his movements frantic, desperate.

And then - God, then - he was there, his tip pressing against you, his breathing ragged.

“Tell me you want this,” he pleaded, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You cupped his face, brushing your lips over his. “I need this, Spencer.”

That was all it took.

The second Spencer thrust inside you, a ragged groan tore from his lips, his forehead dropping against yours.

“Fuck,” he hissed, his fingers gripping your hips, nails digging in like he was afraid you’d disappear. “You’re so - Jesus, you’re tight.”

Your body clenched around him at the filth in his voice, at the way his words were completely wrecked, breathless. He was already losing it, and you’d barely even started.

“You like that, baby?” you murmured, voice thick with your accent, teasing as you rolled your hips up against him. “Like how good I feel wrapped around you?”

Spencer groaned, his hands flexing against your skin. “Yes—I can’t—God, I can’t even think.”

“Then don’t,” you whispered, reaching up to tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging just hard enough to make him whimper. “Just fuck me, sugar.”

And he did.

He pulled back and slammed into you, deep and hard, the force of it knocking the breath from your lungs.

“Fuck, Spencer --”

The words barely left your lips before he set a brutal pace, thrusting into you again and again, deep enough that you could feel every inch of him stretching you open, filling you to the point of pure blissful pain.

“You feel so fucking good,” he groaned, his voice rough and shaking as his hips snapped against yours. " I need to feel more.”

His hands roamed your body, greedy, desperate, palming your breasts, rolling your nipples between his fingers until you cried out.

“Spence --”

He swallowed your moan with a bruising kiss, his tongue sliding against yours as he fucked into you harder, faster, like he couldn’t get close enough, like he needed to own you completely.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he panted against your lips, his voice thick with lust. “You like this, don’t you? You like letting me take you like this?”

“Yesyes, baby, don’t stop..”

He growled, his teeth scraping against your jaw, down your neck, sucking hard enough to leave marks.

His fingers found your clit, circling it just right, making you arch against him, nails clawing at his back.

“That’s it,” he groaned, watching you unravel beneath him, his pace turning even more frantic. “Fuck, you’re so perfect, I wanna feel you come all over my cock.”

Your whole body tightened at his words, the filth of them pushing you even closer to the edge.

His thrusts turned brutal, deep, each one hitting that perfect spot inside you, over and over, dragging you closer and closer to pure bliss.

“Spencer, oh my God..”

“Cum for me, baby,” he groaned, his fingers pressing against your clit just right, his cock hitting deep, his breath hot against your skin. “I wanna feel it, I need to feel you fall apart for me.”

And you did.

Your whole body clenched, your back arching as you screamed his name, pleasure crashing through you in wave after wave.

Spencer cursed, his hips stuttering, his grip on you bruising as he followed, a wrecked moan leaving his lips as he buried himself deep inside you. His whole body shaking as he came hard, spilling into you with a groan that was damn near filthy.

For a long moment, the only sound was your heavy breathing, the quiet hum of the city outside.

Spencer’s forehead dropped to your shoulder, his body still trembling from the force of his orgasm. Then he let out a breathless, wrecked laugh, pressing lazy, open-mouthed kisses against your damp skin.

“Well,” he murmured, still catching his breath, “that was… insane.”

You smirked, running your fingers through his sweat-damp curls. “That was just the first round, sugar.”

Spencer groaned, already hardening again inside you.

“Oh, fuck.”

Spencer’s chest was rising and falling rapidly as he pressed his forehead against yours, barely able to keep his hands still as he traced patterns down your back. But you weren’t done yet. Not even close.

Without warning, you flipped yourself around, swift and confident. Spencer's eyes widened as he realized what you were doing, and before he could process it, you had already positioned yourself over him, your knees on either side of his hips. His hands instinctively grabbed your waist, his fingers digging into your skin.

“God, you’re perfect,” he groaned, his voice raw, desperate. He could barely take his eyes off your body as you lowered yourself slowly onto his still-hardening cock, the slow stretch sending waves of pleasure through both of you.

You could feel every inch of him filling you, stretching you out and the tightness in your chest twisted with desire as you began to ride him slowly at first. The feeling of control was intoxicating, and you moved deliberately, savoring every moment.

Spencer’s hands couldn’t stay still again. One hand slid up to cup your breast, his thumb rubbing over your nipple, making you gasp in pleasure. The other hand trailed down, gripping your hips as he pulled you closer, helping you move faster, deeper.

“Fuck, you feel so damn good,” Spencer moaned, his eyes glued to your body as you rocked against him, your breath coming in shaky gasps. “You’re gonna make me lose it again…”

You responded by grinding harder, faster, desperate for the release that was building between you. Spencer’s hand tightened around your breast, his fingers pinching and pulling your nipples, drawing out soft moans from you. You couldn’t hold back anymore, your body trembling as the pressure in your core built.

“Spencer, I - oh God - I’m close,” you breathed, your movements becoming more frantic as you chased that release, that perfect feeling of completion.

“Me too,” he rasped, his voice so strained with lust that it made your whole body ache. “I want to feel you come all over me. Do it, baby. Let go…”

You did.

With one final, desperate movement, your body exploded in pleasure, your orgasm hitting you like a tidal wave. You gasped his name, gripping onto him as the waves of ecstasy swept through you. Spencer wasn’t far behind, thrusting up into you as his own release finally overtook him. His hands were gripping your hips so tightly it left marks, pulling you down against him, ensuring every inch of him stayed buried deep inside as he came with a groan.

You both collapsed against each other, sweaty and breathless, your chest heaving as you caught your breath. The only sound in the car was the rhythm of your heavy breathing. Slowly, you lifted yourself off him, a satisfied moan slipping from your lips as his softened cock slid out of you.

You both just stared at each other for a moment, the air between you thick with tension and satisfaction. A small trickle of his cum dripped from you, slowly running down his cock as you both took in the aftermath. Spencer’s hands were still on your body, unable to let go, even now.

“Holy fuck,” he muttered under his breath, his lips still swollen from your kisses.

You grinned down at him, wiping away a bit of the mess from your thighs with a teasing finger. “Yeah. That was perfect.”

Spencer’s grin grew, though his eyes still burned with want. “You’re dangerous, you know that?” he said softly.

After everything, the both of you sat there for a moment, catching your breath, the cool night air gently brushing against your skin. Spencer’s hand was still resting on your thigh, his fingertips lightly tracing over the sensitive skin, the aftermath of what had just happened still hanging heavily in the air between you.

With a deep sigh, you slowly pulled yourself off of him, your body still tingling with the aftershocks of your release. Spencer watched you, his eyes dark and full of desire, as you reached for your clothes, grabbing your top off the floor. He followed suit, his motions slow but deliberate, as if he were savoring every second of this.

He didn’t break eye contact as he began buttoning his shirt back up, his fingers working with practiced ease, but you noticed the faint tremor in his hands, the evidence of how much you had completely undone him.

You did the same, pulling on your jeans with a quiet hum, your movements deliberate as you slowly dressed, taking your time. There was something undeniably intimate about the way you both silently communicated with every motion, the connection between you thick and palpable.

Once you were both dressed, Spencer ran a hand through his tousled hair, sighing as he leaned against the car. “I—uh, I’m really not ready for this night to end,” he said softly, his voice still low with the remnants of desire.

You stepped closer, your body brushing against his as you reached up to adjust his collar, your fingers lingering on his skin. “Then it doesn’t have to,” you whispered, lips close to his, the warmth of your breath mingling with his.

His gaze softened, his lips barely a whisper from yours as he cupped your face in his hands, eyes searching yours with something deeper than just lust. “Next time, we’ll go out—dinner, drinks, something nice. I’ll take you on a real date. I promise.”

Your lips quirked upward into a teasing smile as you reached up, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. It was soft, lingering, as if the promise of what could come next hung in the air between you both.

“You better keep that promise, Reid,” you murmured against his lips. “Or next time, I’ll make you regret it.”

He grinned, eyes still glimmering with desire as he kissed you once more, deeper this time, a soft growl rising in his chest. “I’m counting on it,” he whispered back before pulling away slightly.

He hesitated for a moment, as if unsure whether to walk away or pull you back in for more, before he finally let out a breath. “Goodnight,” he said, his voice almost a plea for just a little more, a touch more.

You heard his plea in his voice and smiled softly, moving closer to him again. "Come home with me?"

[gpcwsl]

Leah Williamson x Physio!Reader

Not today

WC: 514

Leah Williamson MasterList

MasterList

Warnings: short, and maybe Kyra being a slight pest?

-

Leah Williamson wasn’t the type to hesitate. She was a leader, decisive on the pitch and sure of herself in nearly every aspect of life. But when it came to you, hesitation clung to her like a shadow.

She sat on the leg press machine, pretending to focus on her reps, but her attention was elsewhere. Across the gym, you were helping Alessia Russo with her set, your hands carefully adjusting Alessia’s form. Leah’s gaze trailed over the way your sports bra fit snugly against your frame, how your joggers sat just right on your hips, the definition in your arms flexing slightly as you steadied Alessia.

Leah wished she was in Alessia’s spot.

“You’re so obvious.”

Leah’s head snapped to the side, where Kyra Cooney-Cross stood, arms crossed, smirking.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Leah muttered, going back to her set.

Kyra snorted. “Come on, mate. You’ve been staring at Y/n for the past ten minutes. You look like a lovesick puppy.”

Leah groaned. “Can you keep your voice down?”

“Why? Afraid she’ll hear and finally realise you’ve got the biggest crush on her?”

Leah rolled her eyes, though her heart pounded at the idea. Kyra wasn’t wrong—she was completely and utterly gone for you.

And it all started months ago, in the smallest, most unassuming way.

-

Leah had decided to try a new café around the block from her house. It was after training, and she was craving her usual drink. The place had a warm, inviting feel—nothing fancy, but homey. She stepped up to the counter, ordered, then moved aside to wait.

Then, the door opened, and in walked you.

Leah knew you, of course. Arsenal’s physio, always around during training, your conversations mostly casual. But this was different. This wasn’t a professional setting.

You noticed her immediately, your face lighting up with a smile. “Leah! Fancy seeing you here.”

Leah had never been particularly flustered by anyone, but something about the way you smiled—like seeing her was the best part of your day—made her brain short-circuit.

“Hey, Y/n,” she said, trying to sound cool, casual.

You made small talk, mentioning how you were finally trying this café after hearing great things. Leah nodded along, but her thoughts were occupied by something else entirely.

You were dressed simply—an oversized sweater tucked slightly into your jeans, the fabric cinching at your waist in a way that Leah couldn’t ignore. Your hair was tied up loosely, a few strands framing your face. You looked effortlessly perfect.

It hit Leah like a freight train.

Oh, shit. I’m in love with her.

The thought was terrifying, thrilling, and completely inescapable.

-

“Still haven’t made a move?” Kyra’s voice pulled Leah from her thoughts.

Leah sighed, rubbing her face. “It’s not that simple.”

Kyra grinned. “Oh, but it is. You just ask her out.”

Leah glanced at you again. You were laughing at something Alessia said, your eyes crinkling at the corners. Leah’s chest ached.

Maybe one day she’d find the courage.

Just… not today.

[oceantornadoo]

the ex-wife chronicles pt.2 (ex husband!john price x f!reader)

masterlist | next

follow and turn on notifications: @tornadoowarning

The first few days go how you expect them to. Day one is a joke of a team briefing since half the team isn’t there. You make both John and Sergeant Garrick explain what happened and why team bonding is necessary. You’ve found that soldiers view themselves as battering rams, not stopping to acknowledge their scars when there’s more doors to break down. The whole day, spent mostly with you lecturing about safe spaces and ‘shrink bullshit’, is emotionally exhausting. That’s why you end it by pulling out a bottle of wine in the name of team bonding, you and Sergeant Garrick spread out on the living room floor while John smokes in a recliner nearby. 

John hates wine. You know this.

You remove the cork with your switchblade anyways, taking a swig before passing it to Sergeant Garrick. If you were younger and greener, he’d be your type. Pretty and hurting, desperate for someone to put him back together but too proud to ask his team to be the one to do it. It was the same thing you saw in John ten-odd years ago, the pair of you two new Sergeants begging to be seen in very different ways. Sergeant Garrick offers the bottle to John and he takes it, only sipping a little before handing it back to you. Your hands resolutely do not brush.

“For what it’s worth,” you hold back a hiccup after another swig of wine, “I am sorry for what happened to Sergeant MacTavish. You almost lost a brother-in-arms and here I am, making you talk about it.” Sergeant Garrick snatches the bottle out of your grip and takes a long pull. “You can call him Soap an’ me Gaz. No sense in stayin’ professional, ma’am.” Gaz shoots you a grin and a wink before handing the bottle to his captain. You nod your thanks. “You don’t need to call me ma’am. I stopped chasing titles a long time ago.” You refuse to look at John when you say it. Gaz’s eyes bounce between the two of you before focusing back on the wine, stealing it from his captain’s hands. “So what’s your background?” Gaz asks, eyebrows raised curiously.

You count the years on your fingers. “Joined up. Made Sergeant. Hated it. Got recruited for a joint stealth mission with the Americans, which is where I met Laswell. She pulled these strings to let me pursue field psychiatry on a promise that I use my skills wherever she asks. Once I finished training, I’ve been doin’ this for the last few years.” You hiccup on the last word. “I’ve never slept in the same building as the team, though. Or done it for two months. Longest has been three weeks. Guess this is new for all of us.” The admission thaws the ice a little. Even John takes a deep breath as the three of you watch the smoke curl off his cigar. Gaz pats his thighs before standing up. “I’m wrecked from all the travel. See you two in the mornin’. Sir. Doc.” You wave your goodbyes as he treks to his bedroom on the opposite end of the building.

“Ever get married again?” John’s voice grumbles like a freight train from the chair he sits in, above and across from you. You shake your head, snatching the wine bottle from where it stands on the small coffee table. “Too busy. You?” He shakes his head once, twice, before taking a pull of his cigar. “Married to the job.” You snort at his admission, blaming it on the wine. “So cliche.” You murmur, staring at your reflection in the glass of the bottle. It’s almost empty, and you wonder how much you both drank.

Exhaustion hits suddenly like a lightning strike. You yawn and stretch, then slowly climb into a standing position. “I’ve been up for 24 hours now. I’m too pampered for this much sleep-deprivation.” John’s beard pulls up on the right, like he’s smiling at your self-depreciation. It gives you confidence to walk to where he sits on his plastic throne, smoke concealing bits of his face. You hand him the wine bottle and he takes it gladly, fingers brushing yours. You step closer until your knees hit the fabric of the recliner, forcing him to spread his legs. John doesn’t complain.

“You ever get that greater good you were searchin’ for?” You murmur, holding his gaze. He doesn’t answer, simply raising his cigar to his lips. “You find that purpose you were lookin’ for?” He asks, a non-answer. You simply stare at each other. You bet his greater good didn’t include one of his men almost dying. Your purpose did not include the lack of roots you feel everyday. His knees inch closer together, a hair's breadth away from yours. Neither of you move, breaths syncing as you just look. At the new wrinkles on his forehead, at the stupid hat he’s wearing, at the stray grays in his beard. At the smile lines and the healed scars. At the lack of a wedding band on his ring finger.

“Night, John.”

“Night, Doc.” A sliver of a smile finds a home on the curve of your cheek. You turn around and go to bed.

-

The rest of the week goes pretty much according to plan. A guided meditation outside the barracks when the weather turns nice. The three of you review past missions, discussing group tactics and communication styles. They try to fill in the gaps of Ghost (you’re not stupid enough to call him Lieutenant Riley) and Soap, demonstrating the normal dynamics. You keep reminding them that there is a new normal, a fact they don’t like to hear.

When Friday rolls around, you tell Gaz he has the weekend off. John quickly counters by reminding him of his responsibilities at the main base. Gaz locks eyes with you and you hold in a giggle at his attitude. John stays silent. After a team dinner that night (boxed mac and cheese, loads better than whatever the mess hall is serving), Gaz begs off for plans with some sergeants on the main base. You fish out your newest literature purchase and bring it to the living room, stopping when you see John already watching something on TV. Before you can turn around, he calls out to you.

“Stay.” You freeze, shoulders bunched to your ears. “You sure? I don’t want to encroach on your alone time.” John shakes his head and gestures to the empty couch. You plop down, setting your book down and fishing out the notebook you had tucked under it. “So,” John looks up apprehensively. “We never had our 1-on-1.” He sighs dramatically. “Can’t this wait until Monday?” You shake your head decisively. “Ghost and Soap are coming Monday. It’ll be too busy. You wouldn’t want me to forget, would you?” All he does is stare. You shrug.

“How have you been sleeping?”

“Fine.”

“8 hours of uninterrupted REM?”

“Sure.”

“And what about during the day? Do you feel yourself drifting off?”

“Nope.”

You glare at him. It doesn’t have the full effect when you’re clad in sweats.

“John, I’m here to help you. I know you’ll be speaking with a specialized therapist next week, but I need a good understanding of where you’re at so I can help the team heal.” You know from a private conversation with Gaz that he hasn’t been sleeping, and you suspect the same might be the case for John. Gaz has been sensitive to sound, mainly the ticking clock of a bomb, and you can only wonder what John is feeling. Even though you aren’t their main therapist, your job is to understand how their personal needs can translate into a solution for the group. They need sleep to be efficient soldiers and at the end of the day, your job is to make them ready for the field.

John changes the channel on the TV, stopping on a rerun of a footie game. The two of you watch in silence for a few minutes, little figurines dancing athletically across the screen. “Most I get is four hours. Sometimes I’ll call the night shift nurses to make sure Soap’s alive. Stand outside Gaz’s room to hear him breathin’. Feels like everytime I take a break, I’m leavin’ them behind.” You hum thoughtfully. 

“There are a lot of captains out there that don’t have as nearly as much dedication that you do to their team.” Is what you say eventually. His therapist will be the one to give him sleep tips and such. He needs to learn from you what being a Captain means for men that have returned changed. “Lot of good that’s done me.” He grunts, eyes focused on the screen. “I think you know Soap’s injury wasn’t directly your fault. But, you’re associating it with the fact that you weren’t there, which means you need to be there all the time. I’m hoping I’ll help you trust them to survive on their own.” Again, is what you mean to say, but you don’t know enough of their prior dynamics to trust that word has meaning. From what Laswell has told you, he’s always been somewhat of a father to his team, more involved in this task force then when he’s managed others.

“You have a team of your own?” John asks, not responding to your other statement. You shake your head, curling into the sofa with your book in your lap. You scribble a bit of what he said down in the notebook, then tuck it away so he doesn’t feel like he’s being therapized. “Just me and my handlers, including Laswell.” John scratches his beard thoughtfully. “Sounds lonely.” You know it’s not an insult but his gaze meets the book and your lap and it’s like a brand. A callback to a marriage years ago between two kids who thought their loneliness was solved by each other. Now you’re defensive about seeming to not have upgraded since then. “Being a Captain sounds pretty lonely too.” You say, with too much bite. John shakes his head, his facial expression hidden by darkness. He reaches for the remote and turns off the TV, muscles straining as he goes to stand. 

“John, I didn’t mean-” 

“Enjoy your book, Doc. Might be the last bit of peace you get for a while.”

He doesn’t say goodnight.

-

these chapters are gonna be short lol

[elysiae]

do you think operator & drifter treat their warframes wildly differently?

somewhat insufficient TLDR: i think the operator and drifter are emotionally attached but in vastly, strikingly different ways, and it manifested very, very differently too.

in operator's case, it isn't that they dont *care*, but they know how durable a warframe is. they know they can take one hell of a hit, and they'll be okay because that warframe takes the brunt of it (albeit with some phantom pain if the damage is bad enough). theyre less comfortable outside the confines of those large, bulky war machines because they know they're ultimately safe. those warframes can take hits. they cannot. the operator knows they were people, but they never met those people before the tragedy. besides... a lot of them really are just empty shells. they're hardly the people they once were, especially since they recreated those warframes from blueprints. don't get me wrong, they do remember the anguish of the originals - they were there, they lived it, and they still have empathy for them... but the operator knows the limits of every warframe like the back of their hand - they can maneuver however they want, they can take hits, they can run into armies and not be too afraid because they (as in the operator and the warframe this time) be fine. even if the warframe is damaged, they can fix the damage, so no harm done.

but drifter on the other hand? at first i think they never really realised the power they had. in their mind they were still them, just running, rolling on the occasion, it took them ages to maneuver those things *properly*, and probably only ever really learned with the operator's guidance. they would not let a warframe take a hit, not because they felt empathy for it (at least not a lot, last i checked you kind of need at least *some* to have effective transference?) but because they were so used to walking around vulnerable. yknow, not inside a killing machine. but what would've really solidified the difference was after they went to 1999. sure, hearing that these things used to be people is one thing, but at the end of the day, to drifter, they're still just machines. drifter never got to experience what the tenno did, they never had to deal with reaching into their freshly scarred minds to ease their anger, sorrow, fear, rein them in like the terrified animals they were turning into and hush their cries with understanding - they only knew the dead inside remnants... but it's an entirely other thing when you go to the past and see the people who were hurt. you meet them and you get to know them, become their best friends - maybe even date one of them - and it hit drifter like a fuckin' freight train. they have this entirely different view on warframes from that cold perspective they had at first. they weren't just war machines. those are people. every time they go into the head of those machines, they're looking through the eyes of *people.* people who had families and desires and hobbies, things they looked forward to, entire futures ahead of them that were snuffed out. people who were scared, people who didn't know what was happening. people who knew what was happening, who lived in fear knowing they weren't able to stop it... people who lived in fear of losing themselves. and i think it hit drifter a lot harder than they'd ever admit.

but thats not to say one of them is more attached than the other - both of them care deeply about their warframes. it's just that, they have different ways of looking at them. after all their experiences were so vastly different, it'd be impossible to look at them the same way.

(too lazy to type it out all over, but i have an example in the tags i think kinda helps pull it together more)

[kathlare]

forever & always

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie and Lando reunite in Monaco as she arrives to start a new chapter of her life.

Wordcount: 7.2 k

Warnings: none

full masterlist // request over here!

May 21st, 2025 - Monte Carlo, Monaco

The Nice Côte d’Azur Airport buzzed with the usual afternoon chaos—trolleys squeaking, voices layered over loudspeaker announcements, families arguing over luggage weight limits. But Amelie barely noticed any of it. She stood near baggage claim, five suitcases stacked like a tower beside her, oversized sunglasses perched on her nose, and Björn howling dramatically from his carrier slung over her shoulder. Benny was curled up calmly in his, snoozing like they weren’t in the middle of an international relocation.

She looked around casually, scanning the arrivals area.

And then she saw him.

Or more accurately—he saw her first.

Across the crowd, past a row of confused tourists and a woman dragging three screaming toddlers, Lando Norris bolted. Literally dropped the sunglasses he had been fidgeting with and ran.

—Amelie!—

The shout cracked through the air like thunder, drawing more than a few startled glances from nearby travelers, but she barely noticed. One second, Lando was just a blur in the distance—hoodie half-on, curls bouncing, wearing the most ridiculous grin she’d ever seen—and the next, he was barreling toward her like a damn freight train.

She barely had time to brace herself.

—Oh, my fucking God, Ames.—

He crashed into her with a force that nearly knocked her flat, arms wrapping around her waist and lifting her clean off the ground. Her sunglasses went askew as she squealed, laughing into his shoulder, arms flung around his neck.

—You’re gonna break my spine, Lan.— she giggled, voice muffled in his hoodie.

—I haven’t seen you in years.— he breathed dramatically, already pressing kisses all over her face. Her cheeks, her nose, her forehead, even the corner of her mouth. —Literal decades. I thought I was hallucinating you. Jesus fucking Christ, you’re real. You’re here.—

Amelie rolled her eyes, smiling so wide her cheeks ached. —It’s been a week.—

—A week is too fucking long.—

Lando spun her once like he was in some cheesy rom-com, causing a very offended Björn to screech inside his carrier. Benny stirred in his, stretching like he didn’t just wake up in a European airport.

He finally set her down, but didn’t let go. His hands slid to her face, holding her gently, eyes roaming like he didn’t know where to look first.

Lando leaned in, pressing a kiss just under her jaw, then another at her temple, then right between her eyebrows. —God, I missed you.—

—Missed you too, Lan.—

—No, like... actually. I didn’t sleep properly. I’ve been lying there in our bed like a freak. You weren’t hogging the duvet. It felt wrong.—

Amelie snorted, eyes dancing. —You’re ridiculous.—

—And in love with you.— he said matter-of-factly, arms still wrapped tight around her waist. —But mostly ridiculous.—

—You’re so dramatic. Do you greet all your girlfriends this way?— she teased, nose brushing against his.

He grinned, eyes shining. —Only the ones moving in with me.—

That made something in her chest flutter. The realness of it. The fact that she wasn’t just here for a visit—this was her life now. Their life. In Monaco. With their cats and their chaos and their shared closet space.

—Fuck, I love you.— she murmured, brushing her lips lightly over his.

Lando kissed her slow, deliberate, like he had all the time in the world. Like no one was watching them in the middle of a busy airport.

Then, as if remembering where they were, he stepped back with a sudden gasp and threw a hand over his heart.

—Wait. What the hell did you pack? The entire contents of Los Angeles?—

Amelie laughed, flipping her sunglasses back up onto her head. —I panicked, okay? And Minnie kept saying “bring that, what if it gets cold at night?” and then Alex convinced me I needed three different types of coats. Don’t look at me like that.—

—Five suitcases, Ames.— He glanced at the towering stack. —I genuinely don’t think I even own five suitcases.—

—You’re gonna love unpacking them with me.— she said sweetly.

He groaned, but he was still smiling like an idiot. —You’re lucky I’m obsessed with you.—

She leaned in close, brushing her lips against his cheek. —You are.—

Lando grabbed two of the suitcases and Björn’s carrier like they weighed nothing, ignoring the cat’s angry screech. —You know he’s plotting my death now, right?—

—He plots everyone's death. You’re special because he doesn’t hiss when you enter the room anymore.—

—That's the bar? Seriously? Amazing.—

Amelie trailed beside him, Benny’s carrier slung over her shoulder as he dragged the luggage toward the car park. Her heart felt like it might burst from how stupidly happy she was. Jetlagged and sweaty and overloaded, and yet, everything felt perfect.

—Hey, Ames?— Lando said suddenly as they reached the car.

—Yeah?—

He turned, arms full of suitcases and cat carrier dangling off one wrist, looking at her with that same dumb-in-love expression.

—You know you’re never getting rid of me now, right? Like, it’s done. I’m in this for good. You’re stuck with me.—

She smiled, slow and warm, reaching out to brush his cheek with the backs of her fingers.

—Good.— she whispered. —I’m in this too.—

He kissed her again, and if the kiss was a little too long and way too sweet for an airport parking lot, neither of them cared.

Björn screamed in protest.

—Welcome home, baby.— Lando grinned.

And just like that, she was.

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

liked by lanmelieupdates, ferrarigirlieee, and others

f1wagsdaily: 🚨 SPOTTED: Amelie Dayman at Nice Airport this morning 👀✨ Could she be heading to Monaco ahead of race week? 👑 No official word yet, but the Lanmelie stans are already manifesting a grid appearance 😭❤️

View all 96,728 comments

f1babezzz: she’s on her way to monaco and i just KNOW lando’s about to act right 😭 → lanmelieloverrr: @f1babezzz his girlfriend buff gets activated as soon as she lands

gridgirlie: is that BROWN HAIR under the cap or am i delulu → lanmellife: @gridgirlie if she went brunette again i’m shaving my head in solidarity

wagscentral: monaco gp + amelie = red carpet vibes incoming → lan4life: @wagscentral we’re getting lanmelie yacht pics and i’m not emotionally ready

helmetandheels: imagine flying to monaco just to boost your man’s quali pace → drsdiva: @helmetandheels wag behavior we should all aspire to

lanmelieedits: girl packed like she's moving to monaco permanently 😭 → wagsonwags: @lanmelieedits be fr she’s bringing a different outfit for every hour

ferrarigirlieee: she’s not even there yet and charles already flinching knowing lando gonna turn into loverboy mode → amsdaisy: @ferrarigirlieee protect him at all costs 😭

brunchwiththegrid: nah she got 5 suitcases for 3 days i KNOW a serve is brewing → maxyspov: @brunchwiththegrid the outfits about to outqualify half the grid

lanmelieupdates: THEY’RE GONNA BE IN MONACO TOGETHER AGAIN WE’RE SO BACK → gridgossipqueen: @lanmelieupdates monaco 2024 was for the enemies, 2025 is for the lovers 🫡

amelieswardrobe: i fear the slay this weekend will be historic → chaoticwags: @amelieswardrobe i’m already crying and she hasn’t even posted yet

f1stylequeen: Amelie out here with like 5 suitcases for a weekend stay 😭 what she packing? Her whole closet? → glamgod: @f1stylequeen gotta bring the whole runway to the race track, sis

gridgirly: she landed in nice and immediately raised the airport's average beauty score by 2849% → dramainsector3: @gridgirly they had to delay 3 flights bc pilots got distracted

ameliearchives: if we don’t get a yacht outfit + a cheek kiss on the grid combo this weekend i’m suing → wagwatcher: @ameliearchives AND a story post from her w lando’s tag hidden in the corner i need it all

wagscentral: she’s in her wag era but still giving main character → lanfan97: @wagscentral she’s not a wag she’s THE wag

pitlaneprincess: monaco? amelie? yachts? chaos is coming

lanmelieburner: LANDO’S GONNA BE UNBEARABLE WHEN HE SEES HER → f1dramagf: @lanmelieburner i give him 2 mins before he posts a blurry pic of her with heart emojis

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

By the time they reached the apartment building, Amelie was exhausted. Between the jetlag, wrangling two cats, and the small matter of having packed half of Los Angeles into five suitcases, her body felt like it had run a marathon in platform boots. But none of it mattered—not really. Not with Lando grinning like a madman beside her, not with Monaco glowing gold under the late afternoon sun, and not with every elevator chime bringing her one floor closer to home.

Their home.

That thought alone made her heart thud against her ribs.

Lando had insisted on carrying most of the load—dragging suitcases, managing a howling Björn with one hand and swiping the keycard to the private penthouse elevator with the other. Amelie followed behind, Benny’s carrier slung over her shoulder and her eyes on him the whole way up, amused at the way he muttered loving threats at Björn under his breath.

—One day,— he grumbled, shifting the bag as the cat yowled in protest, —I’m going to win you over, and it’s going to be my greatest achievement.—

—Right after becoming a World Champion and marrying me,— Amelie quipped, voice light.

Lando smirked. —Exactly. Top three life goals. Not necessarily in that order.—

The elevator dinged.

And her stomach flipped.

Because the last time she was here, this place had screamed Lando. Like, in all caps. Bachelor pad levels of Lando. F1 art covering every surface. Helmets displayed like priceless artifacts. Three—three—photos of himself on the same wall. One of which was shirtless.

There’d been a mini-fridge full of Monsters and nothing in the actual kitchen. The vibe was very frat boy with money who got too excited on Etsy.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet ding, and Lando stepped out first, wheeling two suitcases behind him and nudging the door to the penthouse with his shoulder. He turned, grinning boyishly as he gestured dramatically.

—Milady,— he said in a terrible accent, —may I present to you… the humble Norris residence.—

Amelie rolled her eyes, shifting Benny’s carrier on her shoulder. —If I see one more poster of your shirtless self, I’m turning around.—

But he didn’t answer with a comeback this time. He just smiled. That soft, secret smile he saved for moments he cared about. And then he reached for the doorknob, pausing only to say:

—Ready?—

She nodded.

The door swung open.

And holy fuck.

Amelie froze in the doorway.

Her jaw dropped, eyes wide as they slowly scanned the space in front of her. This… this wasn’t what she remembered. It wasn’t even in the same universe.

Gone were the man cave vibes. The F1 shrine. The unused, cold kitchen. The crash of clashing bachelor furniture and stark white walls.

Instead, the space was warm. Thoughtful. Stunning.

Soft golden light poured in from the floor-to-ceiling windows, casting a glow across warm wood floors and low cream couches that looked stupidly comfortable. Plants—real ones—draped from hanging pots and corners of bookshelves. There was a muted palette of warm neutrals, with soft textures and little bursts of color: burnt orange throw pillows, sage green accents, and a deep navy velvet chair that practically begged for her to curl up with a book.

The dining table wasn’t cluttered with unopened Amazon boxes anymore—it was set with candles in minimalist holders and a vase of fresh flowers.

And the art—God, the art. Tasteful prints now lined the walls. Not a single shirtless photo of Lando in sight. Instead, there were framed photos of them. Her and Lando in blurry Polaroids, one of her laughing with Minnie in Italy, another of him with his arms thrown around Max and George. A shot from one of her concerts. A candid of her in the kitchen, biting into a croissant with powdered sugar on her nose. It felt lived in. Loved.

Amelie stepped inside slowly, stunned into silence.

And then she noticed the kitchen.

She gasped.

—Oh my God.—

The kitchen was gorgeous. Marble counters, brass fixtures, and shelves with neatly labeled glass jars. There were cookbooks—actual cookbooks—and a matcha station that made her knees go weak. And her pastel pink KitchenAid mixer—the one she left behind in LA—was on the counter, next to a fruit bowl and a little post-it with her handwriting on it from months ago.

—Lan…— she whispered.

He dropped the suitcase handles, stepping up behind her. His voice was soft, nervous. —You like it?—

—Like it? I... Lando, it’s perfect. I feel like I just walked into a Pinterest board. Holy shit.—

He laughed, half-relieved. —That’s kind of what I was going for.—

Amelie turned to look at him, heart hammering against her ribs. —You did all this?—

—Well, I supervised,— he said sheepishly. —I might’ve had a little help. Minnie, Lily, Alex, Carmen… even Elysia came out for a weekend. I didn’t really know what the fuck I was doing, but I just— I wanted it to feel like you. Like us.—

She stared at him, tears welling up in her eyes.

—There’s no Monsters fridge.—

He smiled. —Sold it on Facebook Marketplace.—

—The shirtless photos?—

—Burned them in a ritual fire with Alex Albon.—

She snorted, blinking quickly. —You kept the helmets though.—

—Of course. But they’re in the office now. Tamed. You won’t be waking up next to my 2021 crash visor anymore.—

Amelie stepped further into the apartment, drinking in every detail. The rugs, the soft lighting, the framed artwork of Japanese landscapes—one she recognized from the Quadrant shoot. The cats’ new scratching post in the corner, big enough for Björn to conquer like a little tyrant. The record player. Her books on the shelves.

And then she turned the corner and saw the bedroom.

She covered her mouth.

It was everything she didn’t know she’d wanted.

A soft canopy framed the bed, white linen curtains tied back with velvet ribbons. The duvet was fluffy and inviting, topped with pillows in varying shades of cream and dusty rose. A bench sat at the foot of the bed, draped with one of her favorite throws—the one she always stole from Lando’s couch in LA. Fairy lights curled around the curtain rod, and a candle flickered gently on the bedside table.

A stack of her favorite books sat beside it.

Her framed Vogue cover leaned against the wall.

And on the far dresser—next to a ceramic dish filled with her rings and bracelets—stood a picture of them at the lake house in Como. She was wearing one of his hoodies, her hair wet from the water, laughing at something off camera. He was looking at her, not the lens. Just looking.

—Oh, Lan…— she whispered again, her voice cracking.

He stepped into the room behind her, arms loose at his sides. Quiet. Not cocky or smug or teasing—just... waiting. Watching her with soft eyes.

—Do you really like it?— he asked, almost afraid.

Amelie turned to face him fully, blinking through the tears that threatened to spill over. She didn’t just like it. She felt it. In every little choice. Every detail. It was her. It was him. It was them.

She took a slow step forward and pressed both hands to his chest, curling her fingers into the soft fabric of his hoodie.

—You made a home for us,— she murmured.

Lando’s breath hitched. —Yeah. Yeah, I guess I did.—

She leaned up and kissed him—softly at first, then again, harder. One hand slid to the back of his neck, the other gripping the front of his hoodie like she couldn’t bear to let him go. And he kissed her back like he’d been waiting for this exact moment since the second she left LA.

When they finally pulled apart, both of them breathless, Amelie rested her forehead against his.

—You didn’t have to do all this, you know.—

—I wanted to.— His fingers curled around her waist, pulling her even closer. —I just kept thinking... if this is gonna be our place, it needs to feel like you. Not just me and my tragic obsession with carbon fiber and energy drinks.—

Amelie laughed, the sound watery and soft.

—You succeeded. God, Lando… You really fucking succeeded.—

He smiled then. Wide and unguarded, the kind of smile that made her stomach somersault and her knees go a little weak. The kind of smile that told her he would do it all over again in a heartbeat just to see that look on her face.

—Okay,— he said, rubbing the back of his neck with a sheepish shrug, —enough standing around looking emotional. We still have, like, a thousand suitcases to unpack. And two very judgmental cats trying to pretend they don’t live here now.—

Almost on cue, a low yowl came from the living room.

Amelie leaned past him to peek.

Björn was sitting on the new cream rug, his fur puffed up and tail twitching like he was planning a full military invasion. Benny had already claimed the velvet chair, curled up like a prince, as if he’d lived there for years.

Almost on cue, a low yowl came from the living room.

Amelie leaned past him to peek.

Björn was sitting on the new cream rug, his fur puffed up and tail twitching like he was planning a full military invasion. Benny had already claimed the velvet chair, curled up like a prince, as if he’d lived there for years.

Lando bent down to Björn’s level, voice gentle and coaxing. —Hey, little dude. This place is new, yeah? You’re gonna be okay. I promise.—

Björn narrowed his eyes but didn’t bolt, just flicked his tail once and settled into a less aggressive posture.

Amelie chuckled, kneeling beside Lando. —Looks like Benny’s already giving the place his royal seal of approval.—

Lando grabbed a suitcase and opened it, handing her some carefully folded clothes. —Let’s get you settled. Then we have exactly two hours to get ready before the F1 movie private screening.—

Amelie sighed but smiled, energized by the love and care poured into every corner of this apartment. —Two hours. No pressure.—

They moved through the rooms in easy rhythm—Lando unpacking shoes while Amelie folded shirts, cat carriers now empty as Benny batted at a dangling fern and Björn tentatively sniffed a new scratching post.

The place wasn’t just a penthouse anymore.

It was home.

And tonight, they’d celebrate it.

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

liked by melieposting, gridgossipgirl, and others

lanmelieupdates: Lando and Amelie were spotted driving around Monaco after the private screening of the F1 movie 😭🎬🚗 not a single paparazzi car could catch them but love sure did.

View all 96,728 comments

amelieupdates: HE LOOKS SO GOOD IT’S UNFAIR 😭 amelie’s taste is elite → queenmelie: @amelieupdates he’s literally her best accessory at this point → sundayswithlan: @amelieupdates i need a pic of them together asap or i will sue

f1hotgirlsummer: monaco lando hits DIFFERENT like he knows the camera’s on → meliezone: @f1hotgirlsummer amelie trained him well what can i say 😌 → pitlaneprincess: @f1hotgirlsummer she really upgraded his entire aura lbr

lanmelieslut69: why is lando there alone??? where’s OUR girl amelie 😭 → mclanmelie: @lanmelieslut69 fr it’s not a red carpet unless she’s there to serve → vroomvroomval: @lanmelieslut69 justice for the plus one 😤

melieposting: lando looks GOOD but the vibes are off without miss amelie there → softgridgirl: @melieposting like he’s smiling but you can tell he’s thinking about her → lanfluffies: @melieposting he's just waiting to FaceTime her after 😭

lanleaks: nah i need an IG story of them in the theater cuddling or what was the point → melieuniverse: @lanleaks bro dropped his gf and still brought couple energy

pitlaneloveletter: he needs her there to complete the power couple formation 😩 → meliehive: @pitlaneloveletter this is like batman without robin → tifosixoxo: @pitlaneloveletter let’s hope she’s flying in secret 👀

lanmelie4eva: lando babe you looked amazing but it’s a little lonely without your girl 😭

melieinmonaco: i’m not saying i need lanmelie red carpet content… but i do → gridgossipgirl: @melieinmonaco they would shut that whole screening DOWN → lanmelieburner: @melieinmonaco we’ve been so well fed lately pls let the streak continue 😭

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

The energy inside the venue buzzed with anticipation, a mixture of engine-rev excitement and Hollywood glitz. Lando stood near the side of the velvet ropes inside the lobby of the private cinema, dressed in his team polo and black trousers, the McLaren logo sitting crisp against the orange fabric. His hands were shoved in his pockets as he spoke with Charles and Alexandra, occasionally glancing at the entrance as more people filtered in.

Charles looked unbothered, chewing on some gum while adjusting the collar of his shirt. Alexandra looked stunning in a silky black dress, hair pinned back in a sleek low bun, diamonds glittering at her ears.

—Where is she?— Alexandra asked with a small smile, nudging Lando’s arm. —Everyone keeps asking me when she’s getting here. You didn’t come with her?—

Lando shrugged, trying to keep it casual, but the truth was he hadn’t seen Amelie in hours. He’d had to do a bunch of press stuff for McLaren earlier in the day—photos, interviews, a roundtable that felt like it’d never end. They were supposed to meet here, and she'd texted a vague “be there soon x” about twenty minutes ago.

—She said she’d meet me here,— he replied, tapping his phone screen for the millionth time, even though there were no new messages. —Probably stuck getting her hair done or something. You know her.—

Charles smirked. —I hope she brings Björn as a plus one. I’d like to see him launch himself at Christian Horner.—

Lando snorted, but before he could respond, the energy in the room shifted.

It was almost imperceptible at first—like the air had thinned or turned warmer. Conversations paused. Heads turned. Whispers spread in waves across the room.

And then the doors opened.

And there she was.

Amelie walked in like she owned the damn city. And maybe she did. Her long dark hair was swept back in a high ponytail. She wore a floor-length brown gown, backless and sleek, with an asymmetrical neckline that showed off her collarbones and a single shoulder. It was elegant and bold, just like her, the fabric catching every light as she moved.

She looked fucking breathtaking.

Lando felt it in his chest, in his gut, in the way every nerve in his body lit up at once. Like the world just tilted slightly to follow her entrance.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, unfazed by the attention, like she was used to it. Which, to be fair, she was. She gave a couple of waves to people she knew, a smile playing on her lips, before her gaze locked onto him.

Lando didn’t realize he’d stopped breathing until she was walking over.

—You were just saying you missed her,— Alexandra teased under her breath, and Lando nudged her lightly without breaking his stare.

Amelie reached them with that signature smile of hers—confident and warm and just a little cheeky. Her heels clicked on the marble floor, and when she reached them, Alexandra stepped forward and greeted her with a kiss on the cheek.

—You look incredible. God, your hair? How is it that shiny? What shampoo do you use? Magic?—

Amelie laughed, voice light. —A mixture of black magic, tears, and overpriced conditioner from Tokyo. You look unreal too, Alex. I almost didn’t recognize Charles with a shirt on.—

Charles grinned. —You wound me.—

But Lando wasn’t listening anymore. She turned to him next, her eyes softening when they met his. He was still stuck in place, watching her like she’d just stepped off a movie screen and into his life. Which, honestly, she kinda had.

—Hi, Lan,— she said, soft, stepping in close.

—Hi, Ames,— he breathed, and then he smiled, unable to help it. —Jesus. You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days.—

—That’s the plan,— she whispered back with a wink, before sliding her hand into his.

The warmth of her fingers calmed something tight in his chest. It always did.

They moved slightly to the side as the rest of the crowd continued buzzing behind them, the other drivers posing for photos, teams mingling, more WAGs arriving in clusters. Lando leaned closer, brushing his nose against her temple as he asked:

—Where were you? I was starting to think you bailed.—

Amelie sighed. —Benny didn’t want me to leave. He literally sat on my dress while I was trying to put it on. It was a whole negotiation.—

—So what you’re saying is I’m fighting for your attention with a clingy cat.—

—You’re second in command after him. Sorry, I don’t make the rules.—

He chuckled, eyes scanning her face. —I would’ve preferred staying in tonight. Just us. No media. No chaos. Just… our place.—

She leaned her head on his shoulder for a second. —Me too. But being with you? Even here? Still the better option.—

He kissed the top of her head.

They stood like that for a moment, their hands linked, half-tucked away from the spotlight but still drawing glances from almost everyone in the room. There was something magnetic about them—maybe because people remembered when they were just friends, when it was all jokes and streams and pandemic chaos. Or maybe because they'd always looked at each other like this, even before they could admit why.

Amelie was glowing. Not just because of the dress or the hair or the makeup—but because she was comfortable now. Safe in her own skin in a way she hadn’t always been. There’d been years where food was a battle and mirrors were cruel and life felt like a test she kept failing. But now… now she stood taller. Softer. Stronger. Her recovery wasn’t perfect—he knew that. There were still days where things got hard. But she was better. She was okay. And Lando was proud of her in ways he couldn’t even begin to explain.

—You good?— she asked, tilting her head to look at him.

He nodded, squeezing her hand. —Yeah. Better now that you’re here.—

—You’re such a sap tonight.—

—You love it.—

—Unfortunately for my sanity, yeah, I do.—

He grinned, leaning in close to her ear. —You coming back to mine after this? We can open a bottle, cuddle Benny, pretend Björn doesn’t exist.—

Amelie smiled, amused. —You mean our place?—

He paused, letting the words settle in his chest. Our place.

God, he loved her.

—Yeah. Ours.—

They stayed like that until they were called in to find their seats, still hand-in-hand, still in their own little world despite the cameras and murmurs around them. As the lights dimmed and the F1 logos appeared on screen, Lando turned to look at her one last time.

Her eyes were already on him.

And yeah. He could’ve stayed home tonight.

But there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be than next to her.

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

liked by wagswithattitude, sainzyslut, and others

landoarchives: Lando looking fresh as ever in Monaco today for the private screening of the F1 movie 🎬🏁🍿

View all 92,099 comments

lanmeliecarats: he’s literally in his romcom era and i’m just watching it play out in 4k → pitlaneprincess: @lanmeliecarats bro thinks he’s in a Nicholas Sparks movie and honestly? he is

ameliespinklighter: they’re just driving around monaco like a james bond couple… → wifeymelie: @ameliespinklighter lando is so the getaway driver and she’s the mastermind

chaoticwags: this man got p1 in life when she said yes 😭 → norisimp: @chaoticwags i fear he hasn’t stopped smiling since

lanlorenzo: not him doing victory laps with her post-screening 😭 → ameliesbarbie: @lanlorenzo his prize is literally in the passenger seat LMAO

f1gfthings: she probably let him drive just so she could play with the aux 😭

wagswithattitude: lanmelie spotted in monaco is my new religion → melieonpole: @wagswithattitude bible rewritten. commandments updated.

gridgirlboss: lando driving around monaco like he doesn’t got the baddest girl alive in the passenger seat 😭 → lanmeliesmutbrain: @gridgirlboss the way he’s clutching that steering wheel like it’s her thigh LMAO

lanlust: if i was Lando and Amelie said “let’s go for a drive” i would simply black out from happiness → ameliedaydreams: @lanlust you just KNOW he was speeding up every time she laughed

paddockpetty: she’s playing co-pilot, spotify DJ, and main character all at once → f1sundays: @paddockpetty multitasking queen i fear

lanf1rthirst: no one talk to me unless you’re them. or driving through monaco with your soulmate → chaoticwags: @lanf1rthirst they make monaco feel like a cozy lil small town

lanmelie4everrr: this is better than the F1 movie i fear → paddockchronicles: @lanmelie4everrr and we get sequels every week?? we WON

ameliecore: she’s giving "i stole the rich boy’s heart and his mclaren"

sainzyslut: raise your hand if you wanna be in the backseat just vibing while they flirt up front 🙋‍♀️ → throttlechokers: @sainzyslut girl i’ll sit in the trunk if i have to

lanmelieupdates: they’re not even driving... they’re FLOATING. on ✨vibes✨ → norrisnation: @lanmelieupdates lando’s foot isn’t on the gas it’s on the gaslight gatekeep girlboss

meliecore: this is giving honeymoon soft launch and i’m NOT OKAY

ameliescurls: this is the calm before the Monaco chaos and i love it → softlan: @ameliescurls she’s his pre-race meditation and his post-race celebration 😭

wagsupreme: lanmelie doing casual PDA in monaco like the whole world isn’t obsessed with them

tiresoftlove: lando’s biggest win is dating someone hotter than his car 😭 → meliespitcrew: @tiresoftlove the MCL60 could NEVER compete

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

The night air in Monaco was warm and soft, like silk against skin. After the F1 movie screening wrapped, the streets glimmered under gold-tinted lights, casting a cinematic glow over the harbor and the winding hills above. It was the kind of night that felt like it had a heartbeat of its own.

Lando drove with one hand on the wheel and the other resting over Amelie’s thigh, the McLaren courtesy car weaving its way up toward the restaurant where the Meshki x Alexandra Saint Mleux event was taking place. She sat beside him in the passenger seat, her brown gown draped elegantly around her legs, heels kicked off for the short drive.

He pulled up a few meters from the venue, just where the crowd hadn't gathered yet but where the lights from the restaurant flickered against the car windows.

—You really have to go?— he murmured, turning toward her.

Amelie smiled, already reaching for her heels. —Lan, I promised Alex I’d show up. You’ll survive an hour without me.—

He leaned closer, lips brushing her shoulder. —I’m not so sure about that.—

She slipped her shoes on, hair still in its perfect ponytail, though a few strands had fallen from the sides with the breeze and the movement. God, she looked unreal. But more than that—she looked happy. Comfortable. Lit up from inside.

He sighed. —If you're not having fun, just call me, okay? I’ll come get you. I mean it. I don't care if it’s been five minutes. I’ll be here.—

Amelie rolled her eyes, a teasing smile tugging at her mouth. —Lan. Relax. It’s not a battlefield. It’s a dinner with girls who know how to contour and say “ciao” without sounding like tourists.—

—That sounds worse than a battlefield,— he deadpanned, and she laughed, leaning in to give him a quick kiss.

—Go home. Cuddle Benny. Try to bond with Björn again. I’ll text you when I’m done.—

—You’re ditching me for beauty gurus. Rude.—

She kissed him again, softer this time. —You’re the one who dropped me off. Enabler behavior.—

Outside, the cameras had started flashing a few paces away, people recognizing the car. Amelie reached for the door handle but glanced at him one last time.

—Have fun with the cats.—

Lando flipped her off.

She just blew him a kiss, grinning as she stepped out into the night.

The second she stood up, the attention shifted. Phones lifted. People whispered. Someone called her name. And still, she didn’t falter—just adjusted her posture, tossed her hair over one shoulder, and walked toward the entrance like she belonged there.

And she did.

Lando watched until she disappeared through the doors, his chest warm and aching in the best way.

The restaurant was candlelit, modern yet romantic, tucked into a quiet corner of Monaco’s old district. The Meshki x Alexandra Saint Mleux banner hung in soft ivory tones near the entrance, the venue transformed with blush-colored roses, silk curtains, and long marble tables set with gold cutlery.

Amelie stepped inside and was immediately greeted by Alexandra, who looked like a dream in a black mesh slip dress, her cheeks flushed with champagne and laughter.

—Finally!— Alex said, pulling her into a hug. —You’re the only person whose entrance rivals mine tonight.—

—Please. You’ve always been the main event,— Amelie teased.

Alexandra grinned and linked their arms, guiding her further inside. The place was gorgeous—elegant but with a soft, lived-in glamour. Candlelight danced off mirrored accents, and soft music played in the background, setting a warm, easy tone. It was the kind of event that felt carefully curated—down to the scent of fresh peonies in the air.

The room was filled with Monaco’s elite and international beauty influencers flown in for the occasion: sleek blowouts, glassy skin, barely-there gowns that cost more than most apartments. Amelie recognized a few faces from Instagram—Rebecca was already by the bar, talking to someone from Vogue Italia, her signature glow and effortless confidence radiating even across the room.

Amelie instinctively straightened her back.

Alex noticed. —You okay?—

Amelie nodded quickly. —Yeah, yeah. Just… not used to this kinda crowd.—

Alex gave her arm a squeeze. —That’s why you’re here with me. And anyway, they’re probably all too intimidated by how annoyingly perfect your ponytail is.—

That made Amelie laugh, and she let herself relax a little.

As they approached the table, Rebecca turned and lit up when she saw her. —You made it! God, you look stunning. I was about to send a search party.—

Amelie kissed her cheek and smiled. —I needed a driver-slash-boyfriend to drop me off. Priorities.—

—Ugh, Lando. He’s obsessed with you. It’s so cute it’s gross,— Rebecca teased, looping her arm through Amelie’s and dragging her toward the champagne cart.

Amelie glanced around as glasses were filled and tiny hors d’oeuvres were passed on crystal trays. There were cameras, yes, and whispers here and there—some people definitely looking at her longer than others, the way people do when someone “famous adjacent” walks into their niche. She felt the weight of it pressing softly on her shoulders. Not cruel, just… curious. A mix of admiration and speculation, some people maybe wondering why she was here at all.

—So,— Alexandra whispered, glancing around with a sly smile, —you’re really moving here? Like, to Monaco proper?—

—Yeah, I’m starting to move in properly soon. I figured it’s about time, right? With everything going on, it just makes sense to have a home base here. Plus, I want to stop playing musical chairs between Monaco, LA, and the circuit.—

Rebecca’s eyes sparkled with excitement. —Oh my god, that’s huge! You have no idea how many times I’ve thought, “Why don’t we have a proper girls’ night here?” This is perfect! We can finally do that.—

Alexandra squeezed Amelie’s hand. —Shopping trips, spa days, fashion events every weekend… The dream. You have no idea how much easier life is when your besties are just a short drive away.—

Amelie laughed, swirling the champagne in her glass. —I can already feel the chaos and the fun coming. I’m definitely going to need some pro guidance on how to survive the Monaco social scene, though.—

Rebecca gave her a knowing smirk. —We’ve got you. Consider us your official welcome committee. And yes, you’ll want to stock up on those little perfume vials—there’s a serious beauty black market for those around here.—

The warmth of their excitement settled around Amelie like a comforting hug. For someone who was still new to this side of glamour—one where she wasn’t performing or hiding behind a persona—it felt good. Real. Like a fresh start without all the pressure.

As the night deepened, Amelie found herself laughing more freely than she had in weeks. The conversations flowed from the latest beauty hacks to the best restaurants in town, with Rebecca sharing funny stories about sneaking around paparazzi to Alexandra teasingly critiquing Amelie’s next potential look for the AMAs.

Occasionally, Amelie caught snippets of sideways glances from some guests—those subtle “checking her out” moments that felt like a silent question: What’s she doing here? Does she belong? But instead of shrinking from it, Amelie met those gazes with a steady calm. She belonged. Tonight was hers.

The night wound down with champagne refills and a spontaneous photo session by the waterfront, the glittering lights of Monaco’s harbor casting a magical backdrop. Alexandra pulled Amelie close.

—This is just the beginning, Ames. You’re officially a local now.—

Amelie smiled, heart full. —Feels like home already. And it’s only the start of the fun.—

Rebecca raised her glass. —To new beginnings, late nights, and the best damn girls’ nights Monaco’s ever seen.—

Amelie clinked her glass with theirs, already imagining all the memories waiting to be made.

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

liked by voguewannabe, lanmeliesupremacy, and others

f1wagsupdates: Spotted ✨ Amelie Dayman & Alexandra Saint Mleux holding it down at the Meshki event in Monaco today — serving looks and stealing hearts 💥🔥

View all 107,881 comments

sleekshadewatch: ames back to brunette? yess queen 🙌 → lanmelie4life: @sleekshadewatch lando be like "finally, my girl’s glow up is complete" 😂

monacostyle: amelie & alex flexin together, iconic duo alert 🔥

chaoticwags: lando locking in p1 just bc he saw her walk in like that 😭 → norisimp: @chaoticwags he’s manifesting podium kisses and i support him

browngirlvibes: brunette ames is the ultimate mood switch 💁🏽‍♀️ → lanmeliefanatic: @browngirlvibes agreed, lando better appreciate the upgrade 😎

voguewannabe: if this is a sign of ames doubling down on lan, i stan 😍 → lanmeliefangirl: @voguewannabe he’s already got her heart, now the whole world too 💘

tracksidevibes: honestly ames in brown hair is peak lanmelie energy 🥹💯 → lanmeliefanatic: @tracksidevibes true that, they’re the ultimate power couple rn

f1wagscentral: brunette Amelie is back and Monaco might not survive 😵‍💫 → lanmelieslutclub: @f1wagscentral LANDO. WON’T. SURVIVE.

lanfan88: brunette era Amelie + Meshki = danger to society → chaoticwags: @lanfan88 lando probably had to sit down after seeing her 💀

meliebaby_: brunette Amelie supremacy is back and i fear for every man on the grid → padockrat: @meliebaby_ esp lando who’s holding onto her like she’s pole position 😭

softwagszn: they said “glam + girlfriend duties” and made it fashion

glamgridgirl: she’s brunette again??? oh lando is NOT making it out alive → lanmeliehearts: @glamgridgirl he’s 100% somewhere in a corner giggling and kicking his feet rn 😭 → f1simpnation: @glamgridgirl this man gonna propose before quali watch 💅

tracksideangel: brunette amelie era unlocked 🔓 world domination imminent → alexazoom: @tracksideangel lando better PRAY she lets him breathe this weekend → pitlanepoet: @tracksideangel man’s grip on her finna get tighter than his tire strategy

lanmeliesupremacy: the wag of all wags is BACK and brunette-coded 😮‍💨 → maxsfuel: @lanmeliesupremacy lando seeing her walk into meshki like “we’re leaving NOW”

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

The apartment was quiet when Amelie returned.

The soft click of the door echoed faintly as she stepped inside, heels in one hand, her clutch tucked under the other arm. She slipped the door shut behind her and paused, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. All the lights in the common areas were off except for the faint glow of the hallway lamp they always left on for ambiance—well, more so Lando didn’t trip over the cats at night.

She padded softly across the polished floor, bare feet silent against the cool marble. Her gown whispered around her legs with each step, her hair slightly undone from the breeze and laughter of the night. There was no sound from the kitchen, no signs of movement from anywhere. She figured he must have gone to bed not long after dropping her off.

With gentle fingers, she twisted open the bedroom door.

And then she stopped.

Her heart swelled instantly.

The room was lit only by the soft, flickering glow of the TV—muted, casting a blue-tinted haze across the bed. Lando was fast asleep on his side of the mattress, arm cradled loosely under his head, curls messy from whatever halfhearted attempt he’d made at drying off after his shower.

Benny was curled tightly against his chest, nestled like a little cinnamon roll of fluff, his head resting over Lando’s heart. At the foot of the bed, Björn was sprawled out on his back, one paw twitching every so often in a dream. The duvet was bunched around Lando’s waist, exposing his bare shoulders and the soft rise and fall of his breathing.

Amelie stood in the doorway for a long second, lips parted slightly, the sight rooting her in place. Her chest ached with the warmth of it.

This. This was home.

She reached into her clutch and pulled out her phone as quietly as she could, holding it up to capture the moment. The flash was off. The frame caught Lando, Benny, and Björn in perfect harmony—peaceful, safe, theirs. She snapped the photo, smiling to herself.

Then, careful not to disturb the trio, she tiptoed into the ensuite. The faint whir of the ceiling fan hummed above her as she began to unwind.

She peeled off the gown slowly, folding it over the stool by the sink, then twisted her hair out of the ponytail, shaking it free with a sigh. The tightness around her scalp eased. She wiped off her makeup, washed her face, brushed her teeth, then changed into one of Lando’s oversized t-shirts from the drawer they’d already half-merged together. She didn’t even check if it was clean. It smelled like him. That was enough.

When she finally crept back into the bedroom, the TV still glowed faintly, playing a re-run of some old F1 documentary they’d half-watched before. Lando hadn’t moved, still curled on his side, Benny now buried deeper against him.

Amelie slid into the bed slowly, easing herself under the covers with the care of someone sneaking into a sacred space. The sheets were cool against her legs, and as she adjusted her body to curl up beside him, the mattress shifted slightly.

Lando stirred.

His brow furrowed faintly as his eyes blinked open, dazed and half-lidded. —Mmmh… Ames?—

She smiled softly, brushing her fingers along his hairline. —Hey. Go back to sleep, baby.—

But he reached for her, instinctively. His hand found her waist beneath the blanket and tugged her closer.

Amelie laughed quietly, then shifted up to gently scoop Benny away from his spot against Lando’s chest. The cat made a faint sound of protest but didn’t wake. She placed him carefully at the foot of the bed next to Björn, who twitched again but didn’t stir.

—Traitors,— she whispered teasingly to them, then leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to Lando’s nose. —Good night, Lan.—

With one hand, she reached over and clicked off the TV. The room was dipped into darkness, only the sound of the distant harbor outside and the steady beat of Lando’s breathing.

He was already halfway asleep again, arms pulling her in without a word.

Amelie settled into him, their legs tangled, her face tucked into the crook of his neck, her body melting into the familiar safety of him.

Their first night in their apartment.

And it felt like forever and always all at once.

[slxtarchive]

𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞 ᥫ᭡ 𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐰 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐥𝐨

𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬. when words that matt said in regards to a possible relationship with you not only crushed your heart but also crushed your friendship.

𝐫𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭. yes, can be seen here

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬. ANGST ! rejection & heartache.

𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬. this hurt to write but .. let me know if you’d like a part two !? if this has been done before credits to them but i personally haven’t read one. (sorry it took so mfk long)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭. 2k

at the moment you were facetiming matt — nothing out of the ordinary. you would always facetime, i mean he was your best friend after all. although slowly over the years he’s become more than that to you.

the way you slowly started to find out was when you’d catch yourself staring at him for a little longer than expected. you’ve found yourself thinking about him multiple times a day. every waking thought you had circled back to matt. your mind was consumed by him and his presence. it was never like this before which made you confused, to say the least.

you did a lot of thinking when this happened. at the beginning of your high school career you remembered feeling envious and jealous of the girls who took an interest in matt. you had manipulated yourself into thinking it was because you were intimidated that another girl would take your spot as his best friend but deep down it was different — it was more than that.

your brain was always matt matt matt.

sophomore year was when you started to figure things out. you’d admire the way he smiled and laughed. the way his eyebrows furrowed in the cutest way when he was focused on something like homework or a video game. how his hair looked and changed over the years. how good he looked in the clothing he wore.

you became engulfed in his interests. you found yourself listening to the neighborhood and you tried to play fortnite for the first time even though you hadn’t really had a urge to play video games.

you found him to be so selfless. the way he puts everyone’s needs before his own. the way he was ready to drop everything for you and to help you whenever you needed.

matt was just… matt. he was amazing.

by junior year you knew that your heart truly belonged to him. you couldn’t help the way you felt.

now during senior year, you’ve been hiding behind your feelings. you haven’t confessed to him, afraid of the outcome of the confession.

you had thought about it. maybe it was time and maybe — hopefully — things wouldn’t change, but as you were about to speak up matt beat you to it.

“did you know that a lot of people at school ask me if we’re like… together because we hang out with each other so much.” he looked up from his phone with an expression you couldn’t understand.

your heart dropped out of your chest. “oh… um really?” you raised your brows trying to act as natural as possible.

he nodded and you figured his expression was one of disbelief. “yeah! shits crazy right? like i really cannot imagine us together. that would just be weird.” he stated. you gulped at his response. that would just be weird. the words that he just uttered hit you like a freight train. the rejection you had felt. it was like your heart had been sliced in two.

all you could do in response was laugh nervously already feeling internal pain. “y-yeah.. i could — we could uh — we could never.” you agreed. you smiled but a sad smile. matt laughed and nodded his head looking back down to his phone.

you had zoned out thinking about the meaning of his words. God did they fucking pierce your heart. you had never felt this type of pain before. the pain of blunt rejection. you’d take physical pain over this any fucking day.

you felt your eyes start to water at the thought of what just happened. you spoke up before any tears could fall. “hey.. um i think i’m gonna go. i’m not feeling too well.” you said trying not to make eye contact with the screen.

he looked up frowning. “aw man, do you want me to come over?” your heart ached as you uttered the word no to him. you had never turned him down. his face dropped. “oh, um okay yeah just text me.”

you nodded. “i will.” you whispered, not loud enough to hear before clicking the red button. once you heard the sound of the call disconnecting your lip quivered and your eyes shut.

you broke down in tears. you felt like you couldn’t breathe. you started to clutch your chest and tried to calm down but nothing seemed to help. your heart ached and you didn’t know how to fix it. the only person who knew how to help you when your heart hurt was the one who did the hurting.

for days to come, you had been distant and matt noticed this instantly. he began to assume it was because of how you were feeling being sick but regardless you both would facetime every day — you guys haven’t since that night. you’d text each other about everything but this time things haven’t been flowing like they would.

over the course of a week, you’ve had a few messages between you two but all were dry and off-putting.

after that, you hadn’t responded to him for over two days. he then called you randomly on the following friday. you were at home just watching a show when your phone buzzed. your heart dropped to your ass. you felt your stomach turn and you immediately felt sick. you didn’t know if you should answer or not but before you could do anything the call ended.

you sighed in relief, not prepared to speak a word to him. you settled back into bed, mind clouded by predictions of how the conversation would have gone if you had picked up the phone. that was until you were interrupted by the door to your room opening and matt stepping inside.

“jesus. had to climb mountains to get a hold of you.” he grumbled closing the door behind him. your eyes scanned him and stayed stuck on him. the way his hair looked so soft and how that sweatshirt hugged him in just the right way. he looked amazing and you felt no doubt that you looked a mess. you then realized that he was actually in your room. you weren’t ready to see him again. you felt you were being dramatic but again, his words from the other day stung. “why haven’t you texted me?”

his question reminded you of the day you kept repeating in your head. reminded you of his words and what he said and how you felt and — it all washed over you again. your lip quivered and your eyes watered at his question.

his eyebrows furrowed and his own eyes scanned your face. he noticed something was wrong. “hey… what's wrong?” he was immediately at your side to console you but you couldn’t — you couldn’t handle being this close knowing it would only hurt you in the long run. you leaned away catching him off guard. “did i do something?”

you stayed quiet not saying a word; afraid your voice would betray you.

he winced at the way you couldn’t even keep eye contact with him. how you scooted back to refrain from touching him. it was like a full 180 in 5 days. “y/n..” he spoke with a tone of disbelief.

you clenched your jaw trying to gain control of yourself. you didn’t want to cry in front of him. that was the last thing you wanted to do but the more you thought about it, the more your eyes started to water.

matt spotted the way you gulped harshly and how teary-eyed you were. he started to grow bothered at the way you didn’t explain what was going on. “y/n what the fuck happened?” his voice was louder than you anticipated.

you winced in reaction to his statement before finally looking up at him. his eyes flitted back and forth between yours. you blinked trying to rid yourself of the tears that were blocking your vision. “i.. i don’t want to talk about it, okay?” you sniffed, your voice breaking down as you spoke.

he put his hands up in question. “what — why not? you tell me everything. we tell each other everything.”

you shook your head. “well this time i don’t want to!”

after your sentence, silence fell between you and matt. matt was annoyed because this had never happened before. you had never refused to tell him something was bothering you or refused to rant to you.

he took a deep breath through his nose. “you’ve been super fucking weird around me all week. you didn’t even go to school and… and we haven’t facetimed. we… for fucks sake y/n, we would be on facetime 24/7 regardless of what the fuck we’re doing so why is it that you’ve made excuses upon excuses to refuse? i don’t get it. everything was fine until —” matt’s rant faltered. his eyes were no longer focused on you but focused on the thoughts running across his mind. “until the facetime.”

you swallowed, beginning to notice your eyes welling up. you knew he was thinking about the conversation you both had that night. your bottom lip shook before you spoke up. “you don’t know how much you mean to me matt.” your throat closed up. “i love you but…”

the decision you were about to make was going to hurt the both of you, you just knew it. if you didn’t make it though — you would be the one hurting in the long run.

the more matt thought about the conversation you had the more everything made sense. how after what he said you immediately had to go, saying you felt sick. it’s because of his words. it’s because of him.

he was in utter shock allowing you to continue to speak. “but i don’t think we can be friends anymore.” that sentence was something that matt never thought in a million years would come out of your mouth, especially about you both.

he shook his head. “no. no… what? what are you even saying right now y/n?” he stood up from your bed.

tears began to escape your eyes. “i’m.. i’m sorry matt. i just can’t �� i can’t do this. i can’t pretend that i'm not in love — ” you stopped yourself, not wanting to say the root of the problem out loud.

you felt guilty because part of you felt like you were the problem but then again — how could you help it? your feelings are your feelings and you can’t help how you feel; nor can you change it.

matt stopped in his tracks. hearing it out loud was something different. “y/n…” he tilted his head to the side, his own bottom lip quivering. matt was never the type to cry easily but when it came to you — it was different. “y/n please..” he begged. he didn’t know what else to say. in the moment, he couldn’t process what your words truly meant. all that was going through your head was that he was losing you.

you moved your eyes to the floor not wanting to witness matt’s tears fall. “i’m sorry.” your shoulders shook. “i’m sorry i’m sorry im sorry.” you apologized. your eyes were closed when you felt his hands placed on your knees. you opened them to see matt on his own knees.

you looked at his face, how red his eyes were. his tear-stained cheeks and red lips from biting them nervously. what have i done? you thought. why did i have to hurt him like this?

“don’t… don’t leave me, please.” he pleaded quietly. “you’re my best friend y/n. i can’t lose you.”

silent tears rolled down your cheeks as you choked up. “i don’t want to hurt you but if i don’t do this…” you wiped your tears refusing to finish your sentence. “i’m sorry i can’t. please… please just go.”

matt didn’t know what else to say. what could he say? all he knew was the last thing he wanted to happen was for you to be unhappy. so he stood up, wiped his tears and sniffled, combed a hand through his hair, and walked out.

© slxtarchive

[worrywarwrites]

LET'S TALK COSTUMES YALL!

I don't completely understand the dislike of the Wembley production too well (It's a non-replica production yall, for what it is it's a lot of fun!) but I have seen that a major point of contention for people seems to be the costumes, so I wanted to create a post discussing why I think they are done very well.

First off, they are wonderfully colorful- one of the things that always concerns me in costuming is a disappearance of color in favor of darker neutral colors, but even the characters that have closer to neutral pallets- Rusty, Momma, the Components- all still have elements of color within their designs, and different textures and shapes to make them visually interesting. As this musical is a dream being had by a little kid, the colors also help reflect this as well- Control is an imaginative child, whose made up world reflects that.

The three main engines (Rusty, Greaseball, Electra) all have very distinct appearances, marking them as principal figures and representative of the three different types of engine we see- diesel, steam, and electric. All three have unique color pallets and silhouettes- the exception being Rusty, who shares similar design elements with Momma (though not quite the same colors). The are the main three racers the story revolves around, and they stand out accordingly.

The thing about the other costumes that interests me, however, is how despite the fact that the rest of the characters in the show are all different colors (with the exception of the Components, whose costumes denote them as a group unique to Electra), there are certain design elements used on the other engines, coaches, and freights that helps denote them as such.

The champion engines are the easiest example here- they all have identical costume elements, just done in different colors. All of them have fin-like hairstyles, and identical plating: shoulder pieces that when an actors hands are at their sides can stretch up to their ears, a rounded breastplate with the symbol of the engine in question, and two pieces for the legs.

The coaches also have this- despite being a myriad of colors and having elements unique to their design, they are a couple through lines- namely a piece around the waist than fans out similar to a skirt, and padding on the shoulders (except for Pearl, but she's got other stuff going on there). They also have more form fitting pieces on their legs- similar more to regular pants or leggings, which makes the detail at the waist and the padding at the shoulders the widest parts of the silhouette.

The freights also have a very similar construction of their costumes- oversized pants and large vests with shoulder plating, and then smaller pieces for the arms- they all very clearly do the same job, despite being different colors and with different patterns (Hydra is not an exception to this, but there are subtle differences signifying how he differs from the others- the plating on his arms is not as bulky as the others, the colors on his pants are inverted, and the vest comes down to his waist rather than stopping below his ribs, giving a smoother silhouette and less bulky appearance, to name a few examples).

And of course, the Components- all trucks like the freight, but their main job in the show isn't what they carry- it's to make Electra look good. As such, they all very clearly fit Electra's aesthetic in a way that none of the other coaches or freight fit the other engines- complementary silver and white to their blue and silver, with the only personalization their belts and the shape of the protrusions from their plating. (They aren't the focus of the next picture but I love it too much not to put here in some fashion.)

All of this is deliberate attention to detail- as the majority of theatre-goers are not going to be intimately familiar with the characters, and the train types, and the roles, and the story, and- you get the idea. The shapes of a character's costume helps denote them into a group- if nothing else, an audience member can tell you "oh, that's an engine" or "that's freight". It also helps people sitting further away to track the action a little better- costume details and textures will become invisible at a distance, but bright colors, large shapes and consistent silhouettes help everyone have a good time.

So, if you didn't know anything about the musical, what could you tell me about the trains in this picture?

[nickeverdeen]

Home | Platonic!Vi x teen!fem!reader x sister!Caitlyn

Pairings: Vi x reader (platonic), Vi x Caitlyn (romantic), Caitlyn x reader (sisters)

Type of fic: Fluff, Comedy

Warnings: None

Ps: Reader is mute

Summary: Domestic life with Vi and Caitlyn is something everyone enjoys

————————

The sound of laughter echoed through the spacious sitting room, a stark contrast to the soft music wafting from Caitlyn’s study. She had retreated there an hour ago with a mug of tea and a stack of reports, leaving you and Vi to your own devices.

What started as a quiet evening had quickly devolved into playful chaos.

“Alright, kid,” Vi said, grinning as she crouched slightly, hands raised in a mock fighting stance. “You think you can take me? Let’s see what you’ve got.”

You stood a few feet away, sizing her up with a smirk. Vi was intimidating, sure—she had the strength of a freight train and the confidence to match—but you knew her well enough to recognize that the playful sparkle in her eyes meant you were safe.

You feigned a charge, darting to the left at the last second. Vi followed your movement with surprising speed, catching you gently around the waist and lifting you off your feet.

“Gotcha!” she said triumphantly, spinning you around.

You kicked your legs in mock protest, your laughter silent but contagious. Vi set you down a moment later, her grin widening when you lunged at her again.

“Oh, you’re not giving up? Brave,” she teased, sidestepping your attack. “But you’re gonna have to be faster than that.”

You narrowed your eyes at her, the corners of your lips twitching as you tried to suppress a grin.

From the doorway, Caitlyn’s voice cut through the commotion. “Vi, if you break anything, or my sister, you’re sleeping on the couch.”

Vi straightened immediately, holding her hands up in mock surrender. “Relax, Cupcake. I’ve got it under control.”

Caitlyn stepped into the room, arms crossed but lips twitching with amusement. “I highly doubt that.”

“She’s fine!” Vi insisted, gesturing toward you. “Aren’t you?”

You nodded, your shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Caitlyn sighed, shaking her head as she moved toward the couch. “I leave you two alone for five minutes…”

“More like fifty,” Vi said under her breath.

Caitlyn raised an eyebrow at her. “What was that?”

“Nothing,” Vi said quickly, turning back to you with a conspiratorial wink.

You rolled your eyes, motioning for her to focus. She tilted her head, pretending to be thoughtful. “What, you’re ready for another round?”

Before you could respond, Vi lunged forward, wrapping her arms around your waist and lifting you off your feet again. This time, though, she was careful to set you down immediately, releasing you with exaggerated caution.

“See?” she said, glancing at Caitlyn. “Careful as can be.”

Caitlyn, now seated on the couch with her tea in hand, gave her a skeptical look. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” Vi shot back with a grin.

You couldn’t help but smile at their banter, the warmth in their dynamic something you’d grown to treasure. Caitlyn and Vi’s relationship had initially surprised you—they were so different in so many ways—but it worked. And more than that, it made the house feel more like home.

As Vi flopped onto the floor beside you, she nudged your shoulder lightly. “You’re not too bad, you know. Quick on your feet. Could make a great fighter someday.”

You gave her a skeptical look, raising an eyebrow.

“Okay, fine,” she said, laughing. “Maybe not great. But decent.”

From the couch, Caitlyn chimed in. “Don’t encourage her, Vi. I’d prefer she didn’t pick up your bad habits.”

“Bad habits?” Vi gasped, feigning offense. “Cupcake, I am a model citizen.”

You and Caitlyn both gave her identical looks of disbelief, and Vi cracked a grin.

“Alright, fine,” she said, leaning back against the couch. “But you’ve gotta admit, life would be boring without me.”

Caitlyn rolled her eyes, but there was a softness in her gaze as she looked at Vi.

You reached over and lightly shoved Vi’s arm, earning a playful shove in return. The three of you fell into an easy silence after that, the warmth of the room a stark contrast to the cold Piltover night outside.

For all its chaos and noise, this was home. And you wouldn’t trade it for anything.

[movingmusically]

Lesson Learned

Synopsis:

Fast hands. Sweet mouth. A selfish streak a mile wide. Benny Cross thinks he knows what you like. He doesn’t. But if he plays nice, maybe you’ll show him how it’s done.

Author’s Note:

This one was 100% inspired by the comments on @psycheetamore’s poll saying that Benny would be a selfish lover. As soon as I read them I couldn’t stop thinking… maybe he could be taught.

There’s also a quiet nod to Sinners in there, if you know where to look.

Word Count: 5.1k

Masterlist

You’d told yourself last time was the last time.

Not out loud, of course. That would’ve required some sort of conversation, and Benny wasn’t the type to linger after he got what he came for. He pulled on his jeans, grabbed his jacket, maybe tossed you a crooked little grin like he’d done you a favour, then vanished with the sound of his bike screaming into the night.

And you? You’d stared at the ceiling, still panting, aching in all the wrong ways, thinking: What the hell am I doing?

Because the sex was never bad—not exactly. But it was always about him. Benny fucked like he rode: reckless, fast, and convinced that sheer force of motion was enough to make people feel something.

You didn’t come. Not last time. Not the time before.

And the worst part? He never noticed.

Still, there was something about the way he looked at you—hungry and a little feral, like he’d die if he didn’t have you right then. Some part of you always wanted to believe it. That maybe this time would be different.

So tonight, you weren’t drinking. You weren’t smiling. You’d done your hair the same way, sure—habit’s a bitch—but you’d kept the lipstick off and your distance sharp. You sat at the edge of the bar like someone who had somewhere else to be. Like someone who wouldn’t be going home with a leather-jacketed narcissist who wouldn't know what a clitoris was if it bit him.

You weren’t going to let him touch you.

…Probably.

And yet, the second you heard his laugh—low and lazy, curling through the crowd like smoke—you felt your stomach flip.

Benny walked in like he always did, like he owned the air. Cigarette tucked behind one ear, knuckles bruised from something he wouldn’t talk about, that same loose swing in his step that made your thighs tighten on instinct. His gaze cut across the room until it landed on you, and you looked away too slow.

He didn’t smile. He smirked.

Of course he did.

You sipped your soda like it was tequila, fixed your stare on the bottles behind the bar, and ignored the heat crawling up your neck. You were not doing this again.

“Hey.”

His voice was a touch rougher tonight. Faint rasp, like he’d been shouting or smoking too much. Probably both.

You didn’t turn. Just lifted a brow and muttered, “Thought you’d be out breakin' hearts.”

“Figured I’d start here.”

You exhaled through your nose. Short. Sharp. “Funny.”

He leaned a little closer. Close enough for the scent of leather and sweat and smoke to hit you like a goddamn freight train. “C'mon. Don’t tell me you didn’t miss me.”

“Didn’t even notice you were gone.”

It was a lie, and you both knew it.

His voice dropped, amused. “Could’ve sworn you were waitin’ on me.”

You should’ve said no. Should’ve rolled your eyes, finished your drink, and gone home alone like a grown woman with some self-respect.

Instead, you looked at him—really looked. Those stupid pretty eyes. That mouth—full, soft, always just a little parted. All the things he could do with it, if he ever bothered to try. Heat rose in your chest, sharp and slow.

Every part of you that knew better flared up in protest.

You turned away. Stared down at the ring of condensation your bottle had left on the bar, like it might tell you something worth hearing. Like it might remind you of all the reasons you shouldn’t.

Then Benny leaned in, close enough that his breath skimmed the shell of your ear. “Thought you might need a ride home.”

His fingers brushed yours on the countertop and you hated how easily it worked on you. How warm your skin went under that lazy touch. How your legs moved before your better judgement could catch up.

You slid off the stool without a word.

Behind you, he smiled like he’d already won.

He held the door open with one hand and a casual kind of ease, letting you pass first like a gentleman. It would’ve almost been convincing if you hadn’t known better.

The bike was waiting at the curb, angled like he’d left it in a hurry or just didn’t care. Of course he didn’t care. Not about parking. Not about rules. Not about anything except the next hit of speed, the next high, the next warm body.

You climbed on behind him, thighs bracketing his hips, fingers curling into his jacket.

He didn’t glance back, just settled his hands on the bars and muttered, half to himself, “Knew you missed me.”

And you hated—hated—how right he thought was.

But maybe this time, you thought, pressing your thighs a little tighter around him, curling your fingers just a little deeper into the worn leather—

Maybe this time, he’d learn something.

The ride back was loud and fast, like always. No conversation. Just the roar of the engine, the wind in your face, and Benny’s body between your legs—warm, solid, thoughtless.

You didn’t speak as you led him upstairs. Didn’t need to. He followed like he always did, with that lazy confidence like the night belonged to him already.

The door shut behind you. His hands were on your hips before you’d even taken your coat off, mouth trailing toward your neck, breath hot and careless. He kissed like he fucked—impatient, all tongue and teeth and hunger. And you let him.

For a minute.

You let his hands roam, let him press you back against the wall, let your body answer before your brain could step in. He reached for the hem of your top, and you lifted your arms without thinking.

But then—then—you stopped.

“You always gonna do it like this?” you said, breath catching.

Benny blinked, hands still on your waist. “Like what?”

“Like you got somewhere else to be.”

He frowned, confused, not offended. “Ain’t heard you complainin’ before.”

“Maybe I should’ve.”

You stepped out of his reach, not far—just enough. Enough to make him notice. Enough to make him look at you, properly, for once.

His eyes dipped, a little wary now. “You want me to go?”

“No.” You reached for him, pressing your palm flat against his chest. “I want you to listen.”

Benny didn’t move.

Didn’t pull back, but didn’t lean in either. Just stood there watching you, eyes narrowed like he wasn’t sure if you were serious or setting him up for a joke he didn’t understand.

You slid your hand from his chest to the back of his neck, fingers threading through the ends of his hair. He always smelled like trouble—smoke and sweat and engine grease—but up close, there was something softer underneath.

“I want you to slow down,” you said, quiet but clear. “Just… for once. Let’s see what happens.”

He huffed a short breath—something between a laugh and a scoff—but you didn’t let go.

“C’mon, sweetheart. You know how this goes.”

“Yeah,” you said. “That’s the problem.”

You leaned in then—not to kiss him, but to press your mouth just beside his ear. “You ever think about what I might want?”

His hands twitched at your waist. “I thought you liked it how we do it.”

“I like you,” you said, and you felt him go still at that. “But I’m tired of pretendin' it’s enough.”

For a beat, he didn’t say anything. Then, quieter than before, “What do you want?”

You pulled back enough to meet his eyes. “Lie down.”

He hesitated. You tilted your head. “Trust me.”

That, more than anything, seemed to throw him. But after a second, he stepped back toward the bed. Sat. Leaned back on his elbows.

Watching you.

You peeled your top the rest of the way off. Let him look. Let him want.

Then you climbed onto the bed, swung one leg over him, and settled into his lap.

“Keep your hands where they are,” you said, voice low.

Benny’s breath stuttered.

You smiled, slow and sure. “Good boy.”

He looked up at you like he didn’t know what the hell he’d just agreed to.

And then you leaned down and kissed him—really kissed him. Not the way he usually kissed you, all mouth and momentum and grab. You kissed him like you meant to leave a mark behind. Like you had all the time in the world and were choosing to spend it on him.

He made a low sound in his throat—surprised, maybe. His lips parted, but he didn’t reach for you. Good.

You rolled your hips once, steady and purposeful, just enough pressure to make him feel the shape of you against him. His breath hitched. His jaw clenched. But he didn’t move.

“Feels better when you pay attention, don't it?” you murmured against his mouth.

He nodded. Barely. Eyes locked on yours, a little darker now.

You leaned in, close enough to let your lips graze his jaw, the corner of his mouth, just a brush of heat without the payoff. “You always get yours, Benny. Every single time. And I let you. Stupid, I know.”

His breath hitched when you sucked lightly at the spot just below his ear, then pulled back.

“This time, you’re gonna earn it.”

You slid off his lap and stood between his knees, bare to the waist, unhurried as you let his gaze trace you. He looked dazed, like someone had rewritten the script and he didn’t know his lines anymore.

You tilted your head.

“Take off your shirt.”

For once, he didn’t smirk. Didn’t crack a joke. Just obeyed. Pulled the cut-off tee over his head and dropped it to the floor, eyes on you the whole time.

You touched him, fingers trailing up the front of his chest. Teasing just enough to make him strain toward your touch.

Then you gave him a little push.

“Lie back.”

He did.

And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to get it.

You watched him settle back, arms still propped behind him like he wasn’t quite sure if he was meant to relax or brace. His chest rose a little faster now, the flush creeping up his neck more from anticipation than exertion.

You leaned in, letting your hands trail up his thighs, slow and light.

You shifted forward, straddling his hips again, heat pooling low in your belly at the feel of him already hard beneath you. Usually he’d have his hands all over you by now. Usually it’d be rushed, messy, forgettable.

Not tonight.

You leaned down and kissed him —deeper this time, slow and steady, until his mouth finally softened under yours, matching your rhythm instead of fighting it. When you pulled back, you reached for his hands.

“Touch me,” you said, guiding them to your waist. “But only how I show you.”

He nodded, eyes locked on yours. Watching you with something between confusion and heat.

You dragged one of his hands up, palm sliding over your ribs, thumb grazing the side of your breast, pressing it flat where you wanted it.

His fingers flexed, adjusting. Following.

And for the first time since the door shut behind him, he wasn’t just grabbing. He was feeling.

You felt it in your own breath, the way your body answered differently now—still hungry, still desperate, but seen.

You rocked forward again, watching the way his head tipped back, the muscle in his jaw ticking. He let out a breath—quiet, strained—and you smiled.

Maybe he was teachable after all.


You guided his other hand down between your legs, over the waistband of your slacks. “Use your fingers,” you said, firm but calm.

Benny hesitated—just for a second—then shifted beneath you, rolling you slightly onto your back with one arm braced behind you. His other hand moved lower, fumbling with the button like he was trying to figure out if this was allowed.

You let him undo it. Didn’t help. Just held his gaze as he tugged the zip down and slipped his hand inside, knuckles grazing heat through the thin cotton of your panties.

His breath caught.

“Start slow,” you murmured, rocking your hips once to meet him.

He found you through the fabric first, fingers pressing tentatively, then sliding lower. You parted your legs a little more, giving him room, and his fingertips pushed the gusset aside—slow, careful, like he was waiting to be told if he was doing it right.

You were wet already. Of course you were. And when he touched you properly—skin to skin—it was the first time either of you went completely still.

You held his wrist. “Inside.”

He eased one finger in, slow and hesitant. Then another.

“Curl them,” you whispered. “Up. There. That’s the spot.”

He shifted—adjusted—and then froze when your body jolted in response, a sound catching in your throat.

“That it?” he asked, voice rough.

“There,” you breathed. “Right fucking there.”

His jaw flexed. His fingers moved again, dragging over that spot with a little more certainty now, slow and steady. You clutched his forearm, hips rocking against his hand in tight, controlled movements, chasing it yourself, letting him feel it happen—what it was like when someone actually got you close. Your breath stuttered, a soft moan slipping out before you could catch it.

His breath caught again—sharp this time, like it had startled him.

“You feel that?” you managed, voice strained. “That’s me, Benny. That’s mine.”

His fingers flexed just right.

And the heat inside you surged.

You dug your fingers into his shoulder, not to hurt—just to hold. To anchor yourself as your hips moved faster, chasing the edge he’d never taken you to before.

But now—now, with his fingers buried deep and curling just right—you could feel it building sharp and steady. A slow burn that didn’t back off, didn’t flicker out like it always had before.

Benny didn’t say anything. He just watched you. Like he was trying to memorise every shift, every sound. Like he wanted to get it right.

You held his gaze. Let him see it.

The stutter in your breath. The way your thighs started to shake. The way your body clenched around his fingers, drawing him in tighter with every pulse of heat gathering just beneath your skin.

“Don’t stop,” you said, barely more than a whisper. “Right there. Just—ah—there.”

He didn’t stop.

And when it hit, it was hard and fast and real, your spine arching, head dropping back with a choked cry that filled the room.

You came around his fingers, hips jerking, muscles fluttering tight as the pleasure rolled through you—hot and heavy and earned.

You clung to his wrist, his shoulder, whatever you could grab, as your body rode it out. Let it crest. Let it slow. Let yourself have it.

For once.

Your breathing slowed. Your body sagged into him. And only then did he speak, voice low, almost reverent.

“Fuck.”

You opened your eyes. Met his.

“Yeah,” you said, breath still ragged. “That’s what it’s supposed to feel like.”

Benny didn’t move. His hand was still between your legs, fingers slick and resting where they’d just pulled you apart. You could feel the tension in his body—tight and coiled, like he was waiting for permission to do something with it.

You reached down and wrapped your fingers around his wrist. Guided his hand out of you with quiet authority. Then, without breaking eye contact, you brought his fingers to your mouth and sucked them clean—one at a time.

His breath caught hard.

You smiled. “Good boys get rewards.”

You pushed yourself upright, hips shifting under his, and reached for the waistband of his jeans. His eyes followed every movement—wild, hungry, expecting the return to routine. Expecting to take over now that you’d gotten yours.

You undid the button, pulled the zip down, and slid your hand inside.

He groaned as your fingers wrapped around him, already hard and pulsing under your touch. You stroked him once and he instinctively bucked into your hand.

You stopped. Just held him there.

His breath caught.

He looked at you, misreading the moment. “You ready for me now?”

You looked him dead in the eye, raising an eyebrow. “You think that was your cue?”

He hesitated. Mouth open like he might say something else—then shut it again.

You kissed him then. Soft. Barely there.

Then you let go.

“Jeans off,” you said, leaning back into the pillows. “You’ve got more to learn.”

This time, he didn’t hesitate. He pushed up onto his knees, shoved his jeans and boxers down and kicked them aside. His cock stood hard and flushed, but he didn’t touch it. Didn’t ask.

You sat up, peeling your slacks the rest of the way off, then hooked your thumbs under your panties and slid them down too—slow, unhurried, keeping your eyes on him the whole time. Let him watch. Let him feel it.

When you were bare, you stretched back across the bed, legs open and relaxed, arms resting overhead like you had all the time in the world.

Benny stared. Still kneeling. Still unsure whether he was allowed to move.

You tilted your head. “You just gonna kneel there lookin’ pretty, or you gonna put that mouth to good use?”

A flicker of something—surprise, maybe even a little pride—crossed his face.

“Always figured it was made for eatin’ pussy,” you added, deadpan.

That got a smile out of him.

“Yeah?” he said, crawling toward you. “Guess I better prove it.”

You didn’t answer. Just crooked a finger and beckoned him down.

And he went—without argument, without attitude—settling between your thighs like he finally understood that this time, he was the one being used.

Benny settled between your thighs, hands braced on the bed beside your hips and leaned in, lips brushing the inside of your thigh first—testing. Then he moved higher, mouth open now, tongue dragging up through your folds.

You didn’t say anything at first. Let him wonder if he’d got it right.

He hadn’t.

You shifted your hips slightly, brought your hand down into his hair, and guided him up.

“Higher,” you said. “Towards the top. You feel that button?”

He paused, tongue hovering.

“If you ever plan on keeping a woman around, you find that and learn it.”

He let out a soft, unsteady breath, and you smiled.

Then he started again—this time right where you told him. But he pressed too hard, tongue flattened, pushing like he was trying to prove something.

You flinched. Not enough to stop him—just enough to correct.

“Okay,” you murmured, fingers tightening slightly in his hair. “That’s too much.”

He looked up, brow furrowed.

“You ever had a scoop of that ice cream from downtown?”

He blinked. “Yeah.”

“Good. That’s what you want to think about. Tastes good, right? But you don’t want it gone too fast.”

You eased him back into place with a slight tug. “Same pressure. Not too hard. Not too soft. Like you want it to last.”

He nodded. Slower this time. No smirk. Just focused.

And when he leaned in again, he got it.

His tongue moved with care now, working soft, steady circles around your clit—light pressure, just enough to draw your breath out in a shaky sigh. Your hips rose instinctively, legs tensing over his shoulders.

“That’s it,” you whispered. “Keep going.”

His hands stayed at your hips this time—holding you in place while he worked, listening to the sounds you made, adjusting with every breath and shift of your body.

Pleasure built again, low and hot—this steady, deliberate swell, like your whole body was blooming open around it. You let out a soft moan, then another, each one pulled deeper from your throat as his tongue worked slow, tight circles that made your toes curl.

“Yeah,” you breathed, hips rolling up to meet him. “Just like that.”

Your fingers clenched in his hair as another moan tore loose—higher, rawer—and Benny groaned against you. The sound vibrated right through you, made your breath stutter and your thighs twitch.

You couldn’t help the whimper that followed, sharp and sudden as he adjusted slightly, licking right where you needed it most.

“Fuck, Benny—”

Another groan from him, deeper this time. Almost desperate.

You felt it—felt him—working harder now, mouth moving with purpose, like he wanted to be the reason you came. Like your pleasure was something he could chase.

And God, you were close. You were right there.

You were so close now it hurt—every nerve drawn tight, every sound that left your mouth more desperate than the last. His tongue was steady, careful, still circling, still good.

But you needed more.

Your hand tightened in his hair again, just enough to make him pause.

“Suck it,” you said, voice low but firm.

He stilled.

His eyes flicked up, startled, like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right. “What?”

You didn’t flinch. Didn’t soften it.

“You heard me.”

A beat passed—one second of hesitation—and then he did it.

His mouth closed around you, lips sealing gently around your clit, and he sucked.

You cried out—sharp, full-body sound—your back arching clean off the bed as the orgasm ripped through you. Not slow. Not quiet. Fucking explosive.

“Fuck—fuck, Benny—”

Your thighs clamped around his head as your whole body seized with the force of it. He didn’t pull away. Just groaned into you, deeper this time, his mouth still working as you shook and gasped, riding it out.

It kept going—wave after wave until you were gasping, one arm thrown over your eyes, hips twitching from oversensitivity.

Finally, finally, he pulled back.

His mouth was slick, his chest rising fast, eyes wide and stunned like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done.

You dragged your arm away and looked down at him, breathless, ruined, wrecked in the best goddamn way.

And then you laughed—low and ragged, but real.

“Fuck,” you managed, still panting. “Guess I was right about that mouth.”

You slid your hand into his hair again and coaxed him upward. “C’mere.”

He shifted, crawling up your body until you were face to face. His weight settled partially over you, forearms braced either side of your shoulders, brow furrowed—trying to figure out what the hell just shifted between you.

You kissed him—slow and deep—tasting yourself on his tongue as your hands slid down his chest, fingertips trailing over warm skin, lower, lower.

And when you wrapped your hand around his cock, he groaned—head dipping forward, lips brushing your cheek like it knocked the breath out of him.

You smiled against his jaw, then gave him a gentle push.

“Lie back.”

He went without a word, chest rising fast as he shifted onto his back. You followed, straddling his thighs, palms splayed across his hips as your eyes raked over him—lips swollen, hair a mess, flushed and breathing hard from the effort of holding back.

Your hand slid up his length again—slow, sure—drawing a rough groan from deep in his chest.

Then you moved lower. Kissed the inside of one thigh, then the other. Let your mouth press into the heat of him, tongue flicking along the crease where his thigh met his body before you shifted further in.

You licked over his balls, then sucked one gently into your mouth, while your hand kept working his shaft. His hips jerked sharply in response—reflexive, impatient. You switched sides, Let your tongue drag along the seam, then sucked again, a little firmer this time, feeling the tension coil tighter beneath your hands.

He muttered a curse and reached for you—one hand tangling in your hair, trying to get you where he wanted.

You looked up at him through your lashes, lips still pressed to his skin. Then you dragged your tongue up the underside of his cock and took him into your mouth, slow and deep.

The groan that tore from him was raw, almost desperate.

His hips jerked, thrusting up—shallow, but forceful—trying to fuck into your mouth, his hand tightening at the back of your head. You pulled off with a wet pop, breath warm against his cock.

“Don’t,” you said, voice quiet but firm. “Let me do it my way.”

“Fuck, baby—” He let out a breath, trying to rein it in. But his hand loosened.

“If you want something different,” you added, letting your lips ghost over him, “ask me nicely.”

You didn’t wait for a reply—just took him back into your mouth, letting your tongue swirl as you sank down. He groaned again, hips twitching, but this time he held himself still, like he’d learned his lesson. Like he finally understood this wasn’t his to take—it was yours to give.

You set the pace, working him with your mouth and hand in tandem. Every slick stroke had him gritting his teeth, breath catching harder each time you dragged your tongue along the underside or hollowed your cheeks. He swore under his breath—low, ragged praise that barely made sense.

“Jesus… fuck, that feels so—”

You hummed around him, and he almost lost it.

His legs tensed beneath you, fingers fisting the sheets, eyes screwed shut like he was trying not to blow too soon. You could feel how close he was—his thighs clenching, breath coming in short bursts.

You pulled off with one final lick, drawn out just enough to make him feel every second of it.

“Fuck—why’d you stop?” he rasped, eyes flying open.

You didn’t answer. Just crawled up his body, kissed him hard, then braced a hand on his chest and reached between you. Gripped his cock—still slick, throbbing—and gave him a stroke that made him buck.

“No more waiting,” you said, voice low. “I want you to fuck me.”

He swore again, then you swung a leg over, straddling him, as you guided him to your entrance.

You sank down in one slow, steady push—tight, wet heat swallowing him inch by inch until your thighs were flush against his.

His head dropped back with a strangled noise. “Fuck, you feel… fuck, baby.”

You rolled your hips once, grinding down with a force that made him groan.

“This what you wanted?” you asked, voice low, breath heavy. “What you’ve been thinkin’ about?”

He nodded, eyes blown wide, hands gripping your hips now like he didn’t know whether to hold on or let go.

You leaned forward, kissed the corner of his mouth, and then started to move.

You set the rhythm—strong, unrelenting. Rode him with purpose, taking what you wanted with every roll of your hips. His hands tightened on your waist, fingertips digging in like he couldn’t help himself.

He met your eyes, jaw clenched, trying to keep it together. You could feel how close he was already—the way his grip faltered for a second, then came back harder.

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “Need more of you. Like this.”

In one fluid movement, you shifted off him and turned, moving onto your knees and bracing your forearms against the bed.

“Come on, Benny,” you said, glancing over your shoulder.

He scrambled upright, dragging a hand down your back as he knelt behind you. His hands gripped your hips, firm and certain, and he sank into you in one deep stroke.

Your mouth dropped open, breath catching on a broken sound as he filled you and fuck, it felt good.

“Jesus,” he growled. “You’re soaked.”

“You did that, Benny.” You looked back again, eyes dark. “That’s what happens when it’s not all about you.”

He started to move—rough now, his body slapping into yours. One hand slid up your back, between your shoulder blades, while the other stayed at your hip, anchoring you as he drove into you.

The angle was sharp, perfect, and you dropped your head to the sheets, moaning with every thrust.

You shifted upright, back pressing flush to his chest, and reached behind to guide his hands exactly where you wanted them.

One to your breast—his palm warm over your skin, fingers closing around your nipple. The other you dragged lower, between your thighs, pressing his fingers to your clit.

He kept moving, every thrust was deep and deliberate, his hips rolling against yours with a rhythm that somehow straddled control and need.

You swore under your breath, head tipping back, your own hand covering his to keep the pressure steady.

He worked tight little circles that had you clenching around him, tightening the coil with every pass.

Then it hit—sharp and hot, your body seizing as you came with a cry, pulsing around him, every nerve lit up and burning.

He choked on a groan, hips stuttering as you clenched around him.

“Shit—” his voice broke, low and strained. “Never felt you like this.”

His grip tightened like he was trying to hold onto the last thread of control, but he was already there.

“Don’t stop,” you gasped, still twitching around him. “I wanna feel you too.”

You pulsed around him, still fluttering through the aftershocks, and he buried himself to the hilt with a final, desperate thrust.

Then he broke.

A raw sound tore out of him as he came—loud, guttural—his whole body shuddering as he spilled inside you.

His mouth brushed your neck, your shoulder, your jaw—soft now, reverent.

You collapsed together in a tangle of limbs and breath, still wrapped around each other, still burning from the inside out.

He stayed pressed to your back, breathing slowing. One hand splayed loosely across your ribs.

“That was different,” he said eventually, voice low.

You hummed, eyes still closed. “Good different?”

There was a pause. Then a quiet, almost disbelieving, “Felt real good.”

You smiled—small, satisfied—and let your fingers trace over the back of his hand where it rested on your ribs.

He exhaled, warm against your shoulder. “You gonna let me do it again sometime?”

You turned your head just enough for him to catch the curve of your mouth “Maybe.”

He dipped his face closer, brushing his lips along your jaw, his smile lazy now, pleased.

A long silence followed. Not awkward, just… settled.

Then, softer than you’d ever heard from him, “Can I stay?”

This time, you turned properly—rolling to face him, hair spilling over the pillow, eyes meeting his in the low light.

“You sure?” you asked, eyes searching his. “It’s not usually your thing.”

He nodded once.

You reached down, pulled the covers over both of you.

“Yeah,” you said, barely more than a whisper.

“Tonight… you can.”

And for once, he didn’t reach for his jeans.

Didn’t grab his jacket.

Didn’t vanish into the night.

Guess even Benny Cross could surprise you, once in a while.

Taglist:

@thefallofthedamned @saturnsdaughtr @bellesdreamyprofile @butlerrizz @myradiaz @chocolatetree222 @faegoddessog

[rogue-durin-16]

HEAD-TO-HEAD (part XXIII/?)

Summary: Joe thought she was pretty. Had he just said that, things might have been different for them. Maybe they wouldn't have gone head-to-head at each other for three years like it was a contest.

Pairing: Joseph Liebgott x Reader

Genre: angst/rivals to lovers

Tags:

Head-to-head: @derersketnoget @ladystardustfromarss @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @sxalbatf @jetjuliette @luvrottt @fromjupitertocentauri @ecompstolemysoul @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @bitter-post-millennial @gotxpenny @knight-of-thesun @scottstr3et @aliciax3

Band Of Brothers: @fernando-jpg @chubbypotatoepie @tvserie-s-world @clumsy-wonderland @lordndsaviorwinters @lanadelray1989 @chanshugsaretherapy @hoddystark @gotxpenny

Permanent taglist: @randomparanoid @karlthecat15722 @thebutchersdaughtersblog @amourtentiaa @comfort-reads

Warnings: brief smut at the beginning (I type as I try to clutch my pearls), mentions of death, language, smoking

A/N: what was supposed to be a whole chapter turned out to be split in two parts. Hopefully, you'll have the continuation to this up tomorrow. Keyword being HOPEFULLY. Enjoy<3

Head-to-head masterlist

Band of Brothers masterlist

Rogue-durin-16 masterlist

"Oh God—"

My low voice caught on the edge of a moan, pelvis grinding down, meeting his every thrust with a shudder that made my knees quake.

Rapid breaths and muffled moans accompanied the first lights of yet another Austrian dawn, filtering into the room and peppering Joe's shoulders with faint golden stripes, the thin layer of sweat gleaming over his skin.

"Christ, you feel so good—"

The bed creaked beneath us, wood groaning in rhythm with the slick, desperate slap of skin against skin. My thighs trembled, sore around his hips; his hands kept me steady, bruising into the flesh of them, doing their best to guide me through it.

"Like fuckin'... velvet—Fuck, don't stop." His voice cracked at the end, fucked-out and hoarse, fanning hot across my chest as I leaned in, my forearms thrown on his shoulders for leverage.

"Damnit, Lieb, just... shut up."

Every upward drag of his hips hit something that made my spine arch. My pace faltered for half a second, legs twitching.

"With the way you're movin'?"

He huffed out something that wasn't quite a groan, then bucked up faster. The change in rhythm had me scrambling—my fingers curling around his nape, my lips pressed to his neck. Sweat pooled at the base of my spine.

"Fuck, I'm close—"

"C'mon, sweetheart—shit, I'm right there with you."

Our hips moved in tandem—messy, relentless, obscene. I could feel every inch of him as I dropped my weight, grinding down in a frantic stutter of motion. His hands slipped from my thighs to my ass, dragging me forward as he drove into me just right.

"Fuck!"

I gasped, head lolling back, mouth parted. The curse left my lungs in a sharp, strangled exhale as everything inside me wound up tight, then snapped. My body clenched down around him, pleasure hitting with a force that knocked the air out of me.

Joe groaned—a raw, guttural sound as he spilled into the condom, hips jerking, muscles locking beneath my hands. Trembling arms wrapped around my waist, keeping our bodies pressed as he folded against me.

The world was easier like this, even if just for a couple of hours. Maybe that was why we kept knocking on each other's doors at ungodly hours after a bad day, carrying the feeblest excuse behind our teeth.

'Tab snores like a goddamn freight train' , he had started with this time, not letting a single second pass after I had opened my door to him.

'The hell you want me to do about it?', I had asked, piqued—not because of him, not really. It was the ridiculous pretext, the time, the vicious circle we'd fallen into, and the fact that, despite all that, I had still stepped aside and let him come in.

His shaky fingers skimmed over my spine and tangled into my locks. He coaxed my head forward until I sat upright again, swollen lips brushing the hinge of my jaw.

"You with me?" he asked in a whisper, voice rasped from exhaustion and sex and everything between. I limited myself to nod, a hazy hum reverberating in my throat with still half-lidded eyes.

Joe's hands trailed down my sides to sit on my upper thighs, lazy and eerily familiar. His lips aimed for mine, soft and open in a way he wouldn't allow himself to be anywhere else.

On instinct, I tilted my head to the side—a subtle shift towards my shoulder, absentminded, like I hadn't noticed him at all. His mouth skimmed the edge of my cheek instead. A near-miss that hurt us both.

I shifted back, sliding off his lap with a soft wince, and he helped me stand without a word, his touch lingering for half a second too long before letting go. The bed creaked when he lied back, arms folding over his face like the ceiling had suddenly become too much to look at.

He was too much too look at. So I focused on sorting out both our fatigues, discarded on the room's floor, making a point not to look his way. I was already halfway dressed by the time Joe sat up and joined me in the task of recovering our respective clothes.

We stole a couple of dissonant glances at each other, keeping a safe distance achieved by my decision to stand near the rickety dresser while I threw on my uniform.

Safe. As if anything between us was safe.

I reached for what I thought were my tags on the edge of the dresser, the familiar weight of them heavy on my digits. When I slipped the chain over my head, though, they settled lower than usual. Not mine.

I turned toward Joe, brows drawn as I held the chain out for him. "These are yours."

Joe looked up from his pants, barely hanging on his hips without the belt, blinking like I'd spoken in a language foreign to him. "Right." He muttered after a beat, yanking them from my grasp, intentionally lacking care.

I allowed myself to take in the way he looked, just for a moment; still a bit shaken, trying to battle his restlesness by focusing on making sure every piece of his uniform sat neatly on him. Before he slipped into his undershirt, the cool sunrays caught on something unusual; a rust-colored charm in the edge of the chain, dull against the steel.

"Where'd you get that?" I questioned, hanging my own tags from my neck, cold against warm skin.

"What?" Joe spared me a confused glance, so I nodded at the tiny Star of David resting on his still bare chest. "Ah. A Pole gave it to me." He shrugged, putting on the top part of his uniform. "From Landsberg."

That made me stop mid motion, fingers freezing on the buttons of my jacket. "From Landsberg?" Joe nodded, his expression excessively nonchalant for the topic at hand. "Why would a Pole from Lansberg give you that?"

Another shrug. His eyes refused to meet mine, head casted down as he laced up his boots. "Figured he wanted to thank me."

"Thank you for what?" I willed my hands to work on the upper part of my uniform, as if this was a casual talk we'd have on sentry duty. Joe himself didn't give me an actual answer straight away—just exhaled a huff, like the poor excuse of a conversation was a nuisance to him. "Joe."

"Guess he was happy I shot down the Nazi fucker who put him in that camp."

My eyes widened as my brain failed to take in the unceremoniously laid out statement. "You did what now?"

"Don't use that tone on me." He warned, pausing his motions to look up from his boots with raised brows. "I'm not one of those new replacements you keep mothering around."

"I'm sorry— what tone do you want me to use?" I retorted, sarcasm thick as an immediate response to his attitude.

"I don't need a lecture, alright?" He rose to his feet, hands working on his belt like buckling it required his full attention. "I had direct orders."

"Direct orders." I echoed, my tone dripping with disbelief. "Whose orders?"

Joe let out a dry laugh, facing me for a split second out of habit. "If you don't know whose orders maybe it's 'cause it's none of your damn business."

"Why are you deflecting?" I searched in his gaze for an answer he wasn't willing to give me, confusion and concern mingling in my chest. "Just tell me whose orders."

"Speirs'." He gave in way too quick, sidestepping me in order to reach the door. "And give me a fuckin' break, okay?"

"You want a break?" I turned on my heel to trail after him across the room. "You can't just... casually tell me you killed someone and, I don't know, expect me to let it slide."

"Why the fuck not?" he spun to face me right at the threshold, barely giving me time to halt. "That's what we do, we kill people." I withdrew from him, one of my hands placed on the doorframe between us. I was left gaping, trying and failing to find the right words. He took that as an opportunity to snap harsher, meaner. "Couple weeks in Austria and you forget what the fuck we're doing here."

I bit back harmful retorts that would have wrecked him, and instead reminded him, "The war's over, Joe."

"For you, maybe."

The room fell into a heavy silence, his glare digging into my frame, taunting me. It always ended up like this; a spiteful argument, worth nothing, meant to rip us away from the brief counterfeit peace. Meant to remind us this couldn't happen.

And occasionally, serving as an outlet for deep-rooted pain that had nothing to do with the mess we had gotten ourselves into.

"Did he handpick you?" I inquired with squinted eyes, something similar to protectiveness bubbling in my chest. By the face he pulled, Joe mistook it for a rebuke of some kind.

"Oh, fuck you."

"Okay, you know what? Don't care." I lied, giving my wrist watch a quick check to distract myself. "Drills start in 10 minutes."

"Aye, Sarge." He mockingly saluted me, resentment seeping through his pupils, twinkling in the light illuminating the silent hall. To his dismay, I let the provocation slide, just like I let slide everything else with him these days.

He didn't look back as he left.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

The crisp air had started to bite at my cheeks, blowing off the droplets of sweat on my temples by the time the training ended. Two days had passed since Joe's downplayed confession, and I had yet to stop thinking about it. Because I never seemed learn, I had spent shooting practice asking around. Surprisingly enough, a name had halfheartedly dropped from Babe's mouth.

I scanned the field, my eyes landing on Webster, walking a few paces ahead, his long stride slowing as he noticed me hurrying toward him.

"Hey, Web!" I called, casual yet pointed.

Webster turned his head, a charming smile spreading across his face. "What's up, Sergeant Y/l/n?"

"Jesus, don't call me that." I fell into step beside him, accommodating the M1's strap out of habit more than necessity. "I got an odd question for you."

He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of curiosity passing over his face. "...Okay. What is it?"

My gaze drifted toward Joe, standing by the trucks with Ramirez, his laughter carrying faintly on the wind. My stomach twisted. "You know what Joe's been up to lately?"

Webster stalled, the grin fading into cautious confusion. "What do you mean by that?"

I tilted my head to the side, my tone sharpening. "What d'you think I mean?"

He hesitated, sneaking a look at Joe as we passed by the two men. His nervousness was telling. "I..." Webster fumbled, lowering his voice. "You know about it?"

"No, Web. That's why I'm asking." I matched his volume, exasperation creeping into my voice.

Webster exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck, physically trying to shake off the discomfort. He leaned in slightly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I don't know what's going on. He said he has orders, but when I ask whose orders he just—"

"Speirs'." I interjected flatly, fixing my gaze ahead of us to feign distraction. "Supposedly."

Webster's eyes widened at the new information, and I wondered how much information Liebgott had actually shared with him. "He told you?"

"I don't believe him."

He blinked, the corners of his mouth twitching with unease. With parted lips, he pondered a thought. "You should try to talk him out of it."

My shoulders shook with a scoff. "What makes you think he's gonna listen?"

"Well, for starters, you rank higher." Webster pointed out, trying to sound logical.

"Yeah," I looked over my shoulder and accidentally met Joe's warm irises, drifting to me while Webster and I held the conversation. "as if rank's gonna stop him."

Webster hesitated, awkwardly shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "Aren't you two a thing now?"

My head snapped back at the brunette, a wave of panic rushing through my veins. "What?"

"You and Lieb."

"Are you out of your mind?"

Webster looked genuinely taken aback, a hint of embarrassment lighting up his cheeks. "I... Well, I just figured."

"Hell, no." I shook my head with a negative, making sure the man understood the gravity of what he was implying before I resumed walking. "Don't even think that's possible, okay?"

Webster, clearly eager to move past his assumption, pressed on, falling back into step with me. "Okay, just... Why don't you come with me? We’re heading out again, and—"

Again.

I grabbed his sleeve, stopping him mid-sentence to pull him aside. "This wasn't a one-time thing?"

"No..." He sighed, guilt weighing heavy in his voice. "I hate this, Y/n."

I cursed under my breath, my hands landing on my hips, my head low. "Okay." I huffed, my mind racing with different outcomes. It's none of your business, I reminded myself, and I couldn't tell if it sounded like my voice or like Joe's. "Okay," I repeated before meeting Webster's expectant expression. "When are you supposed to head out?"

"In-" he checked his clock, adjusting the grip on his rifle. "Half an hour."

"Half an hour."

It's none of your business.

"Come look for me before you head out." I instructed him, making Web's face light up with hope. "I'll be at the entrance, alright?"

Webster nodded, his face drawn. "Alright."

As he walked off, I stood there for a moment, staring after him before my eyes shifted back to Joe. He was still chatting with Ramirez, as if nothing weighed on him at all. I ran a hand through my hair, anxiety twisting my stomach into uncomfortable knots.

It was none of my business, yet I still found myself at the hotel's front door, sat down on the stoop with a cigarette in hand, willingly waiting for Webster to wrap me into Joe's mess.

[lets-try-some-writing]

I have observed several types of fic writers, and so for kicks and giggles, here they all are. Each of them scares me for different reasons.

The Prepared And Ready To Publish™:

Several documents dedicated to worldbuilding, planning, cross referencing, character lists & traits, plot twists, and then the actual fic document.

Dedicated to the max to creating a rich world. Probably knows more about the niche thing than you ever will. 100% could have written a thesis and chose to do fic instead (or did both at the same time).

Created a masterpiece and promptly vanished off the face of creation before coming back in with another banger to crush souls and save fandoms.

Their arrival is akin to the birth of a new era because they never fail to somehow make a niche ship popular, make a headcanon fanon, or otherwise give so much depth and interest to a character or setting that whatever they have devised is largely accepted as gospel by their readers.

They either use a high end writing program or wordpad. There is no in-between.

Mysterious. Very mysterious. Reasons for this mysteriousness vary between fics and authors.

100000/10 would be friends with them if I could. Legendary writers. But also they scare me because ??? What void offered you such power ?????

The Baby Writer:

All vibes and loosely strung plots.

It may not make the most sense, but good gracious the dedication is there.

Notable lack of comprehension when it comes to characters and places, but it's bad form to not leave a kudo because it takes guts to post anything in fandom.

They are still figuring things out and their grammar or formatting (possibly both) is probably a mess, but they've put heart into their work.

Sweetest rays of sunshine who want to be involved and are eager to learn the ropes.

The fandom's young ward or despised new arrival (depends entirely on fandom popularity and age).

8/10 would happily offer advice to them. Just can't read their work for too long without wanting to throw it into grammarly. The fear factor comes in the form of the miraculous misuse of fandom terminology. (Yeah it's tough bud, the fanon is wild. But goodness that term/canon word does NOT mean what you think it does.)

The Smut For Your Soul:

Meticulously plans the smut with all the loving care of a sculptor.

Somehow plot got involved.

Miraculously, they managed to not include an iota of plot and it has somehow managed to work.

Headcanons abound and cuteness and or angst lurks merrily behind every corner.

The tags mean everything and nothing at the same time. They are but faint guides to the fae wilds ahead. Tread lightly.

Has a mountain of unfinished WIPs that will follow them to the grave or emerge ten years after conception to grace whatever fandom spawned the idea.

The fandom thanks them for their service, although often that praise is late or hits like a freight train.

???/10 I personally avoid smut but I have friends who write it so it really depends. Terrifying because you never know who falls into this role of writer. It could be anyone. Normalcy is a mask poorly adorned for the sake of conforming to The Great Machine.

The Angst Lord:

Has a million slightly different ways to hurt their blorbo. Each are somehow more horrifying than the next.

The embodiment of the iceburg videos seen all over the net. Ask one question and you shall unravel and scheme of torment so great you shall regret having dared to speak up.

Has dozens of WIPs or unwritten ideas that they claim they will return to.

They are controlled by passion and emotion and can and will insert their own complicated situation into a fic.

Almost nothing is off limits.

Arrives to the fandom ready to brawl and somehow ends up respected or feared. They often stare in bafflement as they end up unscathed and watch angry comments fly toward the arguably innocent shippers.

Generally some of the nicest people who happen to enjoy inflicting The Horrors upon someone fictional.

'10/10 would befriend and promptly regard like a wild racoon. Offerings of angsty ideas yield delightful commentary. But also I need to prepare myself for anything they say because O U C H my SOUL.

The General Writer:

Fluff, cuteness, possibly a delightful touch of angst and pure unbridled creative simplicity.

They may not have the most brutal or soul wrenching tale, but they always manage to write something that someone, somewhere, desperately needs.

Devastatingly underrated and deserves far more praise for their contributions to the fandom.

Produces some of the softest of scenes and the most touching of interactions between characters in a contained, careful crafted, tale.

Introducing new ships or family dynamics in such a tasteful manner that brain chemistry can easily be altered.

Arrives to the fandom as a lurker and shows their appreciation through their work. Oftentimes, they are very quiet and go unnoticed.

INFINITE/10 Love these writers, honestly a gift to fandom. The sheer level of dedication to producing fluff is astounding and scary all at once.

The OC X Canon:

Has so many ships and headcanons that it's astounding.

The lore development rivals IDW and Lost Light combined. All the kudos to them for putting their souls into their characters.

The dedication is mind boggling.

They put up with so much crap they could be in MMA Wrestling if the verbal assaults translated into physical strength.

Has so many adjustments to lore and whole AUs devoted specifically to creating a perfect world.

Skilled in the extreme (or not) at integrating their ocs into canon.

Arrives to the fandom not intending to make ocs. Leaves with seventeen leashes for their new abominable creations. Is loved or hated by literally everyone, sometimes for no reason.

6/10 perfectly lovely people but very niche in their interest and thus not everyone's cup of tea. Scary because that level of sheer willpower is meant for demi-gods.

There are more types of writers, but these feel like the big overarching ones. Which kind of writer are you? :D