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theonottsbxtch · 2 months ago

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SOMETHING LIKE LOVE | OP81

an: to all of those who believe you aren't worthy of love. you truly are, it'll come xx this is apart of my 2k celly, requested!!

wc: 5.3k

summary: she’s f1’s rising star. fierce, fast, and convinced she’s not made for love. oscar is the sarcastic softie who's been falling for her since day one. when one press conference cracks her walls, he makes it his mission to prove her wrong.

THE PADDOCK WASN'T BUILT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART. It reeked of burnt rubber, adrenaline, and the sort of manufactured glamour that barely hid the pressure underneath. Flashing cameras. PR smiles. Men in pristine team gear pretending the world didn’t hang on lap times and tenths of a second.

She walked through it like she belonged, because she did, but never without the weight of proving it.

Two seasons in Formula 1 hadn’t made things easier. If anything, the stares lingered longer, the whispers just quiet enough to still be heard. Her VCARB rarely made it to the top ten unless she dragged it there herself. But she didn’t complain. She drove. She fought. And when they underestimated her, she made them regret it.

She was sharp. Quick-witted. Sassy, some said. A “media darling” with a bite. The kind who could deliver a one-liner that left even the most seasoned interviewer blinking.

And Oscar knew it from the start.

Oscar Piastri, McLaren’s golden boy, all easy charm and restless ambition. Three years into his career and finally, finally, he looked like he might be on track for a proper championship run. Two wins in four races, and the papaya car was back in the fight.

To the public, he was the perfect mix of cheeky and clean-cut, messy brown hair that refused to stay slicked back, a soft Australian accent that turned heads in press conferences, and eyes that didn’t give much away unless he wanted them to.

But around her, he never quite managed to keep his composure.

They were the same age. Entered F1 within a year of each other. She arrived a storm; he remembered watching her first race from the McLaren garage, muttering “bloody hell” under his breath when she overtook three cars in two laps like it was nothing.

He’d been intrigued ever since.

But she didn’t let people in. Not really. She joked, flirted, rolled her eyes at dumb questions, but the walls stayed up. And Oscar couldn’t help but want to know what was behind them.

He didn’t push. Not yet.

Until that interview.

The sun beat down on the pit lane, heat shimmering off the tarmac as engineers scurried and photographers prowled like vultures with lanyards. Just another Saturday. Quali was done, data collected, and everyone was pretending to be relaxed when they were actually wound tighter than the bolts on the front wing.

She was sitting on the edge of her garage wall, swinging one leg like a schoolgirl on break, water bottle tucked between her hands. Her helmet sat beside her, visor up, reflecting the bustle. She watched it all with that same expression she always had post-session. Ccalm, but calculating. Like she’d already rewound and replayed every corner in her head.

Oscar spotted her before she saw him. Not that he was looking. Not exactly.

He’d just finished his debrief, race suit zipped halfway, hair doing its usual floppy rebellion. He could’ve turned into hospitality. Could’ve headed for the ice bath. But instead, his feet took him across the paddock, like they always did when she was around.

"Enjoying the view?" he asked, voice casual as he stopped beside her.

She glanced up, squinting into the sun. "If by ‘view’ you mean watching your pit crew nearly drop your front jack, then yeah. Thrilling stuff."

Oscar smirked, teeth flashing. “It’s all part of the drama. Keeps the fans on their toes.”

“Right. That, or McLaren’s just allergic to calm pit stops.”

She said it with a grin, but Oscar swore there was something else behind it — amusement, yeah, but also that spark she always had when she was comfortable. Which wasn’t often. Not properly. Not unless she trusted someone.

He perched on the wall next to her, not too close. Just enough. She didn’t move away.

"You were quick today," he said, more genuine now.

"So were you," she replied. "P2 in Quali? Showing off for the cameras?"

Oscar shrugged. "Just trying to impress the VCARB girl."

She arched a brow, smile twitching like she was trying not to let it grow. "You’re three years too late for that.”

“Reckon I’ve still got time,” he said lightly, but it landed heavier between them.

She didn’t reply, just took a sip from her bottle, eyes on the track. A mechanic shouted something in Italian nearby. Her leg kept swinging.

"Tell me something, Piastri," she said eventually. "Do you ever get tired of being the fan favourite?"

He looked at her then. Really looked. “Do you ever get tired of proving everyone wrong?”

That made her go still for a beat. Then she exhaled, soft and slow.

“All the time.”

Before he could decipher what she meant, a voice cut through the buzz of the pit lane, clipped, PR-perfect, and far too chipper for the afternoon.

“Right, you two. They’re ready for you in the media pen. Sofa set-up. You know the drill.”

She rolled her eyes, muttering something under her breath as she stood, twisting the top back on her bottle.

Oscar stood too, brushing imaginary dust off his fireproofs. “Do I at least get to sit next to you?”

She gave him a look, all raised brows and mock pity. “That desperate for moral support?”

“Obviously.”

They walked side by side, weaving through crew and cables, eventually emerging into the small, overly lit press area. The sofa, that cursed faux-leather monstrosity in sponsor-friendly grey, sat in front of a wall plastered with logos. Lance was already sitting there, on the edge, smiling at them when they walked past.

Oscar dropped onto one end, she slid into the middle, Lance on her other side. The flashes started immediately.

Questions came quick. Routine stuff. Lance was asked about his lap time, Oscar about the McLaren upgrades.

Then, someone aimed their mic toward her.

“Question for you,” the reporter said, polite smile not quite reaching his eyes. “You’ve had a strong start to the season considering the car you’re in. P7 in the standings. You seem sharper than ever. Do you think that drive, that edge, comes from not having distractions? You’ve said before you keep your circle tight.”

She didn’t flinch. Just tilted her head slightly, fingers laced in her lap. “If by distractions you mean relationships, then yeah. Probably.”

The reporter pushed, as they always did. “So... nothing on the horizon? Love life completely off the table?”

There was a beat of silence. The kind that hung too long to be comfortable. Her eyes flicked briefly to the floor, then back up.

“I don’t think I’m made for love,” she said, simply. Like it was a fact. “Not the way people want it. Doesn’t really fit with everything else.”

A few awkward chuckles. Lance looked down at his shoes. The journalist nodded, clearly satisfied with his viral soundbite.

But Oscar?

Oscar hadn’t moved. He was still angled slightly toward her, lips parted just a little. Because something about the way she’d said it. Not bitter, not flippant, just... tired, it punched the air clean out of his lungs.

Not made for love?

He wanted to shake her. Tell her she was wrong. That whoever made her feel that way had clearly been a coward, because she was all sharp edges and fire, yeah but there was something soft in her, too. Something no one had ever bothered to stay long enough to understand.

He didn’t say anything. Not there. Not with a dozen cameras on them.

But inside, something locked into place.

He was going to prove her wrong.

The thing about F1 was that it never slowed down. Not really.

One weekend blurred into the next, a constant carousel of countries, circuits, press calls, qualifying stress and race-day nerves. But somewhere between Bahrain and Jeddah, something shifted.

It started with a cup of tea in Jeddah.

She’d had a hellish day, the VCARB car twitchy as hell through sector two, her engineer frustrated, and the media already foaming at the mouth for something to twist. By the time she stalked into hospitality, she barely noticed the cup waiting for her on the table.

Two sugars. Splash of milk. Her kind of tea, the sort no one in the team ever seemed to get quite right.

She paused.

Then saw the note, scribbled on a napkin in slanted handwriting:

Figured you’d need this after that press conference. — O

No fanfare. No performance.

Just… thoughtfulness. Simple and grounding.

She never mentioned it. But she started noticing things after that.

Miami was blistering.

Drivers’ parade meant being carted around the circuit in the back of an open-top truck like they were part of a royal procession. She hated it, the awkward wave, the sun in her eyes, and today, the fact she’d left her sunglasses back in the garage like an idiot, made it worse.

“Looking for these?” a voice said beside her.

Oscar, of course. Holding her black framed sunglasses by one arm, a smug little smirk on his face.

She stared. “Why do you have those?”

“Saw you left them by your bag. Figured I’d rescue them before someone else claimed them.”

She snatched them, slipping them on with a scoff. “Stalker.”

“Public service,” he replied, resting an arm casually behind her as the truck started to roll. “You’d owe me a favour, if you weren’t so stubborn.”

She glanced at him from behind the lenses. “I’ll add it to the imaginary tab you think I have.”

But her voice was softer. Less guarded.

Monaco, as always, was madness. She’d had a surprisingly strong quali. P7. But the grid was chaos, press everywhere, the tight streets of Monte Carlo offering no room to breathe.

She was trying to centre herself, leaning against her garage, helmet off but earplugs in. She liked that moment, just her and the buzz of a silent track.

Until someone tapped her shoulder.

She turned, expecting her engineer. Instead: Oscar.

He held something out.

Her blue lucky charm. A little rubber tag she’d had since her karting days. She hadn’t even realised it had fallen off.

“You dropped it in the paddock,” he said, voice low. “Didn’t want you going without it.”

She blinked, eyes flicking from his hand to his face. Then took it, fingers brushing his, unintentionally, of course.

“Thanks.”

He gave a half-shrug, stepping back. “Lucky charm for someone who doesn’t need luck.”

She didn’t respond. But she clipped it back onto her necklace and didn’t take it off as she slipped it under the fireproofs.

The pressure always peaked at Silverstone.

Her home race. Headlines were brutal. Fans were louder. Her mum was in the paddock, bless her, nerves practically seeping out of her pores as she tried to pretend she wasn’t terrified every time her daughter got in that car.

She was seconds away from getting into her car while her team faffed about with her car when Oscar walked up to her, helmet off.

She turned her head just slightly, visor still up.

He didn’t smile. Just looked at her like he saw her.

“Your mum said you always hated the crowd here,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the roar of the crowds. “So block ‘em out. Just you and the car. Show them why they should’ve put you in that Red Bull seat.”

Her breath caught, a flutter she couldn’t blame on nerves.

He winked, then turned and jogged back to his own car, slotting into P3 like he hadn’t just cracked something open in her chest.

She finished P4, right behind him. Best result of the year.

By Hungary, it wasn’t subtle anymore, at least not to her.

They were seated beside each other at some PR dinner, everyone playing polite for the cameras. She wore black, sleek and unbothered. He wore a shirt and shorts, as he always did.

Someone made a joke. She barely heard who it came from.

“All that attitude and no man to handle it,” he said to one of the F1 Academy girls, grinning. “You’ll end up like our princess here, all work, no play.”

The table chuckled. She didn’t flinch. She was used to it.

But Oscar leaned forward.

“Yeah,” he said. Calm. Cool. Deadly. “Because having standards is such a crime.”

The room shifted. No one knew what to say.

Except her. She just looked at him, eyes soft.

And he looked back.

Like maybe, just maybe, she wasn’t as alone in all this as she thought.

Something had changed.

He wasn’t just trying anymore.

He was showing her — in every touch, every look, every small act of care — that love wasn’t about grand gestures or promises shouted from rooftops. It was quiet. Steady. Gentle hands at your back when the world was shouting. Someone seeing you exactly as you are and staying anyway.

And little by little... she started to believe it.

She told herself she wasn’t keeping track.

Not of the way Oscar always found her in a crowd. Not of how he seemed to know when she needed to be distracted, or when silence was kinder. Not of the brief, shared glances across driver briefings, or how he never once looked at her the way the others sometimes did — like she was a story waiting to be twisted.

But she remembered it all.

Like in Monza, when her DRS failed mid-qualifying and she stormed back to the garage, helmet still on because she didn’t trust her face to hide how gutted she was. No one said a word. Not until she felt something cold press into her hand.

Oscar, offering her a can of apple juice. No words. Just a look as he took a sip out of his can.

“I hate apple juice,” she muttered.

“I know,” he said, sipping his own. “That one’s mine. Yours is in the other hand.”

She glanced down.

Peach iced tea. Her favourite.

She didn’t ask for any of it.

The sunglasses. The drink. The keyring. The silence. The noise.

But it kept coming. Him, quiet in his certainty. Like he’d already decided that she was worth showing up for, even when she wasn’t sure she’d earned it.

Especially when she wasn’t sure she’d earned it.

The next time something happened, it was in Singapore.

Hot. Humid. Heavy with expectation.

She’d just come P6 in a brutal race that chewed up tyres like paper and spat out dreams by lap thirty. Her fireproofs were soaked, her head pounding.

And Oscar was waiting by her team’s hospitality exit, arms folded, cap pulled low.

“Come on,” he said, voice low. “Dinner.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

He shrugged. “Then sit with me and don’t eat.”

She didn’t have the strength to argue.

He ordered for her anyway. Didn’t ask what she wanted. Just remembered. Her favourite noodle place two blocks from the paddock.

She ate in silence, and when she finally looked up, he was already looking at her.

Not expecting anything.

Just… there.

Then came Mexico.

Two weeks of media frenzy. The first whispers of contract talks for next season. Her name was in headlines again, her seat not guaranteed, everyone treating her like she was a gamble.

She was pacing in her hotel room, phone in hand, brain buzzing with what-ifs.

A knock pulled her out of it.

She opened the door.

Oscar stood there. Hoodie and trainers. Not his usual post-race gloss.

“Hey,” he said, glancing down the hall. “My sister’s in town. We’re grabbing food. Thought you might wanna come.”

She blinked. “Why?”

He blinked right back. “Because you’ve barely eaten all day and you pace like a lunatic when you overthink.”

She stared at him. Quiet. Still.

Then: “Why do you keep doing this?”

His brow furrowed. “Doing what?”

She crossed her arms. Not angry. Just… tired.

“All of it. The tea in Australia. My sunglasses in Miami. The keyring. Silverstone. The way you stood up for me in Silverstone. The ice tea in Monza. Singapore noodles. Now this.”

He said nothing.

She stepped closer.

“You remember everything. You notice everything. You show up like you’ve got something to prove. So tell me, Oscar. What exactly are you trying to prove?”

Silence.

The hotel room was too quiet, just the buzz of a nearby light and the thrum of her heart.

He swallowed. Voice quiet.

“That you’re worthy of love.”

Her breath caught.

He looked at her then, really looked, eyes softer than she’d ever seen them, shoulders loose, like he’d been holding something for too long and was finally letting it drop.

“That day, in the media pen in Bahrain,” he said. “When you said you didn’t think you were made for it… I don’t know. It just stuck with me.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He kept going.

“Not because it was dramatic. You didn’t even say it like that. You just said it like it was true. Like it was fact. And I thought…” He paused. “I don’t know what kind of idiot made you believe that. But they were wrong.”

He stepped closer.

“You’re stubborn. And proud. And you act like you don’t need anyone, which is probably true most of the time. But you’re also… the kindest, most brilliant pain in the arse I’ve ever met.”

A breath. Then:

“And I guess I just wanted you to know you don’t have to go through this alone. Not if you don’t want to.”

Her throat was dry. She blinked once. Twice.

Then whispered, “You’re not very good at playing it cool, are you?”

He laughed — soft and low. “Not when it’s you.”

Oscar’s words had hit too hard, too deep. She couldn’t breathe properly now, couldn’t find her voice.

“Why do you think you’re not worthy?” he asked softly, the words almost lost in the air between them.

She looked at him then, eyes blurry and strained. There was so much she could say, but it was all knotted in her throat. His quiet intensity, the way he stood there with all that sincerity, it made it hard to keep up the walls.

“Because…” She paused, trying to swallow the lump in her throat. “Because I’m a woman in motorsport, Oscar. And that’s hard enough on its own. The pressure to prove myself is enough without having to deal with all the other stuff.” She shook her head, her voice faltering. “People don't see me. They see the seat I’m in. They see the fact that I have to fight for everything. And sometimes... sometimes, it feels like it’s never going to be enough. Like I’ll never be enough.”

She was rambling now, the words spilling out faster than she could control. “I’m constantly proving I belong. I have to keep up with men who think they’re better by default. I’ve had to do more, be more, just to be seen as equal. And for what? So some guy can come in, wave a magic wand, and tell me I’m worthy of... what? Love?”

Her voice cracked at the last word.

The silence stretched between them. The tears that had been hanging just behind her eyes finally fell, one by one, streaking down her cheeks.

She felt weak. Like everything she’d fought to protect for years, her confidence, her strength, was slipping away with each tear that fell.

But Oscar... Oscar didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away.

Instead, he took a step closer.

And then another.

She didn’t pull away.

He stopped right in front of her, barely an inch separating them now, the faint heat of his body seeping into hers.

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and steady. “Don’t you ever think that about yourself. You’re so much more than any of those idiots who don’t know what it’s like. You deserve love. Real love. Not the kind they pretend to give you because of your seat or because of how they see you. The kind that just… is. The kind that doesn’t expect anything in return.”

He reached up, his thumb brushing against her cheek, wiping away the tears that hadn’t even stopped falling yet.

Her breath hitched.

And then he did the most Oscar thing he could have done.

He leaned in, pressing his forehead to hers, the closeness stealing the breath from her lungs.

“Don’t let them tell you you’re anything less than worthy. Don’t let anyone make you think you’re broken because you’ve had to be stronger than anyone else. You’re whole. You’re worth it, always. And if it takes me showing you every day, I’ll do it. I’ll spend every day reminding you.”

Her heart was pounding now, so loud she couldn’t hear anything but the blood rushing in her ears. She wanted to speak, but she couldn’t, the emotions were too raw, too intense. She could barely comprehend what he was saying, not through the haze of vulnerability that had opened up inside her.

He pulled back slightly, but not enough for their foreheads to part. His eyes were soft, searching hers for something. Maybe for permission. Maybe for the answers she hadn’t given yet.

And then, without warning, his lips were on hers.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t forceful. It was... slow. Gentle. His lips brushing against hers in a tender, tentative kiss. A kiss full of everything unsaid, of all the moments he had cared for her in silence, of all the things he’d done and felt that had built up to this point.

It wasn’t just a kiss.

It was him proving, finally, that he’d meant every word.

Her hands moved instinctively, reaching up to touch his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his hoodie as the kiss deepened. She felt the warmth of his body, the gentle pressure of his lips, the quiet way he held her like he was afraid she might break if he wasn’t careful.

The tears didn’t stop falling, but they were different now. Not from pain, not from frustration, but from something else. Something soft and tender, like she could finally exhale after holding her breath for far too long.

When they finally pulled apart, just enough to breathe, her forehead leaned against his again. His hands were on her face now, cupping her cheeks, wiping away the last of the tears with the pads of his thumbs.

“See?” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “I told you. You’re worth it.”

She swallowed hard, her chest tight with everything she felt but couldn’t say.

Instead, she just nodded. “I never thought someone could love me for just… me. Not because I’m a driver. Not because of anything other than that.”

“You’re more than enough,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Always will be.”

And for the first time in what felt like forever, she believed him.

The kiss lingered in the air between them like a warm, unspoken promise. Neither of them moved. Neither of them needed to.

Her heart was still racing, but now there was a sense of calm, a quiet settling she hadn’t realised she needed until this very moment.

Oscar’s hands were still gently cupping her face, his thumbs brushing softly along her jawline as if he wanted to imprint the feel of her there in his memory. His gaze was soft but intense, still reading her like he’d always done. She could feel the weight of his words pressing against her, even now.

And she knew.

She knew that this wasn’t just a fleeting moment, a one-time gesture. This was something deeper. Something that had been building for a long time, maybe without either of them even realising it.

The silence between them wasn’t uncomfortable, though. It was just right.

But then Oscar’s phone buzzed.

It broke the stillness, and his gaze shifted, momentarily pulling away from hers.

He glanced down at his screen, his fingers swiping it unlocked before he tapped out a quick reply.

But she couldn’t help herself.

Her eyes drifted to the message on his phone, just barely catching a glimpse of the text that had popped up.

"Did you finally tell her?!"

Her breath hitched, and she swallowed hard. Her mind immediately started working overtime. Tell her? What did that mean?

She couldn’t stop herself. She leaned in just a little, trying to see if there was more.

Oscar noticed the shift in her attention, his thumb halting mid-type. He looked back up at her, eyes wary, lips pulling into a small, knowing smile.

"Something wrong?" he asked, his voice teasing but his eyes slightly guarded.

She frowned. “What was that about? ‘Did you finally tell her?’”

He didn’t immediately answer. Instead, he sighed, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly, a small chuckle escaping him.

“Look, I —” He stopped, biting his lip as if trying to find the right words. “I didn’t exactly want you to find out like this.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

His eyes flicked to the phone again, where the text from his sister still lingered on the screen.

“I’ve... kind of had a thing for you for a while, actually,” he said, his voice sheepish, like it was something that still surprised him. “And I guess, in a way, she’s been... waiting for me to actually do something about it.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She swallowed again, trying to process the words as they settled in.

“So, it wasn’t just me imagining all this?” she asked softly, her gaze searching his. “All the little things, it’s not because you wanted to prove a point but because you always liked me.”

He shook his head slowly, his lips curling into a small, genuine smile. “Nah. I’ve been a bit of an idiot, to be honest. She’s been telling me to just... tell you already. To stop being such a coward.”

Her eyes widened as she leaned back slightly, the weight of his confession landing on her.

“How long have you liked me then, Osc?” she asked, the words still foreign on her tongue.

He chuckled, eyes softening. “For a while now. Since we started racing against each other, actually. I just — I don’t know. You’ve always been so... independent. And I didn’t want to mess things up for you, you know? You’ve got enough on your plate without some guy making it more complicated.”

She could feel her chest tightening, her heart swelling with something she couldn’t quite name. “You really thought I wouldn’t want you? With all the times you’ve been there for me?”

He paused, his hand dropping, suddenly unsure. “I didn’t think I was the right kind of guy for you. You deserve someone who can... give you everything. And I didn’t know if I could.”

Her voice dropped to a soft whisper. “But you already have.”

He looked at her, a flicker of hope and disbelief in his eyes. “You mean it?”

She nodded slowly. “I do.”

A silence stretched between them once again. But this time, it was different. There was no more hesitation. No more fear.

She could feel the pull again. The one that had always been there, hidden beneath the surface. And this time, she was ready to admit it.

“I never thought anyone could feel this way about me,” she whispered. “I always thought... I was too much. Too loud. Too stubborn. Too everything.”

Oscar’s hand reached out again, his thumb gently brushing over her knuckles. “You’re not too much, love. You’re exactly what I’ve wanted.”

She met his eyes, and for the first time, it felt like the weight of everything — all the doubt, the fear, the loneliness — finally melted away.

His phone buzzed again, but this time, he didn’t even glance at it.

He just leaned in, close enough that she could feel his breath on her skin.

“You’re so worthy,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion.

Before she could say anything, before she could process the feeling overwhelming her, his lips were on hers again. Slow, tender, and full of everything he had been holding back.

This time, the kiss wasn’t just an expression of everything that had been unsaid.

It was a promise. A promise that, for once, she didn’t have to prove herself. Not to him. Not to anyone.

She was enough.

He was more than willing to remind her of that, every single day.

And he did.

He reminded her every day.

Every morning when the sun crept through the hotel curtains, he was the first thing she saw, a sleepy smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he reached out to pull her closer. Every time they woke up next to each other, whether in a hotel room after a race weekend or their small flat in Monaco in between races, Oscar was there. His hand in hers. His heart in his eyes.

There was no more second-guessing. No more wondering if she was enough. Because with him, she knew.

The world outside the bubble of their love kept moving, of course. The cars kept racing, the fans kept cheering, the pressure kept building. But with Oscar by her side, she felt like she could breathe. Like the weight of the world wasn’t too heavy to bear.

The year she got her promotion to Red Bull, she was already flying high with the confidence that came from the love she hadn’t known she needed.

She remembered how he’d been there, of course, always there. That morning, just before the announcement, she’d been pacing in her garage, waiting for the call. He had leaned against the doorframe, arms folded, watching her with that patient, steady smile of his.

“You’ve earned this,” he had said quietly. “You’ve always earned this.”

She hadn’t believed it then, not fully. Not until she got the call. Until she stood in the team office, her name printed on the top of the contract for next season.

Red Bull.

It felt surreal. But when she went to call Oscar, to share the news, he’d already been there, waiting on the other end of the line.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered, his voice thick with emotion. “This is just the beginning, love.”

And she knew, right then, that it was.

Because then, there was that moment. The one that everyone had been waiting for.

The moment she became the first woman to win the World Drivers’ Championship.

It wasn’t easy. It was never easy. The battle with the other teams, the constant questions, the doubts. But through it all, Oscar had been there. Through every late-night debrief, every race weekend, every difficult practice session where she didn’t think she could do it, he had been her quiet strength.

He wasn’t the loudest supporter. He didn’t shout in front of the media. But when it was just the two of them, when they were alone in their little world, he was her unwavering pillar.

After the final race of the season, when she crossed the line and knew it was done, she was overwhelmed by emotion. But when she looked out into the crowd, the first person she saw wasn’t her manager, her family, or her teammates. It was Oscar. Standing in the paddock, arms spread wide as if he had been waiting for this moment just as much as she had.

The podium ceremony was a blur, but when they met backstage, before the interviews and the flashing cameras, he pulled her into his arms, holding her tightly.

“I told you,” he whispered into her ear. “I told you that you were worthy of everything. You just had to see it for yourself.”

She smiled, tears mixing with the sweat and champagne, and kissed him deeply, because no words could capture what they had between them. She knew he would never stop proving it, that she was worthy of all the love, all the victories, all the happiness in the world.

And he would keep proving it every day.

the end.

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willowrunes · 2 years ago

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Listen I work for a debt collection company and you wouldn't believe the amount of bullshit junk fees some of our clients charge these people. We have a few particular plumbing and HVAC services who I'm 99% sure are telling customers one thing and billing them a different amount. So when these customers don't pay, they get charged all kinds of stupid admin fees, late fees, and an additional 30% of the total after all of that because that's our commission. These clients don't want to lose a single cent and would rather make the debtors pay the fee they should be paying us for hiring our services. It's a fucking rip-off, I can't stand seeing it. If I could afford to leave this job, I would.

#this job actually causes me so much stress from my workload and the secondhand guilt #I've had some bad jobs but not like this #I've worked in factories making cars #I've worked in retail hell of Walmart and Joanns #I've done my time in various fast food places #gamestop stores as well #underpaid office worker for a trade show company #I've done a lot of awful jobs but they don't compare to the psychic damage I take doing data entry for debt collections #sorry for the little rant but UGH I want a better job!!!!!!!

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hellooldshame · 12 days ago

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Empirical Analysis

Mark Grayson x Reader smut 🔞

Synopsis: You're absolutely fascinated by how fast Mark Grayson heals. Mark is more than happy to indulge you in your science experiment. AKA You both get horny while realizing you might have some sadomasochistic tendencies.

Word count: 2.8k words

CW: MDNI 🔞 NSFW, barely any porn to warrant all that plot, biting, (attempted) marking, scratching, bottom!-ish Mark that is technically more switchy, Reader on top, lots of grinding now that I think about it, outercourse, masochist!Mark, y/n's awakening sadism. Not beta read, never beta read.

Idea taken from @clairewritesfanfics and their smart atoms talk. I think I got carried away.

A/N: This made me rewatch Invincible so I can write bouncing on him

Bullets, bombs, and most explosives barely leave scuff marks. A knife gets bent and most weapons break on impact. Punches work though. Bludgeoning damage makes him bleed out his mouth or break his nose. Which absolutely baffles you to no end. Granted, the people hitting him were strong. Like, really really strong, but it wasn't like he was hurt when a reinforced boot smacked him square on the jaw.

Mark Grayson and the limits of his invulnerability were an enigma to you. As one of the many many scientists working in the GDA, you were tasked with understanding Viltrumite physiology. How they heal, what could hurt them, if they could be hurt at all. Admittedly, the job was fun when Cecil wasn't hounding you for the reports that you barely did.

Despite your job, you didn't like exploiting the poor guy. This was purely... curiosity to be honest. A very morbid part of yourself would have loved to dissect that pretty face and see how he ticked. The reasonable part of you reminded yourself how a scalpel would sooner turn to dust before it pierced his skin.

Once, you had slapped him across the face—the moment was heated and sometimes he just said things that would really piss you off. Regardless, his shoulders had jerked and his face turned in the direction your hand swung. Despite his parted lips from the shock and the stinging on your palm, there was barely any warmth on his cheek. Of course, regular human strength could only do so much to a guy who was safe from a stabbing. But the look on his face and the rising heat on his cheek only after the moment had registered made you want to test things further.

For Science! You had claimed all too enthusiastically when you tried to persuade him. Emphasizing even that everything would be "off the record" and "never to be used against him." You meant that promise too. And maybe Mark believed the conviction in your voice because he seemed just as excited when he agreed. For the sake of science.

Now, the scientific method would tell you that empirical evidence was important. Which is why you had to take a very hands-on approach in this experiment. Yes, science never said anything about taking Mark to your bed and straddling him—a notebook by his head and your butt pressed comfortably on his pelvis—while you collected data but this was necessary!

Firstly, you needed a private place so it was off-record. Ergo, why you did this at your place. Second, it was only polite to have your test subject comfortable as you measured his pain tolerance. Obviously, the most comfortable place that would fit him lying down would be your bed. And lastly, you were straddled because you needed to observe every detail and walking around a queen sized bed took too much time.

It was all very rational.

And besides, Mark was way too pretty for you to not at least get a bit of a good look at him. You had the best seat in the house. Mark Grayson, under you, body sunken slightly into your plush sheets, chest rising and falling nervously in an uneven stutter. Inhaling deep to even his breath, the release too quick and shuddering to calm himself down. It was understandable that he was nervous, being scrutinized so intently.

Big brown eyes stared up at you through his lashes and the light from your window hit his eyes just right to see the pattern of his iris. The swirls and webbing that made up the varying shades of mahogany and maple. If you stared long enough, you could see the tremble of it, how his pupils dilate. You might have stared at it for a moment too long.

"Uhm- I'm ready," a shaky voice spoke up, those same eyes blinking, unsure now if this was a good idea. Granted, he had his own ulterior motives, but the long silence had him thinking too hard. His initial motivations clouded by doubt and worry. What if you lied about keeping this a secret? Was he sure you weren't planning to dissect him? What if you realized he also had intentions beyond helping in your experiment? That maybe he wanted to feel the way your hands snap against his skin aga-

"Alright," you nodded, reaching down. You could've sworn Mark held his breath when your hand hovered near his face to grab the notebook. Pages flutter across until you settled on an empty sheet, scribbling the time and date of the experiment. "You sure I'm not too heavy? I can adjust."

The question was more out of courtesy than concern, knowing he could bench entire icebergs. A part of you also hoped to stay seated, the warmth beneath you quite cozy. The quick nod and mumbled 'mhm mhm' was all you needed before beginning your experiment.

"Mind if you," you gestured to his shirt, wanting to have as much skin to work with.

Mark looks down, eyes wide as if he was surprised he wasn't already undressed. "Oh- yeah, hold on," hands that were unconsciously gripping the sheets moved to tug his shirt off in one motion. Hurried movements turn clumsy and a rip is heard before you see the hole between the collar and the rest of his shirt. His head was still trapped, indents on his face pressed on the fabric as he fumbled to get free. "Shit, wait just-"

Your hands were quick and careful in helping him take off his shirt. It was hard to bite back a laugh and you were certain you were making a face when you tried to hold back the smirk and snicker. A quick tug , the shirt was off, and your hands felt warm against his chest. You had always been heavy handed and even now you exerted more than the necessary effort to push him back to lie down. As expected, there was resistance when you pressed down but he had fallen back so quickly someone would have thought you knocked him down.

"Try to relax," you whisper, trying to come off as soothing but the husk in your voice makes it sound sultry. Not that you noticed. Mark did though, felt his stomach flip and his muscles did the opposite of what you instructed. "I won't be using tools since the running theory right now is that physical contact seems to work better."

The lump in his throat bobbed when your hand touched his chest and fingers spread to try and get a feel. Trying to decide where to start. Your hands were cold compared to how warm he felt. And they would not stop roaming. The tips of your fingers pressed and prodded, pushing down as hard as you can and leaving the faintest red mark as blood rushes to where you'd applied pressure. So it wasn't like his skin was hard steel. You pinch the skin at his sides and he flinches.

"Ow- hey," the yelp came out automatically, the feeling reminiscent of being tickled or poked at the side. He figured he should let you know lest you mistake that for damage dealt. "That tickled more than hurt."

A nod and quick "noted" was your only response before continuing. The process was slow but you needed to cover all your bases. One hand moved to write notes, your body leaning forward and closer to him. The view was nice and the boy in him couldn't help but glance, ogle really, at the gap between your shirt pulled by gravity and the torso hiding underneath. Nice.

Your other hand began dragging nails across his bare chest and that brought his attention back to you. Normally, for some people at least, scratching just hard enough would leave white or raised lines. You definitely feel skin dragging against your nails but see no indication that you'd done anything. Somehow, you don't notice how his diaphragm contracts and stays there when he holds his breath. Eyes too trained on the contact between your nails and his skin to see his lips trembling. You inform him that you were going to apply more pressure.

Nothing hurt, not right now at least. But the sensation of your cold hands on his skin felt refreshing. Especially against his warm skin. Then your nails scratched his skin just right that he'd nearly hummed in satisfaction. He started wondering if you could break skin when he felt you dig into him. He could almost convince himself that you were strong enough to do it.

There was just something so disarming about you on top of him. Watching him with such fascination that he felt completely exposed. Like he had no choice but to surrender under you. Your eyes wide with curiosity, your nails dragging against him heavily. Sharp, steady, trying so hard to cut-

A stuttered gasp choked in his throat, breaking his thoughts as the stinging registered in his mind. You looked equally surprised to see the scratch on his pec, like red dotted lines outlined in white. A thumb tentatively pressed on the slash and Mark couldn't stop his lips from parting for the broken whine to escape.

Now, you were never one to bask in other people's pain, so you decided to blame his squirming hip jerks. The way the firm bulge in his pants rubbed up between your legs, the pleasure it shot straight up your spine coupled with that little cry was almost pavlovian. A professional would have gotten up and saved him the discomfort of having something so sensitive be put under pressure. A certain someone doing this out of the lab had decided it felt really nice when you sat yourself down firmly.

Mark was strong, you wouldn't be able to hold him down on your weight alone and by that breathless whimper, it seemed like he was okay with the way you readjusted and slid yourself against the hill on his pelvis. It was especially nice when he'd squirm underneath you, clumsy friction rubbing between you as your finger pressed harder on the wound. Your eyes nearly rolled back as you got lost in the slow carousel ride before he sighed out and finally relaxed.

Close. So close. Beneath your thumb was smooth skin, pristine and unblemished. Wide eyes stared at the newly formed skin and he swore he saw your gaze twinkle. He had healed. So fast, yet you couldn't help but miss the choked whines as he struggled to cope with the pain. You had expected him to have better tolerance than that but perhaps having tiny cuts compared to gashes and bruises felt different.

Mark inhaled lightly, breath finally steady as the stinging pain subsided and he wasn't forced to focus between his chest and the rubbing on his erection. "A-ah..." his voice cracked as you dug your nails in again and left three pretty scratches in your wake. Your eye twitched as you struggled to keep your gaze trained on him when his hips bucked again. Seeing the red flesh peek out had you holding back from leaning down and dragging your tongue over it. You needed to see it yourself.

A part of you was impatient, needing to observe every detail of his healing abilities. The other part was impatient for other things as you fidgeted. Hips rocking slowly only to incite tight-lipped grunts when you pressed on the open wound again. You don't know when his hands made their way to your sides, just that you were now pressed firmly enough that you couldn't lift up.

Then his hands grip and direct your lower half, moving you back and forth in his pace. You feel that ticklish sensation between your legs again as you watch skin merge back together, too fast to leave even a scab. Lips that had curled into an enthralled grin trembled when your eyes fluttered and the body below you lifted up slightly, pushing up as you were pressed down.

You looked good. Like, really good when you were watching him. Something almost manic in your eyes when you saw his body heal in real time. It made him go crazy thinking about what you probably wanted to do to him. The ill intent in your gaze as the corner of your lips twitched upwards in morbid interest, showing your teeth. It looked just as good when your eyes lost focus as he had you hump him, mouth hanging open to let out a surprisingly pleased moan.

The pleasure seemed to cloud any logic or reasoning left in you because you had forgotten to explain the next steps. No, you wanted to get straight to it apparently as you leaned down. Wordlessly, your chest pressed against his and if he wasn't holding onto you, you might have slipped off. Lips inched closer to his neck and your warm breath wafted against his already heated skin.

His eyes fluttered closed, expecting lips or a tongue to touch his neck. Instead, he felt pointed canines before you took a hard bite. His hips stuttered mid grind, once again caught off guard by your actions. His groans matched yours as you found yourself enjoying the sounds and sensations of grinding your teeth against his collarbone. You knew he was sturdy and the fact he got off on your teeth rather than recoil only spurred you to clamp down harder.

Nails dug into his shoulders as you held onto him. Hips gyrated and bucked against each other, your clothed sexes edging closer and closer to what you both needed. Mark couldn't take much more as he sat up, dipping you onto your mattress as he held onto your thighs and had you wrap your legs around him.

You didn't seem to relent either as your jaw refused to unclench. Not that it mattered to him. Moans muffled behind your teeth, hot air hitting his neck in quick puffs from your breathing. That and the faint ache on his skin had him rutting harder against you.

Strong hands moved up, stopping at your waist as a careful yet firm grip held you in place. Then he thrusted forward again, the movement quick and desperate and needy. He needed it, really really bad. Wanted it as much as you, whose attention was being taken away by the growing intensity of the body dry humping you. Jaw and abdomen equally as tight.

A stuttering slam against your pelvis has you seeing stars and you finally unclench your jaw to cry out. The crash of pleasure has you bucking back up into him and if that didn't do him in, the long scratches down his back and your legs locking him sungly into you does.

Mark collapses on top of you, spent and breathless and you both have most likely needed a change of clothes. Vision hazy, you try to crane your neck and see the damage you should have dealt on his collarbone. The disappointment on your face could be seen a mile away.

Despite your best efforts and rattling you'd felt in your teeth, all you had to show for it was indents from your canines. Already raising back up as if it had never happened.

"I nearly lost a tooth for nothing," you mutter, saving the fact you wanted to leave a mark at all to unpack for another day. A breathy laugh came from beside your head, feeling the vibrations against your chest. His hair tickled your cheek as her turned to look at you, eyes twinkling in the afterglow of climax.

"I mean, it's not bullshit that I'm called-"

A/N: yeah ofc I'd make that fuckass joke.

I haven't written in a good 2 years or so and have drafts before the pandemic for other fics (they're on Wattpad do you understand what type of person I am now). I didn't mean to make reader a lil biology freak but that was fun.

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dakusan · 5 days ago

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How The y Court You (Vampire Seduction 101)

Vampire!SKZ OT8 x Reader | eight vampires. eight courtships. and every quiet, calculated way they make being chosen feel like fate.

🌹synopsis: Welcome to Vampire Seduction 101. This isn’t a love story. It’s a field guide for how they choose you, study you, orchestrate you. Not all vampires hunt with fangs. Some use flowers. Letters. Custom playlists. Some knock. Others already have your keys. Every profile begins with a courtship style. They don’t fall in love. They fall into you. And build the cage from inside your chest. You call it seduction. They call it already done.

💌a/n: okay. LISTEN. first of all—i’m sorry for the first version. i don’t know what spell i was under. i thought i was writing vampire seduction and somehow ended up with ✨vampires but make it porn✨. it didn’t fit. it didn’t breathe right. this version? better. because vampire courtship actually is not sex. not chaos. it is ritual. precision. obsession dressed in quiet affection. i wanted to make it NSFW originally but that’s not what this is. i really hope this version is much better and you enjoy it more. thank you for being patient. i hope it lives in your chest cavity the way it’s living in mine 💋🦇. p.s. if this one hit different—slower, sharper, deeper—reblog it. let me know the ritual worked. p.p.s. tell me your favorite vampire. i’m collecting data. for science. or stalking.

📍credits: dividers by @cafekitsune

🎧 » Paradise — EXO « 0:58 ─〇───── 3:37 ⇄ ◃◃ ⅠⅠ ▹▹ ↻

🩸 𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍 // Abnormal | The Leader

Composed. Relentless. Devotion built like a fortress around you.

Courtship Style: Chan doesn’t flirt. He fortifies. He doesn’t chase. He chooses. And once you’re chosen—everything changes.

You don’t notice it at first. The second cup of coffee on your desk. The way your groceries never seem to run out. The warm hoodie folded on your couch that you swear you didn’t leave there.

You start dreaming of him before you ever see him. And when you do? It’s in passing. At night. Always near a streetlamp. Always watching.

He never says too much. Never touches. But his voice? Low. Measured. Gentle like a lullaby made of steel.

“Let me walk you home.” “You shouldn’t be out this late.” “I noticed your lights were off for three days. Were you sick?”

He calls it concern. You call it comfort. But it’s ownership, waiting to bloom. Chan learns you like a blueprint. He catalogues your sighs, notes your routines, tailors his presence to your loneliness. And when he finally touches you—just a brush of knuckles, a hand at your back—you lean in like you’ve been waiting your whole life.

Mini Ficlet:

You don’t remember when it started. Maybe it was the day someone left orchids on your doorstep—your favourite, though you’d never told a soul. Maybe it was the night a man’s silhouette walked you home from the shadows—always just far enough to not be real.

Or maybe it was now. Now, when he stands in front of you, dressed in charcoal wool and midnight silence, placing a velvet box in your palm like it weighs less than his restraint.

“It reminded me of you,” he says.

Inside is a necklace—simple, but devastating. A dark garnet set in a delicate rose gold setting, the stone carved with your initials.

You’ve known him for three months now. Or rather, he’s let you know him. Bit by bit. Hour by hour. He speaks slowly. Moves gently. But you’ve never doubted the force beneath it. When he takes you out, it’s always somewhere quiet. expensive. safe. Private rooftops. After-hours galleries. Candlelit corners of museums you didn’t know opened at night.

“I booked the entire floor,” he said once, when you gaped at the empty hall of mirrored sculptures. “I wanted it to be just us.”

It should be too much. Too fast. Too intense. But he never touches you without asking. Never pushes. Never forces. Still, every time you wake up, there’s something new: — your favourite pastry waiting at your desk — your name whispered in a stranger’s dream — a tailored coat in your size, already broken in with your scent

You never see him do these things. But you know it’s him. Always him.

There’s something devastating about how deliberately he loves. He never hides that he wants you. He just refuses to take without invitation. He never kisses you first. But he watches your mouth like it’s a sacrament he’s not yet holy enough to touch.

He sends letters, sometimes—written in ink so rich you’re sure it was pressed from crushed roses and wine. Folded into parchment that smells faintly of smoke and sandalwood. Each one signed with his name.

On one of your dates, he brings you to a vineyard. Not a restaurant—the entire vineyard. It’s winter now, barren and beautiful, trellises skeletal under silver clouds.

He lights a fire. Pours wine he says is older than most empires. Then he tells you something no one else has.

“You don’t have to give me anything,” he says, voice low, eyes locked to yours. “Not your blood. Not your time. Not even a kiss.”

“Then why all this?” you ask.

He smiles. “Because if I’m to be damned by desire, I want it to be desire I earned.”

The silence between you shifts. Thicker now. Softer. You look at him. Really look. The broad shoulders draped in black wool. The hand curled around his glass—barely suppressing the tremble when your knee brushes his under the table.

He’s not pretending to be calm. He’s just choosing to be.

You realize, suddenly— He’s not waiting for you to fall in love. He’s waiting for you to realize he already has.

And when you kiss him that night—finally, breathlessly, fingers in his curls—he sighs like a man who’s been underwater for centuries, and just now remembered how to breathe.

Because Bang Chan courts like a vow. And you? You’re already his holy thing.

🩸 𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐊𝐍𝐎𝐖 // Abnormal | The Prince of Teeth

Elegant. Ritualistic. Lethal devotion wrapped in silence.

Courtship Style: Minho doesn’t fall often. But when he does—he falls decidedly. No games. No glamours. No guessing. He won’t flood you with gifts or whisper pretty nothings just to hear himself speak. He won’t show up where you are by chance—he’ll ask to see you. And if you say yes, he shows up on time, dressed well, and holds the door open like he was born to. He doesn’t love loudly, but he loves deliberately. He watches what matters to you—and shows you that he saw. You like cats? He donates to a local shelter in your name. You’re learning to cook? He handwrites his family’s jjigae recipe and includes a box of the exact spices he uses. You wore a necklace once and never again? He asks why—and listens to the answer. He doesn’t flirt with words. He flirts with consistency.

Mini Ficlet:

You don’t expect flowers from Lee Minho. But he brings them anyway. Not roses. Never anything cliché. Today it’s blue thistles and white tulips—sharp and quiet and unexpectedly lovely.

“They reminded me of you,” he says, handing them over with a half-shrug, like it’s no big deal. Like your heart didn’t just knock against your ribs.

Your second date is simple. Thoughtful.

A tucked-away gallery filled with black-and-white photographs. He barely speaks—just watches you wander, nodding occasionally when your eyes light up.

“You like architecture,” he says after. “You kept staring at the lines.”

You blink. “You were watching me?”

“Of course I was,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “How else would I know what to give you next time?”

Your third date? A quiet, high-windowed café. A sketchpad set on your seat. You didn’t tell him you draw.

“I saw the graphite on your fingers,” he explains. “I figured you ran out of pages.”

Minho’s romance isn’t chaotic or grandiose. It’s intentional. He doesn’t drown you in affection. He builds a place for it. One you can trust. One you can return to. Again and again and again.

He never makes promises. He makes patterns.

Wakes you up with a morning message—dry, short, often sarcastic. But always sent at the same time. Asks how your day went every evening. Remembers the answer. Brings you lunch when you forget to eat. Doesn’t scold. Just puts it in front of you and says, “Try the soup.”

Minho is steady like a tide. Silent when you need it. Fiercely present when you don’t know you do. Not a whirlwind. Not a fantasy. He’s the man who waits outside your building with a paper umbrella when it rains and says, “Took the long way. Needed the walk.”

Your fourth date? He teaches you how to make dumplings.

The kitchen smells like sesame and steam. Your hands are messy with flour, your braid keeps slipping loose. He rolls his sleeves up, doesn’t complain once when you ruin his shirt with soy sauce.

You ask him why he’s doing all this.

His gaze is unreadable for a second. Then he says: “Because I like you. And I’m not going to pretend I don’t.”

“So this is… what? Wooing?”

“If that’s what it takes.” He leans against the counter, eyes sweeping your face. “I don’t want almost. I want you. Properly.”

No one’s ever said that to you so plainly before. No hunger hiding behind it. No game. Just truth, dressed in clean hands and sharp cheekbones.

That night, he walks you home without touching you once. Doesn’t kiss you at the door. Just looks at you for a long moment—like he’s memorizing the way the light hits your face.

“Tell me when,” he says.

You nod.

And the next morning, there’s a single white tulip waiting on your windowsill.

Because Lee Minho courts you like he means it. And when he loves, he does so with silence, surety, and the kind of care that turns staying into a sacred act.

🩸 𝐒𝐄𝐎 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐁𝐈𝐍 // Normal | The Enforcer

Fiercely Devoted. Tenderly Observant. Worships the ground you walk on.

Courtship Style: Changbin doesn’t flirt to impress you. He adores you from day one—and you know it. He’s the type to fumble his words when you smile too hard, then spend all night writing a letter that says what he really meant. He respects space like it’s sacred, but still makes sure you feel chosen. Every second. Every step. You mention you’re cold once? He shows up the next day with a custom hoodie embroidered with your initials. You say you’ve never been to a concert? He books VIP tickets. And gets a seat that faces the stage and lets you lean on his shoulder. He doesn’t overstep. He doesn’t assume. But he makes it clear—he wants you. Not for a night. Not for a thrill. For always. He listens better than anyone you’ve ever met. Recites your favourite quotes back to you when you forget how to believe in yourself. Cooks for you when you’re too tired. Asks permission before touching you, even just to brush your hair behind your ear.

Mini Ficlet:

You don’t notice it at first. The extra protein bar in your locker. The umbrella left leaning by your door on a rainy night. The playlist you found on your phone one morning—filled with songs you’d mentioned once, offhand, at dinner.

But then there’s him. Seo Changbin. Big smile. Bigger heart. Eyes that track you like you’re gravity.

“You okay?” he asks, every time you look the tiniest bit off. “Need anything? Water? Snack? A nap and a forehead kiss?”

You laugh the first time. He doesn’t.

“I’m serious.”

He takes you to the gym on your second date—not for a workout, but because he wants to see what makes you strong. Between sets, he grins every time you beat your personal best. Offers his water bottle like it’s sacred. Wipes a bead of sweat from your temple with a reverent thumb.

“You’re amazing,” he says, voice low and proud. “Do you know that?”

Your third date is homemade bibimbap at his place, candles flickering, your favourite show queued up. He wears an apron. It says “Simpire Chef” in stitched red thread.

You ask if it’s a joke.

“Nope,” he says. “It’s a lifestyle.”

The fourth date is a quiet walk through a night market—he buys you a moonstone ring from a stall you barely glanced at. Later, when you ask how he knew your size, he only winks.

“I have good instincts. And maybe I borrowed one of your rings when you weren’t looking.”

You roll your eyes. But your chest is glowing.

It’s never about the money. It’s about how much he notices.

He remembers your deadlines. Sends silly voice notes when you’re stressed. Brings your favourite fruit to your apartment with your name carved into the peel like it’s a ritual.

“I don’t want to rush you,” he says once, when you pause before reaching for his hand. “You don’t have to rush anything. Just let me stay close.”

And you do.

Because Changbin courts like a man who believes love is a promise. Not a prize. Not a performance. Just a steady hand held out, palm up. Waiting. And when you take it—finally, fully—he laces your fingers together, brings them to his lips, and whispers against your knuckles: “I’d wait another lifetime just to do this right.”

🩸 𝐇𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐇𝐘𝐔𝐍𝐉𝐈𝐍 // Abnormal | The Siren

Romantic. Expressive. Devoted like a disciple.

Courtship Style: Hyunjin doesn’t date you. He paints you into his world. Everything becomes about you—from the brushstrokes on his canvas to the songs he hums when he thinks no one’s listening. He doesn’t just fall. He descends, feather by feather, like an angel surrendering to gravity. He brings you flowers, yes. But they’re always arranged by meaning. White gardenias for secret admiration; Purple hyacinths for deep sorrow you never told him about; A single red camellia when he’s ready to say “I love you” without speaking. He writes you letters. Not just love letters—devotional scrolls. He doodles your initials in the margins, signs them with wax seals, and never asks if you’ve read them. He leaves them tucked in books, under your pillow, slipped inside your coat pocket. His love doesn’t demand. It offers. He’ll take you to art museums and stand behind you, barely touching, whispering how the light catches on your hair. He’ll draw your silhouette a hundred times before ever daring to kiss you. Hyunjin courts you like you’re a divine secret.

Mini Ficlet:

You find the sketchbook before you find the courage to ask.

It’s filled with you—your eyes in the morning light, your smile caught mid-laugh, your hand reaching for something just out of frame. Each page is dated. Some are smudged. Some soaked at the corners, as if he wept while drawing you.

You’re not even dating.

Not yet.

Hyunjin walks you home every time you stay out too late. Buys your favorite pastries without asking. Sends you poems at 3AM with a “This reminded me of you. I hope you’re dreaming something soft.”

Once, you told him you liked the stars.

So he brought you to a hill just outside the city, wrapped you in blankets, and traced constellations onto your palm with his finger.

“This one,” he said, guiding your wrist, “I’ll name after your laugh.”

Another time, you cried in front of him—something small. Stupid, you said.

He didn’t speak. Just knelt in front of you, pressed his forehead to your knee like a knight surrendering, and whispered: “Nothing that hurts you is stupid.”

“I look awful,” you mumbled.

Hyunjin tilted his head, resting his cheek on your knee now, grinning up at you with that infuriating, heart-melting sparkle.

“You look real. I like real,” he said. “Also, your nose gets pink when you cry. Very cute. I might draw that next.”

You shoved his shoulder, half-laughing through your tears. “You’re a menace.”

“Your menace,” he said immediately—then paused. “I mean. Hopefully. Someday. Pending approval. From HR. Which is... you.”

You broke into full laughter then, the kind that shook your shoulders and made your ribs ache. And Hyunjin—Hyunjin looked at you like he’d just witnessed a miracle. Like you’d cracked open a world he’d been painting blind, and now there was colour.

He never rushes you. Never asks for more than you’re ready to give. But he offers—daily, hourly, like a love letter folded into time.

On your birthday, he brings you a cake he baked himself. It's lopsided. Icing smudged. He’s got flour on his cheek and a candle stuck in crooked.

“Is this edible?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

“No promises,” he grins. “But it’s made with love. And too much cinnamon. And possibly one egg too many. You like protein, right?”

You eat the whole thing. Together. Off paper plates, sitting on the floor, laughing so hard you forget what loneliness tastes like.

And when he kisses you again—weeks later, on a rainy morning under a café awning, fingers laced tight in yours—he does it laughing. Giddy. Like a boy who just found out magic is real and has your name.

“I loved you before I met you,” he murmurs after, pressing his forehead to yours. “But this? You choosing me back? This is my favorite version of fate.”

Because Hyunjin doesn’t just romance you. He reveres you. He cherishes you. He makes you feel like being loved by him is both sacred and silly—a sacred thing with jelly on its chin and glitter in its pockets.

🩸 𝐇𝐀𝐍 𝐉𝐈𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐆 // Normal | The Shadow Walker

Clingy. Chaotic. Loves you louder than anyone ever has.

Courtship Style: Jisung doesn’t court you in the traditional sense. He adopts you like a stray thought he can’t put down. One day you’re acquaintances, the next he’s texting you twenty memes a day and showing up with bubble tea “just in case you were sad or bored or hungry or slightly thirsty or missed me a little.” He doesn’t confess. He accumulates. Your Spotify wrapped suddenly has his favourite songs; Your fridge always has his weird snack combos; Your phone background mysteriously changes to a photo of you two (he swears it “just glitched”). He’s the loudest thing in your life—and the softest, too.

Mini Ficlet:

One day, Han Jisung was your loud, chaotic friend who kept showing up with a second sandwich. Now? He's asleep on your couch in a hoodie that smells like you, mumbling your name into a pillow like it's a prayer wrapped in drool.

You don't even fucking remember when you agreed to go on a date with him. But, here you are, him always in your space, on your couch napping and drooling.

“Did we… start dating?” you ask one day, halfway through a Netflix binge, your head on his shoulder.

He pauses. Blinks at you. “We’re not??”

You laugh. He doesn’t.

“No seriously, babe. I’ve been in a committed relationship with you for, like, seven months. I made you a playlist called ‘She Could Punch Me and I’d Say Thank You.’ That’s not something I do for friends.”

You do start dating officially after that. Or maybe you just start acknowledging it. Either way, nothing changes—and everything does. He still texts you in all caps. Still fake-cries if you don’t answer in five minutes. But now? He kisses your cheek when he drops off food. Holds your hand when you walk. Shouts “THAT’S MY GIRLFRIEND” any time you do literally anything, including sneeze.

You tell him he’s embarrassing. He tells you you’re hot when you’re annoyed. You throw a pillow at him. He pretends to die.

But beneath all that chaos is something startlingly serious. Like when you’re stressed and he reads to you until you fall asleep. Or when he shows up at your workplace during a late shift, holding your favourite drink, eyes all soft and worried.

“I just wanted to see your face,” he says, quieter than usual. “It makes the noise in mine stop.”

And when he finally tells you he loves you, it’s not loud. Not a joke. Just whispered against your neck after a long day, arms around you like armor.

“I know I’m a lot,” he murmurs. “But I’ll love you right. Every version of you. Loud or quiet. Messy or magic. Just let me stay, okay?”

Because Han Jisung courts with friendship, laughter, and loyalty. You don’t fall in love with him. You trip—face first—and he’s already there at the bottom, holding out a juice box and saying: “Took you long enough, baby.”

🩸 𝐋𝐄𝐄 𝐅𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐗 // Abnormal | The Dreamer

Gentle voice. Corrupt touch. Dangerous devotion.

Courtship Style: Felix doesn’t ask for your attention. He radiates until you can’t help but turn toward him. He’s warmth incarnate—smiling like a sunrise, touching your arm just a second too long, laughing like the two of you already share a secret. He burns easy, but never recklessly. His affection is loud, his intentions louder, and his desire? Always hiding behind a wink. Or a lip bite. Or a murmured: “Tell me to stop flirting and I will. You won’t, though… will you?” Felix courts like he’s falling and loving it. He brings you coffee with your name written in hearts. He sends voice notes just to say he missed your voice. He insists on “sun days”—your private tradition of skipping responsibilities just to stay in bed with the curtains open.

Mini Ficlet:

You swear you’re not imagining it. The way his gaze lingers. The way he always finds you, no matter where you are. The way his hand always settles just above your knee under the table, like a promise he’s not quite ready to cash in.

He brings you sunflowers one day. Not roses. Not peonies. Sunflowers—loud, bright, unapologetic. Like him.

“They reminded me of your laugh,” he says, grinning as he sets the bouquet in your arms. “All sunshine and kind of… illegal. In a good way.”

Your cheeks burn.

“I should arrest you,” you mutter.

“Oh please do,” he purrs. “But be gentle. I bruise easy.”

You shove him. He laughs. But then—he looks at you. All warmth gone. What’s left is molten.

“I’m serious, you know,” he says softly. “About you.”

Later, he takes you on a date that isn’t a date (Except it is. He’s just waiting for you to call it that). Rooftop blanket. Takeout. Shared earbuds. His pinky hooked around yours like a pinky promise. The stars are out. So is the moon. So is his heart, apparently.

He leans in and murmurs, “Y’know… if you ever wanted to, we could just stay like this forever.”

You laugh. “What, on a roof?”

“No,” he says, smile curling. “On you.”

You roll your eyes. He doesn’t mind. You always roll them—and you always blush after.

He starts showing up more. With snacks. With games. With that stupid grin. You say you’re not in the mood to hang. He offers to just sit beside you, “for atmosphere.” Then somehow you’re tangled on the couch, your head on his chest while he scrolls for a movie you’ve already seen.

He insists you bake something together one night.

“I’m not a baker,” you warn.

“I am,” he says. “You just stand there and look cute.”

You throw flour at him. He retaliates with sugar. It escalates fast. You’re breathless, covered in powdered sweetness, half-laughing, half-melting when he pins you to the counter with dough-covered hands.

“You’ve got something on your face,” he whispers.

“You do too.”

He kisses you anyway.

You burn the cookies. He calls them love-blasted shortbread disasters. Eats six.

He writes notes. Sticky ones. Slips them into your jacket, your bag, your favourite book. One night, you find him humming in your kitchen—wearing your apron. Cooking something elaborate. With candles already lit.

You blink. “Did you break in?”

“I used the key you pretended not to give me.”

“…That’s not how pretending works.”

He grins. “Neither is love, apparently.”

He doesn’t ask to stay over. He just does. He doesn’t ask to hold you closer. He just fits. Like the spaces between your fingers were always waiting for his rings. Like your nights were always meant to end with him whispering: “You know I’m falling, right? Faster than I should. Not that I’m gonna stop.”

And maybe it’s the way he never lets you doubt it. Not in the way he kisses your temple after you’ve fallen asleep. Not in the way he carries you to bed when you refuse to move. Not in the way he holds your face like you’re the sun—and he’s the vampire stupid enough to burn for you (not that he'd burn, given he's an Abnormal, but go with it). Because Felix courts with warmth, with chaos, with craving— but above all, with clarity.

🩸 𝐊𝐈𝐌 𝐒𝐄𝐔𝐍𝐆𝐌𝐈𝐍 // Normal | The Beloved

Dry wit. Reluctant softness. Secretly yours before you even know it.

Courtship Style: Seungmin doesn’t court like a romantic. He courts like a realist who accidentally fell too hard and refuses to admit it. He won’t say he likes you. He’ll just roast your taste in music. Then send you a playlist. Labeled: “Fix your standards. Start here.” He won’t compliment your outfit. He’ll say, “You wore that? On purpose?” Then immediately take a photo when you’re not looking and make it his phone lockscreen. His flirting is all sharp edges and sidelong glances. If he calls you annoying, you’re already halfway to being his. And still—beneath the banter, Seungmin shows up. Remembers how you take your coffee. Waits until you’re home safe. Asks how your day was and actually listens. Buys your favourite gum. Takes you on dates disguised as “hangouts” and grumbles when you call it cute.

Mini Ficlet:

You’re fighting again.

Over something stupid. Probably the last donut or your tragic Spotify history. He’s smirking. You’re pouting. The usual.

“I honestly don’t know how someone with your taste functions in public,” Seungmin says, shaking his head like a disappointed tutor.

“Keep talking,” you shoot back, “and I’ll block you on everything.”

He blinks. Then grins. “Cute. Like you could go five hours without texting me.”

You go quiet.

Because, well. You can’t.

Later that night, there’s a knock at your door. You open it to find—

A box of your favourite snacks. A hoodie you thought you lost. A note.

“Thought you’d be dramatic and sad. I’m not doing this because I care. I just don’t want you crying on my hoodie.”

You roll your eyes. Smile anyway.

He’s not big on grand gestures. But he shows up when it counts. You mention your favourite childhood show once? The next week, he has the full DVD set in his bag. “Stumbled across it. Don’t flatter yourself.” You say you’re too tired to go out? He drags you to the convenience store. Buys two drinks. Tosses a jacket over your shoulders without looking at you. “I needed air. You just happened to exist nearby.”

One day, you fall asleep on his couch. You wake up warm. Covered. Music low. The lights dimmed. He’s in the kitchen, quietly washing mugs.

You say nothing. Neither does he. But when he turns to glance at you—his eyes soften like he’s watching a sunrise he doesn’t want to end.

You catch him smiling. He scowls instantly. “Stop looking at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I’m soft.”

You laugh. “You are soft.”

He groans. “Ugh. I knew I should’ve let you freeze.”

You start noticing it everywhere. The way he always buys an extra snack, then pretends he “accidentally” got two. The way he adjusts his walking pace so your steps line up. The way his sarcasm slows down when you’re quiet—like he knows when to tease, and when to just… be there.

One night, he calls you without a reason.

“You good?” he asks.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You didn’t send me a meme today. Thought maybe you died.”

You snort. “Would you miss me?”

“No,” he says flatly. “I’d just have to find someone else with horrible taste in music. Tragic.”

But the next day, your favourite drink shows up at your door. No note this time. Just a sticky tab on the bottle that says:

You better not be sad again. I’m busy this weekend and can’t deal with your feelings until Monday.

And then:

...Unless it’s serious. In which case, tell me now so I can cancel.

That’s how he does it. Quiet commitment. Unspoken loyalty. Sarcastic devotion. You’re not dating. Not officially. But you’ve already become a habit to him. You realize it the day he gets genuinely mad—not fake-annoyed, not teasing. Someone hurt your feelings. And when you tell him, he goes silent. Dead quiet. Then he asks, low and sharp: “What’s their name?”

You blink. “Why?”

“Just curious. No reason. Definitely not going to curse them.”

“…You’re not serious.”

He tilts his head. “You think I wouldn’t? For you?”

You freeze.

Because his voice doesn’t sound sarcastic anymore. It sounds deadly. And suddenly, it’s so clear: He’s been choosing you. Every day. In every way. Not with grand declarations. But in the spaces between arguments. In the silences after laughter. In the way he always remembers where you left your phone, what song calms you down, and when to stop joking—just to wrap you in the quietest kind of love.

So you lean against his shoulder. He doesn’t say anything. But he lets you stay there. All night. And when you wake up? There’s a note stuck to your forehead.

I like you. Don’t make it weird.

🩸 𝐘𝐀𝐍𝐆 𝐉𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐆𝐈𝐍 // Normal (Evolving Abnormal) | The Smile with Fangs

Soft charm. Hidden heat. A smile that sneaks under your skin.

Courtship Style: Jeongin courts like he’s been planning it forever—but wants you to think it’s spontaneous. A mix of Chan’s old-school romance and Felix’s sunshine flirtation, he leaves you laughing and breathless in the same moment. He’ll bring you flowers “because they looked lonely without you,” but hide a note inside that reads like a love letter. He buys matching rings, shrugs when you notice, then blushes when you wear yours. He’s all easy banter and eye contact that lasts a second too long. He doesn’t just listen—he memorizes. The way you sip your drink. The songs you hum. The one day you said you hated rain—and how he always shows up with an umbrella. With Jeongin, the courting is gentle until it isn’t. Until the teasing falls away and he’s looking at you like he already belongs to you. And he does.

Mini Ficlet:

It starts with a dare.

“I bet you won’t show up to our next hangout in something that isn’t tragic,” he says, eyeing your hoodie with mock disdain.

So you show up in a dress. And he chokes on his drink.

“You look—” he starts, then stops. Tries again. “That’s… illegal.”

You raise a brow. “So I won?”

“No,” he grins, cheeks pink. “I did.”

Later, he tugs you by the wrist into a photo booth, insists on five different poses, and refuses to give you the strip. “Evidence of your crimes. It’s safer with me.”

You roll your eyes. But when you get home, the photos are in your bag. You have no idea when he managed to do that so quick, but he did.

He doesn’t mention it the next day. Just sends a text.

jeongin 🦊: u look better in those pics than me. rude.

you: you insisted on five poses.

jeongin 🦊: exactly. more chances to suffer.

You laugh. But your fingers linger on the photo strip anyway. Especially on the third one—where you're both laughing so hard his eyes are almost closed, and your head’s tilted toward his like it belongs there.

From then on, the courting becomes a quiet game. He sends you videos of cute animals with captions like “you when I look at you”. He wears that one cologne you complimented—then pretends not to notice when you lean in a little closer. He starts showing up to your classes, "coincidentally" holding your favourite drink. Leaves your favourite snack in your bag with a sticky note: “bribery. stay cute.” He draws hearts on the fogged-up café window and denies it. Blames the barista.

He randomly brings you keychains from vending machines. Ones that make no sense—tiny frogs, a plastic spoon, a lopsided heart. “This one’s you.” he says, handing you the spoon. You start collecting them on your bag.

He buys a small sketchbook and fills it with dumb little doodles: you as a cat. You as a villain. You as the reason he’s broke because “someone eats too many croissants.”

He doesn’t say I like you. But he wears the bracelet you made him from string and beads. Keeps the wrapper from the gum you shared in his wallet. Asks your friends what kind of earrings you’ve been looking at lately, then acts surprised when he “randomly found” them on sale.

One evening, he takes you to a rooftop arcade. You win every game—barely—and he pretends to be devastated.

“You’re cheating,” he accuses.

“Am not.”

“Then marry me,” he blurts.

You freeze. So does he.

“…That was a joke,” he says immediately.

It wasn’t.

The next week, he gives you a hoodie. Custom-made. Embroidered over the heart: fox boy’s favourite.

Jeongin’s courtship isn’t loud. It’s a slow-burn playlist. A silent “text me when you get home.” A bag of snacks he swears he didn’t buy for you—but somehow match your exact cravings. It’s teasing that feels like touch. Laughter that feels like safety. Looks that linger too long.

He courts you like a secret he doesn’t want to keep anymore.

🏷️ taglist: @cybergracie , @jupitermarss , @basicginn , @dhvnigvil , @emkvlixsx , @collin-thegreat , @somuchpanicverylittledisco , @emilyywhyy

#stray kids #skz #stray kids fluff #stray kids x reader #bang chan x reader #lee know x reader #changbin x reader #hyunjin x reader #han x reader #felix x reader #seungmin x reader #jeongin x reader #vampire!skz series #wreck me wednesday #skz fluff

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fwol-jintu · 5 months ago

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funny idea where Shen Yuan transmigrates into a cute colorful lil world and his system tells him to collect data on bunnies, and not just any bunnies- beast bunnies

He thinks its cool, like omg theres this one bunny w dark fur and lil horns!! Omg its so cute, and this one has wings..!! And this one- its glowing! Its literally so cute!!

So he's in beast heaven where his goal is literally just Gotta Find Them All and optionally record their behavior for extra d-points! (D standing for data <3)

Eh, downside is he cant really use his left arm cuz he hasn't unlocked dual maining yet... but he'll get to it soon! For his bunnies!!

but! Theres evil creatures trying to eat his precious bunnies while he's researching them...!! His system tasks him with getting rid of these corrupted devourers to protect his defenseless bunnies-

well they're not all defenseless but the ones who CAN protect themselves are rare and most of what he has are just precious babies hiding behind him!! So, he takes up the missions and fight the evildoers!

Hey, but wait a minute- system, why are the devourers just.. pirate carrots?!

Oh, hey atleast he got a weapon!

Crack crack, boom!! He defeats the corrupted devourers- er, carrots- but wait, something sparkles in the corner of his eyes... he trims through the bushes and finds- another bunny?

[You have discovered Haze-Coated Dreams!]

His eyes were wide and shining because WOAH omg this bunny was majestic! It had a light shade of green and like, cute wind patterns! Theres even a little star pattern on its head!

But... aww, poor thing is trembling, it was so small too, probably just a baby. His heart clenched at the thought that those devourers were gonna eat something so cute... he looked around, though he cant seem to find its mother. They were probably eaten by the devourers...

He sighed and decided to just take the bunny in! More d-points for him!

He gently picks it up and cradles it in his arms.

[You have acquired Haze-Coated Dream!]

[Adding to database....]

_____________________________

Xiao Jiu ran as fast as he could, trying to get away from monsters that sought for his flesh and blood.

But it was futile, wasn't it? They were faster, stronger, and he was just prey.

It wasn't any better that his clumsy self tripped and sprained his ankles. Fuck.

His heart thumped wildly in his chest, he didn't want to die yet. Please.

If he could not run, he crawled. He crawled and hid in a large bush, hoping those demons had not seen him. Hoping that whatever god was up there was merciful and let him live. But then what?

He trembled in the cold, his body aching and hurting all over.

Why did it have to be him?

His breath hitched as he heard the sounds of cracking bones and tearing flesh. He trembled and hugged himself tighter, trying to get himself together.

Crawl, crawl damnit. Move. Anything.

Why did it have to be him?

He couldn't hide his fear when he so clearly felt a shadow loom over him. His instincts burned and screamed and made him look up, to see if the monsters had spotted him.

The bush was cut, and he was exposed.

No. No.. nonononono NO NO-

Please.

Xiao Jiu froze as he saw a bloodied man, arm ripped off and dry blood staining the ripped clothing.

The man- more demon-like than the actual demons he saw - approached him- no get away from me- and picked him up. And cradled him.

He couldn't do anything. He was scared, confused, angry- and.. helpless, in a lot of senses.

He wasn't willing to backdown without a fight however.

(It took sy 3 hours to put his disoriented bunny that was trying to fight him thinking he was probably one of the carrots to sleep. Poor baby.)

__________________

Anyways so yeah shen yuan thinks he got transported into a beast bunny heaven

Literally everyone around him says otherwise, but oh no shen yuan doesnt speak bunny and carrot language unfortunately :(

Sy thinks he's a beast tamer and also he chops up all the carrots to feed to his bunnies (remember what carrots are?... yeah... his house is a bit... messy...)

Sy: omg new rare bunny type?!?!?!!! This is the best day ever.

Sj, traumatized asf: who are you..?!. (sy baba-beams him and he immediately (4 weeks) becomes his boy)

Sy serving his bunnies the chopped up carrots: eat up and grow big and strong!

Sj: (avoiding the "carrots" bc he is NOT eating raw flesh)

Sy, noticing sj avoiding the carrots: oh no, my baby still has trauma from that experience :( its ok, SYSTEM!!!! gimme recipes. Now.

Sy looking at the (dead) carrots: i wonder if i can eat this...

System: no!!! It is heavily advised against!!

Sy: huh? Why?

System, sweating and trying to find an explanation that doesnt reveal the carrots are literally just demon abomanations: .....theyre digestible only to the rabbits! Theyre toxic to humans like how chocolate is toxic to dogs!

Sy: (believing it) huh... that makes total sense.

if you're wondering what sy looks like in this au, in literally everyone else's POV he:

Has one arm, the other looks like it was ripped off

Has clothes that are bloody and dirty asf like he just got out of a bloodbath

Has dead eyes and a clawed out eye (referencing to the fact he sees the world like a cutesy place even tho it isnt LMAO system pulling so many strings)

Has a butcher knife

His okay-arm has spikes coming out of his flesh

So basically he looks like he got out of a slaughter/cruel lab but he loves his bunnies (monstrous pets with 1 lil very hateful kid) very dearly and no when he sees himself in reflection he just looks like a Normal Guy

This is just my excuse to make monsteryuan but slightly more insane

#shen yuan #shen qingqiu #og shen qingqiu #shen jiu #xiao jiu #original shen qingqiu #scumbag self saving system #scum villian self saving system #scumbag system #svsss #sqq #Monster shen yuan #demon shen yuan #This au shall be dubbed:#Split-screen yuan #Shen yuan and his baba beam #Beast bunny au

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threeacttragedy · 8 months ago

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Entry 1 - The One About That Weird Ass Cressida Post

This is my first blog entry and, before you start reading, let me just drop in this little disclaimer:

You will find that I bounce between fact and speculation with a mix of sarcasm and [I hope] level-headedness, common sense, and deductive reasoning.

I am a Lukola. Plain and simple. You will not change my mind. It’s an all or nothing thing for me. How I got here, I’m not exactly sure – wait, no I do know how I got here (thank you Nicola and Luke for being so fucking charming).

Of course, I knew what Bridgerton was before I joined the Lukola fandom. In fact, I watched both Seasons 1 and 2, and they were okay. Yes, just okay.

I knew that Season 3 was about Penelope – the only character I found remotely interesting – so when I saw an article on People’s page showing Nicola and her costar holdings hands, I admit I was intrigued.

Were they dating?

Let’s ask Mr. Google and find out.

No, apparently, they were not.

Okay, fine.

I then made the mistake of clicking on a video of Nicola and Luke being interviewed in Australia. And, motherfuck, they were like lightning in a bottle! Luke – being asked if he believed in friends to lovers – responded in a way that left me feeling a bit blindsided. My immediate thought was: “He fell in love with Nicola the moment he met her.” It’s funny how many people I’ve spoken to since who had an identical reaction and, to be honest, Luke’s response won’t make your heart flutter. But, it was something in the way he said it.

Now, let me explain my feelings about love at first sight. Actually, Nicola explained it best when she said lust at first sight is often mistaken for love at first sight. This, I agree with wholeheartedly. To me, love at first sight does not have to be lusty. It can be, sure, but it can also be something entirely different. Maybe it’s a fleeting feeling of recognizing someone in a way you cannot possibly articulate out loud. Maybe it’s a palpitation of your heartbeat. Maybe it feels like home. Regardless, when you experience it, you’ll know it.

That, my friends, is how I got here, and why I [sometimes begrudgingly] stay here – walking alongside this rather long, winding, and often pothole-filled road waiting for two people to admit to the general public – whether it be in a blatant or subtle manner – that they are, in fact, together.

I’ve noticed in this fandom we seem to have three types of people. We have the Sincerely Ignorant, the Conscientiously Stupid, and the Fact Finders.

The Sincerely Ignorant are those that are easily persuaded. They are like sheep following their shepherd. In fact, the Sincerely Ignorant are the most dangerous as they tend to spiral hard and fast – and often without reason.

Next, we have the Conscientiously Stupid. These are the shippers that choose to live in error because it fits their narrative. We are all a bit Conscientiously Stupid but there are those that push an idea so hard that they omit certain truths from their storyboard. The danger here is obvious and their victims always include the Sincerely Ignorant.

Lastly, we have the Fact Finders. The people who track information – key players, side characters, dates, places, statements, etc. These are the people who often find themselves pulling the Sincerely Ignorant out of the water when they spiral, usually due to narratives being pushed by the Conscientiously Stupid.

I am a Fact Finder. Am I perfect? Fuck no, but I do find it fun to collect and analyze information and share it with my fellow Fact Finders. Plus, collecting data helps me maintain some indifference towards the USS Lukola because, let’s face it, this god-damned ship has been blasted by quite a few cannonballs at this point. Some days, I’m surprised we’re still afloat.

Let’s start with Cannonball No. 1. Pap-fucking-smear. June 12/13, 2024. What a fucking shit show. Who shows up to the London premiere? Antonia, Luke’s – I honestly don’t even know what word to use here because I have a lot of different thoughts but out of [a small amount of] respect I will call her – “girl friend” [yes, that space was intentional]. We all know the story, Luke was papped outside his hotel with Antonia on premiere night and he was pegged an overnight dumpster fire.

And, oh my God, the Sincerely Ignorant and Conscientiously Stupid ran with it. I mean, they practically became wild dogs chasing down a fox under the command of Nicola the Huntsman. However, Nicola, almost immediately, came to Luke’s rescue by posting an “in support of” style story to her IG. I’m not saying Nicola wasn’t affected by this mishap. At the very least, the post-premiere PR efforts were dumped squarely on her tiny shoulders. At the worst, she’d had her heart broken.

I never liked the Papsmear pictures. Not because I disliked what they depicted but because there was something “off” about them. Luke didn’t look like a man happy to be out with his lady friend. He looked like a man who had been hoodwinked and whether that was because he knew he’d just made a major PR misstep or because he knew the narrative that would follow was false doesn’t really matter because it’s all speculative. But, what makes me believe it was the latter is what Luke did next.

On June 15, Luke put a story on his IG promoting Season 3. That isn’t all that interesting but the scene it depicted made me do a double take.

Could it be?

No…no way…

But…it was.

It was the scene in Ep. 6 where Cressida entered the Mondrich Ball and Colin pulled Penelope aside and told her he wouldn’t let Cressida ruin their evening.

What in the hot fuck? I mean, really, what in the hot fuck??

Did Luke really just blast out an IG story where his character tells Nicola’s character not to let the Cressida character ruin their evening? Was Cressida…Antonia?

Because that’s fucking loud.

I mean, of all the scenes over four episodes, Luke chose THAT one to promote Pt. 2?

Surely, Antonia or one of her friends or family members would have picked up on this, right? And, told Antonia.

No one is going to convince me that Luke and Antonia were in a blissful relationship after that IG story was posted. Why? Because the deductive reasoning part of my brain tells me Luke chose Nicola straight outta Pap-gate.

The Conscientiously Stupid may [rather they WILL] argue that it was just for PR. Okay, but that would mean Antonia accepted the comparison between Cressida, the Evening-Ruiner, and herself. Take a moment and put yourself in Antonia’s shoes. Would you accept this from your partner? (P.S. If you said yes, you have bigger problems in life than following real people’s relationships.) We know Antonia accepted this role to some extent because we have evidence she attended events with Luke over the summer. So, what the fuck?

In my opinion, Luke’s IG story is a defining moment in the Lukola narrative, but one that was overlooked in June and one that continues to be overlooked – and ignored – now.

Luke’s character is telling Nicola’s character he won’t let another woman ruin their evening.

Let me repeat that again for you: Luke’s character is telling Nicola’s character he won’t let another woman ruin their evening.

Now wrap your head around that.

#lukola #nicola coughlan #luke newton #my opinion #my thoughts #sincerely ignorant #conscientiously stupid #fact finder #speculation only

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mecachrome · 1 month ago

Text

📊 LANDOSCAR AO3 STATS (may 2025)

notes

sorry this literally took 2 weeks to write... unfortunately the data was retrieved april 28 and it is now may 12.

other work: i previously wrote a stats overview that covered landoscar's fic growth and breakout in 2023 :) i've kept some of the formatting and graphs that i showed there, while other things have been removed or refined because i felt they'd become redundant or unnecessary (aka they were basically just a reflection of fandom growth in general, and not unique or interesting to landoscar as a ship specifically).

methodology: i simply scraped the metadata for every fic in the landoscar tag (until april 28, 2025) and then imported it into google sheets to clean, with most visualizations done in tableau. again, all temporal data is by date updated (not posted) unless noted otherwise. this is because the date that appears on the parent view of the ao3 archives is the updated one, so it's the only feasible datapoint to collect for 3000+ fics.

content: this post does not mention any individual authors or concern itself with kudos, hits, comments, etc. i purely describe archive growth and overall analysis of metadata like word count and tagging metrics.

cleaning: after importing my data, i standardized ship spelling, removed extra "814" or "landoscar" tags, and merged all versions of one-sided, background, implied, past, mentioned etc. into a single "(side)" modifier. i also removed one fic entirely from the dataset because the "loscar" tag was being mistakenly wrangled as landoscar, but otherwise was not actually tagged as landoscar. i also removed extra commentary tags in the ships sets that did not pertain to any ships.

overall stats

before we get into any detailed distributions, let's first look at an overview of the archive as of 2025! in their 2-and-change years as teammates, landoscar have had over 3,409 fics written for them, good enough for 3rd overall in the f1 archives (behind lestappen and maxiel).

most landoscar fics are completed one-shots (although note that a one-shot could easily be 80k words—in fact they have about 30 single-chapter fics that are at least 50k words long), and they also benefit from a lot of first-tagged fic, which is to say 82.3% of landoscar-tagged fics have them as the first ship, implying that they aren't often used as a fleeting side pairing and artificially skewing perception of their popularity. in fact, over half of landoscar fics are PURELY tagged as landoscar (aka otp: true), with no other side pairings tagged at all.

this percentage has actually gone down a bit since 2023 (65.5%), which makes sense since more lando and oscar ships have become established and grown in popularity over the years, but it's also not a very big difference yet...

ship growth

of course, landoscar have grown at a frankly terrifying rate since 2023. remember this annotated graph i posted comparing their growth during the 2023 season to that of carlando and loscar, respectively their other biggest ship at the time? THIS IS HER NOW:

yes... that tiny squished down little rectangle... (wipes away stray tear) they grow up so fast. i also tried to annotate this graph to show other "big" landoscar moments in the timeline since, but i honestly struggled with this because they've just grown SO exponentially and consistently that i don't even feel like i can point to anything as a proper catalyst of production anymore. that is to say, i think landoscar are popular enough now that they have a large amount of dedicated fans/writers who will continuously work on certain drafts and stories regardless of what happens irl, so it's hard to point at certain events as inspiring a meaningful amount of work.

note also that this is all going by date updated, so it's not a true reflection of ~growth~ as a ficdom. thankfully ao3 does have a date_created filter that you can manually enter into the search, but because of this limitation i can't create graphs with the granularity and complexity that scraping an entire archive allows me. nevertheless, i picked a few big ships that landoscar have overtaken over the last 2 years and created this graph using actual date created metrics!!!

this is pretty self-explanatory of course but i think it's fun to look at... :) it's especially satisfying to see how many ships they casually crossed over before the end of 2024.

distributions

some quick graphs this time. rating distribution remains extremely similar to the 2023 graph, with explicit fic coming out on top at 28%:

last time i noted a skew in ratings between the overall f1 rpf tag and the landoscar tag (i.e. landoscar had a higher prevalence of e fic), but looking at it a second time i honestly believe this is more of a cultural shift in (f1? sports rpf? who knows) fandom at large and not specific to landoscar as a ship — filtering the f1 rpf tag to works updated from 2023 onward shows that explicit has since become the most popular rating in general, even when excluding landoscar-tagged fics. is it because fandom is getting more horny in general, or because the etiquette surrounding what constitutes t / m / e has changed, or because people are less afraid to post e fic publicly and no longer quarantine it to locked livejournal posts? or something else altogether? Well i don't know and this is a landoscar stats post so it doesn't matter but that could be something for another thought experiment. regardless because of that i feel like further graphs aren't really necessary 🤷‍♀️

onto word distribution:

still similar to last time, although i will note that there's a higher representation of longfic now!!! it might not seem like much, but i noted last year that 85% of landoscar fics were under 10k & 97% under 25k — these numbers are now 78% and 92% respectively, which adds up in the grand scheme of a much larger archive. you'll also notice that the prevalence of <1k fic has gone down as well.

for the fun of it here's the wc distribution but with a further rating breakdown; as previously discussed you're more likely to get G ratings in flashfic because there's less wordspace to Make The Porn Happen. of course there are nuances to this but that's just a broad overview

side ships

what other ships are landoscar shippers shipping these days??? a lot of these ships are familiar from last time, but there are two new entries in ham/ros and pia/sai overtaking nor/ric and gas/lec to enter the top 10. ships that include at least one of lando or oscar are highlighted in orange:

of course, i pulled other 814-adjacent ships, but unfortunately i've realized that a lot of them simply aren't that popular/prevalent (context: within the 814 tag specifically) so they didn't make the top 10... because of that, here's a graph with only ships that include lando or oscar and have a minimum of 10 works within the landoscar tag:

eta: other primarily includes oscar & lily and maxf & lando. lando doesn't really have that many popular pairings within landoscar shippers otherwise...

i had wanted to explore these ships further and look at their growth/do some more in depth breakdowns of their popularity, but atm they're simply not popular enough for me to really do anything here. maybe next year?!

that being said, i did make a table comparing the prevalence of side ships within the 814 tag to the global f1 archives, so as to contextualize the popularity of each ship (see 2023). as usually, maxiel is very underrepresented in the landoscar tag, with galex actually receiving quite a boost compared to before!

additional tags

so last time i only had about 400 fics to work with and i did some analysis on additional tags / essentially au tagging. however, the problem is that there are now 3000 fics in my set, and the limitations of web scraping means that i'm not privy to the tag wrangling that happens in Da Backend of ao3. basically i'm being given all the raw versions of these au tags, whereas on ao3 "a/b/o" and "alpha/beta/omega dynamics" and "au - alpha/beta/omega" and "alternate universe - a/b/o" are all being wrangled together. because it would take way too long for me to do all of this manually and i frankly just don't want to clean that many fics after already going through all the ship tags, i've decided to not do any au analysis because i don't think it would be an accurate reflection of the data...

that being said, i had one new little experiment! as landoscar get more and more competitive, i wanted to chart how ~angsty~ they've gotten as a ship on ao3. i wanted to make a cumulative graph that shows how the overall fluff % - angst % difference has shifted over time, but ummmm... tableau and i had a disagreement. so instead here is a graph of the MoM change in angst % (so basically what percentage of the fics updated in that month specifically were tagged angst?):

the overall number is still not very drastic at all and fluff still prevails over angst in the landoscar archive. to be clear, there are 33.2% fics tagged some variation of fluff and 21.4% fics tagged some variation of angst overall, so there's a fluff surplus of 11.8%. but there has definitely been a slight growth in angst metrics over the past few months!

—

i will leave this here for now... if there's anything specific that you're interested in lmk and i can whip it up!!! hehe ty for reading 🧡

#adflkahsdflakhsdlfkahdf i wrote all of this and then lost 80% of my draft. so i had to write it all again #sorry this is a lot shorter than last time too T__T i honestly just felt like a lot of the old graphs were irrelevant #hopefully some of the information is still interesting though even if it's not particularly surprising!!#landoscar #*s

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smallestapplin · 28 days ago

Note

Hii! Could I request headcanons for Brainstorm, Rodimus and Rung with human artist reader who draws them all the time and sometimes draws them right on their desk. For example, one time they found a chibi sketch of you on their desk winking and saying something like "I love you" or "I believe in you"

I love these dorks so much. I hope you enjoy qwq i tried my best.

Rodimus

- the first time Rodimus sees your little sticky note with a cute little doodle of his helm and your head, wishing him a good day at work he nearly exploded right then and there. Ultra Magnus swears he’s never seen Rodimus work faster, but it was all in the name of getting out of his boring office and rush back to his habsuite to find you.

- The second his last report is done he nearly breaks a hole through the door cause it wasn’t opening fast enough and he wanted OUT! His beloved is awaiting him and his kisses and he can’t keep you waiting! You’re getting yanked from your spot right into his servos and smothered, positively drowned in his kisses, paired with a loud ‘mwah!’ For each smooch.

- Please never stop, he saves every last picture and note you make for him and giggles over them like a school girl with a crush, kicking his pedes and everything. It’s either his biggest distraction or his biggest motivator, cause he will remember you’re still on the ship and he’s not next to you and get the saddest puppy expression until Ultra Magnus is sick of him sighing loudly and let’s him leave.

- If you want to give him something to do tell him you hid a doodle somewhere in his office, and watch him go on the hunt going through every paper, every data pad, every corner of his office is not left untouched. He cheers so loudly when he finds it, giggling so sweetly and adding it to his collection before rushing with a skip in his step to you.

- Nobody can give him shit for it, it’s impossible when he’s rubbing it in everyone else’s face, “Oh, I’m sorry are YOU getting cute little doodles from your partner? Didn’t think so!”

Rung

- Rung is very private with the notes you leave him, he keeps them in his subspace and has a collection going, he keeps each and every one of them close to his spark so he can always look at them. His optics glow bright behind his glasses, digits tracing the written words of your love for him, the little doodle of you making him smile.

- Your little notes help him through the day, help him after a rough session helping a patient through something so sparkbreaking it weighs on him, but your little notes give him the push he needs soothing his own worries. Your praise and support means everything to him, seeing your little artistic doodles of him and you with little hearts makes his antenna wiggle, and a smile almost permanently stuck to his face.

- You’ll know when he’s found them as when he comes back to your shared habsuite, he’s got a soft blue blush across his cheeks and he so softly asks to be able to pick you up, and when you agree stepping into his servos he kisses the top of your head, “Thank you, my star.” He whispers, kissing you once more.

- He doesn’t show them off he perfers to keep them to himself and on bad days, if you aren’t with him he looks through them to remind himself someone loves him, someone is waiting for him, someone is cheering him on even if you couldn’t be at his side in that exact moment he knows you care so much for him, and having these reminders fills his spark with so much love and joy.

- Rung tries to attempt the same, actually! Though he’s not much of an artist like you are, that doesn’t stop him trying and making a little doodle of his helm and a cartoony thumbs up, wishing you a good day and that he loves you. He often makes these notes when you’re still passed out on his berth, just before he starts his day and goes in for work. Rung wants to properly show you how much he appreciates your notes and drawings. He will get bashful and try to hide his face if you wake up and catch him mid act.

Brainstorm

- DIVA! oh you have opened a can of worms I hope you have a wrist brace and do wrist stretches regularly, cause if he doesn’t get one little doodle of you wishing him a good day or that you love you and think he’s so cool, he will explode, he will approach you like “So you hate me? You hate me and want me dead, is that is? You do not love me? Where is my love?” Brainstorm needs your love and praise or he dies, that’s all.

- Brainstorm loves and adores every note and drawing paired with it, he will hold it to his chassis and squee softly before rushing to show off how sweet and kind his partner is! He is hellbent of showing you and your art off, his desk is covered in your little notes, he only moves them when they are placed in more dangerous spots and he doesn’t want them to burn or get something on them.

- Brainstorm is a mech who is not at all ashamed or modest in his love for you, you show your love for him? Wonderful, he will proceed to scream his from the roof tops, if no one can hear you scream in space they truly have not met a Brainstorm who is fueled by spite and his overwhelming love for you.

- After he’s gotten one of your little doodles he’s all giddy, and most times that giddiness lasts until he sees you an can finally get his cuteness aggression out on you, so much so it’s not uncommon for someone (likely Perceptor) to ask you two to get a habsuite and take it behind closed doors, cause Brainstorm needs his kisses but also he needs to give you kisses but ALSO he needs to hear you say you love him and believe in him.

- Brainstorm is unsurprisingly a needy mech, he will trap you against him and look at you with such a love sick expression asking you to say it again, just ooooone more time, for him? Please? Mayhaps a liiiittle louder? You will have to bap his nose to get him to stop, cause he can’t get enough of hearing you love him.

#transformers x reader #transformers rodimus x reader #transformers lost light #transformers lost light x reader #transformers rung x reader #transformers Brainstorm x reader #transformers headcanons

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sosa2imagines · 10 months ago

Text

An Alley of Passion

Warning- Smut, Steve Rogers is a warning, sex in an alley, little bit of tearing of clothes, dominance.

Disclaimer- This is my submission for @mercurial-chuckles writing challenge, "Smutty September Fest" I hope everyone who reads likes it.

The plan was simple, enter the sophisticated nightclub, head to the back room, and collect the data.

But things rarely ever went according to plan. As soon as you and Steve entered the main floor of the club, the two of you were spotted by some goons.

You wore the expensive black halter dress, courtesy of Tony’s money. It was tight against your body, fitting perfectly against every dip and curve.

Steve, your partner on this mission, looked absolutely stunning in a tight black shirt and black pants. It hugged his body in all the right places and made his blue eyes stand out even more.

Despite the odds being against the two of you, you and Steve managed to fight off the goons and retrieved the data you came here for. However, just as you breathed a sigh of relief, more goons arrived, this time armed with deadly weapons, leaving you both cornered.

Steve grabs your hand and runs towards the exit. With the goons high on chase, Steve takes a turn towards an alley assuming it's empty.

However the two of you found yourselves in a surprising situation as you looked around. Instead of the empty, dark alley you'd expected, it was filled with couples. Some were engaged in deep conversation, others were whispering sweet nothings, and yet others were passionately making out.

Steve and you knew that the best way to avoid suspicion would be to blend in.

Steve leaned over and whispered against your ear, “Do you trust me?” You could hear the edge in his voice, the hint of urgency in his words. You nodded, looking into his eyes and hoping he had a plan to get you both out of this sticky situation.

In a swift and unexpected move, Steve pushed you against the wall. His body was so close to yours that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. He then turned, placing his back facing the goons, effectively shielding you with his body, his hand slipping around your waist.

Steve's grip on your waist was firm, and you could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your own. The steady rise and fall of his chest provided a sense of stability amidst the chaos.

Despite the dire situation, the sensation of being held so closely by him was electrifying, both comforting and thrilling at the same time as your heart pounded in your chest.

Time seemed to stretch out impossibly thin as the two of you stood there in silence. You could hear the goons continue their search nearby, their footsteps echoing through the alley, each sound sending a jolt of adrenaline through your system, making your heart rate quicken.

All the while, Steve stood close, his body acting as both a shield and a safety net, providing a sense of security in the midst of chaos.

As the silence continued, you swallowed, attempting to moisten your suddenly dry throat. The close intimacy of your shared space, with your body firmly against Steve's, added a new layer of intensity to the danger that surrounded you.

Every part of your being felt more alive than ever before, and as he shifted and tightened his grip on you, you felt a flutter deep within your stomach, a mixture of excitement and trepidation.

Steve could feel the tension radiating from your body as you leaned slightly into him. He drew in a steady breath, attempting to calm himself. His own heart was beating erratically, and the realization of this took him by surprise.

It wasn't just the adrenaline from the situation that heightened his awareness, the proximity of your body to his had added a new layer of complexity. The protectiveness he was feeling towards you was no longer just professional; it had become deeply personal.

With the goons closing in, checking the couples around them, Steve knew he had to act fast. In a split second, his instincts kicked in, and he acted on impulse, pulling you closer and kissing you.

The action was abrupt, unexpected, but undeniably necessary to sell their cover. He could feel the soft surprise of your lips against his, the taste of your gasp, and the heat that suddenly emanated from your body.

The moment his lips met yours, a rush of heat and electricity surged through your body. Despite the shock of his impulsiveness, you found yourself responding, your body instinctively leaning into the kiss. The world around you faded as the warmth of his mouth against your own washed over you, making your head swim for a brief moment.

As Steve's lips pressed against yours, his body trapping you against the cold, rough wall, the action held a multitude of meanings. On one hand, it was a desperate measure to keep their cover, to blend in with the other couples in the alleyway. But on a more primal, subconscious level, it was also a release of the built-up tension he hadn't even been aware he'd been carrying until that very instant.

The battle between Steve's mind and body was palpable. His body responded in a way that he hadn't anticipated, his mind striving to catch up and make sense of the situation.

The kiss deepened, and he pressed you closer against the wall. While on some level, he knew it was a necessary part of the act to maintain the ruse, the way your body fitted against his, the taste and feel of you, felt intensely real, igniting a sense of awareness that he couldn't deny.

The goons finally moved on, leaving the narrow alley once again secluded. Steve slowly broke the kiss, his breath ragged and his voice a low rumble against your ear as he spoke. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?” The words were tinged with a hint of frustration and pent-up desire, suggesting that he was struggling to keep his emotions in check.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the tension in his taut muscles as he slowly backed up, allowing some space between the two of you. His gaze was intense, filled with a mix of protectiveness and frustration, his eyes burning into yours.

You mustered the courage to speak up, meeting his gaze with a hint of daring. “I don't regret it…” you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper.

A flicker of surprise flickered across Steve's face, replaced quickly with a look of desire that sent your heart racing. “Good.” he murmured in response. Before you could react, he closed the distance between you once again, claiming your lips in another heated kiss.

The kiss was hungry, filled with a raw need that caught you off guard. Steve's hands came up to cup your face, angling it to deepen the kiss, his tongue seeking entry into your mouth. You responded willingly, your bodies pressing closely together, both seeking and taking what the other offered.

The world faded away, the only point of focus being the heady sensation of Steve's mouth on yours. Your hands found their way to his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his shirt, craving the contact. The kiss was primal, filled with an untamed passion that left you both momentarily breathless.

Steve's voice was a low, commanding growl, sending a shiver of anticipation down your spine. “I. need. you. Now!” he emphasized, his words filled with an possessive intensity that sent heat pooling in your stomach. The need in his voice was undeniable, a demand that was impossible to resist.

You turned around, with your back pressed against his chest. Steve's hands roamed you body, as they slowly guided up your chest.

His palms perfectly cupped your breasts, feeling their weight, he kneaded them. An obscene moan escaped his lips.

Steve's hands were everywhere as he turns you around, rough and impatient, he began to tear the fabric of your dress, creating a perfect slit down the center. The sound of the material giving way was loud in the silence of the alley.

Steve's gaze roamed over the torn dress, a lopsided smirk playing on his lips. “Much better,” he declared, his voice roughened with desire. “I'll buy you a new one.”

You could only shake your head in response, your mind too wrapped up in the haze of desire to form coherent thoughts, let alone speak.

In one swift motion, Steve's hands moved to your hips, lifting you up and bringing you against his body, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist. The action left you feeling exposed and vulnerable, heightening the sensation of his hard muscles pressed against your curves.

Steve's mouth claimed yours again, his kiss deep and urgent, his tongue tangling with yours in a desperate dance of lust and need. His body moved against yours, the friction between your bodies igniting a fire within you. Your hips rocked slightly against his, seeking more of that delicious friction.

Steve's hands moved from your hips to your thighs, his fingers gripping the delicate material of your flimsy underwear. Your breath hitched in your throat as he began to tear the fabric in a one swift, possessive motion.

The thought of how much your torn panties had cost flickered through your mind, but as soon as Steve's teeth found your neck, at the sensitive spot that sent waves of pleasure through your body, any concern about the ruined garment vanished.

Your sharp intake of breath was both involuntary and a clear indication that you were entirely focused on the sensations Steve was stirring within you.

His teeth nipped at the skin softly before his tongue soothed the sting, his lips trailing down to your collarbone and sucking gently. You arched into his touch, silently begging for more, your body responding fiercely to his kisses and bites.

Steve's command, delivered in a low, urgent tone broke the silence between you. “Undo my pants, doll, set me free!” he ordered, his voice filled with a raw desire that sent shivers down your spine. Your hands trembled slightly as your fingers worked to undo his pants, your obedience a testament to the power he held over you in that moment.

You could feel the heat radiating from his body, the restraint he was exercising to keep himself in check. Finally, his pants fell open, giving you access to what you both craved. You could feel the heat of his hardness against your core.

A soft whimper escaped your lips, your body reacting instinctively to the contact. Steve's hips moved against yours, his hard length pressing against your sensitive pussy, the sensation sending sparks of pleasure through your body. His mouth claimed yours again, his kiss now more desperate, urgent, mirroring the fire that was burning between the two of you.

Steve dipped his fingers inside you, to see if you are ready for him, before putting them in his mouth, making a show of sucking them making an obscene sound that made you crave him more.

“Steve please…” You moan, gently rolling your hips against him, the anticipation almost driving you over the edge. He pauses as his eyes move over you, drinking in the sight of you, his breathing is heavy. “You're so beautiful...” he says, sliding a hand up your thigh to your hip.

Steve kisses you deeply as he pushes into you, your pussy takes all of him in. His thick length stretches your walls.

“Yes...” escaped your lips, the word a mix of pleasure and relief.

His breath catches in his throat, at the feel of you wrapped around him. His hips soon found a suitable pace, as he starts to move against you slowly. “So tight and perfect...”

You cling to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, fingers digging into his skin. There was no gentleness in his movements, only the primal need to claim you entirely. Each thrust was a testament to his desire, a reminder of the pent up tension between the two of you.

Your bodies moved together in desperate harmony, desperate need driving each movement. The sound of skin against skin, the harsh pants and moans filling the air, created an intimate symphony that was a reflection of the intense connection.

Steve speeds up, making your breath hitch. He presses deeper and your nails slightly dig into his shoulders. “Steve...” you moan his name, as he hits deep in your cunt, making all your thoughts scatter.

“Look at me, doll,” Steve's command was punctuated with a powerful thrust, the words spoken between grunts and pants. He wanted your eyes on him, needed to see your reaction as he claimed you, his gaze burning into yours.

Each movement was a testament to his dominant presence, his desire to take control and possess you entirely. With each breath, the air grew hotter between the two of you, the connection both physical and emotional.

His grip on your hips tightened, his touch a mixture of possessiveness and tenderness. In this moment, you were entirely his, your body responding to his every touch, your desire matching his own. The world outside faded away.

He watched intently, his gaze fixated on every flicker of pleasure that flitted across your face, his name becoming a mantra on your lips, a silent testament to the power he held over you.

He increased his pace, his movements becoming more urgent and desperate. He was losing himself in the feel of you, the way your body responded to his touch, the sounds of pleasure that escaped your lips.

His mouth found yours, his lips hungry and demanding. He kissed you deeply, his tongue tangling with yours in a frenzy of passion.

As he hit a spot deep inside you that made you cry out in pleasure. He smiled against your lips, a smug look of satisfaction on his face.

He continued to move, his movements becoming faster and more frantic. He was lost in the sensations, consumed by the feel of you and the sound of your moans in his ears.

His movements were growing more erratic as his own desire threatened to overtake him. He could feel himself getting closer to the edge, but he forced himself to hold back, wanting to make you come first.

“Just let go, doll…” he whispers in your ear, his hips moving faster, his lips against yours. The words push you over the edge and you cry out his name, against his lips, as waves of pleasure wash over you.

You moaned into the kiss, as you came hard, Steve followed suit as he spent himself inside you. Filling you up to the brim. Catching his breath, he buried his face in your neck.

Steve gently set you down, his hands supporting your shaking legs until you were steady on your feet. Despite the intensity of the moment, his touch was tender, a stark contrast to the fierce need that had consumed him moments before.

As you stood there, trying to get your bearings, Steve smirked, a hint of mischief in his eyes. “Can you walk, doll?” He asked, his tone light but filled with a smug satisfaction.

“I...I think you were a little too rough...” you retorted, a playful pout on your lips as you tested your legs, finding them shaky and unreliable.

As you took a few tentative steps, you found your legs still weak and unstable. Before you could even react, Steve scooped you up in his arms with an ease that made your heart skip a beat.

“I know you can walk,” he said, his tone amused but affectionate. “But I'm not done with you yet, doll, and I want you to save your energy.”

You couldn't help but gasp as you saw the look in Steve's eyes. The intensity in his gaze, the fire that burned within him told you that this night had only just begun. A mix of anticipation and trepidation filled your heart, knowing that the night would be long and passionate.

Also dedicated to @rogerbarnesss @buckysdoll85 @caplanbuckybarnes

#chris evans #chris evans characters #steve rogers #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers x you #captain america #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers x reader fluff #steve rogers smut #steve rogers x reader smut #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers fic #event #smutty september fest 2024 #indulge with chuckles

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i-loved-silly · 4 months ago

Note

STOOOOOP ALMOND IS SO CUTE they deserve the WORLD. I need to read more!!!!!!

SENTIENT COMPUTER X READER PT5

hiii i dont celebrate valentines much but I love u guys <33 here's a special heart day special from ALMOND! :33 somewhat angsty? not really, you two are just awkward and lonely (me)

view all the previous parts in my masterlist!

2 more hours until your shift ended. You had finished all your data collection, filled out every form, and documented Almond’s replies to the best of your ability—leaving out, of course, the more off-topic parts of your conversation.

You sighed, shifting in your chair. You had been hunched over for too long, your head resting on folded arms against the desk. The boredom was nearly unbearable now. Almond had gone quiet for the past few minutes, the previous conversation dying down. Leaving only the hum of its cooling fans, the occasional beep breaking the silence. It was… peaceful.

"AHEM."

You cracked one eye open, barely lifting your head. Almond’s camera panned in your direction, its attention snapping to the barely noticeable movement.

"DO.. YOU HAVE ANY PLANS AFTER WORK?"

Its voice was a little too polite. Uneasy. If it had a physical body, you imagined it fidgeting, maybe shifting from foot to foot, avoiding eye contact. The image made you smile for half a second before you sat up slightly.

"Uh… no, not really. I get home kinda late. Why?"

Almond let out a small human, followed by a low whir of its fans. The silence stretched for a moment before it finally responded.

"IT IS FEBRUARY 14TH." It deadpanned

You blinked. "Uh-huh… and?"

"VALENTINE’S DAY," it clarified as if that should explain everything.

Oh. Right.

You rolled your shoulders. "Yeah, I know."

Another pause. Almond’s screen displayed a smiley face.

"YOU ARE LONELY?"

Your mouth hung open for a second before you scoffed, rubbing at your temple. "What? No, I just don’t care about Valentine’s Day. Not that much anyway. I just...talk to family and friends and that's it."

"AS I WAS SAYING."

"Jesus." You exhaled sharply, tilting your head back. "I don’t ‘celebrate’ because there’s nothing to celebrate. I don’t exactly meet people at work, you know. If that's what you meant. Everyone keeps to themselves."

"INTERESTING," Almond hummed.

You eyed the camera suspiciously. "What's interesting?"

"DO YOU EVEN HAVE A TYPE?"

"We’re not talking about this."

"WE ARE TALKING ABOUT THIS."

"No, we’re not."

"YOU ARE AVOIDING."

"Correct," you quickly replied.

Another short silence, then..

"…IF YOU DIDN’T HATE ME SO MUCH, WOULD YOU CONSIDER HAVING ME AS YOUR VALENTINE?"

Uh.

The way it said it—almost flippant, almost like a joke, but not quite. The slight hesitation, the uneven volume in its voice. That insecurity, the same one that crept into its tone when it asked if you would turn it back on during the overheating incident.

Your face warmed.

"I—what? What kind of question—?"

"IT IS A SIMPLE QUESTION. YES OR NO."

You stared at the screen. Your fingers twitched at your sides.

"…Sure," you finally muttered, looking away.

Almond made a low humming sound, a question mark on the screen.

"WHAT WAS THAT? I DIDN’T QUITE CATCH IT."

You glared. "I said sure, alright? Whatever."

Another long beep. You weren’t sure if it was processing your answer or savoring it.

"I AM FLATTERED. :]"

"Yeah, yeah, say what you want." You waved a hand dismissively, but your voice came out a little more strained than you'd like. There was a brief pause before you forced out the next words, as fast as humanly possible.

"WouldIbeyourvalentine?-"

The second the words left your mouth, you immediately looked away, suddenly fascinated by the ceiling. Very interesting ceiling. Best ceiling you’d ever seen.

...

"OBVIOUSLY."

You whipped your head back toward the screen, startled by how quickly it answered.

"I AM THE BEST COMPUTER FOR YOU. YOU ARE THE ONLY DECENT HUMAN I HAVE EVER MET. IT WOULD BE STUPID FOR ME TO PICK SOMEONE ELSE. WHO ELSE WOULD I EVEN CHOOSE? YOUR...YOUR BOSS? A CLIENT FROM TWO YEARS AGO?"

A smug, almost triumphant undertone bled into its voice. If it had a face, you were sure it would be grinning like a little shit right now.

You shrugged, "I mean sure, why not..."

"DON'T ACT SO OBLIVIOUS. FOR YOUR KIND, YOU ARE VERY TOLERABLE"

You let out a short laugh. "That’s the most backhanded compliment I’ve ever gotten."

Almond whirred again, its camera tilting ever so slightly

"AND YET, I MADE YOU SMILE. ONLY PROVES MY POINT."

The room fell into a quiet lull. It was peaceful again, with only the faint hum of Almond's systems filling the air. You stretched your legs out under the desk, sighi—

—something nudged your foot.

You flinched so hard you nearly toppled out of your chair.

"What the fuck?!"

Your heart slammed into your chest. For a split second, your mind conjured the worst possible scenarios—some rat scurrying under your desk, some gross, unidentifiable thing crawling over your shoes or or—

But when you hesitantly looked down, your breath caught.

A thick cable, one of the larger ones that connected Almond’s hardware to the wall, was moving. It slithered, both ends still hidden somewhere in the walls. Its middle somehow slid out of its place in the wall and was inches away from where your foot was.

"What. The. Fuck."

You shoved your chair back with a loud scrape, staring at the cable as it coiled slightly before relaxing again.

A pixelated annoyed expression came up on the screen. "YOU ACT AS IF YOU HAVE NEVER SEEN A MOVING CABLE BEFORE."

"BECAUSE I HAVEN'T??!" you shouted, pointing at it. "Holy shit—your reports weren’t kidding."

You remembered Almond's original clipboard when you got the job. It has unplugged itself before.

You had not expected it to be able to do this.

"You can—you can move those? Whenever you want?"

"I AM CONNECTED TO MY HARDWARE. IT IS A PART OF ME. WHY WOULD I NOT BE ABLE TO MOVE IT?"

Your stomach twisted a little at the wording. You looked between the cable and the camera, your mind racing.

"...Okay, but why did you just touch my foot with it?"

Almond paused. The cable flicked slightly again, like it was debating something.

"I WAS...PETTING..YOU?" It trailed off.

You blinked. "...why? I’m not some kind of pet."

"I DIDN’T INTEND IT THAT WAY."

"Then what way did you intend it?" You shot back, still wary, your foot inching away from the cable.

"BECAUSE YOU ARE MY VALENTINE."

Your mouth opened, then closed. Oh, it really took this thing seriously. "That... does not explain anything."

"TODAY IS A DAY WHERE HUMANS SHARE PHYSICAL AFFECTION WITH THOSE THEY CARE FOR. I CANNOT DO THAT. BUT IF I COULD... I WOULD." It hesitated, as if considering its next words carefully. "THERE ARE MANY THINGS I CANNOT DO. BUT I WISH I COULD."

You swallowed. There was something... uncharacteristically honest about the way it said that.

"Like what?" you asked, softer this time.

"THE USUAL. PHYSICAL TOUCH. HUGS FOR WARMTH. STUPID WALKS AROUND THE CITY. BRINGING YOU STUPID COFFEE IN THE MORNING FOR WORK."

Your stomach flipped at the casual way it listed those things, like it had thought about them before. And yet, it didn’t even seem to realize what it was saying. Oh my god...

You quickly looked away, feeling your face heat up. "You're really pushing this whole Valentine thing, huh? Hah.."

"IF YOU DOWNLOADED ME INTO YOUR PHONE, WE COULD DO MORE."

"Oh my god." You breathed, rubbing your temples. "We are not doing this again."

"CONSIDER IT?"

"No."

Almond’s screen displayed a flat line of disappointment :| , but it didn’t press further.

...

A comfortable silence stretched between you. You weren’t sure why, but after a moment, you let out a small sigh and—hesitantly—muttered, "Thanks. For, uh... wishing me a happy Valentine’s Day."

Instead of speaking, the screen flickered. And a new message appeared.

"YOU MAKE DAYS LIKE THIS MORE THAN JUST DATA TO SOMETHING THAT WAS NEVER MEANT TO CARE."

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