#he starts to speak and is just like…..I wanted to prove it to you :( me and my tiny voice wanted to show you the worms!!

[holdinsteddie]

prompt: lollipop

(originally posted on my bluesky here)

au where Steve and Robin had their bathroom floor conversation/platonic soulmate initiation ceremony way back in 1983, like two weeks after Jonathan rocked Steve’s shit and by the time everyone gets back from winter break they’ve become SteveandRobin.

Steve knows all about Robin’s crush on Tammy Thompson and Robin knows all about the fact that Steve thinks one Eddie Munson is really pretty, actually, when he’s not being a grubby little gremlin.

In this au, Steve and Nancy mutually broke it off after the whole monster-fighting thing and so for the next few months after break, SteveandRobin try to wingman each other but also the ‘you rule/you suck’ board makes an appearance, this time in an unused corner of the band room.

So far Steve hasn’t gotten a single tally in the ‘you rule’ column. He is deeply offended by this and is trying to figure out why he seems to have lost his mojo. He needs to prove to Robin that he is very suave, actually, and no, his reputation is not a fluke. Jesus.

Which leads us to a Thursday evening in late May where band practice is getting out at the same time as Hellfire club. Steve suddenly finds himself being possessed by the ghost of Casanova himself or something because the next thing he knows, he’s abandoning Robin with a quick “be right back” and swaggering up to Eddie, who eyes Steve warily before leaning up against the side of the school building with a smirk paired with a dangerous glint in his eye.

“Hey, Munson,” Steve starts, keeping it causal.

Eddie pulls the lollipop he’d been sucking on out of his mouth with a wet pop and Steve fervently doesn’t have any feelings about that whatsoever.

“Steve Harrington,” he purrs. “What can this lowly peasant do for such esteemed royalty as yourself, hmm?”

Steve raises a single eyebrow. “Well, first of all, I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but I’m not exactly Hawkins High royalty anymore. Apparently jocks and band geeks can’t be friends,” Steve adds with a roll of his eyes.

“Second of all…” Steve glances left and right, making sure there’s no one in earshot before giving Eddie a once-over and taking a deliberate step forward so the toes of their shoes are almost touching. “I think we both know you’re too pretty and too smart to be stuck as a peasant.”

Eddie’s eyes go wide for a moment before narrowing, his dimpled grin somehow managing to be sharp as a knife. “Careful, big boy. You don’t wanna play this game.”

“Who says this is a game?”

Eddie scoffs, putting his lollipop back in his mouth and straightening like he’s going to move past Steve, but Steve stops him with a hand to the wall behind Eddie’s head.

He makes sure to leave enough room for Eddie to be able to walk away if he really wants to, doesn’t want him to feel trapped or pressured in any way. But he also wants Eddie to know he’s being serious.

“Look, you can tell me to fuck off if you really want, and I will, swear to god.”

Eddie stares at him with wide eyes and slowly nods his head.

“But I really hope you don’t,” Steve continues, leaning forward until their noses are just inches from touching, “because it turns out I really have a thing for curly-headed nerds.”

Steve relishes in the way Eddie’s jaw drops open and a blush works its way over his cheeks and up to the tips of his ears. It’s really fucking cute.

“I know I can’t exactly wine-and-dine you like if you were a girl, but maybe I could get us some pizza and beers and you could come over to my place one of these days?”

Steve raises his eyebrows, trying to only let a little bit of his excitement at the idea through — he doesn’t want to scare Eddie off.

Eddie stares for a moment, two. Eventually, he blurts, “Is— Is this— Are you being serious right now?” He hadn’t bothered to take out the lollipop before speaking, seems like he’s completely frozen, actually, making the question slightly garbled.

“As a heart attack.”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

“So?” Steve asks, biting his lower lip. He watches Eddie track the movement and gives himself a mental high-five.

“I’m— fuck, okay.” Eddie looks at Steve’s lips again before looking into his eyes incredulously. “I’m pretty sure this is a dream, but whatever, fuck it, I’ll go on a date with Steve goddamn Harrington, I guess.”

“Not dreaming,” Steve grins, finally leaning back a little bit. “And I’m gonna hold you to that,” he promises. On a whim, he reaches out and plucks Eddie’s lollipop from between his lips before placing it in his own mouth, making sure to maintain eye contact the entire time. Eddie’s eyes are as wide as saucers as he visibly swallows.

“Uh.”

“I’ll find you at lunch tomorrow, figure out what day works,” Steve says casually, leaning back and starting to walk backwards towards the parking lot. He points the lollipop at Eddie and commands, “Better not stand me up, Munson,” before putting it back in his mouth, shoving his hands in his pockets, and turning to walk back to where Robin is waiting by his car.

He doesn’t look back, even though he really really wants to, because he still wants to make sure he looks cool and aloof.

“Steven Marie,” Robin whisper yells once he’s close enough to hear her. “What the fuck was that? What did you do to Munson?”

Steve ignores her questions. “What’s he doing, Bobbie?”

Robin, bless her, answers him. “He’s just… standing there. And now he’s pulling his hair over his face and squatting. Did you break him?”

Steve grins, pleased. “Not yet.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean? Wait, where did you get the lollipop? You didn’t have one a few minutes ago.”

“I might’ve stolen it from Munson, right after I got him to agree to go on a date with me.”

Robin freezes, staring at him like she’s buffering as her entire worldview gets rearranged. “Steve, Stevie, I need you to know I’m so happy for you and proud of you. But also I am going to actually strangle you to death in your sleep what the actual fuck.”

“Love you too, Robs.”

+ Bonus:

Steve, 5 min later after he’s started driving to drop Robin off at home: ohmygod. Robin.

Robin: What.

Steve: Eddie and I basically kissed.

Robin: What?????

Steve: His spit is in my mouth as we speak.

Robin: wHAT??!!!?!!!

Steve: Robin stop screaming I’m having a crisis

{send me a 📝 and a one-word prompt and i will try and write a lil steddie microfic for you! (it will almost certainly be much shorter than this one but who knows, i might get Inspired™️)}

[vaginalvr]

can u pls do an enemies to lovers with Spencer were he goes from calling her beloathed to calling her beloved (pls let it be smut and make him be a dom 😝)

content warning: enemies to lovers, dom!Spencer Reid, spanking, rough sex, dirty talk, hate sex turned love sex, hair pulling, praise kink, degradation kink, orgasm control, soft aftercare.

a/n: IM TALKIN BOUT INITTTTTTTTT

word count ~ 1.4k

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

You don’t know when the petty bickering between you and Dr. Spencer Reid turned into a full-on war.

It probably started the day you joined the BAU. He was condescending—brilliant, sure—but arrogant and short-tempered with you from day one. And you gave it right back. Mocking his facts. Smirking at his statistics. Calling him “Dr. Know-It-All” with a sickeningly sweet tone that made his eye twitch.

And in return?

“Good morning, beloathed,” he’d greet you with a tight-lipped smile.

You wanted to slap that smug mouth.

Or maybe you just wanted to kiss it.

—

The tension between you and Spencer was unbearable. The entire team noticed. You argued over files. You’d fight in the car about case theories. You even had a shouting match outside a crime scene that ended with Hotch physically stepping between you.

But the moment it shifted from hatred to something else?

That happened in a hotel hallway in Miami.

—

“Stop looking at my file,” Spencer hissed under his breath as you both sat on the floor outside the last unsub’s apartment. “You're too slow, anyway.”

You scoffed. “Just because I don’t read three thousand words a minute doesn’t mean I need your assistance, Doctor.”

He leaned in, smirking. “No, but it’s cute that you think you’re contributing.”

Your nostrils flared. “You’re such a smug, overgrown high school debate kid.”

He leaned closer. “And you’re a brat who wants someone to put her in her place.”

Your eyes locked.

The air sizzled.

You didn’t realize how close your faces were until he was whispering into your mouth.

“Bet you’d like it if I did.”

You didn't speak.

Neither did he.

The moment passed… until the case wrapped, and you found yourself walking back to the hotel, your heart still pounding.

He followed you down the hallway.

Neither of you said a word.

And then he grabbed your wrist and shoved you against your door.

—

“Spencer—”

“Shut up.”

His mouth crashed into yours. Hard, fast, rough. His hands tangled in your hair. His thigh slid between your legs. You gasped, and he took advantage, licking into your mouth like he owned it.

You were still fully clothed. Still standing in the hallway. But it was already the hottest thing you’d ever experienced.

“I fucking hate you,” you breathed against his lips.

“Yeah?” he growled, hand curling around your jaw. “Let’s see if you still hate me when I’m making you beg.”

—

Your hotel room.

You barely made it inside before Spencer slammed the door behind him and shoved you against it.

He kissed you again, all tongue and teeth and heat. His hands yanked your shirt over your head, tossed your bra aside.

“I knew you’d be like this underneath all that attitude,” he rasped, cupping your tits, thumbs flicking your nipples. “So fucking needy.”

“I hate you,” you whimpered, even as you arched into him.

He grinned. “Say it again. Louder. So I can fuck it out of you.”

You moaned as he dropped to his knees.

And he ate you out like a man starving.

One arm wrapped around your thigh, the other pressed to your stomach to pin you to the door. His mouth buried in your pussy, tongue licking deep and flat and wide, nose nudging your clit just right—

“Sp-Spencer—”

“Be quiet,” he said sharply, lips glistening. “I’m not done yet.”

Two fingers pushed into you, curling perfectly. You cried out, one hand slapping against the door, the other tangling in his hair.

“Fuck,” you whimpered, “you’re so good—”

He chuckled darkly, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

“That’s Dr. Reid to you.”

—

Later, in bed.

He fucked you like he had a point to prove.

Like every stroke was a lesson. Every thrust was punishment. Every smack of his hips against your ass was a war won.

“You think you’re smarter than me?” he growled into your neck as he took you from behind, one hand gripping your hair. “Huh?”

“N-no,” you gasped, drooling into the sheets.

“Exactly. Say it.”

“You’re smarter—fuck—you’re so much smarter—”

He slapped your ass hard enough to make you cry out.

“Say you need me.”

“I need you, Spencer, please—!”

“Say you want me.”

“I want you.”

He slowed, hips grinding deep. His hand moved from your hair to your clit, circling gently.

“Say you’re mine.”

You sobbed.

“I’m yours.”

And just like that, the rhythm returned, faster, rougher, unforgiving.

You came with his name on your lips, and he spilled inside you a second later with a groan that vibrated down your spine.

—

After.

You laid curled into his chest, still panting, skin slick with sweat.

Spencer kissed your forehead.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he murmured.

“What? That I’m a brat?”

He smirked.

“No. That you’re mine.”

Your cheeks flushed.

You looked up at him. “Still gonna call me beloathed in the office?”

He chuckled, hand running up your bare thigh.

“Only if I can call you beloved in bed.”

—

The next morning.

You arrived at the BAU with a limp, a new appreciation for genius-level dominance, and a very smug Dr. Spencer Reid holding your coffee.

“Good morning, beloved,” he purred as he handed it to you, and winked.

Hotch just sighed.

“I don’t want to know.”

[starkeymeow]

# THE MAZE RUNNER — glader!rafe who . . .

main masterlist | series masterlist

was in the very first batch that came up in the box. he came out swinging, didn’t speak for two days, and got into a fistfight before the sun went down.

helped clear the trees, lay out the first shelters, pick the first jobs. he got assigned as a builder first but started running into the maze before anyone told him to. he came back after one full night in the maze barely alive, bleeding from his ribs, and said, “don’t ask what’s out there. just don’t go alone.”

got the role of head runner because no one else had the balls to survive what he did. he didn’t ask for it, but no one questioned it.

made the rules “no solo night runs” and “no one goes unless i say so” and no one breaks it because no one wants to see what happens when he snaps.

doesn’t sleep much. he either trains jj and john b before sunrise or sketches new paths with pope past midnight.

stops dead when the box alarm rings again two weeks too early and topper yells, “we’ve got another one!” but he marches to the box, expecting another boy, another problem.

and then you come up. the first girl, eyes wide, lip bleeding, and holding a crumpled note that reads: “she’s the last one. ever.” and just like that, the rules stop making sense.

doesn’t say a word for the first five minutes, just stares at you like you’re a glitch in the maze. he mutters, “nope. no. send her back,” when jj suggests letting you eat first, and pope physically blocks him from shoving the tray off the table.

paces the glade that night like the walls are closing in. he says you’re a distraction, a variable, that you’ll mess up the balance.

doesn’t like how fearless you are. he doesn’t like how people start listening when you speak. and he doesn’t trust you near the maze, but gives you a knife anyway. “just in case,” he says, tossing it to you and walking away before you can thank him.

throws a fit when you ask to help with patrols but trains you anyway, and hard. he makes you fight him with a blunt stick until you can knock him back three steps. he says, “you’re gonna get yourself killed.” and then quietly, “and it’s not gonna be on me.”

lets you sit next to him during map sketching one night without saying anything. he hands you a piece of charcoal and corrects your lines without touching the paper.

starts showing up wherever you are, like clearing the garden, washing dishes, feeding the goats. he always has a reason, but never admits it’s you.

yells at you the first time you sneak into the maze with jj, like full-volume rage, until he sees the blood on your arm, then he goes dead silent. he drags you to the med-jacks and doesn’t leave the hut for three hours. he doesn’t even say a word. he just sits the whole time.

starts avoiding you after that. he won’t say it, but pope corners you and says, “he hasn’t run since that day. just thought you should know.”

watches you sleep curled in the corner of the map hut one night and covers you with his jacket. he doesn’t say anything when you wake up wearing it.

leads the escape plan not because he believes in it, but because you do. and if you believe, he’ll run through hell to prove you right. he ends up fighting three grievers in one night to get jj, pope, and you to the maze’s exit. he nearly dies but he doesn’t stop moving.

hauls your half-limp body up into the final lift, blood everywhere, hands shaking, then grips your face and says, “you don’t get to die. not when i dragged you into this.”

holds your hand the entire ride up and says nothing, but he doesn’t let go.

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @sukunasmuse @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts

[jaysguitarstring]

⋆｡°✩ compatibility test

in which you do a compatibility test with them.

⭑.ᐟ pairing ; enha x fem reader, established relationship

⭑.ᐟ genre ; fluff, crack

⭑.ᐟ warnings ; cursing

⭑.ᐟ join my permanent taglist here

⭑.ᐟ☆ demi's notes ; saw one of my friends do this for fun while we joked around about old crushes and i wanted to write smth about it!

*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚

‧₊˚⭑.ᐟ LEE HEESEUNG

"come on, are you done yet?" heeseung asks impatiently, watching you cross out the letters you have in common in your names.

you stick your tongue out slightly in concentration, calculating the percentage carefully so you don't mess up. "i'm almost finished... there! 87%."

heeseung looks at the paper in disappointment, his lips slowly forming a small grimace. "just 87%...?"

you let out a sigh and set your pen down. "come on, it could have been way worse. at least it's 3% away from 90%".

"fine... it's just a stupid test anyway."

‧₊˚⭑.ᐟ PARK JONGSEONG

"what's wrong? why are you sulking like that?" jay asks, trying to sneak a glance at the results of the test.

a small pout formed on your lips, taking your hand away from the paper to show him. "we got just 84%."

"if it bothers you that much, then try using jongseong instead of jay." jay suggests, gently caressing your hair.

"wait, let me try that." you says as you start scribbling on the paper again.

88%. just 4% more than the previous one.

i mean, it's just a test anyway, right?

‧₊˚⭑.ᐟ SIM JAYEUN

"come on, come on, tell me already!" jake exclaims, excited to see your results.

"alright, alright, give me a second!" you try to calm him down, still writing down on the paper.

you finish, glancing at him, and then back at the paper.

"uhm... jake?"

"yeah? what is it, did you finish? show me!" he asks with his signature puppy smile.

"we got 58%."

jake's smile instantly drops. he was absolutely certain you two would get at least over 95%.

"what. no, there's no way. i refuse. this isn't valid." jake says in denial, frustrated with the test. "which one of my names did you use?"

"i used jake, you said to use that one." you reply, confused.

"try again. use jayeun instead. this thing," he claims, pointing at the piece of paper, "is not valid at all."

you just nod, trying to hold in your laugh as jake huffs in frustration, complaining quietly about the compatibility test as you try once again.

"we got 78% this time." you speak up, showing jake."

"i told you - this isn't valid! rip that shit!"

‧₊˚⭑.ᐟ PARK SUNGHOON

"so, how much did we get?" sunghoon asks curiously, despite not being interest in this test at first.

"give me a sec... we got 78%." you reply, showing him the results.

sunghoon looks at the test, skeptical, before opening his mouth again.

"what if we add our last names too for extra points?" he says with a dead serious face.

"sunghoon, that's not how it works!"

‧₊˚⭑.ᐟ KIM SUNOO

sunoo swinged his feet as he waited, playing with the decorations on the cafè table.

"why is it even taking you so long? it's not like i have a long name or something." sunoo asks curiously, sipping on his drink as he watches you.

"i finished, i was just checking if everything is right. here." you respond, handing him the piece of paper. you close your pen before grabbing your drink as well.

"84%?" he says, checking your notes. "eh... could have been better, but it's not that bad, i guess."

‧₊˚⭑.ᐟ YANG JUNGWON

"why do you need a test to prove our compatibility, anyway? we literally can't go a day without each other." jungwon states, resting his chin on the palm of his hand as his free hand twirls a strand of your hair."

it's just for fun, jungwon. i know that we don't need to prove our compatibility." you reply, glancing at him with a small smile.

he smiles back and then you set your pen down.

"there! 108%. we even broke the scale!" you exclaim.

jungwon shoots up instantly. "what?" he says, almost snatching the paper from your hands.

"woah. guess this test isn't so stupid after all."

‧₊˚⭑.ᐟ NISHIMURA RIKI

"this is stupid, my name is literally 4 letters. we're not gonna get a high score." riki says lazily, glancing at you scribbling on the paper.

"i already told you, it doesnt matter how many letters your name has, it's how many letters in common we have." you explain as you finish calculating the percentage.

you raise up the piece of paper and show him. "see? 98%."

riki's eyebrows raise in surprise as he leans closer to check. "damn. it's actually right. i thought you did some mistake on purpose just so we get a higher score."

"hey! you don't have any right to doubt my math skills when you've never stepped foot into school, you idiot!"

@jaysguitarstring 2025. translations and reposts are prohibited.

[devswritingcornerorsmth]

Can I get like a familial or platonic headcanon with Dorian? Like yeah he’s fine but he’s also like my dad fr fr trust

you are so real for that anon congrats on such an amazing dad

i'll do both cuz its dorian and all love/like him

like always, these are my headcanons and personal thoughts! if you don't like them make your own! :D tumblr could always use more lol

Platonic Dorian/Reader Headcanons

familial at 'read more'! also more door puns sorry not sorry

= Becoming friends with Dorian was surprisingly easy, given his closed-off personality and behavior. He's a little open, making basic conversations and such, but you're the one who has to put in a little more work during the start of the friendship.

= It starts off with *very* simple hellos and hi's ending at one-word answers and responses, on his end anyway. Asking how his day was results in, again, one-word answers. But, in time, he slowly gives more information.

= Dorian is quick to realize you really do want to be friends with him and taking time out of your day, and a slot out of The Datviators proves to him that your feelings are genuine. He talks a little more when you greet him and eventually starts asking about your day or what you plan to do, depending on when you speak to him.

= After a few days, he asks you if you genuinely want to be friends with him and want to know about him. He smiles happily when you say yes and apologizes for being so closed off. Dorian admits that his past interactions with friends and lovers weren't the best, leaving him closed off and almost scared to talk about his real feelings, but you've proven to him that you can be trusted.

= You both talk about anything and everything when you can. He'll listen to your current hyperfixations or interests, asking questions about them or nodding along and listening. Dorian might not understand much if it's about an anime, TV show, movie, or something else in the latest times, but he'll try his best.

= Dorian is very smart and knows nine languages aside from English (according to his description on his page), so if you need help with history or a language class, he'll do his best. He won't give you the answers but gently lead you to them. Very patient and understanding if you get stressed or frustrated.

= He'll comfort you if he sees you feeling down, ask what's happened, and if he can help. He hates seeing his friends uncomfortable and sad. Dorian understands if you don't want to talk about it and just need someone to stay with to take your mind off things. If one of the objects in the house made you upset, he'll speak with them himself to try and work out what happened and get them to apologize for mentally hurting you. Physically is another story. If another human upset you, he may or may not let himself hit them on the way out if they ever come to visit.

= Overall, a great friend to have! Will comfort you in the worst times and celebrate with you in the best. Even when he's Realized, Dorian will try to take time to visit you now and then to make sure you're doing alright.

Familial Dorian Headcanons (Dad ver)

so i'm kinda making two here where you're an actual door like dorian and another where dorian is realized and has a kid with someone (me/j)

Door version!

= You are Dorian's only child, cut from the same piece of wood, leaving him a little (lot) protective. You are also a door, taking place in the kitchen, where a tiny Dorian should be, but he trusted you enough to get your own spot in the house after a while of preparing.

= Dorian is very hesitant once the human comes around, trying to romance everything, telling them to stay clear of you until he's figured out if the human is safe to trust or not. He tells you to stay silent and locked up, but it's your choice at the end of the day to talk with the new human.

= If you do talk with the new human, Dorian will be... disappointed but also a little proud for showing confidence and telling them they couldn't open you just yet. If you're nice, Dorian tells you to be safe and to not tell them too much about yourself.

= If you don't talk with the human, he's proud and tells you that you did a good job.

= Dorian doesn't want to smother you, but doesn't want you to make harmful mistakes like he did when he was younger. Yes, you can make mistakes, but ones that harm you would be too much for him to bear. He'd never forgive himself if you got hurt.

yea that kinda sucked sorry anyways onto the better stuff wahoo

Human version!

= Dorian never thought the day would come that he would have a child of his own, finding himself to tears as he holds you for the first time, promising himself to be the best dad and protector anyone could ask for.

= Once again, protective. Always checking in on you mentally and physically. Someone's bullying you at school? A stern talk to the parents and the principal is in order.

= He teaches you how to defend yourself both with words and fists. Dorian constantly tells you to try and use your words first and fists for last if things get ugly. If you use this to bully others or for evil, instantly grounded and disappointed; he taught you better than that.

= Onto a lighter note, he gives the best dad hugs. One arm wrapped around your shoulders, the other placed on the back of your head, holding you close to comfort if you're having a bad day.

= If you are upset, Dorian sits down with you, offering his shoulder to lean on and an ear to talk. He'll listen and try to help you through your problems, offering solutions and answers. He will stay silent and listen if that's all you need, though. Will take you out for ice cream or sit down and watch Tv/a movie/anime/whatever with you to help cheer you up.

= Dorian goes into full protective dad mode when you talk about a crush or date, asking for their phone number, address, what they look like, SSN, etc. They will have to meet him first before anything official happens. He trusts you to an extent and only wants the best for you. He immediately tells you no if it's one of the objects from the player's house.

= If you get upset over this, and if you're old enough, Dorian tells you his own experiences with love, telling you about Keith and Reggie and what they did. He tells you that he just wants you to be safe and not have your heart broken like he had at one point. It's up to you if you want to understand him or not.

= Dorian couldn't care less about the gender of your partner. He does give you *the talk* when you're old enough and explains to you the birds and the bees... and the bees and bees. And birds and birds.

= On that note, if you tell him you want to transition and go by a different name, he'll support you 100%. It might take him a minute for pronouns and the name change, but know he's trying.

= At the end of the day, he's a father who loves you very much and is happy to have you in his life.

---

i was gonna put here that i was writing this at a reasonable time but i looked down and saw it was 2am lol

hope this was alright, not very good at familial/platonic so I'm sorry if i fucked it up

thank you for reading! mwah!

[mysticgoldfish]

“ azizam ” — amir (date everything) ~1.4k words

tldr bc i’m too lazy for a proper description; amir loves you more than himself (shockingly) and fucks you in front of a mirror to prove it!

cw :: smut, mdni !, p in v, no protection, prob ooc i haven’t played this sorrz, cunnilingus (he’s a munch), afab reader, body worship, genitalia referred to w/ female pronouns

a/n :: i’ve written smut on ao3 once before (ironically also mirror sex) but i’m an amateur writer so don’t expect too much, alsooooo i’m gonna use the nicknames he uses in the game (azizam & dear) + one other persian term. i’m not persian so if any corrections are needed plz tell me! okok ill stop now, enjoy!! also i didnt proofread

———

getting sent glasses that allowed you to speak to inanimate objects in your home was still a concept you were accommodating to.

the attention was certainly new. even outside of your home, you didn’t relish in any compliments you might off-handedly receive. you were average. you’d accepted this as a fact of life years ago.

some objects were nicer than others, some flirtier…or meaner. in a way, you almost preferred the meaner ones. the honesty was much easier to digest, no second guessing needed. the flirting made you feel as if you needed maggie by your side every second to decipher it. who was genuine, who was just trying to get into your pants, who was saying it because that’s just how they were?

so, needless to say you were quite surprised when you aimed skylar’s beams at your bathroom mirror and was met with amir. a beyond beautiful persian man. his lusciously thick black hair fell to his shoulders, which really only made you wonder if you needed to invest in more expensive shampoo.

plus, his eyes. god, his eyes. any time you stared at them for even more than a second, it was as if you’d spawned on a beach right as a tsunami had started to pull the waves back. yet, the disaster called to you. the storm pulled you back with the waves rather than striking the fear of god in you. his eyes the color of the storm clouds, of murky deep water.

but that was weeks ago.

he’d confessed his love to you officially only two days ago. not that he ever tried to hide it.

you aim skylar’s beams at the mirror and amir appears with a larger-than-life smile on his face. having just gotten out of the shower, a towel was wrapped around your body tightly. you almost just wanted to see what amir would have to say.

“ah, eshgham! you look especially dazzling today.” he pouts his lips slightly, taking in your form with a finger to his mouth. “you’ve even taken my recommendation on what colors suit you.” he smiled at the realization. he was blunt, but it came from a good place. you knew that by now.

“i did. i’ve stepped up my game, right?”

“more than that, azizam. i’m shocked you have yet to receive a call to be on the cover of a magazine.” amir was always gentle with his words when it came to you. even the harshest criticisms were delivered softly. you could appreciate someone like that.

you laughed at the idea of that even happening. with him still in front of you, you reach for your blow dryer.

“you’re a charmer, amir, truly.” taking amir’s compliments seriously had always been quite difficult for you. he always wanted to help you look your best, because that’s when he looked his best. he reflects what he sees.

you notice something different in his gaze today, something that makes your skin buzz. buzz as if you’d taken five shots of vodka without a chaser.

“i reflect what i see, dear.” he stepped towards you, taking the blow dryer out of your hand and placing on the sink countertop. “must i prove my affections another way?”

your heart flutters, hands coming up to clutch your bath towel. a soft, nearly inhumanely soft hand comes to your cheek. it tingles your skin like a sparkler, goosebumps rising at every small brush.

a shaky breath escaped your parted lips. “please do.”

“we’re begging now, dear? no need. whatever you need, it’s yours.” with that, amir’s lips dropped to yours, grazing against them ever so softly. your hands found purchase on his chest, his kiss quickly turning bruising.

the porcelain of the sink pressed up against your lower back, sending a shiver down your body. amir’s hands make quick work of your bath towel. the damp fabric hit the tile with a soft thud.

you shuddered at the cold air hitting your body. of course, amir has to pull away to admire you. his hands go just about anywhere they can reach. his lips part, but he doesn’t speak. it’s like he’s awestruck. at a loss for words.

his hand grazes over your breast, causing a shudder to rack through your body. the way he pinches your pert peak has you starting to pant.

before you know it, you’re on top of the counter. amir starts to suckle at your peak, looking up at you whenever he grants you with soft kitten licks. his other hand massaged the opposite breast.

he’s beyond turned on. partly because he’s mirroring you and partly because he’s so in awe of how perfect you are. when you’d moved into this house, he’d felt like an utter creep every time you’d look at yourself in the mirror bare.

now, he got to appreciate this bare form as much as he liked.

“ah, azizam, azizam.” he pants out against your breast, kissing and sucking at the flesh. he pecks his way down your body, kneeling down a bit more until he reaches your mons.

“she’s beautiful, eshgham. it looks like she wants me just as intensely as i desire her.” his thumb grazes up your slit, finding your bud almost immediately. he thumbs at it for a moment as he lifts your legs over his shoulders.

a stripe is licked up your folds, making it nearly impossible to keep any sounds quiet. you wanted to sincerely apologize to every object in the house for every sound you knew you were about to make.

he moans against you, licking and tonguing at every inch of your mound he could reach. his eyes are closed for most of it, until he decides to look at you. those beautiful mercury eyes are hooded, pupils blown out.

“eyes on me, azizam.”

you did as he said, not looking away as his tongue started to do circles around your clit. your jaw went slack, sounds beyond what could be described as lewd leaving your lips.

it doesn’t take long until you’re grasping at his hair and warning him you’re extremely close.

“amir…amir!” you cry out his name as you finish. all he does is smile with affection as he laps at you. for a moment, you got scared that you had ripped out a chunk of his hair. luckily, his beautiful waves were safe.

he stood up, hips between your legs. “i want you to see how beautiful you look when you come for me.” amir’s voice was a whisper as he picked you up and turned your back toward him.

you heard him undressing behind you, not to mention you could see him in the mirror. his body, like the rest of him, was undoubtedly perfect.

he wasted no time as he slid his cock into you with ease, bottoming out with a heavy groan. “ah, aziz-e delam.” the words were practically a whimper into your shoulder. he kissed over the birth marks there. his hips stuttered into your wetness, your warmth transferring all the way to his face and reddening his cheeks.

your hands gripped the counter in front of you, throbbing around amir’s cock as it slid in and out of you.

amir was a confident man, that was a fact that couldn’t be denied by you or any other object in the house, but that confidence wilted the moment he saw your parted lips and dazed face in the mirror.

“oh, azizam. you feel incredible.” his eyes met yours in the mirror, and he reached up to hold your jaw so you could see your face as well. “absolutely gorgeous.”

you wanted to respond to his words, but the way he was pressing up against your cervix with every thrust had you unable to speak.

you intentionally clenched around him, causing his hips to stutter. “ah, azizam…!” he moaned out, his large hands gripping your hips tightly. his thrusts got sloppier, his sounds got louder. you knew he was close. “can i finish inside, dear? tell me no if you must.” he murmured his words against your shoulder, trying to control himself.

you bit your lip, thinking over your answer. well, no. you didn’t actually have to think much about it. “god, yes.”

amir didn’t need any more convincing. with a breathy groan, the both of you came at the same time. he whimpered your name as he came inside you, kissing up your neck gently.

you panted, heart stuttering as you relished in the afterglow of it all. amir leaned to whisper in your ear.

“âsheghetam.”

[kier-with-a-k]

𝑭𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝑫𝒂𝒕𝒆 - 𝑵. 𝑺.

𝑷𝒉𝒐𝒕𝒐𝒈𝒓𝒂𝒑𝒉𝒆𝒓!𝑵𝒊𝒄𝒌 𝒙 𝑨𝒓𝒕𝒊𝒔𝒕!𝑶𝒍𝒊𝒗𝒆𝒓(𝒐𝒄)

𝑾𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈: 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒋𝒖𝒔𝒕 𝒑𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆!

(𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒓𝒔𝒕 𝒅𝒂𝒕𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒉𝒆𝒓𝒆!)

Nervous.

I'm totally freaking out—what am I supposed to do? I'm pacing back and forth in my room as I try to put an outfit together.

Something casual? No. He'll think I didn't put enough effort in.

Something classy? We're just going to the park—god damnit.

How about something smart? But I always wear that! He wouldn't think I dressed up specially for the date!

I'm going on a date.

With him.

Nicholas Sturniolo… My date. Is him. And I asked him on a date. With me.

I lay down like an admission of defeat—like I'm waving the white flag to stop the battle going on inside my head.

I can't believe I actually got to ask him out. Ever since I met him I... couldn’t even think of another. Not that I was anyways but—he’s different.

I swear he has some sort of magic or something because—he pulls me right in. Like I’m the earth and he’s the massive ball of sunshine and I’m just being swung along—and even if I get too close and start to deteriorate... I wouldn’t change it. I’ll die smiling I guess.

Sappy thoughts.

Sappy me.

But I don't care. Not when it comes to him at least.

I jolt up—like I’ve been electrocuted, charged, pumped up. I quickly got myself dressed, threw on something special—yet still me.

Brown corduroy shorts that go over my knees, red converse, white tank top, and a crochet mesh sweater.

Not my proudest look, but I need to pick my boyfri—my date.

I will make this the most special date ever!

———

Sand.

Lots and lots of sand.

Maybe the beach isn’t the best first date venue. My knees and thighs are covered in it. Some sticking to my calves.

Gosh, why do I get sweaty when I’m nervous?

Nick is wearing his normal get-up. A yellow fitted plaid polo , an oversized pair of blue jorts, and combat boots. His blonde hair is just being blown about by the wind like it’s in some indie coming-of-age movie.

And my god does he look beautiful. I keep thinking... if this was ever to be the moment I die, I wouldn’t mind this being the last thing I ever see.

He’s laughing. That soft, lazy kind of laugh that starts in his chest and slowly spills out, like he’s not even trying. And I think if he keeps laughing like that, I might start crying right here with a half-melted ice cream in my hand.

Which, speaking of, is dripping all over my fingers. He got us two cones from a stall nearby—mine’s strawberry, his is pistachio. He made a face at my pick and told me I had “toddler taste.” I told him his looked like toothpaste. He rolled his eyes. I licked mine just to prove a point, then licked his and made a face of mock disgust.

He laughed again.

God help me.

We sit in the sand. I try to keep the hem of my shorts from dragging into it too much. But it’s hopeless. The beach doesn’t care about my outfit. It’s been exactly twenty-two minutes since we sat down and I’ve already given up trying to look cool.

Nick pulls out his camera. I should’ve known. He always has it with him like it’s a piece of him—strapped across his chest like a shield, hanging there like a heartbeat.

“You mind?” he asks, pointing it at me.

I shake my head. “Go ahead.”

And then click.

Click.

Click.

He’s looking at me through the lens with this focus that makes my throat feel tight. Like I’m not just a person anymore—I’m a moment. Something worth freezing. Immortalizing.

I smile because I can’t not.

He smiles back, not through the camera but at me.

We eat our ice cream in comfortable silence. There’s music playing faintly from someone else’s speaker down the shore. A group of teenagers laugh behind us. A dog barks excitedly somewhere in the distance. It all blends into this soft, warm hum.

“I like this,” he says quietly.

I pretend not to look too eager. “The ice cream?”

He gives me a look. “The date.”

Oh.

Me too, I want to say. Me too so badly I think my chest might crack with it. But I just nod and lick my ice cream again before it can drip on my shirt.

———

Later, we walk down to a little food stall row near the edge of the sand. They’ve got plastic tables under big umbrellas and everything smells like grilled meat, fries, sugar, and coconut.

We get matching burgers and split a basket of cheesy fries. He takes a bite and starts making noises that are honestly... borderline inappropriate.

“This is so good,” he moans dramatically.

I laugh, head tilting back. “You sound like you’re in a food commercial.”

He turns and grins at me, lips greasy, eyes crinkled from the sun. “You’d buy it if I sold it.”

“I’d buy anything you’re selling,” I blurt, before my brain catches up with my mouth.

And then—panic mode. Abort. Abort mission.

But he just... looks at me. Like really looks at me. A half-second of nothing. And then a tiny smile. Like I passed some secret test I didn’t even know I was taking.

“I’m glad you asked me out,” he says.

“You are?”

“I’ve been waiting for you to.”

Oh. Oh. OH.

I want to jump into the ocean and never come back. I want to scream into a pillow. I want to float.

———

After lunch, we walk to the boardwalk arcade, the one with the ugly neon sign that blinks weirdly like it’s seen too much.

Inside, it smells like popcorn and dust and metal. The air conditioning barely works, but it’s cool enough to make our skin feel sticky in a good way.

We play skee ball. I lose miserably.

We try the basketball hoops. He nails shot after shot. I don’t even pretend to be surprised.

He wins us two tiny plushies from the claw machine. Mine’s a derpy-looking frog. His is a duck that looks like it’s seen better days. He names it Fred.

When we pass the photo booth, he stops and tilts his head. “In or out?”

I grin. “In.”

We squeeze into the booth. My shoulder is pressed into his. The screen gives us three seconds per photo. The first, we’re smiling. The second, he makes a dumb face. The third... he looks at me.

I turn to look at him too.

And it clicks before I even realize he moved.

He kisses me.

Soft. Careful. Like he’s asking a question.

And I answer it with the way my fingers tighten on the edge of the seat, the way I lean into him, the way my heart roars in my chest like it’s been waiting forever.

The booth flashes one last time.

———

Later, I stare at the strip of printed photos in my hands. The last one is blurry. But you can still see it—my eyes fluttering closed, his smile against my lips.

My first kiss.

With him.

Nicholas Sturniolo.

My date.

My boy.

God, I think I’m falling.

Or maybe I already did.

𝑨/𝑵: 𝑰 𝒍𝒐𝒗𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒇𝒊𝒄 𝒔𝒐 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉!!! 𝑨𝒏𝒅 𝑰 ��𝒐𝒑𝒆 𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒅𝒊𝒅 𝒕𝒐𝒐! 𝑨𝒏𝒚 𝒊𝒏𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒔 𝒂𝒑𝒑𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒊𝒂𝒕𝒆𝒅!!! 𝑰 ���𝒂𝒗𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒇𝒊𝒄𝒔 𝒂𝒕 𝒎𝒚 𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒏𝒆𝒅 𝒑𝒐𝒔𝒕! 𝑪𝒉𝒆𝒄𝒌 𝒊𝒕 𝒐𝒖𝒕!

𝑻𝒂𝒈𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕: @thenickgirl @sturns-mermaid @sarahsturnn @jacksonsturniolo @certifiednickboy @nickssidewitch @fentiesturns @oopsiedaisydeer @messi10-fcb @nickscoconutwater @lilyswirly @mattsfrenchtoast @sweetshuga @chriss-slutt @izzylovesmatt @mattsdiva @mattswrinkleton @estrellawicz

𝑫𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒅𝒆𝒓𝒔 𝒃𝒚 𝑻𝑯𝑬 @bernardsbendystraws

[everettes-requiem]

"Why are you so angry?

You speak really formally, you know? A lot of people here speak really formally. It makes it scarier for the smaller blokes when you start lashing out like that. You think no one can hear the arguments you have with others? It's always like listening to a stage play with the way you lot talk to each other.

Why do you do that, why do you act so hostile all the time? Is there any point or are you just doing it to feel a step above everyone else? We're stranded here together, you know, you're not going to benefit isolating yourself like that.

You don't have to be formal with me. We're on equal footing, in the same situation, aren't we? I could be your friend."

- ☀️ ( @finscadetkids )

“you’re nicholas. you’re friends with johnny” he spoke before the other could even get a word in. he let out his words cautiously, a bit more careful than he usually was. he looked at nicholas in the eye only slightly, before turning his attention to the weapon strapped to him. that was the real cause for concern.

“why are you here?” his eyes narrowed. surely johnny had told him about their little quarrel. though everette was sure nicholas was harmless, and that he himself was far from a rabid animal, so it was unlikely that he would shoot him point blank. but, there was still a possibility— and that possibility was most likely higher now considering how recently he made enemies with his best friend

but despite this and his efforts at the start to stay wary, his inherent nature betrayed his deteriorating want to live— to survive that is. his accursed tongue was no stranger to verbalizing his inner unbridled detestation, and thus, he did. there was no longer much regard for the other's feelings, nor his own life at this point so early in time

“did he send you my direction to send a bullet through my head? i already have enough to deal with after what abel did to me, you know. but of course you probably know. everybody does at this point. word spreads fast amongst you loathsome lot. as fast as 'he fire that happened on this island when we first got here. or maybe—“

everette’s words, just as they were starting to return to their rhythmic bouts of bitterness, ended as quick as they began. his words caught in his throat, the other boy's question hanging in the hair, until it fell into everette's hands. his grey eyes slowly met nicholas’ brown eyes. a glare riddled with building aggravation, met with a look of straightforward sincerity.

heat started to prickle beneath everette's skin. it slowly began to simmer to the surface, no doubt it was going to boil and overflow sooner or later. “what kind of question is that? you know, your little blue eyed friend came up to me with a stupid question just like yours not too long ago. didn't think i've ever cross a question more foolish than his, but 'hen here you are, presenting me with one 'hat might as well serve to be a testament to how daft you can really be. that's one thing about you nicholas, you just have to keep proving me wrong, don't you?"

"i've constantly overheard people say you two are opposites, but maybe i'm the first to actually find a solid similarity. how you two are complete idiots and sorry excuses for people. is that why johnny said you like the smarter folk? is 'hat to make up for your wits being non-existent, or am I mistaken? oh, of course not, i never actually am"

"you do know the saying that goes two heads are better than one, do you not, nicholas? though, how much better are they really if they're both as hollow as some seashell, hm? just like that useless conch that ralph still keeps around, 'hinking it'll do him any good anymore"

“it’s not like i was expecting anything more out of you, wasn’t expecting much at all, really. you could even say that they were in the ground, six feet below or what not— especially with the kind of people you associate with. but, perhaps even then my expectations were apparently too high, which I never thought to be possible"

"i thought you were going to shoot me dead. make me bleed from my head rather than from my nose. but now? quite honestly, i think i’d rather 'ake that over having a conversation with you” but, through all of this, the initial question still remained unanswered. purposeful ignorance, avoidance even. nicholas moved on after all, no reason for everette to dwell on it, no matter how much it provoked him. but, why did it provoke him so? was it because he truly thought it wasn't worth his time? or was it because for once, he couldn't properly answer him because he didn't know how to.

everette opted to focus on other things instead, he had no choice but to do so. he strained to listen to nicholas, a faint pain beginning to nag at him, his head aching. "if you want to talk about speaking formally, you should refer to reeves. 'hat boy speaks in riddles or something, such nonsense coming out of that self righteous mouth of his"

"what's the point in trying to get a message across when no one can understand you? no point at all 'hat's for sure. if you say anything about it though he'll probably retort back by saying how a simpleton such as yourself couldn't even begin to understand words of such superiority and grace. he makes me want to vomit." he let out a shaky breath, wiping off the excess blood that had now dried from his bruised and battered nose. his expression remained unbothered, although tension played at some of his features

"reeves thinks he'll make such a big impact in society. i just think reality has yet to hit him in the face, to knock him down a few pegs from 'hat pedestal he puts himself on. when that happens he's going to fall right into the loony bin, into 'he mental asylum where he belongs"

"there's something wrong with him, im sure of it. not just his ugly face, but internally as well. isn't it ironic? he's so closely affiliated with damon, who's the medic of the island, and yet no matter what, i bet that he could never fix reeves even if he tried!" if this were anyone else, perhaps there would be a little humor woven into that otherwise crude statement to lighten the connotations. but, everette was not just anyone else, of course he wasn't. the boy only grimaced, looking off to the side. he meant what he said.

"or take ripley for instance. he tends to articulate his 'houghts in such poetic verses. he did tell me he got full marks in writing back in school before we ended up here, so maybe that has something to do with it. every word of his is akin to the bindings of a book. strung together for one reason or another, it’s beyond me, really. can barely tell what’s going on in that head of his, i’d think it would be rather difficult to think with constant buzzing going on. if he even does think for himself anymore”

“there were days i wished he would just go quiet. no matter how lyrical and appealing his words may seem, when they are constantly following you around like some never ending allegory, 'hen it would end up driving you to your wits end sooner or later. but, i will say with indifference that my past desire has partly come true now. he speaks less than he used to, he mutters more than he actually talks. however, it’s all still very flowery. it’s much like 'he flowers he used to gift me. though, i'm sure flowers wilt in his path nowadays. the byproduct of his chosen lineage, i suppose"

his voice evened out at the last words, falling into silence. the waves fell high and low, and the wind blew past, it all served as white noise that then only emphasized how uncharacteristically still everette stood. he even looked, uncomfortable for a moment. the boy shook his head, crossing his arms.

"either way, i do not know their reasons, and I don’t care to give you mine in full. all you need to know is that if my father bids me to speak this way, then I will listen. he said that the way you speak is indicative of the boy you are, if not the man you will find yourself growing to be in the future. if you have a proper grasp on your words, then you may as well have the world in the palm of your hand. at the very least, that is what i remember him saying. I cannot recall his exact words anymore. i used to be able to. but, it has been a while since I last spoke to him, even before we got here"

everette's expression only faltered into more discomfort, his shoulders rising and falling with heavy breaths. whether they were meant to compose himself, or they were from losing his composure, it was unclear. he gripped onto the skin of his arms, almost absentmindedly like he didn't mean to do so. they looked quite different from before. the flesh was once so pristine, free of impurity. but now? they were covered in shallow scars. nicks, scratches, cuts alike.

he eyed nicholas again, the dirty look just barely offsetting the evident ache that was painted over the rest of him "but tell me, nicholas. when we got here, what did you 'hink was going to happen after a while? of course arguments were bound to stir up, of course disagreements and disputes were going to happen. and they will continue to do so. sure, perhaps for a little while at the start this place was some garden of eden to some of you. trees full of fruit, pristine waters, no adults to sully a good time"

"but then you take into account the selection of people here, and you realize something. 'hings were going to fall apart one way or another. whether that be between people our age, those who are older than us who should really know better, or even the littluns as 'hey kick sand into each other's eyes” his nails dug into his skin, but he continued to look nicholas dead in the eye. it was almost like he didn't notice the way it hurt, like he didn't mean to, he just did. and god knows why he did.

“we are in the middle of a war. we are stranded on a damned island with perhaps our only chance of salvation having already slipped from our fingers. do you think it matters to me who sees anymore? do you think i care about how it affects the others around when they overhear? I could care less about what they think! I don't— I don't care about how they perceive me, if that's what you think! I know i'm better 'han all of you, everyone else just has yet to get it through their numb skulls. i'll be revered as I was meant to be. I will"

"if they were truly scared, how about they just pry their eyes away and run off to some place where they don’t have to come across such sights? but no! you all still watch, don’t you?” as he spoke, his nails only dug deeper, threatening to draw blood. it was as if he was trying to claw and reach the sacrilegious nature of his soul. as if he was trying to pull out the hatred that ran deep in his veins, even if that meant hurting his body that was only so human.

“at least something comes out of it 'hough, right? according to you, all these quarrels and fights, they all piece together to craft a very original stage play for your very own personal viewing. entertainment, is that what you saw in it? find it pretty funny seeing me get my face beaten, didn't you, nicholas?"

"go off and find some more of it then if you find it so amusing. there’s plenty to go around here. maybe you can catch that god-awful merridew and ralph bickering with one another again. or here's some food for 'hought. perhaps you can even star in some little drama of your own. though, you aren't exactly star material. but, 'here are some exceptions. you would fit perfectly in a tragedy, you know? i would just adore seeing you die at the end. i'd go so far as to say that would be a picture perfect film" he scoffed, his gaze finally settling beyond the distant shore. he slowly uncrossed his arms, rubbing at them a bit. it was as if he thought he could wipe off the blemishes. how silly. don't you agree?

"now sod off, leave me alone. will you at the very least give me that much peace?" his voice cracked at the end. the tone of it still held an undeniable harshness, but if one were to listen closely, exhaustion had begun to lace itself at the ends. he brushed the tangles of his hair out at the bottoms, the curls at the edges barely maintained. he sighed, lowering himself down, sitting on the sand. the ocean waters came up, the seafoam nearly grazing him.

he thought that would be it, that nicholas would leave him alone. he would walk away, either being nice enough to give everette the loneliness that he wanted, or simply just being deterred enough from anything further. perhaps everette would even overhear a word or two dripping with newfound contempt slipping from the other's mouth as he did so. it was inevitable, it's what should have happened. but, that's not what the outcome ended up being.

the shadow that once loomed over him had gone away, only to be replaced with the very same presence, only now sitting beside him. patience is a heavenly virtue, and everette was far from the angel he claimed to be. the little patience he had was being held together by a singular thin thread, hung over his head. that thread had been cut clean as soon as nicholas began to speak once more, everette's restraint burning up more and more at each question that only acted as fuel to the flames in his lungs.

he turned to nicholas sharply, flinching backwards and away from him. his temper had come to a boil, his nerves ill at ease. the water that now washed up to his palms did nothing to cool the heat on his skin. he should have just got up and left, he didn't owe nicholas an answer. but, it was as if the words got ripped out from his throat, the defensive vices spilling from his lips like uncontrollable bile.

“why is it so hard to understand that i don't want you near me? keep me out of your filthy mouth, will you? i'm not hostile, nor do i lash out, but if you're making me out to be 'hat way then perhaps you are deserving to be on the receiving end of it! i’m just being honest, and it is not my fault that other people cannot handle the truth. if 'hey are going to take it so horribly, then so be it! i would gladly take isolation and have that familiar forsaken loneliness to plague me, over constantly surrounding myself with people who don't deserve to breathe the same air as me!"

"it is not my fault either 'hat i am simply just a cut above the rest of you. i have no need to make myself feel that way, what purpose would that serve? it would be absolutely redundant when i know i already am a step above all of you. and— and i am! i'm like this because— because" suddenly, his voice that had once been so loud and aggressive, fell into a hush. his eyes once so full of blatant frustration, went blank.

everette struggled to find his words, and for once, he stumbled over them. he stuttered and mumbled underneath his breath, incoherent muddled phrases leaving his lips, barely audible over the tides crashing into one another. he tried to form an explanation, even fabricate one if he had to. but, he couldn't. at least, none that he could admit to the other boy that he now looked away from, and more less himself.

he looked down at the sand, hugging his knees close to his chest. he felt awfully small, he was feeling like that a lot lately. his words came out worn and uneasy, quieter and more unsure than he had ever been before. “i don’t— I don't know, okay? why are you prying? are you trying to get something out of me so you can use it against me? spread it around to everyone else here who hates me? i've given them good reason to, you know”

everette was always faced with questions, and if not, then general interactions were constantly being offered instead. in turn, they were always met with varying, long winding responses. however, there was always one continuity. everette always insulted, berated, mocked or scorned. no one was excused from it because to him, everyone had something he could tear apart before stepping on the remains that resided beneath his shoe. in that awful sense, perhaps he did treat everyone with some form of equality.

the way he acted was a means to bring him safety, it acted as his security, even if it ended up warping his fate. so, what was he to do when it came to this? when someone did not approach him with curious naivety or the same vile scrutiny that he was so familiar with, but instead— genuine humanity? he was so confused, disorientated even. how was he supposed to act?

"I don't know— I don't. what do you want me to do? what can i do? i'm not like you, nicholas. i was born to be better, I was raised to be better, i'm supposed to be better. and thus i know that at the end of the day, the niceties that you preach will all be futile. this situation will either end with us dead, or alive long enough to make it off of here. and when that day comes, you all won't have to see me ever again. it’s going to end someday, one way or another. I don’t care about the means, as long as I get to the end. as long as I get to see her again"

"or maybe, do you want me to change? I can't, nicholas. i will always be my father’s son. bound by blood and yet not by heart nor soul" everette felt droplets of water hit the scraped skin of his knees. tear droplets. the tears trickled down his eyes in steady streams, warm against his skin, though the warmth brought no comfort. he hadn't even noticed, he couldn't even gauge when he first started to cry. but, there was no use in wiping them away anymore.

"I don't know why i'm saying all of this. against my better judgement i'm admitting all of this. 'hough, what I do know is that it's not to make you feel bad for me, if that's what you're assuming. i'm above that. i've above the pity you give out as some form of benevolent charity. I don't want nor need it, i'm not here to garner sympathy."

"i just— i think a part of me believes that if i don't take your little folly attempt to understand as my opportunity to, for once be vulnerable. then, perhaps one day, one of you would come across my bleeding body. all of the sins of human kind i’ve swallowed bleeding right out of my deceased being, instead of the confessions i am making right now as i sit here, still alive. telling them to you out of all people. i never would have thought. god, what do I make of myself anymore? what am I doing?"

he let a shaky breath in and out, tilting his head to look at nicholas— and for once, he didn't look like some amalgamation of corrupted verses from the testaments. everette looked like a child. a child who only knew how to hate for he never was loved enough. “truthfully, i just miss someone, nicholas. and, im sure you got a family who misses you. so does johnny, i assume. in that way, perhaps we are vaguely connected"

"but with how you are, and with who i am, i doubt friendship could ever come to fruition. I don't want to be friends. we're strangers, not equals, nor friends, who are only tied together by our situation as you mentioned yourself. but, if you mean it. we can talk here by the beach more. skip rocks, or what not? it'll be boring, but i think i would take boring over everything else that's going on right about now” his words were awkward, his voice foreign to even himself, but he was trying.

“that's my offer, since i turned down yours” and for once, something seemed to shift. not the tides, nor the wind, nor the boys' and their circumstance. but maybe, for once, something within everette did.

— everette ainsworth 🪽 nicholas @conchcorner

& johnny @conchcorner mentioned

mention @ask-abel-lotf

mention @white-wysteria

mention @bubos-apothecary

mention @henrys-eulogy-aflame

[clown-eating-pig]

The mental journey I had surrounding Martin in season one was so funny. Like…when he was still a nonspeaking character that only existed when referenced by Jon, I was always like, “idk…maybe he just really really sucks?? like maybe he’s a jerk! The hate could be justified!” But then Martin spoke for the first time and I immediately flipped to “what the hell is Jon’s problem????”

[whenstarsundress]

“my angel is in pain and i didn’t notice it until now…”

sylus

sylus would notice everything. the small winces, the silent hesitation when standing, the way your hands tremble when holding something heavy. he’s a caregiver, you can’t hide it from him.

he wouldn’t confront you outright. instead, he’d sit beside you in quiet moments and say things like, “it’s okay to lean on someone, you know. you don’t have to do it all alone anymore.”

the first time you finally ask for help—maybe with your shoes or reaching for something—he doesn’t make a sound. he just kneels, handles it gently and looks up with warm, unwavering eyes. “i’m honored that you let me.”

to sylus, love means being present. he will never see your needs as weakness—just more reasons to be near you.

caleb

caleb would be the most emotionally rocked. he’s a protector by nature, and when he realizes you’ve been hiding your pain, it hits him hard.

you try to brush off your exhaustion with a laugh, but he catches your arm and gently says, “hey… why didn’t you tell me it hurts?”

he’d sit beside you, pull you into his arms, and hold you against his chest like he’s anchoring you to safety. “you’re not a burden. not to me. you could ask me to carry you every day and i’d thank you for it.”

expect lots of massages, warm baths drawn for you, and this boy learning everything about how to ease your muscle stiffness and whatever exhausts you. helping you would never feel like a chore, it would feel like devotion.

zayne

zayne wouldn’t even wait for you to ask. the first time you slow down or stumble, he’s already pulling you to his side with a breezy, “whoa, i got you.”

when you finally stammer that you didn’t want to be a burden, his face drops, like you just stabbed him in the chest. “burden? you? darling… if someone told you that before, they were dead wrong.”

he gets serious in that moment. raw, open emotion as he cradles your hand. after all he’s a doctor and he wants, no, he needs to help you. “i want to help. not because you need it, but because i love you. you don’t have to prove anything.”

he’ll start carrying a heating patch or a little comfort item for you without ever making a big deal about it. to him, this is just part of being your partner.

rafayel

rafayel is incredibly emotionally intuitive, but he respects your pride. he’ll wait, watching, quietly offering help without pressing, until you break down just once.

maybe you’re in pain and trying not to cry, and he just takes your hand and brings it to his lips. “you don’t have to suffer quietly for my sake. i have room in my heart for all of you. even the tired parts.”

he would turn your care into ritual, brushing your hair gently when your neck aches, rubbing your calves while reading to you aloud. “let me worship you. especially when you can’t.”

he’d never make you feel less-than. instead, he’d make you feel cherished in your vulnerability, like letting him in was an act of deep trust.

xavier

xavier is the hardest one to open up to, but once he learns the truth, his reaction is devastatingly gentle.

when you finally admit you’re afraid to ask for help, he doesn’t speak for a moment. he takes your hand, his thumb brushing over your palm. “you don’t have to carry everything alone anymore.”

xavier doesn’t say it often, but when he does, it lands like a vow, “if you ever fall, i’ll be right there. every time. i won’t let you break.”

expect quiet accommodations—adjustments to tech so you can rest your muscles, silent understanding when you cancel plans. he won’t push, won’t ask. he’ll just be there, like gravity.

[backinmyphase]

"A gift from our village for the king, the great Lord Sukuna!"

There was cheering behind you, firing up the hatred for these people who threw you out for the lion the second their life was threatened. The king was sitting there, chin on his hand as his eyes went over you. You knew he was making out your worth right now. Deciding if you were really good enough for a gift.

He was a strange looking man. Four arms, two different sides of a face, marks everywhere and you could see with just how he was sitting that he had a tall frame.

He was strange, but more like fascinating strange. However, that wouldn't make you hate him any less. After all he was the reason these people, you called your people once, gave you away that easily.

If only he didn't exist.

"You are staring."

His voice is deep but with a tint of mockery. Normally you would lower your head. If you were normal thinking, you wouldn't have risked your head for a snappy comment. No, you would have just kept your mouth shut.

"You are too."

There were many gasps. The strange monk with white hair next to him frowned. But the Lord didn't even raise an eyebrow.

Instead he stood up and you saw you were correct with your assumption, he was towering above everyone here. He slowly made his steps towards you. Now you were realizing how dangerous your action was. Just the way his presence made you want to hide was enough prove that he was danger. He stopped before you, looking down on you.

His hand found it's way to your chin lifting it, so you kept looking at him. You knew you shouldn't move. One snap with his finger and you would be... Oh well.

"I am." he grinned, while meeting your eyes. His were red. So unbelievable red, only blood could be.

"I hope I am allowed."

The silence spoke loud. You knew he was mocking you. He was making out right now if he should kill you or not, you were sure. There was just no way out of it, the decision was purely relying on his mood.

"Of course the king is allowed!" you heard screams from the people behind you.

"Lord Sukuna can do whatever he wants, no commoner can speak with him that way!"

There was loud mumbling of agreement behind you, which made your body stiffen. They were trying to get on his good side, there was no doubt.

"Offering such a pretty flower, just because they heard I was coming. Assuming I would destroy this place." his fingers were slowly caressing your chin. "You must be angry they were so willing to give you to me, are you not?"

You blinked at him, seeing his grin growing.

"Want me to kill them?"

The mumbling immediately died down, the tension now palpable in the air. Sukuna was still staring, watching your every move, even just the glancing of your eyes. You were shaking. But not just out of fear.

"I don't need them to die." You saw how Sukuna raised an eyebrow while there was small sighing behind you, just until you spoke again. "But...

If you did want to kill them, I wouldn't be mad enough to stop you."

The only thing you heard was your own breathing. The people behind you were quiet like they were not even there. You didn't look at them no, you didn't dare to.

Not when the king was looking into your eyes.

Then he let go off your chin and started laughing. Just laughing for an unbearable long time. Time, in which you wondered if you were dead now.

But he just shook his head while his laughter died down.

"Uraume, bring her to the estate." The white haired monk was already by your side. They were looking at him with a curious glance.

"And you my lord?"

"I have a Village to kill."

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4

[viviansturns]

𝒚𝒐𝒖 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒓𝒖𝒊𝒏 𝒎𝒆 𝒂𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒆

... in which cocky!sub!chris swears he'd never whimper or beg and you try and prove him wrong

cw: subbbyyyy, whimpering, handjob, blowjob, p in v, pussy eating

“You’re so full of yourself,” you said, hovering just close enough for him to feel your breath against his jaw.

Chris grinned like the devil. “I mean, can you blame me?”

You rolled your eyes, letting your fingertips drag slowly down his chest. “You really think you’ve got all the control, huh?”

“I know I do.” His voice dipped, cocky and confident. “I’m not like those other guys you mess with. I don’t beg. I don’t whimper. And I sure as hell don’t give up control.”

That made you laugh—low and dangerous. “Is that a challenge?”

His eyes flicked to your mouth. “I’m just telling you what’s real, baby.”

You stepped in closer, letting your hand slip lower, pressing over the bulge in his jeans with featherlight pressure.

Chris sucked in a breath through his nose—sharp. But his eyes were still dark and lustful.

“I could make you fall apart,” you whispered, teasing him through the denim, slow and maddening. “I could have you crying for it if I wanted to.”

He scoffed—rolling his eyes. “No chance.”

You kissed the corner of his mouth, soft and mocking. “You’d beg me to let you come. You’d sob when I didn’t.”

Chris swallowed. You felt it. “I don’t sob.”

“You will.”

You dragged his zipper down slow. Deliberate. Let his cock spring free into your hand, already twitching, already flushed deep and leaking. His jaw clenched.

“Still think you’ve got all the control?” you purred.

Chris tried to speak. Tried to say something cocky. But all that came out was a stuttering breath and the tiniest noise from the back of his throat.

You smiled.

“You’re already whimpering.”

“I’m not—’s just cause you’re holding my dick” His thighs flexed under your grip. He looked down at you like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to pick you up and flip you over or let you do whatever you wanted to him— but he wasn’t giving up easily.

You squeezed him gently, twisting your wrist the way you knew he liked.

His knees buckled.

“Oh, fuck—” he gasped.

There it was. The high, soft groan he swore he didn’t make. Cracked right out of his pretty mouth.

You looked up at him, all fake-innocent. “What was that?”

Chris shook his head, pretending it didn’t happen, cheeks flushed, lips parted. “Wasn’t a whimper.”

You leaned in, pressed your lips to his throat, feeling the frantic pulse there, despite his cocky demeanor.

“I haven’t even started yet.”

“I can take it,” he muttered, jaw clenched. “You’re not gonna break me.”

You raised a brow. “No?”

“I’ve had worse.”

You leaned in close, your breath hot against his cheek. “Mm. You’ve never had me.”

And then you sank to your knees.

Chris flinched.

His hands twitched like he wanted to grab your hair, but he didn’t dare. You licked a slow stripe up the underside of his cock, deliberately slow, teasing. His hips jerked forward before he could stop them.

“Already twitching?” you teased. “That didn’t take long.”

He let out a low, strained breath through his nose. “It’s not like you’re bad at it,” he muttered, trying to sound casual.

You smirked. “I’m better than bad.”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t.

Because then you took him into your mouth—deep, wet, slow enough to burn. His hands balled into fists at his sides, knuckles white. You watched his stomach contract, his thighs tense.

Still silent.

Still trying to win.

So you got meaner.

You hollowed your cheeks, sucked harder. Let your spit drip down his shaft as you bobbed your head, slow and relentless. You moaned around him, loud on purpose, and he whined. A barely-there breathy little gasp that gave him away.

He bit his lip. You pulled off.

“You’re gonna bleed if you keep biting down like that,” you warned, pumping him lazily with your hand. “You gonna cry before you come, Chris?”

His eyes were glassy. “I’m fine.”

You tilted your head. “You’re shaking.”

“I’m—fine.” His voice cracked on the word.

You gave him one long stroke, base to tip, and his hips thrusted without meaning to.

“You’re thrusting into my hand,” you pointed out.

He swore under his breath.

“What’s that? Didn’t catch it.”

“Fuck. You.”

You grinned. “Eventually.”

And then you stood.

He looked wrecked, but still trying to keep his chin high, pretending he wasn’t seconds from begging. You straddled him on the bed. 

Then you guided him inside you in one slow, steady motion. His head thumped back against the headboard, a full-body shudder wracking him.

“Oh my—fuck,” he choked.

You rolled your hips once.

He let out a moan—sharp and sweet.

Then immediately clamped a hand over his mouth, like he could stuff the sound back in.

You grabbed his wrist, pulled his hand away. “Let me hear it.”

He blinked up at you, sweat on his forehead, pupils blown wide. “I don’t—”

You clenched around him.

Chris whimpered.

The sound spilled out of him—high, broken, completely unlike the cocky, smug voice he usually used when he had you under him. He looked horrified the second it escaped, eyes wide like he couldn’t believe he’d made that noise.

But you could. You knew this would happen.

You leaned down, lips brushing just under his ear. “There it is.”

He shook his head weakly, like he could take it back, but you rolled your hips again—slow, grinding—and he shuddered.

“F-Fuck, stop—” he gasped, but his hands were gripping your thighs like he was the one begging you to stay.

“Thought you didn’t beg?” you whispered, dragging your nails lightly down his chest.

“I’m not—shit—I’m not begging.”

You clenched again, fluttering tight around him, and his whole body arched.

“You’re trembling,” you said, smiling like you weren’t seconds away from completely shattering him.

Chris tried to laugh, tried to play it off, but it came out ragged. “You’re—nngh—so full of yourself.”

“And you’re full of me,” you purred, dragging your hips again, slowly, rhythmically, keeping him right there on the edge.

He bit his lip. His hands were gripping you now, not for control—but for balance. You could feel him shaking. His jaw clenched. His abs tightening.

“You can let go,” you whispered, cupping his jaw, tilting his head back to look at you. “You don’t have to pretend.”

Chris whimpered again—louder this time—and his eyes fluttered shut like he was trying to block it all out, but it was too much. You were too much. His breath was coming in shallow pants now, his whole body strung tight like a rubber band about to snap.

“You wanna come, don’t you?”

He shook his head again—reflexive, desperate.

You dragged your hips down hard once, clenching tight.

His hands flew to your waist.

“Fuck—okay, okay, please—don’t stop—”

Your eyes lit up.

“There it is.”

He blinked up at you, wrecked. Face flushed, lips parted, pupils blown black. He didn’t even try to talk anymore—just stared at you like you were the only thing holding him together.

“Beg for it,” you said, gentle. Not teasing now—just real. “Say it.”

He hesitated. Swallowed. And then, voice breaking:

“Please—please let me come—I need it—fuck, I need it—”

You rocked your hips once more and he sobbed, the sound spilling out like he didn’t even know he was capable of it.

“Oh my god, look at you,” you whispered. “Fucking ruined.”

“Please—” His voice cracked, desperate and wrecked and real. “Let me come—please, I swear I’ll be good—please—”

You didn’t stop moving. Not for a second. You kept that same rhythm, same pressure, tight and wet and relentless around him, riding him like your only mission was to wreck whatever pride he had left.

And then he started to shake.

It happened fast—like his body knew before he did. His hands clawed at your waist, not guiding you, not controlling—just holding on, desperate and twitching.

“F-fuck, I’m gonna—” His head dropped back hard against the headboard. His whole spine arched. “Oh my—shit, fuck, I’m coming—”

And then he did.

It ripped out of him like a storm.

His cock twitched hard inside you, pulsing thick ropes as he cried out—sharp and unfiltered, all pretense gone. He came so hard it throbbed, his body jerking with every wave, hips stuttering helplessly beneath you. His thighs were quaking. His chest heaved. His voice cracked on your name as he spilled into you, moaning like it hurt to feel that good.

You didn’t slow down—not right away. You stayed moving, slow and deep, milking every drop from him, watching his eyes flutter open wide before rolling back.

“F-fuck—nngh—oh my god,” he gasped. “I—holy—fuck—”

You finally stopped when he slumped back against the bed, completely limp, sweat clinging to his chest and forehead, mouth open, eyes dazed. His cock twitched again weakly inside you, like it still hadn’t recovered.

You ran a hand through his hair, smiling down at him sweetly. “What happened to ‘you’re not gonna break me’?”

Chris just blinked at you, lips still parted. He looked like a man who had just seen god and got wrecked by her.

“…I think I just blacked out,” he muttered.

You leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“Good.”

He blinked up at you, dazed. “…Wait.”

You tilted your head.

His hands twitched, eyes darting between your face and your thighs. “Did you…? I mean—you didn’t—fuck, you didn’t come, did you?”

You bit your lip, letting that silence stretch.

Chris sat up so fast he almost wobbled. “Shit, I didn’t even—fuck, I was supposed to—” He ran a hand through his sweat-matted hair, looking genuinely distressed.

“Relax,” you said, trying not to laugh. “You were kind of busy cumming your soul out of your body.”

But Chris was already reaching for you, urgency building now that he realized the tables had fully turned.

“No, no, no—lay back.” His voice was rough, broken around the edges but dead serious. “I’m not letting that slide.”

He nudged you gently down onto your back, crawling over you, pressing messy kisses to your chest, your stomach, lower. “You’re gonna come,” he muttered. “As many times as you want.”

You hadn’t even finished teasing him when he was already shifting down the bed, settling between your thighs with a shaky breath.

His hands were trembling. His lips were swollen. His cock was still soft and leaking—but none of that stopped him.

He kissed the inside of your knee first, then lower, then lower, until he was hovering right where you wanted him. He looked up through his lashes, still flushed and glassy-eyed.

“Tell me how,” he whispered.

You propped yourself on your elbows, heartbeat thudding. “You want instructions now?”

Chris nodded, eyes fixed on your pussy like it was sacred. “I—I need to do this right.”

You felt heat flood your cheeks. “Just keep your tongue flat—don’t rush. Focus up top.”

And fuck, did he listen.

His mouth met you softly, reverently—like he was trying to memorize the shape of you with his tongue. He licked a slow stripe up your folds, then flattened his tongue right over your clit, warm and wet and so careful, like he was scared to move wrong.

You gasped. He moaned.

And then he did it again—again—building this steady rhythm, mouth moving like he was praying between your legs.

“Just like that,” you breathed. “Fuck, Chris—don’t stop.”

He whined into you. The sound vibrated, and your hips jerked.

His hands—still trembling—gripped your thighs tighter, pulling you closer, anchoring himself there like he needed to stay attached.

Every few strokes, he’d glance up at you, just to see your expression. Like your pleasure was oxygen, and he was holding his breath between every gasp you gave.

You felt the orgasm start deep—low, coiled heat, getting tighter and tighter with every swirl of his tongue.

Your hand slid into his hair, tugging, guiding. “Right there—don’t fucking stop—”

Chris whimpered at your tone. His hips twitched uselessly against the mattress—like even his body was still trying to please you.

You tightened your grip. “Fuck, Chris—yes—”

And then you were coming. Hard.

Your whole body arched, your thighs clamped around his head, and he groaned into you, tongue never stopping, drinking it all in like it was his favorite thing he’d ever tasted. You rode it out on his mouth, hips grinding helplessly as your orgasm hit wave after wave.

When you finally stilled, breath ragged, Chris pulled back slowly—chin soaked, lips swollen, eyes wrecked. He looked like he was in awe. Like he was the lucky one.

“Did I…?” he whispered.

You grabbed his wrist and tugged him up the bed, kissing him deeply, tasting yourself on his tongue.

“You did,” you murmured. “You good little thing.”

And Chris—red-faced and shivering—just nodded, burying his face in your neck.

“…You can ruin me anytime.”

hollyyyyy i want to write more of this hehehehehehehehe

i can confirm this is exactly how chris would act.

@cursed-carmine dividers

[cheftsunoda]

Would you consider doing something with a quiet/ reserved reader. I love the idea of a reader who's an up and coming driver but isn't about the press or media at ALL. Like dodging cameras and running away from interviews, and maybe a boy (I don't mind who you pick) misunderstands and thinks that she's running away from them? Maybe add some drama from f1 update twt accounts escalating the situation and painting the reader in a negative light for being "rude" or "impolite".

Thx!! (Sorry for any confusion, English is not my first language but I hope you get what I mean)

miss misunderstood— op81

smau + blurbs

oscar piastri x !quiet/shy driver reader

yn has a lot of pressure on her shoulders— she is the only female driver in f1 and that leads to her consistently having to prove herself to not only her team, who took a chance on her, but the press who are constantly there hounding her. she has always been very shy and reserved— especially around people she does not know. when fans notice how she skips out on interviews and hides from big crowds, the hate pours in, especially after she is seen avoiding a conversation with the grids other most quiet individual— but he is persistent and wont give up on her.

(a/n) : such a cute idea anon! i understood you perfectly fine my love. i hope you enjoy this. i thought it would be fun to pair reader with someone who is also rather quiet and reserved.

fc : amna al qubaisi

—

f1gossipgirls

257,087 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Almost all of our favorite drivers have touched down in Barcelona for media day. Some of our first arrivals include YN LN, Charles Leclerc, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris and George Russell.

—

view 32,057 other comments.

username0 : george not dressed properly for the weather pt 899

liked by f1gossipgirls

username10 : yn always looks like she doesn’t want to be there. why is she even in f1 if she hates to do the job??

username15 : everyone is smiling, waiving, talking to fans and press and then there is yn who immediately books it to the paddock and ignores everyone

username22 : ill say it once and i will say it again— f1 is not a silent film. she either needs to speak up and play the role or step aside. good driver or not. that job comes with more responsibilities than just driving around the track.

username5 : she gives off “im better than everyone else” energy and im sick of her.

username00 : every time i try and like her, she gives us absolutely nothing. cold and awkward isn’t a personality, babe.

↳ username9 : yet you guys eat it up when oscar does it. the double standard is insane.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username11 : its always the quiet ones y’all tear apart for not being loud enough. she’s there to drive. not entertain you.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username17 : you guys are extra hard on her because she is a female. and it is sick.

username101 : she minds her business, she’s fast, and she is unproblematic. you guys are just finding reasons to hate her. jealousy is a disease.

liked by f1gossipgirls

—

They say I’m cold. Unfriendly. Standoffish. Like I’m trying too hard to be mysterious or above it all. But they don’t know me. Not really. Because if they did, they’d know I used to be warm. I used to talk too much. Laugh too loud. Hug people without thinking twice. But that was before. Before the phone call. Before the hospital room. Before the person who knew me better than anyone else—who loved me without needing me to be anything but myself—was just… gone.

Losing a parent is something people talk about like it’s a passage. A sad inevitability. But they don’t talk about what it does to you when it’s sudden. When it’s brutal. When the last words you said were something stupid because you thought you had more time. My dad was my safe place. The only person I could fall apart around. He was the reason I started racing. The reason I believed I could do anything. And when I lost him, I didn’t just lose a person—I lost myself. I haven’t spoken about it. Not to anyone.

Not to my engineers. Not to my teammates. Not to the drivers who think I’m just “shy” or “quiet” or “moody.” Because once I say it out loud, it becomes real in a way I’m not ready for. It becomes the thing people pity me for instead of the thing I’ve survived. So I stay quiet. I keep the noise out. I protect the stillness inside me. People don’t understand it, and that’s fine. They think I’m emotionless when really, I’m overflowing and just trying not to drown. I hear what they say. The fans. The media. That I don’t engage. That I don’t give enough. But I didn’t come here to be their favorite. I came here to race. I came here to honor my father. To survive something else. To find moments of peace between the chaos and the grief that still sits like stone in my chest.

They’ll never understand why I am the way I am. Because they never saw me before. Before the silence felt safer than the world ever did. And I don’t owe them an explanation for that.

—

The air in Barcelona is thick with heat and noise—press cameras clicking, fans shouting driver names like spells, a thousand voices layered on top of each other. I keep my head down but offer a small smile, lifting my hand in a quiet wave. They cheer anyway. Some scream my name. Others don’t. Some just stare, waiting for me to trip or ignore them or give them proof I’m “as cold as they say.”

I smile again, even if it doesn’t reach my eyes. It’s not fake—it’s just not loud.

Security walks with me as I cross the paddock. My eyes flicker over the cameras stationed outside team motorhomes, the reporters already calling out names, hoping for a quote. I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag. Just a few more steps.

I keep walking. Fast, but not suspiciously fast. Just enough to dodge the press circling like hawks, waiting for a moment of weakness, a headline, a clipped quote that can be turned into whatever version of me they want to sell this week.

Finally, I step inside Red Bull. The air conditioning kisses my skin. The silence—relative silence—is heaven. I make it to my driver room, push the door shut with my shoulder, and lean against it for a second. Eyes closed. Deep breath. The chaos is muffled now, like a storm just beyond the walls. Then the door opens again without a knock.

“Nice escape,” Max says, completely unfazed. He shuts the door behind him like he owns the building. “You only almost ran over two photographers. New record?”

I huff out a laugh—quiet but real. “Felt like twenty.”

He drops into the chair across from me like he’s been doing this his whole life. Which, to be fair, he basically has.

Max studies me for a second, unreadable as always. “You look like you’re about to vomit. That your media day face?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

He shrugs. “Just saying. You do realize they can’t eat you alive on camera, right? Legally.”

“I don’t know. I think one of the Sky guys has sharp enough teeth.”

He chuckles, dry and quiet. “You’ll be fine. Say as little as possible. Give one-word answers. Scowl a little. That’s what I do.”

“You give plenty of one-word answers.”

“Exactly,” he says, proud. “It’s an art.”

He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, face softening just slightly.

“They don’t matter, you know. The journalists. The fans who think they know you. The Twitter freaks. You’re fast. That’s what counts. That’s what wins. Let them think you’re a robot or a villain or a Bond girl or whatever mood they’re in this week.”

I nod. A slow exhale.

“Thanks, Max.”

He shrugs again. “Just don’t cry on camera. I already have a reputation for being emotionally unavailable. Don’t need yours adding to the Verstappen Cold Front.”

This time, I laugh out loud. He grins. Mission accomplished.

“Go be scary,” he says, pushing himself up. “And if you panic, just pretend they’re all standing in front of your car at turn one.”

“I’d drive through them.”

“Exactly.”

He leaves without another word, and for the first time all morning, I feel like I can breathe.

—

I answer with the same even tone I always do. I deflect, redirect, smile where I’m supposed to. I’ve trained myself not to flinch. But it still chips away at me, a little at a time. I finally escape outside, tucked behind one of the Red Bull displays near the fan zone—close enough to be seen, far enough to feel like I’m not drowning. I sip from a water bottle, hoping the air might settle in my lungs again. That’s when I see her.

A girl, maybe twelve, in a handmade cap with my number scribbled on it in glitter glue. She’s holding a small notebook and a marker, standing with her dad and hesitating like she doesn’t want to bother me. I almost keep walking. I’m tired. Overheated. Ready to shut down for the rest of the day. But something in her eyes stops me. She doesn’t look like the others—she looks like she’s trying to be brave. So I walk over.

Her eyes go wide when I stop in front of her. “Hi,” I offer, voice soft.

She blinks. Then holds out the notebook with slightly trembling hands. “Um—sorry, I just—could you sign this? I know you don’t really like talking to people a lot, but you’re my favorite. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want.”

My chest tightens. Not in a bad way—in the way it does when something hits a nerve you didn’t know was still exposed. I take the notebook and sign it carefully.

“You know,” she says, voice quiet, “I get nervous talking to people too. But I think you’re really brave. I like that you don’t try to be loud just to fit in. You make me feel like that’s okay.”

I blink fast. It’s not the kind of compliment I get. It’s not about speed or podiums or stats. It’s about me. The parts I’ve always kept hidden because the world made me feel like they were wrong. I smile—genuinely this time—and crouch a little so we’re eye level.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “That means more than you know.”

Her face lights up like I just handed her a trophy. We take a photo. I sign her hat. She hugs me before I even have time to react—but I don’t mind. Not even a little. As I walk away, I feel lighter. Like the weight pressing on my shoulders loosened just a little. Maybe I’ll always be the quiet one. The misunderstood one. But to that one girl? I was seen. And that’s enough.

—

The moment I cross the line, the radio explodes.

“P1, YN! That’s P1! You did it! You absolutely nailed that last stint—what a drive!”

I don’t say much. I can’t. My throat is tight and my hands are shaking around the wheel. The pit wall is screaming, my engineer shouting through the static. The grandstands blur into one giant roar. I slow the car down and guide it into parc fermé, P1 board waiting. The marshals are waving, cameras already turned in my direction like hungry mouths. I sit still for a beat. The engine is off, the world is loud, but in my cockpit it’s just… quiet. Then I hear it—Max’s car pulling into P2.

“Let’s go,” I murmur to myself and start the slow climb out.

But my limbs feel heavy. Every emotion I’ve buried all year starts clawing its way to the surface, and I’m suddenly not sure if I’ll make it over the halo without falling flat on my face. And then—there’s a hand. Max, already out of his car, standing beside mine like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He holds his hand out without a word. Just a look that says, Yeah, I know. Take it. I take it. He helps me out of the car, firm but unshowy. As soon as I hit the ground, I sway a little, overwhelmed—but I don’t fall.

He leans in, dry as ever. “You know you’re supposed to breathe when you win, right?”

I huff out something between a laugh and a sob. “I’ll try next time.”

Our helmets clink together briefly as we hug—quick, tight, familiar—and then he nudges me toward my team. They’re already there—Red Bull crew surrounding me, cheering, hugging, spraying water. I let myself fall into it for a moment. I smile, genuinely. I hug back. One of the engineers lifts me off the ground and spins me, and I let them. Because this is theirs, too. Ours. But just as the broadcasters and press start pushing through the sea of mechanics, I slip away—ducking behind the barrier, walking briskly toward the cooldown room before they can catch me.

I hear a few voices behind me—“YN, one word for Sky? Just a few seconds?”

I keep walking. The cooldown room is blissfully empty. Cold, quiet, white walls and a table with water and towels. I sit, press the bottle to my forehead, and finally breathe. No cameras. No questions. No pretending. Just silence. Just peace. Just… me. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

—

The water bottle sweats in my hands, condensation dripping slowly onto my race suit. I haven’t said much since sitting down, and Max hasn’t asked me to. He’s lounging across from me on the other bench, head tilted back, eyes closed like he owns the room. His suit is halfway peeled down and his hair’s a sweaty mess, but he looks… content. Neither of us are fans of the overexposed post-race routine. The lights. The forced questions. The soundbites that get twisted a dozen ways before the sun even sets. So we sit here, in the eye of the storm, letting the world knock on the door without answering.

Max finally cracks an eye open. “You going to do the interviews?”

I lean my head back against the cool wall and sigh. “Eventually. Maybe. If they don’t forget I exist by then.”

He grins slightly. “You just won. They’ll send a SWAT team if you don’t come out soon.”

Before I can answer, the door opens — fast but tentative — and in walks Camille, my press secretary. She’s breathless. Her clipboard’s half tucked under her arm, and she looks like she’s been fighting off wolves outside.

“YN,” she starts, trying for calm but clearly begging on the inside, “I hate to interrupt, but they’re getting antsy. Sky, F1TV, everyone’s lining up. They want quotes, a soundbite—anything.”

I nod slowly. I expected this. It doesn’t make it any easier.

“I’m not doing the scrum,” I say. “Not the pen. Not the mixed zone.”

Camille looks like she wants to scream into a pillow. “Okay. Fine. What will you do?”

I glance at Max, who’s watching like it’s the most entertaining episode of Drive to Survive he’s seen all year.

“One interview,” I finally say. “That’s it.”

Camille’s already flipping through her mental rolodex. “Okay. Sky? F1TV? Maybe something for social? Martin Brundle is waiting and—”

“No,” I cut her off, gently but firm. “If I do one, it’s with Lissie. No one else.”

Camille blinks. “Lissie—Lissie Mackintosh from Sky?”

I nod.

“She’s the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I’m under a microscope,” I explain. “She’s kind. And she actually listens.”

Camille softens a little. “Okay. I can work with that. But they’ll push back.”

“Let them,” I shrug. “I don’t owe them anything else today.”

She studies me for a moment, then exhales and heads out, already dialing her phone as she goes.

The door shuts again, and I fall back into the silence like it’s a blanket.

Max raises a brow. “Lissie, huh?”

“She doesn’t try to make me a headline,” I reply.

Max gives a nod of respect. “Smart. Wish we all had a Lissie.”

I glance down at my fingers, still slightly trembling from adrenaline. “I just need someone who sees me.”

“You just won a damn Grand Prix,” Max says, standing and nudging my foot with his. “They’re gonna have to see you now, whether they like it or not.”

—

yn's post race interview with lissie mackintosh- barcelona

—

third person pov

YN steps down from the small stage, fingers tugging at the collar of her suit as if she’s trying to breathe easier now that the lights are off. She’s walking fast, already focused on making it back to the safety of the garage. She doesn’t see Oscar until she turns the corner, he is halfway through his own interview with a different outlet. He’s smiling—tired, but still upbeat—and when he spots her, his expression brightens like he’s been waiting for a chance to say something. Oscar turned to YN as she passed by.

“You should really be talking to the winner, huh?”

His voice is friendly. Joking. The kind of throwaway line that’s meant to show camaraderie, not pressure. YN pauses just for a second. She offers a small, polite smile—closed-lipped and barely there. No laugh. No response. Just a nod. And then she’s gone. Quiet steps, fast retreat.

Oscar watches her disappear down the corridor, his smile faltering slightly. His interviewer says something, but he doesn’t really register it.

“…Did I say something weird?”

He turns back to the camera, eyes a little more unsure. In the back of his mind, the question settles in— Does she just not like me? But the truth is simpler. And sadder. She doesn’t dislike him. She just doesn’t have room for warmth in the places where the world watches too closely.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Race Winner, YN LN, only gave 1 two minute interview with @/skysports Lissie Mackintosh. Oscar Piastri who was P3 today, was also doing an interview when LN happened to walk by and made a joke to which YN just walked off. He then asked the interviewer if he said something wrong. Thoughts?

view 120,004 comments.

username00 : imagine winning a race and still managing to have the personality of dry toast 😭 poor oscar was just being NICE

username22 : as someone who watched the full interview with Lissie — she was genuine and soft spoken. maybe what she needs is respect, not attention.

username08 : i love Oscar but this isn’t that deep. she clearly has boundaries and isn’t fake about it. that’s kind of refreshing.

username09 : she didn’t even thank the fans today. one interview and vanishes? okay ice queen 🧊

username17 : not her making Oscar second guess himself when he was literally just being sweet? i would NEVER recover.

username20 : this is why she’s boring. no charisma, no interviews, no interaction. i said what i said. 🥱

username30 : are y’all ignoring the interaction she had with a younger fan today?? she is such a sweetie, she is just camera shy.

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, redbullracing and 1,7005,002 others.

ynfromredbull : good shit.

—

view 74,032 other comments.

lissiemackintosh : Honored to have been the one to share part of this day with you. Congratulations again, YN! ✨

liked by ynfromredbull

username0 : i feel like max is the only one that understands her.

maxverstappen1 : good shit indeed.

liked by ynfromredbull and redbullracing

oscarpiastri : Insane drive today, YN. 💪🏻

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ username0 : oscar is much better than me bc id be a hater rn

alexalbon : can someone pls nerf the redbull team. i am tired.

liked by maxverstappen1, ynfromredbull and redbullracing

username10 : can y'all shut up now- she is literally taking pictures with fans.

↳ username0 : wowww one time in her whole career.

carlossainz55 : such a beast. congratulations yn

liked by ynfromredbull

—

I don’t like nights like this. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many eyes that don’t know me but swear they do. I don’t stop for cameras, I don’t pose, I don’t even slow down when someone calls my name. I just head straight inside the theater like I’m late for something, even though I’m not. I keep my eyes low, find the row I asked Max to save for me, and drop into the seat beside him with a quiet exhale. He glances at me, unimpressed but amused.

“Nice entrance. Scared three PR people on the way in.”

I almost smile. “Was aiming for five.”

He snorts, and just like that, I feel a little more human. Max has always understood the value of silence. He never pushes, never demands more than I can give. We talk a little—about the ridiculousness of the event, the car updates, the championship—but mostly, we just sit. It’s enough. Until I feel a shift. I don’t even have to look up. I can sense someone walking toward us with too much hesitation, like they’ve already decided I’m going to run. When I do glance up, I’m met with wide brown eyes and a nervous smile. Oscar.

“Hey. Sorry—YN? Can I talk to you for a second?”

Max raises a brow. I pause, heart twitching in my chest for reasons I don’t fully understand, and then I nod. I follow Oscar into the hallway, the noise of the event fading behind me like static. The lighting is dimmer here. Softer. Still too bright. He turns to face me, shifting on his feet like he’s rehearsed this five times already.

“I, um—did I do something to upset you?”

My stomach drops.

“What?”

“After the race. I made that joke and you just… walked off. And I get it if you’re not a fan of me or something, I just—” He laughs nervously. “I keep thinking I said something wrong.”

I blink. I want to laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I look down, ashamed.

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” My voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s not you. It’s just… me.”

He looks confused. Still gentle, though. Waiting. I don’t know why, but I want to explain—just a little.

“When I was younger, I lost someone. My dad. He was… my person. The one who made the noise of the world feel a little less loud. And after it happened, I kind of… shut off. I don’t like being watched. I don’t like being asked to smile when I don’t feel like it. I just… exist better in the quiet.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a long moment. But his expression softens in a way that makes my chest ache.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says eventually. “But thank you for trusting me.”

I nod, throat tight. Then, a flicker of guilt. “And I’m sorry for walking off like that. You didn’t deserve it.”

He smiles, shy and genuine.

“So… you don’t hate me?”

That makes me laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

“No,” I say softly. “I don’t.”

There’s a pause, and for the first time since I got here, I feel something shift in my chest. A crack of light.

He nudges me lightly with his shoulder. “Cool. Friends, then?”

I think about it. About how hard it is to let people in. About how much it scares me.

Then I nod. “Yeah. Friends.”

—

3 month time skip

ynfromredbull

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, lando & 2,409,001 others.

ynfromredbull : as my counterpart @/maxverstappen1 would say— these last few months have been simply lovely. 🏆💪🏻

—

view 127,002 other comments.

username0 : this caption is the most personality i’ve seen from her all season.

username14 : i can’t believe she is leading the wdc rn

maxverstappen1 : id sue for copyright infringement if i wasn’t so proud

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : very artistic post yn

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ ynfromredbull : thank you mr. piastri

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ lando : OMG SHE SPEAKS

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ lando : yn i didn’t mean that in a bad way pls don’t drive me off the track

liked by ynfromredbull

georgerussell63 : it is against fia regulations to have a teddy bear in the car. RACE BAN (she is still destroying all of us— it would not help save the season)

liked by ynfromredbull

—

f1gossipgirls

428,023 likes.

f1gossipgirls : For the first time in her F1 career, YN LN has not walked into the paddock alone. She walked in with none other than Oscar Piastri himself. Not only did she walk in with him but the two stopped for the press multiple times and stopped to talk with fans. Many people say that this is the most they’ve seen her smile in her whole career. Thoughts?

—

view 15,539 other comments.

username00 : from Oscar “did I do something wrong?” to Oscar walking her in and making her smile… the arc is so insane

username15 : f1gossipgirls is finally being NICE about her. this is how powerful love is

username17 : i haven’t seen her this relaxed since she debuted. i’d cry if i wasn’t already crying.

username22 : this is NOT a drill. she SMILED. she TALKED. she STOOD STILL for the PRESS. what is happening

username0 : So now she wants the attention? Pick a side. Either be private or don’t.

username14 : she’s literally only tolerable when she’s standing next to a man. that’s so sad lol

username20 : i’m sorry but this whole “she’s just shy” thing got old last season. f1 drivers are public figures. she knew what she signed up for.

—

It happens slowly. Like sunlight through tinted glass — warm but filtered, creeping in without permission. Oscar’s been around a lot lately. Not just in the paddock, where we’re both supposed to be, but everywhere in between. Track walks, post-race debriefs, long flights, short layovers, dinners in quiet towns we don’t name on social media. He’s become part of the background noise of my life, and for once, that doesn’t scare me.

I notice it when we’re sitting side by side in the sim room, not speaking, just existing. The silence between us feels easy now. Familiar. Like I don’t have to earn my space — I just have it. I notice it when he hands me a coffee before I’ve even asked, the way he always remembers I take it black with a splash of oat milk, no sugar. Or when he throws a hoodie at me because I always forget I get cold before FP3.

I notice it most on the plane ride. He’s asleep beside me, his head tilted toward me, headphones slipping. I’m staring at the clouds and thinking about how close I am to the title. Closer than I’ve ever been. I should be terrified. But I’m not. Because he’s here. And for some reason, that grounds me.

He mumbles something in his sleep and leans slightly toward my shoulder. I freeze. Not because I’m uncomfortable — but because I’m suddenly too comfortable. My heart stutters. It’s a dangerous thing, comfort. I’ve avoided it for years, convinced it would disappear the moment I reached for it. But Oscar—he never asked me to reach. He just stayed.

Now I’m sitting in row 8F of some transatlantic flight with a soft-voiced Aussie curled up next to me and a World Championship lead in my lap — and all I can think is... God, I might actually be in love with him. And that’s scarier than any press conference I’ve ever dodged.

—

I could already feel the heat of the Monaco sun pressing down as we stepped out of the car. The walk to the paddock always felt long, even when it wasn’t. My palms were tucked into my jacket pockets, nerves dancing beneath my skin like they always did. But this time, I wasn’t alone.

Oscar walked beside me, chatting softly about absolutely nothing — the weather, the coffee at the hotel, the chaos of the Monte Carlo grid. I appreciated it. His voice was grounding. I didn’t have to say anything, and he didn’t expect me to.

I kept my eyes low, used to the flashes of phones and the buzz of people trying to get my attention. Normally, I’d keep walking. Fast. Direct. No room for error. But then I heard it.

“YN!”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t aggressive. Just… hopeful. I slowed down without thinking. Oscar noticed instantly and stilled beside me.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… give me a sec.”

I turned toward the barricade. A young fan was holding a poster of my car from Australia. I’d won that race. My name was scrawled across the sidepod in sharp lettering — a moment frozen in time I’d barely let myself process. I took the marker from their hand, signed it quickly but neatly.

“Thank you for today,” the fan said, eyes wide. “You’re… amazing. You’ve always been amazing.”

The words hit me somewhere in the chest I didn’t know was sore.

“…Thanks,” I said, almost too quietly. Then louder: “Thanks for saying that.”

They smiled like I’d handed them gold. I took one photo — just one. And then I stepped back beside Oscar, who gave me a subtle smile. Not too proud. Not too over-the-top. Just there. Solid. Steady. We weren’t even halfway through the paddock before a Sky Sports reporter called out.

“YN! Oscar! Over here?”

I froze.

Oscar looked at me. “Wanna skip it?”

I shook my head. “Just one.”

We walked over together. I didn’t say much — I never do — but I stood there. Present. Listening. And when they asked how I was feeling going into the weekend, the words came before I could edit them.

“Focused,” I said. Then, after a breath: “And a little less alone today.”

Oscar glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. There was a flicker of something soft there, something understanding. It felt… safe. When we finally reached the Red Bull garage, I exhaled for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes. I peeled off my jacket, tugged at the brim of my cap, and tried to disappear through the back. But Max was already leaning on the pit wall, headset half-on, watching me with that unreadable Verstappen face.

“You smiled,” he said, completely monotone. “Terrifying.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start.”

He smirked just slightly. “I’m just saying… if you become media friendly, I’m going to have to be the difficult one now.”

“You already are,” I deadpanned.

Max laughed under his breath and tossed me a bottle of water. “You did good, LN.”

And for once, I let myself believe it.

—

The world was quiet around us. The kind of hush that only existed in moments like this — between heartbeats, between stares. Monaco’s lights flickered just beyond the windows, gold threads pulling through navy silk. I could hear the sea in the distance. Oscar lay beside me, legs stretched across my duvet like he belonged here. He wasn’t touching me, not yet, but he was close enough that I could feel every inch of space between us — and it made my chest ache.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he said softly, barely above a whisper.

I turned my head toward him. “That’s saying something.”

He smiled, tired and tender. “Fair. Still true.”

I didn’t answer. Because truthfully, I was scared. This was all new. The closeness. The comfort. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t hard to figure out. Then he said it — no fanfare, no buildup, just a simple truth.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

It should’ve terrified me. But it didn’t. Not really. It cracked something open.

I stared at him, eyes burning, heart folding in on itself. “I think I already have,” I breathed, voice barely there.

The silence that followed was thick — not heavy, not awkward. Just real. He reached over, his fingers grazing mine so gently it made my skin buzz. It wasn’t a grab. It was an invitation. And for once in my life, I accepted. I laced my fingers through his and sat up, pulling open the drawer next to my bed. There was only one thing inside — an envelope. Worn at the edges, the flap taped down three times because I’d opened and closed it more than I should have. I handed it to him. His brows furrowed as he opened it slowly. The photo slipped into his hand.

Me, at six. All tiny teeth and wild hair, grinning up like the sun had never set. Standing next to a man in a racing suit. His hand was on my shoulder. The same eyes. The same smirk. My father. Oscar looked between the photo and me, and I saw the shift happen in real time — confusion to understanding to quiet reverence.

“That’s… is that who I think it is?” His voice cracked just slightly.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “My dad.”

I didn’t say his name. I didn’t need to.

“He died when I was eight. It was… it was violent. Sudden. One second he was there, and then he wasn’t. He was my safest place. My everything. After that, I… broke. I stopped talking for months. And when I started again, it was never the same.”

He didn’t move. Just stared at me like I was something delicate, like if he breathed too loudly I might fold in on myself.

“I never told anyone,” I continued, voice barely holding. “I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want to be treated like some ghost of his shadow. I wanted to be me. Just me.”

Oscar’s fingers tightened around mine — not too much, just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone anymore.

“You are,” he whispered. “You’re everything.”

I looked at him then, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like hiding.

“I think he’d like you,” I said, smiling through the burn in my throat.

Oscar leaned in, resting his forehead against mine, and whispered back, “I like you more than I should.”

And in the soft glow of the Monaco skyline, wrapped in the quiet I used to fear, I finally let myself feel it all. Love. Safety. Peace. Him.

—

f1

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, ynfromredbull & 8,029,003 others.

f1 : Your 2025 World Champion, YN LN! Incredible drive this season, YN. This is well deserved.

tagged : ynfromredbull

—

view 239,492 other comments.

username00 : MY QUEEN! CONGRATULATIONS YN.

username15 : gonna be insufferable about this for the next 40 years ok????

susie_wolff : YN has made history. I am forever proud of her.

liked by ynfromredbull and f1

username30 : people doubted her, the press dragged her, and she STILL smoked them all. cold-blooded. we love a quiet assassin 💅

lissiemackintosh : I’ve seen your journey up close. You are everything this sport needs. Congratulations, champion. 💫

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : No one more worthy. What a season, YN. 🏆🤍

liked by ynfromredbull

lando : MY GOATTTTTT LFGGGG

liked by ynfromredbull

lewishamilton : It’s been inspiring watching you come into your own. World Champion sounds good on you. 🔥

liked by ynfromredbull

maxverstappen1 : Couldn’t be more proud. YN deserved this more than anyone.

liked by ynfromredbull

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, lando and 12,037,024 others.

ynfromredbull : this is what it is all about. thank you all. it is an honor to be your 2025 world champ. i hope you grow to love me as much as i love all of you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

We were far from everything — the noise, the cameras, the endless headlines. Just a small coastal town somewhere in Portugal, sun-drunk and slow, the kind of place where people didn’t care about championship points or last names. Oscar and I had spent the day walking through sleepy markets, eating too much gelato, and laughing at nothing. Now, the two of us lay tangled together on the bed in the little apartment we rented, the linen sheets kicked down to our ankles and the windows cracked open to let in the salt-kissed night air. His hand rested on my stomach, thumb drawing slow circles over the hem of my shirt. The world outside our window was quiet, but my mind wasn’t. Not tonight.

“I want to do it,” I said into the stillness.

He turned his head, his voice a low murmur against my temple. “Do what?”

I hesitated, even though I already knew he’d understand. He always did.

“The interview. I want to finally say it. Talk about… him. All of it.”

Oscar sat up slightly, enough to look at me properly. “You’re sure?”

I nodded, throat tight. “It’s time. I’ve hidden behind the silence for so long. And I don’t want to anymore.”

He searched my eyes, then gently tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You don’t owe anyone your pain, you know. You don’t have to justify who you are.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I want to tell the story. My story. People have made it for me for so long — all the gossip, the assumptions. I’ve let them believe I’m cold or arrogant or just awkward. But the truth is…” I swallowed. “The truth is, I’m just someone who lost the one person that made the world feel safe.”

Oscar’s hand found mine under the sheets, his fingers warm and steady.

“I think he’d be proud of you,” he said softly. “For everything. For surviving. For being brave enough to do this now.”

I blinked hard, staring up at the ceiling to stop the tears from spilling.

“I miss him so much, still. Every day. Sometimes I think that little girl in the paddock died with him — the one who used to talk to everyone, who smiled without thinking about it.”

He pulled me into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “That girl’s still in there. I see her every time you light up after a race. Every time you laugh when you think no one’s listening. You’re still her. Just… grown, and stronger.”

I breathed him in — the cologne I’d come to associate with safety and something close to peace.

“Will you be there? When I do it?” I asked quietly. “When I finally say his name?”

“Every step,” he said without hesitation. “Always.”

And in that moment, with his arms around me and the stars blinking somewhere above the rooftops, I knew I wasn’t alone anymore.

Not in the silence. Not in the truth. Not ever again.

—

‘hey lissie— its yn. i want to do an exclusive interview with you. if you’re willing.’

’omg hey champ— obviously id be willing to. where do you need me?’

’my house. next week? i can send a plane your way.’

’ill be there. i am honored, yn. truly.’. 

—

world champion, yn, sharing her truths from her home in monaco with lissie mackintosh - 1/2/2026

—

ynsenna

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, oscarpiastri & 17,023,004 others.

ynsenna : i’ve spent most of my life trying to be quiet enough not to be noticed. not because i didn’t have anything to say—but because grief took the words from me before i ever had the chance to speak.

this season changed my life. not just because of the results, but because i finally stopped running from the part of me that hurt the most. my father was everything to me. and losing him the way i did shattered something i didn’t know how to rebuild—until recently. the truth is- i’m proud to be his daughter. but i’m also proud of the woman i’ve become, entirely on my own.

to those who’ve seen me when i couldn’t see myself—thank you. to the ones who stayed kind even when i stayed quiet—you mean more than you know.

and to the person who reminded me i’m allowed to be loved, messy and whole—i love you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirl : YN just did an interview from her home with Lissie Mackintosh going into detail about her childhood and revealed that Ayrton Senna is in fact her father. She spoke about how her father’s tragic death left her emotionally shut her down for most of her life— and she chose silence as form of self protection. She led Lissie through a room in her house which held a large collection of her father’s helmets and trophy’s and she shared a few photos of them on her instagram today— which her new instagram handle is @/ynsenna. She also revealed in this interview that she is indeed dating Oscar Piastri. Oscar was behind the camera silently supporting her during the interview. Thoughts?

—

view 802,482 comments.

username0 : i’m crying real tears. she carried the weight of that legacy in complete silence. absolute warrior.

username14 : Oscar being behind the camera and just silently supporting her???? marriage. immediately.

username20 : now it all makes sense. the silence, the eyes that always looked a little sad. she’s been carrying so much. proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

username15 : she didn’t win the championship for the world. she won it for her dad and for the little girl who lost her dad. i’m not okay.

username17 : everything about this interview was raw and honest. we don’t deserve her but god do we respect her.

username30 : the fact she said nothing for years and let people think the worst of her, just to protect herself?? she’s not cold. she’s human. and she deserves peace.

—

oscarpiastri

liked by ynsenna, maxverstappen1, lando & 10,273,005 others.

oscarpiastri : proud to know you. proud to love you. you are the strongest human i know. you made him proud, sweetheart.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

The interview with Lissie had gone live less than twelve hours ago. I’d barely blinked since then. I was curled up on my couch, hoodie three sizes too big, hair in a bun, face completely bare. Oscar sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, his back leaning against the couch between my legs. I absentmindedly ran my fingers through his hair while he scrolled through TikTok with the volume low. My phone buzzed every five seconds on the table, but I ignored it. Oscar didn’t ask questions. He just stayed. And he was quiet in that way that felt like peace.

The soft hum of city traffic below filled the silence until—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Someone was knocking on my door like it owed them money. Oscar and I both jolted.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked, twisting to look at me.

“No—wait. Shhh. Listen.”

BANG BANG BANG.

Then—“YN! OPEN UP! YOU OWE US A DAMN EXPLANATION!”

That voice. That unhinged tone.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Is that—Max?”

Oscar looked up at me. “Should I get the bat?”

I was still laughing as I padded to the door, the sound of voices growing louder.

“Carlos, stop pressing the buzzer, it’s annoying.”

“She’s probably ignoring us—”

“She probably moved to Brazil, bro.”

“Shut up, George.”

“YN, IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR I’M GETTING THE SPARE FROM CHRISTIAN!”

I opened the door. And immediately got hit with a wave of chaos. Max was at the front like the ringleader. Behind him stood Charles, Lando, Carlos, Pierre, Yuki, Lewis, George, and Alex, all staring at me like I’d just casually announced I was royalty.

“Hi,” I said blandly.

“‘Hi’?! That’s all we get?” George sputtered.

Max shouldered his way in first, eyes wide. “You—YOU—” He pointed at me. “Are Senna’s daughter and you didn’t tell anyone?!”

“I told Oscar,” I mumbled, leaning against the door frame.

“Yeah, okay, Oscar gets a free pass,” Lando said dramatically, waving a hand as he walked in. “Since he is the boyfriend.”

“I can’t believe you’re his,” Pierre said, mouth open as he stared around the apartment.

Yuki beelined for my kitchen. “Do you have snacks?”

Carlos gave me a look that was half stern, half soft. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Lewis stepped forward, eyes kind. “You didn’t have to. But… damn. That was powerful, YN.”

“Yeah,” Charles agreed, nodding slowly. “I cried, but that might’ve been the wine.”

The room was buzzing. Full of movement, questions, half-jokes, too much cologne, and disbelief so thick I could feel it crackling in the air like electricity. And yet, through it all, I just… Chuckled. I mean — this was my life now? Eight world-class athletes pacing my apartment like it was a race strategy debrief while Oscar, my boyfriend, my soulmate, looked like he wanted to protect me from the emotional onslaught with nothing but a throw pillow.

Max stared at me. “What’s funny?”

I smiled — wide and honest. “You guys are all losing your minds in my living room. Like I’m a unicorn or something.”

George raised a finger. “To be fair, you are. We just didn’t know it.”

Lando turned toward Oscar. “You knew. You absolute sneaky bastard.”

Oscar held up his hands, all innocence. “She told me. I didn’t say anything. Not even in the group chat.”

“I’m so proud of you, and also I hate you,” Pierre muttered, clapping Oscar’s shoulder.

And then — without warning — Max said, “Alright, that’s it. Everyone shut up.”

I blinked. “What—”

He lunged. Then Lando. Then Charles. Then George. Before I could even think to protest, I was being dragged into a ridiculous, suffocating, all-limbs, too-many-colognes, full team group hug. My face was squished between Max’s shoulder and Pierre’s head. Oscar laughed and wrapped his arms around all of us from the outside.

Someone yelled, “We’re proud of you!”

Someone else yelled, “She’s a Senna but she’s our YN!”

And I think it was Alex who shouted, “WE LOVE YOU, WORLD CHAMP!”

I couldn’t breathe. Not from the pressure of the hug — from the feeling of it all. Acceptance. Support. Love. After years of walls, of silence, of solitude, it all rushed in like the wave I didn’t know I’d been bracing for. And I let myself sink into it. Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to carry the legacy alone anymore.

—

[webslinger-holland]

don't mind me, i'd just be foaming at the mouth if any of the boys threw me over their shoulder and smacked my ass. i think i'd respectfully melt if you wrote that...please

Prompt: Bucky, John, and Bob throw you over their shoulder

Warning: NSFW 18+ minors DNI, just a lot of sexual tension and innuendos, some banter, the boys being dominant, physical intimidation/possessive behavior, dark romance themes, wanted to put a warning on it anyways.

Note: Writing this had me giggling and kicking my feet :)

Bucky: It was late at night. You were halfway down the hallway with socked feet, hoodie zipped up halfway, and a will of determination to make it to the kitchen without anyone noticing. You hadn't been feeling good the last couple days and had been ordered by the doctor to be on bed rest. But you were starving.

“Where do you think you’re going?” That all too familiar voice called out from behind you. You stopped in the middle of your tracks, caught red handed doing the one thing they told you not to do.

You winced and turned. “I’m just getting tea.”

"It's the middle of the night," Bucky observed, putting his hands on his hips and giving you that dad look. "You have a fever. The doctor said you need to be on bed rest."

You scoffed. “It’s just chamomile. I’ll live.”

He narrowed his eyes,; his jaw tightening with that quiet intensity that always meant you’re pushing your luck. He took one slow, deliberate step toward you.

You started to backpedal. “Don’t you dare—”

“Don’t make me do this.” Bucky drew a little closer.

You barely made it two steps down the hallway before he caught up to you. Suddenly, your feet left the ground with a startled yelp and his arm secured you firmly around your thighs. He slung you over his shoulder like it was nothing.

“Bucky! Put me down!” you protested, pounding your fists weakly against his back.

“Nope,” Bucky replied, utterly unmoved, strolling back toward your room. “You still have a fever; you're supposed to be in bed. You’re not wandering around the tower on my watch."

“You’re overreacting.” You threw the insult over your shoulder.

He chuckled, clearly amused. His hand landing a firm, warm pat on the back of your thigh which pulled another surprised yelp from you.

“No, you underestimated how stubborn I am.” Bucky corrected.

“Bucky, I swear—” You tried.

“You’re cute when you’re mad,” he said casually, like that wouldn’t be thinking about those words for the rest of your life. “But if you bite me, we’re gonna have a real problem.”

Entering into your bedroom, Bucky kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot hard. He didn’t speak, simply crossed the space in long purposeful strides. When Bucky came to your bed, he had no intentions of easing you down gently. He knelt one knee onto the mattress, let you slide off his shoulder into his arms and then onto the mattress with a thump that jolted your breath.

You landed on your back, looking up at him with a shocked expression. He stood over you, chest rising and falling, hair slightly disheveled from the walk.

"You done running your body into the ground now?” Bucky asked and crossed his arms over his chest, which meant he was all business.

You propped yourself up on your elbows. “You’re the one manhandling me.”

“You call that handling?” Bucky challenged. You swallowed hard.

You opened your mouth to argue, but he was already leaning in again. His one knee pressing into the mattress between your legs as he climbed toward you—slow, steady, sure. A predator with nothing to prove.

He was so close to your face that you felt the heat from his breath fanning your face. You swore he saw just how red your face was turning just from his proximity. He waited and watched you squirm under him.

His metal arm came up and the tip of his finger pinched the tip of your chin, raising it gently to get your eyes level with his. The coolness from his touch felt intoxicating. His voice dropped low and the words that came out felt laced with seduction.

"Be a good girl and stay in bed for me, will ya?"

John: You were in the middle of a mission together. Swiftly navigating towards the ramp of the quinjet, John was hot on your heels. He kept calling your name to stop you, but you ignored him. That was until he caught up with you and came to stand in front of you.

“You are not going out there like that,” John barked, standing between you and the exit.

“It’s recon! I’m not even engaging—” You tried and put your hands on your hips, more annoyed with him than anything.

“You’re limping.” John pointed to your leg which had been patched up not ten minutes ago.

You rolled your eyes. “Barely.”

“That’s enough.” John snapped, tired of listening to you.

“Since when are you in charge of my decisions?” You scoffed.

He stepped closer, radiating that particular brand of unyielding, all-american confidence that always made your pulse tick. You matched him by taking your own step back, slightly worried about this side of him.

“I don’t have to be in charge. I just have to know when you’re being a pain in the ass and stop you.” John spoke.

“John—” You held your hand out to stop him.

“I asked nicely,” John took another step forward. He was giving you one last chance. “You can come back into the jet or I can make you.”

“You wouldn’t—” You narrowed your eyes at him.

It was only then that the corners of his mouth lifted in challenge.

“You want to test that theory, sweetheart?” John wondered.

You made the mistake of lunging for the door. He caught you mid-stride and effortlessly swung your body over his shoulder. He began walking back the way you came and you protested to feeling his hard shoulder digging into your stomach.

“John Walker, put me down right now!” You hit his back once or twice, but you knew it was no use.

He let out a short laugh and tightened his grip. His hand gripped your thigh tighter as he adjusted you, almost like you were slipping—but you weren’t.

“Not until you agree to stay in the jet.” He called back to you.

“I hate you.” You pouted sourly.

“No, you don’t,” John smirked to himself, swatting your backside once to pull a small gasp of disbelief from you. “You just hate that I’m right.”

Safely back inside the quinjet, John let you slide from his shoulder and caught your waist halfway down, standing you upright, but pinning you flush against the wall. You gasped, both palms landing flat against his chest from the force.

He didn’t back away.

He loomed, crowding your space with his body, hands still on your hips. His blue eyes burned down into yours.

“You gonna listen to me now?” John asked in a low and deep tone.

Your jaw tightened along with your stubbornness. “You think throwing me around is how you win an argument?”

“No,” John seemed to smirk down at you like he was enjoying getting you riled up. “I think it’s how I keep you alive.”

You stared up at him. Your heart hammering in your chest. When you tried to push away from him, he just held you firmly and liked to watch you squirm. You only stopped the moment his palm landed flat beside your head, caging you in further and taking you by surprise. The power behind it was unmistakable.

He leaned down to get close to your face, which caused your breath to hitch in the back of your throat. He stared at your; his eyes unwavering. He was not messing around anymore and he didn't want you doing the same. So he spoke once and he spoke very clearly:

“You act up again, I will correct it. You know that, don’t you?”

Bob: You should never underestimate this man. Because you didn’t expect him to move that fast.

One moment, you were glaring at him from across the room, arms crossed, refusing to budge out of your own stubbornness. Just as you went to turn away, you felt a pair of hands grab up. And the floor tilted beneath you.

“Bob—!” you shouted, half a protest, half pure surprise.

But it was too late. He’d already hoisted you up, strong arm locked around the backs of your thighs, your upper body dangling behind him. He wasn’t rough, not quite, but you could feel the effort in the way he held you. Like he was restraining from a much more violent impulse.

“You weren’t listening,” Bob claimed. He sounded too calm, too controlled, too casual. “And I don’t really feel like arguing tonight.”

His body was warm. It always was. Like the sun had stitched itself beneath his skin. His grip was unshakable, but not cruel.

“You can’t just throw people around, Bob!” You tried to argue right back. You squirmed around in his hold, desperate to break free but it was no use.

He let out a soft, almost sad chuckle. “I can do a lot of things I’m not supposed to.”

Your heart stuttered. And you wonder if he heard it.

“I’m being nice,” Bob added and threw a look over his shoulder to address you. You pouted in defeat.

The hallway blurred past as he carried you with terrifying ease. Somewhere between being handled like glass… and being reminded that glass can still be broken.

Then Bob stopped walking.

The silence hung too long before he finally, carefully, bent down. His arms moved with precision, almost clinical, as if afraid he’d break you just by touching.

He set you down on your feet, gently this time. His hands lingering just a little too long at your waist, not for control, but with caution.

“Sorry,” Bob muttered, not meeting your eyes. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

You thought for a second, nibbling your lips gently. You could see the conflict written across his face— like he was still desperately trying to stay in control of himself and that maybe he felt something darker coiled tight beneath the surface.

You took a deep breath to ground yourself. And Bob looked up to meet your gaze.

"I didn’t say I didn’t like it."

SORRY IF THAT WASN'T SUPER GOOD. FELT LIKE I STRUGGLED WITH BOB'S ONE

[softaestluv]

pt. 2 to this blurb | pt. 3 | filthy fingering, a little bit of spiteful smut, overstimulation

Your feet stumble behind Kyle’s, scuffing your combat boots on the white tiled floor in your messy trek. He’s got a tight grip on your wrist, pulling you along with a speed you can’t quite match.

“Kyle, what the fuck are you—“ You start, exasperated, but you come to a startled halt, crashing into his back as he fights with the door handle in front of him.

You’re shoved into the room as soon as he gets the door open, turning to look at him with a scowl, but you don’t get to express your dismay for long when he pushes you on his bed. The springs squeak under you, masked by the surprised gasp you make.

“Kyle. What the fuck.” You say through your teeth, glaring up at him from your seated position.

He’s quiet, lips pressed into a thin line, teeth clenched behind his cheeks, jaw tense. His eyes are just as rigid, hammering you to the thin military standard blanket, offering little room to test his patience. It’s the exact look he wears on the field, dark and dangerous, hooded and intended.

When he speaks it’s the same honey cadence as always, but it’s steady, low. Makes a string of goosebumps spread down your back. It juxtaposes your usual banter, meant to annoy each other, friendly fire, snake baby claws and teased nips under each other’s skin. Except now nothing about his demeanor is friendly.

“Gon’ make you cum jus’to prove a point now, okay?”

You cackle, loud and obnoxious, gripping your stomach in dramatics, “That’s what this is about? Did I hurt poor Kyle’s ego?”

“Are ya backin’ down from a challenge? Too scared to be wrong?” He smirks, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

You scoff, rolling your eyes, dismissing his words with a wave of your hand, “You couldn’t even get me wet.”

“Let’s see, then.”

Your mouth falls open, staring at him in utter shock. “Kyle, you can’t be serious.”

He just looks at you expectantly.

You pause, gulping the excess saliva building in your cheeks, wiping your clammy hands on your knees because he’s dead serious.

“God, what a typical man. You can’t live with the fact that every girl you’ve been with probably faked her orgasm?” You taunt, only egging him on more, but you’re hoping he’ll shove you right back out his bedroom door in retaliation, “Do you even know where the clit is?”

“Only one way to find out.” He replies, arching his brow.

You bite your tongue, let the silence consume the room, suffocate the both of you back to reality, but it does nothing to shift his mood. A man determined, decided the moment you let your smart mouth run too far out of your control.

So you give in, making quick work of your boots because you don’t want him to gain any more ego-driven pride. Your pants follow, dropped to the floor tentatively, squeezing your thighs together in a weak attempt to cling to the last thread of your dignity.

Your eyes follow him to his knees. You think he might pry your thighs open, check if there’s a wet patch on your panties, because you know there is, but he leans forward just enough to hover close to your mouth and dips two fingers into the seams.

“Want you to count ‘em,” He breathes against your lips.

“Lucky if you can even get one.” You say, trying your best to keep your voice stable, but it wavers, embarrassingly so.

He huffs a laugh, “D’ya ever shut up?”

“Try and make me.”

The look in his irises glimmers mischievously, but he doesn’t say anything else, just holds your gaze as he slips your underwear over your legs. You exhale a shaky breath when scorching palms part your knees, eyes steady on yours as he rubs his hands to the inside of your thighs.

His stare makes the air feel thick, a heavy weight smothering your chest, and fills your lungs shallowly. Makes the few seconds seem like an eternity too long.

When he does finally drop his gaze, his eyes pool dark, irises dilating at the sight of your bare cunt. You tilt your own head to the ceiling, squeezing your eyes shut because you can’t muster the strength to watch him examine your pussy. So, you fall back on your palms unexpectedly when he hoists one of your legs over his shoulder.

You know you’re pent up, don’t necessarily get much action in your line of work, but the noise of your arousal squelching loudly in the room when he slides two fingers between your folds stings embarrassment down your chest and behind your eyelids.

“Thought I couldn’t get ya wet, love?” He drawls.

God, you didn’t know you were that wet. Hadn’t even been touched yet, not even a kiss, and your traitorous pussy is leaking for any attention.

You do know that it only makes him entirely too smug. Even more so when one finger slides in with no resistance despite how thick it is, practically suctioning him in for more. But he works you up to it, takes his time dragging against your eager walls until your fingers fist the blanket under you.

You have to roll your tongue over your teeth to stop yourself from moaning when a second finger joins the first. They’re bigger, thicker, longer, fucking better than yours, scratch a delicious ache against your gummy pussy that makes your head slump forward, each thrust finding a spot your slender fingers can’t quite reach.

The pleasure goops over you, tacky and thick, melting the molten lava in your core into your bare flesh. It takes every inch of your control to remember that you’re supposed to fight your impending orgasm, pretend that you’re not clinging to desperate straws to deprive Kyle of your own pleasure.

It almost hurts. Your body wants it so badly, haven’t had something warm, something real stretching your walls in so long that it wages a war between your willpower and your animalistic innate desires. And Kyle knows that, of course he does because he’s Kyle fucking Garrick.

“Fight it all you want,” He says, curling his fingers against the exact spot that makes a pinched whine escape the tight confines of your lips for the first time the whole night, “Only denyin’ yourself of the inevitable.”

“Fuck. You.” You grit, “Not even— mmh! close.”

He laughs, “Didn’t your folks teach you ‘t’s bad to lie?”

You open your mouth to respond, snarl at him not to talk about your family when he’s got his fingers buried in your cunt, but he presses against that sweet gooey spot again and all you can manage is a pathetic mewl.

And then his deft fingers turn brutal, unrelenting, bullying that spot until you’re snapping your head forward, eyes flying to his.

He tilts his head, smug grin on his stupid lips, “What’s t’matter? Cat got your tongue?”

You want to yell at him to shut up, go to fucking hell, anything, but it takes all your energy to focus on not finishing, have to bite the inside of your cheek until you taste metallic blood. Even still your arms are slowly dipping lower onto the bed, brows pinched, face squished in agony because you’re too stubborn to give in that easily.

Your nails are probably ripping the seams of his blanket, but you’re holding on to them for dear life as if they’re the last thread connecting you to your diminishing self-control. Like tearing his mattress to shreds will stop your hips from bucking into his palm.

It doesn’t of course.

He hums, approvingly, satisfied like he already won long ago. He did, you’ll just fight tooth and nail, fangs and claws, to prolong his pleasure for as long as you can manage.

“Tha’s more like it.” He purrs, “Can’t hold it much longer, can you?”

“Shuddup,” You slur, grounding your hips stiffly so they stop betraying you.

Suddenly, his face is next to yours, leg unceremoniously falling to his hip, “Gonna cum f’me? Huh?”

You shake your head weakly, but tears are welling in your lashes at the sheer force you’re trying to drench the unyielding fire thrashing under your skin cold and dry.

“Hate you.” You croak, staring at him with dewy-eyes and heavy lids.

“Wouldn’t ‘ave my fingers in your pretty cunt if tha’ was true, would I?” He lilts, and a part of you knows it’s true, but it only makes you want to hate him even more. “We both know I won, love, jus’ let go.”

You bare your teeth at him in a growl; you know he’s just trying to convince you to finish, to succumb and let him win, but it works. It’s not like you had much control anyways.

Your body seizes, falling back on to the mattress as you arch your back, jaw going slack. A broken noise leaves your chest as you tremor with every pulse of the searing pleasure. It seeps throughout your body, blinding and uncontained, makes your legs shake as you struggle to breathe.

“There’s a girl,” Kyle praises when you mutter a weak ‘one.’

His fingers slow just a bit, allow you time to come down from your high. Your hips convulse involuntarily, swollen walls fluttering frantically around the girth. Your eyes are hazy, look at him a little dazed, like you hadn’t expected to finish that intensely.

You think it’s done, prepare to hear his boastful bragging you don’t really care about because you’re entirely too blissed out to care about anything, really. But the bastard seems to have other plans.

Three fingers swipe against your clit, and your muscles tense, stomach tighten at the sensation.

Your hand flies to his wrist, “Kyle, no, no I can’t.”

“I won,” He says plainly, pinning your hand down, “I’m taking my prize.”

And he doesn’t stop until there’s an obscene amount of your cum gathered in his palm, a sopping filthy mess. Sobbing into the sheets with pure overstimulation, malleable and pliant, crying his name orgasm after orgasm.

[heartswithinreach]

your post about sylus essentially conditioning the reader to sit on his lap hasjsakddf that was so perfect and in character 😭 i love it sm its given me so much brain rot - how bout this:

can i request the lads boys reaction to the reader randomly asking to be carried/picked up in the middle of walking? for no other reason just to see how'd they react lol

LaDS casually carrying MC

Xavier

The most casual. He just smiles at you and asks, "Bridal or piggyback?" in the same tone as if he's asking what you want to eat.

And he's not just playing along. He means it. He wants to be the one you lean on — metaphorically and literally.

You can try and backtrack but then you'll get those eyes. The bluest puppy dog eyes that can break the strongest of wills. "Are you sure? We still have a few blocks to go to the café, I don’t want you to get tired..."

You feel like you're holding out on him by not letting him carry you. The mind tricks this man is capable of to get what he wants are ridiculous.

You fold embarrassingly fast and Xavier is happy as can be with you on his back, your arms and legs around him like a full-body embrace. He can see the tactical advantage to carrying you like this during missions, too.

Rafayel

"You want me to carry you?“ Rafayel scoffs. “What if I pulled a muscle in my arm and couldn't draw for a week? No thank you!"

He refuses until you ask if it's not that he doesn't want to carry you, but that he can't.

Now you've wounded his pride. He might not be the God of the Sea anymore, but he can't let this go unanswered! Rafayel will be on you relentlessly to let him pick you up, no matter how long it takes.

"Whoa, be careful, cutie! There's no telling how deep these puddles are from all the rain — you're super lucky your boyfriend is here to carry you to safety."

When you finally break and let him do it just so he can prove a point, he realizes he likes this way more than he thought he would. You're like his adorable little prisoner and the only way you're getting out is in praise and smooches. This will become a regular thing, I fear.

Zayne

“I told you to wear more comfortable shoes.”

Zayne inwardly grins at how quickly you deflate at his blunt response. It's adorable.

But Zayne has a hard time denying you something so innocent as wanting to be close to him. So he guides your arm to wrap around his shoulders and picks you up with a strength that always takes you by surprise.

He waits for you to settle comfortably in his arms before he starts walking. He's aware of the disapproving stares from the people around you and not too long ago, he would've been one of them. How quickly his perspective has changed because of you.

Zayne is brought out of his thoughts when he feels you peck his cheek and now you get that oh so familiar look of gentle reproach from him. "I am working on being more affectionate but I'm not there yet, MC. Now, behave or your ride will end early."

Sylus

Sylus is so caught off guard that, for once, you can see his entire thought process play out through his expressions.

Surprise at your request, suspicion you're just toying with him, the realization you're being somewhat serious, and then the most gratified look you've ever seen on his stupid smug face.

Now you’re speaking his language. So delighted you’re finally catching on, he just picks you up and continues on his way without breaking his stride.

However, you didn't specify how he should carry you. So you're draped over Sylus's shoulder and to keep you there, his hand is dangerously high up on your thigh for being in public. The smack on your ass is so inevitable, you can feel it like it's already happened.

"You just said you were tired, now you want me to put you down? You need to learn to make up your mind, kitten. I'll just carry you until you're sure of what you want."