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cressidagrey · 2 months ago

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A McLaren Meltdown

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

Summary: Mclaren’s staff reactions to Oscar Piastri’s surprise marriage reveal.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Sophie had three rules for race weekend PR.

Control the narrative.

Anticipate the chaos.

Never trust a “quick” fan stage.

She was halfway through writing a press release about tire strategy when her phone buzzed once. Then twice. Then thirty-seven times in under two minutes.

The group chat with the digital media team had caught fire.

[McLaren Media 🔥] 💬 “OH MY GOD.” 💬 “HE SAID HE’S BEEN MARRIED SINCE HE WAS EIGHTEEN.” 💬 “WE NEED A STATEMENT.” 💬 “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ‘MARRIED’???” 💬 “Lando spat water. There is video.”

Sophie blinked at her phone, stunned.

Then came the link.

She clicked. Watched. Listened.

Oscar, calm as ever:

“Well, I already did one of those things.” Lando, shrieking: “YOU’RE MARRIED?!”

Sophie made a sound not unlike a dying animal.

She stood, tablet in hand, walked to the nearest wall in the media trailer, and very calmly banged her forehead against it.

Twice.

Across the room, one of the interns whispered, “Is she okay?”

“No,” someone else replied.

Sophie turned to the team.

“Does anyone have a marriage certificate? A formal quote? A—a photo? Anything we can use?”

Her email pinged.

Subject line: Netflix Inquiry — Episode Rights: Oscar Piastri Reveal

Another ping.

BBC Radio Request: “Interview With the Most Mysterious Woman in Motorsport.”

And then, like he’d been summoned by sheer rage, Zak Brown strolled in, looking far too calm.

“Hey team. Saw the fan stage. Oscar’s married, huh? Wild stuff.”

Sophie slowly turned. “You knew.”

Zak gave her a sheepish smile. “Mark Webber mentioned it once. Years ago. Said she was great. Didn’t seem relevant at the time.”

“ZAK.”

“What?”

“HE’S BEEN MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS.” Sophie was dangerously close to combusting. “He’s our youngest driver and he eloped at eighteen. That’s relevant!”

Zak held up his hands. “I didn’t think it was a secret. Oscar’s a private guy.”

“Private guy?! He said ‘on the bed’ like it was a normal engagement location!” Sophie nearly shrieked. “Do you know how many headline puns they’ve made about that already?!”

Someone from graphics called out, “Can we use ‘Lights Out and Vows Away’ or is that too much?”

“It’s not damage,” Zak said helpfully. “It’s engagement.”

“I swear to God, Zak,” Sophie hissed.

Slack was already full of memes. Someone had gif’d Lando’s meltdown with the caption “Me finding out my best friend is secretly married like it’s a normal Thursday.”

The press inbox was collapsing under subject lines like:

“IS SHE A CELEBRITY?” “DO THEY HAVE A CHILD?” “LAN-DRAMA: Norris Betrayed???” “Can we get her on The Paddock Panel?”

Sophie clutched her forehead. “Okay. Okay. Deep breath.”

“We need Oscar to post something,” she declared, her voice rising above the din.

Zak tilted his head. “You sure? That might just fuel it more.”

“He already fueled it, Zak. He turbocharged it and strapped fireworks to the back.”

“Fair point.”

Sophie groaned, burying her face in her hands. “I’m going to have to rewrite everything. Update the media deck. Issue a statement. Reprint bios. Plan a WAG-friendly feature piece. And deal with Lando, who’s spiraling like his best friend betrayed him.”

A pause.

“And someone call Netflix,” she added darkly. “Tell them they just got their best episode of the season. No edits required.”

***

Andrea Stella prided himself on knowing his drivers.

Their tells, their ticks, the way they thought—how they braked, how they communicated, when they needed space and when they needed a push. It was part of his job. But it was also personal. He’d always believed that good leadership came from paying attention to the whole person, not just the lap time.

Which is why the events of this morning left him quietly, genuinely stunned.

He hadn't seen the fan stage live—he’d been in an engineering debrief—but by the time he stepped into the media office, it was all anyone could talk about.

Oscar. Married. For five years. Since he was eighteen.

The video played on loop in the corner of the room, muted but unmistakable. Oscar’s dry calm. Lando’s shocked scream. The social media team was in shambles. The PR team looked like they were trying not to hyperventilate.

Andrea just… stood there for a moment.

Watching.

Processing.

He felt the frown settle between his brows. Not anger. Not exactly disappointment. Just… a quiet ache in the chest of someone who’d thought he was closer to one of his drivers than maybe he actually was.

Oscar had been married. For five years. And Andrea hadn't known. Not even a hint.

He stepped out of the room, calm as ever, but his mind raced.

And then, with all the subtlety of a man who’d been blindsided one too many times today, Andrea found himself heading toward the physio area—toward Kim.

Kim Keedle was Oscar’s trainer, his shadow, his constant presence in the garage. If anyone knew Oscar better than Andrea, it was probably Kim.

Andrea found him in the paddock gym, casually adjusting a resistance band on the wall.

“Kim,” Andrea said, voice even. “Quick question.”

Kim turned, cheerful as always. “Hey, boss. What’s up?”

Andrea tilted his head, arms crossing. “Did you know Oscar was married?”

Kim blinked. Then blinked again. “Uh… yeah?”

Andrea waited.

Kim scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, yeah. They’ve been married since—what—just after graduation? Felicity’s great. ”

Andrea was silent for a beat too long.

Kim winced slightly. “You didn’t know?”

“No,” Andrea said softly. “I didn’t.”

And that—that was the part that surprised him the most. Not the marriage.

But the fact that Oscar, his driver, his stone-faced, brilliantly strategic driver, had managed to keep an entire wife away from the paddock spotlight… and never once let it slip.

He thought about all the long flights, the post-race reviews, the hours spent talking about the future. He had asked Oscar about his offseason plans, his training routines, even his travel preferences.

Never once had he thought to ask if Oscar had someone waiting at home.

And Oscar, ever calm, had never offered.

Andrea nodded slowly. “Thank you, Kim.”

Kim gave him a sympathetic smile. “He didn’t mean to keep it from you, you know. He’s just… private. He thinks if something doesn’t affect the job, it doesn’t need mentioning.”

Andrea looked away, exhaling through his nose. “Still. I would’ve liked to have known.”

“Yeah,” Kim said, voice gentler now. “I think he’ll understand that.”

Andrea gave a small nod, but the sting remained.

He wasn’t angry.

Just... quietly hurt.

Because he cared about his drivers—not just the helmets and telemetry and podium stats, but the people beneath all that.

And maybe, just maybe, he thought they cared enough to let him in too.

***

The room had all the energy of a bunker mid-airstrike.

Half the PR team was gathered around the conference table in McLaren hospitality, the other half hovering behind Sophie, who had summoned Oscar with the same tone one might use for code red, house on fire, or Lando’s Instagram Live just crashed the website again.

Oscar walked in like it was any other media meeting.

He sat down. Calm. Collected. Completely unaware that his entire personal life had set the internet on fire six hours ago.

Sophie didn’t even look up from her laptop. “Okay,” she said, voice clipped. “Let’s talk about The Reveal.”

Oscar blinked. “The what?”

“Don’t play dumb.” Zak leaned back in his chair, thoroughly enjoying himself. “You nuked the internet with six words.”

Andrea Stella, unusually quiet, just sat with his arms crossed. Still processing. Still mildly wounded.

“‘Well, I already did one of those things,’” Sophie quoted flatly. “That’s what you said.”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah. Because I did.”

“You have been married for five years,” Sophie said, very slowly, “and you did not think that was something the team—your teammate, your PR department, the people who make the media decks—should know?”

Oscar gave her a polite shrug. “I didn’t hide it.”

Sophie made a strangled noise. “You also didn’t say a word.”

“Different issue,” Oscar said mildly.

Andrea exhaled sharply through his nose.

Zak smirked. “To be fair, he has a point.”

Sophie gave him a look that could kill.

“We need a response,” she snapped. “A controlled response. Instagram. Twitter. Something that gives people what they want without fueling every gossip rag on Earth.”

Oscar nodded thoughtfully. “Okay.”

Sophie blinked. “Okay?”

“I already have a draft.”

The room fell silent.

“You what?” Sophie asked.

Oscar reached into his hoodie pocket, pulled out his phone, and calmly opened his Notes app. “Wrote it earlier,” he said. “Figured you’d ask.”

He passed the phone to Sophie.

She scrolled.

Stopped.

Scrolled again.

By the third paragraph, she was blinking fast and biting the inside of her cheek. By the end, she was holding the phone with both hands like it was a fragile heirloom.

One of the interns leaned over her shoulder. “Did he just… write a romance novel in his Notes app?”

Oscar shrugged. “Seemed easier than a press conference.”

Andrea, still quiet, tilted his head. “You wrote this yourself?”

Oscar looked at him. “Yeah.”

Andrea just gave a small nod. No words. But something in his expression shifted. A little less hurt. A little more understanding.

Sophie passed the phone to Zak.

Zak read three lines, then huffed. “Jesus. You really are a wife guy.”

Oscar shrugged again.

“Well,” Sophie said faintly. “It’s perfect.”

Oscar took his phone back. “Should I post it now or wait until after FP2?”

Sophie threw her hands in the air. “How are you so calm about this?!”

Oscar looked up, deadpan. “Because I’ve been married for five years.”

And there it was again—that maddening, infuriating, charmingly psychotic Oscar Piastri calm.

Sophie sat down, defeated. “Fine. Post it. Pray Lando doesn’t say anything unhinged in the comments.”

Andrea glanced at him one more time. “Next time, Oscar,” he said softly, “you can tell us. It doesn’t have to be relevant to the car.”

Oscar looked at him, then nodded. “Noted.”

And with that, he pulled out his phone, opened Instagram, and hit post—like it was the most normal thing in the world.

(Which, to him, it probably was.)

Ten seconds later, Sophie’s phone buzzed again.

And again.

“Buckle up,” she muttered. “Here we go again.”

#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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cacartoon · 4 months ago

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Patreon March 2025 Wallpaper

And a full explanation of where the hell these guys have been

So ever since I announced “The Origins Arc” or what is now called “Lost and Found Arc”, I’ve come across a major problem.

I’m not entirely sure how to go about it.

On the one hand, I know what happens when you over do it and putting so much energy into something that’s supposed to be simple fun can kill the vibe immediately. So I’ve taken my time to figure it out.

But on the other hand, I do have ideas and I’m not apposed to doing it.

Of course this does NOT mean it’s canceled or really a hiatus. It’s more like limbo.

And on more personal notes, I need money. It’s hard enough to split my time up between working towards more financially stable options and making content that realistically I can’t bank off of.

Top it off with my major platform, TikTok, always under threat of banning and my emotional and mental state from that was drained so drastically I was already in self destruct mode, the entire thing was sent into a whirlpool of uncertainty.

Not to mention for an “arc” like this to explain whatever sort of chaos I cooked up the last like 3 years can’t exactly be done in a funny meme video, and I’ve seen the numbers. People don’t really care about just straight up mini comics or slide shows.

So my brain is trying to figure out what would work best and efficiently without sacrificing fun or making work harder since commissions have been on a downward spiral thanks to recent events.

Of course, I have been getting on a better track thanks to the Octonauts fan comic as it actually helped put my creative process for comics into perspective and I’ve been having a ball learning. And the response has been overwhelmingly supportive both here, BlueSky, and TikTok.

So while this isn’t the end of Game 6, it’s just going to be complicated without a level of stability.

I’m sorry I don’t speak enough or post enough, but we’ll get over this hurdle somehow. In the meantime, I do intend on working on my other projects as I do need to make money and without content I can’t exactly expect people to throw handouts at me lmao.

So please enjoy the wallpaper and check out my other socials. And thanks again for listening.

Stay safe everyone, and take good care of yourselves

#art #tiktok #game6crossover #wallpaper #patreon #sister location #sega sonic #super mario bros #cuphead dont deal with the devil #batim bendy #frisk undertale

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dakusan · 3 months ago

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how skz text when they’re jealous

stray kids ot8 x reader | jealousy, soft possessiveness, emotional chaos

🌙 synopsis: some of them get quiet. some of them roast you like it's a coping mechanism. some of them send frog emojis and cry in lowercase. here's how skz would text you when jealousy hits—messy, insecure, dramatic… and totally them.

💌 a/n: i didn't make them jealous. they saw you laughing at someone's joke and just... lost it. some go cold. some spiral. one of them sends a sad playlist. one flexes at the gym. all of them want to know if they're still your favourite. p.s. you're gonna feel called out. good. p.p.s. reblog before someone texts you "who's that btw?"

📍credits: @cafekitsune for the divider

🎶 Now Playing: "Obsidian Touch" — VX

Bang Chan // 방찬 texting when he's jealous: ✧ Acts like he's not, but... he is. Bad. ✧ Tries to be mature but ends up texting too much too fast. ✧ Voice note incoming if you take to long to reply. Jealousy vibe: low-key spiralling with soft possessiveness texting vibe:

"lol who's that btw?" "not that i care, just wondering" "actually nvm. it's not my business" "but also you said you missed me, right?" sends voice note: "just ignore me. or don't. idk."

Lee Know // 리노 texting when he's jealous: ✧ Cold. Petty. Suddenly replies in one word. ✧ Will “like” your messages instead of replying. ✧ Uses the thumbs up emoji with aggression. Jealousy vibe: he's annoyed, but you owe him the reassurance texting vibe:

“funny how you answer him fast." “nah it’s cool. i’m chilling 👍” “just so you know i don’t get jealous” "also block him" "kidding, unless?"

Changbin // 창빈 texting when he's jealous:

✧ Soft possessive but very obvious. ✧ Gets insecure and overthinks. ✧ Sends a million crying emojis, then flexes like he’s unaffected. Jealousy vibe: loud but still wants cuddles texting vibe:

“wow. okay. you like him more 😭😭😭” “don’t worry i’m fine 💪” “not even jealous. just disappointed 😭” “you still like me the most right??? say yes rn pls” sends gym selfie to prove he’s worth it

Hyunjin // 현진 texting when he's jealous: ✧ Brooding. Dramatic. Spirals in aesthetic. ✧ Texts you a paragraph and then deletes it before sending. ✧ Suddenly quiet… until he explodes with ✨feelings ✨. Jealousy vibe: poetic pain + hidden clinginess texting vibe:

“i’m fine lol” sends sad playlist link with no explanation “i didn’t think it would bother me but it does” “do i even cross your mind like that?" sends a blurry selfie captioned: "never mind"

Han // 한 texting when he's jealous: ✧ Tries to play it cool but gives himself away in 0.2 seconds. ✧ Makes everything a joke, but the kind where his voice is shaking. ✧ Typing… deleting…typing again. Jealousy vibe: “i’m fine lol” but he’s in his villain origin arc texting vibe:

“you have fun with your little friend huh 😭” “NOT that i care, i just think it’s funny how–” “ok i’m literally not jealous i’m just saying you posted 14 stories with him” “you’re still mine right??? please validate me with a meme” sends clown emoji then disappears for 6 hours

Felix // 필릭스 texting when he's jealous: ✧ Sweet at first but slowly guilt-trips you (in the cutest way). ✧ Suddenly needs lots of reassurance. ✧ Will spam you with “are u mad at me?” if you don’t reply fast enough. Jealousy vibe: poetic puppy eyes but emotionally spiralling texting vibe:

“he seems cool :’)” “you were smiling a lot in that photo with him” “it’s okay tho… just made me feel a lil invisible” “do you still think of me when you smile like that?” sends a selfie with sad eyes + “this is my ‘i miss u’ face

Seungmin // 승민 texting when he's jealous: ✧ Passive-aggressive KING. ✧ Doesn’t admit it, but he’s clearly annoyed. ✧ Roasts you harder than usual and uses your full name. Jealousy vibe: “you’re mine but i’ll make you work for it” texting vibe:

“huh. didn’t know you liked that type. “no i’m not jealous, just observing your choices” “wow. that’s what you’re into? interesting.” “but sure. go talk to him. i’ll just be here, not caring." proceeds to ignore you until you call him clingy.

I.n // 아이엔 texting when he's jealous: ✧ Pure chaos. Doesn’t know if he wants to fight, cry, or pout. ✧ Will act like he’s totally fine… then drop the most emotional paragraph. ✧ Uses emojis like weapons. Jealousy vibe: possessive in a confused Gen Z way

texting vibe:

“lol so you and him huh 👀💥🧃” “no it’s fine i’m not mad 😩🥹💔🧍‍♂️” “wait do u actually like him or are u just being friendly or am i delulu or” “answer pls i’m spiraling” sends frog emoji and says "that's me watching you ignore me"

#stray kids #skz #stray kids headcanon #skz headcanons #how skz text #bang chan x reader #lee know x reader #minho x reader #changbin x reader #hyunjin x reader #han x reader #jisung x reader #felix x reader #seungmin x reader #in x reader #jeongin x reader #sundaysoftdrops

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jungkoode · 4 months ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 18

˗ˏˋ on your kneesˎˊ˗

"He didn't picture himself ever begging for pussy... but alas, here he is."

next | index

⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8,7k

content: wet sloppy kissing, jungkook being too horny for his own good, vibrator usage, masturbation (f), jerking off while eating kitty (idk what possessed me but i had to), vanilla kink (are we surprised), begging, slight praise kink, comfort, endearing moments, these two being stupid as always, post-orgasm sharing bed (yeah sleeping together), thinking about maybes.

✧ author's note ✧

LISTEN. You’re so lucky I have multiple FMU chapters backlogged right now, because if I didn’t? I would have thrown an actual tantrum, declared a two-week hermit arc, and told you all to fuck off while I moved to the mountains. BUT. Thankfully, I’ve written up to around Chapter 23-ish and just need to edit, so you can all calm the hell down.

First of all, no—I still haven’t updated the update post, because I’ve been too busy prepping this chapter for release. I’ve had zero time to sit and ponder. That said, the only valid suggestion I’ve gotten so far is to keep the Tumblr note goal but ALSO require the Wattpad goal to be hit—so that’s what we’re trying this time around.

Also—BIG ANNOUNCEMENT—we now have an official Kiki Nation Community on Tumblr (yay!). That’s where you little gremlins can finally scream together in one place, throw theories at each other, and insult Jungkook and Nix in a safe, protected space. (Mainly Jungkook. Because he’s a man. And this is a matriarchy. HUSH.)

So please check it out! Join, comment under the official Chapter 18 discussion post, and if you feel inspired to make a meme or TikTok or post your spiral—DO IT. If it makes me laugh, I will absolutely reblog it.

NOW. About this chapter.

BAHAHA. Okay. First of all—I am so proud of the kiss. I wanted it to be sloppy and wet and messy and borderline excessive, and I think I delivered. It’s so long. I really put my whole kikussy into it.

And of course… it was time. The vibrator had to make its appearance. It’s literally law. I don’t make the rules (but I do).

Also: Rogue begging. crawling. STILETTOS. Why did I like this chapter so much. It was delicious. I love sexually down bad men. Wait until he’s romantically down bad. It’s going to be so satisfying. Trust me.

And the ending?? Made me soft. Actual progress?? Kind of??? They’re still filthy, but they’re also edging toward something stupidly endearing and I hate how much I love that. The way this story is progressing is so slow-burn it makes my bones hurt, but I’m obsessed with it. We are maybe… possibly… inching toward friendship territory. MAYBE.

I’m really looking forward to the next chapters—soon, we’ll meet a new LI on Jungkook’s side (YES!). Things are gonna get messy (eventually). Reminder: they have zero romantic feelings right now. ZERO. What you’re seeing is just… subconscious tension, subtle shifts. We’re nowhere near falling.

So please. I beg you. If I start getting asks about them being in love, I will throw my laptop out the window and revoke my dictatorship. Don’t test me.

Enjoy the chaos. Let me know how hard you spiraled. Love you forever.

OH. I said it before but I will say it again. This chapter is entirely based on the song "get on your knees" by Ariana Grande and Nicki Minaj so. Do with that what you will. Listen to it. Enjoy.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

His kiss tastes like four days of wanting.

Your back hits the wall as his mouth crashes into yours—not gentle, not careful, just hungry. Like he's been starving for the taste of you since Tuesday.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips, a question that isn't really a question at all, because you both know how this ends. You part your lips anyway, granting him access because denying him feels like denying yourself.

His hand comes to rest on your neck, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point. It's a strange, suspended gesture—like he can't decide whether to pull you closer or hold you exactly where you are. The indecision is so unlike him that it makes your stomach flip.

Then his tongue flattens against yours, and any thoughts of indecision evaporate. He's not kissing you so much as he's tasting you, licking your flavor directly from the source. The sensation is filthy and intimate as his other hand comes to your cheek, fingers splaying across your skin, holding you in place for his exploration.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, the word more vibration than sound. "Missed this."

Not you. This.

The distinction matters, even as his tongue circles yours in a slow, deliberate drag that makes your knees weak. He's coating himself with your saliva, savoring you like you're some expensive whiskey he's been saving for a special occasion.

You should probably be grossed out by how wet this kiss is, by how thoroughly he's claiming your mouth.

Instead, you find yourself pressing closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Because this is what you've been missing too—not him, not really, but this. The way he makes your body respond without even trying. The way he kisses like he's trying to memorize the taste of you.

And then his lips close over yours—soft but firm—like finishing the kiss just to start it all over again. Chained kisses. One bleeding into the next, seamless and endless.

You follow him because how could you not? The way he kisses—it’s not just skill; it’s instinct. Like he knows exactly what to do to keep you hooked, alternating between tongue and lips so perfectly that you never get tired of either.

Not that you could ever tire of him.

You’re pretty sure you could never erase the way he kisses—or fucks—from your mind even if you wanted to.

Maybe it’s him knowing what he’s doing. Or maybe it’s just the two of you—two mismatched pieces of completely different puzzles that somehow fit together anyway.

Just like your mouths do now.

Just like when your tongue darts out to lick at his lower lip in a kitten lick that has him hitching against you, a small, desperate sound escaping his throat. His hips stutter against yours like his body is telling you to stop messing around and get your tongue back inside his mouth where it belongs.

So you do.

You push forward, tongue meeting his again in a slick slide that has him groaning into your mouth. Then you close your lips to transition into another kiss and he follows, tongues forgotten for three, four open-mouthed kisses before he’s lost patience.

He moves his tongue against yours, seeking more, always more. Because when it comes to you, Jungkook is just this eager.

But this time you catch it. Suck it into your mouth in a soft suction that makes him freeze for half a second before his hand tightens on your neck.

And the sound he makes?

Undiluted filth.

It spurs you on.

You suck harder, dragging your lips down his tongue before releasing him with a soft pop that leaves both of you panting against each other’s mouths. He doesn’t let the pause last long—doesn’t let you last long—and dives back in with a hunger that feels less like kissing and more like consuming.

Tongues forgotten for other five or six kisses as his lips move against yours with bruising intensity—open-mouthed and messy—but he easily grows impatient and his tongue is soon back, sliding against yours like he wants it there.

You catch it once more—suck it again—and the way his hips jerk against yours tells you everything you need to know about how much he likes it.

Filthy sounds fill the space between you: wet kisses, soft moans, the occasional hitch in his breath when you do something particularly good with your tongue.

And when his teeth graze your lower lip before pulling back just enough to look at you?

You realize there’s no winning here—not for either of you—because this isn’t about who takes control or who gives in first.

It’s about this. About mouths fitting together perfectly even though nothing else about this situation should make sense. About tongues sliding together and lips bruising from too much pressure but neither of you caring because fuck—it feels good.

It feels better than good.

It feels addictive.

Your back hits the table near the entryway, and honestly? You never thought a piece of furniture could be an accomplice in your bad decisions, but here you are. Pressed against the entryway table. The one that holds your keys, Yoongi's forgotten mail, and now, apparently, your dignity.

Jungkook hasn't stopped kissing you—not for air, not for sanity, not for anything resembling common sense. It's like he's on a mission to consume you entirely, starting with your mouth and working his way through the rest of you.

These are not the kisses you exchange with people you tolerate. These are not even the kisses you exchange with people you like. These are the kisses of people who might actually hate each other but have found a much more interesting way to express it.

Your lower back presses against the edge. Hard wood digs into soft flesh, and you're about to complain when—

Fuck.

He lifts you. One hand. One fucking hand curves under your ass and hoists you onto the table like you weigh nothing, while his other plants itself firmly on the wood beside your hip. The display of casual strength makes something molten pool in your stomach.

Unfair. Completely unfair how stupidly hot he makes stupid things look. Lifting you shouldn't be attractive. It's basic physics, not foreplay. But your brain has apparently liquefied, pouring out your ears while he steals the oxygen straight from your lungs.

"Fuck, Nix," he mutters against your mouth, the words more vibration than sound. "Been thinking about this for days."

His mouth is relentless—wet, demanding, precise in a way that makes your toes curl in your shoes. He sucks your lower lip between his teeth and—god—applies just enough pressure to sting, like he's trying to extract something essential from you. Like he needs to squeeze you dry, drain you of whatever it is that keeps him coming back.

Didn't even know your bottom lip was an erogenous zone until Jungkook decided it was.

It's too much. The heat, the closeness, the way he seems to have forgotten where you are, who you are.

You push against his chest—not hard, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies.

"Jesus Christ," you gasp, chest heaving. "Let me breathe, you animal."

He grins at that—a scorching, self-satisfied smile that makes you want to either slap him or pull him back in.

Maybe both.

He bites his lower lip, swollen from your kisses, and immediately leans back in like your need for oxygen is a minor inconvenience to his plans.

Your palm against his chest stops him, firm this time.

"Wait," you say, voice rough.

Not because you want to stop—god no—but because your brain is finally catching up to your body. And there's something you want. Something specific.

His eyes find yours, dark and questioning. Patient, despite the hunger radiating off him in waves. He's holding himself back, you realize. Letting you dictate what happens next.

Your eyes drop, hair falling across your face as you gather your thoughts, your courage. When you look back up at him through your lashes, his breath catches audibly.

"Bring me the vibrator you chose for me."

His reaction? Pretty funny. Like watching a computer crash and reboot. His entire body goes still—processing, processing—then his eyes widen a fraction. He blinks once, twice, tension visible in the way his jaw ticks.

"What?" he asks, voice cracking slightly.

Something about his reaction makes hot satisfaction curl through you. You like throwing him off balance. Like matching his chaos with your own.

"The vibrator," you repeat, slower this time, savoring each syllable. "The one you picked out. Go get it."

His eyes dart toward your bedroom door, then back to your face. For a moment, you think he might refuse. Might challenge you. But then:

"Yeah," he nods jerkily, already stepping back. "Yeah, I will."

"Will you?" you press, because you can't help it. Because you like the way his pupils dilate when you push.

"Fuck yeah," he breathes, already moving toward your bedroom with a kind of urgent, stumbling grace that would be comical if it weren't so hot.

You watch him go, breathing still uneven, lips still tingling.

And you think—not for the first time—that there's something dangerously addictive about the way Jungkook responds to you. The way he matches your energy, then amplifies it, reflecting it back at you until you're both caught in some kind of feedback loop of bad ideas and worse self-control.

Roommates with benefits, you remind yourself. That's all this is.

But as you hear him rummaging through your things, drawers opening and closing with increasing urgency, you can't help but wonder if "benefits" is too mild a word for whatever the fuck is happening between you two.

He sprints.

Jungkook doesn't walk to your room—he fucking jogs, like the vibrator might disappear if he doesn't get there fast enough.

Like this moment has an expiration date he can't afford to miss.

No shame. Not a single ounce of it as he bursts through your door, scanning the bedroom impatiently. The same room he's been in a couple of times, but never with this specific mission, never with this frantic energy coursing through his veins.

Where the fuck would a girl keep her vibrator?

No. Not a girl. You. Where would you hide it?

Under the pillow?

He lifts the edge of your pillowcase, peeks beneath it. Nothing. Definitely not there—you like sleeping too much, and having a hard plastic toy jabbing into your cheek all night would be uncomfortable as hell. You're smarter than that.

The wardrobe?

He eyes the wooden doors across the room, considering.

No way. Too far from the bed. You're too practical for that kind of inconvenience. If you wanted to get off, you wouldn't want to climb out of bed and trek across the room.

His eyes land on the nightstand. Bingo.

The drawer slides open with a soft sound. First thing he sees: a messy stack of panties, some lacy, some cotton, all of them instantly triggering mental images he doesn't have time for right now.

He fights—really fights—against the urge to pick one up. To feel the fabric between his fingers, to imagine it hugging the curves he's already memorized with his hands, his mouth. Maybe even bring one to his nose...

Focus, dickhead.

Pushing the underwear aside (what? sue him for wanting to fuel his imagination), his fingers brush against something solid. Hard plastic. Smooth curves.

There it is.

He pulls it out, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as he examines his find. It's exactly as he remembers from the store—sleek, purple, designed for both internal and external stimulation.

Still in its original packaging, which means you haven't used it yet.

Something jittery and hot coils in his stomach at the thought of being the first to see you use it.

He grips it tighter, already imagining what it'll look like pressed against you, already wondering if you'll let him control it or if you'll insist on doing it yourself.

Either way, he's about to witness something fucking spectacular, and his body knows it. His cock strains painfully against his jeans as he heads back to you.

He takes a deep breath before rounding the corner from the hallway.

Tries to center himself, to cool down just a little.

To not look as desperate as he feels.

But then—

Fuck.

The vibrator nearly slips from his suddenly sweaty palm.

You're naked on the table. Completely, gloriously naked except for those high heels that make your legs look like they go on for fucking miles. The dress is gone—discarded somewhere on the floor—and your panties dangle precariously from one ankle like an afterthought.

One leg bent at the knee, heel resting lazily on the wooden surface. The other straight up, creating a perfect right angle that showcases everything he's been craving since the moment he walked through the front door.

And your hand—Christ—your hand is between your thighs, fingers drawing lazy circles over your clit.

His eyes stutter back to one thing though.

The heels.

What is it about the fucking heels?

He's never particularly cared about shoes before, but something about the way they elongate your legs, the way they make your calves flex, the dangerous point of those stilettos against the wooden table-it's doing something to him. Something unexpected and intense.

He nearly stumbles. Actually has to catch himself on the wall because his knees go weak at the sight of you touching yourself, waiting for him, spread open on the goddamn entryway table like the world's most perfect welcome home gift.

His grip on the vibrator tightens until his knuckles go white. He forces his face into something resembling control—a smirk, he hopes, though it feels more like a grimace of restraint.

"Needed it that badly?" he manages, trying to sound casual and cool, though he guesses he fails spectacularly at that.

Your eyes meet his, challenging. "Didn't you?"

The question catches him off guard, but he doesn't falter. Not much, anyway. Just a slight hitch in his breathing that he hopes you didn't notice.

"Yeah," he admits, the word barely audible. Then, louder: "Yeah, I did."

He starts walking toward you, vibrator clutched in his hand, but you stop him with a single raised palm. The universal sign for wait.

"Crawl to me."

His feet halt. He opens his mouth. Closes it.

What?

"What?" he asks, not sure he heard correctly.

"You heard me." Your fingers never stop their gentle circles. "Crawl."

He doesn't know why he does it. Doesn't pause to analyze why the command sends a jolt of electricity straight to his cock.

He just... does it.

Drops to his knees, then to all fours, the vibrator still clutched in one hand.

Maybe it's the novelty—you taking control like this when usually he's the one calling the shots.

Maybe it's the way your eyes darken as you watch him approach, like seeing him on his knees for you is doing something for you too.

Or maybe—most likely—it's just the promise of getting his head between those fucking glorious thighs again.

Whatever the reason, he crawls to you across the hardwood floor, too turned on to care about how it looks, too desperate to worry about his dignity. All he can think about is how wet you'll be, how good you'll taste, how he wants to make you come on his tongue before introducing the vibrator.

He's almost there—close enough to smell you, close enough that if he stretched forward just a bit, he could press his mouth to your inner thigh—when the sharp heel of your stiletto plants firmly against his forehead.

The pressure isn't hard enough to hurt, just enough to stop his forward momentum. To keep him back.

He looks up at you, disbelief warring with arousal.

Surely you're joking?

There's no way you're genuinely stopping him when he's this close, when you're this wet, when everything about this moment has been building toward his mouth on you.

Right?

"The vibrator," you say, extending your hand, heel still pressed lightly to his skin. "Give it to me."

His throat works as he swallows, suddenly parched. "Don't you want me to—"

"The vibrator, Ro."

The nickname, combined with the firm tone, makes his cock make a mating dance against the zipper of his jeans. He places the toy in your outstretched hand, watches as you examine it with curious eyes.

You turn it over in your palm, studying it like it's a puzzle to solve. Your brow furrows slightly as you locate the power button, press it experimentally, and soon enough its low hum fills the space as the toy comes to life, vibrating gently in your hand.

"I've never used one before," you admit, and he already knew.

You told him that much before buying it.

Nonetheless, the idea that he gets to witness this first for you—it does something to him.

Makes him feel special in a way he has no right to feel.

"Let me help," he offers, voice strained. "I can show you how—"

"I think I can figure it out," you interrupt, but there's uncertainty in your eyes as you look at the different buttons, the various settings.

Fuck, you're adorable. Even spread-eagle on a table with a vibrator in your hand, there's something so endearing about your determination to figure this out on your own.

He watches, mesmerized, as you press another button. The vibration intensifies, making you jump slightly at the change. Your finger slips, pressing yet another button, and suddenly the toy is pulsing in a rhythm that has him imagining it pressed against you, imagining your reaction to that particular pattern.

He can't take it.

"Here," he says, reaching up, a bit desperate, a tad impatient. "May I?"

After a moment's hesitation, you nod, removing your heel from his forehead and allowing him to rise up on his knees. He takes the vibrator from you, quickly familiarizing himself with the controls.

"This button cycles through the patterns," he explains, demonstrating as the toy shifts from steady vibration to pulsing to waves. "And this one controls the intensity."

He presses it, the vibration becoming stronger under his thumb.

"Start low and work your way up."

He hands it back to you, then you glare at him and okay, he immediately settles back on his heels, waiting. Watching. Fucking aching to see what you do next.

You take the toy, reset it to the lowest steady vibration, and then—God help him—you bring it to your breast first. Circle your nipple with it, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word barely audible over the hum of the vibrator.

He shifts on his knees, trying to adjust himself without being too obvious about it. His jeans have become a torture device, constricting him painfully as he watches you explore.

The vibrator trails down your stomach, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He can see them form on your skin, can see the way your muscles tense in anticipation as the toy moves lower, lower—

And then it's there, pressed against your clit, and the sound you make—a soft, surprised gasp followed by a deeper moan—nearly ends him.

"Good?" he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod, eyes still closed, hips already starting to move against the vibration. "Good. Really good."

He leans forward instinctively, mouth watering at the sight of you pleasuring yourself. He wants to taste you, wants to feel the vibrations against his tongue as he licks around the toy.

Wants to be part of this moment in a way that's more than just watching.

But as he moves closer, your eyes snap open, fixing him with a look that stops him cold.

You extend your leg, the one that was dangling off the table, pressing the point of your stiletto against his chest this time.

"Just watch," you command, voice breathy but firm.

He blinks, sure he's misheard. "What?"

"I said watch." You adjust the vibrator slightly, finding a better angle that makes your breath hitch, toe of your shoe pressing more firmly against his sternum. "Don't touch. Just... watch me."

Is he dreaming? Having some kind of bizarre hallucination? There's no way you're asking him to just sit here while you get yourself off right in front of him.

No fucking way.

"You're joking," he says, but the steady look in your eyes tells him you're not. "Nix, come on. You can't expect me to—"

"I can," you interrupt, increasing the vibration intensity with a press of your thumb. The change makes you gasp, hips lifting slightly off the table. "And I do."

He blinks, eyebrows tugging upwards in a cross motion. "Do you want me to bust untouched? Is that it? Because that's cruel, even for you."

A smile curves your lips, mischievous and knowing. "Maybe I just want to see if you can behave for once."

"I behave," he protests, even as his eyes remain fixed on the vibrator, on the way it glides through your wetness, on how your thighs have started to tremble already.

On those fucking shoes that, for some inexplicable reason, are making this whole situation at least ten times hotter.

"Prove it," you challenge, and fuck—he's never been able to resist a challenge from you.

Never really been able to back down when you push him like this.

So he stays where he is, on his knees, hands fisted at his sides, watching as you explore the toy, as you find what feels good, as you experiment with different patterns and pressures. Your foot still rests against his chest, not pushing him away now, just... there.

A point of contact that feels both like ambrosia and agony.

It's torture. Beautiful, exquisite torture to be this close and not touch you. To smell your arousal and not taste it. To hear your moans growing louder and know he's not the direct cause.

But it's also—strangely, unexpectedly—one of the hottest things he's ever witnessed.

Because you're not performing for him. You're genuinely discovering what you like, what makes you feel good. And there's something incredibly intimate about being allowed to witness that, about being trusted enough to see you this vulnerable, this real.

"That's it," he encourages as your movements become more focused, as you settle into a rhythm with the vibrator that has your breathing turning shallow. "Just like that. You look so fucking good, Nix."

Your eyes meet his, heavy-lidded but alert, and for a moment, he can’t help but stare back.

Then you close your eyes again, lost in the sensation as the vibrator buzzes steadily against your clit. Your free hand comes up to your breast, pinching your nipple in time with the pulsations of the toy, and he groans at the sight.

Your foot presses harder against his chest, whether intentionally or as an unconscious reaction to your growing pleasure, he doesn't know.

Doesn't care.

"Cruel," he mutters, because he needs to at least let you know. “You're fucking cruel, you know that?"

His eyes are fixed on your pussy like it's the only thing in the universe worth looking at. Maybe it is. The way you're working that vibrator against yourself, the little circular motions, the way your hips lift occasionally when you hit just the right spot—it's driving him fucking insane.

His dick is so hard it hurts at this point, and he thinks it's going to start a mutiny. He shifts his weight, trying to get some relief, but it only makes things worse. His forehead thumps against the corner of the table in frustrated surrender.

"God fucking hell," he groans, the wood cool against his skin. "Nix, I need to lick you. Please. Just—let me taste you."

You look down at him, eyes heavy-lidded but gleaming with amusement. Your stiletto traces a path down his chest, and when it reaches his stomach, you press slightly, the point digging into the muscle there.

A warning.

A tease.

He's not sure which, but it makes his cock throb painfully either way.

"What was that?" you ask, lifting the vibrator just enough that he can see how wet you are, how your pussy glistens in the low light. "I didn't quite hear you."

Fucking tease. Fucking gorgeous, evil tease.

"I said I need to lick you," he repeats, louder this time, pride completely abandoned. "Let me put my mouth on you. Let me make you feel good."

You pretend to consider it, tilting your head like you're weighing your options. Meanwhile, he's about to combust from the inside out.

"I don't know," you muse, trailing the vibrator up to circle around your clit, making yourself gasp. "I'm doing pretty well on my own, don't you think?"

Your stiletto moves again, tracing along the inside of his thigh. He tenses, breath catching as it moves higher, closer to the straining bulge in his jeans.

“Phee,” he bites back a groan. "You're doing amazing. Fucking incredible. But I can make it better. You know I can."

"Hmm." You press the vibrator directly against your clit again, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before fixing back on him. "Maybe if you ask nicely."

Is this really happening? Are you really making him beg? His cock twitches at the thought, answering that question with an emphatic yes.

He swallows, throat dry.

"Please," he says, voice rough. "Please let me help."

The word lies suspended between you.

Please. Such a simple word, but one he doesn't use often—not like this, not with this much raw need behind it.

Your eyes widen slightly, like you weren't expecting him to actually do it. To actually beg. But then a slow smile spreads across your face, and you nod.

"Since you asked so nicely," you say. "Go ahead."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He surges forward, hands gripping your thighs, spreading them wider as he buries his face against you.

The first swipe of his tongue makes you both moan—you from the sensation, him from finally, finally getting to taste you.

You taste amazing.

Like always.

Like something he could get addicted to if he's not careful.

"Fuck," he groans against you, the word vibrating against your sensitive flesh. "So fucking good."

He could honestly cum like this. Right now. Just from the taste of you on his tongue, from the way your thighs tense around his head, from the little gasps you make.

He knows he's got blue balls at this point. Knows his cock is probably leaking precum into his boxers, making a mess he'll have to deal with later. But he doesn't really care.

Until you kind of make him care.

"Jerk off."

He freezes, tongue mid-lick.

Did he hear that right?

Looking up at you, genuinely confused, he asks, "What?"

Your answer is a knowing smile and a slight increase in pressure as the heel traces the outline of his cock through the denim. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make him incredibly aware of how hard he is.

"I want you to get yourself off while you eat me out, Ro."

Jesus Christ.

When did you get so fucking bossy? And why is it turning him on so much?

"Yeah," he says, almost to himself, fumbling with his zipper. "Yeah, okay, absolutely I can do that."

His hands shake slightly as he undoes his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It springs up against his stomach, hard and flushed and so sensitive that even the brush of air against it makes him hiss.

"Shit," he warns, wrapping a hand around himself, already knowing this isn't going to last long. "Just a heads up, but this might be embarrassingly short."

You laugh, the sound turning into a gasp as he dives back in. Your leg dangles over his shoulder now, heel pressing slightly against his back.

"That's okay," you manage to say between breaths. "I'm pretty close too."

Thank fuck for that. Because the moment his hand starts moving on his cock, he knows he's on borrowed time.

The vibrator hasn't stopped. That's the thing that's driving him absolutely fucking insane. You've got it pressed right against your clit, humming on its lowest setting while he licks at your lips, tasting every inch of you except the one spot you're keeping for yourself.

It's maddening.

It's genius.

It's the hottest thing he's ever experienced.

His tongue traces your entrance, dipping just slightly inside before retreating to lick broad strokes along your folds. He's taking his time despite his own desperation, despite the way his hand is working his cock at a steady, measured pace.

Because he wants this to last, wants to savor the privilege of having his face between your thighs while you take your pleasure so confidently.

"More," you breathe above him, and he's not sure if you're talking to him or yourself.

But then your fingers move, pressing a button on the vibrator, and the hum intensifies. The sound changes pitch, grows deeper, more insistent. Your hips jerk in response, a gasp falling from your lips that sends blood rushing to his already throbbing cock.

His fist tightens instinctively, pace quickening to match the vibrator's new rhythm. It's like his body is syncing with the toy, with your pleasure, his own arousal tied directly to yours.

"Fuck, Nix," he groans against you, the words muffled but still audible. "You're so fucking wet. So fuckin’ good, I swear—I swear I could do this for hours.”

“But you won’t last hours,” you tease, rolling your hips against his face. “Will you?”

He shakes his head, not even bothering to deny it. Not when his balls are already drawing up tight, not when each stroke of his hand brings him closer to the edge.

“Nngh—no,” he admits, the word punctuated by a particularly firm stroke that has his hips bucking into his fist. “Not gonna—ah—not gonna last long at all.”

Because the truth is, he’s dizzy with it—your taste, your scent, the sounds you're making above him. It's overwhelming in the best possible way, a sensory overload that makes his cock pulse in his grip, precome slicking the way as his fist moves faster, more urgently.

You shift the vibrator slightly, angling it for better contact, and your free hand finds his hair. Fingers tangle in the strands, not quite pulling but definitely directing, holding him exactly where you want him.

"Inside," you command, voice breathless but clear. "I want your tongue inside me."

He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even think. Just obeys, tongue pushing past your entrance, delving into the wet heat of you while the vibrator continues its relentless assault on your clit.

The angle is awkward, his neck craned to accommodate both the toy and his mouth, but he doesn't care.

Can't care about anything beyond the way you clench around his tongue, the way your thighs tremble against his cheeks, the way your grip tightens in his hair.

His cock throbs in his hand, so sensitive now that each stroke sends sparks shooting up his spine, and fuck he's close—so fucking close—but he's determined to make you come first. Wants to feel you pulsing around his tongue, wants to experience every tremor of your orgasm firsthand.

Above him, your breathing has grown ragged; little gasps and moans that tell him you're getting close too.

"Don't stop," you gasp, basically riding his face at this point. "God, don't stop."

As if he would.

As if he could tear himself away from this even if the building were on fire.

Your thighs start to shake in earnest now, little tremors that grow stronger by the second. The hand in his hair clenches, your stiletto digs into his back, the pressure increasing as your body tenses, and now he just knows; knows how close you are to the edge.

It makes his strokes faster, more desperate.

“Shit,” he gasps, pulling back for air. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Don’t stop,” you command, lost in a whine. “Don’t you dare stop.”

And he feels it the moment you start to come—the way your inner walls flutter around his tongue, the sudden flood of wetness, the sharp cry that tears from your throat. His name, maybe. Or just a sound of pure pleasure. He's too far gone to tell the difference.

But it doesn't matter. What matters is that you're coming on his tongue, coming while he tastes you, while the vibrator buzzes against your clit, while his cock throbs in his hand, so close to his own release that he can feel it building at the base of his spine.

He pushes his tongue deeper, wanting to feel every pulse, every contraction of your orgasm. The vibrator keeps buzzing, prolonging the sensation, pushing you higher and higher until your hand finally yanks at his hair, pulling him back when it becomes too much.

"Fuck," you gasp, voice wrecked, vibrator still humming in your grip though you've pulled it away from your oversensitive clit. "Fuck, Ro."

The sound of his nickname—that stupid nickname you’ve given him—paired with the sight of you flushed and trembling from an orgasm he helped create, is what does it. What finally pushes him over the edge.

His release hits him then, stealing his breath as his cock pulses in his hand, spilling onto the hardwood floor in hot spurts that seem to go on forever.

He groans against your thigh, face pressed into the soft skin there as his hips jerk, chasing the last waves of pleasure.

“Ffff—shit,” he slurs as he strokes himself through the aftershocks. “Holy sssh—oh—fuck… Ahhh.”

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of breathing, harsh and uneven. The vibrator still hums softly, forgotten in your hand until you fumble for the off button, plunging them into sudden silence.

Jungkook rests his forehead against your thigh, trying to catch his breath, trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts.

His hand is sticky, his knees ache from the hardwood floor, his back tingles from the trail your heel left across it, and he’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to look at the entryway table the same way again.

But fuck if it wasn't worth it.

He pulls back, gasping for breath, his hand still loosely gripping his spent cock. He probably looks a mess—hair wild from your hands, face shiny with your wetness, expression dazed and satisfied.

"Christ," he breathes, looking up at you with something close to awe.

"Yeah," you agree, equally breathless.

A moment passes where you just look at each other, both trying to process what just happened. Then, because he's Jungkook and he can't help himself, he grins.

"So," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his clean hand. "I guess you like the vibrator I picked, huh?"

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance there. Just a kind of fond exasperation that makes his chest feel weird and tight.

"It's alright," you say, casual as anything, like you weren't just having what looked like the most intense orgasm of your life. "Could've been better."

He laughs, full and genuine. "Liar."

Your lips twitch, fighting a smile. "Maybe."

He sits back on his heels, suddenly aware of the mess he's made on the floor. "We should, uh, probably clean up before Yoongi gets home."

You nod, both legs dangling off the table. “Wouldn’t want to scandalize him.”

"He's seen worse," Jungkook says without thinking, then flinches. "I mean—not with me. Just, you know, in general. Living with roommates and all."

You give him a look that's equal parts amusement and skepticism. "Right."

Awkward silence falls as the reality of what just happened settles in, because this? Yeah, it was sex. But this time you took control, you made him beg, you saw him at his most desperate and needy.

And he... liked it. More than he probably should have.

"So," he says, tucking himself back into his jeans with as much dignity as possible. "That was fun."

You snort. "Such a way with words, Ro."

"What can I say? I'm a poet."

He gathers the dress from the floor and gives it to you. You throw the dress at his head, but you're laughing, and he thinks—not for the first time—that he likes that sound. Likes being the cause of it.

He doesn’t analyze it further than needs to be.

He catches the dress, handing it back to you with exaggerated chivalry. "Your garment, m'lady."

"You're an idiot," you say, but there's no bite to it. Just that weird, fond tone that makes his stomach do strange things.

Fully on both legs now, he places both his arms between your spread thighs, his face hovering close to yours, tilting to the side.

"Yeah," he agrees, because sometimes the simplest truth is the easiest to admit. "But I'm an idiot who makes you cum really fucking hard, so..."

And there it is—that flash in your eyes, that hint of heat that never seems to fully dissipate between you two.

"Don't get cocky," you warn.

Too late, he thinks. Way too late for that.

He stands there with the taste of you still on his lips and he can't help but feel satisfied.

Good.

“Does this mean we’re not fighting anymore?”

You laugh, the sound bright and genuine in the quiet room. “I guess not.”

“Good. Because that was a fucking stupid fight anyway.”

“It was,” you agree. “But the makeup sex was worth it.”

“Always is with us.”

And that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? No matter how much you argue, no matter how much you drive each other crazy, this thing between you—this chemistry, this connection—always brings you back together.

No strings attached, just pure, perfect understanding of what the other needs.

It’s not love. It’s not even like, most days. But it’s something.

Something that works for both of you.

And then, Jungkook feels your forehead press against his shoulder, which catches him off guard. Not because it’s heavy or anything—it’s not—but because it’s you.

You, who usually keeps your distance unless you're actively trying to rile him up. You, who just made him beg on his knees like some desperate idiot a few minutes ago.

And now you’re here, leaning into him like this is normal. Like this is fine.

It’s... nice. He hates that it’s nice.

His lips twitch upward despite himself, a soft smile breaking through the lingering haze of post-orgasmic bliss. His hand moves before he can think better of it, sliding up your back in a slow, deliberate stroke. His palm presses lightly between your shoulder blades, fingers splaying out as he rubs soothing circles into your skin.

Your back is warm under his touch—soft in places, firm in others—and he thinks about how strange it is that he knows what you feel like now. Not just your skin but the way you move under his hands, the way your muscles tense and relax depending on what he’s doing to you.

It’s intimate in a way that makes something uncomfortable stir in his chest if he lingers on it too long.

So he doesn’t linger.

“Cleanup?” he asks, voice low and rough from everything that just happened.

You grunt. Not a word, not even a real sound—just a grunt. Like the idea of moving is physically painful to you right now.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through both of you.

“Alright,” he says, hand still on your back as if that’s going to keep you from sliding off the table and face-planting onto the floor. “Let me get some wipes.”

Another grunt. This one sounds more annoyed than tired, but he can’t tell for sure because your face is still buried against his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me…” He pauses for dramatic effect because he knows how much you hate when he does that. “You’re a cuddlebug?”

That gets a reaction. Your head snaps up so fast he almost flinches, and then you’re shoving at his chest with both hands like you’re trying to push him off the planet.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it. Your hands stay on his chest for a second longer than necessary before falling back to your sides.

He snorts, stepping back and giving you space because even though he likes teasing you (maybe too much), he knows when to quit.

Most of the time, anyway.

“Stay there,” he says over his shoulder as he heads toward his room. “Don’t move.”

You don’t respond this time—not even a grunt—but when he glances back, you’re still perched on the edge of the table looking thoroughly unimpressed with life.

Very you, indeed.

Then he's stepping into his bedroom, and of course, it is dark when he steps inside, the only light coming from the hallway spilling in behind him.

He grabs the container of wet wipes from his nightstand (don’t ask why they’re there; that’s none of anyone’s business) and heads back out before his brain can start overthinking anything.

When he returns to the entryway, you haven’t moved an inch. You’re still sitting there with both legs dangling off the table.

And for a moment, he can’t help but think the sight is oddly cute.

“Alright,” he says again as if this is some kind of official business meeting instead of… whatever this is. “Let’s get this over with.”

He crouches down first, wiping at the floor where his cum has left an embarrassing mess that Yoongi would absolutely kill him for if he saw it later. The hardwood glistens faintly under the light as he scrubs at it with more force than necessary—partly because it needs to be cleaned properly and partly because maybe if he focuses hard enough on this task, he won’t think about how close your legs are or how good you smelled earlier or how fucking soft your skin felt under his hands.

When he's done with that part (and only when he's sure it's spotless), he straightens up and turns toward you.

Your eyes are on him—soft but unreadable—and it makes something twist in his stomach that has nothing to do with hunger or exhaustion or anything else logical.

“What?” he asks because apparently silence makes him nervous now.

You shake your head slightly, lips curving into something that might be a smile if it weren’t so small and fleeting.

“Nothing.”

He doesn’t believe you—not for a second—but decides not to push it because pushing things with you in this state never ends well for him.

Instead, he steps closer until he's standing between your legs again and tilts his head toward yours like he's trying to figure out what you're thinking without actually asking outright.

"Hold still," he murmurs after a beat of hesitation that's barely noticeable but feels significant anyway.

The wipe is cool against your skin as he starts cleaning you up—gentle but thorough in a way that surprises even himself. Your eyes stay on him the whole time—watchful but not wary—and it makes him feel weirdly self-conscious even though there’s no reason for it.

When he's finished (and only when he's sure you're clean), he tosses the used wipe into the trash can by the door without looking away from you entirely.

"Sleep?" he asks after another moment of silence stretches between you like an elastic band ready to snap at any second now if someone doesn’t say something soon enough.

“Yeah.” You murmur. “Your bed.”

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s not sure he heard right.

Not because it’s weird—okay, maybe it’s a little weird—but because you said it so casually. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to ask to sleep in his bed after everything that just happened.

He doesn’t know what to say at first. He’s not used to this part—the after part. Usually, there isn’t an after part. It’s just sex, then goodbye, then see you whenever.

But this? This feels different in a way he can’t quite put his finger on, and it makes his brain stutter for a second before he finally manages to respond.

“Uh… yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sure.”

You don’t say anything else, just lift your arms slightly like you’re expecting him to do something.

He stares at you for a moment, confused, until it clicks.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters, rolling his eyes but already stepping closer. “You’re not serious.”

You just raise an eyebrow at him, and yep—you’re serious.

“Lazy ass,” he grumbles under his breath as he bends down to scoop you up.

Your arms loop around his neck automatically, and your legs wrap around his waist like this is something you do all the time instead of… well, never. He tries not to think about how natural it feels or how warm you are against him or how your breath brushes against his collarbone when you settle into his hold.

It’s fine. Totally fine. This is just… practical.

Yeah.

Practical.

He carries you with ease because let’s be real—he could probably bench press you if he wanted to—and nudges his bedroom door open with his foot.

“Alright,” he says as he approaches the bed and leans forward slightly to deposit you onto the mattress. “Here we go.”

But instead of letting go like a normal person, you cling tighter for half a second before finally releasing him with a grunt that sounds suspiciously like reluctance. He doesn’t comment on it because honestly? He doesn’t trust himself not to make it weird if he does.

You flop onto your back with all the grace of a drunk cat and immediately start wiggling around like you’re trying to make yourself comfortable in record time. Jungkook just stands there for a moment, watching you with an expression he doesn't even know how to describe.

“You good?” he asks once you’ve finally stopped moving and are lying still with your eyes closed like this is your bed and not his.

“Mmhm,” you hum without opening your eyes.

He shakes his head but doesn’t bother arguing because what’s the point?

Then he’s going to lay down too, but you sprawl onto his bed like you’re claiming it for yourself, arms and legs stretched out in every direction like some kind of human starfish.

Jungkook snorts, standing at the side of the bed with his hands on his hips like a disappointed parent.

“Move,” he says, nudging at your foot with his knee. “I want to sleep too.”

You crack one eye open, squinting at him.

“Then sleep,” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow your face is half-buried in.

“I can’t sleep,” he says, gesturing dramatically at your starfish pose. “Not unless you move your limbs out of my personal space.”

You grunt something unintelligible but make no effort to move.

He sighs—long and exaggerated—before climbing onto the bed anyway, shoving at your leg until you reluctantly curl up enough to give him room.

He flops down beside you with all the grace of someone who’s been awake for far too long and immediately starts adjusting himself into what he considers optimal sleeping position.

Except there’s one problem: his arm.

It’s stuck under him, bent awkwardly against his side instead of stretched out under the pillow where it belongs. He tries shifting around to fix it but quickly realizes there’s no way to do that without encroaching on your territory.

“Hey,” he says, nudging at your side with his foot now.

“What?” you snap, voice sharp despite how tired you sound.

“Let me extend my arm under the pillow.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean no,” you repeat stubbornly, turning your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “Figure it out without bothering me.”

He stares at you for a second like he can’t believe what he’s hearing before deciding that negotiation is clearly not going to work here.

So instead, he does what any reasonable person would do in this situation: he forcefully shoves his arm under your neck like it belongs there.

You jerk upright immediately, twisting around to face him with wide eyes and an expression that screams 'what the actual fuck'.

“Bro,” you say, voice incredulous as you try—and fail—to push his arm away. “Get off me.”

“Bro,” he says simply, already settling back down like this is perfectly normal behavior between roommates who occasionally hook up but definitely aren’t friends yet (or whatever this is). “You’re in my bed. Shut up and act like a plushie or something.”

“A plushie?” You sound so offended that he almost laughs but manages to hold it back because laughing right now would probably get him kicked out of his own bed.

“Yes,” he says firmly, pulling the blanket over both of you with one hand while keeping his other arm firmly in place under your neck. “A plushie.”

You open your mouth to argue—because of course you do—but he shuts it down with a loud, drawn-out “SSSSHHHHH” that’s so over-the-top, so him, it stops you cold.

“Sleep,” he adds a second later, voice low, eyes already shut like the matter’s settled and he’s the authority on bedtime now.

The room stills. One of those dumb, drawn-out silences where neither of you wants to move first. Like shifting even an inch might make it real. Might make it weird.

But then you sigh. Loud. Dramatic. Flopping back down beside him like you’ve just made the ultimate sacrifice.

“Fine,” you mutter, sharp as ever, head hitting the pillow with a thud. “But if I wake up with a crick in my neck because of this stupid arm thing—”

“You won’t,” he says, already drifting, smug and certain and way too casual for someone who just turned a routine argument into a full-body tangle.

You mumble something under your breath—probably rude, definitely deserved—and go quiet.

And for a second, he just lies there. Listening to your breathing even out. Feeling the slight pull of your body next to his.

The ridiculousness of the situation should hit harder than it does.

But it doesn’t.

It actually feels…weirdly good.

Not in the usual way. Not in the easiest way.

Just—solid. Like he hasn’t fucked it up yet.

Which is a surprise, considering he really thought he had.

After Tuesday.

After the whole Jason thing—the fight that was never really about Jason. The way the guy had looked like every goddamn red flag Jungkook had ever ignored. Too neat, too careful, too condescending behind a smile that felt fake even from a hallway away.

He’d projected. Hard. Got scared on your behalf. Angry in that twitchy, irrational way he hates. Like he couldn’t stand the thought of you falling into something he knew could break you.

But that wasn’t fair. Wasn’t his choice. You’re not fragile. You’re you. You can make your own calls without his fears bleeding into them.

And he should know better by now. Should’ve remembered that you’ve survived things he doesn’t even ask about.

Instead, he snapped. Like he always does when things get too close. Like he’s got some built-in timer that detonates as soon as someone sees more than they’re supposed to.

So yeah. He’d assumed it was done. That he’d pushed too hard, too fast—again.

That whatever fragile thing had been building between you would crack right down the middle, just like every other almost-connection he’s tried to hold onto.

But then… you’d talked. Actually talked.

And—somehow—you’d listened.

Not just tolerated him. Heard him.

And tonight, he thinks—for the first time in a long, long time—he feels…comfortable. With a woman. With you.

And yeah, okay—he kind of likes that.

It’s not some life-changing moment. Not some movie scene epiphany.

Just this quiet flicker of maybe. Of could be.

Maybe he can have this. A woman beside him. No pressure. No angle. No romantic feelings. No attachments, no entanglements. Not drama, not hurt.

Just a dumb, chaotic almost-friendship built on late-night arguments and questionable sleep arrangements.

And fuck—he’s kind of proud of that.

So he lets his eyes fall shut. Lets the warmth settle. Lets the thought linger.

Not friendship. Not yet.

But maybe.

goal: 500 notes, but the wattpad goal has to be reached too

next | index

⋆｡°✩ taglist✩°｡⋆

@cannotalwaysbenight @livingformintyoongi @itstoastsworld @jimineepaboya @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @jkrailme @rpwprpwprpwprw @mar-lo-pap @jeontae @whothefuckisthishoe @mikrokookiex @minniejim

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ducktoo · 1 month ago

Text

Stalking...?

Lesserafim's Kazuha x Reader

Note: A short little fic just a start. Hope anon didn't wait for too long lol. It was a pretty cute request ngl.

There she is again.

Or at least… you think that’s her.

Mask on. Sunglasses. Hoodie pulled up like she’s trying to sneak into the witness protection program. All that’s missing is a trench coat and a fake mustache. You squint over your slowly melting iced matcha, trying not to look obvious. But it’s her. You're pretty sure it is.

Same posture. Same slow, graceful way she adjusts her sleeve. Same aura that shouts let me have my peace, please.

So you pretend not to notice.

Because, for the third time this week, you two have ended up at the exact same café. You could've sworn this was random. No stalking. No GPS tracker. You literally found this place on Insta and you thought you should try on your day off. Like. Come on.

You take a sip. Loudly. Like that’ll drown out the paranoia chewing its way up your spine.

And yet.

Somehow, even behind all that cover and sunglass, you feel her looking at you.

You don't want to make eye contact. Don’t want to make it weirder than it already is. So you duck your head, open your phone, and scroll through your gallery like a normal, non-threatening civilian. Meanwhile, your brain is spiralling into chaos like:

Okay, maybe she just really likes cafés too. Maybe we just have eerily similar taste. Maybe we both saw that Insta post. That’s fine. That’s normal. Right? Right?!

Yeah, you already knew it wasn't fine. Because the next thing you know, the suspicious hooded figure stands up. And starts walking. Toward you.

You freeze, thumb still hovering over a blurry meme of a raccoon holding bubble tea. Your fight-or-flight instinct chooses neither. You just sit there and prepare to die.

She stops right in front of your table, peels off the sunglasses slowly like she’s in a drama scene, with her glare that could say: “Seriously?”

You blink. “Uh. Hi?”

She exhales. “...You were at 0 degree near here. Monday.”

You nod cautiously. “Mhm.”

“And Gloria Jeans. Tuesday.”

“That's...true…”

“And now here. At Goose.”

You give a weak laugh. “Haha. I guess we like coffee?”

She stares.

You squirm.

“I’m not stalking you,” you blurt, louder than you meant to.

A nearby customer glances over. You offer an awkward smile like don’t worry, just being accused of lowkey idol stalking, nothing wild.

Kazuha squints at you. “…I didn’t say you were.”

“Ah.” You pause. “Right. Sorry.”

She doesn’t move. Just watches you like she’s waiting for you to pull out a notepad and start logging her beverage preferences.

You try to save yourself. “Ok, It’s just... I like cafes. I go to a new one every couple of days. I didn’t realize you were—y’know—you at first. But then I kinda did. But I didn’t wanna be weird. So I didn’t say anything. Which now maybe makes it weirder.”

She crosses her arms slowly. “So you did recognize me.”

You shrink a little in your seat. “Just... a little bit.”

Silence.

Then, to your absolute shock, she slides into the seat across from you. “You’re kind of bad at lying.”

You make a face. “I didn’t lie!”

She tilts her head. “You did say you didn’t realize who I was.”

“I didn’t! Not at first. But your posture kinda reminds me that someone on the Billboard does have that posture.”

She blinks. “...Excuse me?”

“Not in a bad way! I meant it in a like—‘oh those look familiar’ kind of way. Not like a Dumbo situation—”

She starts laughing. She actually laughs. The kind of breathy, caught-off-guard giggle that makes you relax for like, half a second.

“…Wow,” she says. “You really are just a guy who likes cafés.”

“I told you!”

She smirks. “And has a thing for oat milk hazelnut lattes.”

You raise your cup proudly. “With two pumps. It's good though.”

She lifts her own cup. “Iced americano. No sugar. Real coffee.”

You gasp. “What the…kinda makes sense why but still…ew.”

She laughs again and shrugs. “Hey, at least I’m not suspiciously following someone from Gangnam to Hongdae to Itaewon like it’s part of a K-drama subplot.”

“I’m not— okay, you know what, fair. It sounds bad. But statistically, Seoul has, like, five million cafés. I just have terrible luck.”

She hums, amused, sipping her drink like she’s suddenly very okay with this scenario. “Well, if I see you again tomorrow... I’m calling my manager… and security…and my mom too for good measures.”

You nod seriously. “Reasonable. If I see you, I’m filing a cease and desist.”

Her mouth quirks. “So we’re both watching each other now?”

“I guess it’s mutual stalking.”

You both fall into quiet laughter, ridiculous and a little flustered, sipping your respective drinks.

Then she glances at your phone.

“Is that a raccoon sticker?”

You groan. “Why does everyone keep noticing that?! Now I kinda regret I let my friends trolling me.”

She grins, eyes sparkling over the rim of her cup. “I like it.”

“Sure…You’re messing with me.”

“Maybe.”

Maybe she is. Maybe she isn't.

But when she stands to leave, she pauses.

“You coming back here tomorrow?” she asks, casually. Too casually.

You raise a brow. “Why? Planning to arrest me?”

She shrugs, smile barely hidden. “I might let you off with a warning... if you buy the drinks.”

You weren’t planning to come back.

And even when you found yourself walking the same exact route, feet dragging slightly, hands stuffed in your jacket pockets, you told yourself you were just craving the caramel syrup they put in their cold brew as their special.

That’s it. Just a craving. That’s allowed.

You even stood outside the café, Goose, for a solid thirty seconds, hoping that your conscience decided that it would be weird and just drag you away.

It didn’t. So you went in.

It’s quieter today. Just a few regulars typing away on laptops or scrolling through their phones. You order your drink, slip into the same seat from yesterday, and glance around once—casually. Not expectantly.

You’re not waiting. You're not. It’s fine if she doesn’t come. Really.

You sip your drink and open your phone, not even pretending to do anything productive. Just a few reels, a photo of someone’s cat doing backflips, and a café recommendation account that’s telling you to try a spot in Itaewon next.

You almost consider it. A new café would mean no awkward déjà vu. No replay of the weird conversation from yesterday. No second-guessing if you really imagined her accusing you of stalking while looking stupidly gorgeous and suspicious at the same time.

Then the bell above the door rings.

You don’t look up. But you feel it. The shift in the room. The strange quiet that settles for no good reason.

It’s stupid. Of course it’s not her. It's not-

You looked up—quick, barely a flick of the eyes—and your drink almost sloshes out of your hand.

Oh. It’s her.

Mask off this time. Still lowkey incognito with a baseball cap and hoodie, but she’s ditched the sunglasses. Her ponytail’s pulled through the back of the cap, and there’s a smug curve to her lips like she’s the one who caught you in the act as she sits in front of you.

“You actually came back,” you say.

She shrugs and takes a sip of her americano like this is the most natural thing in the world. “So did you.”

“Okay, yeah, but I was bored. What’s your excuse?”

Kazuha doesn’t answer right away. She tilts her head at you, that same intense gaze from yesterday zeroing in again, like she’s scanning for lies. Or latte foam moustaches.

You fidget under the scrutiny. “...Um..?”

She leans forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand. “Just checking if you still look suspicious.”

You squint. “Do I?”

“Mm.” She gestures vaguely. “You’re about 50 percent. The raccoon sticker on your phone yesterday saved you.”

"Oh my…" You groan. “Are you ever gonna let that go?”

“Nope.”

You stare at her. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

She smiles, small and slow, and it makes something weirdly tight twist in your chest. “Maybe.”

A beat passes. You sip your drink. She sips hers.

Then, like it’s nothing, she says, “I wasn’t actually planning to come back.”

You blink. “Oh.”

“But then I got curious.”

“Curious?”

She shrugs again. “Wondered if you’d be dumb enough to show up twice in a row.”

You clutch your chest dramatically. “Wow, rude. Say that again, but romantic.”

Kazuha snorts. It’s quiet, but you catch it. The corners of her eyes crinkle, just a little.

“I’ll work on it,” she says. Then, almost reluctantly, “...You’re not that bad to talk to.”

You pretend to swoon. “Wait, that almost sounded like a compliment.”

“Get off your ego, mister.”

You hum into your drink, heart doing somersaults despite your best efforts to play it cool. She’s here. She came back. And she’s staying. You’re not sure what this is—coincidence, fate, slow-burn disaster—but you don’t hate it.

“Wanna pick the next café?” you ask before you can chicken out.

She raises an eyebrow. “You assuming there’ll be a next time?”

You lift your cup. “You’re already here. Might as well keep the mutual stalking going.”

She looks at you for a long moment.

Then she pulls out her phone.

“There’s a place near the Han River,” she says, thumb scrolling. “Looks good. No raccoon stickers allowed.”

You groaned, but there was no bite in your tone. “Oh come on-”

#kpop #lesserafim x reader #lesserafim #kazuha #kazuha x reader #nakamura kazuha #nakamura kazuha x reader #le sserafim x reader

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nondelphic · 6 months ago

Text

welcome to nondelphic, *a blog about writing, overthinking writing, abandoning writing, and occasionally finishing writing. if you’re a fan of crying about writing, niche metaphors, and posts that spiral into existentialism, you’re in the right place.

rebecka (she/her)

22, swedish

writer, journalism student, full-time cat enthusiast (send me pictures of your cats)

ace-ish sapphic

i probably have adhd (waiting to be officially diagnosed lol)

most likely drinking tea and diving into a rabbit hole about space, mountains or stuff too complicated for me to understand right now

my 2nd, less active blog is @rebellenotes where i post longer, more serious ramblings and essays.

i started this blog because i’ve always loved talking about writing—especially the struggles and chaos we all face as aspiring authors. none of my friends on other platforms cared (lol), so this space became my little haven for all things writing. i hope it can be that for you too, a safe, encouraging place to talk about stories, creativity, and all the weird ups and downs of being a writer (｡♥‿♥｡)

✏️ writing tips, memes, and struggles (mostly struggles)

📖 occasionally bookish content and recommendations

🌈 advocacy for lgbtq+ and disability rights !!

🍅 an unnecessary amount of love for cats and writing for fun

#nondelphic asks : where i answer asks you sent me!

#nondelphic writing tips : actual useful advice (sometimes)

#nondelphic status : life updates and ramblings

thanks for stopping by! feel free to send an ask, vibe in the tags, or just lurk it’s all love here <3 ✧٩(ˊᗜˋ*)و ✧

follower milestones !!:

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#nondelphic #nondelphic status #nondelphic asks #nondelphic writing tips #writeblr #writers on tumblr #writing #creative writing #writer things #on writing #writerblr #author introduction #introduction post #introductory post

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starset21 · 1 month ago

Text

Tagged and Dragged

Pairing: Isack Hadjar x reader

Vibe: Meme chaos → playful banter → lowkey flirting

Standard disclaimer: I do not consent to the posting, translating, or publishing of my work to any 3rd party site, the only place it may found is on tumblr or A03 under the same name. This is all fake. It does not reflect real people, real events or their actual actions or relationships. May contain google translated languages.

You didn’t mean to tag Isack Hadjar in the meme.

You were just scrolling, sleep-deprived and dangerously confident, deep into a late-night motorsport meme spiral. It was supposed to be a throwaway post for your mutuals to laugh at:

“Bro’s hair looks like he argued with a leaf blower and lost 💀💀💀” (Attached: a wild screencap of Isack post-helmet, mid-interview, curls in disarray.)

It was meant to be private. Funny. Anonymous. What it was not meant to be was tagged directly to @ isackhadjar.

But it was. And the internet, cruel and fast, noticed.

Your heart sinks. Your eyes widen. You click the tweet in panic—yep, that blue tag is real. Verified. Active. Alive.

And worse?

He saw it.

Because within three minutes, you get a DM notification:

@ isackhadjar:

Brutal. At least follow me if you’re gonna roast me. 👀

You do what any reasonable person would do. You scream into your pillow.

Then you type back:

@ Y/Nofftrack:

OH MY GOD I THOUGHT YOU WERE A FAN ACCOUNT I’M SO SORRY

Unless… you are a fan of leaf blowers In which case the post was… support?? innovation?? themed content??? okay I’ll delete myself now

He replies faster than expected:

@ isackhadjar:

Nah don’t. That was kinda funny. I respect the commitment. Helmet hair is undefeated. Happens to the best of us. Especially me. But I will be starting a personal war with leaf blowers now. Just FYI.

You blink at your phone. Is he... actually cool about this?

@ Y/Nofftrack:

Honestly? Your curls bounced back by the next frame. Resilience like that deserves a sponsor Dyson better start calling

@ isackhadjar:

Dyson collab where I just stand in front of a wind tunnel with sad music playing Caption: “He trusted the airflow.” 😔

You laugh. This is ridiculous. And somehow... adorable.

@ Y/Nofftrack:

I could make a redemption meme But I feel like I deserve compensation Like a paddock pass. Or pad thai. Or both. You know. For emotional damages.

His reply comes in three parts:

@ isackhadjar:

Deal. Paddock pass, pad thai, and a dramatic hair flip next time I podium. But only if you retire the leaf blower slander And start tagging me in hot pics instead My PR team is starving

You pause. Blink again. That’s flirting. Right?

@ Y/Nofftrack:

“Hot pics” You’re acting like I didn’t just post a cursed screenshot of you mid-blink Be serious I don’t even have Photoshop. I have Canva and chaos��but if you’re volunteering your angles Say less.

@ isackhadjar:

Canva and chaos is honestly my brand We’d be unstoppable

Then:

Also— Are you the type to soft launch me before we’ve even met? Because you give off “cryptic Instagram caption” energy

You’re smiling. Like, actually smiling. It’s 1:37 a.m. and you’re blushing over DMs from a guy who drives 300 km/h for a living and just admitted his hair has its own agenda.

@ Y/Nofftrack:

Look. If you keep sending messages like this, I am going to call you “someone’s son” and post blurry photos with no context. This is your warning.

@ isackhadjar:

Do it. Soft launch me. Just use a good filter Or the worst one Make the curls look like they achieved sentience

The DMs don’t stop.

What begins as memes turns into reactions to each other’s stories. Inside jokes. Middle-of-the-night messages. He teases your sense of humor. You roast his outfits. He sends you a photo of his post-race hair captioned “Today they won.”

And when you casually post a story from the grandstands at Spa, not even tagging him, he messages you in all caps:

@isackhadjar:

YOU’RE HERE?? I DIDN’T EVEN GET MY REDEMPTION MEME HUG THIS IS A SCANDAL I need at least one hug For morale. For the curls. For justice Maybe two

You grin down at your phone like it’s harboring a secret. Your fingers hover over the keyboard before you type:

@ Y/Nofftrack:

One hug Two if your hair behaves Three if you make podium

You can’t believe you’re doing this. Not the going-to-the-race part—you’ve done that before. But this? Walking through the paddock with a digital pass in your email, a Red Bull guest lanyard around your neck, and the knowledge that Isack Hadjar is waiting to meet you? Yeah. That’s new. Your stomach’s a little too aware of it.

He’d messaged you the night before:

If I don’t see you tomorrow, I’ll assume you ran away from your own meme legacy. Or got lost in merch. I respect both tbh.

Now, you're here. And you're nervous. You scroll your messages, cheeks warm. He sent one 10 minutes ago:

I’m done with media. You around?

You reply:

Yep. Hanging near the sim tent. Not hiding. Definitely not hiding. (okay maybe like 40% hiding)

Your phone buzzes almost instantly.

On my way. Don’t move. Or flinch. I’m hugging you. This has been pending for weeks.

You barely have time to process it before you hear your name.

"Hey!"

You turn—and there he is.

Isack, in his Red Bull team tee and race suit halfway down his waist, arms loose at his sides, curls doing their usual defiant thing. He’s smiling, and it’s so warm, so casual, like this is normal. Like you’re not about to explode from sheer nervous tension.

“Hi,” you say, which is… fine. Not your best work.

He laughs. “Hi? After all that? You meme-bullied me for weeks and you showed up with hi?”

You open your mouth to reply—something witty, something cool—but instead you say, “You look taller in person.”

His smile turns into a smirk. “That’s what the boots are for.”

He steps forward, hesitating for a beat before opening his arms. “C’mon. I’m collecting my race-weekend hug. Don’t make me fight you.”

Your heart leaps. But you step into it.

The hug is fast at first—quick, friendly—but then he doesn’t let go. Not right away. His arms tighten just slightly. It’s warm. And kind of perfect. You try not to overthink it, but you can feel your heart going wild. When you pull back, you’re smiling like an idiot.

“So,” you say, “Was the hug everything you dreamed?”

Isack grins. “I don’t want to be dramatic but… it might’ve powered the car this weekend.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re impossible.”

He shrugs. “You knew what this was.”

There’s a pause.

He looks at you for a second longer than necessary, then lifts a hand toward your face. “Wait—can I?”

You freeze. “Can you…?”

He leans in, gently ruffling your hair like he’s mimicking your cursed meme. “Balance has been restored,” he says, voice soft. “Now we’re even.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “So dramatic.”

He drops his hand but doesn’t step away. His fingers linger at your arm for a beat, just brushing.

Then he says, more seriously, “I’m really glad you came.”

You meet his gaze. “Yeah. Me too.”

And just as you think the moment’s about to end—he dips forward quickly, presses a soft kiss to your cheek, and pulls back like it’s no big deal.

Like it didn’t just short-circuit your brain.

He smirks, already stepping away. “That was for good luck,” he says. “And maybe because I wanted to.”

Before you can answer, he glances over his shoulder with a wink. “Stay close. I might need another hug after quali.”

You stand there, flustered and grinning like a complete fool.

And yeah… you’re absolutely soft launching him now.

#starset writes #f1 x reader #formula 1 fanfic #f1 fanfic #isack hadjar x you #isack hadjar x reader #f1 x you #ih6 #ih6 x reader #ih6 x you #isack hadjar imagine

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understeeringirl · 16 days ago

Text

If we're pretending, let's be convincing

summary: the internet starts noticing. As the fake dating begins to spiral into something bigger, you and Lando hold tight to what’s always been yours: the inside jokes, the late-night calls, the unshakeable bond. warnings: social media chaos, public speculation??, emotional suppression, mutual pining if you squint pairing: lando norris x fem!reader word count: ~2.3k series: wrong side of the camera - intro - chapter one - chapter two - chapter three - chapter four - chapter five - chapter six - chapter seven - chapter eight - chapter nine - epilogue

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It starts with coffee.

You're walking down the sun-warmed streets of Monaco, sunglasses perched on your nose, a croissant in one hand and Lando’s hoodie drowning your frame. He’s beside you, matching your pace like it's second nature, cap pulled low, phone in one hand, a drink in the other.

Neither of you planned it. Not really. You just happened to both be hungry. You just happened to walk out together.

And someone just happened to take a photo.

You don’t even see them. But they see you. And by the time your croissant is half-eaten, the internet has seen you too.

By noon, it’s on Instagram. By three, there’s TikToks. By dinner, you’re the subject of a Reddit thread titled Lando Norris’ New Girlfriend: Who is She and Where Did She Come From?

You scroll through the headlines while Lando scrolls through his phone.

“‘Lando Norris Soft Launches Romance in Monaco.’” You raise your brows. “We’ve been launched. Congrats.”

He smirks, still looking at his phone. “Told you I was good at this.”

You throw a pillow at his head. He ducks. Laughs.

That night, he posts a photo. It’s not a selfie. It’s not even staged. It’s a blurry pic of you two from behind, walking toward the harbour. The caption reads: partners in crime (coffee edition)

You don’t reply. But you repost it to your story with a heart emoji.

The internet explodes.

Pierre sends a screenshot to the group chat and writes: finally. i was getting bored.

Your cousin texts you: are you serious or is this another one of your bits??

Even your mum likes the post.

You and Lando spend half the night scrolling. Sending each other the best memes. Making up ship names. Laughing until your stomach hurts.

But in the morning, you wake up to a tabloid headline calling you “F1’s new power couple.” And even though you know it’s fake, your chest feels weird.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

By the time the next race weekend rolls around, the whispers have turned into headlines. Speculation runs rampant. PR teams start slipping your name into prep documents. Cameras linger on you longer in the paddock. Even the commentators mention you—just once, briefly, but enough.

And then comes the interview.

Lando’s halfway through a press day, sunglasses perched on his head, McLaren fireproofs zipped halfway. He’s relaxed, smiling. Playing it cool, like always.

And then the reporter asks it: “So… are the dating rumors true?”

There’s a split second where he almost laughs. But he doesn’t. Instead, he glances to the side and says, calm as ever, “I’d rather keep that between us.”

And that’s it.

You watch it later from your phone, curled up on your bed, biting the inside of your cheek.

It’s weird how convincing he sounds.

He calls that night. You answer before it finishes ringing.

“Did I sound mysterious?” he asks.

“You sounded like a rom-com lead.”

“Perfect,” he says. “Just enough to send the TikTok girlies into a tailspin.”

You laugh. It’s easy. Normal. Like the last few days haven’t been weird at all.

“Honestly,” you say, “you’re a little too good at this.”

“It’s a skill,” he says. “Charm. Stage presence. Marketability.”

“Big words for someone who once wore socks with banana prints to a gala.”

“Fashion-forward,” he insists.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then, more casually: “It’s kinda fun though, right?”

You raise an eyebrow, even though he can’t see it. “You mean the public chaos?”

“The pretending,” he says. “It’s like… our most dramatic bit ever.”

You snort. “Yeah, well, let’s hope we don’t forget our lines.”

“Nah,” he says. “We’ve been best friends too long to screw this up.”

You hum in agreement. Let the silence stretch comfortably.

Then, he adds, “Wanna plan the next post tomorrow?”

You nod to yourself. “Sure. Might as well go all in.”

“Great. I was thinking: hand-holding. Candid smiles. Something painfully couple-y.”

You roll your eyes. “If you make a heart with your hands, I’m blocking you.”

“Worth it.”

You shake your head, grinning despite yourself.

Somewhere underneath the jokes and the staged softness, something itches at the back of your brain. But you don’t scratch it. Not yet.

Because this is still fun. Still safe. Still just a game.

And you’re both really, really good at games.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

You’re seventeen the first time it almost happens.

It’s the night after one of his junior wins—big, exhausting, emotional. You’re staying at a hotel in Belgium, sharing a room because it’s always been easier that way. The lights are off. The TV is on, volume low. You’re both lying in bed, barely touching.

He says something—quiet, tired, sweet. You don’t remember the words. Just the way his voice sounded in the dark. You turn your head to look at him.

He’s already looking at you.

There’s a moment. A tiny shift. He leans in, like instinct.

You don’t move. Don’t breathe.

But then his phone buzzes on the nightstand and the moment vanishes.

He turns away to check it. You close your eyes and pretend to sleep.

Neither of you mentions it again.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next public moment comes after a race win.

You’re there in the garage, surrounded by champagne and mechanics and chaos. Lando finds you in the crowd, helmet still in hand, curls plastered to his forehead.

He grins like a kid, all adrenaline and joy. And then—without warning—he lifts you off the ground in a spinning hug. You yelp. Laugh. Hang onto him.

The cameras catch all of it.

Later, you see the footage. Slow-mo replays. TikToks set to love songs. A Twitter thread that analyzes the way he looks at you like he’s never seen anyone else in his life.

Your phone lights up all day.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That afternoon, after everything dies down, you’re back at his place. Still a little buzzed from celebration. Still in your paddock pass and team jacket.

He hands you a drink and flops onto the couch beside you.

“Not bad for a fake couple, huh?” he says, bumping his shoulder against yours.

You roll your eyes. “The internet’s planning our wedding.”

“We’ll need a cool hashtag,” he says. “#LanandY/N.”

“That’s terrible.”

“Fine. You come up with one.”

“#PR relationships my ass.”

He grins. “Catchy.”

You sip your drink. “How does it feel? Winning.”

He shrugs. “Good. Surreal. Loud.”

“Better with me there?”

He looks over at you. His smile softens.

“Always.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Careful. Say one more sweet thing and I might catch feelings.”

He snorts. “Impossible. You’re heartless.”

“You’re projecting.”

“You’re deflecting.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You’re annoying.”

He shrugs. “You’re still here.”

“Unfortunately,” you mutter.

“Admit it,” he says, leaning back smugly, “you’d be lost without me.”

You pretend to consider. “Hmm. I'd probably get more sleep. Have fewer memes in my camera roll. Eat my own fries.”

He gasps. “You love when I steal your fries.”

“I tolerate it. Out of pity.”

He grins, victorious. “See? That’s love.”

You throw a cushion at him. He lets it hit him square in the face.

“Fake love,” you remind him.

He wiggles his brows. “For now.”

You groan. “I swear to god, if you start saying things like ‘I always knew it would be you,’ I’m going to fake break up with you just to spite your captions.”

Lando laughs, stretching out on the couch, one arm slung over the back. “Admit it. This is the most fun you’ve had in ages.”

You smile without meaning to. “Yeah, yeah. Don’t let it go to your head.”

He leans his head back, eyes closed. “Too late.”

You watch him for a second, something warm curling in your chest.

And then you kick his shin. “Move over, you’re hogging the couch.”

He groans dramatically. “Abuse. This is abuse.”

“Shut up and put on a movie.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few days later, it’s your turn in the spotlight.

Your first big campaign drops at midnight. A glossy, high-fashion shoot for a major brand. The kind that gets tagged in Vogue moodboards and inspires Pinterest girls for months. You wake up to your face on a billboard in Soho, your inbox full of emojis, and your agent sending messages in all caps.

You scroll through the photos, heart thudding a little. Not just because you like them, but because they feel like proof. You’re not just someone on the arm of a famous driver. You’re someone.

The comments are different this time.

“She’s actually stunning??” “Wait I didn’t know she was a real model I thought she was just his gf lol” “This is main character behavior.”

You let yourself read them. All of them. For once, they don’t hurt.

Lando texts you the campaign shot he liked best — one of you in a silver dress, back arched, staring down the camera like you’re daring it to blink first.

His message just says: that’s my fake girlfriend 🔥🔥🔥 and then: kill me for saying that but you look insane.

You roll your eyes and type back: you’re insufferable. and then: but thanks.

He sends a selfie from the gym with his tongue out. You send him a voice memo of you mocking his sweaty face. He threatens to leak your middle school haircut if you ever do it again.

By noon, you’re laughing too hard to remember why you were nervous.

And for a few hours, it’s not about pretending or planning or headlines.

It’s just your life. And it’s finally getting louder in the best way.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That weekend, you both end up at a chaotic group dinner in Monaco — Lando, Max, a couple of mutual friends and their couples. Someone suggests a game, and before long it’s a wild mix of dares and “never have I ever.”

Someone jokes about couples knowing each other best. Pierre grins at Lando. “What’s her coffee order, Norris?”

Without missing a beat, Lando rattles it off. You blink.

Someone else asks who said “I love you” first. Lando doesn’t flinch. “Me. Obviously. She’s shy.”

You kick his shin under the table. He winces. Everyone laughs.

Later, one of your friends posts a picture of you and Lando mid-laugh, shoulders pressed together. The caption says: most annoying couple award goes to...

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Some time next week, you’re stopped outside a shoot by a fan who asks, “So when did you realize you loved him?”

You hesitate for a fraction of a second too long.

Then you laugh. “I’m under strict orders not to answer that.”

The clip goes viral.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That night, you FaceTime Lando from your hotel. He answers from bed, hair wet, shirtless, already under the covers.

“I heard you went viral today,” he says.

“I plead the fifth,” you say. “You looked like a golden retriever in your press photos.”

“Thank you.”

You talk for an hour. About everything and nothing. About your outfits for the next event. About Pierre’s new shoes. About a girl he went to school with who’s now in a soap opera.

You fall asleep mid-call. He screenshots it.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The next post comes from you.

You in his hoodie. Him mid-laugh. A blurry one of your intertwined fingers under a table.

Caption: 🤍 found him on the pit wall

The internet loses it. Again.

You close the app, smiling.

Let them guess.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

A few weeks later, you’re both in Monaco again, tucked into the quiet of his apartment. The windows are open, letting in the soft night air. There's music playing low—something chill and forgettable—and takeout boxes between you on the couch.

Neither of you is in a rush to talk. You’re watching the ceiling like it’s more interesting than your thoughts. Lando’s scrolling aimlessly on his phone, then sets it down with a sigh.

“You ever think about how weird this all is?” he asks suddenly.

You glance at him. “Define weird. Like… fake dating your best friend weird, or being mildly famous weird?”

He laughs. “Both, I guess.”

You nod, pulling your knees up. “Yeah. It’s insane when you think about it too hard.”

He’s quiet for a moment. Then: “I was thinking earlier… if I wasn’t doing this, if none of this F1 stuff ever happened, I wonder if we’d still be this close.”

You blink. “What kind of sad midnight crisis is this?”

He smiles, but it’s soft. Real. “I just mean—life’s gone a bit mad. And somehow, we still find our way back to each other.”

You don’t answer right away. Because it’s true. Through the chaos and the cameras and the fake dating façade, there’s still this unshakeable thing between you. The kind of closeness that makes everything else seem quieter.

“I think we’d always find a way,” you say, honest.

Lando looks over at you, eyes a little too gentle. “You’re the only person who’s known me before all of this. Before the wins. The attention. The pressure.”

“You’re the only person who knew me before heels and hair extensions and Vogue calling.”

He smiles. “I still remember when you used to cut your own bangs with safety scissors.”

You groan. “Don’t bring that up.”

“I liked it. It was chaotic.”

“You like chaos.”

“I like you.”

You freeze for a second—but he doesn’t mean it like that. You know he doesn’t. It’s just Lando being Lando, casually affectionate like always.

Still, your chest does that stupid flutter.

You cover it with a smirk. “Even with my tragic fringe phase?”

“Especially then,” he says.

There’s a moment of silence, not uncomfortable. Just full.

“Thanks for sticking around,” you say, quietly. “Even when things got messy. Even now.”

He bumps your knee with his. “Always.”

You nudge him back. “And thanks for fake dating me.”

“The pleasure is mine, darling,” he says, putting on a ridiculous accent.

You both laugh.

And just like that, the serious moment folds itself back into the warmth of your friendship. Safe. Steady. Real.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

so... chapter two! omg i feel like this is so confusing i swear i'm trying to make it better 😭😭 but anyway, here's some one sided crush for you (..or is it?)

see you next lap, -N 🏁

#lando norris x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando x reader #lando fanfic #f1 x reader #understeeringirl logs #f1 fanfic

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swizzlemynizzle · 3 months ago

Text

Underneath the Noise - George Clarke

—————————————————————————

Masterlist

Chapter 7: Too Loud

—————————————————————————

A week later, the video drops.

Chris titles it with his usual flair: “WE MADE A BINGO LIST AND IT GOT OUT OF HAND | ft. chaos, shots & George nearly drowning”

Within twenty minutes it’s trending. Comments flood in—some unhinged, some suspiciously poetic. Y/N watches from her sofa, half-buried under a blanket, nursing a coffee and trying not to spiral.

The edit is kind, actually. A little crazy, yes. Unflattering in places—also yes. But somehow, Chris has made her seem funny. Game. Brave, even, as she climbs into that godforsaken fountain. Her anxiety sits like a weight in her stomach, but the group chat is already lighting up.

CHAOS GOBLINS Chris: it’s out. i regret nothing.

Bach: someone’s already made a gif of you doing tambourine karaoke with Weed Steve

ArthurTV: Y/N’s going viral for “iconic shoe swap” energy

George: ngl you were the MVP

Arthur Hill: the ferret’s got its own fan account. i’m not even mad.

Y/N: glad to know Pickle’s the breakout star here

Chris: you’re all stars. but Pickle is in talks for a Netflix docuseries

The messages keep coming, a steady stream of dumb jokes and unhinged reactions. It makes something loosen in her chest. She’s still nervous—of course she is—but it’s easier to laugh this time.

Later that week, they all pile into Chris’s for a group filming session.

She shows up with snacks and a confused look as she’s instructed to sit beside Arthur. “Okay, which one, there’s too many Arthur’s in here.”

“That’s it,” ArthurTV groans. “I’m changing my name.”

“You could give him a nickname,” George points out.

Y/N snaps her fingers. “Got it! ATV. Like a small, chaotic vehicle.”

ATV gives her a wounded look. “Is that not just you in human form?” she smiles.

“And you,” she turns to Arthur Hill, “can be Hilly. Because otherwise my brain explodes.”

Hilly shrugs. “I’ll take it. Makes me sound like a tragic romcom side character.”

“Perfect,” she grins. “Very on brand for this group.”

Chris is already setting up the cameras. “Alright, we’re filming a Cringe Compilation Reacts, but everyone’s taking a shot every time someone says the word ‘vibe.’”

Bach eyes the bottle. “I’d like to survive the evening, thanks.”

“Too late,” ATV says, handing out shot glasses.

They film for hours. It’s easy—banter flying, laughter echoing, George nearly choking on a gummy worm mid-reaction. Hilly keeps making offhand self-deprecating jokes that leave everyone wheezing. ATV zones out at one point, staring at a coaster like it holds the secrets of the universe.

Afterwards, they crash at the boy’s flat in that post-filming slump—half of them on bean bags, half on the floor. Pizza boxes litter the coffee table. Someone’s playing music softly from a phone.

Y/N’s head rests on the back of the sofa, her cheek warm from laughing too hard.

Bach nudges her foot. “You good?” She nods. “Just… this is nice.” “Group chaos goblins. You’re one of us now.” ATV chimes in, still staring at the ceiling. “That sounds like a cult.” George, from across the room: “To be fair, you do have the stare of a man possessed.” ATV flips him off without moving.

Hilly groans, “remind me to write a ballad about this moment. It’ll be titled ‘Ode to Soggy Trainers and the Girl Who Mocked Me On Sight.’” “You mocked yourself first,” Y/N points out. “Exactly,” Hilly grins. “I’m just building the lore.”

The next few days blur in a good way.

They meet at George’s to stream a chaotic game of Gartic Phone that derails almost immediately.

They film a football challenge in the park, where ATV takes a ball to the face and Hilly somehow ends up barefoot.

Chris ropes her into a video titled “Who Knows Me Best,” which devolves into Bach and George arguing over what year Chris supposedly got his nose pierced (infected, didn’t last long).

Y/N’s camera roll is now full of blurry selfies, a questionable amount of ferret memes, and one photo of George mid-sneeze that she’s saving for blackmail.

Her anxiety hasn’t disappeared. But it’s dulled, made manageable by this messy, wonderful group of goblins who’ve somehow adopted her as one of their own.

Still, there’s a shift she can’t quite ignore.

It creeps in late at night, in the quiet moments between content and chaos—when she’s editing a stream highlight and catches herself smiling a little too long at a clip of George laughing.

Or when she’s walking home from Chris’s and replays something dumb George said—some dry one-liner, some passing look—and feels it echo sharper than it should.

Or when her phone buzzes at 1:23AM with a new message from him:

 georgeclarkey: you on? i need someone to mock my aim in cod or i won’t improve as a person

She tells herself it’s nothing. That he’s like this with everyone.

 That she’s imagining it.

 That she’s just tired. Or bored. Or projecting.

But the truth is, there’s a version of her—somewhere just beneath the surface—that lights up when it’s him.

And that version is getting harder to ignore.

——-

The hate started slow. Almost imperceptible beneath the flood of chaotic memes and inside jokes after Chris’s video dropped.

At first, it was just a few offhand comments in the replies—tiny stings buried in otherwise harmless noise.

“Who invited the try-hard?”

“Another girl tagging along for clout, yawn.”

“George looked annoyed with her the whole time lol.”

She tried not to care. Really, she did. Everyone got some heat on the internet. Especially women. Especially women who dared to exist in male-dominated spaces.

But over the days that followed, the anxiety sat with her like a bruise just beneath the skin—tender, persistent, waiting for the next hit.

And tonight, it landed.

The stream had started light. George had invited her to join a game of Call of Duty, and she’d said yes instinctively.

It had felt good at first. Familiar.

But fifteen minutes in, the chat shifted.

@ogclarkeyfan: was she even invited or did she just show up again?

@whyisthisgirlhere: she made that video so cringe. literally ruined the fountain bit.

@fancam4rory: can’t believe george is wasting content with her

@clarkeybabey: she’s not even funny?? why is she always trying so hard

Each line landed harder than the last. Even as her fingers moved on autopilot, her brain fuzzed with static. Her throat tightened.

She tried to focus on the game, on George’s voice in her ears—teasing, grounded—but it didn’t cut through the rising spiral.

Then someone posted a clip.

A screen recording of her slipping in the fountain, zoomed in and slowed down, captioned: “when you force yourself into the group and still flop.”

It had over 3,000 likes already.

Y/N's stomach flipped.

“Y/N?” George’s voice cracked through the headset. “You good?”

She didn’t respond.

Her screen blurred. Her chest pulled tight, breathing shallow. Her cursor jerked as she missed a shot. Then another.

“Y/N?” George again. Softer now. Concerned.

She mumbled something, barely audible. Her mic was already muted. She didn’t remember doing that.

With shaking fingers, she ended the stream. Closed the tabs. Ripped her headset off. The silence was deafening.

She curled into the chair, fists clenched, eyes burning. It wasn’t just the trolls. It was the weight of everything. The effort of trying so hard to fit in, to keep up, to belong—to not be the weak link in a group of people who already seemed to love each other in this seamless, shorthand way.

She’d thought she was getting there.

Now it felt like maybe she was the punchline.

Ten minutes later, a knock on the door.

She wasn’t expecting anyone.

She moved on instinct, flinging it open—and George was there. Hoodie on, hair slightly flattened from a beanie he must’ve discarded en route, phone still clutched in one hand.

His brows pinched the second he saw her face.

“Hey,” he said. “Saw your stream cut. Tried calling. Just… came to check.”

Her eyes brimmed before she could stop them.

“I’m fine,” she lied, voice cracking on the second word.

“Sure you are,” he murmured, stepping in. “Totally fine people usually answer calls while hyperventilating.”

She let out a broken laugh and wiped her cheek with the back of her sleeve. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.”

She hesitated. “I just—” The words caught. “It got in my head. The trolls. The video. The comments. I know they’re just idiots but it felt—like they were all thinking what I’m scared everyone secretly thinks.”

George didn’t say anything at first.

He just stepped forward and wrapped his arms around her.

No theatrics. No platitudes. Just warmth. Steady and grounding.

Her face pressed into his hoodie. His arms held firm, not too tight. She could smell his deodorant and the faint trace of rain on his sleeves. She didn’t realise how fast she was breathing until it started to slow.

“They’re wrong,” he said quietly. “They don’t know you.”

She didn’t answer. Just listened to his voice. The same one that had made her laugh on stream, the one that had made her feel safe that night in the pub.

“They’re loud,” he went on, “but they don’t matter. You do. You’re not just ‘someone we stream with’ or a side character. You’re one of us.”

Her chest ached, but in a different way now.

She tilted her head back slightly. “Even if I call you a hobbit again?”

George huffed a laugh, resting his chin lightly against her hair. “Especially then.”

She closed her eyes.

And maybe, just maybe, she let herself believe him.

————-

@madforgeorge

@wherethezoes-at

@sundarksposts

@clarkey4life

—————-

This was a long one!! But we’re getting somewhere 🤭

#arthur hill #chrismd #george clarkey #italian bach #george clarke fics #w2s #italianbach #ukyt #arthur tv

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amyzworldds · 3 months ago

Note

honestly the jeonghan losing 14th member fic you just posted got me thinking

like imagine if this time it was cheol that lost her 💀

Title: Night Market Chaos

Masterlist | Part 2

Seungcheol takes Y/N to his hometown on Seventeen’s day off, where her chaos—overpacking, pampering his dog Kkuma, and stickering his car—spirals from a midnight ice cream run to a night market. Pairing: Seventeen (tired leadernim Scoups) x 14th member Genre: Fluff, Humor

Months had zipped by since Y/N’s Tokyo cat-and-dog fiasco, and today was a rare day off for Seventeen. Most members had scattered to their family homes—Jeonghan lounging at his parents’, Hoshi probably terrorizing his siblings with tiger impressions, and Woozi hoarding Coke Zero in peace. Y/N, though, was stuck at the dorm, her globe-trotting parents off on some romantic world tour, leaving her under Seungcheol’s watchful eye. He’d decided to drag her to his hometown rather than risk her torching the dorm solo. “Leave her alone?” he’d muttered to himself earlier. “She’d burn it to ashes—or adopt a zoo!”

Inside her room, Y/N was packing like she was moving to Antarctica for a year, not just crashing at Seungcheol’s parents’ place for three days. Two bulging suitcases sat open—one stuffed with clothes, the other a chaotic explosion of chips, candies, trinkets, and—inexplicably—dog toys and a bag of premium kibble. She hummed happily, tossing in a pack of gummy worms, oblivious to the storm about to hit.

Seungcheol poked his head in, expecting a sensible duffel bag, and froze. “What in the—Y/N, what are you doing?!” he barked, startling her so badly she dropped a bag of sour candies, which burst open and scattered across the floor like colorful shrapnel.

“Coups oppa!” she yelped, clutching her chest. “Don’t sneak up like that—I almost died!” She grinned, recovering fast, and hoisted a suitcase. “Look, I’m ready! This one’s full of chips and candies—your parents are gonna love me! I’m their snack angel!”

Seungcheol’s eyes widened as he peeked inside—Doritos, Skittles, gummy bears, a rogue chocolate bar melting into a sock. “My parents don’t need a sugar coma!” he said, snatching the bag and dumping it on her bed. “What’s all this other junk?!”

Y/N beamed, undeterred, and yanked out a handful of dog toys—squeaky bones, a rubber ball, even a tiny tiara. “These are for Kkuma! Your dog’s gonna adore me more than you! Check this out—premium kibble, cute dresses, and hair clips! She’ll be the fanciest pup in town!”

Seungcheol stared, jaw slack. “Kkuma doesn’t need a wardrobe! She’s a dog, not a Barbie! And why do you have enough food to feed a pack for a month?!”

“Because I’m winning her over!” Y/N declared, holding up a frilly pink dress. “She’ll love me best—sorry, Coups oppa, I’m the new favorite! Plus, I’m prepared for anything!”

He rolled his eyes so hard they nearly fell out. “Prepared for what? We’re staying three days, not three years!” He rifled through her other suitcase—jeans, hoodies, a sparkly skirt, five pairs of sneakers. “Why do you have half your closet in here?!”

Y/N laughed, twirling a trinket-laden keychain. “What if your mom and dad love me so much they beg me to stay forever? ‘Oh, Y/N, you’re our daughter now—don’t leave!’ I gotta be ready! Plus, Eomma and Appa adore me—you know it!”

Seungcheol groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. She wasn’t wrong—his parents did adore her. As the youngest with only a older brother, Seungcheol’s family had no daughters, so they’d latched onto Y/N like she was their long-lost princess. She called them “Eomma” and “Appa,” was in their family group chat (where she sent daily memes), and got spoiled rotten—homemade meals, extra blankets, even a stash of her favorite snacks at their house. Last time they’d called, his mom had asked, “Where’s Y/N-ie? Tell her to visit soon!” while his dad chimed in, “She’s more fun than you, Cheol-ah!”

“Yeah, yeah, they love you,” he grumbled, tossing a candy bag back at her. “But you’re not moving in! Three days—no trinket invasion, no dog fashion shows. Are you ready or what? I need to load the car—I’m driving, not hauling a candy store!”

“Ready!” she chirped, zipping her bags with a flourish. “But I’m keeping the dog stuff—Kkuma’s my VIP! And if Eomma and Appa adopt me, you’re stuck with me forever!”

“They won’t,” he shot back, grabbing a suitcase. “And if they try, I’m disowning you all!”

“They’d pick me over you!” she teased, lugging the other bag. “I’m cuter—and I come with snacks!”

--------------------------------------------------------------

The car ride was a comedy of errors. Y/N insisted on shotgun, her trinkets jangling as she fiddled with the radio, blasting Seventeen songs and singing off-key. “Coups oppa, sing with me! ‘Hot, hot, hot!’”

“No!” he barked, swatting her hand from the volume. “I’m driving, not auditioning!”

“Boo, you’re no fun!” she pouted, then gasped, digging into her bag. “Oh, I forgot—I got Kkuma a bow tie! She’s gonna slay!”

“She’s a dog, not a runway model!” Seungcheol groaned, but a smirk tugged at his lips. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously lovable!” she corrected, dangling the bow tie in his face. “Admit it—Eomma and Appa will crown me their princess by day two!”

“Day two, I’m locking you in the garage,” he muttered, swerving to avoid her flailing trinket hands.

--------------------------------------------------------------

The car hummed along the highway, Seungcheol gripping the wheel with the focus of a man determined not to let Y/N turn his hometown trip into a disaster movie. She’d already commandeered the radio, belting “HOT, HOT, HOT!” off-key until he’d threatened to duct-tape her mouth shut. Now, she sat in the passenger seat, suspiciously quiet, rummaging in her small backpack with a smirk that screamed trouble.

Last week, Y/N had stumbled across a TikTok trend—girls plastering their dads’ or boyfriends’ car dashboards with glittery, girly stickers: hearts, stars, unicorns, the works. She’d cackled at the screen, plotting her own twist. With no boyfriend and her parents off gallivanting, she’d turned her sights on her ultimate victim: Seungcheol. She’d gone full chaotic gremlin, ordering a stash of stickers online—sparkly nonsense, plus custom ones with her face and “Y/N THE QUEEN” in bold pink letters. They’d arrived just in time, hidden in her bag like a glitter bomb waiting to detonate.

They hit a drive-thru—Y/N had whined nonstop about her burger cravings, “Coups oppa, I’m starving! My stomach’s eating itself—get me a burger or I’ll haunt you!” Seungcheol, desperate for peace, pulled up to the window, rattling off their order: “Two burgers, fries, a Coke—make it quick, she’s driving me nuts!”

That’s when Y/N struck. With Seungcheol distracted, she whipped out her sticker sheets, grinning like a supervillain. “Time for art!” she whispered, peeling off a glittery heart and slapping it onto the dashboard with a satisfying thwack. Then a star. Then a custom “Y/N THE QUEEN” sticker—her tiny face winking up from the console. She giggled maniacally, sticking faster, a sparkly invasion spreading across the pristine black interior.

Seungcheol finished ordering—“No pickles on hers, she’ll riot!”—and glanced over, expecting Y/N to be scrolling her phone. Instead, his eyes nearly popped out of his skull. The dashboard was a glittery warzone—hearts, stars, and her smug little face staring back at him in triplicate. “Y/N, WHAT THE HELL?!” he bellowed, pinching his nose so hard he looked like he might implode.

She froze, mid-stick, a unicorn dangling from her fingers, and flashed a proud grin. “Look, Coups oppa! It’s my masterpiece! Your car’s a Y/N shrine now—cute, right?”

“Cute?!” he wheezed, voice hitting a pitch only dogs could hear. “You turned my car into a Barbie dreamhouse! Get those off—NOW!”

“Nope!” she chirped, dodging his swat and slapping a sticker on his cheek—a glittery “Y/N” sparkling under his eye. “You’re part of the art too! Smile, oppa—it’s trending!”

Seungcheol’s glare could’ve melted steel, but Y/N was unstoppable. She plastered stickers like a madwoman—dashboard, steering wheel, even the gearshift sprouted a winking Y/N face. He shook his head, muttering, “I can’t stop her. She’s a sticker demon. Why me?!”

The drive-thru worker handed over the food, peering in with a smirk. “Nice decor, man,” he said, eyeing the glitter explosion. Seungcheol snatched the bags, growling, “Don’t encourage her!”

Y/N paused only to grab her burger, munching happily as she stuck a rainbow on the passenger door. “Mmm, burger’s good—stickers are better!” she mumbled, slapping a “QUEEN Y/N” onto the window with a ketchup-smeared finger.

“You’re insane!” Seungcheol roared, peeling the sticker off his cheek—only for her to replace it with a sparkly cat. “Stop it! This is my car, not your scrapbook!”

“Too late!” she cackled, burger in one hand, sticker in the other. “It’s a Y/N-mobile now! Eomma and Appa will love it—Kkuma too!”

The dashboard was a lost cause—every inch glittered with hearts, stars, and her face, the passenger door now a mosaic of unicorns and “Y/N THE QUEEN.” Seungcheol’s hands twitched on the wheel, visions of peeling it all off dancing in his head, but Y/N’s glee was contagious—and infuriating. “You’re cleaning this up when we get back!” he snapped, burger untouched as he mourned his dignity.

“Nah, it’s permanent!” she teased, sticking a final “Y/N” on his forehead mid-bite. “You’re my canvas, oppa—deal with it!”

He swerved, nearly spilling fries, and yanked the sticker off, tossing it out the window. “That’s it—I’m locking you in the trunk with your dog toys!”

“Try it!” she laughed, smearing ketchup on a heart sticker and planting it on his arm. “You love me too much!”

“Love’s a strong word right now!” he bellowed, but a snort escaped—her chaos was absurdly endearing, even as his car screamed “Y/N” from every angle.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Seungcheol’s parents’ house, once a peaceful haven of quiet dinners and sensible decor, had morphed into a full-blown Y/N shrine within hours of their arrival. The living room? Trinket central—her glittery charms dangled from lamps, her bunny plushie perched on the couch like a throne. The kitchen? A Y/N feast zone, where his mom bustled around, cooking up a storm of her favorites—spicy tteokbokki, kimbap, and a towering stack of japchae. Not a single dish was Seungcheol’s beloved galbi or kimchi jjigae. He slumped in his room, joystick in hand, muttering, “At least I can game in peace while they worship her.”

Downstairs, chaos reigned. Y/N had Kkuma in her clutches, the little dog decked out like a pageant queen—pink frilly dress, sparkly hair clips, even a tiny tiara teetering on her fluffy head. “Kkuma, my princess!” Y/N squealed, smushing the pup’s face with kisses so aggressive Seungcheol’s dad had to duck flying drool. “You’re my VIP now—sorry, Coups oppa, she’s mine!”

Kkuma yipped, tail wagging like a metronome on overdrive, and didn’t even glance at Seungcheol when they’d walked in. Normally, she’d barrel into his legs, but this time? Straight to Y/N, who scooped her up like a long-lost soulmate, cooing, “Mama’s here, baby! Did you miss me?!” Seungcheol had stood there, arms crossed, muttering, “Traitor dog—I raised you!”

Now, at the dinner table, the real comedy unfolded. His mom piled Y/N’s plate high—tteokbokki spilling over the edges, japchae forming a noodle mountain, kimbap stacked like a Jenga tower. “Eat up, Y/N-ie!” she beamed, spooning more onto the pile. “You need energy for all your fun!”

His dad joined in, plopping a fish cake onto the heap. “Our girl’s gotta stay strong—look how cute she is, Cheol-ah!”

Seungcheol stared at his own plate—two measly kimbap rolls and a sad spoonful of soup—and whined, “Hey, I’m the real son here! Where’s my food?! You’re burying her in japchae while I’m starving!”

Y/N grinned, mouth full of tteokbokki, sauce smeared on her chin. “Eomma and Appa love me more, oppa! Accept it—I’m the golden child now!”

“Golden child?!” Seungcheol sputtered, nearly choking on his soup. “You’re a gremlin they adopted five minutes ago! Mom, Dad, I’m your actual kid—feed me!”

His mom laughed, patting Y/N’s head. “Oh, Cheol-ah, don’t be jealous! Y/N-ie’s our little princess—she needs pampering!”

“Pampering?!” he yelped, pointing at her plate. “That’s a food avalanche! She’ll explode, and I’ll get, what, crumbs?!”

His dad chuckled, tossing Y/N another fish cake. “She’s more fun than you, son—look at her with Kkuma! You just sit there brooding!”

“Brooding?!” Seungcheol wailed, flailing his chopsticks. “I’m resting! I dragged her here to save the dorm from burning down, and now I’m the bad guy?!”

Y/N swallowed a kimbap roll whole, grinning like a Cheshire cat. “Face it, Coups oppa—Eomma, Appa, and Kkuma picked me! I’m the MVP!” She leaned down, smooching Kkuma—who’d parked herself at Y/N’s feet, tiara askew—right on the snout. “Right, my queen? You love me best!”

Kkuma barked, licking Y/N’s face, and Seungcheol threw his hands up. “Unbelievable! My own dog’s defected! I’m calling animal control—she’s brainwashed you, Kkuma!”

His mom swatted him with a spatula, laughing. “Stop it, Cheol-ah—she’s adorable! Look at that dress—she’s never been this fancy!”

“Fancy?!” Seungcheol howled, eyeing Kkuma’s pink monstrosity. “She looks like a rejected idol costume! Y/N, take that off her—she’s embarrassed!”

“She loves it!” Y/N shot back, clipping a glittery bow onto Kkuma’s tail. “She’s slaying—way better than you in that boring hoodie!”

His dad snorted, nearly dropping his chopsticks. “She’s got you there, son—Kkuma’s got more style now!”

Seungcheol groaned, sinking into his chair. “I’m living in a nightmare. My parents, my dog—everyone’s Team Y/N!”

--------------------------------------------------------------

Upstairs, he’d retreated to his room, the sounds of Y/N’s laughter and Kkuma’s yips echoing through the house. He fired up his video game, muttering, “Finally, some peace—let them spoil her ‘til she bursts.” Deep down, though? He couldn’t stay mad. Y/N’s chaos lit up the place—his parents’ faces glowed with joy, and even Kkuma’s over-the-top outfits were kinda hilarious. She was his little sister, stickers and all, and her antics—however maddening—made every room a circus he secretly loved.

Downstairs, Y/N staged a “fashion show,” parading Kkuma around the living room, his mom clapping like a proud stage mom. “Next look—Kkuma in sparkly clips!” Y/N announced, pinning a rhinestone barrette to the dog’s ear.

“She’s a superstar!” his dad cheered, snapping pics. “Cheol-ah, come see this!”

“I’m good!” Seungcheol yelled back, but peeked out his door, snorting at the sight—Kkuma strutting like she’d auditioned for Seventeen. “Ridiculous,” he muttered, but a grin crept up. “She’s gonna demand a solo next.”

Dinner ended with Y/N sprawled on the couch, Kkuma on her lap, his parents fussing over her like she’d hung the moon. Seungcheol shuffled down, plopping beside her with a fake scowl. “You’re a menace—you stole my family!”

“And your dog!” she teased, booping Kkuma’s nose. “Admit it, oppa—you’re obsessed with me!”

“Obsessed with locking you in a closet!” he shot back, but ruffled her hair, laughing. “Fine, you win—just don’t sticker the house next!”

“No promises!” she sang, pulling a glittery “Y/N” sticker from her pocket and slapping it on his forehead.

His parents howled with laughter as Seungcheol flailed, “Get it off! I’m not your canvas!”—but it was too late. The Y/N takeover was complete, and his once-quiet house was a riot of love, chaos, and one very fabulous dog.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Midnight draped Seungcheol’s parents’ house in a rare hush—well, almost. The guest room, now Y/N’s chaotic domain, glowed faintly with the light of Seungcheol’s laptop, which she’d “borrowed” earlier with a “Pretty please, oppa? I forgot mine!” His parents had already turned the room into her personal palace—new fluffy blankets, a bunny-shaped pillow, even a plush bunny sleeper they’d bought “just for their Y/N-ie.” Her clothes spilled out of suitcases, trinkets jangled from the bedframe, and Seungcheol had surrendered, muttering, “As long as she leaves me alone to game, she can sticker the whole room for all I care.” Spoiler: she’d already slapped a glittery “Y/N” on his laptop lid.

Y/N, wide awake in her bunny sleeper—ears flopping over her face—was sprawled on the bed, binge-watching some drama on the laptop, cackling at the screen. “This guy’s dumber than Hoshi trying to cook!” she snorted, but her stomach growled, cutting through her giggles. She paused the show, peering around the too-quiet house. The living room lights were off, the silence eerie—no Kkuma yips, no parental chatter. She shuffled to the big window, pressing her nose to the glass. The moon hung huge and glowing, practically begging her to step outside.

“Oh, it’s perfect,” she whispered, eyes sparkling. “No people, big moon—prime midnight vibes! I need ice cream—now!” Her mind raced—night walks were her thing, a secret joy where the world felt hers alone, and food tasted like freedom. She glanced toward Seungcheol’s room, then back at the moon, gears turning. “He’s always grounding me for sneaking out with the others—Dino, Hoshi, Jeonghan—but I’ve never dragged him out! He doesn’t get why it’s so fun!”

A devilish grin spread across her face. “Time to enlighten Appa Coups—by force!” She tiptoed to his door, her bunny slippers squeaking faintly, and peeked in. There he was, hunched over his gaming setup, headset on, muttering at the screen—“Die, you pixel jerk!”—oblivious to her plotting. She plopped onto his bed with a dramatic bounce, making him jump.

“What now?!” he snapped, pausing his game and spinning around, eyes narrowing at her bunny-eared silhouette. “It’s midnight—go sleep, gremlin!”

Y/N grinned, unfazed, and leaned in with her best puppy eyes—big, watery, weaponized cuteness. “Coups oppaaaa, let’s go outside! The moon’s huge, the air’s crisp, and I’m starving for ice cream! You’ve never come with me at night—you don’t get why I love it! Come on, just once!”

“No way!” he barked, turning back to his screen. “I’m not sneaking out like some delinquent—you’re grounded from that life, remember? Swing incident? Tokyo cats? I’m not risking it!”

“But that’s the point!” she whined, flopping onto his pillow like a dying fish. “You’ve never seen why I do it! The world’s different at night—no fans, no chaos, just us and the vibes! Ice cream tastes better at midnight—I swear it’s science! You’ll love it!”

“Love it?!” he snorted, mashing buttons. “I love sleep—and not chasing you through the streets! Go eat leftovers or something!”

She sat up, dialing up the drama, clutching her bunny ears like a tragic heroine. “Leftovers?! Oppa, you’d let your poor little sister starve? I’m wasting away—look at me, skin and bones!” She pinched her perfectly healthy cheek, pouting harder. “You don’t understand ‘cause you’ve never tried it! One walk, one ice cream, and you’ll see—please, please, pleeeease?”

Seungcheol groaned, headset slipping. “You’re not starving—you ate half the kitchen at dinner! And stop with the eyes—I’m immune!”

“Immune?!” she gasped, scooting closer, eyes now glistening like she’d rehearsed this in a mirror. “You’re breaking my heart, oppa! I’m your baby sister, your pride and joy—don’t you wanna bond with me? What if I trip outside alone and die ‘cause you said no? You’ll cry at my funeral—‘Oh, if only I’d gone for ice cream!’”

“Die?!” he sputtered, spinning to face her fully. “You’re not dying—you’re a cockroach, you’d survive a nuclear blast! And we’re not bonding over a midnight sugar run!”

She smirked, sensing his defenses cracking, and unleashed her secret weapon—gaslighting. “Oh, I get it—you’re scared! Big tough Coups oppa’s afraid of the dark! What if a stray cat jumps you? Or a moth? You’d scream like a baby!”

“Scared?!” he roared, nearly toppling his chair. “I’m not scared—I’m sane! You’re the one who’d adopt the cat and sticker it to death!”

“Prove it then!” she challenged, hopping up and tugging his arm. “Come with me—just ten minutes! Ice cream, moon vibes, and I’ll shut up all night! You’ll thank me when you taste how magical it is!”

He shook his head, muttering, “She’s insane—certifiable,” but her puppy eyes drilled into his soul, and her logic—twisted as it was—wormed in. “Fine!” he barked, yanking off his headset. “Ten minutes, one ice cream, and you’re done—no whining after!”

“YES!” she squealed, fist-pumping so hard her bunny ears flopped. “You won’t regret it, oppa—I’m your midnight guru now!”

“I already regret it,” he grumbled, grabbing a hoodie as she bounced to the door. “If Mom and Dad wake up, you’re explaining this!”

“Deal!” she sang, already plotting. “Wait ‘til you see the moon—it’s basically my spotlight!”

They snuck downstairs, Y/N’s slippers squeaking like a broken toy, Seungcheol hissing, “Quiet, you loud disaster!” She just grinned, tugging him outside into the crisp night air. The moon loomed huge, bathing the empty streets in silver, and Y/N twirled, arms wide. “See? Isn’t it epic? Now—ice cream hunt!”

He trudged after her, muttering, “Ten minutes, then I’m dragging you back by your bunny ears!”—but a tiny smirk betrayed him. Her chaos was infectious, and deep down, he was curious if midnight ice cream really did taste better. Another hilarious misadventure was underway!

304 notes · View notes

cressidagrey · 8 days ago

Text

This is me trying

Summary: The aftermath of Brazil 2024: Lando's Version

Warnings and Notes:

I promised and here it is. Third Spin off featuring Emilie and Lando.

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble. And who also was the incredible artist behind Bin Cat Lando.

It was hot. Humid in that thick, cloying way that clung to your skin and made everything feel just a little heavier. Emilie had already tied her hair up twice—once in a ponytail, once in a claw clip—and was now seriously contemplating a third attempt that involved a McLaren cooling towel and prayer.

But the race was starting. And Emilie, for all her complaints about the weather and the chaos and the frankly criminal lack of decent iced coffee in hospitality, was glued to the screens like her life depended on it.

Because Lando was on the front row.

And Max—well, Max was further back. Furious, determined, terrifying when he had something to prove.

When the lights went out, her breath caught. She didn't exhale until Lando was safely through the first few corners, elbows sharp and instincts sharper.

He lost position to George Russell.

And Max—Max, meanwhile, was doing Max things. Carving through the field like he was born in it. Controlled chaos. She could almost see the sparks in his wake. She muttered a low “Christ, Verstappen,” as he muscled his way into the top ten with the subtlety of a wrecking ball dressed in Red Bull overalls.

By lap 10, Emilie had bitten off half a nail and was seriously considering chewing on her credential lanyard. The tension was everywhere. Ferrari was flying. Oscar was holding his own. But Lando—

Lando was so close.

She knew the strategy wasn’t perfect. Knew the pit stop had cost him precious seconds. Knew the VSC timing was just short of criminal.

But he kept pushing.

When Max took the lead, she heard someone cheer behind her. She didn’t turn.

Because Lando was still in it.

By lap 42, she knew the podium was gone. Not because Lando drove badly—but because everything around him folded like a poorly built card tower.

She didn’t cry. But her stomach twisted in sympathy when he crossed the line in fifth, radio silent for longer than usual.

Max had driven a masterpiece. It would’ve been stupid to pretend otherwise.

She caught sight of Max on one of the screens in the corridor—beaming, soaking in champagne, kissing Belle like he hadn’t just been crucified by media for the past two months. Emilie smiled despite herself. Belle looked like the softest version of triumph, hand on her belly, eyes full of fire.

Still, Emilie’s heart was with the boy who looked like he hadn’t slept properly in three days. The one who smiled too brightly when he was spiraling. The one who still answered her memes at 2 a.m.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Belle Verstappen

Belle: Just checking in on you. I know this one’s a gut punch.

Emilie: … You mean the moment Lando’s championship hopes fell off a cliff and spontaneously combusted in sector two?

Belle: I was trying to be gentle 😬

Emilie: I love your husband. I do. But right now I would very much like him to stub his toe on a trophy.

Belle: He’d still win the race on one foot, Emilie.

Emilie: Ugh. I know. God, I know. Lando’s pretending to be fine but he’s barely touched his post-race pizza. That’s how I know.

Belle: Okay but… that is cause for concern.

Emilie: Exactly. Also, what the hell was that last stint from Max?? Did he just decide physics wasn’t real?

Belle: He was very calm after. Said, “car felt good.” Like he didn’t just drive like Poseidon was co-piloting.

Emilie: I hate him. (I don’t.) (I love you both.) (But still. Let me sulk.)

Belle: Permission granted.

***

Lando wasn’t crying. Not really.

He was just staring at the wall of his hotel room with the kind of numb, hollow expression that looked suspiciously like a man trying not to feel anything too deeply. His fireproofs were peeled down to his waist, his curls damp with sweat, and he was chewing on the inside of his cheek like it might stop the whole damn world from tilting.

P6.

Max won. Again.

And Lando… Lando was just tired.

There was a soft knock, and before he could say anything, Emilie slipped into the room.

She didn’t say anything. Just crossed the space like she had every right to be there, like she had read the silence and decided it didn’t scare her. She held something in her hand.

A Kinder Egg.

Lando blinked at it.

“I come bearing emotional support chocolate,” she said, voice quiet but calm.

He blinked.

“You’re bribing me with chocolate?”

“I’m comforting you with chocolate,” she corrected, nudging it into his hand. “Also, it has a toy.”

“I’m not five.”

“You were acting like you were five when you ignored my texts for three hours.”

He cracked a smile at that, faint but real. “Didn’t want to sulk at you.”

“I’m very pro-sulk. Especially when it involves chocolate.”

He tore open the wrapper and stared at the little capsule. “If this is one of those puzzles that makes me feel stupid, I’m sending it to Oscar.”

“You say that like Oscar wouldn’t love it.”

“I know. That’s the problem.”

He took it with a grunt of thanks and peeled the foil slowly, letting the familiarity of it ground him. She sat beside him on the low couch, close but not touching. Not yet.

Lando finally cracked the capsule open and found some tiny plastic creature inside. A turtle? A mutant tortoise?

He held it up like it held the secrets of the universe.

“You’re right,” he muttered. “This is exactly the kind of emotional validation I needed.”

Emilie laughed softly, but her voice was gentle when she said, “You drove well, you know. It wasn’t your fault,” Emilie said. “Strategy was weird. Pit stop was weird. The VSC timing was shit.”

Lando nodded. “And Max was just… Max.”

She hummed. “He had a hell of a drive.”

“Yeah.”

He popped the chocolate into his mouth, chewing without much interest. “He deserved it.”

Silence. Then—

“You did too.”

That made his throat tighten. “Didn’t get it though, did I?”

“No,” she agreed. “But it doesn’t make you any less brilliant.”

He let the toy capsule roll between his palms. “I’m just tired of being almost.”

“You’re not almost. You’re Lando fucking Norris.”

He gave her a look, half a smirk, half disbelief. “You did not just say that.”

“I did. And I meant it.”

A beat.

Then he groaned and leaned his head back against the wall. “I really am just the bin cat, aren’t I?”

Emilie frowned. “What?”

He fished his phone from the side table, unlocked it, and pulled up the meme she had sent him weeks before—the one of the scruffy, grimy cat poking its head out of a bin, looking unhinged.

“I get it now. That’s me. That’s who I am. A cursed little gremlin lurking in the midfield, clinging to scraps and chaos.”

Emilie snorted. “You’re ridiculous. You’re not a bin cat.”

“I might be.”

“You’re not.”

“I’m scruffy. I spiral. I eat like shit when I’m upset. I crash at emotionally inconvenient times—”

“Lando.”

He turned to her then. She was close, and her face was serious now—warm and steady and utterly unimpressed with his self-deprecation.

“You’re not a bin cat. You’re ridiculous. I’ve always thought you were more of a golden retriever.”

He stared at her like she’d grown another head. “That’s the most boring type of dog.”

“It’s loyal and charming and sunshine in dog form,” she said, shrugging. “That sounds like you.”

“I was hoping for something more chaotic,” he muttered.

“You’re chaotic in a sunshine way,” she offered.

“Golden retriever energy,” he said, pretending to gag.

“I always wanted one, actually.”

He looked at her properly for the first time all day, something soft easing into the space behind his ribs. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “When I was a kid. I begged for one. Never got it. One of those big, dopey ones who’d run into doors.”

Lando let that sit for a second.

Then, “I’d name a dog Charlie.”

Emilie looked over at him. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He smiled faintly, voice quieter. “Don’t know why. Just sounds like a nice dog.”

She nodded slowly. “Charlie. Loyal golden retriever. Bit dramatic. Always hungry.”

“Loves biscuits,” Lando added. “Terrified of vacuum cleaners.”

She nudged his knee with hers. “Always.”

And somehow—despite the rain, the disappointment, and the endless self-doubt—Lando felt just a little less like a bin cat.

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Belle Verstappen

Belle: Hey. I know you’re probably surrounded by people right now, but I just wanted to say—you were brilliant today.

Lando: Didn’t feel like it. Didn’t look like it either.

Belle: You kept it clean. You kept your head. In that weather. That’s more than most of the grid managed.

Lando: Max won by nineteen seconds.

Belle: You’re not Max. And Max isn’t you. You’re not in this sport to be a carbon copy. You’re in it because you’re Lando freaking Norris and you’ve earned every bit of your place here.

Lando: You sound like Emilie. (Which is mildly terrifying.)

Belle: She’s the smarter of us. Obviously. But also: you’re allowed to be disappointed. Just don’t let it eat you.

Lando: How do you not let it?

Belle: You let people hold it with you. And then you go again. (Also snacks help. I recommend whatever Emilie keeps hidden in her travel bag.)

Lando: …She has Kinder Eggs. She’s hoarding them like we’re in an apocalypse.

Belle: There you go. See? Everything’s survivable with the right sugar to sadness ratio.

Lando: Thanks, Belle. Really.

Belle: Always. You’ll get yours. I believe that down to my rib-bruised organs.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Max: Mate. You are *not* allowed to spiral.

Lando: I’m not spiraling. I’m reflecting.

Max: You sent me a photo of a bin cat with the caption “me.” That’s not reflecting. That’s ✨spiral-core✨.

Lando: It was funny. Also. Accurate.

Max: It’s not accurate. You’re not a raccoon in a Formula 1 car. You finished P6 in Brazil. That’s not bin behavior. That’s “I’m one chaotic strategy call away from a win” behavior.

Lando: You sound like a Pinterest board. “Believe in yourself 💖✨”

Max: I will personally come to Monaco and dropkick you the ocean. And you know I’ll do it.

Lando: Bold of you to assume I’m not already sitting in the ocean eating biscuits and sulking.

Max: Sulk all you want. But you are not allowed to forget that you’re brilliant. And that your time is coming.

Lando: Tell that to the points. And to Max Verstappen’s smug little face.

Max: You think Max is smug now? Just wait till he’s on no sleep changing diapers in January. You'll win a race while he's hallucinating from baby brain. … Also, if you keep calling yourself a bin cat, Emilie is going to fight you.

Lando: She already did. Gave me a Kinder Egg and told me I’m a golden retriever.

Max: … Okay but she’s so right. You ARE a golden retriever.

Lando: I hate all of you.

Max: Love you too, Charlie 🐾💛

Lando: Never speaking to any of you again.

Max: Sounds like something a golden retriever would say after being told he’s not allowed on the sofa.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: That was a rough one. You drove well.

Lando: Congrats on the win. Even though I wanted to launch a water bottle at your head at the chequered flag.

Max: That’s fair. I saw your face in parc fermé. You looked like you were about to fight God.

Lando: I was considering it. Then Emilie gave me chocolate and told me I’m a golden retriever.

Max: Honestly? That tracks. Very golden retriever vibes.

Lando:YOU’RE SUPPOSED TO DENY THAT.

Max: Why would I deny the truth? Loyal, fast, dramatic when wet. Tail-wagging energy.

Lando: I hate this friendship.

Max: No you don’t.

Lando: …congrats again. You drove the hell out of that race. Seriously. That was insane.

Max: Thanks. Still wouldn’t have minded a proper fight with you, though.

Lando: Yeah, well. Bit hard when your strategy looks like interpretive dance.

Max: 😂 I’ll give you that one. You had pace. The car just didn’t show up when it counted.

Lando: Story of the season, really. "So close, still not Max Verstappen."

Max: Stop that. You’re too good to be making memes out of your own career.

Lando: Someone’s got to. The fans are slacking.

Max: I mean it. You’re right there. One clean weekend and you’ll ruin all our Sundays.

Lando: That a threat or a compliment?

Max: Both. But mostly respect. You’re one of the few people I genuinely worry about on track.

Lando: Guess I’ll take that. Even if you’re married to my friend and I can’t tell if this is a pep talk or a Verstappen family threat.

Max: Can be both. 😌 But seriously—hold your head up. That race didn’t beat you. It just got away from you.

Lando: …Thanks.

And for what it’s worth, I’m happy you got that win. You needed it. Go hug your wife and your dad. You earned it.

Max: Already did. Belle cried. Jos looked like he might. Wild night.

Lando: Sounds like it. Tell Belle I’m only mad at you if you don’t name the baby after me.

Max: Absolutely not. But I’ll let you hold him if you stop sulking.

Lando: Deal. (Still not over it.)Max: You wouldn’t be Lando if you were.

***

Bonus:

Bin Cat Lando, courtesy of @llirawolf:

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thealchemistbae · 3 months ago

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If Your Moon Sign Had a Finsta: What It Would Say, Post, and Overshare 🤳

Disclaimer: This post is for entertainment purposes only.

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at [email protected] or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

Let's be real...if your Moon sign had a finsta, it would be unhinged, unfiltered, and probably shadow banned by now. The Moon rules your emotions, your moods, your 3AM thoughts...basically, the version of you your group chat kinda knows about but your situationship definitely doesn't. So let's dive into the tea, shall we?

🌕: Aries Moon -> Finsta Bio: "IDGAF but like....i lowkey do"

This moon sign posts gym thirst traps and unhinged rants about how they're "so over it" (they are not over it). Deletes posts just to repost them 3 hours later with a new caption. First to subtweet, last to apologize. Probably posts fight videos for fun.

🌕: Taurus Moon -> Finsta Bio: "Soft life only. I'm unavailable unless you're feeding me."

It's giving aesthetic dinner pics, sleepy selfies, and long captions about their skincare routine as a form of therapy. Might overshare once every retrograde then disappear for weeks. Their finsta feels like a velvet blanket and a warm croissant.

🌕: Gemini Moon -> Finsta Bio: "I change my mind. A lot."

They post memes, conspiracy theories, and flirty thirst traps all in one scroll. You never know what you're getting but it's always a show. Will overshare their drama then ghost mid-story. Loves posting screenshots with zero context like "and this is why I'm unwell."

🌕: Cancer Moon -> Finsta Bio: "I'm fine." (They are not fine.)

Their finsta is 60% crying selfies, 20% Lana Del Rey lyrics, and 20% blurry photos of the ocean. They post love letters to people who will never read them and get nostalgic over things that happened yesterday. You'll cry, they'll cry, it's a vibe.

🌕: Leo Moon -> Finsta Bio: "Main character energy even on my worst day."

Every post looks like it belongs on a moodboard. Their captions? Straight from a movie script. You think it's a thirst trap but really it's them processing childhood wounds through ring light therapy. They love attention but make it ✨emotional✨.

🌕: Virgo Moon -> Finsta Bio: "I have 47 drafts and zero chill."

They post pretty pictures with overly long captions that start like "not me being vulnerable..." and end in a thesis statement. Overshares via infographics. Will cry, journal, then edit a photo dump with healing playlist recs.

🌕: Libra Moon -> Finsta Bio: "Love me, but like, don't look directly at me."

Their finsta is a curated heartbreak museum. Aesthetic breakup posts. Mirror selfies mid-spiral. They're going through it, but make it cute. Passive-aggressive quotes and "I'm just reflecting" captions that are 100% about their ex.

🌕: Scorpio Moon -> Finsta Bio: "Trust issues & immaculate vibes."

They only post when something's really wrong or really hot. Their page is dark, sexy, poetic, and a little scary. Caption: "No one knows the real me." Comment: 56 people claiming they do know the real them. They're watching you watch them.

🌕: Sagittarius Moon -> Finsta Bio: "I said what I said and I'm probably gonna say it again."

They're either posting wild travel pics or rants about life's purpose after one edible. Overshares like it's a sport. Finsta feels like a TED talk with tequila. Unfiltered, chaotic, and accidentally inspiring.

🌕: Capricorn Moon -> Finsta Bio: "Feelings are expensive. Pay up."

Doesn't post often, but when they do, it's emotionally calculated. Soft spoken captions hiding deep rooted boss energy. Finsta looks minimal but holds MAJOR weight. Might drop a single selfie that screams "I'm thriving" but won't explain.

🌕: Aquarius Moon -> Finsta Bio: "Just here to observe the chaos (and stir it).

Posts memes that don't make sense and deep thoughts that slap. You're like "what does this mean?" but also "wait...that's me." Might go on a rant about society then post a pic of a frog in sunglasses. Their finsta is a social experiment.

🌕: Pisces Moon -> Finsta Bio: "Too emotional for this planet."

Their stories are just Spotify lyrics and angel numbers. Posts dreamy selfies with captions like "I dreamt we were together in another life..." and it's about someone they met once. Chaos, compassion, and soft girl spirals. A safe space for crying and creating.

If you enjoyed this post, you can leave me a tip via PayPal at [email protected] or via Venmo @goddessguapa. Thank you.

#astrology #astro observations #astro community #thealchemistbae #birth chart #horoscope #astrology for beginners #natal chart #astro notes

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ice-man-goes-bwoah · 1 month ago

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Oh my gosh, y’all… I have so much I want to say about hitting 1k (136 away) but honestly, I don’t even know how to fully express what I’m feeling right now. I’m overwhelmed in the best way possible.

Over the past 3 ½ years, this space has become so much more than just a place to post. It’s been a home, a comfort, and a constant ranting safe space. I’ve made friendships here that mean the world to me, and I’m so incredibly grateful for every single one of you who’s stuck around, supported me, laughed with me, and been part of this journey. Thank you to everyone who followed me to my new blog from my old one which I sadly had to delete because of hateful people.

To my OG followers we’ve been through so much together. You’ve seen me grow, change, and sometimes spiral (let’s be real), and yet you’re still here. That means more to me than I can put into words. Thank you for being my people.

And to my moots oh my gosh. I LOVE YOU. You’re the heart of this experience for me. Thank you for your kindness, your chaos, your memes, your late-night convos, and for putting up with my annoying ass for this long 😭 You’re all such beautiful souls, and I’m lucky to know you.

Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. Here’s to more chaos, love, and growth from here. 💖

Tagging— @andtheytoldustotellyouhello @afriques @amatswimming @ashy-kit @alex-wotton @a-casual-romantic @barnestatic @biancathecool @bakubabeyy @bblouifford @charlesgirl16 @clowngirlsstuff @a-casual-romantic @callsign-swan @charlesgirl16 @disneyprincemuke @dark-night-sky-99 @eugene-emt-roe @embrosegraves @fuckoffbard @forza-ferrari @flightmedictrace @formulakracing @foreveralbon @formula-411 @formulas-bitch @hulknussen @ironcowboycopnickel @isurvived3-11andimproud @ironmaiden1313 @isacksteban @ellearts @laura-naruto-fan1998 @laneyspaulding19 @lollypop90907 @leclerc-hs @kimisteddybear @kimiracing07 @jakecockley @mrsgeorgerussell63 @mrs-nesmith @moss-on-tmblr @norstappenvibes @norizznorris @natailiatulls07 @omgsuperstarg @oracleredbullbabe @olivyamarvelgirl @octavikravecell218 @otako5811

Part two in the comments!!!

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fameandfiction · 20 days ago

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IMAGINE PART I: “Tweeted From the Lap of the Woman I Fear” — Reneé Rapp x Reader

— Everyone Ships It Except Them (Allegedly).

You weren’t trying to start discourse.

You weren’t trying to come out.

You were literally just sitting in Reneé Rapp’s lap, trying to find the charger under the couch without dislocating a rib, when your thumb slipped, and you sent the tweet.

[@/you] PROTECT GAY MARRIAGE

No context. No thread. Just… vibes.

And it would’ve been fine.

A normal tweet. Maybe even brave. Maybe people would think you were finally stepping into your truth—after years of dodgeballing the question with ironic astrology memes and chaotic fanfiction—and they’d clap, send flags, drop the gay-flag-heart emojis like it was digital confetti.

Except.

You weren’t done.

You just typed too fast.

[@/you, reply] SORRY I TYPED TOO FAST I MEANT PROTECT ME FROM GAY MARRIAGE 🚫🏳️‍🌈

Silence.

Then: the internet explodes.

You don’t even notice the chaos at first because Reneé is literally under you, laughing so hard she chokes on the cinnamon popcorn she just tried to sneak from your bowl.

“There’s something so psychotic about tweeting that while sitting in my lap,” she wheezes.

“I was unwell,” you mutter, scrolling with your other hand. “And also, your thighs are not structurally made for tweeting.”

“Excuse me—”

“You jiggle. My accuracy was compromised.”

Reneé tries to toss a kernel at your head but misses and hits her own knee. You ignore her.

Instead, you glance at the tweet again and that’s when you see it.

Over 1,500 likes in under ten minutes. Quote tweets rolling in like a tide of unhinged sapphics and confused allies.

“The bisexual urge to fear both commitment and women.” “no bc what does she MEAN by this 😭” “why is she literally sitting in Reneé’s lap in the tagged pic while tweeting this 😭😭😭” “girl WHAT” “this is what compulsory heterosexuality looks like y’all” “someone check on Reneé.”

You lower the phone slowly.

“I fear I may have tweeted a little too strongly.”

Reneé snorts. “You sound like a southern grandmother.”

“I have scandalized the timeline. They think I’m either a raging internalized homophobe or someone who wants a gay wedding with you but not too soon.”

“They’re not wrong.”

You side-eye her. “Which part.”

She shrugs. Grins like a gremlin.

“The wedding. I’d let you fake-cancel on me three times before we get married in a lesbian Home Depot.”

“That is oddly specific.”

“I’ve thought about it.”

You blink. Her hand is still on your hip.

You shift slightly on her lap, definitely not because your heart did something stupid and fluttery. Definitely not.

“I’m not gay,” you say flatly.

“You’re literally wearing my shirt.”

“This is just laundry efficiency.”

“You’re straddling me.”

“Because the remote is right there and I didn’t feel like moving around you.”

“And you tweeted about gay marriage while seated on me like a throne.”

“…It’s called nuance, Rapp.”

Your phone dings again.

Another quote tweet.

“not her sitting in Reneé Rapp’s lap typing ‘protect me from gay marriage’ like she hasn’t already emotionally married that woman four times and divorced her six”

You show it to Reneé.

She howls.

“No because that’s SO true,” she gasps, tears in her eyes. “You literally filed emotional divorce papers after I didn’t watch your favorite movie on your birthday.”

“Because it was Jennifer’s Body and you aggressively said Megan Fox was mid—”

“I was trolling! I love hot women!”

“So love me properly, coward!”

You’re yelling now. Over popcorn. From her lap. Your legs are tangled with hers. Your phone’s somewhere in the cushions, buzzing like a broken bee.

The timeline is full-on spiral mode now.

People are making memes. Screenshots. Threads dissecting your dynamic like it's queer theory in real time.

One of them posts a screenshot of your tweet with the caption:

“can’t decide if she’s closeted or just mentally unwell in a gay little way”

And honestly?

You retweet it.

Because yes.

It’s not like you’ve ever said the words. Not to your family. Not to the public. Not even to Reneé. You just kind of... existed. Drifted into her life like a post-credit scene. Fell into routines, jokes, glances that lingered. You don’t know when she became a constant. You just know she is.

You don’t need to define it.

Not when you’re like this.

On her lap, in her hoodie, screaming at your own tweet while she wipes popcorn grease from your cheek.

She leans in eventually.

When you’ve both stopped laughing.

When the room has settled.

When the sun’s nearly gone and your phone’s face-down.

“You scared of gay marriage?” she asks softly.

You smirk. “Only if it’s not you.”

Her mouth twitches. “So you admit it?”

“I admit nothing.”

She nods. “Okay.”

Then:

“But you do realize that typing ‘protect me from gay marriage’ while my hands were literally on your waist is kind of the funniest way to not come out.”

“You say that like I’m hiding something.”

“I say that like I know something.”

You look down at her. She looks up at you.

She doesn’t kiss you.

But her hand does slide up your thigh, warm and steady.

And you don’t stop her.

#fanfic #fanfiction #imagine #imagines #x reader #Reneé Rapp #Renee Rapp #Reneé Rapp x reader #Renee Rapp x reader #RPF #Real People #Real Person Fiction #Real Person Fanfic

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clumsydolly · 5 days ago

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Hiiii!!!! I just read your obey me brother with a cater diamond like and I absolutely loooooved it!!!!

So I was thinking could you maybe do a pt. 3 with the middles? Like technically beel is older than belphie by a few minutes but still twins sooo... (You don't have to if you don't want to.) But anyways yeah! I hope the rest of your day is amazing

Obey me! brothers x Cater Diamond!Reader

4 younger brothers!

Warnings⚠️Vulgar language, violence, obnoxious internet terms!

Okay so um I actually had this already written but I forgot to post it lol I'm so sorry for my dumbness I thought I already posted it!!! 🌷

Satan

Satan had always thought he had an impressive mask. Controlled. Intelligent. Informed. Capable of keeping up appearances with aristocratic grace and a razor wit. That was, until Y/N burst onto the Devildom scene like a glitter bomb laced with chaos.

The first time they met, Satan was trying to enjoy his favorite spot in the library when Y/N waltzed in, holding their D.D.D. out at arm's length, taking a selfie with a dramatic filter while standing on one of the sacred ancient tomes.

"#GrimoireGlowUp!"

Satan nearly imploded.

"Are you… standing on a thousand-year-old codex?!"

Y/N blinked, glanced down, and stepped off it. "Oh, was that important? Whoopsies. But look at this angle! Cursed but cute, right?"

He didn't know if he wanted to strangle them or write a dissertation about the psychological enigma they clearly were. They were all glitter and slang and hashtags, constantly humming some trending song under their breath, dressed like they walked out of a Magicam influencer's fever dream, and yet, somehow, he couldn’t look away.

He kept expecting to find the cracks in their mask. The emptiness he often saw in people who put on airs or exaggerated quirks for attention. But Y/N wasn’t fake. Or rather, their fakeness was just another layer of truth. They were a paradox he couldn’t puzzle out, someone who could walk into a demon lord’s office wearing heart-shaped glasses and drop a barbed social read that would leave the nobility speechless.

And worse, they saw through him.

"You always pick your battles so carefully, Satan," Y/N had said once, sprawled across his bed like they owned it, spinning one of his bookmarks between their fingers. "All this wrath wrapped up in that academic bow. But I bet if someone really pissed you off, you'd burn the world with a smile."

He’d stiffened. No one ever called him out like that, not without flinching. But Y/N just grinned and winked like they hadn’t peeled open something dangerous and admired the shine inside.

They were maddening. Distracting. Infuriating.

They made him laugh.

And then they sent him into a full-blown existential spiral by casually quoting a poem he'd written in a cursed notebook that no one should have had access to.

"It's impressive," they'd said, twirling their D.D.D. as if they hadn't just torn open his entire soul. "The rhythm was off in stanza three, but I loved the way you described revenge as poetry. Kinda hot, not gonna lie."

He’d spent the next three hours alternating between screaming into a pillow and pacing.

Y/N was always moving, always looking for the next perfect picture or the best angle to show off their boots or their coffee or a particularly chaotic selfie with Mammon mid-meltdown. But Satan noticed that behind the filters and jokes, there were times their smile didn’t quite reach their eyes. Times when they'd change the subject a little too quickly. Times when they’d glance at their messages and frown before replacing it with a sunny "I'm fine!"

He didn't ask. Not yet. But he paid attention.

It became a kind of routine. They’d burst into his room with some new hair accessory or meme or theory about which demon was most likely to go viral. He’d roll his eyes, insult their taste, and then let them curl up beside him while he read.

They called it their "aesthetic contrast content arc."

He called it strangely comforting.

And sometimes, rarely, they’d talk seriously. About moving too much. About people liking the version of them that smiled, not the one that got tired of pretending. About how exhausting it was to be everyone’s sunshine when you just wanted to be seen.

Satan listened.

He didn’t offer empty reassurances. He didn’t tell them to cheer up. He let them vent, offered scathing commentary on anyone who'd hurt them, and then slid a cup of tea into their hands and returned to reading aloud until their breathing evened out.

"You know," Y/N said once, curled up in his oversized sweater, "you’re, like, the only person who doesn't expect me to be anything but this."

He looked up from his book. "Because you’re fine as you are. Even if you have the fashion sense of a sleep-deprived idol and the attention span of a particularly caffeinated bat."

They beamed at him. "Aww, you do care."

He smirked. "Unfortunately."

They were a whirlwind, a mess, a thousand contradictions wrapped in sparkle and sass. And somehow, in a house full of chaos, Satan found himself gravitating toward the one person who wore their chaos like a crown.

And if he started taking selfies with them more often, or if he downloaded Magicam just to keep up with their stories, or if he wrote poetry about the way their voice made even his worst days better...

Well.

No one had to know.

Except Y/N.

Because they already did.

And they never once made him feel ashamed for it.

Asmodeus

If anyone knew how to match your energy, it was Asmodeus. From the second you entered the Devildom, phone in hand and eyes already scanning the decor for Magicam-worthy angles, Asmo was hooked.

"Oh my goodness, you’re like a glitter bomb that went off inside a dream! I love it," he had squealed, practically teleporting to your side.

And just like that, you were besties. Or rivals. Or co-conspirators. It was a little hard to tell. You both had a flair for dramatics, a need for external validation, and a mutual understanding that life was way too short to wear the same outfit twice.

"Okay but hear me out, group selfie at RAD’s gates? We pose like we’re about to drop the hottest demonic mixtape of the year. I tag you, you tag me, we’re both trending by lunch."

You and Asmo made a dangerous pair. Between your charm and his, the Devildom didn’t stand a chance. Club openings? You were VIP. Pop-up potions markets? You had your own booth. Gossip threads? You were the thread.

But for all your shared glitz, Asmo could tell there was more to you. The way your smile would falter for half a second when someone mentioned family. How you always turned down dessert at House dinners with a too-bright laugh. How you changed the subject any time anyone asked too much about your life before.

Asmo noticed. He always noticed.

He didn’t push. He knew what it was like to be loved for the parts of you people found entertaining, and ignored when things got complicated. So he let you come to him when you were ready. And when you weren’t, he offered you the distraction you clearly needed.

"Babe, I just got the cutest demon-made jacket. We have to match for Solomon's party. Say you'll twin with me. Please? I’ll make you look like a fantasy, and me? Well, I always look like one."

The two of you hosted a Devildom-wide makeup tutorial livestream that crashed the Magicam servers. You started a joint fashion blog that got featured on Hell's Vogue. You prank-called Mammon live and got banned from the House of Lamentation’s landline. It was chaos. It was perfect.

But one night, Asmo caught you alone in the kitchen, elbows on the counter, staring at your phone. The screen was off.

"Hey, what’s up? No new comments?"

You looked up slowly, your smile a few seconds late. "No, just thinking."

"That’s dangerous. Thinking too much, I mean. Not very on-brand for us." He tried to lighten the mood, but you didn’t laugh.

"Do you ever feel like... if people knew the real you, they wouldn’t actually like you that much?"

Asmo blinked. Then, slowly, he walked over and leaned against the counter beside you.

"Y/n, darling, people already don’t know the real me. And you know what? I don’t owe them that. Neither do you. You give the world what you want to give it. And the rest? You save that for the ones who prove they can handle it."

You looked at him for a long moment, and this time when you smiled, it felt a little more real.

The next day, you posted a selfie with Asmo, the caption reading: When the real ones know the real you, the rest can scroll. It got 108,000 likes. (Mammon was bitter for days.)

Asmo adored every side of you, the peppy, the sarcastic, the slightly dramatic and the deeply tired. And if he had to drown the Devildom in glitter to keep that twinkle in your eye, he’d gladly do it.

After all, behind every fabulous influencer is a best friend who knows when to pass the mic, and when to remind you that you’re worth more than a perfect post.

Even if your matching demon-made jackets did absolutely slay.

Beelzebub

Beelzebub had a reputation for being the strongest and most straightforward of the brothers. His appetite was legendary, and his loyalty unmatched. Yet beneath that simple exterior was a heart as big as his appetite, and a kindness that made him genuinely easy to be around.

When you first met Beel, your worlds seemed pretty different. You were this peppy, social media-savvy whirlwind, always ready with the latest meme or trend, scrolling Magicam with lightning speed. Beel, meanwhile, was mostly focused on the here and now, food, friendship, and keeping his brothers in line when they got out of hand. But somehow, despite your obvious differences, you hit it off in a way neither of you expected.

Beel’s first impression of you was that you were endlessly energetic, and maybe a bit too much for his quieter tastes. He liked things simple. But your laughter was infectious, and the way you lit up a room was something even he couldn’t ignore. Your knack for effortlessly navigating social situations was impressive, and Beel found himself admiring how you could make friends just by being yourself, even if you were a little chaotic.

At first, he’d hang back during your Magicam livestreams or group chats, watching quietly while the others buzzed around with hashtags and emoji spam. You caught him once, giving a big thumbs-up with a mouthful of food, and you grinned back, tossing a playful wink his way. That little moment shifted everything, Beel felt like he was part of your world for once.

You knew Beel’s strengths and weaknesses as well as he did. You could see how much pressure he put on himself to be the “big brother” and the “strong one” all the time. So whenever he looked tired or overwhelmed, usually after a long day of training or managing the brothers, you’d slide over with something simple but meaningful. Sometimes it was a freshly made protein shake (which you’d learned to make just right after watching a few videos), or a carefully timed joke to crack a smile. Other times, it was just sitting quietly with him, letting him know he didn’t always have to carry the weight of the world alone.

Despite your social butterfly tendencies, you learned to appreciate those calm moments with Beel. He wasn’t much for words, but his presence was comforting. And he noticed the little things you did for him, even if he rarely said it outright.

Beel’s appetite was something of a running joke between you two. While you hated sweets thanks to your childhood with your sisters, he lived for them. You tried to bond over food anyway, finding a middle ground in savory snacks or spicy treats that neither of you could resist. Beel was always patient when you picked apart your meals, and he never judged your picky tendencies.

One of your favorite things was when you caught him sneaking away from the brothers to enjoy some quiet time with you. Beel wasn’t great at opening up, but you could tell he felt safe around you. When he talked about his worries or frustrations, you listened without judgment, knowing that sometimes just being heard was the best kind of support.

You also admired Beel’s kindness. It wasn’t just for show. He was always willing to help anyone in need, whether it was a brother struggling with homework or a demon who needed a hand. You tried to match his generosity in your own way, often using your social media influence to promote causes or share messages that mattered. Beel didn’t always understand the digital world the way you did, but he supported you wholeheartedly, proud of the way you used your voice.

Of course, not everything was smooth sailing. Your extroverted, fast-paced lifestyle sometimes clashed with Beel’s preference for quiet and routine. There were nights when your nonstop streaming or social events made him retreat to the kitchen for snacks or a quick nap. But you learned to respect his space, and he learned to stay a little longer, knowing how important you were to each other.

The brothers teased Beel mercilessly about how he was “owned” by you, especially when you convinced him to join a Magicam challenge or dance trend. But Beel just laughed it off, happy to see you smile and be yourself. You, in turn, took every opportunity to spoil him,whether it was surprising him with his favorite meal or sneaking in a goofy meme about his latest food obsession.

One particularly memorable day was your birthday. Despite his usual quiet nature, Beel went all out, coordinating with the brothers to throw you a surprise party. He made sure there was enough food to feed a small army (because that’s just how Beel rolls), and he was right there beside you as you opened gifts and laughed until your sides hurt. For once, Beel was the center of your attention too, and you could see the shy happiness in his eyes.

Over time, your friendship, whether it stayed platonic or deepened into something more, became a steady anchor in both your lives. You balanced each other out: your energy brightened his quiet strength, and his calm grounded your restless spirit. Together, you navigated the chaos of the Devildom, proving that opposites really do attract.

Even in moments of silence, you understood each other perfectly. No words needed when Beel slid a plate of food your way or when you gave him a knowing smile before jumping into a new adventure. You were partners in crime, a team built on trust, laughter, and more than a little bit of heart.

And honestly? That was more than enough.

Belphegor

Belphegor was the embodiment of contradictions. At first glance, he seemed nothing more than a sleepy, lazy demon who preferred naps over noise and solitude over socializing. But beneath that languid exterior was a mind sharp enough to cut through the densest fog, and a soul weighed down by expectations and burdens no one else fully understood. When you met him, you were this whirlwind of energy, constantly chatting, snapping pics for Magicam, always chasing the next trend or social event. To say you were opposites would be an understatement.

From the start, Belphegor regarded you with a mix of mild annoyance and reluctant curiosity. Your constant chatter and quick wit grated on his nerves more often than not. He’d groan softly when you burst into his quiet space with a barrage of memes or requests to join some social challenge he didn’t care about. “Do you ever stop talking?” he’d mutter, voice thick with sleep and skepticism.

But there was something about you, maybe it was your effortless confidence or the way you could read a room just as well as he could, that made him want to keep you around. He didn’t always show it, but he noticed when you slipped away to check on him, or when you left little messages encouraging him to get out of bed and face the day.

You, on the other hand, were fascinated by Belphegor’s paradox. Here was someone who could sleep through the apocalypse but also wield incredible insight and honesty when it mattered most. You quickly realized that beneath his sarcastic quips and perpetual tiredness was a deeply sensitive soul craving understanding and genuine connection. So you adjusted your approach, turning down your energy to match his slower pace when necessary, sharing quiet moments that surprised you both.

Belphie’s family history echoed yours in some ways, the pressure, the neglect, the complicated ties to siblings that made feeling “normal” a struggle. You could see in his eyes the same tired weight you carried from your own upbringing. This shared pain became a silent bond between you, one built on unspoken empathy rather than words.

Despite his exhaustion and constant desire to hide away, Belphegor was fiercely protective of you. He would scowl at anyone who tried to disrespect or overwhelm you, and though he rarely expressed it outright, his presence was a shield whenever you needed one. You caught glimpses of this softer side when he’d offer you his favorite tea blend, insisting you try it because “it helps with stress,” or when he’d pause his afternoon nap to listen when you needed to vent.

Your social media antics, so natural to you, were a source of gentle teasing from Belphie. He’d mock your obsession with “cute” ratings and your tendency to chase likes and views. “You really think all that noise matters?” he’d ask, half amused, half exasperated. But you knew he secretly appreciated how your world gave you something to look forward to, a way to claim your own space and voice. And maybe, just maybe, he liked the way you made him laugh with your absurd hashtags and wild dance moves, even if he’d never admit it aloud.

Food was another battlefield. You hated sweets, a relic of your childhood forced treats, while Belphie had a surprising soft spot for midnight snacks and calming herbal teas. You tried to find common ground, sneaking him savory bites during your hangouts, and he’d reciprocate by sharing his stash of rare teas with you. These small exchanges became rituals, moments of connection that deepened your bond.

Belphegor’s rough exterior and your bubbly personality sometimes clashed, especially when you tried to drag him out to social events or streaming sessions. He’d grumble about the “noise” and “pointless chatter,” but you knew he craved companionship even if he pretended not to. Slowly, he learned to loosen up around you, joining in on a few Magicam trends, mostly because he enjoyed watching your reactions when he begrudgingly participated.

One of the most memorable moments came when you caught Belphie in an unusually candid mood. It was late, the world outside quiet, and the two of you sat sipping tea under the dim light of the House of Lamentation. For once, he let down his guard, sharing pieces of his past, the battles, the loneliness, the heavy expectations that made rest feel like an elusive dream. You listened without interruption, offering comfort not through words, but through presence.

That night, the boundaries between “you” and “him” blurred in a way that was rare and precious. You realized that beneath the exhaustion and sarcasm, Belphegor was someone fiercely loyal and deeply caring, qualities that matched your own resilience and desire to be understood.

Your friendship, or whatever it might become, was far from simple. There were days when his mood swings and your busy schedule clashed, when he retreated into himself and you felt helpless. But there were also countless moments of laughter, quiet support, and mutual respect that made it clear you were exactly the balance each other needed.

Together, you navigated the chaos of the Devildom in your own way, him with his slow-burning strength, you with your bright energy and relentless drive to be heard. And in that strange, beautiful dance, you found a connection that defied words.

No matter what the future held, whether it stayed platonic or blossomed into something more, you knew this was a bond built to last.

Thank you all so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed! As usual Reblogs are encouraged and appreciated!🩷

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