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ama3003 · 2 months ago

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A Pawn Once More

Character: Haymitch Abernathy

Requested: No

Type: Angst/ Fluff

Summary: For years, Haymitch has kept his biggest secret buried—his love for the one person he couldn’t afford to lose. But when the Quarter Quell announces that tributes will be reaped from the pool of Victors, his worst nightmare becomes reality.

A.N: Scene from Catching Fire. No, I haven't read Sunrise on the Reaping, so please, No Spoilers. It's a Female!Reader.

Age Gap: Haymitch is 41 and Reader is in her 20s (preferably 25)

Part 2: Here

Part 3: Here

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome. As you know, in every Quarter Quell, we do things a little differently. To commemorate the 75th Hunger Games, the third Quarter Quell, we have decided to add a new twist to the tradition."

"The tributes will be reaped from the pool of existing victors."

The air was thick with the screams and desperate cries of your family, their voices echoing in your ears as your own face twisted in horror. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be.

After surviving the 66th Hunger Games, after securing your place in history and your district’s fleeting pride, you were supposed to live out your life in something resembling peace. You’d be called back each year to mentor, yes, but never again would you be dragged into the arena. Never again would you face the bloodbath.

But now? Now you were nothing more than a pawn again.

You had to leave. You had to run. Your little brother’s tiny fingers clung desperately to you, his sobs vibrating through your chest as your mother—your mother—threw things in fury, her heartbreak spilling over. Every instinct told you to stay, to comfort them, but you knew better. You had to leave or you’d lose your mind. Or worse, you’d drag them down into your nightmare.

You ran. The pounding of your feet against the dirt was deafening, a frantic rhythm of escape, but your body couldn’t outrun the reality clawing at your soul. You ran until your legs gave out and you collapsed, crumbling to your knees, gasping for air. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. It had to be alright. It had to be. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t.

You wiped away your tears, your breath ragged and uneven, thoughts spinning wildly. Out of the eight victors from your district, only you and one of your mentors were women. And you weren’t about to let your mentor go through the Games again. There was no chance. You knew the nightmares she’d endured, the scars that marked her body. Like you, she had survived, but she wasn’t as capable as she once was when she won during the 47th Games. At least you still had a fighting chance.

Your mind turned to your family next. You just needed them to promise you one thing. They couldn’t watch. They couldn’t watch you die. It was the only mercy you could give them. You couldn’t let them see that.

Your death would rip them apart, you knew it. Your mother would be left without her daughter. Your brother would grow up without his older sister to protect him. Your father, already a shadow of the man he once was, would be broken, lost in the absence of his “princess.” And Haymitch—Haymitch.

The thought of him hit you like a physical blow, your heart constricting in your chest. He’s a victor too. A chilling realization gripped you like ice in your veins. He could be reaped. He could be sent to fight.

Tears spilled freely, hot and relentless, as you gasped, your breath stuttering. The weight of it crushed you. He could be reaped. And that terrifying thought shattered you more than the fear of your own reaping ever could.

You let out a scream—gut-wrenching, heart-shattering—your body shaking as it tore through you. It was a sound so full of anguish, so desperate, it seemed to rip apart the very fabric of the world around you. Haymitch. He could be reaped. And with that, all your nightmares, every awful memory, every twisted fear, came to life.

-----

“Get me that damn tablet,” Haymitch barked, shoving his way through the train car in search of the device. His mind was a tangled mess, his body still buzzing from the alcohol he’d consumed in an attempt to dull the gnawing pain.

The last few days had been a blur, but he could still feel the sharp sting of the announcement ringing in his ears. The tributes... the victors... and his own twisted fate. He should’ve been focusing on how he’d somehow managed to cheat death. Instead, his mind was consumed with one thing—and one person—from District 5. You.

When the announcement came about the victors being reaped, he hadn’t reacted with surprise. No, he’d gone into a frenzy. He’d torn apart his house, broken everything in sight, and drunk himself into oblivion. His fingers had clutched his most prized possession with a desperation he couldn't explain—a beautiful gold chain, wrapped tightly around his finger, holding the most precious ring.

The night before, Katniss had begged him—no, pleaded—for him to volunteer for Peeta during the reaping. He had agreed. Not because he wanted to, hell no. But because he had to be there if you were reaped. And now, as Peeta decided to take matters into his own hands, Haymitch found himself thrust into the role of mentor. It infuriated him. He didn’t want this. He didn’t want you in the arena again.

The other districts should’ve already been reaped by now, and his mind was frantic, itching to know if you had been chosen. Unfortunately, he’d been trapped in the mentor role, unable to watch the reaping unfold. Now, though, he was pushing everyone aside, his hands shaking as he aggressively swiped across the tablet screen, searching for answers.

“What's his deal?” Katniss scoffed, watching Haymitch swipe frantically at the tablet.

Effie, doing her best to keep the secret Haymitch had entrusted her with, attempted to downplay his urgency. “Oh, he’s just trying to see which victors got reaped. Don’t worry about it yet.”

“I can’t find it. Turn on the damn video on the TV,” he snapped, his patience gone. Effie scrambled, finally finding the footage and flicking it on.

As the video began, Haymitch subconsciously started playing with the gold band around his neck, his fingers caressing it absently as his heart hammered in his chest. The room fell silent as the broadcast began—District 5’s reaping.

"Welcome, welcome," the escort’s overly cheery voice rang out, her ridiculous outfit blinding in its absurdity. "As we celebrate the 75th anniversary and the 3rd Quarter Quell of the Hunger Games, as always, ladies first…”

Haymitch’s leg started bouncing in nervous anticipation, his pulse quickening. District 5 had eight victors, but only two were women—and you were one of them.

He couldn’t help it. His eyes locked onto the screen, unable to tear himself away. You stood there, dressed in black, your face a perfect mask of stoicism. Your eyes were red, your pain carefully hidden beneath a practiced, blank expression—the one you’d perfected from years of surviving. He’d taught you that. How to hide everything. How to show nothing. How to survive.

He watched you hold hands with your mentor, the two of you standing in quiet solidarity. A tiny part of him hoped that it would be you—the one they called forward, so your mentor could volunteer for you. He knew she would. You just had to let her.

The escort’s voice cut through his thoughts, though he barely heard it now. She gave both you and your mentor a small, sad smile before unfolding the slip of paper. “The female tribute of District 5…” she began, and the words hung in the air like a death sentence, “Abigail Winston.”

Effie’s sigh of relief was audible, probably thinking that you were home free, that everything was going to be okay. But Haymitch knew better. He knew you. And that’s why his entire body tensed in an instant. The anger surged through his veins like wildfire, hot and uncontrollable.

And then he saw your movement. The way you stepped forward. No.

Before your mentor could even make a move, your voice steady but fierce rang out, “I volunteer as tribute.”

Time seemed to slow. Haymitch’s heart stopped, the world around him blurring as he felt everything he’d been holding together shatter. His breath came in ragged, panicked gasps as the glass in his hand fell to the floor, shattering into a thousand pieces. The tablet in his hands followed, crashing to the ground in a violent thud.

Katniss and Peeta exchanged confused glances, unsure of who you were or why Haymitch had reacted like that. Effie’s tears fell silently, a mix of sorrow and disbelief. But before anyone could speak, Haymitch turned away, his mind consumed by rage and heartbreak. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t.

He stormed down the train, away from them all, his hands clawing at the air as if trying to rip the world apart. Every part of him, every inch of his being, was focused on one thought: You. You had volunteered. You had sealed your fate. And now, all of his nightmares were coming true.

-----

Haymitch wished he were drunk. He wished the alcohol could drown out the aching pain of having you step into that arena again. It wasn’t fair.

You barely had two years together. Two years of being an official couple, and yet it felt like it wasn’t enough. He’d first met you at the end of your Victor’s Tour, when you decided to escape the attention and hide at the bar. You outdrank him that night, which, frankly, was impressive.

At first, he never expected to care for you. You were just another survivor, bound to the same cruel fate as him. But then, over time, as you grew up and proved yourself in ways he never imagined, he couldn’t help but fall in love.

You were 15 years younger, and he had always kept his distance, hiding his feelings behind a wall of friendship. But as the years passed, and you all met yearly for the Games as mentors, one thing led to another. A night full of too much alcohol, too many unspoken feelings—and before he knew it, you had shared a night neither of you would ever forget.

The next morning, you confessed what had been lingering beneath the surface for so long. It took him months to work up the courage to ask you out, battling his own demons of self-doubt and guilt.

And then, for two beautiful years, you two had kept it secret. Notes passed in shadows, stolen kisses, quiet smiles, and letters filled with raw emotion. Two years of sneaking around, being completely, utterly in love.

And now, it was all coming to an end.

Effie found him passed out in the train’s aisle, and without hesitation, she put him to bed, understanding that he needed space.

The next morning, Haymitch tried to seek you out. He wanted to see you, to make sure you were okay, but his duties as a mentor took priority. Effie begged him to focus, to speak to Katniss and Peeta first, and then find you. He was torn between his heart and his responsibilities. And in the end, Effie dragged him to the kids.

He spent that day drinking and half-heartedly trying to teach them about the importance of allies.

“Finnick Odair, right?” Katniss asked, as they went through the list of reaped victors.

He nodded, pointing to the screen. “Yes, he won at fourteen—youngest victor ever. Extremely humble.”

“You're kidding, right?” Katniss scoffed.

“Yes, I’m kidding.” He flipped his hair dramatically. “He’s a... peacock. A total preener, but he’s the Capitol darling. They love him here. Charming, smart, and very skilled at combat—especially in water.”

Peeta leaned forward, glancing at the screen. “What about weaknesses?”

“One person, Mags.” A frail, wrinkled woman appeared on the screen. “She volunteered for Annie. Mags was his mentor, basically raised him. If Finnick’s trying to protect her, it exposes him.”

Katniss stared at the screen, watching the woman bravely volunteer for the young girl in tears. “A guy like that has to know she’s not going to make it. I bet when it really comes down to it, he won’t protect her.”

Sadness flickered in Haymitch’s eyes. “Well, Katniss, I just hope when she goes... she goes quickly. She’s a wonderful lady.”

He pressed a button on the tablet, knowing exactly who would appear next, but his body tensed involuntarily as the screen flickered to life.

"District Five: Mason Cover and Y/N L/N." Haymitch stared at the screen, his eyes locked on you, unable to look away.

"She's the girl we saw on the train," Katniss said, sensing the weight of Haymitch’s reaction. "What's her story?"

Haymitch glanced at Katniss before downing his drink. “She won the 66th Games at 16. The last hour of the Games, there were five tributes left. She killed each one of them single-handedly—arrows, spear, you name it. Extremely skillful, resourceful. And beloved by many of our victors.”

He pointed to Mason Cover, “Mason won the 55th Games at 18. Lethal in hand-to-hand combat. The last 30 minutes of those Games were a triple threat match. Those two are close friends. You want them as allies. And if you trust me... trust them. They're who you should be allies with.” He repeated, his gaze locked on Katniss. “Trust me.”

“Who is she to you?” Katniss asked bluntly, her voice cutting through the tension. “We all saw the reaping. We saw the way you reacted. Now you want to team up with her... why?”

Haymitch squinted at her, his fingers subconsciously playing with the chain around his neck. “She's just a friend. I've known her for years. I know both of them. Good people. Trustworthy people.”

“I don’t believe you,” Katniss retorted.

“Katniss,” Peeta interjected, sensing the simmering tension. "Let it go."

But before anyone could speak, Effie burst through the door, her heels clicking sharply against the floor as she hurried toward Haymitch. "Haymitch, thank God you're here!" she said, voice strained with urgency. She then saw Katniss and Peeta standing in the room, and immediately faltered. "Oh... uh... Haymitch, you're needed outside of this room." She gestured quickly toward the door, trying to keep the situation under wraps, hoping the kids wouldn't notice.

Haymitch caught the hint, and without a word, he practically flew out of the room. Before the door even clicked shut behind him, he was pulled into an embrace. Your arms.

And for a moment, everything around him seemed to stop.

"Haymitch..." you whispered, your voice trembling as tears flooded your face. After days of terror, the weight of the world finally seemed to melt away in his arms. He was here. You needed him more than anything.

"Y/N..." He squeezed you tightly, his arms wrapping around you like a lifeline. His heart hammered in his chest, sobering instantly from the haze of alcohol. The warmth of your skin, the sweet scent of you, and the soft wetness of your tears soaking through his shirt — this was real. You were here, with him... for now.

He pulled back slightly, needing to see your face, his hands gently cupping your tear-streaked cheeks. He smiled at you, the corners of his mouth trembling with something he couldn't quite control. "Hi, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice breaking.

It hurt him to see you like this—eyes red and swollen, your hands shaking, a look of grim acceptance in your gaze. The kind of acceptance that made his heart shatter. What had you accepted? What were you preparing for? That thought alone gnawed at him.

"It's going to be okay. I’ve got you, pretty girl." His voice cracked with desperation, the words pouring out in a rush. "I’ll get you sponsors, and you'll be okay. Then when this is over, we can go back to my district, or yours, and live the rest of our lives together. I’m not going anywhere. Not now. Not ever." He whispered it, desperate for you to believe him, for you to feel safe, for the horrible weight of your future to somehow lift.

But then, you shook your head, sobbing. "You can't... Katniss and Peeta are your responsibility. You need to help them. You need to save them." The words broke out in a cry, your eyes locking with his in raw, painful clarity. He shook his head, his heart sinking.

"No," he muttered firmly, "I’m not leaving you alone for this." His hands gripped your shoulders, holding you as if he could keep you safe, as if he could protect you from the arena, from everything.

"I’ll be alright," you tried to smile, wiping away the fresh tears that fell. "You don’t need to worry about me." You forced the smile, trying to push him, to focus on the kids, on them. You knew the truth, knew the game was rigged. Katniss needed to be victorious; you were just collateral damage, nothing more.

Your hand reached up to caress his face, your thumb tracing the rough outline of his jaw. "The kids need you, my love. You have to choose them over me. You have to choose Katniss over me. She... she is important."

"You're important." His voice cracked as he tried to hold on to some semblance of control, but it shattered as soon as he looked at you. "You're everything to me. You're my world. My wife... You don’t know what you’re asking me to do..." His voice broke, the words too raw, too heavy. "I can’t leave you in that arena. I won’t. I will save you."

You stared at him, tears running freely down both of your faces. He looked at you in disbelief, his eyes wide with an agony he couldn't hide. You had accepted your death, but he couldn’t. Not now. Not like this. He had already lost so much. He wouldn’t lose you too. Not like this. Not again.

"You don’t understand," he whispered, his voice raw, breaking with the weight of everything he couldn’t say. He shook his head, disbelief flickering in his eyes. "I can’t let them take you from me." His mind was already spinning, heart racing with frantic thoughts—how could he get more sponsors? Who could he talk to in the Capitol? There had to be a way. Anything to keep you alive. "Why the hell did you volunteer? Why—Jesus Christ, why you?" The words cracked through his chest, his heart shattering with the pain of it. He couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. He was losing you, and he couldn’t stop it.

You reached up to cup his face, your thumb gently brushing over the rough, scarred lines of his cheek, your touch a silent plea. You saw the desperation in his eyes—the panic, the fear that he couldn’t hide. Your voice trembled as you whispered, "Haymitch... I promise you, I’ll be okay. I’ll be fine." The words tasted like ash on your tongue, but you said them anyway, because you needed him to believe it. You couldn’t bear the thought of him falling apart, not when you knew what was coming. You had to be strong for him, even if it broke you to lie like that.

And then, with everything breaking inside him, you leaned in, pressing your lips to his in a kiss that spoke of everything: grief, love, fear, and an unbearable desperation. It was rough and frantic, a mixture of tears and longing. The kiss was an apology, a plea, and a final, desperate act of love.

What neither of you knew was that Katniss, Peeta, and Effie were watching from the crack in the door, their eyes wide with shock.

Haymitch has a wife.

And she was about to die.

Next Chapter

#haymitch abernathy #haymitch x reader #the hunger games #hunger games fanfiction #hunger games x reader #haymitch x y/n #haymitch x you #haymitch abernathy angst #thg haymitch #haymitch abernathy x you #catching fire #haymitch abernathy x reader #hunger games #thg catching fire #sotr #thg sotr #haymitch

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cressidagrey · 16 days ago

Text

In Denial

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

Summary: 5 Times Lando Norris probably should have realised that his teammate had a child, but never did and 1 time Oscar Piastri made very clear that he is a father.

Notes: Big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble 😂

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

The most colourful beaded bracelet in existence

It was their first official McLaren shoot as teammates. Media day. Race suits. Matching smiles. More lights and cameras than either of them had patience for.

The studio was freezing.

Typical, Lando thought, shivering slightly as someone adjusted the collar of his race suit for the third time. Glossy black floor, high-power lights, white backdrop — the usual setup. All sleek, all clean, all perfectly curated for sponsor-ready content.

Across from him, Oscar Piastri was already mid-shoot.

He didn’t fidget. Didn’t blink too much. Just stood there with that absurdly steady posture and those deadpan, almost neutral expressions that somehow read as confident and composed on camera. Arms folded. Chin slightly tilted. That understated brand of cool that made McLaren’s marketing team positively froth at the mouth.

That was one of the first things Lando had noticed about Oscar — how quiet he was. Calm. Low-effort on the surface, but the kind of low-effort that made you realize it was actually hiding effort in a very specific, efficient way. Not cold, exactly. Just... still. A little private. And hard to read unless you really tried.

They weren’t close yet. But they weren’t strangers either. A few simulator sessions. Some preseason testing banter. Dinner once, in a group, where Oscar had said maybe twenty words total — but had watched everything. Not in a weird way. Just in that Piastri way. Calculated. Patient.

So Lando wasn’t surprised when Oscar handled media day like he handled everything else — with the expression of someone who had long ago accepted the chaos and decided to simply outlast it.

What did surprise Lando was the bracelet.

It caught his eye halfway through Oscar’s solo shoot.

Right wrist. Tucked just under the edge of the suit cuff. Beads.

Chunky plastic ones — definitely the homemade kind, with alphabet letters, random sparkly shapes, a few bright neons. The kind you’d make at a kids’ party. It clashed completely with the McLaren fireproofs, and absolutely no part of it matched the slick, brand-polished aesthetic of the shoot.

Lando narrowed his eyes. There was a glittery dinosaur bead. He was almost sure of it.

He leaned over to one of the stylists nearby, curiosity piqued. “Hey. Is he supposed to be wearing that?”

The stylist glanced at the screen, then rolled her eyes fondly. “Tried to take it off. He said, and I quote, ‘It stays.’”

Lando raised both eyebrows. Oscar, the human embodiment of “yeah, sure, whatever you need,” had refused to remove a beaded dinosaur bracelet?

“For real?”

“Dead serious. Wouldn’t even consider it. Said it was for ‘focus.’” She shrugged, like it wasn’t the weirdest thing she’d seen today — which, to be fair, it probably wasn’t.

Lando stared a second longer, then turned away, biting back a smirk. “That’s so weird.”

But not in a bad way. Just… unexpected.

It was his turn soon after.

They swapped spots in front of the camera. Oscar stepped down, took the bottle of water someone handed him, then wordlessly handed Lando one as well — like he’d read his mind.

“Cheers,” Lando muttered.

Oscar just nodded, sipping his own. Then:

“Nice accessory,” Lando said casually, nodding toward the bracelet as he took the water.

Oscar didn’t even glance down. “It’s for focus.”

Lando raised a brow. “Right. Because nothing says elite athlete like a kindergarten craft project.”

Oscar did glance at him this time. But not with offense. Just a kind of calm indifference.

“It helps me remember what actually matters,” Oscar said calmly.

F1 Driver and Snack Mule

Lando looked up from his phone when he heard the private jet door seal with a soft thunk, expecting to see Oscar stroll in like he always did: calm, quiet, annoyingly composed, maybe a hoodie half-zipped, headphones around his neck.

Instead, Oscar Piastri appeared in the aisle looking like the final boss of an airport convenience store.

It was almost comical. One over-the-shoulder canvas tote, handle fraying. One plastic bag from what looked like a 24-hour corner mart — already strained to breaking. One very full backpack that absolutely should not have been that heavy unless it was packed with bricks, hardcover physics textbooks, or illicit quantities of pineapple tarts. And dangling from his wrist: a second tote with a glass bottle poking out of the top like the flag of carbohydrate surrender.

Lando stared. Horrified. “…Why do you look like a snack-themed pack mule?”

Oscar dropped into his seat across the aisle, completely unfazed by his appearance. “Oh. I had a list.”

“A list?” Lando echoed, eyes darting between the bags like one of them might spontaneously explode. “Of what? Food to outlive the apocalypse? A year’s supply of… squid?!”

Oscar adjusted the seatbelt over his mountain of bags. “Some of this is hard to find in the UK. It’s just smart logistics.”

At that exact moment, one of the plastic bags betrayed him. It split with an unfortunate pop and dumped half its contents across the aisle carpet.

Lando leaned forward to get a better look and immediately recoiled.

Out spilled: —A large bag of sweet chili crab chips. —Two packs of pastel-wrapped milk candies. —A sealed glass jar of something brown and deeply alarming. —snacks with so many chili peppers printed on the bag it looked like a dare —Five types of instant noodles, all labeled in languages Lando didn’t speak. —Something that was either a sesame snack or a trap. —And, inexplicably, a box of Hello Kitty band-aids.

Lando blinked harder.

Oscar saw his face and added, like it helped, “Some of it’s not for me.”

“Yeah, no kidding,” Lando muttered as Oscar started sorting the contents of the split bag into the other bags.“You opening a snack stall mid-flight?”

Oscar opened a shrimp chip bag and popped one in his mouth. “Want some?”

Lando took one sniff.

Gagged audibly.

“OH MY GOD,” he wheezed. “THAT SMELLS LIKE SEAFOOD DIED IN A TRASHCAN.”

Oscar shrugged, chewing peacefully. “You’re dramatic.”

Lando had fully recoiled into the corner of the seat. “That is not food. That’s a warning sign. I’m going to smell like a fish market by the time we land.”

Oscar opened a second bag. “This one’s milder.”

Lando peeked. “What’s that?”

“Dried squid.”

Lando gagged again. “You have layers, Piastri. None of them are good.”

Oscar reached for the closed glass jar, filled with some brown paste, checked the lid, nodded like he was mentally ticking off inventory. “Hard to find a good brand at home.”

Lando stared. “Who even eats this much weird stuff?”

Oscar’s eyes flicked up just slightly.

And that’s when it clicked.

Lando didn’t say anything. Not out loud. But his brain — finally — started piecing it together.

This wasn’t “Oscar the Snack Enthusiast.”

This was “Oscar the Supply Mule for Someone Else.”

Someone very particular. Someone who didn’t want the Tesco version. Someone who sent him out with a list that included: “the pink milk tea, not the yellow one” and “not that brand, the other brand, you know the one.”

Oscar crunched another chip, calm as ever.

Lando eyed him. “So. Just you doing some shopping, huh?”

Oscar nodded.

Lando didn’t ask again.

But he did silently move one seat over when the durian candy came out.

Oscar being shockingly competent with kids

Lando didn’t think much of it at first.

It was just another media day.

Some local promotional thing for McLaren — sponsor meet-and-greet, fan Q&A, a few demo laps in a two-seater. The kind of chaotic-but-managed event they’d both done a dozen times. A little exhausting. A little awkward. Mostly harmless.

There were fans, of course. Grown ones. Screaming ones. Cool ones. Weird ones. The whole buffet.

But this one was different. There were kids. Lots of kids.

Some had come with families. Others were part of a junior karting initiative McLaren was launching — a handful of lucky young fans picked to tour the paddock and meet the drivers. There were matching T-shirts, oversized hats, those little paper lanyards they always lost within fifteen minutes.

Lando was fine with kids. Ish. He’d gotten better at it.

He crouched for selfies, signed baseball caps, knelt to high-five a girl who asked if he liked unicorns, and almost let one small boy sit on his shoulders until PR made eye contact with him and shook their head like he was about to commit a legal crime.

“Next time, little man,” Lando had said cheerfully, patting the kid’s head.

Then he’d stepped back, reached for his water, and glanced down the row toward Oscar.

And paused.

Because Oscar Piastri was crouched on both knees, arms resting loosely on them, eye-level with a girl who couldn’t have been more than four.

She was talking. Earnestly. Tiny hands flailing, expression serious.

Oscar was holding something — a piece of paper, maybe. Crinkled. Bright markers. Stickers.

He wasn’t rushing her. He wasn’t giving the half-smile-and-nod routine that Lando had seen a hundred times from drivers and team staff alike.

He was listening.

Really listening.

He held her earmuffs in one hand — the glow-in-the-dark kind with a space pattern on them — and tilted his head as she explained the rocket car she’d drawn for him. He smiled at the picture. Asked if she’d used glitter glue. Told her she had a good sense of aerodynamics.

Then, completely seriously, he handed her his cap.

“Wanna sign it?” he asked. “So I can remember you.”

The girl beamed. Lit up like a Christmas tree. She took the offered marker with the solemnity of a royal decree and scribbled something right on the brim of his hat.

Oscar glanced at it. “Best handwriting I’ve ever seen.”

Lando blinked.

Alright.

That was... weirdly natural.

Still watching, he saw Oscar gently return her earmuffs and wave her off toward the line of handlers. The girl skipped away, ecstatic.

But Oscar’s attention had already shifted.

There was a boy now — maybe five or six — standing stiffly just behind her. His hands were pressed against his sides. He looked overwhelmed. Pale. Eyes darting around. The noise, the crowd, the lights — it was too much.

Oscar stepped out of the way. Smooth, instinctive. Like he’d already clocked the signs.

He knelt again, this time a little more to the side. Not directly in front of the kid. Just there. Present. Safe.

And then, as if by magic, Oscar pulled something from his jacket pocket.

A juice pouch.

A whole juice pouch. With a bendy straw already poked in.

He offered it without a word.

The boy hesitated. Then took it. Slowly. Clutched it like a lifeline.

Oscar said something Lando couldn’t hear. The boy nodded.

And the moment passed. Quiet. Undramatic. But… important.

Lando stared.

No one just had juice pouches on them.

Unless, you were Oscar Piastri apparently.

Redecorating

Lando was bored.

Which, to be fair, wasn’t unusual.

But this brand of boredom was especially aggressive. The kind that clawed at your brain and made you wander aimlessly until you accidentally annoyed every single person in the building.

They were in the middle of a weather delay and a telemetry glitch. The engineers were scrambling like caffeinated ants, and even the usually chill media team had gone slightly feral over a reshoot that got rained out. There was nothing to do. No one to annoy who hadn’t already threatened him with a torque wrench.

Which was how he ended up outside Oscar’s driver room.

Hovering.

Like a stray cat looking for food and attention.

The door was cracked. A faint tapping sound came from inside — someone scrolling. Or texting.

“Yo,” Lando called through the gap. “You in there?”

Oscar’s voice came back, muffled and flat. “Yeah. Come in.”

Lando shoved the door open with the dramatic flourish of someone who had absolutely nothing else to do and flopped down onto the tiny couch tucked along the back wall like he owned the place.

Oscar didn’t even glance up from his phone.

“No, you can’t have my last protein bar.”

Lando scoffed. “I didn’t come here to rob you.”

Oscar looked up. “You always come here to rob me.”

“Well, not this time.”

“Suspicious,” Oscar muttered, but he didn’t seem bothered. He just turned back to his phone, thumb moving slowly over the screen.

Lando let his head loll back against the wall, eyes scanning the room.

It was, predictably, the most Piastri-like space ever. Minimal. Tidy. Not much flair. A clean stack of team shirts in the corner. Spare gloves lined up in perfect pairs. Charger cables coiled like they’d been arranged by a computer.

But then something caught his eye.

Drawings.

Not many — maybe six or seven in total — but they stood out. Bright against the otherwise monochrome setup. Crayon. Marker. One done entirely in glitter gel pen, which sparkled faintly in the overhead lights.

They weren’t on display, exactly. More like… tucked in. Slipped into corners of the mirror. Taped carefully to the inside of the locker door. One pinned to the corkboard with a bright pink pushpin.

One had Oscar’s race number scribbled in purple and red, surrounded by stars and what might have been hearts or tire marks.

Another showed a very vague interpretation of a Formula One car — lopsided wheels, dramatic flames, one suspiciously smiley face on the helmet.

Another still featured a chicken driving a race car.

Lando leaned forward to squint at that one.

Definitely a chicken.

“GO FAST BUT NOT TOO FAST,” it said in glitter pen under the drawing. The O in “GO” had eyes. The "S" in "FAST" had a lightning bolt through it.

Lando snorted.

That was… incredibly specific.

“Wow,” he said, smirking. “You’ve got a lot of fan art in here.”

Oscar finally looked up. “Hm?”

Lando gestured around the room, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I’m just saying… this is the softest your room has ever looked. What, did a fan send you a care package?”

Oscar blinked once. Twice.

Then followed Lando’s gaze. Paused.

“Oh,” he said casually. “Yeah. It just felt kind of cold in here, you know? So I figured I’d redecorate.”

Lando blinked. “With chicken-themed fan art?”

Oscar shrugged. “Adds character.”

Lando couldn’t help but snort. Only Oscar would think that plastering fan art all over his drivers room would make it feel “warmer”.

A weird obsession with kid sized merch

Lando noticed it for the first time at the McLaren factory gift shop.

They were doing a casual walk-through after some filming, mostly killing time while someone printed updated media decks. Lando wandered toward the wall of merch — adult sizes, junior kits, baby onesies, even tiny McLaren teddy bears in miniature race suits.

He wasn’t really looking for anything.

Oscar, on the other hand, made a beeline straight for the kids’ section.

Again.

Lando leaned on the shelf. Watched.

Oscar stopped by the back racks — fully absorbed in comparing three different sizes of junior caps.

Children’s sizes. Bright colors. One of them had glitter.

Lando blinked.

Oscar picked one up, turned it in his hands, and squinted at the stitching like he was inspecting it for FIA approval.

Lando wandered over, casually sipping his drink. “Uh… you planning to wear that?”

Oscar barely glanced up. “No. This one’s too stiff. It’ll bug her ears.”

“…Her?”

“Yeah.” Oscar didn’t elaborate. Just picked up another and pressed the inside seam with his thumb. “The elastic on this one’s better, but the Velcro’s weak. It won’t survive more than a week.”

Lando squinted. “Mate, why do you know that?”

Oscar blinked at him like he’d just asked what 2 + 2 was. “Because I’ve bought five of them.”

“Why?”

Oscar’s voice was perfectly calm. “Because the glitter ones fall apart in the wash and the regular ones shrink in the dryer. The 2022 version held up best.”

Oscar was now holding up a toddler-sized hoodie like he was inspecting fabric for a bespoke suit. “Do you think this runs small?”

Lando blinked. “Mate, you’re not gonna fit into that.”

Oscar gave him a look. “It’s not for me.”

“...So you just spend your free time evaluating baby merch like it’s Pirelli compound data?”

Oscar shrugged. “They’ve upgraded the stitching. And the seams used to pill after a few washes.”

Lando stared at him.

Hard.

Because this wasn’t the first time. Oscar always stopped by the kids’ section. Asked weirdly specific questions about youth sizing and durability. Once, Lando had caught him muttering something about how the toddler cap’s brim was too short to be practical. A few months ago, he’d gotten into a five-minute debate with a merch rep about the brim angle on the toddler caps. Something about sun protection and ear coverage.

Back then, Lando figured Oscar just… liked miniature things. Or had a secret side hustle selling baby teamwear on eBay.

Now he wasn’t so sure.

“…You do know you’re twenty-two and not a kindergarten stylist, right?” Lando asked, watching Oscar inspect a youth t-shirt like it had secrets.

Oscar nodded. “I know.”

“And you’re over here comparing fabric blends like you’re prepping a McLaren baby line?”

Oscar tilted his head. “Wouldn’t be a bad idea, honestly. The old toddler polos had awful seams. They improved the 2024 batch.”

Lando just… stared.

Oscar wasn’t joking. Oscar was never joking about this stuff.

Finally, Lando said, slowly, “Mate. What is it with you and tiny clothes?”

Oscar shrugged. “They’re fun.”

+1: The one time Oscar made it very clear that he was a dad.

Lando heard them before he saw them.

He’d wandered out back looking for a charger and maybe a second espresso—just enough time to breathe between debriefs—when he caught the tail end of a conversation.

Four mechanics. Leaning against the pit wall crates. Talking louder than they probably should.

“Had to FaceTime during lunch again,” one was saying. “My kid wanted to show me his drawing. Looked like a bloody squid with legs. Had to pretend it was good.”

Another one snorted. “Mine locked himself in the pantry last week. Thought it was funny. I told my wife to deal with it—I was too tired.”

The others snorted.

“Mine’s worse,” another said. “Always clinging, always needing something. It’s like—I don’t get a break at work, and I don’t get one at home either. It’s exhausting.”

“Mine told me he missed me,” a third said, voice cold. “Like that’s my fault. What does he want, a medal? I’ve got a job. I pay for everything. That should be enough.”

The first mechanic groaned. “…I swear, every time I get home there’s some new passive-aggressive list on the fridge from the Mrs. As if I haven’t been working twelve-hour days in the heat.”

“Mine’s mad I missed her mum’s birthday. Sorry, forgot to pencil in emotional obligation between Bahrain and Jeddah.”

“Be glad your kid is still cute at least. Mine’s hit the talking-back phase. Thinks he’s a comedian. Little smartass. I swear, sometimes I look at him and just think—God, you ruined my sleep, my weekends, and my peace and quiet.”

Lando flinched.

He didn’t mean to listen.

He told himself to walk away.

But then—

Oscar’s voice. Low. Razor-sharp.

“You should be ashamed of yourselves.”

It wasn’t loud.

But it cut through the air like a switchblade.

Lando stilled.

Oscar stood off to the side, arms folded, posture loose—but his face was hard. Cold. Not angry in the explosive way. Angry in the kind of way that stayed.

One of the mechanics laughed awkwardly. “Oh come on, mate. Wait until you’ve had kids for more than a week—”

“I have a three year-old,” Oscar said. Flat. Unapologetic. “And I’ve never once looked at her and thought she ruined anything.”

That shut them up.

Oscar stepped forward, voice soft, but lethal now. “You sit here and talk about your children like they’re inconveniences. Like they’re parasites who robbed you of something. But they’re kids. They didn’t ask to be born. They didn’t ask for your job or your exhaustion or your bitterness.”

One of the men tried to scoff. “It’s just venting—”

“No,” Oscar snapped. “It’s cruelty. Dressed up as banter.”

One of the mechanics snorted. “Alright, Piastri. Settle down.”

Oscar stepped forward from where he’d been leaning against a crate—quiet, composed, and lethal.

“No, I won’t,” he said. “Because I’ve heard this conversation three times this season. And every time it makes me want to be sick.”

Another mechanic scoffed. “You’re twenty-three, mate. What would you know? Come back and talk to us when you’ve had a toddler scream in your face for an hour straight.”

Oscar didn’t flinch.

“I have,” he said, voice steel-edged. “What do I know?” Oscar said, low and sharp. “I know more than you, apparently.”

The laughter died.

Oscar stepped closer, and when he spoke again, it was the kind of voice Lando had only ever heard on race comms—precise, icy, lethal.

“I know what it’s like to walk out the door while your kid clings to your leg crying and you still have to leave. I know what it’s like to miss first words and bedtime because your job doesn’t wait. I know what it’s like to hold my wife at night while she tries not to fall apart from doing everything alone.”

One of the mechanics muttered something under his breath—maybe “dramatic”—but Oscar cut him off.

“No,” he said, sharper now. “You don’t get to complain about your kid loving you. You don’t get to bitch about someone wanting your attention when they’re four years old and trying to understand the world. You don’t get to complain about your wives holding down the fort at home while you are gone.”

He stepped in fully now. Lando could just see the edge of him. Jaw tight. Hands still. Eyes like fire under ice.

“You think you’re tired? Your wives are tired. My wife holds our whole world together while I fly across time zones and come home with a smile and a suitcase. She handles everything—school, food, laundry, tears, scraped knees, nightmares. All the invisible things you think just… happen. You think your job is hard? Try explaining to a toddler why Papa’s never home.”

His voice dropped.

“And you sit here and talk about your kids like they’re weights around your neck instead of the best damn thing that ever happened to you?”

No one said a word.

“You think being exhausted means you’ve earned the right to resent your family? No. You want to know what makes someone a man? Showing up. Even when you’re tired. Especially when you’re tired. Because your family doesn’t stop needing you just because you had a long day.”

He looked around, eyes sharp enough to draw blood.

“You are not entitled to love. You’re lucky to receive it.”

Oscar’s face was set. Calm. Controlled. But there was fury simmering just beneath it—grief, too. And something bone-deep and unwavering.

“You think they slow you down? Maybe they’d be better off without you dragging them behind.”

There was a heavy pause.

Then, soft but with the impact of a sledgehammer:

“Being loved that hard is not a burden. It’s a gift. And if you’re too selfish to see that—then don’t be surprised when they stop waiting for you to come home.”

Silence.

Oscar didn’t wait for a response. He didn’t need one.

And then he turned.

Didn’t wait for a reply. Didn’t look back.

Just walked away—like he’d said everything that needed to be said.

Lando stood there a second longer, heart still thudding.

Then, quietly, he turned and followed Oscar.

Because that?

That was the most brutal, honest thing he’d heard all year.

And somehow, he knew—

Bee would never have to wonder how loved she was.

Not with a dad like that.

#formula 1 #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #f1 smau #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #f1 grid x reader #f1 grid fanfiction #oscar piastri fanfic #oscar piastri #Oscar Piastri fic #oscar piastri x reader #oscar piastri imagine #op81 fic #op81 imagine

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s0dium · 10 months ago

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𝐂𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐓𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐈𝐍

Haikyuu men x Reader

A/n: This is part of my Olympic event, please click on the for more! If you would like to suggest something for this event don't hesitate!

Synopsis: What do Haikyuu men do after the Olympics? Well, they do you

Warnings: Spanking, fingering, praise, groping, squirting

The camera zooms in on the bustling Olympic stadium in Paris, its energy palpable even through the television screen. The crowd's roaring cheers reverberate, celebrating the electrifying victory of the Japanese volleyball team. Among the sea of jubilant teammates, the camera focuses on one player, your boyfriend, glistening with sweat and wearing an infectious smile: fresh from clinching the gold medal.

As he steps away from the celebratory huddle, a reporter, microphone in hand, intercepts him. The reporter's voice is enthusiastic, mirroring the atmosphere, "So, what are your plans to celebrate the big win?"

He chuckles, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow, his grin widening, "Well, after drinks with the guys," he pauses, "I have a little post-game ritual."

Intrigued, the reporter leans in, the crowd's cheers serving as a dramatic backdrop, "Oh yeah? What's that?"

He winks at the camera, "Secret."

Yes a secret it was, one that only you and him knew. One that started off with you being bent over his knee with his fingers deep in your creamy cunt.

"Been thinking about this all day," he murmurs, right hand caressing the fat of your ass while his left curls and massages the sweet part of your gummy walls that makes your eyes roll back. At this point you have given up resisting, letting your body hang limp over his muscular thighs.

As his fingers probe and massage your gspot, the wet sounds of your arousal fill the room, an intoxicating symphony that drowns out all other thoughts. Each movement, each touch, creates a chorus of slick, rhythmic noises that seem to echo in your mind, pushing you further into a state of pure, unadulterated pleasure.

"So good," you whine and you don't know it but the tips of his ears go red from the sound of your voice. Your brain begins to haze, the world around you blurring until all that exists is the sensation of his ministrations. His touch is both fast and demanding, knowing exactly how to tease and please, drawing you closer to the edge. He reaches a spot inside you that you can only dream about reaching with your own fingers.

"I know baby, I know you feel good. Shit, i cant feel you squeezing my fingers." he groans at the feeling of your cunt convulsing around his digits. He is already two fingers deep in you but at this point he's thinking about stretching you further and slipping in a third. So he does. Using your dripping arousal as lubricant he slips in a third finger making your thighs tremble from the sudden intrusion. The stretch is delicious, who knew a volleyball player's hands had other uses besides volleyball?

"I won for you princess, the whole time i was playing I was thinking about you."

You can feel your pussy tighten and convulse at his words, the clicking sound of your arousal a testament to your connection, your mutual need.

Time loses all meaning as you surrender to the overwhelming sensations. His fingers, his praises, every part of him is dedicated to driving you wild, and you find yourself unable to hold back the moans that escape your lips. The noises you make together are primal, raw, and they pull you deeper into the abyss of pleasure.

"M'feel weird," You choke. Your breath comes in short, sharp gasps as the sensations become almost overwhelming. You feel something press down on your core like there is a pressure building inside you, a sweet, urgent tension that demands release.

"Shhh its ok, let it go baby." He coos and before you can respond he delivers a sharp smack to your ass. "make a mess on my hands, come on~"

The pleasure is so intense, so all-consuming, that it creates an almost paradoxical sensation. The euphoria is so great it feels as though you might lose control, as if you need to pee. It's a raw, primal feeling that heightens the urgency and the pleasure, pushing you further toward the edge.

You squeeze your eyes shut, your senses overwhelmed by the sheer intensity. Your mind races, caught between the need to let go and the fear of losing control. Then, it hits you. with a curl of his fingers against your wall, you surrender to it, letting the sensation wash over you.

Your are too lost in the ecstasy to realize that you are squirting all over his hand. It's like an explosion, your body trembling, your mind going blank, consumed entirely by the pleasure he has given you.

"Just like that, let it go y/n let it go." His hands rubs circles on your ass as your body shakes and trembles from your orgasm.

"So perfect so perfect, the best prize I swear."

HINATA, KUROO, BOKUTO, OIKAWA, TSUKISHIMA, Kenma, Ushijima, IWAZUMI, AKASHI, ATSUMU

#haikyuu smut #haikyuu x reader #oikawa smut #oikawa x reader #hinata x reader #hinata smut #kuroo x reader #kuroo smut #bokuto smut #bokuto x reader #tsukishima smut #tsukishima x reader #kenma smut #ushijima smut #iwazumi smut #atsumu x reader #atsumu smut #hq x reader #hq smut

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bueckets · 4 months ago

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Thin Walls

Pairing: roommate!Paige x reader

Genre: roommates to lovers, kinda funny?, smut, unbearable sexual tension, petty revenge, paper-thin walls, psychological warfare via moaning, paige bueckers menace era, girl failure x girl who never fails, competitive pining, mutual obsession, doomed from the start but in a fun way, vibrators n SEX, almost all ssmut

Description: When a sleep-deprived biomed student moves in with UConn’s most notorious heartbreaker, you expect late-night film study, protein shake graveyards, and an apartment perpetually scented like sweat and victory. What you don’t expect? Thin walls. And Paige Bueckers making absolutely no effort to keep her extracurricular activities quiet.

What starts as a battle for basic human decency turns into something far messier—petty revenge plots, mind games laced with innuendo, and an unspoken tension that neither of you is willing to name. Paige plays like she owns the court, like she owns the world, and maybe—just maybe—like she wants to own you, too.

They say pressure makes diamonds, but when it comes to Paige Bueckers, it just might make a disaster.

WC: 8.4k

There’s a certain satisfaction in watching rich people fight over throw pillows. Like, deep, existential satisfaction. The kind that settles into your bones, whispering at least you’re not that delusional while you scrape the bottom of your bank account for rent. That’s why Selling Sunset has become your new comfort show—nothing soothes the sting of your own financial ruin quite like watching a billionaire lose their shit over an ocean view.

The couch has practically absorbed your body at this point, molded to the exact slouch of your spine. The TV’s glow flickers against the walls, the only illumination in the apartment aside from the soft neon blur of the city outside. A bowl of Greek yogurt sits abandoned on the coffee table—your latest attempt at a “responsible” late-night snack, made in partnership with self-loathing. You’re too exhausted to move, too wired to sleep. Somewhere outside, a siren wails, stretching long and lonely through the night, and you think, for just a second, that if you squint hard enough, you can almost pretend your life is fine.

Then the door slams open like a fucking battering ram.

A mess of limbs and pure, unfiltered desperation stumbles in. Paige Bueckers and tonight’s lucky contestant.

They’re already kissing—no, consuming each other. Lips fused. Hands gripping. Hips aligning like they’re moments away from shifting the tectonic plates beneath them. It’s all sloppy giggles and breathy moans, the kind of shit that should come with a parental advisory warning.

Paige is in sweats and a hoodie that’s hanging halfway off her shoulder, her blonde hair a tousled wreck that suggests she either just left practice or got aggressively felt up in the Uber ride over. The girl—a brunette this time—has her fingers twisted into the hem of Paige’s hoodie like she might actually rip it in half. You’re 98% sure they don’t even notice they almost wipe out over the entryway rug.

You stare. They don’t. They’re too busy dry-humping against the door like horny teenagers who just discovered the concept of friction.

This is usually the part of the night where you’d be asleep. That’s the unspoken agreement. Paige does whatever (or whoever) she wants, and you exist in separate, peaceful universes where her sex life is not your problem. But tonight, insomnia had you in a chokehold, so instead of peacefully slipping into unconsciousness, you’re here, trapped in the splash zone of her latest conquest like some unwilling war correspondent reporting live from the trenches.

Paige finally clocks your presence. Her head jerks up mid-kiss, blinking at you through the haze of what you can only assume is either lust or a full-on brain shutdown.

“Oh. My bad.”

Her voice is husky, wrecked, but casual—so casual, like you just bumped into each other in line at Trader Joe’s, not like you just caught her halfway to third base in the shared living space. The brunette barely acknowledges you, too busy chasing Paige’s mouth again, fingers already curled into the waistband of her sweats like they’re pre-gaming for something much worse.

Your jaw clenches. It’s not jealousy. It’s not even annoyance, really. It’s just…the audacity of it all. You didn’t survive financial ruin, an eviction, and the world’s most soul-sucking job just to end up as an unwilling extra in Paige’s late-night softcore escapades.

Paige smirks, something smug and completely unbothered dancing in her blue eyes, and then—because apparently, she has to make sure you fully marinate in your suffering—she winks.

She fucking winks.

Then she grabs her conquest by the wrist and drags her toward her bedroom. The door swings shut with a decisive click.

You exhale sharply. Shift on the couch. Turn back to Selling Sunset.

A blonde woman in Louboutins slams a designer purse onto a marble counter, screaming about escrow like her life depends on it.

You grab your spoon, chew a bite of yogurt, and pretend this isn’t the worst night of your life.

At first, it’s nothing you can’t ignore—a muffled giggle, the faint creak of a mattress. You’ve had years of training in the fine art of selective hearing. Cheap apartments with walls thinner than a CVS receipt, noisy neighbors who lived for 3 AM karaoke, exes who had no concept of volume control—life has forged you into a soldier of endurance. A survivor. You could sleep through sirens. You could pretend not to hear the couple next door having a screaming match about a misplaced vape pen. You could—if the situation demanded it—completely erase the existence of an entire soundscape from your brain.

But then the giggling shifts. Turns breathy. Then it turns into something else entirely.

A rustle of sheets. A gasp. A low, pleased hum that shouldn’t make your stomach twist with secondhand mortification, but does.

Your grip tightens around the remote. The TV screen flickers in front of you, but you’re no longer absorbing the content. Christine Quinn is monologuing about open-concept kitchens—something about “flow” and “maximizing natural light”—but her voice isn’t nearly loud enough to drown out the escalating symphony from down the hall.

You turn the volume up. Way up.

It doesn’t help.

Paige’s conquest lets out a high, breathy whimper, the kind of sound that makes your entire body lock up like your nervous system just crashed. Paige’s voice follows, low and affectionate, murmuring something you absolutely do not want to hear, but your cursed, traitorous ears pick up anyway. Whatever she says makes the brunette giggle—another peal of laughter before it melts into something softer, more desperate.

Your eye twitches. Nope.

You launch off the couch like you’ve been personally attacked, storming down the hallway with all the righteous fury of someone who has had enough. The second you reach your room, you slam the door shut behind you. The walls rattle. The moaning does not stop.

Jesus. Are your walls are made of tissue paper? No, fuck that—tissue paper at least offer some resistance. This? This is sonic purgatory. Paige’s voice is clearer now, her tone teasing, low, smug. A pet name you can’t quite make out but absolutely wish you could bleach from your brain.

You groan. Loudly. Throw yourself onto your bed and yank a pillow over your head like that’s going to do anything.

It doesn’t.

Because the sounds are intermittent—waves of giggles followed by the kind of sighs that make your ears burn. The occasional shhh from Paige, followed by a breathless “like that?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. Think of something else. Think of literally anything else. You focus on the fabric of your pillowcase, the way the cotton sticks to your cheek, the faint scent of detergent—Paige moans, and your brain short-circuits like a 2003 Dell desktop.

You don’t even have the energy to be properly mad. This is just Paige. Unbothered, self-contained, casually ruining your will to live Paige. She doesn’t try to be inconsiderate, but she also doesn’t try not to be.

Another moan—drawn out and shameless—curls through the air, and you nearly levitate out of your skin. You want to scream. Instead, you yank another pillow over your head for good measure, as if two pillows will somehow create a force field against whatever the fuck is happening in there.

Christine Quinn is still monologuing in your mind, her voice a distant echo beneath the carnal horror occurring in real time.

"It’s all about location, location, location."

Yeah. No shit.

You really should’ve picked a better one.

The morning drags itself into existence like a bad hangover—except you didn’t drink. You just endured. Survived. Battled through the night like some war veteran, only your battlefield wasn’t made of trenches and gunfire but moaning and drywall acoustics.

Sunlight filters through the too-thin blinds, stabbing into your retinas like a personal attack. It casts a harsh glow over the wreckage of your living room—your personal post-war scene. The coffee table is an abandoned crime scene: an empty takeout container, a spoon half-submerged in a sad puddle of yogurt, a crumpled napkin that might have been thrown in frustration during hour two of your sleepless torment. Your blanket is twisted in a heap on the couch, kicked off at some point in your desperate attempt to burrow away from the sounds of Paige Bueckers living her best, most inconsiderate life.

It’s quiet now. Blessedly quiet. A void. No hushed giggles, no rhythmic bedframe percussion, no doors slamming. No evidence of last night’s atrocity except for your residual irritation, clinging to the air like stale perfume.

You sit at the dining table, textbook open, pen in hand, attempting to refocus on something productive. Biomed homework. Neural pathways, synaptic transmission—things that matter. Unlike Paige, who—

A shuffle of feet. Soft, socked steps. You don’t even hear her door creak open—just the lazy, leisurely sound of someone who has never known suffering emerging from her room.

You refuse to look up.

“Morning,” Paige says, casual as ever, like she didn’t turn your living space into the set of a low-budget lesbian porno eight hours ago. She stretches, arms overhead, back arching slightly, exhaling like she just had the most restful night’s sleep of her life.

Meanwhile, you—who has never been more tired—physically recoil at the audacity.

She rubs her eyes, yawns, shuffles past you toward the kitchen like nothing happened. Not even a hint of acknowledgment. No sheepish oops, my bad for mentally scarring you with surround sound sex noise. No hey, sorry about your insomnia and emotional distress. Just a morning like everything is fine.

You blink at her. Unbelievable.

Your fingers tighten around your pencil as you force your gaze back to your notes. Ignore her. You are a scholar. A person of intellect. A higher being.

Paige, meanwhile, has fully migrated to the fridge. She rummages carelessly, like she owns this apartment, like she pays your therapy bills. She emerges with the orange juice carton, unscrews the cap, and—like an absolute menace to society—drinks straight from it.

The pencil in your grip creaks ominously.

“You’re up early,” she remarks, between gulps.

“I didn’t sleep,” you reply, flat, clipped. You don’t look at her. You refuse to.

Paige makes a small sound—something vaguely amused, vaguely disbelieving. “Damn. That sucks.”

That’s it? That’s all she has to say.

You inhale, deeply, willing yourself not to commit a violent felony before noon.

Slowly, slowly, you lift your head, turn your glare toward her like a sniper locking onto a target. Paige, in all her infuriating glory, is leaning against the counter, still drinking your orange juice, looking like someone who has never felt guilt a day in her life. Her expression is neutral, open. Not quite smug, but there’s something about the way she exists that makes you want to throw your textbook at her face and plead temporary insanity in court.

She swipes her thumb across her mouth, wiping away a drop of juice.

“You know what else sucks?” you say, voice deceptively calm. “The structural integrity of our walls. They’re paper-thin. Just an interesting fact I thought I’d share.”

Paige’s lips twitch. She knows. She fucking knows. She tilts her head slightly, like she’s considering whether she should poke the bear or let you stew in your suffering. Then she settles on:

“Huh.”

That’s it.

Your grip tightens on the pencil so hard you might actually snap it in half.

Paige drains the last of the orange juice, wipes her mouth again (like an animal), and sets the carton down with a satisfied sigh. Then, as if she hasn’t just mentally and emotionally destroyed you, she stretches again, rolling out her shoulders.

“Welp,” she says, tone light, completely unbothered. “I’m out. See ya.”

“Wait, what—”

But she’s already gone, disappearing back into her room for approximately thirty seconds before emerging again—this time with a duffel bag slung over her shoulder.

You stare at it. “You’re leaving?”

Paige nods like this is the most normal thing in the world. “Yeah. Team stuff. Won’t be back tonight.”

Your brain malfunctions. Won’t be back tonight. This terrorist has held you emotionally hostage for an entire night and now she’s just leaving? Just walking away from the wreckage like some kind of villain in an action movie, casually strolling as the building explodes behind her?

She tugs on her sneakers at the door, slings her bag higher on her shoulder, and—because the universe is cruel—throws you a lazy, almost mocking little salute.

“Don’t wait up,” she tosses over her shoulder. Then she’s gone.

The door swings shut and the apartment is silent again.

You sit there, fingers clenched around your pencil, biomed notes glaring up at you like they’re personally offended by your suffering. Your eye twitches.

I fucking hate her.

Then you sigh, rub your temple, and force yourself back to work.

It’s been three days of silence. Three whole, glorious days of peace. Three nights where you didn’t have to contemplate smothering yourself with a pillow just to escape the torment of Paige’s complete disregard for basic human decency. The apartment has felt almost normal—like an actual home instead of a halfway house for Paige’s revolving door of hookups. You don’t have to brace yourself every time the front door swings open, because it hasn’t swung open. You don’t have to leave your headphones on while studying to shield yourself from the auditory terrorism of her sex life. You don’t have to walk into the kitchen at 1 AM and fear that you’ll be confronted with Paige, half-naked, wearing nothing but someone else’s lipstick and a hoodie that’s falling off her shoulder like she’s starring in a fucking romance movie.

The peace has been so uninterrupted, so unnatural, that you’ve almost forgotten what it’s like to live in a state of constant vigilance. You throw yourself into your biomed assignments, losing yourself in the clean, clinical world of neural pathways and synaptic transmission, your SZA playlist looping softly in the background. You almost start to believe this is real. That this is the new normal. That maybe Paige has finally, miraculously, learned self-control or, at the very least, found a new venue to conduct her business.

You are so fucking naïve.

The front door doesn’t just open—it explodes. A crack, a slam, a full-body collision with the wall that rattles the picture frames. The kind of entrance that belongs to either a SWAT team or a raging hurricane of bad decisions.

Your body locks up like an animal sensing an oncoming natural disaster. The pencil in your grip slips through your fingers, hitting the desk with a dull thunk. Your heart stutters in your chest, and for one brief, delusional second, you tell yourself that it wasn’t real. Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe Paige forgot something and came back only to leave again. Maybe—

A thud. Then another. The unmistakable rhythm of someone kicking off their shoes, the soft scuff of footsteps across the floor.

You grit your teeth, pressing your palms flat against your desk. You are not going to react. You are not going to engage. If she wants to slam doors and stomp around like a feral beast, fine. You refuse to let her drag you into the chaos. You reach for your headphones, adjusting them over your ears, cranking up the volume until SZA drowns out the world.

It’s not enough.

A sound pierces through the music, slicing through the air like a warning shot. It’s high-pitched, sudden, obscene—so sharp that your entire body recoils. Your brain trips over itself, scrambling to make sense of what it just processed, and for a brief, fleeting moment, you think someone is in distress. Like maybe—maybe—this is the night Paige finally made an enemy and brought home someone who wants to kill her. But no. No, that is not the sound of murder. That is the sound of someone who is very much alive and living their best fucking life at maximum volume.

Your grip tightens around your pencil so hard you genuinely worry it might snap in half.

Then it happens again—louder this time.

“Ooooh, Paige, baby it feel sooo good,” a long, drawn-out moan that echoes through the walls like a goddamn announcement.

Your jaw clenches so hard you swear you hear something crack.

You tell yourself to ignore it. You try to focus on the actual problems in your life—like the metabolic equation staring up at you from your notebook, the one that makes no fucking sense, the one you were just about to solve before Paige returned to single-handedly ruin your night. But this girl—whoever she is—sounds like she’s in a full-blown cinematic production, and Paige? Paige has zero concern for your sanity. No attempt to be discreet, no effort to maybe keep it down, no acknowledgment that she is actively breaking your spirit in real time.

A shhh from Paige, soft, teasing, followed by something breathless. While you– you black out for a second.

The chair scrapes against the floor as you shove away from your desk, adrenaline flooding your veins. You are this close to storming down the hallway, ripping Paige’s door off its hinges, and launching her entire bed out the fucking window. Instead, you flatten your hands against your desk, inhale deeply, and stare down at your notes like they personally wronged you.

This. This is it. You swear to yourself, you are getting revenge.

You don’t know how yet. But it’s happening.

Because if Paige wants to act like an inconsiderate, sex-obsessed demon hellbent on making your life miserable, then fine. Fine. Two can play at this game.

You’ve waited two days. Two agonizing, anticipation-filled days where you paced your room like a villain in the third act of a revenge flick, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Every time you passed by Paige’s empty room, you could practically hear the ghosts of her past hookups mocking you. You had suffered. You had endured. And now, it was your time.

The front door swings open. Not as violently as before—no dramatic bang against the wall, no whirlwind of limbs stumbling over the entryway rug. Just the quiet shuffle of footsteps, the soft rustle of fabric, the barely-there whisper of a muffled giggle. It’s all very tame. Too tame. Like she thinks she can just slip back into this apartment unnoticed, like she didn’t shatter your will to live just days ago with her complete lack of shame or respect for human decency.

You sit up in bed, eyes gleaming in the dim glow of your laptop screen. Showtime.

It had taken an embarrassing amount of time to craft the perfect revenge strategy. You wanted something devastating. Something that would haunt Paige the way her late-night moanfest had haunted you. You considered various forms of psychological warfare—hiding her favorite hoodie, signing her up for weird spam emails, strategically microwaving fish at odd hours—but none of it felt impactful enough. You needed something biblical. Something that would scar.

And then, the answer came to you. Porn.

Loud, obnoxious, horrifically detailed porn. You smile at your glowing laptop and click play.

Instantly, the most sinful, ungodly, downright demonic sounds explode from your speakers. It’s graphic. Monstrous. A chorus of moans, screams, the unmistakable, wet, slapping of skin against skin. The kind of audio that makes you question humanity as a species. You’re pretty sure you hear someone begging in French.

It’s perfect. You crank the volume up.

Then, with the sheer dramatic commitment of a Broadway performer, you slam your bed frame against the wall.

The headboard cracks against the drywall with force, rattling like you’re in the throes of an earth-shattering experience. You moan. Not well, but loudly. Passionately. Over-the-top.

“Ohhh my GOD,” you scream, throwing in some unnecessary yes, yes, right there’s for added flair.

You can feel the disturbance in the force. But you don’t stop. Oh, no. You commit.

You keep the moans rolling, layering them with guttural, animalistic gasps. You bang the headboard again, harder this time, just to make sure Paige feels your suffering on a molecular level. You toss in a deep, satisfied sigh, dragging it out like you’re playing a villain savoring their monologue.

You keep the moans rolling, layering them with deep, broken gasps, the kind of sounds that should not be echoing through the walls of a shared living space. Your voice wavers just enough to sound shaken, overwhelmed, ruined, like you’ve ascended past the mortal plane and are now one with the universe.

The headboard collides with the wall again—harder this time, with a resounding crack that might actually fracture the drywall. Good. Good. Let her feel it. Let the vibrations of your suffering seep into her bones. Let her live what you lived.

You throw in a deep, satisfied sigh, dragging it out long, making it obscene. You let silence stretch, just for a moment, just long enough for Paige to think maybe—maybe—it’s over, that this nightmare has passed.

And then, with the full, unwavering conviction of a lunatic, you moan again.

It’s breathless. Shaky. The kind of sound that would make someone deeply uncomfortable in any setting, but especially when coming from the other side of a paper-thin wall.

A shuffle. A creak of bedsprings. A pause. You can feel her trying to process.

And then, like a gift from the heavens, Paige finally breaks.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

The pure, unfiltered disbelief in her voice is a drug. It fuels you.

You slam your palm against the wall, a solid thunk that reverberates through the apartment. Then, in the single most unhinged act of pettiness you have ever committed, you howl a random man’s name.

Silence.

You shift in bed, letting out a shaky, devastated exhale, the kind of breathless, wrecked sound people make when they have been absolutely, thoroughly ruined. You make sure it carries through the wall, make sure it sinks into her skull.

There’s another pause. A long one. You can almost see Paige lying there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out how her life has come to this exact moment.

Then—an aggressive rustling of sheets, a sharp inhale like she’s gearing up for a speech. You brace yourself.

Her response is immediate. A heavy thud—her fist against your wall. “Oh my God, have some fucking decency.”

That should be the end of it. A normal, sane person would stop here. But you? You are not a normal, sane person. You are a petty, wounded soldier, and you will see this through to the end.

So you shift, make sure your bedsprings let out a very suggestive creak, and then murmur, low and breathy, “Five more minutes.”

A second of pure, raw silence. Then, from her room—chaos.

The violent shuffle of blankets, a sound like something falling off her nightstand, an aggressively muttered string of words that you cannot hear, but you know they’re unholy.

Victory tastes sweet.

The next morning, you wake up feeling transformed. Cleansed. Vindicated. Like a phoenix rising from the ashes of your own pettiness, reborn into a creature of pure, unadulterated vengeance. A god of retribution.

Last night was a triumph. A masterpiece of psychological warfare, orchestrated with the precision of a military strategist and the artistic flair of a Broadway performer. Paige had suffered—oh, she had suffered—and you had heard every ounce of that suffering in the sheer disbelief laced through her voice. You had sent her into an existential crisis without so much as stepping foot into her room. And the best part? You didn’t even have to talk about it. No awkward confrontation, no passive-aggressive exchange, no forced discussion about boundaries. Just a silent victory, the best kind of victory.

You stretch in bed, limbs loose and relaxed for the first time in days. No residual irritation, no ghosts of rage clinging to your skin. You won. You won.

The air feels different when you step into the kitchen, like the whole apartment is holding its breath. The atmosphere is charged, electric with something unspoken, a tension that exists only because you created it. You bask in it, inhale it like fresh air, let it fill your lungs as you roll your shoulders back and step into the room.

Paige is already there. She’s leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around her ever-present protein shake, the other holding her phone, scrolling with the kind of casual indifference that feels fake. Too stiff. Too controlled.

She doesn’t look up. Doesn’t acknowledge you in the slightest. Good. That means you got to her.

You let the silence stretch, let her feel you watching her, reveling in the unspoken weight of last night’s events. Then, with all the exaggerated nonchalance you can muster, you open the fridge. You take your time, rummaging through it, making a show of your relaxed state, of your complete and total lack of shame or regret. Every movement is deliberate, every pause pointed.

The tension is thick enough to taste.Finally, after a long, drawn-out beat, you break the silence.

“Sleep well?”

Nothing. Not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Paige just lifts her shake, takes a slow sip, and keeps scrolling, her gaze glued to her screen like you don’t exist.

You bite back a smirk. Oh, it’s like that, huh?

Fine. You love a challenge.

You grab a yogurt, pop the lid with exaggerated ease, and lean against the counter directly across from her. Mirroring her. Challenging her.

She knows you’re looking. She feels it.

The weight of your gaze drags over her jaw, the bare skin of her collarbone where her hoodie has slouched just a little too low. Over her hands—gripping her phone a fraction too tight, her knuckles taut with something just shy of restraint.

She lifts her protein shake. Takes a sip. Measured, deliberate.

You take a slow, obnoxiously slow, bite of yogurt.

“You seemed a little... tense last night.” Your voice is carefully neutral, the epitome of innocence, like you’re discussing the weather. But your eyes say otherwise.

A flicker. There. The tell.

It’s microscopic—her fingers tightening around her phone, a brief clench of her jaw before she lifts her shake again.

“I’m fine,” Paige says, monotone.

You hum, swirling your spoon through the yogurt, dragging it up in long, slow loops. “Really? You seemed a little... thrown off. Like you weren’t expecting something.”

Paige drinks. Swallows. Sets the bottle down with that same, mechanical precision.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Oh, this is delicious.

“Hmm.” You take another lazy bite, then—just for effect—let your tongue flick over the spoon, slow, clean.

She doesn’t react.

But she sees it. You know she sees it.

The battle of wills unfolds in the silence. A quiet, blistering, psychological duel.

You stretch it, waiting, baiting. Letting the tension tighten between you like a tripwire waiting to snap.

And then—she exhales.

A sharp, quiet breath, controlled but strained. Like she’s holding something back.

And finally, finally, she sets her phone down.

Lifts her head.

Meets your gaze.

And suddenly, the air shifts.

Because Paige’s expression isn’t annoyed, like you expected. It isn’t irritated, or bored, or vaguely exasperated.

It’s something else.

Something slower. Darker.

Your stomach tightens—not in fear, but in something far more dangerous.

She tilts her head just slightly, a fraction of an inch, but the weight of it is immense. A move so calculated it feels like a blade sliding from its sheath.

"You good?" she asks, her voice a study in casual ease. Too smooth. Too careful.

It’s a trap. You know it’s a trap.

But you don’t back down from fights.

“Better than ever.” You drag the words out, light, effortless. “Best sleep of my life.”

Her lips twitch. Just barely. A half-second away from a smirk.

“That right?”

You shrug, feigning boredom. “Guess loud, passionate sex really tires a person out.”

A beat. A single, suspended moment.

Then—

“I wouldn’t know,” Paige says, smooth as silk. Cool as ice. “Didn’t hear a thing.”

Your smirk falters.

Oh.

Oh, she’s good.

You recover quickly. “Really? You must sleep like the dead, then.”

Paige picks up her phone again, dismissive, her gaze flicking back to the screen like you’re not worth the effort.

But her lips? They’re curling. Slightly. Just enough to show teeth.

“Or maybe,” she murmurs, so damn casual, “it just wasn’t worth noticing.”

Oh, that bitch.

Heat flares up your spine, crackling, sharp.

You glare. Paige doesn’t even glance at you. The war has officially begun. And it’s on sight.

You’re not proud of yourself.

Not in the slightest. In fact, you don’t even know how you got here.

But this is what happens when you let your petty little battles spiral into something else, something darker and messier and impossible to ignore. You hate her. You loathe her. You think about her way too much—about how she gets under your skin, about her smug little smirks, about the way she acts like she owns the air you breathe just because she’s taller than you, because she can throw a ball into a hoop, because the entire fucking world looks at her like she’s something more than just a girl who’s in your goddamn way.

And maybe that’s why you’re here.

On your back. In your bed.

Hand between your thighs like an absolute fucking degenerate.

Because Paige is supposed to be gone. She’s supposed to be three states away at some game, doing her little interviews, getting her ego fed by an arena full of people. The apartment is supposed to be empty.

So you let yourself have this.

Let yourself chase the tension out of your muscles, let yourself melt into it, let yourself lose in it.

And God, you wish you were thinking about someone else.

But it’s her.

It’s her stupid fucking face.

It’s the way she taunts you, the way she stands too close in the kitchen, the way her sweatpants hang low on her hips in the morning, the way she stares you down like she’s daring you to push her, like she’s waiting for the exact moment you snap.

You hate her.

You hate how easy it is to imagine her hands on you instead of your own.

Your fingers are slick. Obscenely so. The vibrator hums against your clit like a live wire, like an electric pulse searing through your nerves, turning every inch of your body into a hypersensitive mess. Your thighs twitch, your stomach clenches, your hips keep jerking up, desperate for more, even though it's too much—too intense, too sharp, too unbearably fucking good.

The sheets are ruined beneath you, damp and twisted from how much you’ve writhed against them, chasing the high, riding the edge, dragging it out like you deserve to suffer for this. Like you deserve to ache for it. Your other hand is gripping the pillow, fisting the fabric, white-knuckled, because Paige, Paige, Paige—you can’t get her out of your fucking head.

That smug smirk, those broad shoulders, the way she leans against the kitchen counter like she owns it, owns you, waiting, watching, pushing, teasing—

God, you hate her.

You hate the way she gets under your skin, the way she’s there, always there, lingering in the space between, looking at you like she’s daring you to do something about it. You hate that you want to.

And you hate that you’re so fucking close just thinking about her.

Your toes curl, your breath breaks into little hiccuping moans, your body bows off the mattress. The vibrator sends another sharp burst of pleasure through your swollen, oversensitive clit, and it’s too much—your thighs slam shut around your hand, trying to temper the sensation, trying to trap it, hold it inside you, but it just makes everything sharper, stronger, unbearable—

You choke on a sound, a raw, desperate little whimper.

And then– a noise. Not yours. Not in your room.

On the other side of the fucking wall.

At first, your brain refuses to process it. Because no. No. No way. Paige is supposed to be gone, three states away, playing her stupid game, being her stupid self, not here.

But then you hear it again. A moan. Low, wrecked, unmistakably needy.

Your whole body locks up.

For a second, all you can do is lie there, frozen in place, vibrator still pressed against your clit, your own pulse hammering in your ears. Your skin goes hot, burning with shame, with realization.

She heard you. She fucking heard you.

Another shift. A creak of her bed. The rustle of sheets.

A sharp inhale escapes you, unbidden, and then you clap a hand over your mouth, mortified.

The vibrator is still humming against your clit, sending little aftershocks through you, but you can’t move, you can’t fucking move, because your brain is stuck on the fact that Paige is touching herself right now, that she’s lying in her bed, one wall away, listening to you, moaning for you, and you—

Oh. Fuck.

Your breath catches, your whole body locks up, your hand stills between your thighs—just for a second, just long enough for your brain to catch up to what the hell just happened.

You press the vibrator harder against your clit, bite your lip so hard it hurts, and keep going.

You’re sick, a fucking degenerate. You have to be, because the thought of Paige, lying there in her bed, one flimsy wall away, fingering herself to the sound of you falling apart is the single hottest, most disgusting, most earth-shattering thing you’ve ever fucking imagined.

Your hips twitch up, chasing the feeling, chasing the high, chasing whatever this is, this tight, searing, unspeakable thing curling in your stomach. You shouldn’t be doing this. You should not be doing this. But your fingers are shaking, your whole body is on fire, and you can’t stop, you can’t fucking stop—

And then she makes another sound.

This time it’s louder, more desperate, like she doesn’t care if you hear her anymore. And it sends you spiraling.

Your eyes slam shut, your thighs squeeze together, your stomach clenches so hard you can’t breathe, and the pleasure—fuck, the pleasure—rips through you, tears you apart, drowns you, ruins you.

You come so hard you forget how to exist.

The air is still humming.Your skin is still hot, still damp, still sensitive in a way that makes every shift against the sheets feel like too much. Your breath hasn’t fully evened out, your body still shaking from the wreckage of it, from the way you lost yourself, let yourself drown.

It should be over. It should.

But then—

A sound. Distant, but there. A soft shuffle, the faintest creak of floorboards beyond your door.

Your breath catches. You stare at the ceiling, heart pounding, trying to ignore it. It’s late. Maybe you’re imagining it, maybe it’s nothing. Maybe you’re still stuck somewhere between dream and aftermath, still feeling the phantom weight of her—her hands, her voice, the way your mind kept slipping back to her even as you tried not to.

But then it happens again. A shift of movement. Closer.

A slow, deliberate pause just outside your door.

Your stomach tightens. No.

But the air is suddenly thick with something too real, something too electric—something that makes your pulse hammer in warning even before the first knock lands.

Knock. You stop breathing.

Another.

You jerk up, your body still too sensitive, your skin prickling under the weight of anticipation. You don’t move at first. Don’t respond. Just listen.

A pause. Silence. Maybe she’ll leave. Maybe she’ll take the hint—

And then, the voice. Low. Steady. Unshaken.

"Open the door."

Your fingers tighten around the blanket, pulse kicking hard. Not a question. Not a request.

Just a command.

You should hesitate. You should stay still, let the moment pass, let it slip into the quiet, pretend it never happened.

But you know what’s waiting on the other side. And you know you’re already too far gone. But now she’s here.

You don’t move at first. Just stare at the door, heart picking up speed, hands pressed against the comfort of your blanket. A breath. Another. You tell yourself to stay still, stay quiet, maybe she’ll go away, maybe she’ll take the hint—

She knocks again.

“Open the door.”

Your skin prickles. Not a question. Not a request. Just a flat, patient command. Still, you hesitate. Seconds pass, stretching out between you like a tightrope, thin and fraying. And then, finally, you move.

The door creaks as you pull it open, slow and careful. Paige stands in the dim hallway, shoulders loose, hoodie hanging from her frame like she just threw it on without thinking. Her hair’s a mess—like she’s been running her hands through it, like she’s been restless all night. Her blue eyes flicker over you, unreadable, scanning, weighing.

Then she steps inside.

She doesn’t ask. Doesn’t wait for permission. Just walks past you, brushing close enough that you feel the heat of her body, the scent of her—something clean and sharp, faint sweat and warm fabric and something entirely, infuriatingly her.

The door clicks shut behind her. You don’t speak.

You don’t have to. She turns to you, slow, deliberate, expression unreadable. Then, voice low and measured:

“Lay on the bed.”

A prickle of heat races down your spine. You swallow, breath catching, fingers curling at your sides. But you don’t argue. Don’t hesitate. Just step back, moving without thought, without question, without sense—because it’s Paige, and because you want to know where this is going, and because something inside you is already unraveling at the edges.

The mattress dips as you crawl onto it, arms bracing, knees pressing into the sheets. You don’t dare look at her. You hear the shift of fabric, the quiet creak of the bed frame as she moves behind you, slow, careful. A pause. A breath.

Then—

“Where’s your vibrator?”

The words hit like a strike to the ribs. Sudden, shocking, stealing the air from your lungs.

Your fingers clutch the blankets, throat dry. You don’t answer.

Paige hums, thoughtful, unimpressed. Then you feel her—one hand at your lower back, pressing just enough to make you sink into the mattress, the other trailing up your spine, fingers grazing the curve of your shoulder.

“You’re gonna tell me,” she murmurs, voice steady, quiet, dangerous in its softness. “Or I’ll find it myself.”

Heat pools low in your stomach, twisting sharp and deep. Your breath stutters. Paige’s hand lingers at the back of your neck, fingers tracing, waiting.

Your voice comes out hoarse, barely above a whisper.

“Drawer.”

A pause. The ghost of a smile in her voice.

“Good girl.”

Then she moves.

You hear it—the slide of the drawer, the shift of objects, the quiet click of plastic against wood. A heartbeat. Two. Then the bed shifts again, and she’s behind you, close enough to feel the heat of her, the weight of her presence, the steady, unshaken confidence in every movement.

Her fingers skim your thigh, light, testing, teasing.

“You know what to do.” Your stomach clenches.

Slowly, breathlessly, you shift forward, sinking onto your hands, pressing your chest to the mattress. Your knees spread, thighs parting just enough to leave you open, vulnerable, trembling with something you can’t name.

The air is thick, charged, electric.

Then, Paige’s voice, low and certain:

“Don’t look at me.”

You shudder.

And then—she starts.

The first press of the vibrator against your clit is light—just a tease, barely there, a flicker of sensation that sends a sharp jolt straight through you. Your fingers tighten in the sheets, breath catching, body already wound so fucking tight you think you might shatter from just this.

Paige hums, pleased, lazy. Her other hand skims up your back, slow and deliberate, tracing the dip of your spine, the curve of your ribs, fingers spreading wide as she grips your hip, holding you in place. The bed shifts beneath her weight, but you don’t look back. You don’t dare. Not when you can already feel her eyes on you, watching every little reaction, every twitch, every shaky inhale.

“Look at you,” she murmurs, almost to herself. “So fucking wet already.”

You let out a soft, helpless sound, pressing your forehead against the mattress, trying to steady yourself. It doesn’t help. The vibrator hums again, firmer this time, rolling against your clit in slow, torturous circles, and your hips jerk instinctively, seeking more, needing more.

Paige clicks her tongue. “Uh-uh. Stay still.”

The sharp sting of her palm against your ass is unexpected, quick and precise, more startling than painful—but fuck, it makes you tighten everywhere, makes you gasp, makes heat curl even deeper in your gut. Your nails dig into the sheets, thighs trembling.

Then—without warning—the vibrator presses harder, just enough to make your whole body tense, thighs twitching, stomach clenching. Your mouth falls open, a high, breathless moan spilling out before you can stop it.

“That’s it,” Paige murmurs. “Let me hear you.”

She drags the vibrator lower, just for a second, teasing the slick heat between your thighs, and then—fuck—you feel her fingers, tracing, pressing, testing. You whimper, hips bucking, and she chuckles, low and amused, before finally—finally—she sinks one finger inside.

Your breath stutters, back arching, body clenching tight around the intrusion.

“Fuck,” she exhales, voice rough, almost reverent. “You’re gripping me so fucking tight.”

The vibrator keeps buzzing against your clit, steady, relentless, a constant pulse of pleasure as her finger moves, slow and deliberate, curling just right, dragging along that sensitive spot that makes you tremble.

“God, you’re dripping,” Paige mutters, voice edged with something darker, something raw. “You want more?”

You nod frantically, too wrecked to form words, pushing back against her hand, chasing it, needing it.

She gives it to you.

Another finger presses in, stretching you, filling you, fucking into you in slow, deep strokes, pushing past that tight resistance, until she’s buried up to the knuckle. Your whole body shakes, heat coiling low in your stomach, sharp and overwhelming.

“Jesus,” Paige breathes, her voice tight, wrecked. “You’re gonna fucking ruin me.”

She picks up the pace—fingers curling, twisting, pressing in deeper as the vibrator rolls against your clit, unrelenting, merciless. You’re gasping now, panting, your hips moving without thought, without control, grinding down, fucking yourself onto her fingers, onto the pulsing buzz of the toy, lost in the slick, obscene sound of it, the heat, the pressure, the unbearable, intoxicating pleasure building too fast, too much—

“Paige—”

She tightens her grip on your hip, holding you still, pressing the vibrator harder against your clit, fingers thrusting deeper, sharper, hitting that spot over and over and over—

And you snap.

It crashes into you all at once—blinding, breathless, a shockwave of raw, shuddering pleasure that rips through your entire body. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, legs shaking, thighs clamping around her hand as the orgasm slams into you, wrecking you, drowning you.

Paige curses, low and filthy, working you through it, keeping the vibrator pressed firm against your clit as your body jerks, as you convulse, as pleasure spills over in wave after brutal wave.

You collapse forward, panting, trembling, barely able to hold yourself up. But Paige isn’t done.

She flips you onto your back in one smooth, effortless motion, her body pressing into yours, caging you in. Before you can even catch your breath, her mouth is on you.

The first kiss is rough, searing, a claim more than a kiss—teeth dragging against your lip, tongue pressing deep, swallowing the wrecked little sounds spilling from your throat.

Her hands are everywhere—gripping your thighs, dragging your legs apart, squeezing your waist, your ribs, your tits, mapping every inch of you like she’s memorizing it.

“You’re so fucking pretty when you cum,” she murmurs, lips brushing yours, voice thick with hunger. “All fucked out and messy for me.”

Your breath stutters. Paige leans in again, dragging her mouth down your jaw, your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear that makes you shiver.

“I want you loud this time,” she mutters, fingers already slipping back between your thighs, spreading you open, rubbing slow, teasing circles against your overstimulated clit. “You gonna give me that?”

You whimper, nodding frantically, hips bucking up into her hand, desperate for more.

Paige smirks against your skin. “Good.”

The heat of her body presses you into the mattress, her grip firm, unrelenting, claiming every inch of you like she’s owed it, like she’s been waiting for this for so fucking long that holding back isn’t an option anymore.

And it’s not. It never was.

Her fingers curl inside you, deep and sharp, pressing right against that devastating spot that makes your whole body tighten and shudder. You’re soaked, dripping down onto her hand, onto the sheets, your thighs slick, trembling, spread wide as she takes what she wants—what she’s wanted for so fucking long.

“You have no idea,” Paige mutters, voice low, wrecked, breath warm against your neck as she drags her lips over your skin, teeth grazing, biting. “No fucking idea how long I’ve wanted this. Wanted you.”

Your brain short-circuits. You gasp, clutching at her shoulders, legs wrapping around her waist, dragging her closer, needing her closer.

She groans, grinding against you, fingers moving faster, harder, pushing into you with a rhythm that’s obscene, ruthless, making you arch, making you cry out.

“You think I didn’t notice?” she growls. “The way you looked at me? The way you listened when I fucked other girls in this apartment?”

Your stomach clenches, a sharp pang of shame and arousal slamming through you.

Paige laughs. A low, breathy, utterly wicked sound.

“That’s right,” she purrs, slowing her fingers to a torturous, teasing drag. “I know what you’ve been doing. Lying in here, all hot and frustrated, touching yourself to the thought of me.”

Your breath catches.

“You ever wonder if I was thinking about you?” she continues, voice husky, lips dragging down your collarbone, your chest, your stomach. “Lying in bed, hearing you through the walls, touching myself to the sound of you coming?”

Your hips jerk up, a desperate, broken sound escaping you.

Paige chuckles, dark and amused, before she slams her fingers into you again, relentless, brutal, dragging you right back up that peak.

“Yeah,” she mutters. “That’s what I fucking thought.”

The words send a fresh wave of heat ripping through your body, pleasure slamming into you all at once, sharp and unbearable, too much but not enough, never enough.

Then she’s everywhere—her mouth crushing against yours, teeth nipping, tongue pressing in deep as her fingers fuck into you, relentless, merciless, like she’s making up for every second she didn’t have you like this.

“Come for me,” she demands, voice ragged, forehead pressing against yours, blue eyes dark, wild, locked onto you like she’s daring you to fall apart.

Your whole body seizes up, back arching, mouth falling open on a silent scream as the orgasm tears through you, overwhelming, devastating, making your mind go blank, making your vision fucking blur.

Paige groans as you clench around her fingers, as you drip onto her hand, onto the sheets, onto her.

“Jesus fuck,” she breathes, watching you, drinking in every twitch, every shake, every shattered gasp. “You look so fucking good like this.”

And before you can even catch your breath, before you can even think, she’s flipping you over again, pressing you into the mattress, pinning you down, her body covering yours completely.

Her mouth is everywhere—hot, desperate, claiming every inch of you, kissing you like she wants to consume you, biting at your throat, your jaw, your lips.

“You’re mine now,” she mutters, breath ragged, hand gripping your hip, dragging you up against her. “You fucking get that?”

You nod frantically, fingers tangling in her hair, pulling her closer, needing more, needing everything.

“Say it,” she growls.

“I’m yours,” you gasp, voice wrecked, desperate.

Paige grins—wild, triumphant—before crashing her mouth against yours again, her hand slipping back between your legs, fingers dragging through the mess she’s already made of you.

“You’re gonna give me another one,” she murmurs, voice dark, teasing.

Your breath stutters, eyes going wide.

“You can’t—”

“I can.” She presses the vibrator back against your clit, fingers already sliding back inside you, making you sob. “And I will.”

Then she fucks you, properly, thoroughly, relentlessly, making you come again and again until you can barely breathe, barely think, until the only thing left in your head is her.

The room is wreckage. Pillows displaced, sheets tangled, the air thick with the scent of sweat and satisfaction. Your limbs are jelly, nerves still sparking like frayed wires, pleasure still ghosting along the edges of your skin in aftershocks you can’t quite suppress. Paige—Paige fucking Bueckers—is lying beside you, her chest rising and falling in deep, steady breaths, arm slung possessively across your stomach like she owns you now.

And maybe she does.

You blink up at the ceiling, brain still trying to reboot. The night—Jesus, the night—had unraveled into something primal, something endless, something that had pushed you past exhaustion, past coherence, past sanity. Paige had wrecked you, torn you apart, rebuilt you in the shape of something raw and ruined and aching for more. And now—

Now, she shifts beside you. A lazy stretch, muscles flexing, a small, satisfied hum escaping her lips. You don’t have the energy to turn your head, but you feel her, the weight of her gaze settling on your profile.

Then, voice still husky from exertion, smug and utterly fucking unbearable—

"So, do you want to get dinner with me?"

Your brain stalls.

Your head turns, slow, disbelieving, vision sharpening just enough to catch the absolute shit-eating grin tugging at her lips. She’s fucking with you. She has to be. After everything—after the way she spent hours making you come until you forgot your own name, until your body had nothing left to give, until you had collapsed against her, too spent to do anything but breathe—she’s asking you out. Like it’s casual. Like it’s normal.

Like this isn’t the most insane, deranged turn of events imaginable.

You stare.

Paige smirks.

And you—God help you—you might actually say yes.

2K notes · View notes

ravenclaw-jojo · 2 months ago

Text

Fandom: LaDS Pairings: Caleb x afab!reader Tags: Possessive love, graphic smut, very ‘touch her and die’ vibes, breeding kink, Caleb is jealous of Xavier, light impact play, overstimulation, creampie (be safe ya’ll). MINORS DNI. WC: 2.5k

Description: You were a little late returning home from the Hunter’s Association. A/N: For @laddelulu30 who put breeding on my mind xD Also dedicated to @unintentionalseductress because well, Caleb :3

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

You said you’d be out late. He already expected that. Yet something about the whole situation still made him uneasy.

“There’s a pair of agents that just got back from their interrogation. We’re debriefing and then planning our schedules for the next few days. I promise, if it’s later than midnight, I’ll call you to pick me up.” You reassured him over video call.

Caleb couldn’t protest, not when your eyes are staring back at him with sincerity he’s known for the better part of your lives — it was the same look you fixed him when you wanted an extra five minutes of his time to play whatever game you’d come up with that day.

“Alright, alright, fine. Just promise to text me.” Caleb relented, the muscles in his jaw tightening despite the smile he tried to fix on his lips.

“I will.”

That was over two hours ago. Thanks to the lifestyle app that you had suggested you download onto your phones, you were able to see each other’s general location on the map, and the speeds at which your phone was traveling at. Of course this only worked if you had your phone on you and the location was only accurate up to a 3-miles radius…and that wasn’t acceptable for him. No, he needed to know where you are at all times, down to the last step.

There’s a secret app on Caleb’s work cell, one he clicked open to reveal your precise location (the Hunter’s Association building, third floor, in one of the meeting rooms that’s in the south-eastern wing). This app was connected to the tracker embedded in the ruby gemstone of the dainty gold anklet he’d gifted you. You didn’t know about the tracker’s existence of course, and if you did… well that stirred a different feeling in Caleb that he was all too happy to entertain, if his focus wasn’t already fixated on your location.

When the hour struck 10 and you still hadn’t called, he needed to take matters into his own hands.

“C’mon pip-squeak…pick up the phone.” He muttered as the video call attempted to connect.

“Caleb? Why are you calling me silly?” Your laughter made the imaginary claws around his heart retract by a few centimeters. Despite trying to maintain some semblance of restraint, the reproachful tone in his voice reverberated through his sentence.

“You said you’d call if you were staying later than midnight.”

“And it isn’t midnight.”

Caleb snorted. “Just like you to rely a little too much on technicalities.”

Your laughter made his fingers pause mid-strum against the arm of your sofa. “It isn’t technicalities, it’s the truth. Clock has yet to strike midnight, Mr Caleb.” Your teasing tone doesn't go unnoticed.

He chuckled, “It’ll be past midnight by the time you get here. Let me pick you up from work.”

“Caleb, I’m not a little girl anymore. Trust me, I’ve made the walk home a dozen times before with no problem-”

“And that’s supposed to make me feel better? The pure coincidence that you haven’t been attacked by some stalker?”

Oh, it was certainly rich of him to say this. But you didn’t know that. You didn’t know how he was practically on edge right now, the sound of your laughter, the gentle curve of your lips….

“Stop that.” He commanded before he could stop himself, startling not just you but himself. It wasn’t like him to lose his control like this.

“What?” You questioned with furrowed brows.

“Biting your lip. Stop biting your lip, I want to do that.” Caleb said, his voice dropping into that gruff tone that made your thighs clench. Torn between surprise and a sudden rush of arousal, you licked your upper lip, brain trying to grasp at the thoughts that rushed through your mind from his authoritarian tone. “I…I wasn’t aware I was doing it. Sorry.”

Caleb shook his head, locks of his hair curtaining his purple gaze. “You’ve nothing to apologize for. Just be careful coming home.” He told you in a gentler tone. The soft smile didn’t reach his eyes and you wondered what could’ve possibly changed… Caleb was no stranger to you working late, especially when it came to a case that had spanned months of tracking and intel gathering.

“I will be.” You answered. You will be. Caleb thought to himself, watching the little red dot move along the map of his work phone, muscles on the back of his neck slowly relaxing when the very same dot started to move towards the building’s exit. He felt better knowing your exact location at all times.

Your fingerprint unlocked the door to your apartment and you were pleasantly surprised by the scent of good food wafting from your barely used kitchen – outside of baking, the kitchen was only functioning when Zayne happened to drop by. Though the doctor much preferred to spend time at his apartment or experiencing the service of an actual chef in a restaurant. Caleb however, had long since made himself at home in your kitchen. There was something oddly intimate about how he knew where you kept all your cups and plates, which drawer stored the utensils versus the designated junk drawer – drawerS, if we were being truthful.

“Perfect timing, the rice just finished cooking..” He gestured towards the tasty food and dinner setting that waited for them at the table. You closed the door behind you, hanging your coat with an air of playful suspicion. “What did you do Caleb?” You asked.

His easy chuckle softened your heart, while he led you to the table, the warm touch of his fingers easily breaking down said suspicions. This is Caleb. Your Caleb. “I’m not trying to butter you up pip-squeak. I promise. Juuuust making sure you’re eating, even if it isn’t really on time.” He pulled back a chair for her to sit down, before taking his own seat. You picked up on his pointed tone.

“I’m sorry. It wasn’t like I intended to stay that late, I swear.” You said watching as he picked up your plate and started to arrange the home-cooked meal on it. His gaze met yours over the food, his scrutiny a little gentler than before. “Who else was there?” He asked.

You cocked your head, accepting the plate he offered. “The usual crowd, you’ve met Tara before. Then Simone was there to give a debriefing…”

“And what about that guy?”

You suddenly had flashbacks of being a preteen and Caleb’s presence scaring away any and all potential crushes. Picking at your food, you raised an innocent eyebrow. “You mean Xavier?” His silence spoke more than his words ever could.

“He hasn’t been around. Out on another mission by himself. And even if he wasn’t, do you honestly believe you have anything to be worried about?” You challenged him with a smile – one that immediately made his pants feel a little too tight. Caleb glowered back at you, “It’s not you I don’t trust, pip-squeak. Let’s make that clear. It’s other people I have little faith in.” He watched as you stood up from your seat, walking over to him. There was a glimmer in your eyes, something that hinted at mischief. Given your history, he was all too familiar with that look of yours. You had something up your sleeve.

“You know, you’ve got to start working on your expressions if you’re ever going to go undercover, y/n.” He teased, your fingers trailing across his broad shoulders. He kept his focus on you as you walked around his chair and with a gentle nudge of your hip, had him push it backwards to provide you with just enough room to sit on his lap.

You weren’t as amused by his jab, pouting up at him in a way that made his heart rate pick up. “I got a high score in ‘stealth and disguise’ thank you very much.” You retorted, arms going around his neck. Your fingers begin to play with the sterling silver chain of his dog tag, savoring the warmth of it between your fingertips. “Are you going to be a meanie all night just because you made dinner?”

His chuckle is followed by his arms cradling you, “Well I wasn’t going to say anything but since you pointed it out-...” His grip on you tightened before he stood up and carried you from the dining table.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

If he were being honest, he’d lost count of the number of orgasms he gave you. All he knew was that he’d never get tired of the way you look beneath him, the way the silver apple charm and dog tag clinked against his chest with each thrust he makes, and he’d especially never get tired of the way you moaned his name like you were begging for repentance from a god. “Where do you think you’re going pip-squeak? Don’t tell me you’re done taking cock? You were so desperate for it earlier.” His voice took on a darker edge, his evol thickening in the air, the fine hairs on your body standing on end at the gravity change in your environment. Your hips that had unconsciously tried to pull away are forced back onto his, forcing him in an angle that made you feel so full. “Caleb…” You whined, walls tight as you accommodated his hard, almost manic thrusts – like he just wanted to see how much he could pull out of you, how big of a puddle he could make on the hardwood floor of your living room.

“Love hearing you say my name like that.” He muttered, rolling his hips in figure 8’s just to further blur the lines between insanity and pleasure. “What do you think about recording it one day for me, hmm? Give me the pleasure of listening to you moaning over and over again when you send me texts.” Caleb’s smirk is replaced with a sudden darkening of his lavender eyes. “Then again, that would mean risking other people hearing your beautiful, needy voice. And I like knowing that this is all for me.” His hand slid into your hair, grasping a handful in a rough ponytail and tugging you back to focus on him. You wanted to say something but half your face is still pushed into the couch cushions, his hand keeping you in place.

SMACK.

Fuck. Your mind was blanking out, the world narrowing down to the strain of your legs while Caleb continued rutting into you like a man possessed. The sharp sting of his palm against your ass cheek only sent more heat to your groin. More… “Aww you’re so cute like this pip-squeak. Look how wet you’re getting when I treat you like the good little slut I knew you always were. I wonder how many times your colleagues fantasize about you, wonder if they know just how depraved and dirty you really like it… All hidden behind this sweet face.” He released your hair, fingers sliding around to squeeze your round cheeks, forcing your lips to purse while his eyes drank in your features.

Without so much as a warning, Caleb is suddenly pulling out of you – the disappointing emptiness only lasting for a fraction of a second before he flipped you over and with the help of his evol, pinned you down into a mean mating press – his favorite position with you. Caleb loved to watch the way your pupils dilate into lust-blown hearts when his cock stretches you, loved even more when your legs hook over his shoulders so he could leave gentle kisses along your calf, which honestly used to be his favorite part about fucking you like this. That quickly changed when he gifted that anklet to you – yes, the one with the tracker embedded in the matching apple charm – he’d also had the foresight to include another addition to the anklet: his initials. He’d only ever admit this to himself; something about the way he watched the letter ‘C’ bounce against your ankle in the same fast-paced rhythm he’d started, made his cock twitch. It was another way to mark you, filling him with prideful arrogance when he knew he’s the only privileged bastard to have their initials around your ankle. The same ankle he could hold onto when you have your legs on his shoulders. Well that was the situation until you said the very words that made the last thread of his restraint snap.

“Breed me Caleb.” You pant, his pendant and chain pooling on your sternum.

His hips stuttered, hand slamming down beside your head on the cushion while he steadied himself. “What did you say?”

It wasn’t that he didn’t catch it the first time. The burning desire within Caleb had everything to do with needing to hear it again.

The sting of your fingernails leaving angry red marks on his back made his irregular breathing heavier, especially when you’re staring straight into his eyes with that expression that practically begged him. “Breed me, please.”

“With fucking pleasure, pip-squeak.” Instincts took over when Caleb leaned down to nip on your luscious lower lip, making good on his promise from before. Once upon a time, you’d have sworn the noises escaping your lips were fake – no way those videos across the Internet could be onto something – Caleb, however, knew everything about your body, knew precisely how to break you down just to take his sweet time putting you together again. “Caleb-...”

“Louder. I want the whole building to hear who you belong to.” His voice is husky, fingers tight enough to leave bruises against the back of your thighs. You could feel every vein, every throb of his cock between your heated, velvety walls-

“Caleb!”

He was thrusting into you with blind need, the scent of your lovemaking thick in the air punctuated by the sodden thwack thwack thwack of your bodies.

Your vision is filled with a white sunburst, your body giving into your pleasure while you keened for him. The noises you made, the expression on your face, that vulnerability of how your chest seemed to flutter while you caught your breath…his. He was going to make you his. To breed you is to claim you in the most basest sense possible, no one would mistake who could’ve possibly made you swollen…the cadence of your voice begging him to breed you rang in his mind again further weakening the battle of wills he’d been having with himself – the need to drag this on as long as possible, or to fill you up to the brim with ropes and ropes of his-

“Fuuuuck…” You purred, overwhelmed from the feel of his warm cum spilling and smearing against your inner thighs.

“Y/n…” The crack in his voice instinctually made you grind against him, forcing another needy moan from Caleb. You both remained that way for a few beats, catching your breath while the white ring around the base of his cock slowly dripped along his balls. He pressed his cheek against your ankle, lips brushing against the curve of the ‘C’ from your anklet. His. You. Are. His.

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

ravenclaw-jojo™��2025 writing | No copying, plagiarizing or translations without expressed permission.

#love and deepspace #lads caleb #caleb x reader #caleb x mc #lads smut #yoyo writes #lnds #caleb smut #caleb x you

1K notes · View notes

astonmartinii · 1 year ago

Text

but daddy i love him [guilty as sin part two] | charles leclerc social media au

pairing: charles leclerc x fem sainz!reader

when an unstoppable force (the sainz men when they feel aggrieved) meets an immovable object (charles and y/n)

MASTERLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST | TIP JAR

carlossainz55

liked by landonorris, marcmarquez93 and 783,409 others

carlossainz55: never forget where you came from

view all comments

user100: insert cricket noises here

user101: who on your PR team said this was a good idea?

user102: they need to be fired, sorry not sorry

landonorris: i love your dad (tell him to stop beating me at golf)

carlossainz55: if he never lets me win he's definitely never letting you win

landonorris: so unfair i thought i was the third sainz sibling :(

carlossainz55: i'm an only child

landonorris: oh-

user103: i need this man to choke i'm being so serious rn

user104: that's so unbelievably fucked

user105: the fact his dad is probably co-signing this shit is insane that's YOUR DAUGHTER

user106: also someone give lando a lil slap around he's on the wrong side of history on this one

yourusername: scandal does funny things to pride

carlossainz55: if the scandal is betraying your family that's all you

yourusername: if we're talking about betrayal then that's your specialist subject mr. i've cheated on every girl i've ever been with - and while we're on the topic of betrayal, yes i was the one who told them

carlossainz55: i've never cheated why are you stooping to lies?

yourusername: you did it right in front of my face when i was a part of this family

carlossainz55: so you've always been comfortable going behind my back

yourusername: that's the thing, when you're treated like you don't exist by your family you learn that blood is not thicker than water

carlossainz55: i can't wait for charles to cheat on you

yourusername: btw i already called marca, they know any of those allegations from you or dad are false - good luck!

user10: obvs i know they should be doing this in private but MORE DRAMA FOR ME BABY LETS KEEP THIS GOING

user107: thank you for the validation y/n i KNEW THE SHIT STIRRING COMING FROM THAT PAPER WAS THE SAINZ CAMP

user108: and they've got the nerve to be talking about stooping - the call is coming from inside the house

maxverstappen1: ugly twins

carlossainz55: really?

maxverstappen1: i said what i said and i mean what i said

carlossainz55: i would say she's not going to fuck you bro but you really never know with her

maxverstappen1: she would never, homewrecking is a trait only the male sainzs seem to have

user109: OOP

user110: max is a real lestappen queen fighting the battles he knows charles can't

yourusername

liked by pierregasly, maxverstappen1 and 893,405 others

tagged: charles_leclerc

yourusername: if you know within one glimpse, its legendary

view all comments

user114: i love how she goes from fighting her brother in one comment section to just showing off her hot bf

user115: tbf charles does have a face you'd go to war for so i get her

user116: i'd abandon my family for that face

yourusername: finally someone who fucking gets it

charles_leclerc: you made me believe in love at first sight

yourusername: awwwwww you're such a sweet talker the REAL smooth operator

pierregasly: i can verify it was love at first sight cause the man did not SHUT THE FUCK UP about you well... ever

charles_leclerc: is it a crime to love my girlfriend?

pierregasly: apparently!

yourusername: he's too cute to go to jail :(

charles_leclerc: they'd ruin me

yourusername: that's my job 🤨

pierregasly: you keep that to yourselves

user117: does this girl need to shade carlos on every single fucking post... yeah we get it he's the only reason you're relevant but god you reek of desperation

oscarpiastri: is this carlos' burner account?

user118: are the grid just sat around waiting to be tagged in to the fight against carlos?

oscarpiastri: what's he going to do? crash into me? he does that every weekend anyway

user119: uh oh carlos oscar is finally fighting back off track what are you going to do

user120: don't worry i'm sure he'll post a selfie with lando and try the whole carlando shtick to get some more PR points

maxverstappen1: oh this was not the shit slinging post i was hoping for

yourusername: something tells me you're having way too much fun with this

maxverstappen1: yeah you might have been abandoned by your family but have YOU considered that this is letting me express all my mean girl energy off track so i am level-headed on track

maxverstappen1: actually i don't even think i'm being mean tbf

yourusername: i'm glad my suffering could be your therapy

carlossainz55: BOO HOO you're not suffering ... it's something called the consequences of your actions (read: actions being a snakey slut)

yourusername: bro over here acting like i committed fratricide

maxverstappen1: TAP ME IN

maxverstappen1: not this man talking about the consequences of actions. kids, here's a little life lesson: if you spend all your time at your current job talking about how you have a much better job waiting for you and how you're too big for this job and plant stories about your co-workers, you can't be surprised that that same job doesn't want to keep you

carlossainz55: i am better than charles

yourusername: lying is a sin

maxverstappen1: and you're going straight to hell

user121: you guys might be mourning the loss of charlos (whatever the fuck that is) but i'm celebrating the absolute shit ton of LESTAPPEN we're getting

user122: max was like oh my bff is dating charles here's my excuse to be nice about him again

user123: if we're being real here the biggest crime of this whole situation is the fact that charles can't really dig the knife in

user124: @ silvia i have maybe £4.50 and a greggs sausage roll to my name but PLEASE LET CHARLES TAP IN

liked by charles_leclerc, oscarpiastri and 1,298,006 others

tagged: oscarpiastri & carlossainz55

f1: f1... the sport that gives you just as much drama off track as we do on track!

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user125: at this point even before the whole carlos ousting his sister i think oscar was about 👌🏻 this close to rocking carlos nascar style we should let him do it

user126: i will personally pay his legal fees tbh

oscarpiastri: i'm only 23 i don't need two F1-related legal cases to my name

yourusername: i've watched legally blonde about ten billion times let me represent you

oscarpiastri: yeah sounds legit

user127: THAT'S IT WE NEED PROXIMITY CHAT IN F1

user128: the way we know there was a shit talking session like no other after this race

maxverstappen1: i don't kiss and tell but well - yes!

user128: okay since this is clearly a safe space... who was there please spill mr. verstappen

maxverstappen1: ME! charles, pierre, oscar, checo, alex and george!

user128: why the fuck were the last two there?

georgerussell63: i was on official GDPA duty 🤓

alexalbon: that's a lie we're just very nosey

yourusername: they're the biggest PTA moms ever don't even lie

georgerussell63: yes i'll make allergy friendly cupcakes for the bake sale but i'll also spit in them and gossip about your cheating husband - sorry about it!

alexalbon: he's not

georgerussell63: i'm not

user129: carlos slagging off y/n but she's really brought the grid together

user130: george and alex being like we do not care about that but we do want the latest scoop

alexalbon: oh don't get it twisted we're firmly team y/n

user131: we even got the f1 admin in on the drama

carlossainz55: she's probably fucking them as well

yourusername: BORING get a new bit babe

carlossainz55: if i see whore i'm going to say whore

yourusername: aren't you still in that damn stewards office?

carlossainz55: tell your little lap dog to keep his front wing away from my car and maybe i wouldn't

oscarpiastri: suck my dick

yourusername: now that's true poetry

user132: oH!

yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, alexalbon and 763,409 others

tagged: charles_leclerc, logansargent & oscarpiastri

yourusername: florida !!!!!!!!!!! is one hell of a drug. no seriously what is in the water here i keep picking up these little guys everywhere i go

view all comments

user135: she's really like i AM spanish and i will colonise this grid

user136: stealing all the lil cuties for her cause

oscarpiastri: proud to be a part of this weird little circus thing we've got going on

yourusername: oh dibs on ring master

logansargent: i feel like my name is written all over tight rope walking

yourusername: okay yes skinny legend

maxverstappen1: obvs we're a cruelty free circus so no lions but if there were lions, that's me babe

maxverstappen1: SOME people could learn... cough, cough trophy hunters

charles_leclerc: idk i'll just take the one where i can sit there and be pretty

yourusername: and you would be the best at it

oscarpiastri: which one does the least? i'll take that one

user137: bro can we slow the fuck down i was just getting over osc telling carlos to suck his dick now we're talking CIRCUS?

user138: for real couldn't it have at least been cabaret i wanna see ALL of that

charles_leclerc: 🤨

carlossainz55: i think a circus is a perfect way to describe your desperate attempt to stay relevant

yourusername: don't you have a job to go to? oh wait...

carlossainz55: as if i'm threatened by a group with the likes of logan sargent in it

logansargent: bit harsh, i'm a nice guy (unlike some)

yourusername: carlos here's a little bit of a wild thing i'm about to introduce to you.... people have friends?

yourusername: also you WISH you had a face card like logie

carlossainz55: i have friends?

yourusername: no you have PR strategies, there's a difference

carlossainz55: bro learnt the word PR and ran with it

yourusername: tell me one person who would let you crash on their couch?

yourusername: QUICKLY.

fernandoalo_oficial: and don't even think about mentioning me

user139: she hit him with the bianca del rio

user140: OOP and also nando just popping up out of nowhere to diss carlos and never say anything again

charles_leclerc: the drug in question being puppy fever

maxverstappen1: tell me you didn't get a dog

yourusername: boy do i have news for you

carlossainz55: are you trying to baby trap him

yourusername: first woman in history to birth a dog you heard it here first

charles_leclerc: you simply can't be babytrapped when you would literally jump off a bridge if asked to

user141: @myboyfriend TAKE NOTES HONEY ^^^

charles_leclerc

liked by maxverstappen1, landonorris and 1,745,093 others

tagged: yourusername & oscarpiastri

charles_leclerc: two kids in one month? someone stop us

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user142: y/n really lost an apartment and a brother and gained about 27 f1 drivers and a dog

user143: glow up of the century some might say

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yourusername: soz it's a coping mechanism

charles_leclerc: and that's okay <3

maxverstappen1: anything to help with that emotional CONSTIPATION

yourusername: have you tried to live with those narcissistic and emotionally unavailable men?

maxverstappen1: you're asking the wrong person that question honey

yourusername: girl are WE good?

maxverstappen1: no

yourusername: BUT THAT'S OKAY

charles_leclerc: not to rain on this parade but i think therapy would really be a positive move here

user144: i feel bad for charles cause i know these hoes are the type to just tell each other EXACTLYYYYY when they make poor decisions

maxverstappen1: true, no smart bitches would let their bff live with THAT man

yourusername: and let their bff constantly chat shit and ruin their image

maxverstappen1: can't ruin my image if i'm spitting FACTS

user145: max will nawt let this go

maxverstappen1: i'll forget you but i'll never forgive the smallest man who ever lived

yourusername: GIRL

maxverstappen1: whoops, one sec. spoiler alert: y/n unleased poetry. trigger warning: c*rlos s*inz

olliebearman: ollie bearman erasure

charles_leclerc: GASP OLLIE I AM SO SORRY

yourusername: no he actually is he's crying

charles_leclerc: it's the pregnancy hormones

olliebearman: it's okay i swear

charles_leclerc: I'M A TERRIBLE FATHER

carlossainz55: i could've told you that for free

olliebearman: why are you in our family buisness

user146: charles is channelling all of his carlos rage through ollie oh my

olliebearman: i am a happy conduit for my father who is in the ferrari PR jail

yourusername: can we send carlos here and throw away the key?

user147: charles is really out there like keep my girl's name out of your mouth cause even the bitch who stole your seat for a weekend is my SON

user148: y/n wasn't joking about with this grid domination

user149: but also i'm glad all of this fun stuff is happening amongst all of the shit that's been thrown at her from her family

oscarpiastri: a leclerc and proud (i race like my dad and throw shade like my mum)

yourusername: the best way to be

charles_leclerc: proud of you, you're such a good dog brother :)

oscarpiastri: i've just learnt to be patient after alpine and lando

yourusername: you still took your shoes being leo's personal bathroom really well

oscarpiastri: he's too cute to be mad at

yourusername

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tagged: charles_leclerc

yourusername: first mother's day with my boys

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user150: gonna enjoy this super wholesome post before... he... ruins it

user151: manifesting a y/n post without that bitter old hag in the comment section

charles_leclerc: the best mother for our fur baby and our miscellaneous other children

yourusername: only the best with you :(

charles_leclerc: ugh i love you so much

yourusername: i love you even more

user152: they're so fucking cute

user153: damn carlos i too would be angry if my baby sister and my teammate outshined my third PR relationship in six months

user154: the sainz family have generational levels of hating, but one does it for good (poetry) and one does it for bad (anything carlos ever says)

oscarpiastri: happiest mother's day to my grid mum! here's to reading them to filth xx

yourusername: OSC!! i always knew you were my favourite aussie

danielricciardo: did my enchante PR mean nothing?

yourusername: i mean i wear it all of the time... but it's osc ...

danielricciardo: true, i broke my hand before i could even think of accidentally hurting him

user155: also babe is looking so unbothered, moisturised and free we need the skin care routine

oscarpiastri: the tears of carlos sainz

yourusername: and cleansing your life of toxic family members

user156: okay clearly oscar was done with the whole "i'm so chill" bit cause since his adoption by charles and y/n he's been non stop on carlos' neck

oscarpiastri: i'm a ride or die for my mum cry about it

maxverstappen1: as the kids would say ... mother is mothering? @olliebearman did i do it right?

charles_leclerc: stop trying to steal my kids

maxverstappen1: BRO I'M TRYING TO COMPLIMENT YOUR GIRLFRIEND

charles_leclerc: that's literally my job 🤨

yourusername: tbf i'll take as many compliments as i can

charles_leclerc: are mine not enough?

yourusername: when you've got a self esteem this low, you gotta take what you can get

charles_leclerc: oh :(

user157: max and y/n fighting over who trauma dumps more about their upbringing

carlossainz55: this bit is very tiring. you'll be a terrible mother and all these people you think are your friends will drop you as soon as they know who you really are.

yourusername: you done?

carlossainz55: as you loveeeee to point out, i don't have much to lose anymore so i really wouldn't test me

yourusername: trying to make me homeless and stealing all of my money wasn't enough?

carlossainz55: charles will know the truth soon enough and you won't have us to come crying to

yourusername: i'll take those chances thank you

user158: hold ON what do you mean stole all her money

yourusername: i was never allowed my own bank account so all my earnings have gone to them!

user159: okay that's it WE RIDE AT DAWN

fin.

note: oh girl life has been BUSY!!! i just got a new job and have been looking desperately for a flat to move out to. also i've had family visiting and going here, there and everywhere. but i hope you enjoy! this was a lil more light-hearted lol (until the end) so enjoy the addition of the leclerc family lore xx

ALSO i wanted to say a massive THANK YOU FOR 6,000 FOLLOWERS love you all <3

note: hiii extra note from me here. first, i will fix this tag list at some point idk why it's not working rn. secondly, i have been made aware by multiple people that there is a series just like this one down to characters and the name of the series on here and i can't lie i'm bummed about it. as i said on the first part (?) this is an idea i've had since the release of TTPD (and people will back me up on this) so it bums me out that there are blatant copies coming out! i'm all for inspiration but sometimes there's a difference between taking inspo and copying especially when my masterlist was posted ages ago and my first part was posted on the 9th of may.... anyways that's all i have to say! enjoy xx

taglist: in comments!

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 instagram au #f1 x you #f1 #f1 social media au #charles leclerc imagine #charles leclerc x female reader #charles leclerc x you #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc fanfic #charles leclerc #astonmartinii

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