themuseofaphrodite

[themuseofaphrodite]

i know the end ✧ AKA12

summary: you might be a famous blogger with thousands of adoring fans, but the vicious crowd of dissenters never truly go away. after a particularly rude and inflammatory comment is posted under your page, you decide to end it all. until your boyfriend, formula one driver kimi antonelli, finds out.

trigger warnings: angst, swearing, mentions of self-harm & suicidal thoughts, description of low self-esteem & body image, statements of body-shaming & fat-shaming, descriptions of misogyny, suggestive & mature content

note: phrases and sentences in the italian language are utilized throughout; keep a translator accessible

word count: 1.5k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Outside your apartment in the heart of Monaco, the sky was inky black, the full moon like a ghostly white face. It was half past midnight, and Kimi still hadn’t arrived home after his daily simulation practice for Formula One. You shoved back your annoyance, knowing that the neglect was for a reason. He was working hard, earning his seat in Mercedes, weaving a legacy that would last long after his career ended. So what if it meant there were a few late nights? It would all be worth it in the end.

You had important work too, and he had never asked you to sacrifice it for him. There had been many schedule conflicts, photoshoots in Milan when Kimi had a Grand Prix in Spa, or when you had an important interview the same day as Kimi’s first Monaco race. Kimi had never complained, never acted upset, making it all the more worse for you that you felt so aggrieved.

You stood up from the couch, turning the television off from the news channel that had been droning and deciding to doomscroll on Instagram instead. Your profile popped up, notifications overflowing with hearts and comments from your fans telling you how much they loved you.

Amidst all these replies, though, something snagged your eye.

“She’s only famous because she sucks Kimi Antonelli’s dick.”

Underneath it, the same person had added, “Fat whore. I hope she chokes on his dick and dies. It would put us all out of our misery.”

Already, there were dozens of defensive retorts from your fans, shaming them for their crude and horrible statements.

Tears welled in your eyes, panic choking you like a vise.

You zoomed into the last photo you had posted, analyzing your waist and the shape of your body. You were wearing Kimi’s blue Mercedes jersey, his number 12 insignia glowing on your shoulders. They were right; you were fat and ugly.

Maybe that’s why Kimi was coming home so late. He didn’t want to see you more than he had to.

You threw your phone across the room, shuddering and clenching your stomach as nausea roiled through you. You fought not to vomit, tears rolling down your face and dripping down on the floor beside you.

Fuck.

You steadied yourself, wiping the wetness off of your cheeks and shakily getting up from where you were huddled. A few wobbly steps towards the kitchen and you were getting a glass of cold, refreshing water.

That was all. Nothing else.

The utensil drawer had carelessly been kept open, probably by Kimi. He was not a neat person, always getting distracted halfway through tasks. You stepped closer to it, your eyes laser-focused on the jagged shape of the carving knife.

It was perfect for what you needed, and your fingers twitched to pick it up and feel its cool glossiness glide over your skin. You wanted to end it all, right here and right now. Everything you had strived for was fruitless, there was no point in prolonging it any more.

Kimi would be distraught, but he was strong, he would move on. There were hundreds of other women that would be clamoring to assume your spot as his girlfriend. He would have no problem finding a new partner to pleasure himself with.

That’s all you were to him, a warm body to tuck himself into, a vessel for sex. That person on Instagram knew, it was so glaringly obvious that it was only a matter of time before everyone else realized. You were a fraud, and the best way to save Kimi was to cease this now.

The knife felt like a respite in the crook of your fingers. It was heaven against the rapidly fluttering pulse, and even more so once you dragged it —

“Princesa!”

You let out a loud gasp, the knife clattering to the wooden floor with an obnoxious metallic sound. A few pinpricks of crimson blood beaded on your skin, obscuring the pale purple veins of your forearm. That voice was so familiar.

Kimi.

He was home, and he had witnessed your attempt. New tears flowed down your face as he rushed towards you, enveloping your body in his arms, murmuring words of comfort and clearing away your distress. “I’m so sorry, mia bellisima amore.” Kimi pressed a kiss to your forehead, finally unraveling himself from you and hurrying to blot the blood with a paper towel. “I’m going to get a bandage for you, and then we’re going to talk about this, OK?”

You nodded, unable to make words move past your lips. Kimi watched you for a moment longer and then quickly entered the bathroom to grab bandages for you. When he came back, an audible breath of relief left his mouth when he saw that you were still intact.

“Give me your arm, princesa.” You obeyed, trance-like, and Kimi gingerly wrapped up your wrist, his eyes trained on you the whole time. Once you were finished, he carefully tugged you to the couch, his focus straying for one second when he noticed your phone laying halfway across the room. “What happened, amore?”

You swallowed roughly. “It’s stupid.”

“No, it’s not,” Kimi assured you. “I want to know, even if you think it is ridiculous. You are the love of my life.”

You smiled up at him, although it was fake. Both of you knew that it was just a front you put up, to disguise the fact that your inner self was breaking. “Someone…commented on my social media,” you began. “Saying that my fame is only because I —” Breaking off, a shiver coursed through you, and Kimi tightened his hold on you. “I suck your dick.”

Kimi’s eyes widened, and he barked out a laugh. “We don’t do that. They’re wrong.”

“But they aren’t.” You pursed your lips, shaking your head sadly. “My fame is mostly attributed to you. Ever since it was leaked that you and I were dating, my popularity soared. People only pay attention to me because of my connection to you.”

“That’s a lie,” Kimi shot back, his teeth gritted.

“No, it’s not,” you responded. “And you know it. Why else would they stick around if it wasn’t for the tidbits of you I give out? Everyone loves you, Kimi. They only tolerate me because of you.”

Kimi jerked his head back, his jaw clenching in frustration and anger. “Y/N, stop it. They love you for you, your bubbly personality and kindness. Do you really honestly think that they care about you only because of me? That’s a fucking lie, Y/N. You’re so much better than I could ever be, and you cannot try to convince yourself otherwise.”

You angled your gaze up to him. “You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

“No, I’m saying it because it’s the truth. Some testa di cazzo on the Internet doesn’t know shit about you and me. They are just trying to get a reaction out of you, they are purposely hurting you when there is no truth to any of their claims.” Kimi’s fingers caressed your cheek. “Your company is what keeps me going. Your support means the world to me, more than a thousand trophies or Grand Prix wins. You are the love of my life, and if I have to tattoo it on my forehead for you to understand, then I will. Understood?”

You watched him with bated breath the duration of the speech, and when he was finished, you said, “If you say so, Kimi.”

“You are perfect. Your body is fucking ethereal. God created you perfectly, and I am blessed that I get to worship you every night in bed. I could only wish to look half as beautiful as you do.” Kimi kissed you on the forehead. “That coglione doesn’t know what they are talking about.”

You bit your bottom lip, still not saying anything.

“I’m going to find that comment and report its user, as well as issue a whole post reprimanding them and people like them.” Kimi took his phone out of his pocket, unlocking it and scrolling through your profile until he found the comment. He sucked in a breath. “That is fucked up, amore. I’m so sorry.”

You saw him report the comment and type up a long paragraph on his story, and then publish it. Turning to you, Kimi said, “Now, I’m going to prove to you just how much I love your body. OK?”

You granted him permission, and with one fluid motion, Kimi tugged your blouse off, unclasping your bra and kissing the swell of your breasts as he undid your skirt. “Fucking perfect,” he growled, his fingers finding your bundle of nerves so quickly you thought he might be magnetically attuned to it. Your eyes closed, a moan breaking through your lips. “I love you so much, princesa.”

Two hours later, spent tangled up in one another, you knew that truer words had never been spoken.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

[themuseofaphrodite]

hold on to the memories ✧ CL16

summary: this new year’s eve, something in the rocky relationship between you and charles leclerc, formula one driver, has changed…

trigger warnings: swearing, suggestive & mature content, descriptions of alcohol

note: phrases and sentences in the french language are utilized throughout; keep a translator accessible

word count: 1.7k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

It was no hidden secret that you despised Charles Leclerc. Pretty boy, millionaire, beloved Formula One driver…even just thinking about him made you want to claw each strand of hair out of your head and wield a variety of kitchen utensils against him. Everyone else loved him and fell for his charm, which angered you to no end. How could no one see past his façade? How could no one see how arrogant and egotistical he was? It was a question that you still could not find the answer for, even ten years after you met him for the first time.

Your brother, Pierre Gasly, was friends with him. Although they might have been rivals, competing for wins in go-karting and on the F1 track, he still had a good relationship with him. That meant if you wanted to be with Pierre, there was a very high probability that Charles was somewhere nearby.

The first time you met Charles, it was Pierre’s first karting race. Pierre was starting second on the grid, and you were furious that he was not first. When you asked your mother why Pierre was not, she told you that another boy named Charles had had the fastest qualifying time. You swore then that you would never betray your brother and avoid Charles. In your eyes, he was as dangerous and unwanted as the bubonic plague.

Fast forward to ten years later. Tonight was New Year’s Eve. You had asked Pierre to have a small get-together, mostly family and maybe a few friends, but of course, that had not happened. He was a Formula One star, used to the spotlight and the glitz. So, instead, you were in the foyer, a fake, dazzling smile plastered on your face as you watched a multitude of people enter the mansion.

You shook everyone’s hands, directing them to various spots around the mansion. You were polite and courteous, although a bloom of anger was slowly simmering within you. This night had already gone wrong, and you knew it was only a matter of time before it got worse.

The frustration with your brother’s plans grew to full heat when you saw him.

Fucking Charles Leclerc, his puppy-dog eyes obscured by black shades and his messy brown hair fluffed up like he had taken a nap before arriving to the party. Uncultured slob. He was wearing a crisp black tuxedo with the first button undone, a small sliver of tan skin peeking through. Your cheeks heated and you traced your eyes back up to a spot behind him, focusing on the dancing disco lights rather than the tease of flesh you had honed in on. Before you looked away, however, you noticed that he had no date.

That was a surprising first, and that meant your brother’s mansion would be the hunting grounds for Charles’s next conquest. You swallowed back nausea and disgust at the idea.

“Ah, Y/N,” Charles greeted you once he had moved deeper into the house and spotted you. “How has your night been?” His tone was polite and cordial, but you knew nothing about him was kind. He was a viper dressed up in fancy clothing and with a pretty face, but he was a viper nonetheless.

Your eyes narrowed, and you ignored his question. “Leclerc.”

“Hm.” Charles cocked his head to the side, analyzing you. “Your brother has you on door duty, I see.” He took off his glasses and winked. You curled your fists into a ball, hands twitching eagerly to punch him.

“Yes,” you forced out thickly, pain lancing through your palm as your nails dug into the soft skin.

Charles appraised you, a smug smirk tilting his lips. “See you soon, jolie.”

You were fluent in French; you knew exactly what Charles had called you. Pretty. Like you were a rose to be admired. He had forgotten that roses had thorns, and you reminded him by shooting back, “Va te faire foutre, connard.”

His jaw dropped, giving you a sense of sick pleasure at his expression. “That’s very unkind of you, Y/N.”

“Get away from me,” you seethed.

Charles obeyed, but you caught his dagger-like glare at you in your peripheral vision — not that you cared.

Three hours later

The music had been amped up, rattling in your bones and making you feel electric. French pop music blared over the speakers and you danced, undulating your waist and hips to the beat as you sang along. You were three drinks in: two shots of whiskey and quite a few sips of wine, and you were starting to feel its effects. You were in a hazy wonderland, full of energy and joy.

Nothing could bring you down.

Except for one person, and he was watching you unabashedly, his eyes pinned to you as if you were magnetic, in the corner of the room.

Charles brushed away a woman who had sidled up to him, still laser-focused on you as you attempted to climb one of the tables but failed. You kept dancing, unaware of the possibility that you could have been hurt. He moved forward suddenly, breaking through the thick mob to get to you.

He tugged at you, causing you to stop in the middle of your dance move and pout at him. “Come on, ballerine, it’s time for you to rest.”

You shook your head, turning away from him, but he was too strong. Charles pulled you insistently, dragging you from the pulse of the music and frenetic partygoers until you reached the first room. The door was closed, and you knew Pierre hadn’t wanted anyone to enter, but Charles pushed through without any regards to your brother’s wishes.

Thankfully, you had not found yourself in a bedroom but in your library. A few bookshelves were stationed by the walls, polychromed novels carefully placed in order. Charles stepped closer to them, admiring the sheen of each spine and the painstaking organization that you took to keep the room neat. You bounced on the balls of your feet as you waited for him to explain the meaning of his actions.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he said finally, angling his attention back on you.

You huffed, crossing your arms irritatedly. “Then hurry it up. I don’t have time for this, imbécile.”

“Watch it with the names,” Charles retorted, the first sign of his carefully constructed disguise falling. You grinned at him, proud of yourself for extracting a display of anger from him when he kept his emotions locked up tight. “I am trying to be civil.”

“You? Civil?” you snorted. “And I am a princess.”

Charles moved towards you, his body heat radiating in your core. Your face flushed instantly. “In my eyes, you are. A spoiled one who needs to learn manners, but you are a princess nonetheless.”

You sucked in a breath, but you could not find the words to respond. The proximity of Charles to you, combined with the amount of alcohol coursing through your veins, had caused you to become speechless — a novelty for both you and Charles alike.

“Now that you are listening, I know you despise me, for some strange reason of yours. But we are both adults now, and I think that we can move past our enmity.” Charles enunciated slowly and clearly, his hazel eyes boring into yours, although you purposefully jolted your head to the side to not make eye contact. “I do not want to bring our bad feelings into the new year, not when so many things are at stake.”

His contract with Ferrari and new teammate. You scoffed. “It’s not like I can affect any of that. You give me too much power.”

“You have more influence over me than you think, Y/N,” Charles said. His eyes darkened, pupils dilating as he leaned in. “You may have hated me all these years, but I have always loved you.”

The words sunk in as if they were bombs, hitting the mark and blowing up your whole world. “What?” you stammered, taken aback. You were startled sober, and everything came to you in clear focus. “Charles, what are you talking about?”

“Do you remember the karting race with Pierre, the one that I won and you stamped on my foot?” Charles ran a hand through his hair, making it even messier. You remembered that day in vivid detail; it had been the first time you had seen Charles. “I fell in love with you. Your fiery spirit, your passionate emotions, how you would do anything for your loved ones. I respect and admire that, Y/N.”

“So you’ve been trying to piss me off for the past decade to prove your affections?” you demanded angrily.

Charles sighed. “For a lack of better words, yes.”

You threw your hands up in the air, pacing back and forth across the room. “You are terrible.”

“I’m sorry, Y/N. I could not think of a better way to tell you.”

You looked at him, meeting his gaze for the first time in the room. “I cannot believe you.”

Without thinking, you pressed your lips against his and kissed him. He wrapped his strong arms around your waist, yanking you closer and resulting in a moan at the contact you had with his lower body. He kissed you fervently, worshipping your lips and every area of your body. You broke apart, clamoring for breath, matching flags of red appearing on your cheeks once you realized the magnitude of what you had just done.

Outside, muted through the thick wood of the door, you heard the sounds of cheering and celebration. “Happy New Year!” you heard someone call out, and your heart stopped for a moment.

You looked down at your watch. 12:00. That meant that Charles had been your New Year’s kiss.

“Happy New Year, mon chéri. May there be many more I spend with you,” he said, pecking a small kiss on your forehead.

“Happy New Year, j’ai mal au cul.”

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

[themuseofaphrodite]

santa doesn’t know you like i do ✧ MV33

summary: it’s christmas eve, and your boyfriend, max verstappen — a notoriously bad gift giver — still has not told you what presents he had bought you. unbeknownst to you, however, he has found the wishlist you jokingly wrote to santa, and is planning a heartwarming surprise for his beloved.

trigger warnings: suggestive & mature content, swearing

word count: 1.1k

note: phrases and sentences in the dutch language are utilized throughout; keep a translator accessible

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Dear Santa, the letter began, I know that I’m almost twenty-three years old, so writing a letter to you is kind of foolish, but I still believe in the magic of Christmas, even if you aren’t real. This Christmas, I’m not really expecting much. My boyfriend, Max Verstappen, buys me anything I ask for, no matter what time of the year it is. He’s the best partner I could ask for. But the reason why I’m writing this letter is because he is clueless when he has to pick out gifts on his own, without my assistance.

So, before I go off on a tangent talking about how bad his solo gifts have been — do I have to mention the knitted red socks or lavender flavored gumballs? —, these are the things that I’m most looking forward to hopefully seeing under the Christmas tree.

A new set of lipsticks, because mine is really old and running out. I didn’t want to ask Max to buy me one, because I feel bad making him pay for anything.

The new rose gold spade necklace from Chanel. I saw it in a display case at the store in Monaco, and I was itching to purchase it. It’s really beautiful.

And last, but not least, a carton of Ferrero Rocher chocolates, the ones in the golden wrap and the crunchy nuts. My mouth is salivating just from thinking about it.

I know that there’s probably no point to writing this letter since you’re not exactly a living, breathing person, but a part of me hopes that your magic might help figure some of the kinks in Max’s terrible gift-giving skills out.

After writing the letter, you ended up throwing it away in the trash. It was such a waste of time, you thought. What in the world possessed you to do this? You were a busy woman, working for Red Bull as a PR manager. There was never a quiet moment. That was how you and Max had met: you were assigned to aid Liam Lawson in figuring out any media scandals, but as soon as Max had laid eyes on you, he’d immediately ordered Christian Horner to switch you to helping him out.

You were unsure of him, how aggressive and competitive he was. He wouldn’t shy away from direct confrontation, and that terrified you, since the idea of verbally arguing with someone made you nauseous. But so far, eight months into the relationship, you and Max had not had a single fight. He was loving, patient, and kind, willing to hear your side of the story every single time, even if he looked like he was about to flip a table. (This usually happened in PR meetings: you never argued outside of work.)

This would be your first Christmas together, and you were nervous. You knew what to get him: a new Red Bull team shirt and a pair of matching scarves that had colorful cats printed on it. It was purr-fect, and you knew that Max would — hopefully — love it.

Max entered the room, his steps hurried as he typed away on his phone and let out a big huff in frustration. You leaned against the wall, watching him as you sipped your chocolate-flavored boba tea. “Hey, is everything all good, mijn leeuw?” you asked, tacking on the Dutch pet name that fit your boyfriend perfectly. He was a lion, loud and courageous…especially in bed. Your cheeks heated at the thought.

Max looked up from his phone, his mouth a little open in confusion. “No, I’m OK, liefde. Just…fucking delivery people, not being on time.” Your eyebrow quirked, and Max shook his head. “And no, for the seventh time, I will not tell you what I’m getting you for Christmas. I know your birthday might’ve been bad, but I promise this time I’ll be good. Ik hou van je, schat.”

“Ik houd ook van jou,” you responded. “But I think I have every right to be concerned.”

Max rolled his eyes, walking over to where you were and placing one arm above your head, effectively locking you in place. “It will be fine. Don’t worry your pretty head about it, hm?” He grinned, kissing you on the forehead. “And if it does end up wrong, I’ll fuck you really well to make up for it.”

You blushed, averting your gaze away from him. “Max.”

“It’s true.” He released his hand from the wall, moving a dozen inches apart from your face. “Geloof me, lieverd.”

You bit your tongue and didn’t respond.

The next evening, also known as Christmas night, you and Max were preparing to open your presents. Your stomach was like a swarm of butterflies, you were so nervous to see what was in store for you under the tree. Max, however, was the epitome of ice-cold, his face betraying no hint as to what he may have purchased.

“Your turn first, engel.” Max motioned for you to select your first gift, and with shaky hands, you began to unpeel the small, square-shaped package. Finally unveiling it, you realized what it was: the rose gold spade Chanel necklace you’d been wanting for so long.

“Max! Oh my God, jij bent de beste!” you cried out, hugging him tightly and making him crack up in laughter. “How did you know?” you asked as you pulled away, but Max shrugged his shoulders.

“I just know things, liefde.” It was now Max’s turn to select his first gift, and he chose the nondescript package that held the colorful cat scarves in them. You suppressed a smile, watching as he carefully cut through the gift wrapping and sifted through the gift paper. His face broke out in a large smile, his blue eyes gleaming with happiness. “Cat scarves? This is adorable!”

“I hoped you would like it,” you said, beaming back at him. You shifted your position to pick up another gift; this time, it was heavy and rectangular. An inkling of suspicion wormed its way through you as you met Max’s gaze. “If this is what I think this is… Thank you.”

It was, in fact, a new set of lipsticks, just like you had written in your letter to Santa Claus. Somehow, Max must have found the letter and bought everything that you’d put on the list.

“You deserve it,” Max responded, pulling you close to him after you both had finished unwrapping the presents. “You’re the love of my life, Y/N. I owe you the world.”

You kissed his temple. “You’re the most incredible partner I could ever have.”

“Merry Christmas, hart van mij.”

Needless to say, you paid Max back for the thoughtful presents all night long. It was a Christmas you’d never forget, and you sent up a silent thanks to the magic of Santa Claus for having it all work out.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

[themuseofaphrodite]

know that you and i shouldn’t feel like a crime ✧ OP81

summary: after viewing a series of viral tiktoks, you decide to partake in the “hear me out” cake trend with your very wary boyfriend.

trigger warnings: suggestive & mature content, swearing

word count: 1k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧���‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

One of your most surprising qualities was that you were a TikTok fiend, especially since you were usually down to earth and didn’t use your phone much in public — but for good reason. Your “For You” page was filled with some of the weirdest, wackiest things: dangerous extreme sport challenges, odd filters used on pets for a quick laugh… the list could go on. Each video was a perfect way to destroy your reputation as the effortlessly suave McLaren princess.

You slouched on the creaky recliner next to Oscar Piastri, your boyfriend of almost three years, and sighed loudly, garnering his attention immediately. He was perfectly attuned to your every movement and breath, which was why you liked him so much. Nothing was worse than a nonchalant man, and Oscar was anything but that.

“Hm, darling? Everything OK?” Oscar looked up at you from where he was sitting, pausing the television with a careless flick of his hand. “It’s getting late, maybe you’re tired? You did have a long day.”

You shrugged one shoulder, feigning coolness. “No, I’m fine, I’m not tired. I just have an idea.”

Oscar raised one eyebrow, already on alert. That last sentence always warned him that something was afoot, and nine times out of ten, it was never anything good. “Oh, no. What now?”

“There’s a trend going around” — this made Oscar visibly tense, a vein in his neck going taut as he waited for you to continue. He disliked the viral pranks and never laughed at any of them, to your dismay — “and I was hoping you’d be willing to participate in one of them with me?” You batted your eyelashes, giving him puppy dog eyes, a trick you knew he couldn’t resist.

“If my mates find out about this,” he warned you, waving a finger menacingly at you like a stereotypical villain. “No posting this like you did last time.” You stifled a laugh at the thought of the last prank you engaged in, and the way it had broken the Internet when you posted it on social media. Oscar had not forgiven you, and it had been almost a year.

You shook your head solemnly, extending your pinky finger out to him so he would interlock his own in an unspoken vow. “I promise you I won’t post it.”

“Good.” He pursed his lips, obviously remembering the media disaster that had unfolded last time. McLaren had not been happy with him in the slightest, to say the least. He was still making it up to them even now. “What’s the trend?”

You edged yourself closer to him, tilting your chin conspiratorially and speaking in a low whisper. “Hear me out.”

Oscar’s eyebrows furrowed, clueless. He scrolled through TikTok very rarely, mainly preferring to stick to television, and sometimes Instagram reels, so he had no idea what you were talking about. “Pardon?”

“So, basically,” you explained, your voice bright with mischief, “you have to think of a few characters, or people, that you think are attractive, although others might disagree with you. For example, hear me out,” you started, a moment’s pause between your response. “Bumblebee from Transformers.”

Oscar’s jaw dropped as the name clicked. “The robot? You want to tell me that you find a machine attractive?”

“He’s protective and sweet, and has really good music taste,” you defended, pouting.

“Goddamn, Y/N, starting off strong.” Oscar hummed under his breath, thinking. “Hear me out, Megan Fox but in Jennifer’s Body.”

You groaned loudly, annoyed. “That’s not a ‘hear me out’. Everyone agrees that Megan Fox in that film was beautiful. It has to be something unhinged, like, hear me out” — you clucked your tongue, pondering over the various choices floating around in your mind — “the Goldfish cracker on the front of the bag.”

Oscar made a distinct choking noise, his face flushing red. “An animal? God, Y/N. I should report you to the police so they can put you behind bars.”

You swatted him on the shoulder, barely missing him since his reflexes were superhuman. “Try again, Osc. Really shock me with this next one, please.”

“Hear me out…Belle from Beauty and the Beast.” Oscar waited for your approval, and you sighed, throwing your hands up in the air in surrender. “What? How was that not good? She’s a cartoon!”

“Everyone loves Belle! She’s fierce, intelligent, and stunning. All qualities that are conventionally attractive!” You shook your head. “Come on. Hear me out, a string bass.”

Oscar’s eyes widened to the size of saucers. “What the — Please tell me you’re joking, love. There’s no way you could find an instrument attractive.”

“A bass is tall, deep-pitched, and mysterious. Just what I like in a man.” You beamed up at him. “OK, Oscar. Don’t disappoint me.”

He side-eyed you, tapping his fingers on his lap as he thought. “I have one.” You watched him with bated breath, hoping that he would finally catch on. “Hear me out, Sydney Sweeney, in general.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. “I give up, Oscar. I should’ve known that this wouldn’t have worked. Lando would be so much better to do this with… Let me ask him if he’s free.”

Oscar rolled his eyes, pulling you onto his lap before you could escape, and giving you a quick peck to your lips. “Sorry, darling. Better luck next time?”

You huffed. “Whatever, Oscar. I forgot you were an inadequate, basic white boy.”

Oscar nudged his nose against your jaw, whispering in a husky, deep voice. “Hear me out, my girlfriend, Y/N L/N. She might be batshit crazy sometimes, but she’s absolutely breathtaking. When she’s underneath me, begging for my cock like a good girl? It’s a fucking work of art.”

You suppressed a shiver, looping your arm and burying yourself against him, arousal dancing under your skin. “Fuck, OK. You win.”

He kissed you again, a smirk dancing on his lips. “Oh, I know. I always do. Future world champion, remember?”

“Arrogant prick,” you muttered, but your curses were swallowed up by a new wave of kisses Oscar pressed against your lips.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

[themuseofaphrodite]

i bet on losing dogs ✧ Anakin Skywalker

summary: many years ago, anakin might have loved you, but the man you knew is no longer. this is an au where padmé amidala is secretly resurrected, and she watches the love of her life transform into the heartless dictator darth vader.

trigger warnings: angst, mentions of gambling, descriptions of choking, mentions of death and child murder

word count: 1.5k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The harsh wind blew back the tightly wrapped folds of Padmé’s scarf, making her shudder as the sharp, icy gust knifed her exposed skin. It was getting late; the two moons were already making their ascent in the orange and crimson sky, yet the Jedi she had been waiting for still had not arrived.

The sound of crunching footfalls made her tense, her fingers immediately touching her sheathed lightsaber. She was a woman alive from the dead, and there would be an infinite amount of people across the galaxies who would have loved to figure out how she was still breathing.  Padmé had no idea herself: she had woken up, her breaths staccato and her vision blurry. She couldn’t tell anything apart except for bright flashes of light and the telltale jolt in speed as a spaceship jumped to hyperspace. Someone had saved her, but she didn’t know who. That would be a debt to repay later, when she figured out where Anakin was.

Even thinking about him made her heart twang with sadness. Their encounter on Mustafar had changed their relationship indelibly, and it hurt to know that the man she had loved so dearly had thought so poorly of her. Obi-Wan was a friend, an ally in the Senate – not her lover. That title had only belonged to Anakin, no one else. It would never be given to any other man or woman, because her source of solace was in his arms only.

“Padmé.”

She twisted around to face the tall, bearded man, a soft yet sad smile growing on her face. Obi-Wan had gone into hiding soon after Anakin’s fall, but he was willing to risk everything for her. “Have you found any news about him?” she asked, hoping that her voice would not crack.

“He’s vanished. None of my sources have found any information about him,” Obi-Wan explained. “I’ve talked to other Jedi and each lead has come up empty. I’m sorry, Padmé.”

She shook her head. “It’s not your fault, Obi-Wan. You’ve done the best you could possibly do.” Padmé pressed her lips together. “I only wish we were meeting each other under kinder circumstances.” “How are you doing?” Obi-Wan inquired, stepping closer to her so she could hear him better over the wind. “I know it must be hard for you, adjusting to your new lifestyle.”

She chuckled dryly. “Yes, it’s nothing like the opulent palaces…or the cutthroat Senate, that’s for sure. I hope news finds us soon.”

“No news is good news,” Obi-Wan reminded her. “Even if it may not seem like it.”

Padmé shrugged one shoulder, lowering her head in thought. “Perhaps.”

A few moons later, despite her distrust, Padmé found herself in Canto Bight. A new hint as to where Anakin had gone had unveiled itself, and so far, all the clues had led to something plausible. She wound her way up the staircase, her hair tucked in a braid and face painted in an intricate design. It had taken her hours to properly disguise herself and ensure that the dyes would not stain or smudge. 

“Identification?” a lizard-like creature asked her. Padmé flashed her new card at him, her pulse rate skyrocketing as she waited for him to wave her through. “You may enter.”

She inclined her head and continued walking steadily, her eyes darting across the room for potential adversaries. All around her, creatures were playing casino games – rolling multi-colored dice or chattering away to holograms. It was dizzying, but Padmé forced herself to keep a level head.

She looked down at her wristwatch, checking that the time was accurate. Just a few more minutes and her lead would either prove to be a dead end or correct. She secretly prayed for the latter: Anakin was so close to her, and she knew it.

“Miss?” someone said behind her. “Looks like there’s a lot of dark clouds outside.”

The utterance of the code word made Padmé’s mouth twitch. “Seems like a rainy day, hm?” she murmured back, completing the phrase. 

“I hear you’re sniffing around for information about the lost Jedi Skywalker, right? I have a source who knows more information.” The blue-skinned humanoid smiled, revealing deep golden incisors. “Follow me.”

Reluctantly, Padmé trailed him, her heart pounding as she ventured deeper into the glittering dregs of Canto Bight. Her fingers never strayed far from her concealed lightsaber, and the hair on the back of her neck stood straight up when they stopped.

A hunched over creature lay in the corner, looking little more than a heap of rags. Padmé inched closer, her head tilted to the side. What use would this half-dead thing be? She sighed, preparing herself for disappointment, when all of a sudden, the creature moved.

Baleful green eyes like searchlights roved over her face. “Padmé Amidala,” it croaked. “Secret lover and wife of the lost Anakin Skywalker.”

An invisible arrow notched itself in her center, striking true. She did not respond, waiting instead for it to tell her more.

“The man you once knew is no longer. He will rise from the ashes of Mustafar with no heart in his chest. Look away from the gaiety from your past and move on.” Padmé’s jaw clenched, tears stabbing at the corner of her eyes. There was no chance she would accept this, not in a million eons. “Anakin Skywalker is no more.”

She turned on her heel and fled, the tears she was trying to hold back flowing freely down her cheeks like a river.

Four years later and Padmé still had faith left in her husband, although every detail she had scraped up from various witnesses revealed that the original source on Canto Bight had not been far off. Stories of decimated cities, Force-choked citizens being left for dead, younglings slaughtered…It was all too much for her, but she would never give up.

Then she saw it for herself, when she was out on another mission on Tatooine.

A metal-encased behemoth, a black mask obscuring his face. A dramatic night-black cape flowing behind him and his steps like a pounding drum.

Padmé sucked in a breath, flattening herself against a corner and sending up a prayer that she would go unnoticed. Anakin – or should she say, Darth Vader, as that was what he was called now – was heading down the street, a target locked in on someone she did not know.

She heard it first before she saw it. A loud, keening scream and then the horrible sputtering sound of somebody choking on a lack of oxygen. “Tell me where she is.” The words were robotic, monotone, yet they sent a shudder down Padmé’s spine.

“I – I don’t – know!” the victim cried out, and with a sinking feeling, Padmé recognized the voice. It was the innkeeper who had kindly let Padmé book a room during her stay on Tatooine. 

So that meant Anakin knew she was still alive, and he was searching for her.

That made this mission all the more dangerous, and all the more real. As much as Padmé wanted to see Anakin again, she knew the tales, the irrefutable evidence pointing to the fact that he had changed, and he would not react well to his once-dead lover being resurrected. 

There was a loud noise, the crumpling of bones hitting stone as Anakin dropped his hold on the innkeeper. The metallic footfalls continued…

…Until they ceased, right in front of Padmé.

“My dearest,” Anakin crooned, a gloved finger tipping the crook of her chin up. “They said that you were dead.”

But no longer.

“It is such a shame, how everything unfolded. It seems that the stars have aligned, giving both of us redemption – another shot at life.” Anakin tightened his grip on Padmé, and she suppressed a gasp. “Join me, and that chance will not be wasted.”

Padmé was rooted to the spot, unable to speak.

“Rule by my side. Let your name be enshrined in history as the galaxy’s most feared empress.” Anakin’s breath huffed against her skin, sending sparks ricocheting through her veins. She could hear the faint whirring of gears in his suit, and she focused on it as he spoke. “Padmé Amidala, the Queen Eternal. Join me.”

“Never,” she seethed, the singular word as sharp as a lightsaber arcing through the sky. It contained the rage of a thousand storms, the end of all her dreams that Anakin would turn back to the light. Fury lashed out, shattering her defenses and leaving her bereft.

After everything, she bet on something she could never have, indulging in a moment’s solace only to be heartbroken and dazed. 

Life wasn’t a fairytale, and she had learned her lesson.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

[themuseofaphrodite]

do you get deja vu? ✧ FC43 / CS55 

summary: you are at a masquerade ball in buenos aires, argentina, and you have garnered the attention of a certain argentinian driver. little does he know that a year ago, you were living a mirror image life with a different spanish driver.

trigger warnings: angst, suggestive content, mentions of alcohol, descriptions of depression, cheating

note: phrases and sentences in the spanish language are utilized throughout; keep a translator accessible

word count: 1.9k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Buenos Aires, Argentina

Parties were the only thing that quieted the whirlwind in your head. Getting drunk, dressing in fancy attire, pretending to be someone you were not, helped fix your fucked-up mind, even if it was just for a handful of hours. Ever since your break up with Carlos Sainz Jr., you had fallen down a rabbit hole of despair and heartbreak, muting your feelings with Bacchian revelries. Nothing else you did helped – you tried meditating, yoga, spin class, journaling…yet nothing gave you peace like parties did.

You nursed the glass of white wine in your hand, sipping it casually as you perused the ballroom, scanning the crowd for someone worthwhile. Another reason why you enjoyed parties is because it was the best hunting ground for a one-night stand. Most people who went to these festivities were looking to find hook-up partners, which is exactly what you needed. 

Everyone’s face was obscured with masks, and you could tell a lot about someone based off of their disguises. Those who wore fanciful designs were vain and egotistical, those who preferred muted designs were insecure. You needed someone showy but not extravagant – and that’s when you found the perfect mark.

He was already staring at you, his piercing olive eyes honed in on you. His light brown hair sloped in gentle waves over his forehead, his muscular build concealed by a tight-fitting tuxedo. Sun-kissed freckles dotted the lower portion of his face.

He was everything you needed to take your mind off of Carlos. Or so you thought.

“Buenas noches,” you murmured to him when you stood beside him, your head tilted to the side, scouring for details previously missed. He smelled like caramel and sea salt mixed with expensive cologne, and he carried himself like he was a prince. “¿Cómo ha sido tu noche?”

He craned his neck down to look at you, a smirk curling at his top lip. “Mejor ahora que has venido a charlar.”

“Hm,” you hummed under your breath. “Pensaría que un chico lindo como tú tendría las agallas de hablar con una chica.”

“¿Y quién dijo que no?” he inquired, one eyebrow raised.

“My name is Y/N,” you responded, not caring to stay on the same topic of conversation anymore and switching to English, the language you were more fluent in. Carlos had been the one to teach you Spanish so you could understand what his family was saying when you visited them, but you still felt unsure when speaking it. “And yours is?”

He chuckled. “Franco Colapinto.” A soft accent tilted the edges of his vowels, and it sent a spark of electricity racing through your veins. Just like Carlos. You forced yourself to take your mind off of your ex – thinking about him would not do anything. Carlos had someone better, and soon you would too.

Franco’s name sounded vaguely familiar, but you had far too many drinks to remember exactly why. “Ah. You’ve been looking at me all night. Is there something you’d like to tell me?” you  crooned playfully.

“Yes,” he responded, his tone just as mischievous. “And would you like to tell me something as well? Don’t think I haven’t seen you staring at me, hermosa.”

“You first,” you pressed, taking a sip of your white wine.

“I was thinking how surprising it is that una chica impresionante like you would not have a date to such an event,” Franco mused. “Do you have someone?”

You shook your head, swallowing roughly. “No.”

“Then it would be my pleasure to accompany you, querida.” Franco looped his arm through yours, pulling you close to his body. He was warm, toned muscle, and you suppressed a groan at the contact. “¿Te gustaría encontrar un lugar más...privado?”

A private area…just what you needed. You bobbed your head in agreement, and Franco tugged you towards a small alcove, away from the eyes of partygoers. “Tell me why you’re here,” you pushed. “Do you not have a date?”

“No date. I was hoping that I would stumble upon a beautiful girl like you, though,” Franco flirted casually. The way he had with words alerted you to the fact that he honed his charm like a weapon, and it intrigued you. “Gracias a Dios que mis deseos se hicieron realidad.”

“You’re such a smooth talker,” you teased, tugging gently on his mask and causing him to make a disapproving noise at you. “How many girls have you picked up with those same lines?” You appraised him, scanning his stature from head to toe. “Eres un espectador.”

Franco laughed. “Tú también.”

You stepped forward, encasing his shoulders with your arms. Angling your face up, you kissed him deeply on the lips, a moan escaping your lips at the sensation of how soft he was. It was deceiving, the way he looked – strong, hewn stone, but his lips were like a cloud. Franco immediately intensified the kiss, his tongue battling with yours for dominance, his arms snaking down your waist and pulling you flush against him. “Fuck,” you murmured when you broke apart. “Someone knows how to make out.”

Franco grinned and pecked you on your cheek. “I’ll gladly continue, amor. Just give me the word.”

You kissed him again – this time more fervently, like you were trying to etch him into your memory and erase every flashback you had of Carlos.

Madrid, Spain

Carlos Sainz Jr. sucked in a breath as you spun around the room in your lavish pink ballgown. “Fuck, cariña, you look so good.” You beamed back at him. “We have to go to more parties now. You look absolutely stunning.”

“Yeah?” you cocked your head. “Says the sexiest man alive.”

Carlos laughed, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. “Te amo mucho, Y/N. I don’t know what I would do without you. You’re perfect.”

You scoffed. “If you say so.”

Carlos clucked his tongue, picking you up and setting you down on the edge of the bed. “I know so, amor.”

“Hm.”

He kissed you, making you topple over onto the bed and screech in surprise. “Trust me, cariña, you drive me crazy.” Carlos crawled on top of you, pinning you down and kissing you again passionately. “My fucking ángel sent from the heavens.”

“Except you know I’m anything but an angel,” you retorted, and he quieted you with another kiss. “Carlos, come on, we’re going to be late.” He huffed angrily but extricated himself from you, brushing invisible specks of dust off of his lapel. 

“Do you have your mask, Y/N?”

You nodded, sitting up from where you were lying and pointing at the shiny rose gold masquerade mask that was resting on the vanity table. “That’s mine.”

“OK. Everything else done?” Carlos inquired, and you nodded once more. “Then come here and vamos.”

You were extremely excited to go with Carlos to your first ever masquerade ball. You’d spent weeks agonizing over what color scheme to choose for your dress so that it would match up with your mask, whereas Carlos had selected a simple black-and-white tuxedo with a stormy gray mask. “I want you to stand out, amor. I don’t care what I wear. I want everyone to be looking at my beautiful girlfriend, not me.”

Forty-five minutes later and you were in the ballroom, your jaw gaping open in awe. A large gilded chandelier hung suspended over the crowd, a thousand candles flickering vividly. The floor was a plush red carpet and the walls were filled with ancient portraits. You could swear that some of them were alive, and that they were staring at you.

Hopefully not judging you…

Carlos signaled a waiter over and ordered a glass of wine for the both of you. “I need to use the restroom,” he told you. “Don’t drink my wine, ¿OK, cariña?”

You nodded and gave him a peck on his cheek, watching him disappear through the crowds. A few moments later, your wine appeared and you took a gulp, tapping your foot impatiently as you waited for Carlos to return.

Minutes ticked by and still Carlos had not come back. Maybe he got caught up talking to someone, you assured yourself. He’s fine. 

But even after the belltower chimed eleven, Carlos was nowhere to be seen. You began a frenzied search for him, asking people frantically if they knew his whereabouts. Everything was a dead end, until…

The familiar tall, bronzed body with his fingers twisted through another woman’s hair, his lips plastered against hers like they were glued together.

Your breath stuttered in shock, tears pricking your eyes like knives.

Without another second wasted, you turned your back on him and fled the scene where your heart was torn into a million pieces.

Buenos Aires, Argentina

“So, what do you do for a living?” you asked Franco a few hours later as the sun was descending into the horizon. You had left the ball an hour previously, finding your way into a small cafe where you two had been chatting and sipping on green tea. 

“Oh, I drive cars,” Franco responded, his eyes lighting up. “I’m a Formula One driver.”

Your heart spasmed in your chest and you fought to remain still. “Really? What team?”

“Williams,” he specified, one shoulder shrugging nonchalantly. 

The same team Carlos was heading to after the end of this year. God liked to play cruel games on you, that was for sure. “Interesting.” You tapped your fingers against the wooden table. “Do you enjoy it?”

Franco bowed his head. “Very much. I wouldn’t be doing it if I didn’t.”

“How long have you been racing?” you inquired.

“In Formula One? Since the start of this season. I was pulled in because a different driver wasn’t doing well. Mejor para mi, supongo.”

At least he didn’t have years of experience like Carlos did. Franco was getting newly acquainted with the lifestyle and demands that was Formula One, which was all the more reason that you should stay away. If Carlos could not resist the temptations, Franco would break in an instant. That much you could tell already from the way that he had effortlessly flirted with you, like it was second nature. “I hope you stay longer.” You gave him a smile, suddenly nauseous and desperate to leave. “But I think that I must say goodnight and go home.”

Franco pouted. “Lo siento. I gave you my number. Stay in contact with me, por favor.”

“I will,” you promised, although you did not have any intentions to do so. The ghosts of Formula One had to remain in the past, and you couldn’t move on if you dated a driver from the same future team as your ex. “Goodnight.” “Buenas noches.”

It was so strange how life was. You had never believed in predestination; you always thought that life was constantly changing. There was no such thing as fate or destiny, but the more you thought about it, it seemed like there was only one road for you to travel down. 

Deja vu was everywhere, and God forbid you if you succumbed to its miseries.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

[themuseofaphrodite]

can’t turn back now ✧ OB87

summary: ollie bearman may be the most popular boy in his year, but even he has trouble with asking his crush out on a date. 

trigger warnings: suggestive content, swearing

word count: 1.1k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Only three more days remained until the winter formal, and Ollie Bearman still hadn’t asked his crush out. It was so embarrassing, how his throat dried up and his hands became extra clammy whenever he was around you. He’d tried at least seven times, but it was like a spell was cast every time he attempted to bring up the conversation. You were so beautiful, with cinnamon ringlets and bright green eyes, and a laugh that sounded like twinkling bells. It wasn’t just your beauty that made him dumbstruck; you were super smart and funny too. On top of that, you never hung on to him or made him feel as if he was being used for a leg up in the social pyramid of school. You were special, and he wanted you to know that.

How would he do that, though?

He didn’t want to be too sappy, because you’d told him before that grand romantic gestures repulsed you. “It’s too similar to a romcom. Cute, but it should stay on a telly screen.” That crossed out every idea he had so far: a big bouquet of flowers sent to your dorm, writing a puzzle in the school newspaper for you to solve…

“Hey, Ollie!” you called out, jarring him out of his thoughts. You jogged up to him with a big smile plastered on your face as you asked, “Are you ready for this weekend?”

Ollie blushed. “Yeah, kind of. All my friends have dates, so I’ll probably be seventh-wheeling if things don’t change soon.”

“Aw, Ol,” you mock-pouted. “Poor you, most popular boy in year twelve. And you can’t find a girl to ask out? I think I know at least ten who’d gladly accept your offer.”

The only girl I want to ask out is you, but I can’t fucking talk when I’m around you, he thought frustratedly. “Yeah, I have someone in mind. Just, um, waiting for the right moment.” He tilted his head to look down at you, a shy smile dancing on his lips. “What’s up, though, Y/N?”

“Oh, um, I was wondering if you knew whether we had an exam in literature today. Penny keeps telling me we are, but I think she’s tricking me.” Your best friend Penny loved making you panic over exams, since she knew how seriously you took them. This time, she’d roped all your other friends into her prank, so you weren’t sure if you should take her for her word or not. “Do you have any idea if she’s right? Or did she get to you too?”

Ollie shook his head. “No, I don’t think we do. Professor Gilliam would have told us for sure.” “Yeah, on that damn cursed blackboard,” you responded, nodding your head in agreement. “Fucking Penny keeps lying to me. I’m so annoyed.” “Sorry, Y/N,” Ollie said apologetically, bouncing back and forth on the balls of his feet. He curled his hands into fists, preparing himself for what he would do next. “Anyways, I had a question of my own to ask you. Um…”

You looked up at him, subconsciously leaning forward like Ollie was about to tell you a secret. “Don’t tell me you stole Gilliam’s planner and you want my help to hide it.”

Ollie laughed, but it sounded shrill and fake to his ears. “No, definitely not. Um, it’s something else.” He worried at his lower lip, thinking how best to phrase this. “The winter formal is coming up, and I was wondering…” 

You blinked up at him, still confused. 

This is the point of no return, Ollie mused internally. Please God, don’t let me fuck this up.

“I was wondering if you would do me the honors of being my date?” he finally spat out, the words clipped and almost indecipherable.

Your face froze in shock, jaw dropping a moment later as your brain processed what Ollie had said. “You…You want me to be your date?” you stammered out.

Ollie nodded, panic starting to well up in his gut, his fight-or-flight response activating the longer you didn’t say yes. He steeled himself, willing himself not to bolt or melt into a puddle of mush on the pathway where you stood. “Yeah. If you want. If you already have a date, I understand. It’s totally OK, Y/N, if you don’t want to go with me.”

“Oh…Ol…” You looked up at him through your eyelashes, clasping your hands behind your back. “Of course I’d like to be your date. I was wondering when you’d grow the balls to ask me out.”

A surge of relief flooded through Ollie and he let out a long sigh. “Thank God. I was worried I’d have to change my name and leave the country, that’s how mortified I’d be.”

“You think I’d really say no to you?” You questioned him, crinkling your nose. “That would be the dumbest thing I’ve ever done, and I once cut my own bangs.”

Ollie rubbed the back of his neck, still in shock. “Your bangs are beautiful, Y/N.”

“Yeah, now that I let a professional cut them,” you shot back, giggling. “Not all of us can have perfectly styled hair all the time, Bearman.”

“I might have perfectly styled hair, but you’re fully perfect in my eyes, L/N,” Ollie retorted, his chin jutting out defiantly. “I didn’t ask out those other girls because I knew I wanted to ask you.”

You put your hands on your hips, beaming like a beautiful ray of sunshine. “Yet it took you almost a fortnight to do so. Imagine.”

“You try asking your crush out to a dance, and then you’ll see.”

“I almost had to because you were such a scaredy cat!” you chortled, nudging Ollie playfully on the shoulder. “But it worked out. Guess I’m stuck with you for a while now, hm?”

Ollie elbowed you back. “Hey, Y/N! I’m not that much of a hassle. You know you adore me.”

“Sure, Bearman. Whatever lets you sleep easy at night,” you teased lightheartedly.

“Don’t even deny it. Why else would you stick by me? For my social status? You and I both know you don’t care about that. So, it has to be my charm and good looks.”

“Someone has an ego,” you chaffed. “But you’re not wrong. It’s something about that dopey face that really drew me in.” Thank you, God, for giving me the courage to ask this girl out and the charm to be approved by her, Ollie thought to himself, suppressing a smile as he listened to you talk.

He absolutely could not wait for Saturday to arrive.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

[themuseofaphrodite]

they say these are the golden years ✧ LN4

summary: it’s 2025, and lando norris has just won his first-ever world championship title. as his dutiful girlfriend, you prepare for a night alone to celebrate…and it turns into something you’ll never forget.

trigger warnings: suggestive & mature content, swearing, mentions of alcohol

word count: 2.0k

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊୨୧₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

The world shined bright around you, illuminating the glow of the streetlights and glitter of the asphalt race track. In front of you lay the podium, where your boyfriend – Lando fucking Norris, everybody – was currently celebrating his first World Championship title. His face was split in a grin as he sprayed champagne over the crowd and on the other two drivers who shared a podium with him. The curly brown hair you adored so much was in disarray and the skin you knew by heart was glistening with sweat that you had to resist the urge to lick off.

It was a celebration for the ages, and you were so proud of him. He worked his ass off to be where he was, fighting for wins in the Grands Prix and spending hours in the sim to make sure he was at the top of his game. Now he was finally crowned champion, and his labor had come to fruition. You could not wait until he met you back at the motorhome, and you could give him a reward that would rival the sweet success of the title and trophy. 

Lando clambered down the podium, his hazel eyes immediately searching for you in the crowd. Once he spotted you, he made a beeline and jumped into your waiting arms, almost making you fall flat onto the pavement. He pressed a series of frantic kisses across your face, over your chin and eyebrow and jaw, marking you as his. You heard the flash of the cameras as they snapped dozens of photos of your passionate makeout session, but you didn’t care. “I love you so fucking much, darling,” he furiously whispered in your ear. “Thank you for being here. For staying with me even with all my shit.”

“Of course, Lan,” you responded, your heart melting at his words. “I love you too.”

He beamed at you and buried his face in the crook of your neck again. You inhaled his scent: musky sweat mixed with saccharine victory champagne. If you could get a smell tattooed in your veins, it would be his. “Let’s go home, hm?” he inquired, his tone hinting at something more and his eyes darkening as he appraised you.

You nodded, a nervous, anticipatory energy spreading through you. “Yeah. We can leave.”

Although you and Lando had been dating for almost a year, you had never crossed a certain point — that point being sex. It wasn’t like you wanted to be celibate or anything, you just didn’t know how to broach the topic. Lando was skilled and had lots of experience; that much you could tell from the way he fondled and kissed you. He was also a gentleman, which meant that he wouldn’t make a move that involved the bedroom until you gave him the green light.

You weaved past the thick crowds, stopping every so often in order for Lando to receive victorious pats on the shoulder or words of congratulations. Eventually, you made it through and you could breathe the cold, fresh air again. “Lando,” you said anxiously. “When we get home… I…” 

He looked at you, waiting for you to continue, although you could tell by the way he repositioned himself that he already suspected what you would ask. “Yeah? What’s up, love?”

You shifted under the weight of his gaze, your cheeks burning red with embarrassment. “I…We’ve never…So I wanted to…” You stuttered awkwardly, unable to conjure up an intelligible sentence.

Lando moved nearer to you, tilting your face up to meet his. “What do you want to do?”

“I…” Your face blazed even redder, like it had been stung by fire coral. “I want to have sex with you.” The words left your mouth in a single breath. You stared at him in anticipation, the blood rushing in your ears.

A smirk crooked over Lando’s lips as he registered what you had said. “You want to fuck me, baby?” he crooned, kissing the top of your forehead. “How long have you been holding in those desires? Wanting to feel my cock in you?”

You shivered beneath him, the dirty words making your skin prickle with need. “Lando, I…Please. I need you.”

He grinned. “I’ve waited so long to hear those words.” Without another word, he scooped you up in his arms and carried you to the backseat of his car. “Don’t worry, I won’t fuck you here. As much as I’d love for everyone to hear your moans as I ride you, I’d like to keep this time sacred, for just us. Then I’ll have my way with you regardless if there’s people around.”

Carefully, Lando nudged you down flat, closing the door behind him with his foot and locking it shut with a click of his keys. He twisted the button behind the seat, letting it go fully horizontal and allowing for more room. “This OK, baby?” he said as he positioned himself on top of you.

“Yeah,” you whispered almost inaudibly.

He froze in place, his hands stopping their journey around your waist. “Louder. I want to hear you say that this is OK, because God forbid I hurt you.”

You gave him a comforting smile. “It’s fine, Lando. Please continue.”

Lando nodded and tucked your hair back away from your neck, lowering his lips to the soft flesh. He began to suck, leaving small love bites on the sides and a larger one by a birthmark in the front.

You arched into him, granting him greater access. “Lando, please…”

He paused again, his eyes searching yours for consent. “As soon as you want me to stop, you tell me. I will, I promise. No questions asked.”

“Don’t,” you said, your head rolling back as you stifled a moan.

Lando chuckled, his hardness bearing down on your core and driving you mad. “Didn’t realize I had such an effect on you, darling. So needy and desperate for me. Bet it was eating you up inside, all your pent-up desire, when I could have been eating you out.”

You whimpered as he continued down your body, his hands finding the swell of your breasts under your blouse. “So beautiful,” he breathed. “And it’s all for me.”

“Please, Lando. I need you.” 

He grinned. “You don’t have to tell me twice, but are you sure you want to have sex for the first time in the back of my car? We’re not high schoolers anymore. Think you can keep it contained for the car ride, baby? Or do you want to be fucked like a whore who can’t hold in how needy she is?”

You shook your head, pressing your thighs together to soothe the aching and growing burn that was developing in your core. “No, I can wait,” you hesitated. “I’m not a whore.”

Lando scoffed. “Not a whore, yet you’d open your legs willingly for any man who’d give you a good fuck.”

“No, I would open my legs for only you,” you promised him. “I don’t care who else wants me. I want…I need you.”

He raised one eyebrow, righting himself up from where he was bent over you. “Good girl.” 

You pouted. “Do you really think that I’d fuck another man?”

“There’s a lot of pretty boy distractions around here,” Lando clarified. “I wouldn’t be surprised if your eye snagged on a different driver and you took him home while I was busy with the sim.”

Your jaw fell open and you bolted upwards, almost smacking Lando in the nose with your face. “Lando, what the hell? You think I’d cheat on you?”

“I don’t think you would.” He shrugged one shoulder, nonchalant. “You’d crawl back to me in a second, begging for my cock like the wretched slut you are.”

You tilted your head. “And why would that be?”

“My cock’s the only thing that could ever bring you pleasure, darling.” He tugged a loose strand of your hair. “You’ll see.”

Lando was definitely not wrong with that declaration. Thirty minutes later, you had just entered the motorhome, and it was time to finally get some action. Lando knew you were a virgin, so he talked you through everything, taking your clothes off gently and setting them on the bedside counter. “I want your first time to be special,” he said as he unclasped the heart necklace around your chest and began taking off the rest of your jewelry. “I want you to look back on this and remember how well I can pleasure you.”

When it was Lando’s turn to get undressed, you tilted your face away, face flaring crimson again with awkwardness. His tanned body was honed with corded muscle, rock-hard abs disappearing into a V. You had seen him shirtless before, yet every time it took your breath away. He was like a Greek god amongst mortals, chiseled by an immortal sculptor’s hand. 

“You OK still?” he rasped, his voice like gravel. “I’ll stop if you want.”

You bobbed your head to the sides vehemently. “No. Please keep going.”

Lando tugged down his boxers, freeing himself and causing your eyes to widen. Fuck, he was enormous. There was no way all of it would fit. 

He laughed when he saw your face. “Don’t worry, baby. I won’t hurt you.”

“I’m not so sure about that,” you responded.

He pulled you in for a hug, his muscles rippling as he embraced you. “If it starts to hurt, you tell me immediately and I’ll pull out, OK? I want this to be fun for you, not painful.”

“OK.” You kissed his jaw and waited for his next move, which was to lift you up and place you on the bed. 

“I’ll be right back. I need to get a condom,” he told you, and you whined impatiently. He vanished into the bathroom, clinking around in the medicine drawer before you could hear the sound of a crinkling wrapper. Once he came back, he situated himself on top of you, opening your legs wider and pinning your hands down. “I’m going to enter you now. Let me know if you want me to stop.”

You sucked in a breath as you felt his tip prod your entrance and then cross its threshold. A bloom of heat rushed through you, resulting in a loud moan from both partners. Lando kissed you, a feather-light brushing of his lips against your cheek while he began to thrust harder within you. “Does this feel good?” he inquired a moment later. 

“Yeah,” you breathed. “It does.”

Slowly but surely, a wave of bliss built up in you, crashing down like a tsunami. You quivered underneath Lando, your voice shaking as you moaned. “Fuck, Lando…” you mumbled.

“You like that?” Lando asked, a slice of his teeth widening as he continued to propel into you. “Coming like a good little slut?”

You moaned again as his pace quickened. “Yes.”

A moment later, you felt Lando quaver, his muscles convulsing as his breaths became more labored. “Fuck, baby. You feel so damn good.” He gave you a kiss on your lips and deepened his thrusts.

A groan broke through your lips as you cried out, “Lando, it hurts.”

Instantaneously, the pressure in your core lessened. Lando extricated his dick from you, his cheeks ruddy from exertion. “You OK?” he said, his eyebrows furrowed in concern. “Was I too harsh?”

“This is my first time,” you reminded him, and he swore under his breath.

“I’m sorry, love. I got too caught up.” He pecked you on the lips again. “You’re just so tight and wet for me, it’s difficult for me to stay sane.”

“It’s OK,” you promised and smiled up at him. 

Lando laid down beside you, wrapping one arm around you and dragging you close to him. “I’m such a muppet, Y/N. I’m sorry.”

“I understand.” You flopped over to your side, meeting his intense stare. “You can make it up to me by cuddling me for the rest of the night.”

Lando laughed, the sound bouncing off the walls in the room. “I’ll gladly do anything for you, love.”

“Was this everything you wanted?” you asked shyly.

He rested his head against yours, his voice a low purr. “You’re everything I wanted and more.”

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[themuseofaphrodite]

you put me on and said i was your favorite ✧ OP81  

summary: it’s been seven years since you fell in love with oscar piastri, but time has not been a friend to your relationship. oscar has been focusing on his burgeoning racing career, succeeding in karting and progressing to formula one; meanwhile, you have been concentrating on graduating university with the highest honors. after you see him again for the first time in almost three years, the memories wash over you like a tidal wave.

trigger warnings: angst, suggestive content, swearing, mentions of alcohol

note: italics are flashbacks

word count: 2.8k

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You were surprised to receive the invitation in the mail. A crisp off-white square tucked inside a gilded envelope, addressed to none other than “Y/N L/N”, and sent by McLaren Racing Limited – Oscar Piastri’s Formula One team. Maybe it was just for decorum, and it didn’t mean anything. Yet you knew Oscar, and nothing he ever did was for nothing. 

The invitation itself described a gala being held the first of March, marking the beginning of the Formula One season. It was black-tie attire, meaning that you would have to go shopping for a fancy dress…if you were to accept. The image of Oscar dressed up in a tuxedo, his messy hair gelled and combed back, flashed through your mind. Fuck, how long had it been since you last saw him?

The answer entered your mind in an instant. December, three years ago, right before he got the call to join Formula One. 

How could time have passed by so quickly?

Without a second thought, you pulled out your phone and filled out the form to reserve a spot at the gala. It might have been a foolish decision, but you knew you would not regret it. Oscar Piastri was worth any humiliation, times a thousand.

Three weeks later and you found yourself in the middle of a large ballroom, your heels sinking into the soft carpet and your heart pounding like you had run a marathon. It had been an hour since you arrived, yet there was still no sight of Oscar. Hundreds of people pressed around you, chattering animatedly about a variety of topics, all dressed up to the nines. You felt underdressed, as you had selected to wear a modest black dress and some gold jewelry, whereas every other woman looked like they were about to go on the runway. 

A hand wrapped around your bare shoulder, and you stuttered out a gasp at the sudden cold touch. Whirling around, you made eye contact with the person. Dark brown hair, bright amber eyes, freckles dusting pale cheeks as if they were miniature stars. It was none other than Oscar Jack Piastri, your first love – and your first subsequent heartbreak.

“Y/N,” he greeted politely, his lips sloping in a soft smile. He looked like he hadn’t aged a day but somehow a hundred at the same time.

“Oscar.” His name tumbled from your mouth shakily, betraying your shock. “How – How are you doing?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “It’s been well.” You forgot the lilt of his Australian accent, the smile wrinkles in the corners of his eyes. So many priceless details embedded themselves in your mind. “How have you been?”

“University has been difficult, but I just graduated a few months ago. I’m looking for a job right now, but there’s not been many offers. I’m sure something will open up,” you babbled, common sense evaporating as soon as you laid eyes on Oscar. “Anyways…” You blushed. “I’m sure you don’t want me to talk your ear off.”

“No, please continue.” Oscar beckoned at you to keep speaking, and your eyes widened. “Trust me, anything you have to say is leagues better than what anyone else here would talk about. I almost just died from boredom because an old man tried to explain to me what the different kinds of car tires are used for in races.”

You laughed, the sound pealing in the room. “And you’re a Formula racer. How embarrassing.”

“Exactly. So, please enlighten me on what little Y/N L/N has been doing for these past few years. You don’t live a public life, so I’ve been wanting to know how you are.” Oscar looked at you, his eyes meeting yours and sending all your carefully constructed walls tumbling down.

You dropped your gaze immediately, the heat of his gaze burning a hole straight through you. “Let’s sit down first.”

He nodded and followed after you as you went to find a spot to sit. Once you had sat down, smoothing a napkin over your lap and leaning in closer to the table, he tipped his head. “Time to start, Y/N.”

“Well, there’s really not been anything, except for my studies. I’m majoring in business, which is relatively vague, I know, but I was hoping I could find a career in journalism. I like writing, and it pays decently well.” You sighed. “But there’s been no replies to my applications yet, and I’m starting to worry.”

Oscar tsked under his breath. “I know McLaren is looking for a new PR manager. Lando has been going through them like nobody’s business because he’s such a hassle. I think he’s too wild for those uptight pricks, but you’d do a good job handling him.”

You stifled a chuckle at the sound of Oscar swearing. “Maybe. It would be nice to travel around as much as you do. I’d like to see the world instead of staying cooped up in a dusty old library, cramming for an exam.” Oscar bobbed his head in agreement, a smile growing on his face. It was endearing, how easily you two fell back in a rhythm, but deep down you knew it would last as long as this gala did. Soon enough, both of you would go your separate ways, just like three years ago.

It was pelting rain, lightning arcing through the stormy gray sky and sending jolts of fear through your body. You hated the lightning, the unpredictability that came with it, since no one ever knew where it would strike next. Oscar was standing close to you, yelling over the wind, tears intermingling with the rainwater lashing down his face. “Come on, Y/N, don’t do this!” he cried, throwing his hands up in the air in frustration. “I love you. I’m sorry that I can’t give you everything you want, but that’s just the way life goes sometimes!”

“I’m not asking for the world, Oscar. I’m asking for you!” You wailed, choking on your tears and wishing that you could turn back time. “I refuse to let you go, I refuse to end things between us. You’re more than just a chapter in my life, you’re the whole book.”

Oscar shook his head angrily. “And I refuse to hold you back from your dreams. What’s the point of my success if you can’t achieve everything you’ve desired, because I stopped you from it? What kind of a boyfriend would that make me?”

“It would be worth it if it meant I could keep you.”

He scowled at you, frown lines marring his beautiful face. “Don’t talk like that, Y/N.”

You brushed back the flying strands of hair away from your face. “Oscar, I need you. I need us. Just give it a chance, please.”

“Don’t you think this is hard for me too? Throwing away everything we had? This is the fucking biggest loss of my life, and I have to pretend like I don’t care. I do. I care so fucking much, baby, but I need you to go on without me. There is a better man for you out there, I know there is. He’d carry the weight of the world on his shoulders for you like Atlas.” Oscar retorted. “I never wanted to do this. It was never my intentions to hurt you like this, but it has to be like this. My life will only get harder from this point on, and I’ll be coming home at later and later hours. I won’t be able to give you the attention you deserve. That’s a crime on its own, and I won’t let it happen.”

“Oscar…” You whispered, the word barely perceptible over the gale. 

“Y/N, I’m sorry it had to end like this.” Oscar stepped forward, caressing the crook of your jaw in his palm. “But soon you’ll understand why.”

You forced back the memories that stung the back of your throat, making tears well up in your eyes. It had been years since that day, and you’d both changed. Oscar was a grown man, risking his life every weekend in a race car. It was destined to always be the right person, but at the wrong time. No amount of pleading could ever change that.

“I wanted to congratulate you on rising to Formula One,” you made yourself say. Oscar’s eyebrows shot up. “I never told you how happy I was for you.”

“It’s nothing,” he responded gently. The tension was palpable between you two for a moment until he said, “You should look into that position, Y/N. It would be nice seeing a friendly face around.”

“Are you saying Formula One is as cutthroat as the tabloids make it?” you inquired, absentmindedly fidgeting with the rings on your fingers. Oscar bit his lip. “Not fully, but yes. It’s a game within a sport.”

“Like chess.”

“But on a grander scale, with more risks.” You nodded thoughtfully. “Interesting.”

It was just like your relationship – two birds, one stone.

“Just one date,” Oscar wheedled, running a hair through his already mussed hair. “I’ll take you to the bookstore and you can buy any books you want, on me. Please, Y/N. One chance.”

You tapped your fingers on your chin, pretending to think. “No, Piastri. I’ll pass.” You turned your back on him and kept walking, shouldering the straps of your backpack and praying that he’d leave you alone. He had been assigned as your partner in history class last week, and it became glaringly obvious that he had a crush on you. Quiet, shy Oscar, who was somehow the most popular boy in the year. He was tagging along after you as if he were a little puppy.

“Why not? I know you think I’m cute, I heard you talking about it to Lottie.” He grinned when he saw your expression. Traitorous Lottie – your best friend could not keep a secret. “So why won’t you let me shoot my shot?”

You growled, annoyance boiling in your gut. “You shot your shot and I said no. Leave me alone, Piastri.”

“We’ve got this good academic rivals to lovers arc going, and I think it’s time we became lovers. Or even just friends with benefits.” He glanced over at you as you rolled your eyes. “Or we don’t have to put a label on it at all. Why can’t I take you out?”

You spun around, finally cracking under his pressure and giving in. “Fine! One date, Piastri, but if I don’t like it, I won’t go on another one. Happy?”

“Yes!” he cheered. “I’ll see you Tuesday after school. Got it?”

You resisted the urge to smack his smug, beautiful face. “Yeah. Got it.”

“You won’t regret it, Y/N. I promise I’ll show you how worthy I am.” Oscar beamed from ear to ear, and you couldn’t help but smile back at his eagerness.

You swirled the glass of wine in your hand, the hum of the substance sloshing around a distraction to the way your body felt when you were around Oscar. He was a magnet and you were being pulled into his orbit, colliding into him and leaving a permanent mark on the both of you. He was comfort and pain and what-ifs all rolled up into one stunningly gorgeous man. It couldn’t be denied – Oscar Piastri was breathtaking, with his bunny teeth and muscular frame. You had known him ever since you were sixteen, but now there was a grown twenty-three year old man in front of you, and it was hard to reconcile this new image with the one seared into your mind.

“Look, it’s time I cut to the chase,” Oscar said suddenly, bringing you back to the present. He steepled his hands, pinning you with a serious stare that sent shivers down your spine. “The reason why I invited you to this gala is because I want to give us another go.”

The wineglass dropped out of your hands, the red-colored liquid falling onto your lap and staining your napkin with a large darkened blob.

Another spin around the merry-go-round of the love you shared. Because no matter how many years passed, it would always lead you back to the same spot.

You slung your arm around Oscar’s shoulder, drawing him closer to you and savoring the warmth that spread through your body at the contact. It was November fifth, also known as Bonfire Night, and you had been in a steady relationship with Oscar for almost three months at this point. Your breath plumed out in front of you, the frosty air chilling you to your core. “When do the fireworks start?” you murmured.

“Soon,” he promised you, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “If they don’t start in five minutes, we can head back to the dorms and I’ll heat you up a cup of hot chocolate. Sound good, baby?”

You angled your head down. “Yeah, I guess. I was looking forward to this, but it’s so damn cold.”

“Yeah, I know. Sorry.”

“There’s nothing you can do about it,” you said. “Unless you can control the weather. In which case, please make it at least a few degrees warmer because I feel like I’m about to turn into an icicle.” Oscar rubbed his hand on your back, massaging you. “Strange. I thought you were really hot.”

You huffed out a breath. “Ha, ha, Oscar.” “You know you love me,” he teased.

A bright display of sparks arced across the night sky and you oohed at the variety of colors. Purple, pinks, vibrant reds and goldens all flaring brightly for just a heartbeat. “Thanks for taking me here,” you told Oscar a few minutes later when the fireworks died down. “I love you so much.”

“I love you more, Y/N.”

Oscar leapt up from his seat, springing into action in a second’s passing. He dabbed at your dress with his napkin, which bled a dark maroon color after a few seconds. “Fuck!” he cursed. “I’m sorry, Y/N. I shouldn’t have done that out of the blue.”

“It’s OK,” you stammered out, though only the opposite was true. Your world had tilted on its axis in the span of ten minutes, despite the fact that you knew Oscar had an ulterior motive for inviting you to the gala, whether you wanted to admit it or not. “I just…I was taken aback.”

“I understand,” he assured you. “You don’t have to answer. I’m sorry.”

You twisted your lips in consternation. “It’s fine, Oscar. I’m sorry for causing a scene.”

“It’s not your fault,” Oscar replied.

“I don’t know. I want this to work out between us. I hate the distance that we’ve gathered over these past few years, but I’m really unsure. Your schedule is busy, and if I took that job at McLaren, I’d be working with Lando, not you.” You cocked your head, analyzing the situation.

Oscar splayed his hand over yours, intertwining your fingers like a woven braid. “Arrangements can be made.”

“Oscar…” You thought aloud, a maelstrom of thoughts spinning through your brain at a thousand kilometers per hour.

“Please,” he said, his voice cracking, revealing how affected he was by you. You were so tantalizingly close, the promise of eternal forever hanging in the balance of your decision. “Remember the pact we made? That even if we stumbled off the path, we’d find our way back to one another?” He tightened his grip on your hand. “I remember. And I’m not calling us quits, not when I could be with you for the rest of my life. I never want you to become a stranger again.”

“I agree,” you conceded. “But this is all so fast.”

“We can take it slow, I promise, and build us back up from the start. We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. Being near you is enough for me. Will you please let me earn back a spot in your heart?”

Your breath quickened in your chest as you realized how unwilling you were to give Oscar up; his proximity to you after all these years showed that you were never over him, and would never get over him. 

He was not the boy who would sacrifice a once-in-a-lifetime love for his potentially insurmountable aspirations. He was the man who would burn down the world to ensure her happiness. 

With a firm tone and a light heart, you declared, “Yes, I will.”

The verdict was like seeing the Sun after being denied its warmth for centuries. Oscar tucked you into a tight embrace, and the rest of the ballroom faded into a hazy, radiant bliss. You were where you belonged, a puzzle piece that found its rightful spot. 

It was inevitable. 

It was infinite.

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[themuseofaphrodite]

official masterlist ✎

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ @themuseofaphrodite’s blog

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ABOUT ME ♡ pseudonym: aphrodite ♡ she/her ♡ australia ♡ writer ♡ poet ♡ bookworm ♡ music lover ♡ astronomy nerd ♡ aspiring historian ♡ f1 fan ♡ mclaren & mercedes supporter ♡ mv33 & op81 ♡ ravenclaw ♡ cabin 10

REQUESTS ♡ open!

WHEN DO YOU PUBLISH? ♡ i try to publish at least once a week, but i am busy with school and exams, so please be patient.

WHAT DO YOU WRITE FOR? i primarily write for f1, but i am open to writing for other fandoms (star wars, marvel, harry potter).

˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ ❀ aphrodite, set me free

COMPLETED WORKS*

F1 ⤸

you put me on and said i was your favorite ✧ OP81

they say these are the golden years ✧ LN4

can’t turn back now ✧ OB87

do you get deja vu? ✧ FC43 / CS55

know that you and i shouldn’t feel like a crime ✧ OP81

santa doesn’t know you like i do ✧ MV33

hold on to the memories ✧ CL16

i know the end ✧ AKA12

Star Wars ⤸

i bet on losing dogs ✧ Anakin Skywalker

*There are more fanfictions in progress, which have not been published yet. The author is working hard on ensuring that each story is well-written and satisfactory before doing so.

PERSONAL TAGS I USE

#themuseofaphroditefics

#askaphrodite (when applicable)

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