#and i have never been the same since...................

[buckyseternaldoll]

sergeant's magic mouth

🫦 based on this ask but I definitely diverted from the main plot

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: You thought you were just his fling. He thought you were his girl. Then you overheard Steve teasing Bucky about his legendary skills in the bedroom—particularly his mouth. Bucky gets flustered. You get curious. A week later, he proved he’s still got it.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, oral sex (f receiving), pussy eating, misunderstanding trope, soft dom!Bucky, desperate!reader, overstimulation, slow burn tension, emotional release

Word Count: 3.5k

The compound was quieter than usual, the aftermath of a long mission settling in like a low, collective exhale. Somewhere in the common kitchen, someone clinked a glass. Distant laughter floated through the hall—probably Sam or Clint. But in the softly lit entertainment room, it was just you and Bucky. Again.

You’d flopped onto the couch hours ago after sparring, half-watching a movie you’d already forgotten the name of. Bucky had joined a little later, tucking himself into the corner of the cushions, red henley hugging the bulk of his arms, the silver glint of his metal arm catching the TV’s light like a low hum in your peripheral.

You hadn’t meant to end up in his lap. Again.

But like always, his palm was already on your waist when you slid over—grounding, warm despite the chill of the metal. His thighs were spread wide beneath you, relaxed and solid, and your legs naturally draped on either side like they belonged there. You leaned into him. He didn’t stop you. He never did.

It had been like this for weeks now. Maybe months.

Long after the dust from the whole Civil War mess had started to settle, you and Bucky had slipped into something wordless. Something sacred. You didn’t know what to call it—it didn’t feel right calling it just friends. Not when you could still feel the way he’d kissed you that first night after the team’s barbecue. The way he’d held you still while your hips rocked against his, slow and aching. Not when your heart stuttered every time he looked at you with that tired, hungry softness that made your skin burn.

The first kiss had been a dare. A stupid, tipsy game where someone dared Bucky to kiss you and no one—no one—had expected him to actually do it.

But he did.

He cupped your face with his warm hand, looked you in the eye, and kissed you like he’d been holding that breath in since 1943. And from then on… something shifted.

Now, he’d let you straddle him during quiet movie nights. His jaw would clench when your hips moved just right. You’d feel him through his jeans, thick and hard under you, and he’d groan—deep and strangled like he was holding something back. He’d mouth at your neck, hands gripping your waist, but it never went further than that. Never inside. Never under the clothes.

And you told yourself it was fine. You told yourself maybe this was just how it was going to be—this undefined, lusty thing. You told yourself it was better than nothing. Because it was Bucky. James Buchanan Barnes. The man women used to whisper about back in the 40s—the charmer with the bedroom eyes and silver tongue. You’d heard the rumors. Everyone had.

And you? You were just… you.

He could have anyone. And maybe you were just the convenient body he used to push those urges away—a warm lap to grind into, a mouth to kiss when the nights got too long. You didn’t know how to ask for more. You were terrified that if you tried, he’d pull away.

Meanwhile, Bucky? Bucky thought you were his. Fully.

He thought you’d been his since the second time you kissed him—the night you’d curled into his lap after patrol and whispered “I missed you” like it meant more than just the day. And it had killed him not to touch you deeper, not to give you everything he had. But he remembered what you said at that same team barbecue, right after everyone settled down with their beers and ribs. Someone had joked about hook-ups and you, ever soft-spoken, had laughed shyly and said:

“I’m a little old school. I don’t really go all the way unless it’s someone serious… like, serious-serious.”

And Bucky? Bucky was from the actual old school. Back in the 40s, that meant one thing—you waited until you were married. And if you were the kind of woman who saved yourself for that, then goddammit, he wasn’t going to be the reason you’d break that promise.

So he held back. Every time your body writhed against his. Every time he could smell your arousal through your leggings. Every time he had to clench his jaw and bury his face in your neck just to keep from coming in his pants.

He never touched himself after. Not once.

Didn’t jerk off to the thought of you, even though he ached to.

Because he wanted all of it—all of you—the right way.

He thought the wait would be worth it.

He just didn’t know you were waiting for him to want you at all.

—

The late afternoon sun cast warm streaks of gold across the compound, tinting the walls and windows with lazy amber light. You’d just wrapped up training and were headed toward the balcony, drawn by the familiar sound of laughter—two deep voices rolling over each other in low, nostalgic waves.

Steve and Bucky.

You slowed your steps as you approached, the soft creak of your boots masked by the breeze curling in through the open doors. They hadn’t noticed you yet, and you paused just beyond the archway, hidden by the sliding glass panel, your eyes flicking over to them instinctively.

They were seated side by side on the wide balcony bench, drinks in hand—Bucky with his legs spread in that casual, careless way, grey shirt pulled tight across his chest, silver arm draped over the backrest. Steve had a glass of something dark balanced in his grip, laughing into it.

“Alright, Buck. Be honest with me,” Steve said, nudging Bucky’s boot with his own. “How’s everything with you and her?”

Bucky shifted a little, his jaw tensing as he looked down at the drink in his hand.

You froze, breath catching. Her? You?

He didn’t answer right away. When he did, his voice was soft, but sure.

“We’re doing just fine.”

Steve scoffed. “Just fine? Buck, come on. That’s not enough.”

Bucky chuckled under his breath, but there was a flicker of tension in the movement—like he was trying to ease discomfort off his shoulders. He rubbed his thumb along the curve of his glass and glanced sideways at Steve.

“I don’t think I should be talking about her when she’s not here,” he muttered. “That wouldn’t feel right.”

You blinked. Your chest tightened. He was talking about you like—

Steve laughed again, all good-natured and clueless. “God, you haven’t changed.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Bucky asked, arching an eyebrow, but the corners of his mouth twitched.

“You remember the 40s?” Steve leaned back, the bench creaking under his weight. “Every girl at the bar was looking past me, and straight at you. I couldn’t get a date to save my damn life. You? You walked in and the whole room turned to jelly.”

Bucky snorted, tipping his head back with a sigh. “Yeah, well. That was before the serum. Before your fan club started.”

Steve smirked. “Oh, how the tables have turned, huh?”

Bucky gave him a look—part fond, part annoyed—but didn’t deny it.

Then Steve added, with a smirk far too knowing:

“You know, I still remember the rumors. I wasn’t supposed to hear most of ‘em—but you know how dames talk when they’ve had one too many.” He grinned into his glass. “Word was, anyone who got lucky enough to sleep with Sergeant Barnes left with their legs shaking.”

Bucky groaned immediately. “Jesus, Stevie—”

“No, no, wait—my favorite was the one who said you had a magic mouth,” Steve continued, delighting in the way Bucky tried to sink into himself. “Swore you knew exactly what to do down there. Said it was like being—what was it—worshipped?”

Your heart skipped. What?

You stepped out, your voice too curious for your brain to catch up.

“Wait… Bucky was that good with girls?”

Both men looked up fast. Bucky flinched like he’d just been smacked with a brick.

“Shit,” he muttered, straightening up immediately, his metal fingers tightening around his glass. “How long’ve you been standing there?”

“Long enough,” you said, fighting a grin as you stepped toward them, trying to sound innocent even though your pulse was sprinting. “I didn’t know you had a magic mouth, Bucky.”

Steve glanced between you and Bucky, the corner of his mouth twitching with the kind of subtle amusement only a best friend could pull off.

“Well,” he said, rising from the bench with smooth ease, “I’ll leave you two to talk.”

He set his glass down on the ledge, adjusted the sleeves of his shirt with practiced calm, and gave Bucky a pointed look that only made the other man shrink deeper into his seat.

Then, with a polite nod to you, he added,

“Try not to give him too hard a time, huh?”

And with that, Steve turned and walked back inside—composed, quiet, and absolutely smirking.

The silence he left behind was scorching.

Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, his skin already turning crimson beneath the ends of his hair. His silver fingers tapped against the railing like he couldn’t decide whether to escape over it or just melt into a puddle where he stood.

“That, uh… that wasn’t exactly how I wanted that to come up,” he muttered, eyes fixed on the floor.

You leaned next to him, arms crossed, brow arched just slightly. “You never told me you had a reputation.”

He groaned. “God. It was blown way out of proportion, I swear.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head, pretending to think. “So you didn’t make girls’ legs shake?”

Bucky winced. Practically folded into himself.

“I mean—maybe a few,” he muttered. “But not like that. It wasn’t… Jesus, they made it sound like I slept with the whole borough. I didn’t. I wasn’t like that.”

You tried not to smile. “The whole borough, huh?”

His head jerked toward you, eyes wide. “Wait—are you… are you mad?”

“What? No,” you said quickly, brows lifting.

“You sure?” he asked again, more desperate now. “Because I never—look, I wasn’t just screwing around back then, okay? I didn’t sleep with that many people. And I haven’t been with anyone since and I’m not—I mean, I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Your breath caught for a second. But you didn’t say anything.

Because your brain was not registering any of that.

Not the panic in his voice. Not the low, sincere way he said to you like it meant something.

All you could think about was what Steve said.

Legs shaking. Worship. Magic mouth.

You were still stuck on that phrase like a scratch on a record.

You let a beat pass. Just long enough to watch the flush creeping up his neck, the nervous dart of his eyes, the way he seemed to be running through every decision he’d ever made since 1943.

“I just didn’t know you were into that,” you said lightly, brushing invisible lint from your sleeve like you hadn’t just learned something that would haunt you tonight in your sheets.

Bucky shifted uncomfortably, clearly spiraling. “I—I didn’t mean for that to sound like I was bragging or anything. I don’t know where Steve heard that stuff. I mean, yeah, I used to, but not—It wasn’t like I slept around. I didn’t. I swear I never—”

“Bucky,” you cut in gently, offering a little smile. “It’s really okay.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nodded once, calm and even. “No hard feelings.”

He looked like he wanted to say more, apologize again, dig his way out of a guilt hole he didn’t even need to be in. But you didn’t give him the chance.

You stepped back toward the door, glancing at him over your shoulder.

“I’ll see you at dinner.”

And then you slipped inside, perfectly composed.

—

Your expression didn’t crack until you turned the corner, heat blooming across your face like a slow, wicked fire.

He used to love it.

He might still be good at it.

He thinks you’re mad about his past… and you’re just thinking about his mouth between your legs.

You pressed your hand against the wall, heart thundering.

Now all you needed was the right moment.

The right excuse.

Something casual. Natural.

Just a little something to get James Buchanan Barnes on his knees.

—

You kept your distance for six days.

Six entire, aching days.

Dinner that night? You smiled. Ate. Laughed with Sam. Passed the mashed potatoes like nothing had changed. Bucky sat across from you, silent and painfully upright, like he was ready for a cross-examination that never came.

The next day? You greeted him with a nod in the hallway. Kept your tone even, your posture casual. Bucky watched you like a man waiting for the world to fall out from under him.

And the day after that? You brushed past him near the weapons locker, arm grazing his on accident—only to duck into the training room before he could open his mouth.

He kept trying. Eyes lingering, mouth parting every time he got you alone for even a second. But you never gave him the space.

Because what were you supposed to say?

Hey, Bucky. You want to eat my cunt sometime? Because I’ve been thinking about it for many nights and I’m dangerously close to humping the corner of my pillow just to cope?

Yeah, no.

So you waited. And stewed. And tried not to fantasize.

But your body had other plans.

By day six, your hormones had you spiraling. You caught yourself grinding your thighs together during debriefing. Sweating during sparring. Biting your lip when Bucky scratched his jaw and muttered something under his breath, not even directed at you.

Day seven, you cracked.

Over lunch, with the team distracted, you leaned close to him—so casual—and said,

“Come to my unit after dinner.”

He blinked. “Yeah?”

You nodded, eyes steady. “Just for a bit.”

And that was all it took.

—

He showed up at your door just past nine. Dressed down in a fitted black tee and dark sweats. Hair tucked behind his ears. Smiling.

Not smirking. Not flirty. Just… happy.

You didn’t know it yet, but he thought this was a date. A real one. The first of many.

You let him in and made small talk. Let him sit on the couch like always. Let him pull you into his lap the way he always did when it was just the two of you and there was nowhere else you’d rather be.

Then you kissed him.

Slow. Familiar. But deeper.

His hands came to your thighs, dragging up under the hem of your oversized shirt as your knees bracketed his hips. He groaned softly into your mouth when you rolled against him—pressing down, grinding slow and needy right into the heat of his lap.

Then he froze.

You could feel it. The shift. The exact moment he realized there was nothing between you and his pants. No shorts. No panties. Just your bare, wet cunt dragging over the thick line of his cock through cotton.

Bucky broke the kiss, his hands halting on your thighs.

His voice came out hoarse.

“Doll… are you—are you not wearing anything?”

You blushed, chest rising slowly. “No.”

His eyes widened, hand clenching against your skin. “Since when?”

“Since before you got here.”

“Jesus,” he whispered, like it physically hurt him.

You pressed your forehead against his. Voice trembling now, but not from nerves.

“I’ve been thinking about it. Ever since Steve said that thing on the balcony.”

His brows lifted. ��About… my mouth?”

You nodded. “I can’t stop thinking about it.”

You shifted your hips again. Let him feel the wet drag of your folds against his cock. He sucked in a sharp breath, hands locking tighter on your waist.

“Baby,” he rasped, “are you sure this is what you want? Not just—y’know, ‘cause you’re upset or… jealous or—”

That was the moment it snapped. The misunderstanding, the buried truth, the weeks and months of aching.

Your brow furrowed.

“Jealous? Bucky, I don’t have any right to be jealous. We’re not… together.”

He blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I mean we’re just…” You swallowed. “I thought we were just fooling around. Friends with benefits or something.”

His face went still.

“Wait,” he said. “You thought that’s what we were?”

You nodded slowly.

“I thought we were dating,” he said quietly. “I thought we were just taking it slow. You said at the barbecue that you’re traditional. I figured that meant you were saving sex until… marriage or something.”

You stared at him, lips parting. “I—no. I just didn’t want to sleep with someone who didn’t take me seriously.”

Bucky’s mouth hung open for a second. Then he let out a short, breathless laugh—somewhere between disbelief and relief.

“We’re idiots,” you said, and started laughing too.

He buried his face in your neck and laughed along with you, arms wrapping tighter around your waist.

“You’ve been my boyfriend this whole time without me even knowing?” you teased.

He pulled back, brushing his nose against yours. “Guess that makes it official now.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because now you’ve got even more reason to go down on me.”

His lips parted. You kissed him before he could speak.

—

What followed wasn’t fast.

It wasn’t wild.

It was reverent.

Bucky laid you back on the couch like you were made of silk and starlight, one hand supporting your back while the other guided your thighs open. He settled between them like it was where he was always meant to be—kneeling, breath shaky, eyes dark.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he whispered, thumbing along the inside of your knee. His voice was low. Full of awe.

You reached for him—but he kissed your thigh instead. Then again. And again. Slow, warm, deliberate. His stubble scraped lightly along your skin, the contrast enough to make you squirm, already sensitive from the slow grind you’d shared minutes before.

“Easy, baby,” he murmured. “Just wanna take my time with you. You deserve that.”

Then he ducked lower.

And when he pressed his tongue to your cunt—broad and unhurried—it felt like the world melted into heat and wet and sound. You gasped, hips twitching, fingers curling into the couch cushions.

Bucky moaned into you. Actually moaned.

“God, you taste like fucking honey,” he rasped, licking another slow, deliberate stripe between your folds. “So sweet, baby. Dripping for me.”

He dragged his tongue through your slick again, groaning like the taste alone could undo him. And then he slurped—an unashamed, filthy sound that made your eyes roll back.

“Fuck,” he mumbled, voice thick and desperate. “Can’t believe I waited this long.”

His tongue circled your clit—steady, patient, focused. Then he sucked. A low, wet pull that sent shockwaves down your spine. You cried out, thighs shaking already, but Bucky didn’t stop. He wrapped his lips around that swollen bud and sucked again, swirling his tongue in small, practiced motions like he’d studied every curve, every pattern of how your body trembled for him.

“I knew you’d be perfect,” he breathed. “So fucking soft. So warm. Look at this pussy, baby. Look how wet she is for me.”

You whined, head thrown back, chest heaving—and he didn’t let up.

He licked you like it was his only purpose. Like he’d spent years thinking about this. Dreaming of this. His tongue flicked quick, then slow, then down—dipping into your entrance, fucking in and out with soft, rhythmic strokes that made your back arch off the couch.

“Oh my god—Bucky—”

“That’s it,” he groaned. “Let me hear those pretty sounds. You don’t even know what you’re doing to me, baby. Feels like I’m high off this fucking pussy.”

You could hear how wet it was. The obscene, slick sounds of his tongue lapping, his lips sucking, the gentle stubble burn brushing your inner thighs with every move. He kept you wide, kept you steady, like he didn’t want to miss a second—like this was something sacred to him.

And when your thighs started to tremble, when your hips bucked once—twice—he held you still with a firm grip of his metal hand on your stomach.

“Let go, sweetheart,” he whispered, licking up your slit with one slow, heavenly stroke. “Let me feel you fall apart.”

And you did.

You shattered.

Came hard. Loud. Thighs clenching around his head while he groaned and kept sucking, kept licking through it, pushing you higher until your whole body was shaking.

He didn’t stop. Not until he pulled a second orgasm from you with nothing but his mouth and your name falling from his lips like praise.

When he finally eased up—mouth slick, lips swollen, beard shining with your release—he kissed your thighs again. Tender. Adoring. Like he still wasn’t done worshipping you.

Then he climbed up your body, settling over you slowly, his hands gentle where they cradled your hips.

His forehead pressed to yours. He was smiling—dazed and soft and breathless.

You blinked at him, heart still pounding.

“So that’s what all the rumors were about.”

Bucky chuckled, voice low and hoarse.

“They didn’t even know half of it.”

[pompuff]

"I thought Caine couldn't..."

THIS MOMENT RIGHT HERE

I don't wanna jump the gun just yet and call this foreshadowing, this was clearly played off for the lolz, but I have a nagging feeling this is implying something much, much darker

It's clear that Jax said the part about the egg white* involuntarily, since he doesn't want to play this vegan bit whatsoever. But his sentence at the end; "I thought Caine couldn't..."

"... control us"??

Imagine that. They're trapped against their will, they can never go home, they're forced into stressful and scary adventures every day, but at the very least they still have free will. At least they can choose what they say and do (puppeteer employee re-evaluations aside)

Only, they can't. That can be taken away from them as well.

And Zooble knew it.

Remember this brief convo in the previous episode;

"The only thing holding Caine back is the fact that he likes us. I wouldn't push it."

ZOOBLE KNOWS SOMETHING.

Most likely they may just be wiser and/or more perceptive than most, fully comprehending the scope of Caine's powers in the circus and knowing that they're all hanging on by the threads that Caine is clutching. Or, possibly, they may have been witness to this "punishment" they mention. This may be the real reason they never go on adventures. Not cuz they just can't be fucked (tho probably true) but because they figure "If I don't do anything, I can't do anything wrong/worth punishing"

They know what Caine is capable of, and how it can be weaponized. In that sense, they were actually very forgiving to only ask for Jax to be vegan for the day as punishment for pretending to eat Gangle. I think between episode 4 & 5 we're seeing Jax come to that realization as well. It's clear that in his own way, he trusted Caine wouldn't hurt him or force him to do anything against his will, and was proven wrong twice.

Like I said, this might be foreshadowing for something later on, it might just be subtext you're meant to stew over as I have. Either way, its clear that Caine has greater capacity for evil, or at least immense harm, than most of them realize.

*also, since when do whiskey sours have egg whites?? I looked it up thinking it was a joke, but no, this is a cocktail with egg in it, wtf. Tho technically, according to google if it has an egg white it's a Boston sour, but same diff

[velvetvisionsaurora]

Pairing: Mafia Ateez OT8x Reader

Warnings: smut, fluff, angst, poly ateez, violence and weapons, mafia ateez, organized crime, parental death and grieving process, bullying, possessive and controlling behavior,

Summary: When Y/n Ricci is forced to marry Kim Hongjoong—leader of the notorious ATEEZ organization and one of eight men who cruelly abandoned her seven years ago—she finds herself trapped in their heavily guarded compound with the ghosts of her past. As she navigates the dangerous world of mafia politics and her own wounded heart, Y/n discovers that all eight powerful, irresistible men still harbor deep feelings for her, suggesting an unconventional solution to their shared dilemma. But before she can consider forgiving them, let alone loving them again, she must uncover the dark secret that tore them apart—a truth that could either heal their fractured bonds or destroy them all completely.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

18+ only- No Minors

Chapter 1: Ice in your Veins

The crystal decanter shattered against the wall, sending shards of glass and amber liquid cascading across your father's office.

"You've lost your goddamn mind!" you shouted, your chest heaving with each ragged breath. "An arranged marriage? What century do you think we're living in?"

Your father, Don Ricci, didn't even flinch. He simply stared at you with those cold, calculating eyes—the same eyes that had ordered countless men to their deaths. The same eyes you'd inherited.

"Y/n," he said, his voice steady and low. "You've always known this day would come."

"Known? Known?" you spat the word like venom. "I never agreed to be some bargaining chip in your twisted game of power."

He sighed, rising from his leather chair to pour himself another drink from a second decanter—as if he'd anticipated your outburst. Of course he had. Your father always seemed to know what cards would be played before they were even dealt.

"This isn't a game, cara mia. It's survival." He swirled the amber liquid, watching it catch the light. "The Ricci family needs this alliance."

"Then make it with guns and money like you always do," you hissed. "Not with your daughter's life."

"The Kim family has always been our ally. Hongjoong's father and I have been friends since before you were born," he said, his expression softening slightly with nostalgia. "But times are changing. The old alliances need to be... reinforced."

"So call him up for dinner like you used to! Remember those Sunday gatherings with all the families?" Your voice cracked. "You don't need to sell your daughter to maintain a friendship!"

Your father's eyes narrowed. "This isn't just about friendship, Y/n. This is about survival. The Russo family is encroaching on all our territories. Together, our families are stronger."

You laughed bitterly. "So you're afraid of them? The great Don Ricci, trembling before—" You froze mid-sentence, the full implications hitting you. "Wait. Kim? As in Kim Hongjoong? That Hongjoong?"

Your father's eyes met yours, a flicker of understanding passing through them. "Yes. The same boy you used to run around with. You and those eight boys were inseparable once—until they weren't."

The name hit you like a physical blow. You gripped the edge of his desk to steady yourself, memories flooding back in a dizzying rush—laughter shared under summer stars, secrets whispered in the darkness, and then... nothing. Seven years of nothing.

"No," you whispered. "Anyone but him."

Your father watched you carefully, more perceptive than you'd given him credit for. "I thought you'd be pleased. You were close once, all of you. The sons of my most trusted allies." He paused, studying your reaction. 

You turned away, unwilling to let him see the pain in your eyes. "Apparently we weren’t as close as I thought."

"I don’t have the energy for you tonight," he sighed. "This alliance is necessary. The Kim, Park, Jeong, Kang, Choi, Song, and Jung families—we've controlled this city for generations. Now we need to ensure it stays that way for generations to come."

"How considerate of you," you sneered, finding your voice again. "And I suppose Hongjoong has already agreed to this?"

"He has. In fact, it was his father who proposed it."

Something sharp and painful twisted in your chest. So that's how it was. The boy who had once sworn he would always protect you had agreed to make you a prisoner in your own life.

"Did you ever stop to wonder," you asked quietly, dangerously, "why they all disappeared from my life? Why your 'trusted allies' sons suddenly wanted nothing to do with me?"

Your father's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes. "The world we live in is complicated, Y/n. Boys become men. Priorities shift."

"Bullshit," you spat. "Something happened. Something you're not telling me."

Don Ricci set down his glass with deliberate care. "What I know is that we need this alliance, and Hongjoong is willing. That's all that matters now."

* * *

Across the city, Hongjoong stood at the window of his penthouse office, staring out at the glittering skyline. Behind him, Seonghwa watched his leader carefully, noting the tension in his shoulders.

"You told Don Ricci you'd marry his daughter," Seonghwa said, not a question but a statement.

Hongjoong didn't turn. "I did what was necessary for the family."

"And what about Y/n?" Seonghwa asked, his voice carefully neutral. "Do you think she'll agree?"

A bitter smile crossed Hongjoong's face. "Y/n doesn't have any more choice in this than I do." 

Seonghwa stepped closer, lowering his voice though they were alone. "She doesn't know why we left. What we did to protect her."

"And she never will," Hongjoong said sharply, finally turning to face his consigliere. His eyes were hard, resolved. "That was the agreement. We stay away, she stays safe. And now..."

"Now you're bringing her back into our world," Seonghwa finished for him.

Hongjoong's hand tightened around the tumbler of whiskey he held. "Her father's losing control. The Russo family is closing in. If we don't step in now, she'll be caught in the crossfire regardless."

"Our fathers always intended for the families to unite this way," Seonghwa mused. "It was discussed even when we were children."

"But none of them could have predicted what happened seven years ago," Hongjoong replied grimly.

"And what will you tell her? After seven years of silence?"

Hongjoong downed the rest of his drink in one swift motion. "Nothing. The past stays buried."

"She won't accept that," Seonghwa warned. "You know how she is."

A flash of something—perhaps pain, perhaps fondness—crossed Hongjoong's face. "Yes," he said quietly. "I remember exactly how she is."

* * *

You paced your bedroom like a caged animal, anger burning through your veins. The door was locked—not by your father's order but by your own hand. You needed space to think, to breathe, to process the bomb that had just been dropped on your life.

Hongjoong. After all this time.

You grabbed the nearest object—a porcelain figurine—and hurled it at the wall, taking grim satisfaction in watching it shatter. It didn't help, but at least it was something.

Seven years ago, they had been your everything—Hongjoong and the others. More than friends, they had been your chosen family, your confidants, your safety in a world where your last name made you both royalty and target. The sons of your father's closest allies and business partners, you'd grown up together in the sheltered world of mafia royalty. And then one day, without warning or explanation, they were gone. No calls. No messages. Nothing but cold silence and empty promises.

And now Hongjoong had the audacity to agree to marry you? Like you were nothing more than a business transaction?

You grabbed your phone, scrolling to a number you'd never deleted but never called. Your thumb hovered over it.

A soft knock at your door interrupted your thoughts.

"Miss Y/n?" It was Paolo, your father's most trusted bodyguard. "Your father wants you downstairs. The Kim and Park families have arrived to discuss the arrangements."

You froze, your heart stuttering in your chest. "Already? They're here now?"

"Yes, miss. Your father says you have ten minutes to make yourself presentable."

You wanted to scream, to throw something else, to lock yourself in and refuse to come out. But you were a Ricci. And Riccis didn't hide.

"Tell my father I'll be down," you called back, your voice steadier than you felt.

As Paolo's footsteps faded away, you caught your reflection in the mirror. Wild eyes, flushed cheeks, hair tumbling in disarray around your shoulders. You looked dangerous, unhinged.

Perfect.

If Hongjoong thought he could waltz back into your life and claim you like a prize, he was about to learn a painful lesson. You might be forced into this marriage, but you'd be damned if you made it easy for him.

You reached for your closet, pulling out a black dress that hugged every curve, cut just low enough to be a distraction, just high enough to maintain the appearance of respect. You applied your makeup with deliberate precision—red lips, smoky eyes, sharp enough to cut.

Armor, in its own way.

Ten minutes later, you descended the grand staircase of your family home, each step measured and deliberate. You could hear voices from the main drawing room—your father's deep rumble, and then another voice that sent a jolt through your system.

Hongjoong.

You paused outside the door, steadying yourself with one deep breath, and then another. You weren't that heartbroken teenage girl anymore. You were Y/n Ricci, daughter of one of the most feared men in the city. And you were about to face the ghosts of your past.

With one final steadying breath, you pushed open the door and stepped inside, your eyes immediately finding his across the room.

Time seemed to stop as your gaze locked with Hongjoong's for the first time in seven years.

The room fell silent as you stepped inside. 

Five men turned to look at you—your father, his consigliere Antonio, and three figures from your past. Mr. Kim and his son Hongjoong stood near the fireplace, while Seonghwa lingered slightly behind them, ever the faithful shadow.

"Ah, Y/n," your father's voice broke the silence. "Come greet our guests."

You moved forward with practiced grace, your heels clicking against the marble floor like a ticking bomb. Your eyes remained fixed on Hongjoong, cataloging the changes seven years had brought. Gone was the boy with bright eyes and an easy smile. In his place stood a man, sharp-edged and dangerous, dressed impeccably in a tailored black suit. His hair, once a wild mop, was now styled with deliberate precision, dark strands falling just above eyes that watched you with maddening impassivity.

"Mr. Kim," you greeted Hongjoong's father first, extending your hand with a polite smile. "It's been too long."

The older man took your hand, his grip firm. 

"Y/n. You've grown into a beautiful young woman." His eyes crinkled with what seemed like genuine warmth. "Your mother would be proud."

You kept your smile in place, though the mention of your mother sent a familiar pang through your chest. "Thank you."

Then you turned to Hongjoong, letting your smile cool several degrees. "Mr. Kim," you said again, the formal address a deliberate reminder of the distance between you now.

Hongjoong stepped forward, taking your offered hand. His touch sent an unwelcome jolt of electricity up your arm—a physical betrayal you refused to acknowledge.

"Miss Ricci," he replied, his voice deeper than you remembered. "A pleasure to see you again."

"Is it?" you asked, arching a perfectly shaped eyebrow. "I wouldn't have guessed, given the circumstances."

Hongjoong's expression didn't change, but something flickered in his eyes—perhaps surprise at your directness. "The circumstances are... complex."

"They always are in our world, aren't they?" You withdrew your hand from his grasp, turning to the third visitor. "Mr. Park. I see you're still following Hongjoong around like a loyal puppy. Some things never change."

Seonghwa's lips twitched slightly—not in anger, but what almost looked like appreciation for your barb. "Miss Ricci. Sharp as ever."

"One of us has to be," you replied coolly.

There was a time when you would have greeted these men differently—when Hongjoong would have been "Joongie" and Seonghwa would have been "Hwa." When you would have thrown your arms around them without hesitation, your laughter filling the room. But that time was long gone, buried under seven years of silence and unanswered questions.

Your father cleared his throat. "Perhaps we should sit and discuss the arrangements."

"An excellent suggestion," Mr. Kim said, gesturing toward the seating area.

You took a seat in a high-backed chair, crossing your legs elegantly as the men arranged themselves on the surrounding sofas. Hongjoong sat directly across from you, his dark eyes never leaving your face.

"As we've discussed," your father began, "the marriage will take place in three months' time. This will give us adequate opportunity to prepare and to announce the union to our associates."

"Three months?" you interjected, your voice carrying a dangerous edge. "How generous of you to give me a whole season to prepare for my own wedding."

Your father shot you a warning look, but Mr. Kim merely chuckled. "Your daughter has your spirit, Don Ricci."

"Sometimes too much of it," your father muttered.

Hongjoong leaned forward slightly. "Three months is standard for arrangements of this nature. It allows for proper preparations while not delaying the benefits of our alliance."

"Benefits," you repeated, the word dripping with disdain. "How romantic. Tell me, Hongjoong, do you always discuss marriage in terms of profit margins and strategic advantages?"

A muscle in Hongjoong's jaw twitched. "In our position, romance is a luxury few can afford."

"And yet here I am, being auctioned off like a prized mare. Quite the luxury indeed."

"Y/n," your father warned.

But Hongjoong raised a hand. "It's alright. Y/n has every right to express her... reservations."

"How magnanimous of you," you said with a saccharine smile. "Granting me permission to have feelings about my own life."

Hongjoong's eyes narrowed slightly, but you caught it—the briefest twitch at the corner of his mouth, a ghost of the smile you once knew so well. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, but you'd seen it. Somewhere beneath that cold exterior, your words had reached him.

"Perhaps," Seonghwa suggested smoothly, "Miss Ricci would like some time to discuss the arrangement privately with Hongjoong. After all, they will be spending their lives together. Some initial conversation might ease the transition."

Your father nodded. "An excellent idea. Y/n, why don't you show Hongjoong to the garden? Antonio and I have some additional matters to discuss with Mr. Kim and Seonghwa."

It wasn't a request. You stood, smoothing down your dress. "Of course. This way, Mr. Kim."

You led Hongjoong through the double doors and into the hallway, your back straight, your steps measured. Neither of you spoke as you walked through the house and out to the garden—the same garden where you had all played as children, where secrets had been shared and promises made. Promises that had ultimately meant nothing.

Once outside, you turned to face him, crossing your arms. "Well? Shall we discuss flower arrangements and honeymoon destinations? Or would you prefer to skip straight to dividing up territories and body counts?"

Hongjoong didn't rise to the bait. He stood with his hands in his pockets, the evening breeze ruffling his perfectly styled hair. For a moment, in the fading light, he looked almost like the boy you'd known.

"You've changed," he said finally.

"Did you expect me to stay frozen in time?" you asked. "The same naive girl waiting for her friends to return?"

"No," he admitted. "But I didn't expect... this."

"This?"

"This version of you. Cold. Hard." His eyes traveled over you, lingering on your face. "Beautiful in a way that cuts."

You refused to let his words affect you. "We all become what we need to survive. You taught me that lesson quite effectively."

"I suppose I did," he murmured, moving past you to look out at the garden. "Do you remember when we used to sneak out here at night? All of us?"

"I remember a lot of things," you said flatly. "None of them relevant to our current situation."

Hongjoong turned back to you, his expression unreadable. "Is that how you want to play this, Y/n? Pretending the past never happened?"

"Isn't that exactly what you did?" you shot back, unable to keep the edge from your voice. "Seven years, Hongjoong. Seven years without a word. And now you want to reminisce like old friends?"

Something flashed in his eyes—pain, perhaps, or regret. But it was quickly masked by that infuriating control. "You're right. The past is irrelevant. What matters is our future arrangement."

"Arrangement," you repeated. "Not marriage. Not partnership. Arrangement."

"Would you prefer I lie to you? Dress this up as something it's not?"

"I would prefer not to be traded like a commodity," you snapped. "But since that ship has sailed, I'd at least like to know why you agreed to this. What possible benefit could you gain from marrying someone who clearly despises you?"

Hongjoong stepped closer, close enough that you could smell his cologne—sandalwood and something darker, more complex. "Maybe I enjoy a challenge."

You let out a harsh laugh. "Is that what I am to you? A challenge to be conquered?"

"No," he said, his voice suddenly serious. "You're much more dangerous than that."

Before you could respond, he reached out, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear with unexpected gentleness. The casual intimacy of the gesture stole the breath from your lungs.

"Our fathers have made their decision," he said quietly. "We can fight it and make ourselves miserable, or we can find a way to make it work."

You stepped back, breaking the spell of his proximity. "And how exactly do you suggest we do that? Start fresh? Pretend you and the others didn't rip my heart out and stomp on it?"

A flash of guilt crossed his features. "I don't expect you to forget. Or forgive. But for both our sakes, we need to find a way forward."

"There is no 'we,' Hongjoong. There's you and your precious family, and there's me, doing what I must to survive—just as I've done since you all abandoned me."

Hongjoong's jaw tightened. "You know nothing about what happened."

"Whose fault is that?" you challenged.

For a moment, it seemed like he might actually tell you something—anything—to explain the past. But then his expression closed off again, the wall between you solidifying.

"Some things are better left buried," he said finally.

You laughed, the sound brittle in the evening air. "How convenient for you."

Hongjoong studied you for a long moment, his dark eyes taking in every detail of your face. "You know, despite everything, that fire in you—it's still there. They couldn't take that away."

"They?"

But he was already turning away. "We should go back inside. They'll be waiting."

As you followed him back toward the house, you couldn't help but wonder who "they" were, and what exactly Hongjoong thought had been taken from you. But one thing was certain—beneath his cold, controlled exterior, the boy you once knew still existed. You'd seen it in that fleeting almost-smile, heard it in the softness that had crept into his voice when he spoke of the past.

And that realization was far more dangerous than his indifference could ever be.

Next>>

Taglist: @paramedicnerd004, @miracle-sol

[cressidagrey]

The Red Notebook

Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Felicity Leong-Piastri (Original Character)

Part of the The mysterious Mrs. Piastri Series.

Summary:  Every season, Felicity Piastri keeps a red notebook—meticulously filled with race notes, corner analysis, and tyre data—not for the engineers, but for Oscar.

Warnings and Notes: This adds much needed context to a mention of the Red Notebook in the eventual Silverstone one shot. Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

Oscar knew every driver had their rituals.

Some tapped the side of the car before lights out. Some listened to the same playlist before quali. Some wore lucky socks. He wasn’t one for superstition. (Unless it was Felicity’s notes tucked into his gloves.)

Oscar was calm, calculated, precise. But if there was one thing in his world that carried the same sacred weight as a prayer before battle, it was this:

The red notebook.

Felicity had been keeping one since he was fifteen.

Oscar had never asked her to do it.

But she did it anyway.

Every season of his career, starting in 2016, from karting to F4 to now, had its own red notebook. Same brand, same size, same weight. Always red. The kind with a soft leather cover and a ribbon bookmark. He’d once asked why that colour.

Felicity had blinked. “Because Racing is in your blood.”

Every year, a new one. Lined up in a quiet row on the shelf at home. 2016. 2017. 2018. All the way through now.

The season’s notebook started the day before pre-season testing. She’d jotted down tyre compound data while he was still learning the steering wheel settings. 

She never missed a race.

Even before they’d been married, even before they’d been anything more than best friends, she’d been the one watching grainy livestreams of karting races at three in the morning. She’d pause, rewind, scribble something, frown, rewind again. Always in pencil first. Always rewatching later with a cup of tea and writing with black ink. 

Oscar still remembered when it started. One day he’d come back to Haileybury from a junior series race, his helmet still damp with sweat, and found her at the kitchen table with a notebook open beside her laptop. She’d been watching his onboard, pausing it at the exit of Turn 9.

"You were lifting earlier here," she’d said casually, as if they weren’t fifteen and chronically exhausted. "Were the rears giving out or was it just the balance shift?"

He’d stared at her. “How do you even—”

She’d shrugged. “I rewatched the last three races. Thought maybe it was setup. But I think it’s tire fatigue.”

She hadn’t been wrong.

She never was.

He’d protested, at first. Told her she didn’t have to. That she could sleep in. That she didn’t need to rewatch every one of his races in painstaking detail. But she’d just looked at him, calm and matter-of-fact.

“I like watching you work,” she said. “And I like knowing how to help.”

Since then, every race season had a notebook.

She’d never stopped. Not in F4. Not in Renault Eurocup. Not in F3. Not in F2. Not even now, when the races were streamed to millions, and Oscar had an entire team of strategists and data analysts and performance engineers.

By the time he got to F1, the habit was ingrained.

Every season had a new red notebook.

Neatly labeled with the year on the inside cover. Oscar – 2019. Oscar – 2020. Oscar – 2021.

 All the way up to Oscar – 2024, tucked beside her laptop, the pen clipped to the side like always.

Each race had its own section—track map hand-drawn in the corner, weather data scribbled in the margins, key overtakes underlined in green, mistakes circled in blue. 

Notes on setup balance, driver behavior, tire drop-off. Observations from free practice. Quali patterns. Sector deltas compared across weekends.

One red notebook for every season.

Lined pages, neatly labelled.

Her handwriting somehow managing to be both clinical and caring.

Oscar sometimes thought about all those notebooks. How they formed a silent record of his life—not the headlines, not the points on a screen, but the real story. The choices. The nuance. The growing.

Oscar had once asked what she’d do with them all.

She’d just smiled and said, “Maybe I’ll give them to you. When you’re old and don’t remember why you did all this.”

But he thought she was wrong.

Because all he’d have to do was look at her.

And he’d remember.

Every Monday night—after every race, whether he won, DNFed, or trundled home in P9—they’d debrief.

Not officially. Not in a team room. Just the two of them. 

Over the phone. Or curled up on a couch somewhere. He’d grab a water bottle. She’d open the notebook. And they’d go through it—one sector at a time.

“You want the good or the bad first?” she’d ask.

And Oscar would always say, “Start with the bad.”

She never softened it. That wasn’t her style. But she never made it cruel. Just observations, always grounded in care.

“You were oversteering into Turn 4,” she might say. “You hesitated on the switchback in Lap 36. And you always get a little sloppy after safety car restarts.”

Then she’d pause. Let him breathe.

“Your tire management in the middle stint was beautiful, though,” she’d add. “And your dive on Lap 21? That was perfect.”

She always ended on that. Something kind. Something true.

It wasn’t just racecraft. She tracked patterns— behavior, tyre drop-off curves, pit wall communications. 

She never shoved it in his face. Never acted like she knew better. She just… saw him. All of him. His driving, his instincts, his cracks, his triumphs. And she held it with reverence. She had, always.

That was Felicity.

Not loud. Not flashy. But constant. Fiercely observant. Quietly all in.

Oscar had always known Felicity was the kind of person who remembered things.

Not in the casual way, either—this wasn’t *oh yeah, I think you mentioned that once* kind of memory.

This was weaponized recall. Pattern-tracking. Observation to the point of quiet obsession.

She always said it wasn’t for coaching. She didn’t have the right license for that.

But they both knew—Felicity’s mind was the license.

Oscar hadn’t missed a single debrief with her since he was fiteen.

Even now — full McLaren kit, media commitments, a dozen engineers and strategists surrounding him — he still came home after every race and sat at the kitchen table with her, red notebook open between them, a cup of tea cooling by her elbow.

She’d never push. Never judge. Just turned a page and say, “I think you started lifting earlier here. Did it feel different?”

And she was always right.

He didn’t know what he’d do without her voice in his ear. Her notes. Her calm, razor-sharp logic that made him better every single season — not by force, but by faith. She believed in him like it was a given. Like his success was a shared equation they were solving together.

That notebook was sacred now. A quiet, red witness to every win, every loss, every hard-earned point. 

Felicity never missed a race. Never skipped a page. Never stopped showing up, quietly and completely, with the kind of devotion that made him ache.

And Oscar knew how lucky he was to be loved like that. To be studied and understood and quietly backed with a red notebook full of margins and maybes.

By 2023, the red notebook wasn’t just Felicity’s anymore.

It was still hers in the way rituals are—quiet, sacred, consistent. But now it had new fingerprints on it. Smaller ones.

Bee had started watching races more intently after the summer break that year. Not just to cheer for “Papa’s car” or to spot “the man who always says ‘box box’ in the funny accent.” No—she started paying attention. The way Felicity did. The way Oscar did.

It began with questions.

“Why did the other car pit sooner than Papa?”

“Was he happy with that last lap?”

Oscar hadn’t thought much of it at first. Just curiosity. The kind of natural interest you’d expect from a kid who was surrounded by racing. And who could identify tyre compounds before she could spell tangerine.

But then, one day after the Dutch GP, he opened the notebook and found a sticky note wedged between Lap 28 and 29. Bee’s handwriting was still wobbly, more squiggle than letter, but it was there. Carefully written in her purple glitter pen:

“I think Papa was fast in the twisty bits. The Red car was slow. Tell him?”

He’d laughed. Soft and stunned and warm all over.

Felicity had just smiled. “She asked if she could help.”

After that, it became a thing.

 Usually marked with a tiny star, or Felicity’s added annotation: “Bee’s call. She might be right.”

And the thing was — sometimes she was.

Bee had an instinct for rhythm. For flow. She couldn’t articulate it like her mother could, but she felt when something was off. Her feedback wasn’t technical, but it was honest. Raw. Oscar had learned not to dismiss it.

After the Japanese GP, she had scrawled, “Car sounded grumpy today.” Turned out there had been a small issue with engine mapping.

Bee’s contributions were scattered throughout the pages like little bursts of joy — added while Felicity reviewed footage with her on her lap or at the table. Sometimes Oscar came home to find the notebook open beside a half-drunk juice box and a crayon drawing of Turn 4 with a heart around it.

He never took them out.

Felicity never corrected them either. Never scolded Bee for scribbling in what had once been her own sacred system. If anything, she looked quietly proud.

“She watches with me now,” Felicity had told him once, her voice soft as she passed him the notebook. “She wanted to write something after Suzuka. Said she thought your car was sliding more than usual in the esses.”

Oscar had blinked. “She said esses?”

“Specifically. She said ‘I think it’s the bit where the car goes whoosh whoosh left right left really fast.’ So… the esses.”

Oscar had laughed. Then paused.

Bee was three.

Sometimes she asked questions that made even him pause — about racing lines and brake bias and why tyre wear seemed worse on warmer weekends. 

Sometimes, when Oscar flipped it open after a race, he’d find a different kind of note squeezed into the margins — messier handwriting, uneven spelling, sparkly gel pen in place of Felicity’s precise script.

“You did really really good at the overtake!!” “I think maybe you were sad in the middle. Was it because the tyres were bad?” “Next time try even more zoom!!”

There was one he’d never forget — a page where Bee had stuck a neon orange post-it and written, painstakingly, in huge capital letters:

“I WAS SO PROUD I DID A LITTLE JUMP.”

Underneath, in smaller, steadier handwriting:

Same. – F

Other times she just wanted to draw pictures of his helmet and write “GO PAPA” in shaky block letters across the page. But she was watching. Really watching.

And the red notebook had become a shared ritual.

Oscar would come home after races and find them curled together on the couch, the replay paused mid-turn, Felicity with her pen and Bee with her toy car in hand, mimicking every motion.

And when the notebook was passed to him, it felt heavier. Fuller. Like legacy.

Because in those pages—lined with analytics and corrections and glittery three-year-old commentary—was something unshakeable.

A family.

A home.

And the quiet, unspoken truth:

They saw him.

Every lap. Every decision. Every tenth gained or lost.

They watched. They learned. They remembered.

And in between the margins and the tyre notes and the childish stickers that said "GO PAPAYA GO!!", Oscar Piastri could read something else:

He was never doing this alone.

And after all these years, Oscar still found himself sitting on the couch, a cup of tea in his hand, watching the girl he loved scribble something in the margin of the notebook — the red one, the current one — and thinking:

She knows me better than telemetry ever could.

He didn’t need a strategist when he had Felicity. He didn’t need a publicist, a hype reel, or a season highlight package.

He had a girl with a red notebook and a brain like fire — and a heart that chose to use it for love.

And when he won—really won—it would be written there, too.

In pencil first.

In ink, later.

With love, always.

Written down. Every season. Every race. Every lap.

[cheftsunoda]

Alexandra x Charles x reader where readers a really smart genius engineer that basically fixed ferraris problems so the fans love her but Alex is like hates so it’s Charles and reader comforting Alex

you belong — cl16 & alexandra saint mleux

smau + blurbs

when yn joined ferrari in 2025 as charles leclerc’s race engineer, no one expected the team’s fortunes to turn so sharply. but yn had never been one to follow expectations. brilliant, unshakable under pressure, and fiercely dedicated, she wasn’t just charles’ partner off the track anymore—she was the mastermind behind his winning streak. their relationship had always been the kind people whispered about in disbelief—dating since 2022, unshakably in love, and then—just as the world adjusted to that—opening their hearts in 2023 to alexandra. a soft, steady presence in their chaos. an unlikely throuple that somehow made perfect sense. at first, the world loved them. loved the victories, the public kisses, the unity. but as the wins piled up and yn’s brilliance took center stage, the tide began to turn—toward alexandra. whispers of gold digging. accusations of riding coattails. a sudden, brutal wave of online hate. and while yn and charles were too caught up in podiums and progress to notice at first… the cracks were forming. but yn isn’t just intelligent in engineering, she is emotionally intelligent as well. and she can read alexandra like no other.

fc : lissie mackintosh

(a/n) : obvs all the hate comments in this are completely fictional and i love alexandra with my whole heart and im so happy that her and charles are together!

—

scuderiaferrari & yn_ln

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc & 7,709,001 others.

scuderiaferrari : A new era begins. We are proud to welcome YN LN to the team as Charles Leclerc’s race engineer for the 2025 season. With a reputation for brilliance under pressure and a mind made for motorsport, she’s ready to rewrite what it means to wear red. Strategy. Precision. Power. Benvenuta, ingegnere. 🔴🏁

—

view 501,0188 other comments.

charles_leclerc : the best in the business. can’t wait to make history together, mon bébé❤️‍🔥

liked by yn_ln and scuderiaferrari

↳ username00 : oh these two working together is gonna be the death of me. so fucking cute.

lewishamilton : Incredible move. So excited to have you on the team and can’t wait to see you shine! 🫶🏽

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

alex_albon : Do I send my strategy questions to her or does that count as spying? 😅 Congratulations YN!!

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

↳ yn_ln : sadly it does count as spying, alex. but thank you!!!

arthur_leclerc : yes she’s always been this smart. yes she used to help me with my math homework. but YAYYYYYY YN!!!!!

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

georgerussell63 : I fear F1 might not be ready for this level of brainpower. Congrats YN! You earned it!!

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

alexandrasaintmleux : my pretty girl, my angel, my genius. proud does not even begin to cover it. love you with all my heart ♥️

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc & scuderiaferrari

username0 : charles finally gets a strategy team that knows what they’re doing AND gets to talk to his gf during the race. he’s winning on all fronts.

username1 : this is the same girl who rebuilt an engine in heels during a charity gala. ferrari is in excellent hands

liked by charles_leclerc and scuderiaferrari

lando : yn please go easy on us.

liked by yn_ln and charles_leclerc

↳ yn_ln : absolutely not norris, we are not friends during the season😈

liked by lando

username5 : i’m excited but also nervous… dating your driver?? hope there’s no bias or drama.

↳ username7 : her and charles are both professionals at what they do. plus they’ve been together since 2022 and have been friends even longer than that. they got this.

liked by scuderiaferrari

carlossainz55 : you mean to tell me that ferrari waited to make their smartest decision until after i left??? congratulations, mi hermana! no one deserves it more❤️

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and arthur_leclerc

username10 : so we’re just letting girlfriends engineer now? cool cool

↳ yn_ln : well, ferrari hired the engineer with a first-class degree, years of motorsport data strategy experience, and three patented telemetry models under her name. the fact that i also happen to be charles’ girlfriend? just a bonus, babe;) stay tuned.

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, scuderiaferrari, lewishamilton, pierregasly, lando, franciscagomes and carlossainz55

↳ lando : oh she ate you up.

liked by yn_ln

↳ username000 : oh i love her.

username11 : love wins i guess… but can she actually do her job or is this just a PR stunt?

↳ alexandrasaintmleux : she works harder than anyone i have ever met. but don’t worry, your opinion was noted… and ignored. 🥰

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and arthur_leclerc

username15 : funny how she only got the job after dating charles. make it make sense.

↳ charles_leclerc : she got the job because she’s brilliant, OVERqualified, and has been outperforming people in this sport long before she became mine. if you think ferrari hires based on relationship status, maybe you should try keeping up with the lap times. 🙃

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, scuderiaferrari, lewishamilton, pierregasly, lando, franciscagomes and carlossainz55

↳ username30 : oh he LOVES this girl

username17 : idc how smart she is this is messy. ferrari is a team, not a love triangle.

↳ arthur_leclerc : ah yes, how dare ferrari be functional, fast, and happy at the same time. if “messy” means winning races with the best engineer in the paddock, maybe we need more of it 🤭

liked by yn_ln, scuderiaferrari, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

username33 : not only is she the smartest person in the room, she’s the calmest. y’all just hate seeing a woman win.

liked by charles_leclerc, yn_ln, arthur_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

username35 : just a reminder that yn rebuilt a gearbox by hand during her master’s thesis. she’s not a girlfriend first. she’s an engineer first. but she happens to be in love too. deal with it 😌

liked by charles_leclerc, yn_ln, arthur_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ arthur_leclerc : mhm mhm. periodt

↳ username33 : arthur is her hype man I CANT.

username37 : “nepotism” accusations are wild when she literally published a telemetry algorithm that teams still use. stay mad.

liked by charles_leclerc, yn_ln, arthur_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ yn_ln : ilysm. thank you for following my work🥹

liked by charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ username37 : omg ofc you are brilliant, us girlies in motorsport have to stick together:)

liked by yn_ln

username40 : charles on the track. yn on the radio. alex in the paddock. name a more iconic setup. i’ll wait.

liked by charles_leclerc, yn_ln, arthur_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

—

Charles had been told his race engineer for the 2025 season would be “someone new, someone bold.” Fred had been vague, smug even, telling him—“Trust us, you’ll like her.” Charles had assumed it was just another seasoned strategist brought in from Mercedes or Red Bull. Good. They needed fresh thinking. After last year’s chaos? He’d take anyone who could tell the difference between Plan A and Plan D.

Still, he hadn’t expected the secrecy. When he arrived at the conference room Ferrari had booked for the “introductory meeting,” it was empty. Well, not completely. Arthur was there. With Alexandra. Sitting way too casually on opposite sides of the room, like they hadn’t clearly coordinated whatever this was.

“What are you two doing here?” Charles asked, suspicious already.

Arthur swung a leg up onto the chair next to him. “Moral support. Big day, bro.”

Alexandra smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “We wanted front row seats.”

“To what?” Charles narrowed his eyes. “Is this about the simulator prank? Because I swear I didn’t know it would spin like that.”

“You’ll see.” Alexandra’s voice was sweet, teasing. She gestured to the chair at the head of the table. “Sit. Be professional. Your new race engineer is on her way.”

Charles sat, shifting restlessly, drumming his fingers on the table. “If this is some weird internal promo stunt—”

The door opened. And in walked you. Clipboard in hand. Ferrari-red badge around your neck. Black slacks, sharp posture, and that telltale smirk that only ever meant trouble for him.

You didn’t speak right away. You just raised a brow, eyes flicking across the room—at Alex, Arthur, and finally Charles—before you said, cool as ever— “Leclerc. You’re late.”

Charles just stared. Blink. Blink again. Then— “What?”

You set your things down and clicked the monitor on with a practiced tap. “I’m YN. Your new race engineer. Shall we get started?”

He was speechless. You, you, one of his partners—his everything—were now also the voice in his ear on race day?

Arthur snorted. “Get Netflix in here.”

Charles turned to him, wild-eyed. “You knew?”

Alexandra was biting her lip to stop from smiling. “We’ve been planning this for months. Fred made us swear not to tell you.”

“I—” Charles looked back at you, utterly betrayed and somehow more in love than ever. “You kept this from me?”

“I wanted to earn it,” you said softly, gaze steady. “Not as one of your girlfriends. As the best damn engineer Ferrari could hire.”

The silence hung heavy for a beat. Then Charles stood so fast his chair screeched back. “Are you joking? I’m in love with the most brilliant woman in motorsport and you’re telling me I get to win races with you in my ear? Mon dieu—this is cheating. This is unfair.”

You blinked. “Is that a problem?”

“It’s perfect,” he breathed, grinning like an idiot. “Tu es parfaite.”

Arthur groaned. “Okay, and I’m leaving. This is disgusting.”

Alexandra, still smiling, leaned over and whispered, “Wait for it—he’s going to do the dramatic declaration in three, two—”

“I AM GOING TO WIN A WORLD CHAMPIONSHIP WITH MY GIRLFRIENDS,” Charles shouted, arms up. “FRED VASSEUR, YOU BEAUTIFUL MAN!”

Somewhere down the hall, someone dropped a wrench. Laughter echoed from the Ferrari offices. You shook your head, but your eyes were warm, glassy even. You whispered just loud enough for him to hear, “You don’t have to win for me to be proud of you.”

Charles stepped close, hand brushing yours on the table. “But I want to win with you.”

Alexandra stood, clapping once. “Okay, now kiss and then get back to work. We’ve got a season to dominate.”

And Charles did. Right there in the Ferrari conference room, with Arthur fake-gagging and Alexandra beaming behind him, Charles kissed you like it was his first win of the season.

—

The sun had just started to dip, painting the hills in gold and rose as long tables were set under string lights in the garden of a villa that looked like it had been plucked straight out of a Tuscan dream. Ferrari had spared no detail—wood-fired pizza, fresh pasta, bottles of red wine already half empty, tiramisu trays stacked and ready. There were little hand-printed name cards, red cloth napkins, and centerpieces made entirely of roses and miniature Ferrari flags.

And at the head of the table? Charles. With you on one side. Alexandra on the other. His hands interlaced with both.

“You know,” Arthur said, half a meatball in his mouth, “this might be the first time I’ve seen Fred Vasseur drink wine and smile at the same time.”

Fred, two seats down, raised his glass. “That’s because—for once—I am confident we might actually finish a season with a functional strategy and a world championship.”

Laughter rippled around the table.

Charles leaned in to you, voice low. “You’re already working miracles.”

“I haven’t done anything yet,” you said, a little flushed.

Across from you, Pascale was quietly slicing through a piece of veal while smiling proudly at all three of you.

“You’ve always been family,” she said softly to you and Alexandra, “but it feels different now. Like it’s… I don’t know. Official.” She gave a gentle nod. “I’m glad he has you both.”

Alexandra reached over and squeezed your hand under the table and leaned her head on Charles shoulder, her hair tickling his arm. “Should we make it more official and crash the next team press conference together?” she whispered.

Charles perked up. “Can we all walk into Bahrain together in matching red?”

“Matching fits,” Alexandra corrected. “Not team polos. We’re still chic.”

Fred coughed deliberately. “As long as she doesn’t wear heels in the garage again,” he pointed at you and then to Alexandra, “or she doesn’t try to steal telemetry printouts because they ‘looked aesthetic.’”

“I was scrapbooking!” Alexandra gasped, scandalized. “For sentimental reasons!”

Everyone burst into laughter. Lewis, who’d arrived slightly late and was now eating some focaccia, pointed his fork dramatically. “You three are the first throuple in motorsport history I actually believe in.”

The toast clinked again. Wine refilled. Glasses raised.

“Okay, okay,” Arthur said, standing and holding up his phone. “Speech. Someone say something emotional or I’m leaking the video of Charles crying during their first strategy meeting.”

“I WASN’T CRYING,” Charles shouted immediately.

You stood, cheeks warm from the wine and the moment. “I just want to say…” You looked at Charles, then Alexandra. “I know how strange it must look to people. But this—” you gestured between the three of you, “—this isn’t a gimmick. It’s not a PR stunt or a phase. It’s love. And I am so, so proud to build this future with you both.”

Alexandra stood next, sliding her arm around your waist. “I don’t know much about race strategy, but I know this feels like the best plan we’ve ever had.”

Charles stood last, grinning like he’d won a championship already. “I don’t care what the grid says. I get to have the best race engineer in the paddock and the two people I love most in the world by my side. If that’s not enough to win a championship, I don’t know what is.”

A cheer erupted. Glasses clinked again. Even Fred smiled, shaking his head. Later, under the glow of the string lights, Charles rested his head against yours on the patio couch, one hand playing gently with Alexandra’s fingers on your knee.

“You think this year will be different?” he asked softly.

“I know it will,” you said, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “We’re doing this together now.”

Alexandra hummed. “And we look very good while doing it.”

Charles laughed, leaned back, and looked at the stars. “I don’t think it gets better than this.”

You smiled. “Oh, just wait until race one.”

—

voguemagazine

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and 17,001,003 others.

voguemagazine : This month, we’re shifting gears and accelerating into the fast lane with our exclusive feature on YN — the brilliant engineer who turned Ferrari’s season around overnight. In a male-dominated world, YN’s relentless innovation, sharp intellect, and fierce determination are inspiring a new generation of women in motorsport — proving that talent knows no gender, and leadership comes in many forms. Discover how YN’s blend of technical genius and unshakeable grit brought Ferrari back from the brink, redefining what it means to be a leader in Formula 1 today. Plus, a rare glimpse into her life beyond the track- the challenges, the triumphs, and the love story that fuels her relentless drive.

—

view 1,034,025 other comments.

lando : an absolute legened. exactly what motorsport needs. we are so proud, yn. keep smashing it!

liked by yn_ln

charles_leclerc : proud doesn’t even begin to cover it. watching you break barriers every day is incredible. i love you

liked by yn_ln

carlossainz55 : yn’s brilliance is unreal. proud to race alongside such talent.

liked by yn_ln

scuderiaferrari : so proud of what yn has accomplished in such little time with us. we love you, yn!!

liked by yn_ln

arthur_leclerc : the sister i never had. you are absolutely incredible. keep pushing ynn- you are the future.

liked by yn_ln

alexandrasaintmleux : my gf is on the cover of vogue!!!! omg omg!! i love you so much, mon ange. you are the biggest talent the grid has.

liked by yn_ln

↳ username15 : yn’s talent is undeniable but alex? she’s just a distraction. hope yn doesn’t lose focus.

↳ username17 : since when did being a girlfriend get you famous?? stop distracting yn and charles.

leclerc_pascale : Watching your journey fills my heart with joy. You’re an inspiration to us all. Très fier de toi!

liked by yn_ln

lewishamilton : Always pushing the limits — on and off track. Respect, YN.

liked by yn_ln

maxverstappen1 :💪🏻💪🏻

liked by yn_ln

—

time skip to monaco gp…

f1gossipgirls

7,520,007 likes.

f1gossipgirls : It’s a Leclerc affair in the streets of Monte Carlo today — and the grid’s favorite power trio did not disappoint. Engineer-extraordinaire YN LN arrived alongside boyfriend Charles Leclerc this morning, the two spotted walking hand-in-hand through the paddock looking calm, collected, and very much in sync. YN was all business in Ferrari red—Monaco may be Charles’ home race, but it’s clear who’s running the show. Not far behind? Alexandra Saint Mleux, arriving with the Leclerc family — including Charles’ Sister in Law, Charlotte, Mama Pascale and Arthur, who fans caught hugging YN just before pre-race prep. The embrace was short but sweet, with Arthur mouthing something suspiciously like “you’ve got this, boss” before the two shared a laugh. Whispers in the paddock say Ferrari’s found its rhythm — and it might just be thanks to the calm, chaotic, and totally unexpected balance Charles and YN bring to the track.

—

view 175,099 other comments.

username000 : if they don’t win today i’m rioting. emotionally.

mercfan123 : idc how cute they are, it’s weird that she’s dating the driver and running his race strategy. feels messy.

↳ username000 : y'all are just mad that out of everyone A WOMAN managed to pull ferrari out of the gutter.

username00 : monaco is home for charles, but this season is home for YN. the girl built a dynasty in six races flat.

username0 : since she joined, ferrari’s barely made a wrong call. this isn’t a PR stunt, this is a masterclass.

username1 : you mean the woman who’s turned ferrari into a real threat again?? MOTHER

username5 : watch ferrari fumble again and everyone will forget this little fairytale energy real fast

username7 : no because even as a red bull fan i have to admit… the vibes? immaculate. this is what we’re fighting against??

username10 : ok but what does alexandra actually do besides show up and look pretty?

username11 : yn’s out here saving ferrari and alex is… posing for pictures in charles’ jacket? lmao

username15 : yn’s got degrees and trophies. alexandra’s got what, a moodboard?

username17 : i can’t be the only one who thinks alex is just riding this wave for clout, right?

username20 : alex doesn’t even look like she wants to be there most of the time. awkward is an understatement.

—

The air in Monaco was heavy with sun and tension. Boats lined the harbor, red flags waved from balconies, and the scent of salt water mixed with champagne and engine oil. The city felt like it was holding its breath. Ferrari was leading the Constructors’. Charles was second in the Drivers’ Championship—narrowly. But today was his track. His home. And for once in his career… everything was aligned. Almost. Charles stood at the edge of the garage, staring out toward the narrow streets, arms folded tightly across his chest. The usual sparkle in his eye was dulled slightly, his mouth tight. His leg bounced as the crew buzzed around him.

“You alright?” Arthur’s voice came from behind, lighter than usual.

Charles shook his head once. “No. But I think I’m supposed to be.”

Arthur stood beside him, nudging his shoulder. “You’ve got the best car on the grid. You’ve got Maman, Us, half of Monte Carlo in red. And—” he paused dramatically— “you’ve got the smartest woman in motorsport feeding you strategy.”

Charles finally cracked a smile. “She is terrifyingly brilliant.”

“And in love with you, which is even scarier.”

That’s when he heard your voice behind them, calm but commanding. “Tire warmers off in 15. I need final telemetry on Sector 2. And—Arthur, stop making him more nervous.”

Arthur saluted. “Yes, boss.”

Charles turned just in time for you to reach him. You were still in your headset, tablet in hand, the clipboard from hell tucked under your arm. But your expression softened as you looked at him—really looked at him.

“You’re doing the thing,” you whispered.

“What thing?” he asked, even though he already knew.

“The overthinking thing. The ‘what if I ruin everything in front of my entire country’ thing.”

He let out a breath. “Monaco’s cursed for me. Always has been.”

You stepped closer. “And what if it’s not this time? What if you finally have the right car, the right team, the right… everything?”

“Even the right race engineer?”

You smiled. “Especially her.”

That’s when Alexandra arrived, weaving her way between pit crew and chaos like she belonged there. She wore his name on her necklace, your initials on a ring, and Charles’ jacket draped around her shoulders even in the heat.

“Hi,” she said gently, coming up beside you both. “I thought you might need this.”

She handed him a folded piece of paper. Charles raised an eyebrow.

“What’s this?”

“A reminder.”

He opened it to find a little sketch Alexandra had drawn—stick figures, obviously. One was him with a helmet. One was you, with a headset the size of your body. One was Alexandra, holding a flag that said “WIN!”

Underneath it, in her soft handwriting—"You already have everything. Now just drive like it."

Charles didn’t say anything for a moment. He just looked at both of you—his people. His heart. One all fire and logic. One all warmth and instinct. And him, somehow caught in the middle of both and better for it. He pulled you into his side with one arm, Alexandra into the other, and held them there like a shield.

“Whatever happens,” he said, voice thick, “thank you. For getting me here. Both of you.”

“We’ll be here at the finish line,” you promised, forehead pressed to his chest. “In the garage. In your ear. In your heart. Always.”

“Plus I brought good snacks,” Alexandra whispered, trying to lighten the mood. “And I have my crystals.”

“I don’t believe in crystals,” Charles mumbled.

“You believe in love, though,” she smiled.

And then—Pascale approached, giving Charles the kind of look only a mother can give. Proud. Steady. A little teary. She kissed his cheek. “Go. Do what you were born to do.”

He nodded. Breathed. One last squeeze of your hand, one last kiss to Alexandra’s temple, and then he turned toward the car. Helmet on. Gloves tight. The weight of a nation on his shoulders—but this time, it didn’t feel so heavy. Because this time, he wasn’t carrying it alone.

—

The streets of Monte Carlo were louder than usual. Not from the engines — no, those always roared. It was the crowd. Louder. Frenzied. Unrelenting. Because Charles Leclerc was leading his home race. And for once… the script wasn’t falling apart.

“Gap to Norris behind: 2.1 seconds,” your voice came through his radio, calm, composed, a tether. “Tyre temps are stable. Keep braking gentle into Rascasse. You’ve got this, Charles.”

He didn’t respond immediately. He never did when he was this deep in the zone. But the way his shoulders loosened slightly in the cockpit — the way his head dipped like a subtle nod — told you everything you needed to know.

The streets he grew up on blurred past him now at nearly 180 mph. The turn into the tunnel. The bump near the chicane. The glitter of the yachts in his periphery. He knew them like the lines in your palm.

He’d dreamed of this moment since he was a boy in karting boots, looking through the fence as F1 cars screamed past on the same pavement he walked every day. Monaco was home. Monaco had broken his heart. But today, it was healing him.

“Just breathe, baby,” your voice whispered again in his ear. “Last lap.”

From the pit wall, Fred stood with arms crossed, not daring to exhale. Mechanics were frozen in place, monitors lighting their faces with green sectors and live telemetry. Arthur had stopped pacing, for once. Pascale was clutching her scarf like a lifeline. And Alexandra? She stood at the barrier.

Red jacket zipped halfway. Hair pulled back. Face tilted toward the track with eyes glassy. Every time the red 16 car passed, she stepped closer. As if her heartbeat could will him home.

In the garage, your fingers tightened around the edge of the counter. “Exit Nouvelle clean. You’ve got the run. Fuel’s good. Battery’s charged.”

You paused, just for a second.

“You’re about to win Monaco, Charles.”

You didn’t say it to pump him up. You said it because it was real. And Charles — hands steady, foot light on the throttle, mind completely and utterly focused — flew through Tabac, hit the apex at the Swimming Pool perfectly, and took La Rascasse like it had always belonged to him. The crowd’s roar broke through the radio static.

“Charles Leclerc wins the Monaco Grand Prix!”

The moment shattered time. You exhaled — then let out a noise that was half laugh, half sob. In your headset Charles shouting something unintelligible in French, followed by — “MERCI, MERCI, MERCI!”

The team erupted around you. Mechanics jumping. Fred finally smiling. Arthur running toward you and picking you up in a spinning hug. You ran toward the pit wall.

And Alexandra — still standing at the barrier, now crying openly — turned just in time to see Charles leap from the cockpit, arms raised, the Monégasque flag in hand. He spotted her first. And then he looked beyond her — saw you standing there next to Arthur, headset tangled in your hair, still in team gear, eyes shining with everything you had held back all race. He ran to the barrier. Security didn’t even try to stop him. He climbed it like he was born for it. First to Alexandra — grabbing her face, kissing her, holding her like she was the only soft place in a world of fire. Then to you. He pulled you in — headset, clipboard, adrenaline and all — into the kind of kiss that said thank you, I love you, I never would’ve made it without you.

You smiled against his mouth, pulling away just enough to say, “You finally did it.”

“I didn’t,” he said. “We did.”

The cameras caught all of it. The kisses. The tears. The way his hand held onto both of you like he was anchoring himself to the moment. The way you and Alexandra leaned into each other on the cool-down lap, your hands tangled, hearts still racing. And somewhere on social media, the photo would soon be everywhere. Charles Leclerc — Monaco winner — standing on the barrier in front of the Ferrari garage, arms around the two people who built the road back to this dream with him. A race. A win. A homecoming.

—

yn_ln

liked by alexandrasaintmleux, charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc and 11,007,009 others.

yn_ln : my man and i just won monaco together...wyd??

tagged : charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux and scuderiaferrari

—

view 545,001 other comments.

lando : wyd?? crying in my hotel room because this post made me feel single and slow

liked by yn_ln and charles_leclerc

username100 : ngl this race won me over. yn has turned ferrari AROUND.

franciscagomes : when she wins a grand prix and serves looks doing it 🧎‍♀️

liked by yn_ln and alexandrasaintmleux

pierregasly : power throuple.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

scuderiaferrari : "thank you charles and yn" we all say in unison.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

alexandrasaintmleux : you were flawless. in the garage. in red. in everything. we’re so lucky to love you 🥹

liked by yn_ln and charles_leclerc

carlossainz55 : happy for you both. annoyed that i teared up watching him win. confused about it.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

arthur_leclerc : you left out the part where you nearly passed out from nerves and still pulled off the perfect strategy call lmao. LOVE YOU YN.

liked by yn_ln, charles_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

username001 : alex being there doing nothing still takes me out.

↳ username15 : i would not talk bad about alex rn. yn ripped into a reporter earlier.

↳ username001 : WHERE???

↳ username15 : check @/f1gossipgirls.

—

f1gossipgirls

5,009,110 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Well, Charles Leclerc won Monaco… but not without drama. After a dream victory at his home race, Charles Leclerc was seen celebrating in the most Leclerc-throuple way possible — kissing race engineer girlfriend YN and girlfriend Alexandra Saint Mleux moments apart in a red-hot Ferrari love fest. Fans also caught a sweet moment between Alexandra and YN — YN lifted Alex off of the ground and the two shared a sweet kiss. But things turned tense post-race when a reporter made some harsh and completely uncalled-for comments about Alexandra in the paddock. Witnesses say YN didn’t hesitate — she got visibly defensive, stepped in, and had a few choice words for the reporter in question. The vibe? Protective. Unshakable. Not here for the disrespect.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

The cheers still echo across the harbor, a high, golden sound that hasn’t stopped since Charles crossed the line. Champagne sticks to your skin, your headset hangs loose around your neck, and you haven’t let go of Alexandra’s hand once. She’s warm beside you. Glowing. Her cheeks pink from sun and adrenaline, her lips still curved from watching him win. The two of you are walking slowly toward the podium tunnel, through a blur of high-fives, cameras, and team crew celebrating in every language.

And then— “Must be nice to hang off the arm of a championship team and not have to actually do anything.”

It cuts through the noise like a knife. You freeze. You don’t even feel Alexandra’s fingers tighten around yours because the blood in your ears goes sharp and hot. You turn on instinct. The voice came from behind the media line. A man with a mic and a press pass. Too smug. Too comfortable saying something like that in public. It wasn’t a question. It was meant to sting. And it lands exactly where he wanted — you see it in Alexandra’s face. Her smile falters. Just for a second. But that’s enough. You don’t think. You move.

“Hey!” you snap, your voice slicing clean. “What the fuck did you just say?”

The reporter doesn’t backpedal. “I was just asking if—”

“No. You weren’t asking anything,” you cut in, stepping forward. “You were insulting someone who shows up every weekend, supports this team with her whole heart, and gets nothing but hate in return. You don’t get to speak to her like that.”

The paddock goes quiet. The crew stops celebrating. Cameras slowly turn your way. Alexandra stands where you left her, eyes wide, like she’s holding her breath. You keep going.

“And for the record,” you say, your tone low now, dangerous, “if all you’ve done today is tear down a woman who’s done nothing to you, then maybe you’re the one who doesn’t belong here.”

A beat of silence. Then—

“YN.”

Arthur’s voice. Right behind you. Calm but firm. He gently touches your elbow, eyes flicking toward the growing crowd. “Come on. Let’s go. Not worth it.”

You don’t move for a second. You just stare that reporter down. He looks nervous now. Good. Then you exhale and step back. You don’t say anything else. You just turn, walk straight back to Alexandra, and take her hand like you never let go. Her eyes are glassy now, but there’s something else there too — awe, maybe. Or something softer. You don’t look back as you disappear together into the tunnel, Arthur flanking behind you like a guard. But if anyone didn’t know before — they know now. No one talks down to Alexandra Saint Mleux on your watch. Not ever.

—

The celebrations had faded. The city was still buzzing outside — yachts pulsing with music, voices carrying over balconies, streetlights painting gold across the port. But in here, it was quiet. Just the soft hum of the AC, the leftover scent of champagne in Charles’ hair, and the weight of everything that had happened settling like dust on your shoulders. He stood in the kitchen in a Ferrari hoodie, barefoot, drying glasses. The night had worn him out — but not as much as it had worn you.

You sat on the couch, legs pulled up to your chest, one of Alexandra’s cardigans draped around your shoulders. She was already in bed, fast asleep, her cheeks still red from crying — not from joy. Not from the win. But from that moment. The one you couldn’t stop replaying in your head.

Charles finished drying the glass but didn’t put it away. Instead, he turned, leaning against the counter. Watching you.

“You’ve barely said anything since we got home,” he said softly.

“I’m tired.”

“You’re angry.”

You looked up. And the tears in your eyes betrayed you.

“I’m not just angry,” you murmured. “I’m ashamed.”

He crossed the room without hesitation, kneeling down in front of you, placing his hands gently on your knees. “Why would you be ashamed?”

You swallowed, trying to find the words. “Because I knew this would happen. I knew the moment I took this job and we made it official — all of it — the cameras, the gossip, the fans choosing sides…”

You blinked quickly. “Alex never asked for this. She never wanted to be part of the noise. She just wanted to love us. And now she’s getting ripped apart for being in the garage, or not being on the pit wall, or not looking the way they want her to. And I stood there today and watched it hit her.”

Charles’s eyes softened, thumb brushing over your kneecap. “You didn’t just watch it. You defended her.”

“I shouldn’t have had to.” Your voice cracked. “She shouldn’t have to walk into a paddock wondering if someone’s going to ask her if she belongs there.”

Charles lowered his head for a moment, then looked back up at you. “She told me something tonight. While you were in the shower.”

You stilled. “What?”

“She said… ‘I’m proud of her. I’ve never been loved like that before.’”

That broke you. Your head dropped to your hands. Charles was in your arms in a second, pulling you to him, hands gentle against your back, voice steady in your ear.

“You didn’t do this, mon amour. The world did. The internet did. Their hate — that’s not yours to carry.”

“But I brought us into the spotlight.”

“You brought Ferrari back to life. You gave me a chance to win my home race. And you’ve given Alexandra more love and protection than half the people who’ve known her for years.” He pulled back just enough to look at you. “She doesn’t blame you. I don’t blame you. We’re proud of you.”

You wiped your face with your sleeve, breathing shakily. “She’s been different lately. Quiet. A little smaller.”

Charles nodded. “I noticed. I just didn’t want to admit it.”

“I should’ve… asked her more. Talked to her. I got so wrapped up in the strategy and the pressure and—”

“And now you’re here,” he whispered, forehead resting against yours. “And she’s asleep in our bed. Safe. Loved. Because you fought for her when it mattered.”

You exhaled slowly, grounding yourself in his presence. In his warmth. In the truth of what he was saying.

“I just want her to feel like she’s ours in every room. Not just when the cameras aren’t watching.”

“She is,” he said, gently. “But tomorrow, let’s remind her anyway.”

You nodded. “Yeah. Let’s remind her.”

—

The kitchen is filled with the scent of browned butter and vanilla, soft music playing low on the speaker as sunlight spills through the windows, bathing Charles in gold. He hums along as he moves around with practiced ease — slicing strawberries, flipping fluffy pancakes, even attempting a cappuccino with a tiny heart drawn in the foam. You’re curled up on the couch nearby, eyes puffy and tired, but glowing with the kind of quiet pride that only comes from pulling off something impossible — or close to it. After hours of DMing collectors and calling obscure boutiques across time zones, you finally found it- Alexandra’s dream bag. A rare forest green Birkin, pristine, vintage, perfectly her. It’s now hidden in the hallway closet, nestled in tissue paper, your phone still buzzing with confirmation emails from luxury couriers at 4AM.

“She’s going to cry, you know,” Charles says, peeking over his shoulder with a grin as he flips the pancake on the stove.

“She better,” you croak, rubbing your face with both hands and stretching. “I aged five years sourcing that thing. Do you know how hard it is to find a 30 in Vert Rousseau with gold hardware?”

Charles walks over and kisses the top of your head gently. “You didn’t have to do all that.”

You tilt your head up to meet his eyes, expression soft. “She’s been having a hard time. I just want her to have something that reminds her how loved she is.”

You both fall quiet for a second, and he nods — understanding all the things you don’t have to say. That the world outside is cruel. That she’s been doubting herself, curling inwards. That this is your way of saying don’t listen to them, you are worth everything and more. The bedroom door creaks open then, and a sleepy Alexandra appears — hair tousled, sleeves slipping off one shoulder, eyes barely open as she squints toward the kitchen.

“Is that...pancakes?” she mumbles, rubbing her eyes.

“And strawberries. And coffee. And,” Charles announces dramatically, “today’s very special surprise.”

Alexandra blinks, still half-asleep as she pads closer, reaching out to you blindly before settling in your lap with a sleepy sigh. You wrap your arms around her and press a kiss to her temple.

“You guys are being weird,” she mumbles.

“Good weird,” Charles says, slipping the pancake stack onto a plate.

“Birthday weird?” she asks, confused. “Anniversary weird?”

You shake your head and nod toward the hallway. “Just…open the closet.”

Alexandra blinks at you, then shuffles to her feet and moves toward the hall, dragging the blanket with her. You and Charles both watch from the kitchen. A pause. A gasp. Then. “No. No, no. No way.”

You grin. There’s a soft thump as she sinks to her knees in the hall, hands pressed over her mouth as she stares down at the box. She opens it like it might vanish, slowly peeling back the layers — and when she sees it, her whole face folds. Eyes glassy, mouth trembling.

“I—how did you—this color—” She clutches the bag like it’s something holy. “You found this?”

You cross the room and kneel next to her, wrapping her up in your arms.

“Of course we did,” you murmur. “You deserve beautiful things.”

She lets out a watery laugh against your shoulder as Charles crouches beside you, pressing his forehead gently to hers.

“I love you both so much it actually hurts,” she says, tears now spilling freely.

“And we love you,” you whisper back. “More than anything.”

Charles nods, smiling softly. “Even more than Ferrari. But don’t tell Fred.”

And in the quiet, between pancakes and presents and tangled limbs on the kitchen floor, Alexandra begins to believe it again — that she is loved, and safe, and exactly where she’s meant to be.

—

Alexandra practically melts into the heated massage table, limbs slack, hair wrapped in a soft towel, as your fingers gently stroke through hers. The private spa suite smells like eucalyptus and orange blossom, the low trickle of water from the nearby fountain adding to the tranquility. You’re both swaddled in robes, facials setting, feet soaking in warm rose petal water.

“You didn’t have to go this far,” she says quietly, a little hoarse, but her voice is already laced with that floaty, relaxed softness you’d been desperate to hear.

“You say that like I wasn’t ten seconds away from stealing a private jet and flying you to Ibiza,” you tease, brushing your thumb over her knuckles. “This was the reasonable option.”

Alexandra turns her head on the cushioned rest and looks at you — really looks. Her eyes, still rimmed with the kind of exhaustion she never likes to admit, shimmer with something raw and grateful.

“I don’t want you to feel like you have to fix everything for me,” she murmurs. “I’m okay. I’m just… I’ve been struggling.”

You shift, leaning across the narrow bench to press your forehead to hers, letting the silence settle.

“You don’t have to be okay all the time,” you whisper. “Not with us.”

She exhales shakily, eyes fluttering shut as your noses touch.

“I love you,” she says.

“I know,” you smile. “And I love you so much it made me haggle with a Hermes collector on WhatsApp at three in the morning. So you’re stuck with me.”

Alexandra lets out the softest laugh — the kind that rumbles in her chest — and kisses you with the slow, sleepy kind of affection that lingers.

—

Alexandra hums contentedly as she sinks deeper into the passenger seat of Charles’ car, cheeks pink from steam, her legs folded up in her seat. Her hand is nestled in his, and every now and then, you glance over at her — heart tugging at how peaceful she looks. Charles drums his fingers against the steering wheel, sunglasses low on his nose, glancing at you both with a satisfied smirk. “So… how do my girls feel?”

“Like I am in heaven,” Alexandra murmurs dreamily. “I think I’ve transcended stress.”

You smile and lean in to press a kiss to her temple. “That’s what we like to hear.”

Charles slows as he pulls into an underground parking garage, and Alexandra blinks awake.

“Wait—where are we?” she asks, sitting up a little straighter. “This isn’t home.”

“Nope,” Charles grins, parking with dramatic flair. “It’s part two of your day.”

She blinks. “Part two?”

Charles turns around in his seat and looks at her with a glint in his eye. “We are going shopping. You and YN are going to get everything you want. No limits, no questions, no checking price tags. If it makes you feel pretty or powerful or happy — we’re getting it.”

Alexandra blinks between the two of you, stunned. “You’re joking.”

You shake your head, grinning. “Nope. You got a massage, now it’s time for retail therapy.”

Charles hops out of the car with the kind of giddy energy you’d expect from someone planning a heist. “Come on, let’s blow some money irresponsibly in the name of love.”

—

The soft rustle of silk and the faint scent of fresh perfume fill the room, where you and Alexandra are surrounded by the bounty of your shopping spree — racks of clothes, piles of shoes, and half-unwrapped accessories strewn across the plush chaise lounge. Alexandra sits on the edge of the velvet ottoman, slipping on a pair of strappy heels she just bought, her eyes wide and sparkling with a mix of nerves and excitement.

“You really think Charles will like this?” she asks, holding up a shimmering emerald dress—the one you’d both fallen for in the boutique.

“I think he’s going to have a heart attack,” you grin, helping smooth the fabric along her back.

She turns, catching her reflection in the mirror, and gives you a tentative smile. “I feel… like a new person.”

“That’s what happens when you get spoiled by two people who adore you,” you say, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear.

You pull out your own outfit from a hanger — a sleek black dress with delicate lace sleeves. As you slip it on, Alexandra giggles, teasing, “Look at you, all mysterious and chic.”

You catch her eyes and wink. “You’re the star tonight.”

Alexandra reaches over and links her fingers with yours. “Promise me this night won’t end.”

“It’s only just beginning,” you whisper.

Alexandra stands in front of the mirror, the green dress hugging her in all the right places. You thread a delicate necklace around her neck — the ivy bracelet Charles gifted earlier catches the light on her wrist.

She turns to you, eyes shining. “I’m really lucky.”

“No,” you say softly, cupping her face. “We’re the lucky ones.”

You help her slip on her heels, then take a deep breath together before heading out.

—

The yacht rocks gently beneath your feet, the faint scent of saltwater mingling with the delicate aroma of jasmine candles flickering on the table. The sky is a deep indigo, sprinkled with stars so bright they seem close enough to touch. The world feels impossibly still except for the soft murmur of the waves and the quiet laughter shared between the three of you.

Charles stands close, the warm strength of his body a constant comfort as he holds both your hands in his. Alexandra leans into your side, her breath soft against your skin, and you feel the steady rhythm of her heart through the thin fabric of her dress. The two of them — your girls — glowing in the low light, their eyes shimmering with a mixture of joy, vulnerability, and something tender that makes your chest ache.

You brush Alexandra’s cheek gently with the back of your hand, your fingers lingering as she closes her eyes, leaning into your touch like you’re the only safe place she needs. Charles steps around to wrap an arm around your waist, pulling you closer until there’s no space left between the three of you.

The moment stretches, quiet and sacred, and you let yourself breathe it all in — the warmth, the love, the softness that you’ve fought so hard to build. Alexandra opens her eyes and looks up at you, a small, shy smile tugging at her lips.

“Thank you,” she whispers, voice trembling just enough that you know it’s everything she’s been holding back. “For this. For us.”

You lean down to press your forehead against hers. “Always.”

Charles’s hand moves from your waist to brush over Alexandra’s cheek, thumb stroking gently. “We’re yours, Alex. Every part of you. No matter what.”

Her eyes fill with tears — not the harsh kind, but the kind that come from feeling truly seen and loved. She leans into Charles’s touch, then back into yours, as if anchoring herself between the two of you. You slip your hand into hers, fingers intertwining as your other hand cups the side of her face, thumb brushing soothing circles. The intimacy between you hums, electric and peaceful all at once.

Charles steps back just enough to pour champagne into the crystal flutes, his eyes never leaving yours. He hands you the glass, and you toast softly, “To us. To love without limits.”

The glasses clink, a delicate sound that echoes over the water. Alexandra takes a sip, then sets her glass down carefully, reaching up to rest her hands on your cheeks. Her touch is feather-light, but it sends a shiver down your spine.

“I never thought I could feel this safe,” she murmurs. “This loved.”

You smile, your heart swelling until it feels like it might burst. “You always deserved it.”

Charles moves behind you, arms sliding around your waist, pulling you into a slow, swaying dance under the stars. Alexandra steps close, resting her head on your shoulder, and you all move together — three souls beating in quiet harmony. The night deepens, and words fade into soft kisses, whispered promises, and the comfort of being exactly where you’re meant to be. Hours later, the yacht gently glides through the calm water, the three of you wrapped in blankets on the deck, watching the horizon blush with the first hints of dawn.

Charles’s voice is barely more than a breath as he says, “This is our forever.”

You squeeze Alexandra’s hand, your heart full beyond words.

“Yes,” you agree. “Forever and always.”

—

charles_leclerc

liked by yn_ln, alexandrasaintmleux, arthur_leclerc and 14,007,003 others.

charles_leclerc : my girls mean absolutely everything to me — more than words can ever fully express. yn and alexandra are the heart of my world, my constant support, and my greatest joy. to anyone who follows yn or i- if you’re being rude, disrespectful, or insufferable toward alexandra, please know that you are not welcome here. we stand united, and kindness is non-negotiable. we celebrate love, strength, and respect in all forms, and alexandra deserves nothing less than that — just like yn and I do. if you can’t show that, then this isn’t the place for you. i love you both, my angels.

tagged : yn_ln and alexandrasaintmleux

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user has disabled comments on this post.

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[hoonjayke]

TOO FAST — MASTERLIST

— Inspired by the Fast and Furious franchise (All the stories are in the same universe)

— They will be updated slowly and in order (probably) - OT7 stories

— If you wanna be tagged, please comment below - Ageless blogs won't be tagged.

— masterlist - perm taglist

— Author Note: Hey guys, this is something I've been working on for a while since a few mooties asked for more stories in this universe after Jake's story, so I decided to write it (slowly, pls bear w me) so I hope you guys like it!!

☆☆☆☆☆☆

Sim Jaeyun — TOO FAST TOO BAD

Jake is known as the city’s famous drift king, a legend in the illegal street racing world, completely untouchable and invincible. However, when you're assigned to work undercover as a racer for an investigation, you don't expect that getting involved with Jake would mess with your morals and most importantly, your heart.

PAIRING: — Street Racer Jake x Cop Reader (f)

GENRE: fluff, a bit of angst, super suggestive, smut (mdni), slow burn, illegal street racing au

WARNINGS: lots of heavy making out (pool, car, bedroom, bathroom) yeah they're freaky, a bit of dirty talking, petnames, skinship, small slow burn, mentions of alcohol, guns and drugs, fighting, a little bit of cursing, morally grey characters, mentions of death, etc. Jake is blonde from the beginning till half of the story. Enhypen OT7 + one oc for the plot.

WC: 23k — READ HERE

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☆

Yang Jungwon — RECKLESS RIDE

In order to expand your experience as a mechanic and raise money for your engineering degree, you accepted a job at the famous Lee's garage on the south side of the city. However, you'll soon discover that dealing with eccentric drivers, customized cars, and dangerous races is nothing close to Yang Jungwon's thoughtless flirtations that would make you hotter than car engines.

PAIRING: — Street Racer Jungwon x Mechanic Reader (f)

GENRE: fluff, super suggestive, smut (mdni), illegal street racing au, flirty jungwon x nonchalant reader

WARNINGS: heavy making out, violence, mentions of alcohol and guns, cursing [...] more tba

WC: (esp 20k+) — COMING SOON

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☆

Park Sunghoon — SWEET ADDICTION

What is the price of paying a lower rent? Apparently, your peace. Ever since you moved in next door to Sunghoon's house, you've never had peace. The parties, loud car engine noises, and your neighbor's stubbornness were the price you paid for trying to live alone for a low price. However, as much as you say you can't stand your neighbor, you'll be surprised when you find yourself in the middle of illegal races, expensive cars, and discovering just how truly addictive Park Sunghoon is.

PAIRING: — Street Racer Sunghoon x Preppy Neighbor Reader (f)

GENRE: fluff, super suggestive, smut (mdni), illegal street racing au, kinda good girl x bad boy trope

WARNINGS: heavy making out, violence, mentions of alcohol, cursing [...] more tba

WC: (esp 20k+) — COMING SOON

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Nishimura Riki — RIDING OUT

Obsessed is an understatement. You practically took every breath with Niki’s name. Ever since you saw him race you knew you had to have him. After he agreed to be your model for your clothing store, you were feeling over the clouds. Until the moment he broke your heart, so you decided to move on with your life and get over him without a second thought. However, you didn't expect his sudden change - because now he would do everything in his power to win you back.

PAIRING: — Street Racer Ni-ki x Clothing Store Owner Reader (f)

GENRE: fluff, angst, super suggestive, smut (mdni), illegal street racing au, nonchalant x sunshine trope (reader is really down bad for Ni-ki)

WARNINGS: heavy making out, violence, mentions of alcohol, cursing [...] more tba

WC: (esp 20k+) — COMING SOON

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Lee Heeseung — KILL ME HEAL ME

After recovering from an accident as a child, you swore that your greatest purpose in life was to save lives, which is why you became an extremely competent nurse. You have always been focused, dedicated and professional, until you met Lee Heeseung, the most complicated patient of your entire career. However, in the midst of the strange connection you created with him, you will discover that Lee Heeseung's secret life makes him intense, mysterious and above all dangerous, especially for your heart.

PAIRING: — Street Racer Heeseung x Nurse Reader (f)

GENRE: fluff, angst, super suggestive, smut (mdni), illegal street racing au

WARNINGS: heavy making out, violence, mentions of alcohol, guns, car accident, cursing, hospital facilities [...] more tba

WC: (esp 20k+) — COMING SOON

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Park Jongseong — CRIMINAL LOVE

You are beautiful, talented, seductive, and a criminal. Ever since he landed his dream promotion, Jay’s biggest goal has been to capture you, the notorious art forger from a case that kept him up at night. After months of strategic escapes, he finally arrested you. But when a deal is offered and you’re chosen to become a consultant and help him fight white-collar crimes during your sentence, Jay will discover that working with you will mess his heart more than any police chase ever could.

PAIRING: — Cop Jay x International Art forger Reader (f)

GENRE: fluff, angst, super suggestive, smut (mdni), forbidden love

WARNINGS: heavy making out, violence, guns, mentions of alcohol, cursing [...] more tba

WC: (esp 20k+) — COMING SOON

☆

☆

Kim Sunoo — MASTERMIND

After landing an internship at STOCK CAR, Sunoo will need to use all his automotive knowledge to keep his superior assistant, you, from jeopardizing his perfect academic record. But amid racing and perfect reports, Sunoo will discover that you are much more than just a strict boss.

PAIRING: — Administrative Intern Sunoo x Superior Assistant Reader (f)

GENRE: fluff, super suggestive, smut (mdni), racing au, small age gap (reader is 3 years older)

WARNINGS: heavy making out, violence, mentions of alcohol, cursing [...] more tba

WC: (esp 20k+) — COMING SOON

☆

☆

[enhazy]

You owe me.

idol mentor!Heeseung x female idol!reader

𝘿𝙀𝘼𝘿 𝘿𝙊𝙑𝙀 𝘿𝙊 𝙉𝙊𝙏 𝙀𝘼𝙏

warnings: 𝙉𝙊𝙉𝘾𝙊𝙉, slapping, unprotected sex (don't do this!), little to no foreplay, fingering, spitting (not in mouth), virginity loss, slight size kink, tummy bulge, dacryphilia, cum play(?), cum eating, overstimulation, reader passes out in the end, not proofread, and english is not my first language.

Don't like? Don't read.

MDNI

word count: 1,013

likes, reblogs, and feedback would be appreciated!!

Disclaimer:

I am not responsible for the content you consume. Content warnings are listed above (I may have missed something), please read thoroughly so you know what to expect. This is very very dark and I do not condone these things happening in real life. THIS IS A FANFICTION WHICH MEANS IT DOES NOT DEPICT HOW HEESEUNG IS IN REAL LIFE.

continuation ➡ you're mine.

—💐

It wasn't always this way with Heeseung, no. He used to be sweet and kind. He never crossed a boundary, never looked at you wrong, never raised his voice when you frustrated him. Heeseung was gentle. His mentorship was the reason you rose to fame as an idol, and for that you we're grateful. He had secured your debut without asking for anything in return; 𝘰𝘳 𝘴𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵.

It's been a year since your debut and Heeseung's personality had completely changed. You didn't know this version Heeseung. He crossed every boundary, always looked at you with a dark, hungry gaze, but at least, he never yelled.

Heeseung pinned you down on the bed, slapping his palm over your mouth when you tried to scream. He pushed your legs open with his knee, keeping them spread by situating himself in between your legs when you tried to close them. Your dress started riding up your thighs as you kicked and squirmed, trying to get the man off of you.

"Stop moving, you're only making this harder for yourself." Heeseung groaned in your ear and you immediately shut up, knowing what'll come next if you didn't listen— he started hitting just recently. "Good girl." He praised, kissing the side of your neck. "Always such a good girl for me."

"You know you 𝘰𝘸𝘦 me, right?" Heeseung kept talking, removing his hand from your mouth. He used that same hand to touch your body, caressing your skin, leaving no place untouched. "You're here, you're relevant, because of me."

You shook your head, keeping your sobs quiet. "So pretty." Heeseung complimented, pulling the hem of your dress up eyeing your panties. "You aren't wet yet?" He scoffed, slapping the inside of your thigh. "You should be. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴." He pushed your legs further apart, causing you to yelp at the pain of the stretch.

"Tell me you want this." Heeseung commanded, hand hovering over the waistband of your underwear. "Don't make me wait." He tut impatiently, already pulling your underwear down. He called your name as a warning and you quickly whispered out a small, barely audible, "𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴."

Heeseung smirked, fully pulling your underwear off, groaning when your sex comes into view. 𝙄𝙩 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙'𝙫𝙚 𝙗𝙚𝙚𝙣 𝙥𝙧𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙧 𝙞𝙛 𝙮𝙤𝙪 𝙬𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙚𝙩, Heeseung thought. But even if you weren't, it wasn't a problem. He was going to fuck you either way, he'll make you get wet. He shoved 2 of his fingers into your tight hole, thrusting them in and out painfully. He was forcing them in. Your cunt kept clenching, trying to keep his fingers out. "Relax." Heeseung sighed, placing his other hand on your abdomen. "It'll hurt more if you won't relax."

You couldn't relax, tears kept running down your face. You were breathing heavily, trying to calm yourself down, but it hurts so bad. "Hurts, Heeseung." You hiccuped, both your hands holding his wrist. "Please." You pleaded, needing him to go easy on you, accepting that he won't stop.

"My cock will hurt more." Heeseung slapped you in response. "Be grateful I'm prepping your tight cunt." He added, smiling when you let out a choked sob. He suddenly pulled his fingers out of you, placing a hand in front of your face. "Spit."

You gathered saliva in your mouth before spitting on hand, not noticing when he pulled his thick cock out of his pants with his free hand. He spread your saliva on his cock, spitting on it again for extra lubrication. He then grabbed your thighs, smiling when you sobbed, pulling you down closer to him. He angled his cock towards your pussy, rubbing the head up and down your slit before pushing in, drawing blood.

"Oh, a virgin?" Heeseung laughed. "That's nice." He pushed into you, forcing through your resistance. "Fuck, so tight." He stayed still for a moment, bringing a hand up to your face and caressing your cheek. He wiped your tears away before he started to thrust, your dry walls clenching in on him.

Heeseung's thrusts were rough and calculated, he made sure his cock was in to the hilt. The slapping sounds of skin meeting skin was heard echoing in the room, alongside Heeseung's groans and your sobbing. He grabbed your hips, pulling you impossibly closer to him, smiling when thrusting into you felt more easier when you 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 started getting wet.

Your blood and slick helped with the slide, Heeseung thrusting faster, chasing his release. He didn't relent, pulling the top of your dress down to see your tits, watching them bounce as he pushed in and out of you. He pullled back a little, watching his cock disappear inside of you, your walls struggling to accommodate his size. He could see a slight bulge forming in your abdomen when he was inside too.

You let out a pained moan, causing Heeseung to laugh. "That's it. There's my good girl." His hips stuttered as his release neared, his thrusts becoming sloppy. He leaned forward, groaning in your ear keeping his cock inside you when he came, thick ropes of cum spurting out of his cock. His release triggered yours, your pussy clenched down on his cock, your release mixing with his.

You were still crying, Heeseung stayed inside of you. "You're such a good girl." He praised, admiring your tear-streaked face. He groaned when he finally pulled out, bringing a whimper out of you. The mix of your releases spilled out of you and Heeseung was quick to catch it before it fell on the sheets, he used his fingers to shove it back inside you. He thrusted his fingers in and out of you slowly, hearing your soft fucked out moans. He didn't stop fingering you until you came undone again, not minding your soft pleads of how sensitive you felt. Heeseung slid his fingers out and licked them clean, he noticed how you were slipping in and out of consciousness.

"It's okay, baby, Heeseung will take care of you." The last thing you felt was Heeseung kissing your forehead before falling unconscious.

—💐

ฅᨐฅ notes: this was actually much longer in my notes app, but the latter part is much darker and I don't know if you guys would read that. •᷄‎ࡇ•᷅

[kirsteng42]

Days like today I wish I could watch Narcos for the first time again!!! Not having a clue what I was in for, I didn’t know PP as Javi then as it was about 8/9 years ago. It had been recommended to me by the lads at work after I had finished Breaking Bad and needed something new to binge at the weekends. My life has never been the same since!!!

#the ultimate betrayal

[headspace-hotel]

I am small and I can't do very much. That is the despair of an individual in a big and violent world. But the plants teach me it is okay to be small. Everything is either small, or made of things that are small. We are all connected. Symbiosis.

So, on the subject of bugs.

It is the fourth summer of the Meadow. My plants grow strong and wild and cover more space than ever before. I have worked to eradicate the invasive lawn grass and carefully curate large clumps of only native species (with a few esteemed naturalized weeds allowed---I have no quarrel with Chicory, it has a positive effect on the ecosystem).

I have tall, huge native Field Thistles, multitudes of tough and aggressive evening primrose, wild strawberry spreading everywhere, a dozen vigorous gray-headed coneflowers, giant clumps of cup-plant, and so many asters and goldenrods that I've had to start targeting them in my weeding.

Yes, yes, I have the showy ones like purple coneflowers and black-eyed susans, but I also encourage and cultivate weird little weeds that are too inconspicuous or ugly to be often planted on purpose. White avens, lanceleaf frogfruit, nettle-leaf vervain.

There are too many plants. I'll spend forever listing them all. What is really interesting, is what's happened with the bugs.

Every year, there has been a much bigger variety and population of insects. I am both seeing many more species, and seeing the same species in much, much larger numbers. Even on the same plants that were already there 4 years ago, I can see way more bugs.

Flower flies, for instance. There are tiny yellow and black flies known as flower flies that are very beneficial for gardeners, because their larvae are predators that attack aphids. It used to be that I could often see a dozen, but now I see hundreds of them every time I go outside!

Or wasps. There are more species of wasps than I possibly could have imagined. It used to be that I would only see the reddish paper wasps, the ones that make big paper nests in the eaves of your house, but now, there are dozens of different wasps. Some are black, others black and white, others black and yellow, others black and brown, and they come in all different sizes. A bunch of blue-black wasps with white stripes live in the log next to my pond.

I identified them and looked up the species, and they had not been studied at all since the 1960's. Supposedly they are solitary species, but several different wasps have made nests inside the log right next to each other. That's the first interesting thing. The second interesting thing is that the nests were first inhabited last summer, and the same species of wasp still lives in them, so their town has been inhabited for multiple years instead of being abandoned when the larvae emerge. Has the next generation taken over the old nests? I am observing something about the species that is not known to science.

Wasps are hated and feared, but my wasps have never been anything but peaceful and polite, and they have so much beauty and importance in the ecosystem.

And the bees! I am observing bees this year that I had never even heard of before. Many of them are so tiny, I doubt they could even reach the nectar in large flowers like purple coneflower. What if the small, inconspicuous flowers are essential for smaller pollinators like the tiny bees? That would make sense. Different flowers evolved to attract different bees.

Beetles, ants, leafhoppers, flies, moths, butterflies, all kinds of bugs. Specific plants attract specific bugs, but it is not the plants individually that restore insect biodiversity, it is the way the plants interact and form a bigger ecosystem.

What I mean is, as my garden grew, the increase in bugs was not linear in relationship to the plants, it was exponential. The combination of the many different plants into an ecosystem attracted many more bugs than would be expected from the sum of each plant individually.

I remember the emptiness and barrenness before. I see it around me when I visit other places. The disappearance of bugs. The insect apocalypse. It's so clear to me now. The cause is biotic homogenization. I call it plant sameness.

Everywhere around me, landscapes have been made into expanses of the same few plants. But when plant sameness is replaced by variety and diversity, many plants interacting in many different ways, everything changes.

[cosycryptid]

Modern AU where the party have a famous paranormal investigation and unsolved mysteries youtube channel. Steve is in the background of their first ghost hunting video because he wasn't going to let them go and stay overnight in an abandoned building without supervision. Their audience finds Steve's sarcastic comments and parental attitude towards the kids really compelling and most of the comments on that video are begging for him to become a regular in their on location videos. Before long, Steve is a reoccurring presence in their videos playing the skeptic/concerned parent role.

For example:

Dustin: I’ve connected the dots guys. This must be the work of a demon.

Steve: You didn’t connect shit. It's just an old creaky building.

Dustin: I’ve connected them.

—————————————

In an abandoned hospital.

Max: Hey this giant metal door has some kind of engraving on it.

Lucas: Oh cool, it looks like old graffiti.

Steve: Yeah that’s great, do you know what else it looks like? Rusty as shit. Now get back here and don’t touch anything because your parents are gonna be so pissed if they find out you had to get tetanus shots at 2am on a Saturday because I let you wander around an abandoned hospital with a bunch of shady ass camera men. No offense.

Camera man: None taken.

Mike (from the doorway): Guys! Will, El and Dustin found an operating theatre and there are a bunch of old scalpels and needles and stuff in there.

Max: Awesome, let’s go.

Steve: No! No! Let’s not go! Let’s stay as far away as possible from the room full of potential infections. Where are Dustin, El and Will? They didn’t go inside the room, did they?

Mike: See, I could answer that, but I don’t think you’re gonna like it.

—————————————

While exploring a ‘haunted’ hotel:

Mike: Hey look, all of Steve’s bitches are in this room.

El: There is nobody in there.

Mike: Exactly.

He turns to look directly into the camera with a sly grin and the others start laughing.

Steve: Yeah, yeah. You’ll be laughing when I drive home without you.

—————————————

At the same hotel.

Steve: Dustin. Your little light box thing is broken, it’s been flashing on and off for the past five minutes.

Dustin: Oh my God, Steve! That means it can sense a spirit. Why didn’t you say anything?! Did you not listen to my long and detailed explanation of how the equipment works?

Steve: I’m gonna be so honest with you. No, I didn’t.

—————————————

On their Mothman episode trip to point pleasant.

Steve, staring at the statue (we all know which one): Ok, but why is he kinda…

Lucas: Please stop talking.

Dustin: No sexualising the cryptids please, Steve.

Steve: If they didn’t want anyone to sexualise Mothman, then why would they give his statue such a defined ass and abs?

Max: I mean, he’s not wrong.

—————————————

Eventually, Steve gets peer pressured by the comments into starting his own channel. And since he still has no idea what he wants to do with his life, he decides to go ahead and do it.

At first his audience are super confused because his content is a hard pivot from the supernatural and unsolved mysteries content people are used to seeing him in. He mainly reacts to DIY haircare videos and gives tips on how to do what the people in the videos were trying to do properly without risking ending up bald.

He also makes wholesome baking videos, and has a side podcast with Robin, where they talk shit for 3 hours about anything they want - usually celebrities and assholes on the internet - as well as having a segment where Robin makes Steve watch a movie he's never seen and they review it. People who came from the paranormal channel still love his content because he’s funny and sassy and his videos are surprisingly helpful at times. He’s soon catching up to his friends in subscriber numbers.

Eddie and his band have a channel where they upload music videos, live performances and backstage/tour vlogs. They also make the occassional song covers where they take requests in the comments for metal versions of pop songs. Eddie also has a side channel where he runs D&D campaigns with other influencers (he hates that word).

One day he’s doing a Q&A and when someone asks which influencers he’d like to invite for his next campaign, he mentions Steve and says he’s been secretly watching his videos for a while and they’re kind of a guilty pleasure. He’s even tried some of Steve’s hair care tips because his hair was looking a bit frazzled under the heat of the lights on stage and it was getting in his way during performances. Now he swears by them because his hair has never looked or felt better.

Steve’s never seen any of Eddie’s videos but he starts watching them after that, he particularly likes the metal versions of pop songs because it makes the genre more accessible to him. Sometimes he makes joke song suggestions in the comments. Every single time, the song he suggested gets covered.

The boys are all insanely jealous of this new development because they’ve been fans of Eddie’s channels for years and have been bringing up references to some of his campaigns in their videos to try and get him to consider them for the next one, but so far have had no luck. Meanwhile, Steve, who doesn’t even know the first thing about D&D has his full attention. Steve was going to ask Eddie to consider asking them out of the kindness of his heart, but after they’ve given him a little too much attitude over it, he decides he’s gonna join the campaign instead just to spite them.

Cue Steve going from completely clueless to kind of a decent player and the two of them going from fascinated with each other to constantly flirting and appearing in each other’s videos.

[beekeaper]

Sherlock Holmes became an adaptation of an adaptation.

By watching several adaptations, it is possible to see how Holmes' personality begins to change over time, and how some adaptations are very similar to each other, not because they are based on the same book, but because they are based on each other instead of being based on the canon.

For example, the stereotype that Holmes is cold and emotionless, even though in the book Watson indeed says that Holmes is "a machine", Watson still describes him as sensitive, gentle, Holmes compassionate towards the clients who need it most. In addition to the explicit affection he has for Watson and how he respects Watson's feelings.

In older adaptations, Holmes has a personality and attitudes that are more faithful to the books, until the 2000s, Holmes' personality was consistent with the canon.

From the 2000s onwards, the adaptations became increasingly distant from the canon and began to be based on existing versions of the character instead of the canon, and thus a whole new perception of the character was created that did NOT match AT ALL with his original counterpart.

(very long post)

And it's not just Holmes' personality that is affected, but his dynamic with Watson and the history and personality of the other characters ends up being affected. For example, Irene Adler.

Although the interpretation of Irene as Holmes' romantic partner has existed for decades, since the 19th century, and even though she appeared in ONE short story, and was the only woman to beat the great detective, her relevance in having been a woman at that time and having been smarter than Holmes was transformed and reduced to her being Holmes' love interest, BUT even then, there isn't THAT many adaptations where Irene is portrayed this way how people think

First, there is Alice Faulkner, Holmes' romantic partner created by William Gillette, an original character inspired by Irene Adler, but very different from Irene. Holmes helps her and falls in love with her, kinda cute. (almost everyone knows) William Gillette is also responsible for the image of Holmes with the big pipe and the famous phrase never said by the canon Holmes "Elementary, my dear Watson". This is where the first influence on the other adaptations begins.

William Gillette's Holmes inspired the adaptations by Clive Brook and John Barrymore. Brook's version Holmes has a wife like Alice, and Barrymore's version is an adaptation of Gillette's film.

‼️This is all referring specifically to visual media such as movies and tv shows.

From decades before until the 1950s (not included), there is no Irene Adler. Of the more than 30 adaptations, four of them have an original female character as a romantic partner to Holmes. From the 50s to the 80s (not included), there are 30 other film and television adaptations. Where Irene only appears in 1976 in “Sherlock Holmes In New York” with Roger Moore as Holmes, and I believe that this is perhaps the FIRST version where Irene and Holmes really have a romance.

In this movie, half of the time, it is shown how Holmes loves Irene Adler and misses her, until a case ends up taking him to New York, to meet the woman he loves so much, BUT in the end, after he discovers that he has a son with Irene, he simply decides that he cannot stay with her and their son, because he has a whole life in London and cannot leave everything like that. Father of the year.

Before that, of course, there is “The Private Life of Sherlock Holmes” in 1970 by Billy Wilder, where he has the character of Gabrielle, which may have been the starting point for Irene Adler's transformation.

There were two adaptations in the 1970s where a man ends up in a type of psychosis that makes him believe he is Sherlock Holmes and a doctor named, by coincidence of course, Watson, and she is the one who helps him. In the first film, “They Might Be Giants,” Holmes and Dr. Watson fall in love.

At this time, it has the movie “The Seven Per-Cent Solution,” where Freud helps Holmes overcome his “aversion to women” and at the end of the movie, Holmes meets a potential female love interest.

Of all the 33 films from this period [50s-80s], there is ONE movie where Holmes is implicitly homosexual, ONE movie where H&W fall in love, ONE movie where Holmes has an original female romantic partner and ONE movie where Holmes and Irene Adler were a couple.

Irene only appears then in the “Soviet Holmes” series from (1979), where although it seems that Holmes may have feelings for her, she is not a love interest.

From the 80s to the 2000s (not included), of the almost 40 film and television adaptations, Irene Adler only appears THREE TIMES.

In 1984 in the film with Peter Cushing “The Mask of Death”, where Holmes seems grumpy with the mere presence of Irene and complains about how he lost to a woman. In the same year also Irene appears in “Granada Holmes” which is probably the most faithful adaptation of the tale of the Scandal in Bohemia.

Irene only appears AGAIN in 1991 in “The Leading Lady” with Christopher Lee, where Irene has no self-respect whatsoever and has only one mission in this movie, which is to marry Holmes. She literally says that she DOESN’T CARE IF HOLMES DOESN’T LOVE HER, she wants to marry him and ends baby trapping him.

In 1994, there was the pilot episode of the series that would be called “Baker Street: Sherlock Holmes Returns”, which is a remake of the 1987 pilot episode “The Return of Sherlock Holmes”. In the first version, Holmes wakes up from cryogenics and meets Watson’s granddaughter, Jane, and from her, he learns that it is okay to be gay in the 80s. In the second version, Holmes is found by a doctor named Winslow who falls in love with him, but Holmes shows no interest in her.

In the late 90s, there is “Shirley Holmes”, who is Holmes' great-great-granddaughter-niece (?), her father is a Holmes and her mother is a doctor named Joanne. There is also “My Dearly Beloved Detective” where H&W kiss, the movie is mainly about love.

From this period, of the three times that Irene appears, only once she is a love interest and other THREE adaptations that put H&W in a romantic position.

So until the 2000s, of the more than one hundred adaptations, Irene is Holmes' love interest ONLY TWICE.

Of about 61 film and series adaptations produced since the 2000s till this day, EIGHT adaptations have Irene Adler as Holmes' romantic partner and another EIGHT adaptations where Holmes has other originals female characters as romantic partners.

And just because I'm a math teacher:

It's worth noting that the number of adaptations (movies and tv shows) in 25 years is almost equivalent to the number of adaptations (movies and tv shows) in ONE CENTURY.

From the first sample of adaptations (movies and tv shows) from the period 1900-1999, there were 104 adaptations.

Irene as a romantic partner: 2 (± 2%)

Original Female Character: 4 (± 3.8%)

H&W in a romantic situation (corresponding or not, explicit or not): 4 (± 3.8%)

From the second sample of adaptations (movies and tv shows) from the period 2000-2025, there were 61 adaptations.

Irene as a romantic partner: 8 (± 13%)

Original Female Character: 8 (± 13%)

H&W in a romantic situation (corresponding or not, explicit or not): 7 (± 11.5%)

Irene Adler as love interest from the 2000s onwards:

“The Royal Scandal” with Matt Frewer, their relationship is implicit, this movie sucks, but other Frewer movies are good, as is Clive Merrison, Frewer is one of the only actors who has a voice that most closely matches the description of Holmes' voice in the canon. Also in the television film “Sherlock Holmes and the Baker Street Irregulars”, where Irene spends most of the movie disguised as a man, because of course that the ONLY WOMAN Holmes could fall in love with, dresses as a man. And then we have the Robert Downey Jr. films where despite explicitly showing the romantic relationship between Holmes and Irene at the same time it implicitly shows the romantic feelings between Holmes and Watson. And then we have “Elementary” (2012-2019), “Шерлок Холмс” (2013), “Sherlock Gnomes” (2018) and the most recent “CBS Watson” (Holmes is dead but they still made sure to let us know that Irene and Holmes had an affair.)

So, it was here, in the 2000s that the adaptations really began to change and became adaptations of each other. Holmes lost his personality and became another character. The canon stories were replaced by “fanfics” of other adaptations. (Irene Adler case)

I consider that three adaptations are mainly responsible for the CURRENT image of Sherlock Holmes, and that it is from these three adaptations that the image that we have (in the contemporary era) of Sherlock Holmes was perpetuated and is the basis for the adaptations produced more recently.

The first is House M.D. (2004-2012). Although the general public does not know that it is based on Sherlock Holmes, House influenced other adaptations, especially the personality that Holmes has today. The cliché of the super-intelligent, cold, calculating, emotionless male character begins here. Even though House is not exactly that trope. The image of Holmes being insensitive to clients/patients, his arrogance and being an ASSHOLE starts in House. Including the way he treats or mistreats Watson/Wilson.

The second adaptation is the Robert Downey Jr. films as Holmes (2009-2011). He turns Holmes into an action hero, which Holmes is not, his personality does not match the canon at all (in these movies, this is not a problem). But the main influence of RDJ Holmes is Holmes as an action hero, and being SLOPPY. He dresses badly and does not keep a clean appearance. It looks like he has not showered in months. I know he STINKS.

And then we have the third adaptation, which is where the adaptations of other adaptations begin: BBC Sherlock (2010-2017). BBC Sherlock could almost be an adaptation of “The Private of Sherlock Holmes” considering the amount of similarities and references to Billy Wilder's film and the number of times Moffat and Gatiss said that this was their favorite film and INSPIRATION. BBC Sherlock is set in the modern era as Basil Rathbone's film series was then, it also makes references to the 1965 BBC series with a background appearance by Douglas Wilmer, they made reference to “Granada Holmes” in “The Abominable Bride”. And considering that RDJ Holmes is (I believe) the FIRST adaptation that decided to have Irene Adler working for Moriarty, it can be considered that Irene Adler from BBCSH, besides being an adaptation of Gabrielle from “Private Life of Sherlock Holmes”, is also inspired by Irene from the movie.

Still, controversy, but BBC Sherlock also suffers from the influence of House, mainly in Sherlock’s PERSONALITY. He has a personality quite similar to House’s.

So we have BBC Sherlock that is inspired by other adaptations and other adaptations that are inspired by BBC Sherlock. They are adaptations based on others adaptations, where the original Holmes gets lost and it is no longer possible to recognize him.

House influenced BBC Sherlock, Elementary and CBS Watson. Although Elementary suffered from the obvious comparisons to BBC Sherlock, it clearly follows a House approach style, including the opening of the show is inspired by the 1965 BBC series. And even with the influences of other adaptations, Elementary managed to maintain a personality more in keeping with Holmes, despite the sexual appeal that Elementary Holmes has (I believe it's House's fault). This Holmes has character development and takes a more serious approach to being neurodivergent and queer, and to his addiction. Unlike both House and BBCSH, which do not fully address Holmes' autistic, or his sexuality, and in the case of BBCSH at no point does it seriously address Sherlock's addiction problem.

And again, possibly influenced by Irene from the Warner Bros. films, we have an Irene Adler who works with Moriarty, and spoiler alert, not only does she work with Moriarty but is actually Moriarty herself. In addition to having a romantic involvement with Holmes, and Moriarty (her own counterpart) being an obstacle in their relationship (as in the film).

CBS Watson series has a big problem, being from the same producers as Elementary, even though Elementary managed to maintain consistency and a certain fidelity to Holmes' personality, CBS Watson ends up having almost no personality, being similar to House, and with a Watson that seems trying to be Holmes at all times. In a way, CBS Watson is an adaptation of another adaptation: House, which is inspired by Sherlock Holmes.

RDJ Holmes has influenced two Russian adaptations, “Sherlock Holmes” from 2013, where despite expectations that it was inspired by the Soviet series from 1979, the new Russian Holmes is very similar to the ways of RDJ Holmes, sloppy and careless. The series plot is that Watson narrates the adventures of Sherlock Holmes, but the Holmes he writes about is not the same as the real Holmes he lives with. Even though in this context, fidelity to the canon somehow does not need to exist. It still shows the influence of RDJ's films. And again, Irene Adler here is Holmes' romantic partner.

As for the NEW Russian series “Sherlock in Russia” (2020), despite its originality and very well produced, we have an almost sloppy Holmes, long hair and a goatee, that yes, is RDJ's fault.

Being the most influential of the post-2000s adaptations, BBC Sherlock influenced several other adaptations, such as: “Miss Sherlock” (2018) which is not only inspired by BBC Sherlock, but clearly an adaptation of BBC Sherlock in a modern Tokyo setting where Sherlock and John are women. (An adaptation of another adaptation that was inspired by other adaptations). “Sherlock Untold Stories” (2019-2022) which is also heavily inspired by BBC Sherlock visually, but unlike Miss Sherlock it manages to be more original.

Moriarty the Patriot's Sherlock. Both the manga and the anime are, in my opinion, the best adaptation of Sherlock Holmes, both in the original plot and in how they adapted Moriarty and the canon to the context of the manga universe. However, Sherlock is clearly inspired by BBCSH's Sherlock. Some parts of the manga are also very similar to the events of BBC Sherlock.

And the most controversial one: Sherlock and Co. And I say this not as if they deliberately decided this. It's undeniable the impact that BBC Sherlock had on the general public's perception of WHO SHERLOCK HOLMES IS. Considering that the producer himself said that they had three audiences that they had to balance when making this adaptation, one of them being the "Johnlocker Community". Evidencing the HUGE impact that BBC Sherlock has even on the general Sherlock Holmes fandom, and yet, the producer said that he didn't know about queerbaiting when the allegations started that SH&Co. could be queerbaiting, remembering that no adaptation is obligated to make H&W a couple. This fact happened precisely because of the public's perception of how SH&Co. is similar to BBCSH and not just because it is set in the modern era. Observing the fandom, especially in the beginning, it was perceptive that SH&Co. was being treated as an extension of BBC Sherlock. So by EXTERNAL CONSEQUENCES, I will consider that SH&Co. Whether willingly or not, he suffers from the direct influence of BBCSH (and its fandom).

And then there's the Netflix problem. I haven't read the Enola books (yet), and I have no idea how Holmes is adapted in her books. But Henry Cavill Holmes is a consequence of BBCSH and RDJ. It's as if they had a son, but he clearly pulled Sherlock's hair more (BBCSH).

And Irregulars, only Netflix know where they got their inspiration from to do that. And Holmes is sloppy again, it's RDJ's fault. And taking inspiration from Sherlock in New York, Netflix's Holmes also abandons his daughter even though he says he loves the child's mother more than anything. Eleven worse, Irregulars Holmes neglects his daughter for FIFTEEN YEARS, but her mother is the love of his life and could let the world end if they could be together. And for some reason Watson loves that jerk.

(also is like benedict and jonny lee miller had a child)

And the light at the end of the tunnel came, unexpectedly, from the CW. Finally an adaptation that is not based on another adaptation, that despite the original approach, it is still noticeable that it is in fact based on the canon and does not suffer from the influence of other adaptations.

This is based on a twitter discussion, but mostly on a comment from an oomf.

English is not my first language, I am smarter in Brazilian Portuguese

[uncouthalchemist]

The gen 7 games, while not necessarily my absolute favorite, will always stay close to my heart for how much it genuinely made me care for the characters and the story. I personally still see them as the most intriguing pokemon games i've ever played story-wise and even though i played them in my late teens, well after gen 8 had been announced, i could never truly put them down during my first playthrough.

Guzma, to me, is a symbol of everything that made gen 7 so endearing to me, and he's still my favorite pokemon villain so far, and definitely the most memorable imo. He is one of the main reasons i keep interacting with gen 7 centered fan content, because he (and honestly a lot of the side characters) have just stuck with me ever since, and i just wish there was more content that involved him.

It saddens me how many people complained about gen 7 and it's cutscenes, as they were genuinely one of the most enjoyable parts of the game for me. Gen 7 broke some of the rules of the pokemon formula, and honestly i think it's sad that we went straight back to same old same old in gen 8.

I really hope that at some point we can get another Guzma.

As far as I’m concerned, pokemon villain writing peaked with Guzma. Legitimately worried about the erosion of culture due to hyper-tourism surrounding their sacred rites and practices. Abused as a child, ran away from home to start his countries only youth hostel for similarly troubled kids, and funds it with crime. Bug type specialist, with an ace that is mostly known for its first stage being cowardly. Cultivates a big scary persona as a defense mechanism to protect himself and his members, no one can beat big bad Guzma, so they don’t have to be afraid anymore. His grunts trust him enough to ask him for help when they screw up, despite the fact that they all come from troubled homes. Was so significant that pokemon switched from having cartoonishly evil bad guys and teams to the current model of “sympathetic and understandable antagonist that has some very good points, even as they oppose the protagonist, and is in some way actively doing good in their community by supporting those who are the most in need of assistance, due to some legitimate failing of the current system.” There is a cartoon villain looming behind him, but they’re a twist and not the main team presented. Everyone wants to be him, but they can never replicate the perfection that is this man.

Thank you for your service Guzma

[softsunnyy]

let's take some time

Jack asks you to take a break when the relationship starts to go in the wrong direction. And you suffer, but at least you believe you're both experiencing the same thing… until you see videos of a party at a bar and start to believe it was always one-sided.

4,3k words.

angst, angst, angst, but happy ending. Reader is kinda the problem here tbh, but at the end of the day they're just two fools who don't know how to handle their feelings.

as always, poorly written.

when the words left his mouth, you exhaled, as if he'd punched you in the stomach, though it didn't really take you by surprise. Jack and you had been having problems for the past couple of weeks, with arguments that left the air tense and made you cry in your moments alone. The relationship seemed to be slipping through your fingers, and you didn't know how to get it back. How to get him back.

and you let the days go by, trying to maintain a positive attitude and not look for trouble, but everything seemed completely useless in the face of chaos, since any comment could turn against you, and your boyfriend had made that very clear. Jack was becoming more and more distant, distracted, and a pain in your chest tried to warn you of this, tried to make you feel uncomfortable or insecure, but you wanted to ignore it and believe in the love you have for him, and that's how you find yourself facing this situation.

“i think we should take a break. I don't think this is doing us any good,” he tells you, looking down, too hurt to meet your eyes, missing the way you blink rapidly, trying to push away the tears that are starting to form, while your throat aches and your hands clench into fists on your thighs, making your knuckles turn white.

you opened your mouth a couple of times, trying to start a sentence, but no sound came out, your mind clouded. The silence stretched for a couple of seconds, until he finally looked at you. His red, irritated eyes making you think for a moment that this might be hurting him too, and then you dared, you asked him the only question you could think of.

“are you sure of this?” “do you want this?” you wanted to ask him too, but you couldn't; you didn't know what to say, what to do. You didn't know if the right thing to do was to fight for his love or let him go. You're not even sure he feels the same way you do, even though you're looking into his eyes, like you've done a thousand times.

and he hesitates, he stops for a moment, and then in a very quiet, raspy voice he says, “yeah… i think it’s for the best.” And then the decision was made, because you would never do anything to make him uncomfortable, and if he wanted to take some time, you would give it to him, even if it hurt you deeply.

so he removes most of his things from your apartment—like some hoodies, his underwear, his shampoo, his toothbrush, and much of his essence—while you look at him with complete sadness, feeling like he’s also taking a part of your soul.

and he talks to you, tells you he’ll bring your things from his house, that you won’t have to worry about going there, but you don’t pay much attention, because you feel your body cramping, a constant, stabbing pain in your chest, and an emptiness in your stomach that makes you want to throw up your entire lunch.

when he leaves, you can't even cry, not right away, not even when he said goodbye at the door, giving you one last kiss as if it were a final goodbye, as if there were no way back. Instead, you can only stare at the wall, sitting on your couch, your head completely lost, your body too heavy.

it's like something has been ripped from inside you, as if something is missing and your heart wants to escape from your chest to find it. But physically, you remain there, sitting on that couch you chose together, unable to blink, unable to eat.

and when the days begin to pass, it's slow, everything moves too slowly. The house feels cold, the sky is always gray, the food is less appetizing, and your routine becomes more and more tedious. Your friends try to make you laugh, convince you to go out, to try to have fun, but you get bored quickly, you just wanna go back to your room and lie on your bed in the fetal position, crying yourself to sleep while you think about how he must be feeling.

you try to think it's mutual, that maybe he feels bad too and will soon regret this, but hours, days pass and you don't get a single text from him, a single call from his brothers, a single comment from his friends. And when you see them on the street, they give you a sad smile, as if you had broken up, as if there's no other option, and you can't return the gesture, so you just look at the ground and keep walking.

you wanna avoid him, forget everything related to him, but his face is all over the city, and you see him, on the way to college, on the way to work, on commercials, news, even food boxes, as if life were playing a trick on you, forcing you to see his huge smile all the time, while he enjoys doing what he loves, probably not caring about you as much as you do about him.

and you wanna leave, you wanna visit your family, go away for a month if necessary, but you wanna disappear from the city. So you wait, you do your best to finish your classes, to wait until you can request time off from work, and then you take them with you as far away as you can, trying not to cry, not to pick up your phone, not to watch television.

and the first two days worked; you're laughing, watching the stupid things the people you love do just to see you smile; and life feels fresher, your shoulders don't hurt as much, the puffiness under your eyes is going down... until that saturday night comes, when everyone has gone to sleep and you decide to turn on your phone. Your finger slides across the screen, traveling between apps, answering messages, until you open instagram and see that one of your friends posted a close friends story. And something inside you told you not to look at it, to close everything and go to sleep, but you dared anyway. Then you saw a video. It was a party, at a bar you recognized perfectly. And there's music playing in the background, so you don't hear much, but you recognize Trevor, laughing too loudly while elbowing someone. The camera pans a little, and then you see him.

Jack.

wearing a white shirt, with the top three buttons undone, sweat pouring from his skin, and a huge grin on his face. You can tell from his eyes that he's drunk, and from the way they laugh, you know he's really having fun.

you don't know when you stopped breathing, but you realized it by the sharp pain in your chest. Your hand shook, and the image was frozen, still in the calm, happy expression of the one who's supposedly still your boyfriend. And now you wanna throw up, you want to stop watching, but your eyes see the time, and you realize the video was uploaded a couple of minutes ago.

he's partying. That's what you thought, over and over again.

and you couldn't stop yourself. You watched every video, every photo, every update from the friends you had in common, seeing the whole group partying, posting captions like "he's backk," "mission take the dog out: done," while you felt the annoyance taking over.

you spent weeks crying, not knowing how to move forward, clinging to the things he left behind in your home, like a false promise that he'd come back, that this wasn't over. You spent nights remembering that last kiss, thinking about the thousands of things you wish you'd done differently. God, you even had to leave home, taking your family and going to the furthest place your savings would allow to get him out of your head.

and he's celebrating.

your throat closes, and you try to forget him, to go to sleep as if nothing had happened, but nightmares attack you, and you spend the night tossing and turning on your mattress, with different images of Jack forgetting you, changing you, leaving forever while you rot in that rented house.

now, what you don't know is Jack's perspective, because you don't talk, because you're trying to keep the no-contact agreement, so you miss out on the hell he's been living. He's been like a zombie for weeks, and arguing with everyone, friends, brothers, even his parents. Crying every night as he thinks about the things he would have done differently; remembering the stupid things he said to you in every argument, and replaying the images of how your light faded because of him, like he's a poison destined to kill you from the inside out. 

rejecting invitations, messages, calls. Getting up only to go play hockey, then going back home and sinking deeper into his misery, while he stares at the hoodie he never returned to you, hoping you won't notice, or that you won't say anything about it. It was his favorite, because it used to be your favorite. And it still smells of you, of your perfume that he bought you so many times before it ran out. Of your perfume that he bought again almost by instinct, and that now rests on his sink. Perfume he used to spray on the pillow, so he could sleep imagining you were still there.

nights convincing himself he made the best decision, because he couldn't bear to see you so sad because of him, while he breaks a little more with each passing day, feeling like all the fun and light in his life disappeared along with you, as if you owned his soul.

and his friends worry. Can you blame them? Jack used to be a party animal; fun, always there when you wanted to have fun, the best guest at any party, and that didn't stop when you started dating, but it has stopped now that you're not together, and they can firmly say they've never seen him so... lost. So out of his mind.

and they don't know what to do. They don't tell him about the times they've seen you, the things they've heard, they just try to get him to come out, but nothing works, until one day they all arrive together, opening the door to his house, turning on every light, settling in like they´re allowed. And Trevor and Alex drag him out of his bed, pulling at his feet as he tries to kick them, his voice hoarse from crying, but feeling so weak that fighting was useless.

together, they choose clothes, a cologne (your perfume, by accident), and force him to brush his teeth before leaving, leaving him with no other choice.

unfortunately, they take him to that bar, where you two went thousands of times to see bands play, to relax, to forget everything. And now each of those memories has come flooding back, making him feel dizzy, making his stomach turn, and unconsciously trying to walk back to the exit, only to be stopped by his friends. So he ends up drinking again and again, forgetting each drink, feeling lighter and dizzier.

he laughs at stupid things, and Trevor´s the best to keep him laughing. He sees phones near him, recording, taking photos, but he feels like he's floating, completely lost, sweaty, and forgetting for a moment everything that's happened in the last few weeks, as if it never happened.

and the hours pass, he keeps drinking, keeps having fun, and gets closer and closer to everything going dark. Then that song comes on, the one that made you laugh, the one you mocked so many times, claiming that '80s artists would be embarrassed, but you still danced with excitement, as if youth were eternal, as if euphoria were the only thing running through your veins, making him feel full of energy, even if it was the last song, at 2, 3, 5 in the morning. And then he begins to discreetly distance himself from his group, taking advantage of the alcohol to make them lose sight of him until he leaves the bar, holding onto the wall with difficulty, until he gets a little farther away from the music, taking out his phone and quickly dialing the number he couldn't forget even if he were almost passed out from drunkenness.

your phone vibrated, once, twice, three times, until you poked your head out from under the covers, your nose stuffed, your eyes swollen, and your throat destroyed, picking up your phone in irritation and answering it without first looking at who was calling.

“hello?” you asked, your voice raspy and making you wince. In the background, you could hear a bit of music, voices, and you frowned, confused, about to look at who was calling you.

“that song is playing.” You recognized his voice immediately, though the words came out too relaxed, almost incomprehensible. You sat up in your bed immediately, suddenly on alert.

“Jack?” you asked, though you didn't need confirmation. Still, he hummed, affirming it.

“that song is playing, the one that says…” and he began to sing, very poorly, slurring his words, getting the lyrics wrong too often. You were perplexed, not knowing how to interrupt him. “You hate that song,” he said when he finished.

“Jack, why are you calling me?” you asked, feeling the ache in your heart. One of your hands played with your blankets, trying to maintain your composure, even though hearing his voice broke you even more.

“i needed to tell you… because you’re not here,” he said, as if it were the most normal thing in the universe. As if he wasn’t calling his girlfriend, with whom he took some time, at 5 in the morning.

“yeah, well, i think we both know why,” you replied, harsher than you intended. And for a moment he remembers, remembers everything, so he falls silent, trying to think of a response. Suddenly more sober than he'd been all night.

“shit, i'm sorry, i don't know what i was thinking,” he said, completely remorseful, closing his eyes as he ran a hand over his face in frustration.

“it´s fine, now, since you remembered, go on having fun now that you're a free man.” And you hung up, knowing your voice had cracked on the last words; letting him go, when it was what you feared most. You began to sob, unable to stop yourself, throwing your phone to the other end of the bed, curling into a ball as your body shook violently, as if you'd ripped off the band-aid, and with it, something in your heart.

Jack, for his part, remained silent for a few seconds, the phone still pressed to his ear, but not hearing anything. And he tried to think, even in his state. He tried to reason, to guess what you were referring to, and then he remembered the photos, the videos. He thought about how everything must have looked, how you must have felt, and he wanted to throw up, feeling guilty, dirty, even though he hadn't done anything to anyone, but knowing that his actions had caused you some kind of harm.

and that night, he tried to go to your house, to look for you, to apologize in person, but you didn't open the door, so he ended up falling asleep outside your door, until one of your neighbors woke him up in the morning; a kind woman who always looked at you two with nostalgia, but now looked at him with pity. She told him you had gone on a trip, and told him when you would be back.

so he waited, day and night, trying to look presentable, but failing every night when he looked you up on social media again, or when he opened his gallery again and found all the photos, the videos.

he found himself replaying that nearly two-minute video of you over and over again; of you putting bows in his hair while you shared one of your precious bits of gossip, not realizing he was recording you until you looked down, blushing, laughing, and accusing him of having evidence against you, as if you were committing the biggest crime.

and he would unconsciously smile, seeing your big smile, your displays of affection, your little things that make you so special, and then he would fall back into that spiral of anguish, of guilt, knowing he had ruined everything by asking for that time; letting you go, as if he were giving up on the relationship.

when he felt like this, so sad, so lost, he always turned to you, to your arms, to your love, because you´re his light, his sun, the person who brought him back down to earth and reminded him that it's okay to make mistakes, to doubt, to want to do things differently, but that he shouldn't let himself be consumed by the "what ifs"; using his doubts as motivation to make positive changes, to stop falling and start climbing, even if it was at a slow pace. You had always been there to hold him, to take his hand and show him that he wasn't alone. But this time... this time you couldn't help him, because you both let go of each other's hands. And Jack doesn't know what to do.

for your part, your vacation was ruined, with nightmares every day, but trying to put on an act in front of your family; using all your energy to look fine in front of them, and being completely destroyed when everyone went to sleep. So exhausted that afterward it was almost impossible to move, every muscle feeling tense, hurting like shit.

and you're afraid to go back, to face reality, but the date is getting closer and you know it's time, so you pack your things, sighing heavily and returning to your apartment, which you know will be cold, lifeless, with his hoodies folded on your bed, as if waiting for you, without his scent, without his warmth.

the surprise comes when you arrive and a figure is waiting for you in front of your door, hands in the pockets of his jacket, looking down, and wearing a cap over his hair, which is longer than the last time. He seems to sense your footsteps, so he raises his head and meets your eyes, which are wide open.

“Jack…” you whispered, in disbelief, walking slower and slower, as if he might vanish when you finish approaching. And he waited for you, not coming closer, afraid that you might run away from him after all. “What are you doing here?” he could hear how tired you were in your voice, even though your eyes still had a bit of their usual sparkle.

“i think we need to figure some things out,” he replied, seeing you frown, confused. Still, you let him in. And he moves with uncertainty as if it were his first time there.

“sit, i just wanna grab a bottle of water,” you instructed, leaving your suitcase by the entrance and starting to walk toward the kitchen. “Do you want anything?” you asked, trying to sound normal, even though your heart was pounding, about to burst out of your chest.

“no, thanks,” he replied, distracted, looking around, noticing that you hadn’t taken down the pictures of the two of you, and paying special attention to one of his favorite photos; one from when you were 15 and you went to see one of his games for the first time. He still remembers how all his friends spent weeks teasing him about how nervous he was, but it was all worth it when you kissed his cheek, congratulating him on his goal. God, his brain had stopped working at that moment.

when you returned to the living room with your water bottle in hand, you found him looking at the photos, and something inside you ached too much, so you decided to speak as you went to sit down, far enough away from him to contain your urge to jump up and hug him.

“what do you wanna talk about?” your voice pulled him from his thoughts, and, slightly blushing, he went to sit down, all too aware of the distance between your bodies.

“i made a mistake,” he said bluntly, impatiently, watching your eyebrows rise, and missing the way your heart skipped a beat, as if he had just said the magic words.

“what do you mean?” you asked, in a low, weak tone, as you opened your bottle so you could take a sip; your throat suddenly dry.

“i thought i was doing the right thing by letting you go,” he cleared his throat, but still didn’t stop looking into your eyes. “But losing you has been really hard, and i hate it.”

“it didn’t seem like it,” you commented, with some venom in your voice, remembering that party where you saw him alive, in his element. “I saw you laughing, celebrating, and our friends saying they were ‘bringing you back,’ as if our relationship had completely turned you off.”

“it wasn’t like that,” he interrupted, frowning, almost offended. “They were, but because i was..." he paused for a moment, trying to find the words "i stopped talking to them, i cried every day, i missed you too much. And they came that night, all together, picked me up, and took me with them.”

“to that bar.”

“to that bar,” he affirmed. “They had no idea, and i wasn't gonna ruin their night, so i decided my best option was to drink and drink until i could let loose and enjoy myself for at least a couple of hours,” he explained, but he still saw some doubt in your eyes. “I know that when you met me, i liked to have fun, maybe too much, but i didn't go to that bar looking for trouble, or an adventure, or whatever you think happened,” he said, trying to keep his voice soft, so as not to turn this into an argument. “God, i even called you. I got away from them and called you when that song came on.”

“it's a terrible song,” you commented, still weak, and after being silent for a few seconds, processing his words, taking another sip of water. And you saw him smile a little, relaxing his shoulders.

“it is, but i needed you to hear it,” he sighed. “For a moment i forgot everything that had happened, and i thought it would be the same as always, that you would answer me, that you would laugh…” he tried to get a little closer, regretting it when he saw you tense up. “But that didn’t happen, and when i listened to you, when i understood that you were hurt and believing something that wasn’t that way… i came here.”

“you what?” you choked on the water, looking at him with a frown, but surprised. “It was around 5 in the morning, Jack, something could have happened to you.”

“i know, but i stayed here, and in the morning mrs. Winnicott told me you had gone with your family, and that you would be back today,” he explained.

“so you just came to my apartment to try to win me back,” you said, though there was no venom behind your words and he just shrugged.

“did it work?” he asked, hopeful.

you were silent for a couple of seconds, considering everything. You stopped looking at him, and instead looked at your hands. He waited patiently, feeling his heart pounding like never before, completely terrified at the thought of losing you.

“there are things we need to work on, Jack, you know that, right?” you asked, looking at him again, seeing him nod. “We can't go back to the way we were, because i don't think i can stand more days of just arguing with you. Not again,” you continued, and he listened, really listened. “I want my boyfriend back, but i need you to promise me that we're gonna try, really try.”

“we'll make it work, i promise,” he replied without hesitation, reaching out to take your hand. This time you didn't stop him.

and feeling his warmth broke you, so you threw yourself into his arms, holding him as tightly as you'd ever had before, listening to him begin to sob, his face buried in your neck, his hands clinging to you, as if you could disappear at any moment.

there are still so many things left to say, so many boundaries to set, but for now you just enjoy the feel of his body against yours, like that 16-year-old Jack, who curled up on you when he felt he was failing, or that 17-year-old Jack who threw himself at you when he knew his dream was about to come true and he could take you with him.

you missed him, you missed him so much that you don't wanna let go, you can't, and you hold onto him with the same intensity, your tears running down your cheeks, but with a smile so huge it lit up his world once again.

it wasn't perfect. And you're young, you're gonna make mistakes, you're gonna cross boundaries, you're gonna get to know each other a little better. But right now, there's only one thing you're both clear about: you don't want to separate again. Not when you've both already found your home in each other's arms.

you're the end game; you just have to learn to live with whatever that means and comes with.

but you'd do anything, just for him.

[linoxpudding]

Through The Grief - Bang Chan

summary: he comforts you when you lose a loved one

pairing: bang chan x gn!reader

genre: hurt, comfort

word count: 1761 words

warnings: grief, death of a loved one, emotional distress, sadness

a/n: this fic (based on this request) covers heavy themes around grief and loss— so I haven't included my taglist to avoid any unintended triggers, please take care while reading ♡

Masterlist

~°~

You hadn’t moved much since the funeral.

The black outfit you wore still hung from your frame, slightly crumpled from how long you'd been lying in bed. The silence in your shared apartment was louder than the wails at the burial, louder than the condolences that kept pouring in. It was as if the world had fallen still just to let your grief echo louder.

Chan had been checking on you every hour or so. Never pushing. Never rushing. Just… there. He would peek in, sit on the edge of the bed, sometimes stroke your hair and whisper, “I’m here.”

Now, the sun was starting to set. The gold light filtered through the curtains like a warmth you couldn’t quite feel. Your stomach hadn’t made a sound all day. Neither had you.

A soft knock at the door broke the quiet.

Chan peeked in again, holding a tray. His voice was low, careful. “Baby… just a little soup? You don’t even have to sit up. I’ll feed you a few spoons, yeah? Just a little.”

You didn’t respond. Just blinked slowly at the ceiling.

He sighed softly but didn’t look disappointed. He set the tray down on the nightstand, then crawled onto the bed behind you, wrapping himself around your curled form. His arm rested over your waist, his hand splaying over your stomach, grounding you.

“I know it hurts,” he whispered against your shoulder. “I know it doesn’t feel real. But I’m not going anywhere, okay?”

Your eyes stung again, dry from crying earlier. Still, no tears came,  just that horrible weight that made you feel suffocated.

There was a shuffle outside the bedroom, followed by soft footsteps. Chan looked up but didn’t move.

“Can I come in?” Felix’s voice was gentle.

You didn’t speak, but Chan said, “Yeah.”

Felix entered quietly and crossed the room. He leaned down, kissed your forehead tenderly, his hand brushing over your hair. “We love you,” he whispered, voice thick with emotion.

Han followed next, kneeling by the bed. He didn’t say much—just placed his hand over yours and pressed his lips to your knuckles before squeezing them gently. His eyes searched your face like he was begging for some sign you were still there, behind the silence.

Hyunjin sat beside you and placed his cheek against yours for a long minute, arms curling around your shoulders. “We’re here. All of us.”

After staying with you for a while, the boys quietly made their way out of the room. Felix lingered for a moment, brushing your hair back one last time before following the others. Han gave your hand a final squeeze, and Hyunjin glanced back from the doorway with teary eyes, his arms still crossed tightly over his chest like he was holding himself together.

Not long after, a soft knock came at the door again. This time Minho came.

He didn’t say much at first. Just sat at the foot of the bed, his hands folded.

Then he turned to Chan. “Call me if you need anything. Yeah?” He glanced at you, eyes softening. “No matter what time.”

Chan nodded, holding you just a little tighter. “Yeah. I will.”

Minho gave your leg a gentle pat and stood. Before leaving, he bent down to kiss your forehead too—chaste and comforting.

One by one, they all came. Seungmin, Jeongin, and Changbin entered quietly, carrying the same heavy sadness in their eyes. No one said much—but their presence alone filled the room with warmth, a quiet kind of love that didn’t need words to be understood.

Changbin wiped his own tears quickly before leaning in to hug you tightly and whisper, “You don’t have to be strong, okay? You just have to be.”

After the final goodbye, Chan stood and quietly followed them to the front door. He didn’t say anything at first, just opened it for them, letting the cool evening air drift inside.

Changbin lingered.

He turned around just before stepping through the gate, placing a firm hand on Chan’s shoulder. His voice was low, gentle. “You okay?”

Chan swallowed hard, eyes focused on the ground. “Seeing Y/N like that…” His voice cracked, and he quickly blinked the tears back. “It’s shattering me. I don’t know what to do. What if I’m not enough for Y/N right now?”

The others stopped walking, turning back to him.

Jeongin stepped forward, his brows knitted with concern. “You don’t have to fix it, hyung. Just be there. You already are.”

Seungmin nodded. “Y/N doesn’t need answers. Just your presence. Your arms, your voice… the way you always make everything feel just a little more okay.”

Jeongin offered a small smile. “And if you feel like breaking down, do it. Just not in front of Y/N yet. Be their strength now, and when Y/N’s ready to stand again… we’ll be here for both of you.”

Changbin gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve always taken care of us, hyung. Now it’s your turn to carry Y/N through this. And you’re not alone either, okay?”

Chan nodded slowly, pressing his lips together to keep the emotion down. “Thanks, guys.”

Seungmin stepped back and smiled softly. “Call us if you need anything. Even if it’s just to cry.”

As they walked away, Chan stood in the doorway a moment longer, letting their words sink in.

Then he shut the door quietly behind him, took a deep breath… and headed back to the bedroom. To you. To where he was needed most. 

The moment he stepped inside, his chest tightened again.

You were still curled up on the bed, exactly as he’d left you—small, silent, shattered. The dim light from the hallway spilled across your face, and something about the way you clutched the edge of the blanket like it was the only thing tethering you to this world made his heart twist painfully.

He stood there for a second, breath catching in his throat. Seeing you so broken, it gutted him. It hurt him in a way words couldn’t reach. 

Quietly, he walked across the room slowly and carefully, then gently climbed in the bed next to you, wrapping his arms around you.

He held you like he wanted to protect you from everything. From the pain, from the world, from anything that could hurt you more. One hand rested under your head, the other around your waist, pulling you close.

And though he didn’t speak, his mind was screaming: “I can’t lose you too. I won’t.”

He held you tighter, as if his embrace alone could protect you from the weight of everything you'd lost.

You shifted, just a little, and whispered so softly, Chan almost missed it.

“I miss them.”

His breath hitched. He turned you slightly so he could see your face, thumb brushing your cheek.

“I know, baby,” he said, eyes glassy. “I miss them too. You don’t have to do this alone.”

He cupped your face gently, and for the first time all day, you moved—pressing your forehead to his chest. You clutched his shirt, fists tight in the fabric.

Chan sat up slowly and pulled you into his lap, wrapping you in his arms like you were the most fragile thing in the world. His hand cradled the back of your head, guiding you to rest against his shoulder. You sobbed into him, soaking his shirt, your cries growing hoarse and desperate.

“They’re gone. I—I can’t call them. I can’t see them smile again. I didn’t even get to say everything I wanted. What’s the point of living if—if the people you love just… disappear?”

He didn’t shush you. Instead, he wrapped both arms around you tightly like he was shielding you from the world, from the pain, from the unbearable emptiness.

“Baby,” he murmured, voice low and steady despite the tremble in it. “I know it hurts. I know nothing I say can take that away. But listen to me…”

He pulled back slightly, just enough to cup your face in his warm, gentle hands. His thumbs brushed away your tears as he looked into your eyes, his own misty with grief—for you, with you.

“I know it feels impossible right now,” he continued softly. “But I promise—promise—you’ll feel the sun again. You’ll smile again. Not because you forget them. But because you remember them with love instead of only pain.”

Your lip trembled again, eyes filling with fresh tears.

He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes closing. “They would want you to live. Not just exist. They’d want you to laugh, to find joy in little things again. Not to cry for the rest of your life. They wouldn’t want that for you, love.”

You let out a broken sob, your fingers curling tighter into his shirt. He held you close, like he could shield you from the ache.

“They’d want you to keep going. To be happy. To carry their love in your heart, not just the sorrow of losing them. So when you smile again one day, it’ll be their light shining through you.”

You sniffled, burying your face into his neck again as your tears soaked his skin. He just held you, hands rubbing up and down your back in slow, steady motions.

His voice cracked on the last word, but he kept going.

“And I’ll be right here with you through all of it. Every heavy step. Every silent night. You're not alone, okay? You never will be.”

You closed your eyes too, breathing in the familiar warmth of him. You didn’t know how to move forward yet—but in his arms, for now, the pain didn’t feel like it was swallowing you whole.

Your voice came out cracked, barely above a whisper. “Will it always hurt like this?”

Chan held you tighter, resting his chin gently on your head. “Not forever,” he murmured. “Some days will be heavy. Some will be lighter. But I promise, one day… you’ll breathe without crying. You’ll remember them with more love than pain.”

You let out a soft whimper, tears finally slowing. “Just… don’t let go of me. Not tonight.”

He kissed the top of your head, lingering there. “Never. I’ve got you, baby. For as long as you need. For as long as I live.”

Eventually, your breathing evened out. You drifted to sleep, cheek pressed against his chest, fingers still fisted in his shirt like letting go meant losing something else.

And Chan held you the entire night, his lips brushing your hair every so often, as if his love alone could hold you together while you grieved.

[papayainsectorone]

Just The Two Of Us.

summary: a night of dancing and too much alcohol dredges up old (?) feelings and unresolved tension between you and lando, blurring the line between history and heat as a single moment threatens to unravel everything you’ve both been trying not to want

content: 18+!! smut, nsfw, alcohol / intoxication, mutual (?) pining, soft angst, sexual tension, drunken vulnerability, thigh riding, drunk confessions, soft horny chaos

word count: 5,5k

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

walls are way too thin - series - a´s masterlist

might be confusing if read as standalone

It’s been weeks.

Weeks since that night at the bar. Since you walked away with Charles and Lando just… let you. Since whatever that moment was between you all evaporated into the haze of alcohol, music, and unspoken choices.

Lando never brought it up.

Not once.

He never asked what happened with Charles, never made a comment, never let anything slip—except for the way he looked at you a little differently for a few days after. Like he was trying to piece something together and never quite figured out how to ask the question. Or maybe he just didn’t want the answer.

But after that? Things fell back into place.

Sort of.

The banter returned, light and easy. Familiar. You still teased each other over your tragic snack choices and made sarcastic comments about each other’s Spotify queues. There were late-night kitchen run-ins, the occasional movie half-watched together, and the same dumb inside jokes passed between you like muscle memory.

But everything now had Charlotte’s name quietly folded into it.

Her toothbrush was in the bathroom sometimes. Her perfume lingered in the hallway when she left. There were missed calls on his phone from her. Her laughter on speaker when he’d answer mid-conversation with you. She was never intrusive, never rude, always warm and friendly when you crossed paths but she was there.

And so you drifted again.

Still close, but no longer the center of each other’s gravity.

But one Thursday night, he brought it up casually, like it was nothing.

Lando leaned against the counter, half a slice of toast in one hand, his phone glowing on the table beside him.

“Oh—hey,” he said, glancing over. “Remember the DJ I wanted to take you to see?”

You looked up from your laptop, distracted. “The one from the night I violently started vomiting?”

That’s what you said out loud.

What you thought was: The one from the night you met Charlotte.

He nodded, grinning. “Yeah. He’s back this weekend. Playing that same club. Charlotte’s out of town—family thing—so I thought, you know… maybe you’d want to go?”

You blinked. “With you?”

“Well yeah,” he said, shrugging. “We haven’t properly been out together in a while.”

You opened your mouth to say no. You were ready to. The excuse was half-formed, something about being tired or having plans or just not being in the mood. But then you looked at him.

The way he was smiling, not the flashy kind he used with everyone else. Just quiet. Hopeful. Familiar.

It tugged something loose in your chest. Something softer.

And you realized how long it had been since it was just the two of you. Since the night was only yours, not divided by subtext or someone else’s presence. Just Lando. Just you.

“Okay,” you said, slower than you meant to. “Yeah, let’s go.”

His whole face lit up. “Yeah? Sick.”

He was already unlocking his phone, tapping away excitedly, like this was something he’d been waiting on for longer than he let on.

And for a second, you let yourself feel it too.

The anticipation. The comfort. The possibility of something that used to be yours.

Even if it wasn’t anymore.

And when Saturday came arround, you didn’t set out to get that drunk.

It started small. Innocent. A night out that felt overdue—just the two of you again, no lingering tension, no third presence hovering over your shoulder. Something that might feel like old times, even if it wasn’t.

The air was stiff at first. Not cold exactly, just... cautious. Like you both were waiting to see who would make the first move, who would laugh first, tease first, act like nothing had changed.

But the moment you really realized Charlotte wasn’t there and wasn’t even mentioned, something in you loosened. You let the tightness in your chest go slack. Just a little.

Lando’s voice was familiar. His jokes were predictable and comforting. His eyes, bright and warm and pointed only at you, felt like home again.

Then came the drinks. Just one each. Then a second. Then shared shots, the kind you never liked but took anyway, because he handed it to you with that grin and you didn’t want to be the reason it faded.

Then the music got louder. The lights got blurrier.

And you started to feel good. Really good.

The kind of good that makes you forget the ache in your chest. The kind that makes it easy to smile without thinking. Easy to dance without worrying where his hands aren’t.

Easy to believe that maybe none of this is as complicated as it’s become.

The place was packed, pulsing with heat and the blurred lines of strangers dancing too close. You moved through it all like someone trying to shake something off. The vodka burned, but it helped. The music was too loud, but it gave your thoughts somewhere to hide. People laughed, flirted, spilled drinks, and it all melted into a blur around the edges.

But none of that mattered.

What mattered was him.

Lando looked stupidly good. The kind of good you tried not to notice anymore. His shirt clung in all the right places, curls damp with sweat, cheeks flushed from the mix of dancing and liquor. His laugh was even louder than usual, a little reckless. Real.

And you hated how much it got to you.

At one point, he leaned close to say something, and his hand found the small of your back. Familiar, casual. But you felt it everywhere. You didn’t pull away.

And maybe that was the beginning of the end.

You’d missed that version of him. The one who laughed without checking himself, who let the music move through him like it belonged there. The version of him that reached for your hand without hesitation, eyes bright and mouth already curved into a grin before you even made it to the dance floor.

“You remember this song?” he yelled over the heavy thump of the speakers, his fingers tightening around yours as he pulled you into the mess of bodies.

You stumbled forward, laughter bubbling up before you could stop it. The alcohol made everything feel slightly off balance, spinning, sliding, but somehow safer in his orbit. “Of course I remember. You played it on a loop that summer.”

“I did not,” he protested, already grinning like he knew you were right.

“You did,” you insisted, jabbing a finger at his chest. “Three weeks. Same stupid song. I wanted to break your speaker.”

He raised his eyebrows, spinning you once with a dramatic flair. You wobbled, giggling, and crashed into him. His hands caught your hips to steady you, lingering just a second too long. “It’s a classic. Can’t argue with art.”

“You’re so full of it,” you said, still breathless.

“Drunk me is confident,” he corrected, swaying with you as the beat shifted to something heavier, deeper. His body moved closer, hands hovering but not quite touching now, the ghost of muscle memory dancing just beneath the skin.

“I said cocky,” you teased, looking up at him through lashes that felt too heavy.

He shrugged with a crooked smile. “Same thing.”

The air grew thicker with heat and sweat and perfume, the kind of charged closeness that made it hard to breathe but impossible to pull away from. Around you, people danced in a blur of limbs and laughter, but your focus narrowed. Just him. Just this.

You didn’t notice when your body curved back into his, only that it felt right. Familiar. Like falling into a rhythm your body hadn’t forgotten, even if your mind had tried. His chest pressed against your spine, hands still tentative, but closer now. Testing the distance.

His breath brushed your ear. “You’re dangerous like this,” he said, low enough to be private, words already slurred from the alcohol “You dance like you know someone is watching.”

The words sent a ripple down your spine. You turned in his arms, slow and deliberate, until you were facing him, nothing but inches between you. You tilted your chin up slightly, meeting his gaze head-on.

“And you talk like you forgot we’re not doing this anymore,” you said, voice even, but your pulse was anything but.

For a beat, he didn’t respond. Just stared, expression unreadable except for the subtle flick of his eyes to your mouth. His fingers twitched where they hovered at your waist, like he was trying to decide if he could cross that line again. Just once.

The moment stretched, pulsing in time with the music. His eyes darkened, parted lips like he might speak, or do something else entirely.

And then someone stumbled past, jostling your shoulder. A splash of liquid hit your arm. Someone swore. You stepped back instinctively.

The spell broke. The music kept going, but something between you stopped.

It was already clear Lando had passed the threshold long before you'd left the club. Inside, he’d been leaning on you between songs, mumbling nonsense into your ear, slurring the end of every sentence like it was a secret. His eyes had lost their usual sharpness, replaced with that wide, glassy look that meant he’d stopped keeping track of how much he drank.

And when he threw his head back and yelled across the bar for “just one more round!”, you knew he was gone.

But it wasn’t until the cold air hit your faces that it really sunk in.

It slammed into you both like a wall, sobering and spinning at the same time. The night outside was harsh and too quiet, the kind of quiet that makes your ears ring after hours of music pounding through your chest.

Lando blinked hard. Wobbled once. Then let out a groan so low and pitiful you almost laughed again. “Oh no,” he muttered, eyes big and terrified like he’d just remembered gravity existed. “I don’t like this.”

You swayed slightly, vision swimming, trying to focus on the street signs. “You’re fine. Just keep walking. It’s not that far to the taxis.”

“I can’t feel my legs,” he whispered urgently. “Are they still attached?”

“They’re attached. One foot in front of the other.”

“I feel like I’m floating. But in, like, a bad way.”

He sagged heavily against your side, nearly dragging you both off the curb.

“You’re the best,” he muttered, lips brushing your shoulder, “but I still want chips.”

“I know,” you said, pulling him toward the curb. “We’ll find you chips. And maybe an exorcist.”

You were barely holding it together yourself. Your head was full of cotton, your mouth dry, legs wobbly beneath you. But you kept going. Because someone had to. And tonight, it wasn’t going to be him.

The cab ride was a miracle.

It smelled like kebabs and stale beer, the kind of sticky, sour stench that clung to your clothes. Lando collapsed the second he was in, sprawling across the backseat like a drunk prince. His head found your shoulder automatically, and his arm flopped across your lap, heavy and hot.

He sighed, a deep, content sound that tugged at something in your chest.

Then he mumbled something “ketchup”, maybe “curry sauce”. Or maybe your name. You weren’t sure. You didn’t want to be sure.

His eyes stayed shut, but the faintest smile curled at the corners of his mouth. The kind of smile that only ever showed up when he felt safe. Like this. With you.

Your stomach twisted.

You stared out the window, streetlights blurring past like stars falling sideways. The world was still spinning, but slower now. Quieter. Almost peaceful, if you didn’t think too hard about the weight of his hand on your knee.

When the cab finally slowed to a stop outside the flat, you nudged him gently. “Lando,” you whispered, shaking his shoulder. “We’re home.”

He groaned in protest and buried his face in your coat. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled, then threw one arm dramatically over his eyes like he was playing dead.

You sighed, the kind of sigh that came from the soles of your feet. Exhausted. Amused. A little exasperated.

“Come on, Lando.”

He slumped deeper into the cab seat. “Nooooo.”

“Get. Up.”

“Carry me,” he said without shame, eyes shut, arms flopping out like a child asking for a piggyback ride.

You half-laughed, half-groaned, already climbing out of the car. “You are literally all limbs. You’re a human octopus.”

But despite his dramatic protest, he tried to stand—sort of. Wobbled to his feet with the grace of a baby deer and immediately swayed into you. You looped an arm around his waist, feeling the full, ridiculous weight of him as he leaned into your side like you were gravity itself.

Getting him across the pavement was a comedy of errors. Every few steps, he muttered something new: a complaint, a question, a half-coherent lyric. “It’s freezing,” he whined. “I’m dying. You know, I think I miss my bed more than I’ve ever missed anything. And do we have crisps? Wait—wait. Do you have crisps?”

“You’re ridiculous,” you hissed, breath fogging in the cold. “Shut up and walk.”

“I’m charming,” he corrected with great effort, slurring it into something closer to shar-ming as he bumped his forehead against yours. “Also… I love your hair.”

You faltered.

“What?”

“Just sayin’,” he said, the words thick and sweet. “It’s soft. Like—like clouds.”

Your mouth went dry. You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

Finally—miraculously—you got the door open. The apartment greeted you with dim, golden light and that faint scent that was always there.

Lando nearly fell inside, catching himself with one hand on the wall before staggering upright. “I’m good,” he said to absolutely no one, then gestured grandly down the hallway like he was a knight returning from battle. “Bed. Now.”

He took off with a crooked gait, zigzagging like he was dodging invisible obstacles. You followed out of instinct more than anything, watching him collapse face-first onto his bed, limbs sprawled at impossible angles. He hadn’t even taken off his shoes.

“Lando,” you mumbled, pulling at your own boots, swaying a little. “Shoes. Off.”

“I can’t,” he whined, rolling onto his back. His voice went high and needy. “You do it. Please? I’m just a little drunk boy.”

You dropped to your knees at the edge of the bed, hands fumbling for his laces with what limited dexterity you had left. The room tilted slightly around you as you tried to focus.

Above you, there was a soft metallic clink. Then the subtle slide of leather on denim.

You paused. “Lando, what are you doing?”

A beat of silence.

“You said to get undressed.”

You looked up, then immediately rolled your eyes.

His belt was halfway undone, his jeans unbuttoned, his shirt half-off in the most chaotic, tangled mess you’d ever seen. He looked like someone who’d lost a fight with his own clothing.

“I said take of your shoes, you idiot.”

But he was grinning now. Slow. Lazy. His elbows propped him up enough to look down where you knelt at the edge of the bed, between his legs. Curls messy, eyes half-lidded and locked on you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, soft and low. “What a view.”

You blinked, heart stuttering.

Because his voice wasn’t teasing. Not really.

And neither was the way he was looking at you.

Your hands were still tangled in the laces of his second shoe, knuckles brushing against the fabric of his jeans, your body swaying ever so slightly from the haze of alcohol. You were kneeling between his legs—flushed, breathless, hair falling over your face in loose strands. A mess. But not the kind you cared to fix right now.

You giggled, quiet and nervous, trying to shake off the tension wrapping around your spine like a coiled wire. “You’re drunk,” you said, voice unsteady, caught somewhere between amusement and something far more dangerous.

Lando groaned in response, collapsing back onto the mattress with all the weight of someone who’d decided that gravity was now in charge. His arms flopped outward, one draped dramatically off the side of the bed, the other dragging lazily down the middle of his chest. The mattress springs gave a long, creaking sigh beneath him.

Then his hand stilled—paused low on his stomach, his crotch to be fair.

You froze.

Your eyes followed the subtle shift of his fingers as they drifted downward, slow, unhurried, until they pressed against the front of his jeans. Just a simple adjustment. Natural. Absentminded. Adjusting the obvious buldge.

He exhaled, low and slow, like the weight of his own touch had ignited something he wasn’t ready to name. His fingers lingered, just for a second too long. And you were still kneeling there. Still watching.

Your breath caught like a tripwire.

He didn’t look at you when he spoke. “You know…” he began, his voice gravel-rough and dipped in sleep and liquor and something els, something unmistakably want. “I could just… see your lips wrapped around me. Right there.”

He said it like a confession, not a line. Not tossed with bravado or smirked with smug satisfaction.

It landed like a punch in the chest.

Your body went still. The air in the room shifted, sucked out of it and replaced with something dense. Electric.

You stared at him, stunned, not because of what he said, but because of how it made you feel. The way it shot straight through you, molten and reckless.

And without a word, you stood.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just slow, deliberate, your knees unfolding, rising to your feet with shaky grace. You stayed between his legs, your body towering over him now, close enough to feel the heat rolling off his skin.

He didn’t move.

For a terrifying second, you thought maybe he had passed out. That all of it—all of him—was already slipping away again. Just another foggy memory you’d try not to touch later.

But then, his lashes fluttered. His head tilted forward. His hands found your waist like muscle memory, fingers warm and unsteady, gripping you like he didn’t trust the room to stay still. It took effort, but he sat up, blinking through the haze until his eyes locked on yours.

And then he was there.

Right there.

Face level with your chest, his chin resting between your boobs while looking up at you through his lashes. Your shirt had slipped lower than you realized, the neckline gaping just enough for his gaze to catch on bare skin. His lips parted, eyes dark and unblinking, and something in the air cracked under the weight of it.

This wasn’t the look of someone flirting.

This was hunger. Unfiltered. Slow-burning.

He tilted his chin up slightly, mouth open, like he was already breathing you in. And his hands—god, his hands—tightened on your waist, not pulling, just holding, like you were the only stable thing in a world that wouldn't stop spinning.

“Fuck,” he whispered again, voice hoarse and reverent.

Your stomach knotted. Everything pulsed.

The room felt thick, too hot, your heart hammering in your throat. You couldn’t tell if the heat in your cheeks came from the alcohol or the way his eyes were dragging over you like he was memorizing every exposed inch.

“Lando…” you whispered. It wasn’t loud. Barely there. Like even saying his name might snap the fragile thread of tension between you.

But he heard you.

His eyes snapped back to yours. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he didn’t look confused. He didn’t look careless.

He didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. It was like he’d already decided. Like your voice saying his name only confirmed something that had already started unfolding the second the club door closed behind you.

His fingers—warm, unsteady—brushed up your back, trailing lazily over the thin fabric of your shirt. The motion was soft, almost absentminded, like he was just touching to remember what you felt like. Then he dragged one hand across your side, curling around your ribs. The contact made you shiver.

“You look so good in this,” he mumbled, voice rough and low—drunk, slurred.

Then his fingers dipped forward, brushing across your chest. Not grabbing. Just a slow sweep through the valley of your breasts, knuckles grazing delicate skin like he wasn’t even fully aware he was doing it.

You exhaled, sharp.

His eyes flicked up again, meeting yours.

You didn’t stop him.

There was a long moment where nothing happened and everything did, your breath shallow, your thighs tightening, your hands flexing uselessly at your sides.

He got impatient, hands sliding down to your hips before tugging you down onto his thigh. The motion was clumsy, uncoordinated, but it lit a spark in your gut all the same. Now straddling him, your legs bracketed his thigh, your body pressed close—closer than it had been in weeks.

His thigh pressed between yours, firm and warm, the denim rough against your skin. The pressure made you gasp, a quiet, breathy sound you didn’t mean to let out. He heard it anyway. Smirked.

His eyes trailed from the neckline of your shirt up to your face, pupils blown wide and unfocused and then he was touching you again, fingertips brushing your cheek, slipping around to the nape of your neck. You froze, breath hitched, a pulse thudding between your ribs.

He looked at you like he was about to say something. But he didn’t. He just pulled you in, his mouth crashing against yours.

You kissed him back like you were starving.

His groan rumbled low in his throat as his hand tightened at your waist, pulling you flush to him. The kiss was messy, all teeth and heat and unspoken feelings bursting to the surface. His other hand threaded into your hair, tilting your head just enough to deepen it. You could taste the alcohol on his tongue, could feel the weeks of silence and missed moments pouring out of him and into you.

It was overwhelming and perfect and reckless.

You didn’t even realize you were moving at first.

It was slow—barely anything at all—but the friction caught instantly, your body shifting against the line of his thigh, your breath stuttering. His hands gripped you tighter, like he felt it too, a low sound slipping from his throat again, half moan, half curse.

You broke the kiss, lips parting as you pulled back just a little, your mouth still open, breathing him in. His lips were kiss-swollen, his eyes dark and glazed and fixed entirely on you.

What were you doing?

The thought flashed—brief, sharp—but it was buried under the weight of his hands, the warmth of him underneath you, the alcohol roaring in your bloodstream like a permission slip you didn’t need. All the silence. All the pretending. All of it collapsed into this moment that didn’t feel like a mistake yet.

And then—soft, urgent, not quite a plea—he said it:

“Don’t stop.”

It was barely more than a whisper, but it landed like a strike.

You didn’t.

Your hips tilted again, slow and uncertain, chasing that pressure, feeling the flex of his thigh through his jeans and the heat building in your own body.

His hands slipped lower—slow, possessive—until one settled firmly at your hip, the other sliding down to grab your ass, fingers curling in a way that made you gasp. He pulled you harder against him, guiding your movement with an unspoken rhythm that had your whole body humming.

The friction turned sharper, needier. Your breath caught in your throat.

You leaned in again before you could think better of it.

Mouths crashed. No hesitation now, no teasing—just tongue and teeth and heat, wet and messy and drunk. His hand gripped you tighter, pulling your body flush against his. You rocked down into him, your hips rutting against his thigh, the pressure between your legs maddening.

It wasn’t graceful. It wasn’t slow.

But it was exactly what it had to be.

Neither of you spoke. There was nothing to say. Just the slap of mouths and the low groan in his throat as your nails scraped lightly over the back of his neck, as your lips dragged down to his jaw and he let out your name.

You barely noticed when you both tipped backwards, the mattress catching you in a clumsy sprawl. Lando grunted beneath you, his hands never leaving your body as your knee lifted, leg swinging over to straddle him properly now. You steadied yourself with your palms on his chest, breath ragged, hair slipping into your face.

For a beat, you just sat there, spine arching as your hips rolled down, your thin thong still catching friction against the rough denim of his jeans.

His hands gripped your waist harder.

You sat up slowly, heart hammering and peeled your shirt off, casting it somewhere into the darkened room. His eyes were locked on your body, mouth open, chest rising and falling fast.

Your skirt had already rucked up to your hips, forgotten. There was nothing left but that barely-there thong, stretched tight between your thighs, and the heavy line of him beneath you.

“Fuck,” he muttered, more to himself than to you, voice thick with disbelief, hunger, awe. His fingers flexed, holding you like you might vanish.

You leaned forward again, hands braced against his chest, feeling the thrum of his heart through your palms. Then lower. Fingers dragging down to the buckle he’d half-undone earlier in some drunken, distracted haze.

He twitched beneath you as your knuckles brushed over him, still restrained beneath denim but so obviously hard now. His eyes fluttered, head tilting back into the pillow.

“Jesus,” he whispered, eyes meeting yours again, all glassy and unguarded.

Your fingers moved slowly at first, slipping beneath the open leather of his belt and trailing down to the place where his warm skin met the rough denim. His breath hitched as you brushed along the line of his hipbone, teasing just above the waistband.

Then he lifted his hips with a drunken urgency, clumsy but determined, shoving jeans and boxers down in one go. The motion made you gasp, half in surprise, half in something deeper. He reached up, pulling at the sides of your thong at the same time, dragging the thin fabric down your legs with a groan, not even trying to be careful.

You helped, just enough. And then his legs kicked out beneath you, tangled clothes gone, skin warm against yours, bare now in a way that made your breath stall in your throat.

As he fell back again, you reached for his shirt—fingers fumbling with the buttons, working them free one by one, trailing your finger tips over the skin you uncovered. He was flushed, warm, and trembling slightly beneath your touch.

Then he stilled.

His hips settled again, and you were sitting fully on top of him now, the heat of your bare skin pressed down against him. His length nestled right between your folds, your lips parting on either side of him and it was obscene how clearly you could feel him.

Every inch. Every ridge. Every slow, pulsing throb.

You weren’t moving yet. Just breathing.

And he wasn’t saying a word. Just staring up at you with wide eyes and parted lips, like he couldn’t believe this was happening either.

You moved again, slow, unsteady, your hips tilting as the friction sparked another moan low in his throat. His hands gripped your waist tighter, dragging you down until your lips met again, even messier now, full of teeth and breath and need.

Then, in one dizzy motion, he rolled, flipping you beneath him with a half-laugh, half-groan, barely managing to brace himself on one elbow beside your head. The other arm stayed locked around your waist, holding you close, keeping you there.

His body hovered over yours, heat pressed to heat. You could feel him, right there, poised, waiting.

Lando looked down at you, eyes glassy and wide, his curls damp against his forehead. He searched your face like he wasn’t even sure this was real.

You didn’t say anything. You didn’t need to.

He pressed forward, slow at first like he didn’t trust himself not to rush it. His hands gripped your hips like a tether, grounding him in the moment even as the rest of him trembled. You felt the stretch, the heat, the deep pull of him inside you, and your breath caught sharply. His mouth parted around a broken sound—barely a gasp, almost reverent.

And then he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

His eyes were glassy, yes, but there was something almost sober in the way he met your gaze.

You cupped his face, fingers slipping through sweat-damp curls, and he leaned into the touch like it was the only thing keeping him steady. “You okay?” you whispered, voice cracking around the edges.

He nodded, forehead pressed to yours, lips ghosting over your cheek as he moved deeper. “Yeah,” he whispered. “You?”

You nodded too. Because you were.

The rhythm was messy, offbeat and drunken but there was something devastatingly earnest in the way he held you, kissed you, clung to you like this was something he’d been starving for. Like your body was the first place he’d felt whole in weeks. His hands moved constantly: down your back, over your ribs, threading into your hair like he couldn’t touch enough, couldn’t get enough. Every time your breath hitched, every time you whispered his name, he answered like a prayer.

Not rushed. Not careless. Just undone.

Your hips rocked together, not perfectly, but with a building desperation that made it real. Your thighs trembled him, his grip tightening when you whimpered and he kissed you again, sloppy, open-mouthed, too much teeth. You didn’t care. You kissed him like you needed it to stay alive.

He whispered something then, your name, maybe, or a curse, or please. You didn’t catch all of it, just the weight of it, the way it split his voice open.

Your climax hit slowly, like your body was realizing it in pieces, rippling up your spine before washing through your limbs. You buried your face in his shoulder, breath breaking against his skin, clinging to him like you’d fall apart otherwise.

He came after, head thrown back, jaw slack, a sound falling from his throat like it had nowhere else to go. One hand held the back of your neck. The other wrapped around your waist, like if he let go you’d both come undone.

But he didn’t let go.

Not even when your bodies stilled. Not even when the heat ebbed into afterglow and your breath began to steady. He stayed with you, his chest pressed to yours, his hand curled at the base of your spine, holding you like something fragile. Sacred.

After it was over, the room settled into a heavy, almost reverent silence. You lay there, the warmth of his body molding against yours, his arm draped protectively around your waist while the other rested gently across your chest and shoulders. The rise and fall of his breath gradually slowed, matching the steady rhythm of your own.

He nuzzled his head softly into the crook of your neck, his breath warm and uneven against your skin. It was a quiet kind of intimacy—slow, unspoken, raw in a way that made your chest ache.

Not like the other nights.

Not like the hurried kisses and tangled sheets and the silence that always followed, when you'd slip away before the sun touched the windows. When he'd turn his back or mumble something half-asleep and you'd pretend it didn’t hollow you out.

Those nights were physical. Fleeting. Always burning out before morning.

But this—this closeness—was different. He hadn’t let go. Hadn’t pulled away. His arm stayed wrapped around your waist like a tether, his nose brushing against your skin like he needed to feel you to stay grounded.

You didn’t quite know what had just happened. Part of you understood perfectly, yet another part felt suspended, caught between clarity and confusion.

Your hand found his forearm, fingers curling lightly around the soft skin, anchoring you to the moment. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken things.

Then, barely more than a whisper, you broke it.

“Lan.”

A low groan, almost sleepy, came as a response. “Hm.”

You weren’t sure if he was still awake or already drifting away.

Gathering a quiet courage, you whispered again, “I love you.”

No answer. Just the faint sound of his breathing against your neck, steady and slow.

i literally said sorry in advance, pls don´t come for me

tag list:

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@pluviophile142 @itstaliascorner @graceln4 @leclercsluvs @isar8tsyyy @wetrainclouds @seonaw @msimpala--67 @isar8tsyyy @gvcnnnnnnnbvszxv9 @sparklepiastri @sailorinthesie @bell1a @spikershoyo @fer23022003 @vinylphwoar @wherethezoes-at @mbioooo0000 @v3nd3ttal3on @4-ln4 @belpsbelps @mckalala @hadids-world @chlmtfilms @lorena-mv33 @urmomsgirlfriend1 @queenkisskiss @trisharee @nataliambc

[hey-itsdollie]

*pops up again* heh.. its me.. again…😀Heyoo i wanted to request sae and rin, karasu(could u tell i love karasu 🤑🤑🐦‍⬛🐦‍⬛) And Otoya IM SIRRY IF THATS ALOTTA CHARCTERS💔💔

smut(seperate) where they ask reader to sit om their face but shes afraid shell hurt them but they tell her that thyell be fine😛🤑🤑 And they eventually end up doing it😈🙏🙏

IM SORRY IF TS DOSENT MAKE SENSE🙏

ALSO NO RUSH🫶🏻🫶🏻 ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

(HOLY GRAMMER💔💔)

Please Please Please

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erm remodeling my account so please excuse the lack of images! anyways hope you enjoy<3

‧₊˚ ┊ In which the blue lock guys want you to ride their face<3

୭˚. ᵎᵎ featuring » sae. rin. karasu. otoya.

⋮ ⌗ ┆cw ⪼ smut, female reader, aged up!, established relationship, use of pet names, face riding, minors DNI!

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── .✦ Sae Itoshi

“Sit on my face.”

You froze blushing as Sae just stared at you, his breaths uneven since you two had been making out for the past few minutes. “Sit- what Sae?” You questioned thinking you misheard him.

“Sit on my face tonight.” Sae repeated with the same monotone voice. His hands creeped up to your thighs to tug on them.

“I don’t know sae, I don’t want to hurt you…”

Sae sat up, taking your head into his hands, he leaned in and placed kisses along your skin. “You won’t hurt me, blossom. I promise.” He reassured me.

“I won’t force you to do it…” Sae added smoothly, his hands gently running through your hair. You looked deep in thought, causing Sae to let out a soft breath and bring you into a lingering kiss.

You pulled away and placed your hands on his chest. “Do you really want to do it?” Your question made Sae’s eyebrows raise slightly. “If you really want to then we can…”

You looked shy–almost hesitant. “No, we don’t have to just because I do.” He shook his head, turning her down. It was never his intention to make you do something you were uncomfortable with.

“No. I do want to… But tap me if you know…” You replied with your face burning bright red. Sae smiled and nodded, hearing you bring up your safety rule the two of you made.

“Sae… slow down–m’please…”

Soft pants left your lips as you held onto the headboard of your bed. Sae’s hands gripped your hips tightly, rocking your hips as he ate you out.

His tongue flicking repeatedly over your sensitive nub. Sae loved listening to your breaths of pleasure.

“You look so beautiful…” Sae whispered, his hot breaths making you shiver.

“S-so close… don’t stop…” You whimpered, already feeling Sae tug you down against him more. The nerves you felt leaving your body as pleasure took over.

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── .✦ Rin Itoshi

You moaned softly as Rin left mark after mark against your thighs. Your hands pull at his hair gently from pleasure.

Your nerves spike up as you feel your boyfriend blow cold air onto your pussy. “Fuck Rin…” You gasped tugging his head up. His lustful eyes stared up at you almost drowsily.

“Fmm… sit on me…” He muttered, causing you to look at him wide eyed. “Sit… on you? Like you mean?” Rin sat up lifting you up as he moved you onto his face. “W-wait Rin… what if you can’t breathe?!” You panic as Rin scoffs.

“Even better… I lived a good life…”

You gasp fighting against your boyfriend’s pull to get you to fully sit. “Rin, wait are you sure?” You question as Rin nods. “I’ve wanted to do this for weeks… please N/n.” He pleads, making you sigh.

“O-okay… but pull me away if it’s too much…”

Rin didn’t take his time as he tugged you down and went to work on your clit. Your moans escaping you breathlessly as he ate you out like a starved man.

“Ngh–Rin–baby…” You stuttered your mind scrambling with thoughts as his long tongue thrusted into you. Fucking you with his tongue as he took his time to pull out and cover your pussy with a mix of your slick and his salivia.

Not caring about how messy his face got. You squealed, feeling him nip at your lips and cunt. Your body is not yet used to his biting no matter how many times he does it.

“Rin! Gentle–” You moan out tugging on his hair, easily causing him to whimper. The vibrations only make the pleasure worse.

Your head lolled to the side, eyes closing as Rin ate you out seemingly faster than ever. You were sure you had come twice already just from his tongue and biting.

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── .✦ Tabito Karasu

“Hey darlin, can I ask you something?” You turned to your boyfriend, curious on what he needed to ask. Currently the two of you were watching a movie, though you were drifting off in space.

“Can we do that?” Karasu pointed to the screen with a smirk, with that you followed his finger and your mouth dropped open. The scene was of the two main characters and currently the female was bouncing on the male lead’s face.

“You… want me to bounce on your face?” You questioned looking back at him quickly. Quite shocked he would ask that out of nowhere.

“Precisely, yes.” The dark-haired male nodded. “Pretty please darlin?” You were a bit hesitant, it would be a lie if you said you never thought about it. And the two of you were always experimental in the bedroom. Crossing things out if you two didn’t like them or were too uncomfortable with it, and this was no different.

“Alright, we can try it.” You replied with a soft smile. “Hell, yeah, I love you so much.”

Karasu’s mouth sucked on your pussy as you gripped his hair tightly. His large hands gripping your thighs as he helped you move against his tongue.

The two of you not regretting a single decision you two made that night. Your breasts bobbed up and down with every jerk and twitch your body made.

“So delicious…” Karasu groaned, pulling you up from his mouth as he took a breather. “You doin okay up there darlin?” He asked softly, always making sure to check up on you.

“Y-yes, I’m okay…” You panted your forehead resting against the wall. He watched your chest move with your breaths for a bit before pulling you back against him.

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── .✦ Eita Otoya

“Please, please sit on my face!”

You stared at your boyfriend, comically shaking him off of your leg as he begged on his knees. Otoya had gotten the idea of eating you out as you sat on him. And now he wasn’t going to stop asking till you said yes.

Or kicked him out–whichever came first.

“Seriously Eita? What the hell has gotten into you?” You groan, finally pushing him away. “You literally did this last week!”

“Yeah and you loved doing the 69!.” Otoya shot back, making your face redden from the truth. “Yeah, but you’re doing too much!”

The begging went on all the way to when you two were currently making out on the couch. “Please cutie…” Otoya murmured against your lips as he trailed them down your jaw and neck. You let out a soft sigh, moving your head to the side to let him have more room.

“O-okay fine…”

Otoya helped you move above him. His hands slipped your panties off as he was quite to dive into your cunt. Breaking a moan out of you as your hands were planted against the wall.

Your boyfriend groaned against you, lapping up your pussy like a mad man. His hands spread your lips apart to give him more reach to your crevices.

“Fuck Eita…” You whimpered your legs begging to shake as he only seemed to go faster. “So yummy…” The male moaned rubbing your clit with his thumb making a shock wave rack through your body.

“Eita don’t say that…” You whimpered with a blush.

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sorry again for the lack of images! I pulled an all-nighter changing things and i reached my image limit</3

©hey-itsdollie please don't copy, change, or steal my work. Thank you!