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bueckersbitch · 4 months ago

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i'm still waitin' at the green light. to tell you what i feel like, but i can't go.

greenlight - paige bueckers x reader

☆ warnings : angst, sexual context, toxic!paige

☆ word count : 1.7k

☆ authors note : hi guys! a quick fic bc i loveeee tates new album, the last bit is inspired by her explaination of green light! part two out now!

☆ taglist : @sierrale8ne @thaatdigitaldiary @pboogerswbb @lupinqs @rosemariiaa @xxloveralways14 @lovegalor333 @mrsarnold @janaelalfysblunt @bueckersfive @vamptizm

The door knob slowly pushes down, almost mocking the way your heart dropped when receiving the text, “I’ve been thinking, we need to talk.” The message wasn’t unexpected; in fact, you had been counting on receiving it after the last couple of weeks between you and Paige. Part of you still wanted it to be your overthinking getting the best of you again, a figment of your imagination trying to self-sabotage you, yet, it was something deeper: the way Paige’s demeanor changed in what felt like an instant, her loving, comforting words turning quickly into scowls of defense when you confronted her about her passive attitude towards your feelings. The doorknob seems to lag, separating the relationship between you two into two: before the conversation that was about to change your relationship, and after.

Her face is revealed after a moment; her normally perfect, slick-back bun is disheveled a bit; however, her face was numb, lacking any emotion. Her sock-clad feet slowly shuffled back when opening the door, silently urging you to step into her apartment, the one you had helped decorate when she had moved to Dallas. Your eyes flicker up to meet her cold, blue ones; her lips become tightly bound, letting out a sigh. You pick at your hangnails that had accumulated unwillingly after your thoughts about everything concerning you two swarmed your mind over the past couple of nights. You step inside, noticing the lack of the feeling of home: candles remaining unlit, tv that usually had a game on left dark, and the vase that rests on the center of her kitchen island, but instead of having purple irises gifted by you—Paige’s favorite flowers—it was clear, water even being drained since the last time you had given them to the blonde, when you were both happy.

Paige doesn’t say a word, picking up the tv remote and turning on a game. Crashing to the couch, her fixed stare on the tv felt like a punch to the gut. Paige was good at communicating, something you admired even in the early stages of your relationship. The lump in your throat started to grow. Had she changed so much to the point she felt like she couldn’t tell you what she was feeling? “Are you serious?” You questioned, voice shaking a bit. Paige hummed in response, eyes still glued to the tv, making you feel like an afterthought, unimportant. “I didn’t drive half an hour for you to not tell me what you want.” You said, leaning on the kitchen island, tears starting to well now. “I thought it was obvious. We aren’t working, baby.” A tear fell from your eye now, taking your makeup with it to your neck. You knew that, you knew something wasn’t working, but what shocked you was Paige’s lack of effort to try and fix what was wrong. “Tell me what’s not working then, because I feel like recently whenever I try to get to you, what you’re thinking, you feel like I’m a nuisance.” It was different. You leading the conversation about talking about feelings, emotions were something you encouraged yourself to suppress. “I don’t wanna tell you though.” Paige says, resting her elbows on her knees as she turns her head with minimal effort to look at you. Confusion jolts through you, apparently evident on your face through your eyebrows and slight stutter of the start of a sentence beginning with “W-w-wha-” Paige rolls her eyes, cutting you off with, “Don’t you get it? I’m tired. I don’t wanna tell you because I don’t think I wanna fix us.” Your heart really drops, feeling heavy with the weight of her words shutting you down. “Do you hear yourself? Did the past four years mean nothing to you?” Paige scoffs, nodding her head as it dips between her shoulders, “You know it did. I just feel like I’ve grown. I’m not the injured girl you met in sophomore year anymore.” The mention of how you met tugging at your heart strings.

Four years ago

The lecture to your psychology class had finally ended, meaning it was time for a nice Friday out with your girls. You gathered your stuff, placing your iPad in your bag and slinging it over your shoulder. Pulling your phone out, you start scrolling through the notifications of ideas for what you guys should do tonight. You walk through the tiled hall, a little too quickly it seems, because you brush past someone, hearing them grunt in annoyance. You whip your head around, to a tall blonde. You had heard about her injury, watched it happen even, how she was projected to be out for six to eight weeks. Her words sliced through your thoughts, “I miss when I could walk mindlessly.” Your eyes widened, baffled at your ignorance to your surroundings. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry-” Paige laughs. “I’m just teasing you. What’s got you rushing to get back though?” You let out an exhale of relief, smiling while telling the girl your plans for the night. Conversation ending with you carrying her stuff for her while walking her back to her apartment. Impulsive thoughts overcoming you, word vomit producing a, “You should totally come!”

Present

“Trust me, I know,” you manage to say through a facade. Paige’s brows furrow now. “What’s that ‘supposed to mean?” You exhale, similarly to how you had all those years ago, but this time, it was to brace yourself for what you were about to say. “I mean the Paige I knew back then, fuck, even a month ago, wouldn’t push aside my feelings like it’s something that’s optional in her life!” She leans back again, seemingly unphased by your confession. “I’m not about to pour my heart into something you don’t deserve.” Your mind was clouded now, something you didn’t deserve? If there was the bare minimum of what you deserved, it was an explanation, a reason why your soulmate had turned into someone that looked at you like a burden. “I’m just standing here trying to understand what you want from me, because I’ve tried, Paige, I really have, but it’s obvious that you think I don’t deserve a basic explanation as to why you’ve just shut me out.” You try to reason with her, not ready to accept the truth of what could happen. “I don’t want anything anymore. I don’t know why I gotta spell that shit out for you.” There it was, the admission that had you in a grasp of anxiousness. “So what?” Still finding it hard to accept that your loving, communicative Paige was acting this way, “So, it’s done.”

Her words rang through your head like a stupid song you couldn’t get out of your head. Your keys gripped so hard in your hand they started to leave indents. Your hood was pulled up over your head, trying to avoid the receptionist that would greet you after the long journey of the elevator, plummeting like your heart had. You push through the revolving door, out into the soft water of the rain, almost like the universe was sad for you. Flinging yourself into your car, you start to drive back to your apartment in silence. You roll to a stop at a red light, finally letting yourself break down in the comfort of your own car.

Three months later

The delicate notification rang through your ears again, light turning green as you pushed on the gas. It had chimed a couple of times now, a specific notification sound you had only reserved for a certain blonde. You forgot you even did that, changing the setting when you were so young and lovestruck. Sure, the sound surprised you a week ago when you heard it for the first time in three months, but now? It was almost background noise to your daily tasks. She tried to work her way back, endless texts and voicemails that had her saying “I fucked up” and “Please talk to me, ma” and other things of the sorts. You would’ve gone running straight into her arms had it not been for what you found out. Another girl. One she felt so taken aback by that she felt the need to shut you out, to break up with you. You wanted to make sure she lived with the consequence of losing you. So now, you were on your way out to a restaurant, your therapist encouraging you to get back out into the dating scene again. Skylar, was her name.

You sat across from the brunette girl, smiling with her as you both talked about your families. It felt nice, feeling like your presence was wanted. A voice rang through your ears, one that was too familiar, one that you had heard every day straight for four years. There she was, talking and laughing with her Wings teammates as she looked over the menu.

You broke. Something about having such a deep history with her coaxing you back to her, pressed up against the very door you had slammed shut in anger a few months ago. Her hands gripping your waist as she confessed how her admiration for you had never left, “Missed you so bad, you’re the only one for me.” Hands trailing past your waistband, finding the pool of arousal that awaited her.

She sweetly talked you back into her bed, but even after pulling three orgasms from you, you couldn’t shake the feeling of what you had found out she had been hiding from you. So, you found your clothes, taking in the way her wavy blonde hair framed her sleeping face, before slipping away in the middle of the night, attempting to avoid the start of a toxic back and forth.

One week later

The post sat unliked in your feed, taking a second to take it in. Paige’s new girlfriend. The girl she left you for, the one she was still seeing a week ago when she was fucking you.

You were shielding your phone from Skylar. Of course, you tried to move on, but a part of you still believed you would get her back, your Paige back. It was wrong, and everyone around you told you to move on. Paige sure had. “Babe?” You quickly locked your phone, looking at your date in the passenger seat of your car. “You were so invested in your phone that you fully sat through that entire green light.” She laughed. You forced a fake laugh, suppressing the solemn feeling that the universe was mocking you through the situation. You sitting still at a green light, while the light is telling you it’s okay to go, is like everybody around you saying it’s okay to move on from Paige, but it still feels impossible.

#alira’s works ⟡˖ ࣪⋆⭒˚#bueckersbitch #paige bueckers #uconn wbb #uconnwbb #uconn women’s basketball #paige bueckers fic #paige bueckers x oc #paige bueckers fluff #paige bueckers smut #paige bueckers x reader #paige bueckers angst #Spotify

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prettygirl-gabi · 2 months ago

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Melatonin in Human Form

Pairing: Paige Bueckers x Reader

Fandom: WNBA-Dallas Wings

Summary: can’t sleep without Paige—childhood naps turned forever habit.

A/N: I would like to publicly apologize for my most recent post. It was very wrong and insensitive of me to post, and I take full accountability for the harm it may have caused. Please forgive me.

Especially too: @iwasbored-okay , @cowboybueckers , @yailtsv , @elalfywhore , @elswhore , @sillylittlepop , @elliesglock , and @authentic-girl03

🏷️: @paigeshirleytemple , @unknowgirlypop , @nicebellee , @sitawita , @thatonesuschix , @vamptizm , @starfulani , @paxaz535 , @azziswrld , @jadasogay , @paigeluvvr , @melpthatsme , @lessi-lover , @courtsidewithlani , @italyyy , @lightsgore , @private-but-not-a-secret , @aubreygriffin , @issilovesherself , @graceeeeeesblog , @sayurireidotcom

I don’t remember the first time I fell asleep with Paige. Her dad probably does, because he never stops talking about how we were “two little Velcro babies who refused to nap without being tangled together.”

My parents even saying the same.

I do remember the warmth.

The safety.

The way her breathing always found its rhythm first, and how mine followed like it knew where home was.

We were maybe six, freshly worn out from a birthday party and some feral rendition of musical chairs, when I ended up passed out on her beanbag chair with her arm slung across my waist like we were puzzle pieces.

And from that moment on, I was done for.

Sleep, for me, has never just been about closing my eyes.

It’s always been about proximity.

Paige-shaped proximity.

And now, years later, that hasn’t changed.

Back in high school, before we were anything more than best friends who happened to blush a little too hard during sleepovers, I tried to downplay it.

I’d crash on her floor during study nights or after games, making excuses about her mattress being comfier or my house being too loud.

She never called me out for what it was—pure, undiluted dependence.

By the time we got to UConn, it was a running joke with her teammates.

“I swear Y/N has Paige set as her melatonin,” Sarah once said, deadpan, as I yawned through breakfast after a night apart.

Paige had just come back from a weekend home, and I barely made it 48 hours before showing up at her dorm door like a stray cat.

“You didn’t sleep again, did you?” she asked, smirking knowingly.

“Define sleep.”

Now we’re in Dallas.

New city, new league, new pace—but the same me.

Same needy, cuddly, sleep-inept me.

And the same Paige, only shinier.

She’s Paige Bueckers, WNBA rookie, endorsement magnet, face-of-everything-all-at-once. And she’s also my fiancée.

Which still makes my stomach flip if I think about it too hard.

Our apartment is big enough to breathe in—exposed brick, sunlight that spills into every room like a golden retriever.

We even have a home office now.

Which I’m currently standing outside of, barefoot in a hoodie and cocooned in a fluffy duvet like a deranged burrito.

It’s 12:42 a.m. I’m tired. But not the kind of tired that leads to sleep. Not when I’m in bed without her.

I knock softly on the office door.

“Paigey?”

No response.

She’s got her AirPods in, probably typing an email to her Nike rep or something equally business-y and important.

I open the door just enough to peek in.

Her laptop casts a blue glow over her face, and her glasses—glasses that I specifically told her made her look like a hot librarian—are sliding down her nose.

I shuffle in like a slug wrapped in cotton.

Her eyes flick to me and soften instantly. “Baby… what are you doing?” she asks, voice low and warm, pulling one AirPod out.

I don’t answer. I just wobble toward her like I’ve been drugged and then, without warning, climb into her lap, duvet and all.

“Y/N!” she laughs, startled, but instinctively adjusts her chair and cradles me like I’m made of something delicate.

“I can’t sleep,” I mumble, face smushed into her neck.

“I told you I’d be done in fifteen.”

“You said that forty minutes ago.”

“You were awake then.”

“I tried. I really tried. I even put on our playlist and laid on your pillow. But it’s not the same.”

Her hands start tracing circles on my back through the blanket. My eyes flutter, already sinking.

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly, kissing my temple. “I just had one last email to send about the Puma shoot next week.”

“Mmm.”

“I should’ve stopped when I saw you still tossing around twenty minutes ago.”

“You’re forgiven,” I murmur, “if you never leave me alone at night again.”

She snorts. “Deal.”

I feel her return to typing, hands moving carefully so she doesn’t jostle me.

My cheek is pressed to her collarbone, and her heart is beating in that perfect, sleepy metronome I’ve known since childhood.

“Do you remember that one time we fell asleep in your trampoline net?” I ask, already halfway gone.

“I remember waking up covered in mosquito bites and somehow still thinking it was worth it.”

“Because I was there?”

“Because we were there.”

There’s a pause. She finishes typing, clicks her trackpad softly, then wraps both arms around me fully.

“I’m done now,” she whispers.

“Good,” I sigh, pulling the duvet higher over both of us.

“I really am your melatonin, huh?”

“You’re more effective than any sleep aid known to man. I should bottle you up.”

She laughs again, quieter this time, and kisses the top of my head.

“I’ll never get tired of being needed by you, you know?” she says, her voice humming against my skin. “Even if it’s just for sleep.”

“It’s not just for sleep,” I yawn. “It’s for everything. I only function right when I’m close to you.”

I expect her to tease me, maybe crack a joke about my codependency, but she just holds me tighter.

“I love you, burrito girl,” she murmurs. “You can stay in my lap forever if you want.”

“I plan to. Even when we’re eighty.”

“You’ll still be dragging your blanket into my wheelchair like this?”

“Yup. Snoring on your shoulder while you answer emails from the grandkids.”

She hums a soft chuckle, and it’s the last thing I hear before I finally—finally—fall asleep.

Wrapped in her arms. Right where I belong.

■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■■

-Thank You For Reading!💚💙

-prettygirl-gabi✨️💗

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leclerc-hs · 3 months ago

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the color violet - ln4

pairing: lando norris x fem!reader

summary: in which you and lando can't seem to quit each other OR you and lando are casual fuck buddies

warnings: SMUT, language, angst, jealousy, NOT PROOFREAD, toxic!

word count: 7.4k

author's note: hiiii this is another one that's been sitting in my drafts for some time that i never got around to finishing! i've been sick for the last 4-5 days so I've had some time on my hands recently. I hope you enjoy!!! xoxo. feel free to help me pay off my student loans 💓

You meet him in Monaco.

Not in the ocean blue light of day, but in that violet hour where the sky bleeds into night on top of a rooftop party that neither of you seemed to be enjoying. You don’t even know why you came. Maybe it was to feel something. Maybe to forget someone. Maybe just to remind yourself that you still exist when someone looks at you the right way.

He looks at you the right way.

From across the deck, drink loosely gripped in his hand, his curls messy from the wind and his shirt slightly undone. He looked reckless, a little bit on edge. He doesn’t smile. Just watches you like he’s trying to put you in a memory that hasn’t happened yet.

And you feel it. That slow ache blooming in the depths of your chest.

You find yourself leaning over a balcony later on, fingers curled over the ledge like you might fall, and that’s when he slips behind you.

He doesn’t say anything at first, but you can feel him. You don’t turn around. At least, not right away.

But when you do, he’s looking at you like he’s not sure if he should speak or just walk away.

You break the silence first.

“You’re staring.”

“Yeah,” he says, not apologetic at all. “You’re hard not to look at.”

A beat. Then you smirk, soft. “Careful. I bite.”

He doesn’t even flinch. “So do I.”

You look away first, back out over the city lights flickering below, your pulse thrumming beneath your skin because you can feel him now. He’s closer. Warmer. Quieter. Feel as if he’s studying the back of your neck and imagining what you’d do if he pressed his mouth there.

“You always do this?” You mutter, voice barely heard. “Stare at girls like you’ve already undressed them in your head?”

His lips twitch, barely, and you can hear the smirk in his voice when he says,”Only when they look like they want me to.”

You turn to him, slowly, hair falling over your shoulder in the process, and your eyes catch his with an intent that makes his breathing falter. Just slightly.

“And if I do?” You ask, voice laced with something dangerous in it.

He takes a step closer. Close enough that you can smell his cologne, something expensive and intoxicating, and he tilts his head just slightly, eyes flicking toward you mouth.

“Then I’d say you’re playing a dangerous game.”

You don’t break eye contact.

He kisses you just past midnight.

Not in the middle of the party. Not in front of anyone else. But in the hallway, against the marble wall, where the noises from the party have dulled into a minute hum that neither of you care about.

It’s not a sweet kiss.

It’s messy and hungry, something full of desire twisted with loneliness. His mouth crashes against yours like he’s angry you’ve gotten under his skin, and your fingertips trail the edge of his jacket, pulling him closer like you need to prove something.

He kisses you like he’s trying to forget something, and you let him. Because you’re only doing the same.

Because when his hands find your waist and your back hits the wall, and when his tongue slips against your with a kind of desperation that makes your head spin, it’s the first time in weeks you’ve felt anything at all.

And when he pulls you further against him, grinding his hips into yours just so you can feel how badly he wants you, the thick press of his cock against you, makes your breath catch in your throat.

“Tell me this is a bad idea,” he groans, voice rough and full of need.

You don’t.

Instead, you curl your fingers into the collar of his shirt, tugging him closer, dragging his lips back to yours.

“Didn’t come here for a good one.” You whisper, biting his lip.

“Fuck,” he groans. “I knew you’d be trouble.”

And then his hands are slipping under your dress, slipping up the back of your thighs, fingers digging into the skin of your ass as he lifts you. Lifts you.

Your legs wrap around his waist. Instinctive. Needy. Your breath faltering as he ruts himself against you through his unbuttoned slacks.

“Want you just like this,” he mutters. “Whining and dripping. And so fuckin’ desperate.”

You moan…loudly. And you’re now burning, aching for him, for this.

And he knows it. He’s so fucking smug over it.

“Bet you’re already soaked.” He slips one hand, pushing your lace panties aside, two fingers teasing. “Shit. Knew it.”

You buck your hips, leaning into him, begging for anything.

“Lando, please.” Your nails dig into the back of his neck.

He freezes. And his eyes meet yours. Dark. Heavy.

“Say it again.”

“Please.”

“No.” He shakes his head. “Say my name.”

“Lando,” you groan.

“Fuck. That’s gonna ruin me.”

It takes a second. Just one. For him to push his boxers down just enough, and then he’s inside you. One hard thrust that knocks the breath out of both of you.

You cry out, legs squeezing around his hips. You drop your head to his shoulder.

“Too much?” He breathes, voice as if he’s in pain from not moving.

You shake your head, “Not enough.”

That makes him groan. His mouth finds yours again as he begins to move. It’s hard and deep. Pounding into you so good that has you clawing at his back and biting down on the fabric of his shirt just to keep from yelling.

“You feel fucking insane,” he mutters. “So tight.”

And every word hits you deep in your belly.

“Want it rough, don’t you?” He keeps talking, voice mixed with something wrecked and possessive. “Want me to fuck you like I’ve been waiting for this all night, yeah?”

You nod repeatedly, panting hotly into his ear.

“Then take every fucking inch.”

And you do. Every thrust. Every kiss. Every moan. You take it like it’s yours.

You come first. Hard and sudden. Your entire body shaking around him, clenching his cock that it makes him curse into your mouth.

And then he’s following, fucking you right through it, one hand braced on the wall and the other gripping the skin of your thighs like he wants to leave a bruise.

He groans your name. Your name. As he spills into you, hips stuttering, jaw clenched.

It was just one night.

A mix of heat and hands and messy kisses dragged out in a hallway too dark to see. A fast, hard, and reckless fuck. No promises. No gentle words. Just the sound of his voice in your ear, and your nails dug into his skin.

And it should’ve ended there.

You didn’t even exchange numbers.

But then, your phone buzzes. And it’s nearly one in the morning.

You don’t expect anything. Especially not from him.

But there it is. Burning brightly on the lock screen of your phone.

You up?

And even though you have an inkling of who it is, your thumb hovers, and against better judgment…taps.

Who’s asking?

A moment passes. Then, Didn’t think you’d forget that fast.

Your mouth goes dry and you sit up a little straighter in bed. You shouldn’t answer. You should put your phone down and sleep this off. But where is the fun in that?

Wasn’t planning to.

His response comes almost immediately.

Come to Barcelona.

You blink. Heart rate spiking.

For what?

Race weekend. Just come.

You stare at the screen like it might change into a much different conversation if you look at it long enough. Like it wasn’t real. He wasn’t supposed to want more, and you weren’t supposed to care if he did.

And yet…

Only four days later, you find yourself at Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, wondering what the actual fuck you’re doing here.

You’re dressed casually. A pair of dark jeans, plain tank top, black sunglasses, hair tied back, but you still feel like you’re being watched. Like you’re out of place in a sea of uniforms and lanyards and people who belong. You don’t.

You glance at your phone again.

Media pen now. Be there in 5.

And there is he. Coming around the corner, his suit half unzipped, fireproofs sticking to his chest, curls damp with sweat. And his eyes.

His eyes lock on yours like you’re the only thing he wants to see.

He barely slows down as he reaches you, slipping a hand to your lower back. His voice is soft and warm in your ear.

“Didn’t think you’d actually show.”

You don’t look at him, but your lips twitch. “Guess I was intrigued.”

“Careful,” he lets out a soft laugh. And you feel it in your stomach. “I might start thinking you missed me.”

“I didn’t.”

It’s a lie. He knows it.

And he leans in like he’s about to force you to say something more truthful.

“You wearing anything under that shirt?”

You step back, cheeks burning. “Don’t make this into something it’s not.”

He smiles, its slow and crooked. Like he’s not listening because he already knows how this ends.

“I’ll see you after quali,” he says, walking away without another word.

And you hate that you already know you’ll be here, waiting, when he comes back.

You don’t expect him to find you so fast. But maybe you should have.

You’re tucked into a corner of the paddock, half behind the hospitality wall, leaning against a wall with your sunglasses perched low on your nose, watching the post-quali chaos unravel.

The chaos and sound fades around you just as he enters the frame. You hear his voice before you see him.

And he walks over, with that smug look on his face that always comes after a good session. The kind that says yeah, I know I did well and yeah, I know you saw it.

“P1,” he says, stopping in front of you with a glint in his eye and a drop of sweat trailing down his thick neck.

You raise an eyebrow, “You look pleased.”

“I am,” he admits.

“You looked like you had something to prove.”

“I did.” His eyes drag down your body, slowly. Deliberately. “Still do.”

You roll your eyes, but your stomach clenches.

Because this version of him, flushed, fast, high off competition, and the adrenaline still coursing through his veins, is impossible to ignore. He’s all heat and focus and unleashed energy, like he could press you up against the nearest wall and not even blink.

His room is colder than expected, the air conditioning humming low in the background, and the sheets crisp and untouched…

At least, until he’s pressing you into them with the full weight of his body, his mouth dragging across your collarbone as his hands push your shirt up, slow and greedy.

There’s no fumbling this time. No rushing. His hands are on you like he’s been waiting for this all day. Which, in hindsight, he has.

“Couldn’t stop thinking about you in the car,” he groans against your skin, his tongue tracing the edge of your bra before unclasping it with ease. “All I could see was you on top of me. Moaning my name.”

You arch into him softly, fingers tugging at the waistband of his race suit. “Then take it off.”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just shoves it down enough to free himself, cock already hard, already leaking, and when he lines himself up, dragging the thick head through your slick folds, you choke on a moan and claw at his shoulders.

“No teasing,” You warn, half plea.

He bites your lip, “Didn’t plan on it.”

And then he thrusts in one deep, smooth, harsh stroke that makes your legs shake and back arch. You cry out, but he doesn’t stop.

He groans hotly into your hear, thrusting harder, his hips slamming into you as he presses your thigh up, folding you so he can get deeper. “Feel that? Y’feel how good you take me?”

You nod, your body tingling like its on fucking fire. “So good, Lan. Don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he grunts, his skin dampening as he pounds into you. “Not until you come. Not until you fall apart on my cock.”

And you do.

Twice.

Once with his hand on your throat, thumb teasing your jaw as he mutters nothing but pure fucking filth against your lips. And once again with his fingers pressed to your clit, coaxing an orgasm from you with ease until you’re shaking beneath him, sobbing his name.

He follows with a strangled groan, burying himself inside of you with deep thrusts as if he wants to stay there for forever, his entire body tensing as he spills into you, head dropping into your shoulder.

Afterward, as you lie tangled in the sheets, skin flushed and limbs heavy. Neither of you speak, just stare at the ceiling like it’s casual.

And eventually, he turns his head towards you with that practiced lazy smirk, “You’re trouble, you know that?”

You hum, already rolling onto your side, reaching for your underwear. “You invited me, Norris.”

He laughs, and it hits your stomach like a thousand butterflies. “Yeah, and I’d do it again.”

You shoot him a look as you stand, pulling your shirt over your head. “Don’t make this a habit.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

And it’s full of shit. You both are.

It’s been a few weeks.

Long enough that the ache between your thighs has faded, and the bruises from his hands have disappeared. Faded along with the last words he said to you, something half-smiled and forgettable, something that tried to make it feel casual.

You haven’t seen him since. Because why would you? It’s casual.

So when you see him again, back home in Monaco, at a rooftop with too many people and not enough room, it’s odd.

Because the first time was accidental. The second time was reckless. But this? This feels like a sick and twisted game.

You’re laughing with your friends, sunglasses perched on your nose even though the sun is long gone, and you catch the flicker of him in your peripheral vision. A flash of curls. And you turn your head, instinctively.

And there he is.

Leaned back on one of the couches, drink in his hand and a girl beside him. Someone pretty, someone blonde, and definitely not you. He’s smiling, head tilted back, hand draped casually over the cushions behind her.

And he doesn’t even see you at first.

You have, what feels like a lifetime of time, to stare before he notices. And when he does, his smile falters. Just for a second. Not noticeable to anyone but you, because you’re looking for it.

You give him a small smile and glance away.

Later, he finds you.

Not in a dramatic I’ve been looking for you way, but just casually, like it doesn’t matter. Like he didn’t have you spread across his hotel sheets, legs shaking from how hard he made you come, just a few weeks ago.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, sliding up beside you as you face the bar, casual, like you aren’t people who know each other like that.

“Didn’t expect you to speak,” you reply, swirling the ice in your glass. “Thought we were keeping it to once every few countries.”

He grins, a small laugh escaping. “Didn’t know we had a pattern.”

“We don’t,” you say, sipping your drink. “And there won’t be.”

But your eyes say otherwise. And so do his.

Because his hand brushes against yours, and the warmth makes your stomach clench. Because he leans in, his mouth too close to your ear, and you let him.

Because later, when everyone is starting to leave, he catches your wrist lightly. “Yours or mine?” He asks, voice low.

And even though you hesitate, you already know how it ends.

“Yours.”

Because it doesn’t mean anything.

There’s no rush when you walk into his apartment.

The door shuts quietly behind you, and he doesn’t pounce on you like he did in Barcelona.

Instead, he tosses his keys onto the counter, shrugs out of his jacket, and mutters something about grabbing a water. It’s nothing. Casual. But somehow, it makes your skin jump with anticipation.

You push your shoes off before making way towards the large windows, taking in the view.

He hands you a glass of water without asking. You take it without speaking.

You end up on his couch. Your legs curled beneath you, a soft hoodie tugged over your frame because he offered, and you didn’t bother to pretend that you weren’t cold.

He sits beside you, not touching, but his arm stretched lazily over the back of the couch. His fingers softly grazing your shoulder every time he shifts.

“You gonna keep looking at me like that?”

His mouth curves. That same slow, smug look he had on his face the first time. And the same look he had in Barcelona after you came on his fingers.

“You seem comfortable. Didn’t want to interrupt.”

“How polite.”

He shifts closer, enough that your knees bump and his thumb rubs the edges of your thighs.

It starts softer this time. No messy kisses or desperate pulling at clothes. Just two mouths meeting slowly, like two people who’ve done this before and know that they will do it again.

His lips part against yours, a soft groan escaping. And you drag your fingers into his hair, tugging his curls, pulling him into you even more.

He drags you into his lap with no struggle, hands resting on the skin of your hips. His tongue slips into your mouth lazily, tasting you, teasing you. Like he has all the time in the world with you.

You grind against him slowly, and he breathes sharply against your mouth, head falling back slightly as you feel the pads of his fingers dig deeper into the skin of your hips.

Clothes come off in pieces. First it’s your shirt sliding over your head, his hoodie pooling by your feet, jeans tugged down. It’s slow and warm and filled with need.

He lays you flat on the couch, his body settling between your thighs, and it feels so fucking right.

“Missed this,” he says softly, almost like you weren’t supposed to hear it.

You don’t respond.

You just hook your legs around his waist and pull him into you, guiding him inside with a hiss and a string of curses. Because somehow, it still feels too good.

And when he starts to move with slow, deep thrusts that make your body arch into him, you cling to him like you want to make it last.

“Look at me,” he breathes. “Want to see you.”

You do. Gasping his name with every soft roll of his hips. And you match his pace, his rhythm, until you’re both breathing hard and cursing into each other’s mouths.

You come first. Quietly, slowly. And he follows, hips stuttering, breath catching as he groans your name.

It’s quiet afterward again.

You lie on the couch, chests rising and falling in sync with one another.

Eventually, he moves. Just to grab the blanket from the back of the couch and toss it over the both of you.

“You’re not gonna start getting clingy on me, are you?” You joke, your voice teasing.

He smiles. “Not a chance.”

You smile back.

You stay the night. And neither of you ask why.

It starts slowly.

A brunch here. A mutual friend’s birthday party there. A weekend boat trip where someone invited you and someone else invited him, no one though of it.

You’re not surprised when he shows up to places anymore. And he doesn’t act surprised to see you. He just stretches that easy grin and slips past you, hands grazing, like its the most natural thing in the world.

Because you’re just acquaintances. Maybe friends.

Who sleep together. Sometimes. When its convenient. When you’re both lonely and no one else is around.

And the table you’re both seated at is too full, but the wine flows easily. You’re seated somewhere in the middle, pressed between your two friends from your side of the circle, but your eyes drift…to the other end of the table where Lando’s talking with one of his friends, a beer halfway to his mouth, cheeks flushed from the heat or the drinks.

He hasn’t looked at you yet, but he know’s your watching.

That’s the game.

You smile at something someone says. Sip your glass of wine. Pass around another bottle. And laugh.

And every so often, your gaze meets his. Not long. Just for a moment. Just long enough to feel it.

The tension. The fun.

He glances over mid-conversation, eyebrows raised like he’s asking something you two will never say out loud. You tilt your head slightly, smirk, and turn back to your friends.

The table is half-cleared now, crumpled napkins, stained glasses, and a few olives remain.

You’re laughing. Really laughing, head tilted back, hand over your mouth, tears prickling the corners of your eyes. And Lando, he’s just watching you.

The bill gets passed around later and you rise from your chair with everyone, slipping your jacket over your shoulders. And you feel him move behind you, just barely, as you gather your stuff.

“Leaving?” He asks, words only meant for you.

You don’t look at him as you dig through your purse. “Depends,” you shrug. “You planning on texting me later?”

He laughs. “Probably.”

You smile softly. “Then I won’t go too far.”

And he doesn’t say anything back, just watches you gracefully step out the restaurant with your friends. A knowing smile tugged on his lips like he already knows how this night ends. With you hot and moaning beneath him.

Cause that’s how it usually does.

You hadn’t planned to go back with him that night. But all your plans and intentions seem to melt whenever Lando is involved.

He opens the door with one hand, hoodie slung over his shoulders, and flicks the light. And you like that. The casualness. The fact he doesn’t reach for you immediately. He just walks in, leaves the door open for you to follow, and tosses his keys onto the counter.

You drop your bag and kick your shoes off, already heading toward the couch where you’ve curled up countless times now. It doesn’t feel new. And that realization lands heavily in your chest.

“You want anything?” He asks, the sound of the fridge opening in the background. “Water? Juice?”

You laugh. “Juice?”

He shrugs, grabbing two water bottles before shutting the fridge. You take one of the bottles he hands you when he sits down beside you.

“You always this healthy?” You tease him.

He takes a sip, stretching an arm behind you along the couch.

“I eat chocolate for breakfast during race weeks. Don’t be fooled.”

You let out a small laugh. “I respect the balance.”

And its easy. The conversation stretches. He asks about he tattoo on your wrist, the one you never though he notices. You tell him it was just an impulsive one. He admits his worst haircut. He tells you about the time he crashed his scooter in the hotel lobby a few years ago.

Somewhere between all the talk, you tuck your legs under you, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, his eyes catching on the bare skin there for a second too long.

“You always wear this necklace,” he says, nudging his hand along it. “Is it meaningful?”

You toy with the silver chain, twist your finger around it. “Not really. It was my mom’s.”

He nods, but doesn’t ask more. Doesn’t press.

Just sips his water and nudges your knee again.

This time not so subtly.

Eventually, the space between you closes. His lips find yours, familiar. Warm. You move into him like you’ve done it dozens of times. But there’s something else there now. Softer.

His hands slip under your shirt again, tracing over your ribs, and yours curl around the back of his neck, pulling him into you as you let the water bottle fall to the floor.

It’s still casual. Still fucking.

But you’re starting to notice more of him.

And his eyes are starting to linger longer than they used to.

It dies down in small ways.

The late night texts from him slow. The touches grow a little more careful. And you start seeing him a lot less. Not because you’re avoiding him, but because suddenly, he’s no longer around.

His season is going well. Really well.

Every time you check your phone, there’s another photo of him on the podium, another headline. He’s locked in, focused in the kind of way that leaves very little room for anything else. Including you.

At first, you don’t question it. You tell yourself that it’s natural. He’s busy, you’re busy, and this was never meant to be anything serious.

You still see him sometimes, at group dinners or sometimes race weekends if your friends want to go, his voice always casual, his touch no longer lingering like it used to.

It finally all snaps on a random Monday.

You hadn’t planned to see him. He texted you really late, a you up?

And even though its been a while, you went. Because you kinda missed him. Because you thought that maybe it could still feel the same.

But now, you’re standing in his apartment with your arms crossed against your chest and he’s pacing. Hands tugging a the ends of his sleeves like he’s trying to work up the courage to say something.

And he doesn’t meet your eyes when he finally speaks.

“I think we should…” He pauses, struggling. “I think we should put a pause on things.”

You blink. You blink again, because the words don’t make sense at first.

“Right,” you say slowly, “because you’re busy.”

His jaw tightens, like he’s struggling to even do this. “Because I need to focus.”

“On racing,” you clarify, because you need to hear him say it.

He nods once. “I can’t be distracted. The season’s going really well. There’s a lot of weight on my shoulders.”

You swallow around the lump in your throat. “So I’m a distraction?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“No,” Your voice is flat. ‘It’s what you mean.”

“That’s not fair.”

You laugh. And its bitter.

“It’s fine,” you shrug your shoulders. Put on a fake smile. “This was nothing more than easy fucking anyways.”

And you swear you see his eyes widen, and they look black. His hands fist at his sides. Like he’s angry you would ever say that.

“You should move on.”

You grab your bag, backing up towards the front door. “See you around.”

And you don’t slam the door. You don’t even yell.

You just walk out.

And even though this was casual, it hurts a lot more than it should.

You haven’t seen him properly in weeks. Sure, you’ve been in the same rooms. Same dinners, same events, same rooftop bars. But you’ve nearly perfected the art of pretending that he isn’t there. And he’s mastered pretending that it doesn’t bother him.

Or maybe he hasn’t.

Because lately, his eyes linger way longer than they should.

Especially now that you’re here with someone else.

Nothing serious. Not yet. But he’s charming. Sweet. Says nice things and refills your drink without having to ask. He kisses you sweetly, like its allowed to mean something.

And he’s present.

Lando sees it. Of course he does. Because he sees everything when it comes to you.

He sees the way your hand rests gently on this new guy’s arm. The way you lean into him. The way your smile comes quickly.

And it drives him fucking insane.

He hides it pretty well. Jaw tight, voice easy, and laughing a little louder than usual.

And later, when he finds himself beside you on the sidewalk, his shoulder brushing against yours as you walk beneath the city lights.

You say nothing. Neither does he.

But when your date turns to say something, slipping his hand along your waist, Lando’s breath halts.

A jaw twitch.

And then lowly, he’s leaning into your ear. “So this is how it is now?”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He doesn’t stop to look at you, just keeps walking, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket.

You stop walking, so does he.

“This,” he says, gesturing to your new guy. “Him.”

“What about him?” You ask, trying to ignore the fact your heart rate is spiking.

He scoff. And you stare at him.

“You don’t get to be jealous.”

His eyes flick toward you, sharp. “I’m not.”

And you smile, bitterly. “Good. Because I'm not yours.”

And he fucking hates it.

The suit zips up easy. His helmet is snug. And the radio crackles into his ears with a voice thats measured, focused. The exact opposite of what’s happening in his head.

He’s meant to be locked in. And he looks like he is. He checks his gloves, throws a casual thumbs up at the camera. But his mind? His mind is nowhere near here.

It’s on you.

Always on you now.

In the way his fingers twitch as he straps into the car. Remembering how your hand fit against his chest the last time you were in bed with him, your fingers dragging across his skin like you didn’t know what time it was and didn’t care.

It’s in the way he zones out during debriefs, eyes unfocused, thinking about the text he wanted to send, but didn’t. The one that said you looked happy with him and I fucking hated it.

And it’s the worst when he’s in the car. Where he’s supposed to be able to disappear with no emotions, no mess.

But now? It’s like you’re in there with him.

He hears you in his head, your voice, your laugh. And he hits a curb harder than he should. And Lando’s heart pounds. Not from the high speeds. Not from the car. But from you.

You with another person. You slipping further away.

And all he can think is, what the fuck did I do?

You didn’t plan on seeing him. Nor did you expect to show up at his afterparty. Especially not weeks after silence, after he told you that he needed the space, that you were a distraction.

And yet here he is.

Leaning against the bar like he owns the fucking place, jaw tight, drink in hand like he’s not on edge.

You’re talking to someone when he finally comes up behind you. And you feel him before you hear him.

“Didn’t take you long,” he says, leaning in close like its nothing. Like you’re still his to touch.

You don’t turn around. “Excuse me?”

He takes a sip of his drink. “To move on.”

You turn to face him then. “Are you seriously doing this right now?”

He shrugs, smile lazy, but his eyes are hard. Dark. “Just making conversation.”

“No, you’re being an asshole.”

“I’m just being honest.” He says, stepping even closer, just for you. “You’re the one who kept saying it meant nothing.”

You laugh, a little breathless. “Right. Because you taught me that.”

And he flinches. But then that smirk twists back into place, cruel.

“You were never supposed to catch feelings.”

“And you were?” You shoot back.

He leans in again, his mouth grazing your ear. “I never said I didn’t feel something. I just said I couldn’t do it.”

And there it is.

You stare at him. Furious. Aching.

“This is the reason I stopped answering your drunk texts.”

But he just looks at you. Dark. Possessive. And soooo fucking sure of himself.

“You’ll answer the next one.”

You’re in bed when the knock at your door comes. It’s sharp, loud, and impatient.

You let the silence stretch, knowing who it is. You think maybe he’ll leave if you ignore it long enough. But you know better.

Another knock.

“Open it.” Another knock. “I know you’re up.”

You don’t want to. But you do anyways.

And when you pull the door open, there he is. Lando, in a hoodie, eyes wild with something that’s not just anger but maybe sorrow too.

He walks past you without being invited in.

You close the door behind him, arms crossed, “You really have no sense of boundaries, do you?”

He turns, finally facing you. “You’re still seeing him?”

You laugh, cold. “Really? Straight to that?”

“I asked a question.”

“No, you made a demand.” You bite back. “And you don’t get to do that. Not anymore.”

“I just need to know.”

“Why? So you can tell yourself that you didn’t fuck it up?” Your voice is shaking now. “So you can pretend I was never yours to begin with?”

He doesn’t answer. He just looks at you. And you can see it all in his eyes. The confusion, the guilt, the jealousy. The way he misses you. The way he wants you without knowing how to have you.

“You told me to move on,” you whisper. “So I did.”

He takes one step further. Then another. Until you’re toe to toe.

“I didn’t think you would.” His voice is hoarse.

You stare at him. “That’s not my fucking problem.”

His hand moves. Fast. Grabbing your wrist, just enough to make your whole body go still. And you don’t pull away.

“You think I haven’t thought about you every fucking day?” He says, his words angry and honest. “You think I don’t see you with other people and want to rip the world apart?”

“Then why did you push me away?”

“Because I was scared,” he mutters. “Because this season is everything I’ve ever wanted in life and I can’t fuck it up.”

His hand slips to your waist, pulling you into him. And you should push him off, but you don’t. Not when his hands feel so good on you.

And when he kisses you, it’s fucking desperate. Teeth and tongue and too much heat. But you meet him equally, pulling him closer.

He lifts you, walks you backwards to the couch, and everything is frantic. Rushed.

And when your fingers slide to undo his belt. “You hate me,” he pants, dragging your shirt over your head.

“I should,” you snap back.

And still, you let him fuck you like you’re his.

It happens quietly. Slowly.

There’s no grand reunion. No apology. Not even a discussion about that night on your couch. The one where he fucked you deep into the cushions, like you were his to claim.

You just show up. And he opens the door like he was already expecting you.

No words, just the sound of your keys hitting the counter, shoes slipping off, sliding around him like you know your way around. Like nothing has changed in the last few months. Like everything has.

And he watches you. Suspiciously. A fearful kind of watch.

He kisses you first, and you kiss him back. But there’s something off in the way your hands move. Its deliberate, methodical. Like you’re checking off a box.

Your mouth is warm. Skin soft. You still sigh and moan when he pulls you onto his lap. But he feels it in the way your eyes don’t meet him.

In the way you don’t say his name anymore. In the way you flip him onto his back like you’re in control now.

And it kills him.

He wanted you back. The comfort, your laugh, the way you snuggled into him like it was thoughtless. He wanted you.

His hands find your hips, dragging into your skin, and all you do is exhale like you’re chasing the release, not the connection.

You don’t wear his clothes anymore. When you come back, he’s lying on his side, watching you in deep thought.

You crawl back into the sheets, slowly. And just as you begin pulling the blanket over your shoulder, you hear him.

His voice low, “you don’t look at me the same.”

You don’t turn around.

“You wanted it to mean less,” you say quietly. “So that’s what I'm doing.”

You show up like you always do. Late, quiet, and unbothered.

You don’t kiss him when you step inside. You just give him that half-smile, and he still lets you in.

Because the moment you’re here, all restraint melts. He wants to touch you. Wants you pressed underneath him. Wants to pretend, for a few hours, that he hasn’t ruined the one thing he seems to care about most now.

So he takes you. On the couch this time, rougher than he means to be. His fingers dipping into your hips as you ride him slow, head tipped back, hands on his chest. And you look fucking beautiful.

Detached.

It drives him insane.

“You always this quiet now?” He mutters between clenched teeth, his hands gripping so hard they might leave bruises.

You don’t answer. Just roll your hips, again and again, deeper, slower.

“Tell me who you’re thinking about,” he says, eyes locked on you.

And you meet his gaze, breathless, but say nothing.

And that’s what snaps him.

He sits up fast, grabs the back of your neck, and kisses you. Hard. Like he thinks if presses hard enough, you’ll stop pretending you don’t feel something.

“Say my name,” he grunts against your mouth. “Just fucking say it.”

You breathe it out, “Lando.”

But its flat.

And it nearly kills him.

You pretend.

You show up late, kiss him first, leave before morning. You pull his hoodies on while he’s asleep and take them off before he wakes up. You let him touch you like you’re his. But never look him in the eye for too long.

Because if you do, you’ll crack.

The last time you slept with him, he touched you like he missed you. Not your body. You.

And it made you fucking ache.

Because you know you love him. And he doesn’t even know that you’re doing everything you can not to show it.

There was no exact moment in time where you knew you loved him. You just did. And maybe it came along the way of him remembering how you take your coffee, or when he fixed your neckless. Or whenever he begged you to not go.

But then he made you feel disposable. So you pretend. You pretend like you don’t love him, but stay with him in the only way that lets you keep him.

The paddock is crowded. Loud.

Your credentials hang around your neck, and your phone buzzes. You’re walking toward the hospitality building when someone stops you. Someone you met last night at the team dinner. Who is all smiles and friendly charm.

He touches your arm when he says your name.

And suddenly, Lando’s there.

Still in his fireproofs, hair soaked from the helmet, chest rising with adrenaline, and his eyes cold. Dark.

He doesn’t say anything at first. Just steps in. Places a hand on your lower back like he owns the right. Which he does. The guy takes one look and steps back.

Smart move.

Lando doesn’t even glance at him when he speaks. He keeps his eyes on you. It’s territorial.

“You’ve got a type now, hm?”

You raise an eyebrow. “He was just being polite.”

“Looked more than polite.”

“Are you serious?”

He shrugs, but the clench of his jaw tells enough. “You said this doesn’t mean anything.”

You fold your arms, throat tight. “It doesn’t. That’s what you wanted, remember?”

His eyes trail down your face, your body, back to your eyes. Hungry. Angry.

“Doesn’t mean I want anyone else touching you.”

And there it is. That possessive, raw, honesty.

You blink. “You don’t get to say that.”

He takes a step closer. “You think I don’t notice you pulling away? That I don’t feel it every time you fuck me like it doesn’t matter?”

And your heart fucking thuds against your chest.

“You told me to let it mean less.”

“And now you hate me for it,” His voice is soft. “But you’re still here.”

He slips his hand around your waist again, his fingers fisting into the fabric of your shirt at your lower back. “I can’t have you looking at someone else like that. Not when I still—“

And he doesn’t finish the sentence. He never does.

Just pulls you in and kisses you hard. In the open. Like it means everything. But he can’t say it.

“You’re not fucking anyone else, right?” He mutters into your neck.

You exhale hard, angling your head back as he sucks a bruise beneath your jaw. “No.”

He pulls back, eyes searching. “Say it.”

You meet his gaze. “I’m not with anyone else.”

He nods once. It’s not enough.

His hand slips between your legs, rubbing slow and rough over the fabric of your panties. “This pussy’s mine, yeah?”

You gasp, hips instinctively pressing into his hand.

“Say it.”

“It’s yours,” you whisper. “Only yours.”

He fucks you like he’s trying to brand you with himself. On the bed, legs spread, hands gripping your thighs.

And its something you never want to stop.

You’re curled into his side, fingers tracing lazy patterns over his stomach. Neither of you have spoken since the race.

He didn’t win. Didn’t even make podium. And it’s been weighing on him all night.

You think that he might just fall asleep like this.

“I love you.”

The words fall from him like they slipped out before he could stop them. You freeze. His eyes are on the ceiling, but his hand tightens around you.

“I love you,” he says again. “But I don’t know how to do this.”

“I want you here.” His voice is rough. “I want you in my bed, in my fucking life, but this season is killing me. The pressure, the travel, the expectations, they’re eating me alive.”

He looks at you then. Finally.

“You make me feel like I can breathe. But that also scares the fucking shit out of me. Because I can’t lose you.”

Your heart pounds in your ears.

“You don’t have to choose,” you whisper.

“But what if I’m shit at this? What if I fuck it all up?”

“Then you try again.”

And he pulls you in. Clinging to you. Like maybe, just maybe, you’ll stay.

The night is soft.

There’s a party inside, somewhere behind the tall glass doors and the low thump of music, laughter floats.

But you’re not listening.

You’re out on the balcony. Alone. Leaning against the railing with an unfinished drink in your hand, gazing at the skyline.

And it feels like the first night again.

And maybe that’s why your chest tightens when you hear the glass door slide open. You don’t turn. You close your eyes for a few seconds.

“I’ve been looking for you.”

Your lips tug upward, glancing at your drink. “I wasn’t hiding.”

“I know,” he mutters. “Didn’t know if you wanted to be found.”

You turn around. He looks tired. Not just from the grueling season. But from everything. His eyes though. Those goddamn eyes. Are softer now. Calmer.

Your lift an eyebrow, “Did you win?”

“Not even close.”

A pause. Then, “Not if I don’t have you.”

Your breath catches. And it would be so easy to look away. Turn around and pretend he isn’t there.

He steps forward, slowly. Like a predator cornering his prey.

“I love you,” he says. “And I’m tired of pretending I don’t. Tired of pushing anything that matters in my life away.”

“I was scared,” he confesses, his hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks. “I didn’t know how to be in love and still be…still be good a this.” He gestures around him, like he’s referring to the career, the pressure. “But I don’t want to be good if you’re not in it with me.”

You swallow hard. “You made me feel like I didn’t matter when you shrugged me off all those nights ago.”

“And I’ll never forgive myself.” He whispers. “Just let me try. Let me be better.”

And when he reaches for your hand, you let him. You lace your fingers together. You let him rest his forehead against yours.

“You’re late,” you smile.

He smiles back, and lets out the biggest breath like he can finally fucking breathe again. “And I'll spend forever making it up to you.”

#lando norris x reader #lando norris smut #lando norris angst #lando norris x y/n #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x you #lando imagine #lando x you #lando x reader #ln4 imagine #ln4 fic #ln4 x reader

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softsunnyy · 4 months ago

Note

hi!!! i just saw your luke hughes thing and I LOVE IT 🥰 but I’m more of a jack girlie so could you write about jack being protective to you after some crazy devils fan is rude to you?

hi sweetie!! sorry it took me a couple days, hope u like it <33

here's some angsty and fluffy Jack just for u

the place was electric, full with fans wearing your boyfriend's team jerseys, and many wearing his last name on the back. Lights illuminating the ice, music filling your ears. People drinking, smiling children, couples in love, and friends betting.

today would be different tho, because you'll sit close to the ice, away from your friends who usually sat higher up. Jack asked you, convincing you with a couple of kisses and sweet words that made you giggle with love.

the Devils are facing the Flyers, and you hope it´ll be one of those games that has you on the edge of your seat, screaming and cheering.

your boyfriend's team has been going through a rough patch, with some heartbreaking losses and others really frustrating.

you had seen Jack in a bad mood, frustrated with himself, and receiving constant talks from different people telling him to just shoot the puck.

you´re his support, even before you were a couple. You keep him grateful, reminding him why he loves what he does so much every day. You help him enjoy, but also process his emotions, giving him a safe space to be himself; away from the cameras, the press, the judging eyes and the cruel questions.

your relationship is not that new, but for months no one outside your private circle knew about it. You both preferred it that way; private. Unfortunately, one night a video was leaked of the two of you in your car, arriving at a game when some fans stopped you. Since then you´ve also been part of his public life, where some of his fans love you, talking about how happy you make him; and others hate you, saying that the Devils' recent results are due to you and your relationship with their star.

you usually try to avoid these comments, knowing full well that most of them come from people who are frustrated, and who are trying to find a reason, someone to blame, so they don't get angry with their team anymore. You understand it, you don't share it, but you can understand where they´re coming from, and you try your best not to take it too personally.

when the game started, the speed was incredible, mesmerizing. Your eyes move, following the players. You cheer, you get angry, you get happy. You're caught up in the game, becoming one with the people in the crowd, hoping that luck will be in your favor that night.

the first two periods were tense. Some stupid penalties, many shots on goal, but no goals. The crowd is hungry. The chants from the fans are incredibly loud, stunning you.

anxiety consumes you, you want the game to move forward, for the boys to win. Besides being Jack's girlfriend, you're a fan of the sport, you understand what you're watching and you get to a point where your emotions depend a little on how that game went.

you get frustrated, you get happy, you live it as if you were playing. You even try to learn from the players, giving your boyfriend some advice when you sit on the couch to watch the replay, making him notice certain details that can help him.

that's why you feel devastated. With only 20 seconds left, in a 0-0 game, one of them steals the puck from Jack and scores the winning goal, in front of a stunned, hopeless arena, that went completely silent for a few seconds.

you see the faces of the team as they begin to surrender, sighing, convincing themselves that in the remaining seconds they´re not gonna be able to do anything.

but what hurts you the most is seeing Jack's face, and the way it fills with frustration. His stick crashed on the ice when he returned to the bench

it's a depressing end to a game that everyone thought would end differently. You could already see the articles for the next few hours, or the cruel comments from the reporters. Everyone questioning Jack, like in his first season.

with a sigh you get up, ready to buy something to drink before approaching the locker room, knowing that the boys would take a while before coming out.

as you went to buy a coffee, you tried to be quick, trying not to be seen. You thought you won, but as you were on your way to the locker room, with your coffee in hand, someone called your name, making you turn around, with tense shoulders and somewhat confused.

“yes?” you asked, seeing a man, somewhat drunk, approach you.

“you should tell your boyfriend to learn how to play, y´know?” he said, slurring his words and standing a little too close for your liking. You frowned, moving away slightly as you tried not to grimace at the smell of alcohol reaching your face.

“sure... have a good night,” you said quietly, trying to avoid the situation, feeling nervous with the interaction.

“i always said that bitches make these players play like shit,” he said, ignoring the way you wanted to leave. “Jackie’s been playing like a pussy since he started dating you.” You tried to keep walking, but he was coming up behind you, his voice rising with every word. A few people turned to look, but kept walking, clearing that area in a matter of seconds as everyone left frustrated after that game.

“excuse me, sir, i understand your frustration but…” you started to say, turning to look at him, your senses on alert and anxiety seeping into every part of your body. He interrupted you before you could finish.

“no, you clearly don’t understand, you’re just a silly brat who’s ruining our star.” He approached you again, your hand gripping the coffee tighter, full of tension.

“i’m sorry sir, i didn’t…”

“shut up!” he raised his voice, and a sharp pain settled in your chest. Your legs feel like jelly and you feel nauseous. You wanna run, scream, leave. You feel humiliated, scared, frustrated. You want to leave. You wanna throw your coffee and run to your car, away from people, away from that. “Who the fuck do you think you are?” he asked you, frowning and getting dangerously close to you.

at that moment a hand landed on your waist, fast, agile, and moved you backwards. Soon your boyfriend’s body was in front of you, facing the man, who opened his eyes wide, surprised. The man stammered, distracted, forgetting for a moment all the rage he felt.

Jack was about to explode. He was coming out of the locker room, with Timo at his side. His head was somewhere else, and all he wanted was to take refuge in your arms and recharge his energy. It was a surprise when his teammate gently nudged him with his elbow to get his attention.

his stomach dropped, his breath hitching. Anxiety, surprise, panic. He could see the way your body looked smaller and smaller.

he reacted automatically, moving before he could think twice.

“man, what a surprise,” the man said, still disoriented. Jack could smell the alcohol on his breath and frowned.

“do you have a problem?” he asked, his voice calm, although you noticed the coldness in his words. His arm stretched out at his side, preventing you from getting closer.

the man laughed nervously and uncomfortably, not looking at you again, now with his eyes fixed on the floor.

“i don’t wanna see you near her, if you have a problem, you can come talk to me or the coach, or whoever, but not her.” Jack stared at him. Out of the corner of your eye you saw everyone slowly getting closer. Timo had warned them. They were there, they were protecting you too.

“yeah, i’m sorry,” the man muttered, his face and neck flushed and still looking at the floor.

“don’t apologize to me man, apologize to her.” this time, Jack failed to hide the disgust in his voice, and he complied, looking at you with panicked eyes.

“i’m sorry, kiddo, i actually like your relationship, i’m just a little frustrated.” he tried to laugh, but when no one laughed with him he just apologized and tried to leave as quickly as possible. They’ll have to keep an eye on him from now on, Jack thought.

when you saw him disappear behind the doors, the air left your lungs shakily, the now cold coffee almost slipping from your hand. Your body leaned forward, and your free hand rested on your thigh. Jack quickly turned to look at you, and with one of his hands he gently caressed your back.

“are you okay, babe?” he asked in a sweet and low voice. He knew the answer, but he wanted to check that you were paying attention. You nodded in response, although both of you knew the truth.

they gave you a few minutes to lower the tension, and then one by one the boys and your friends approached to make sure you were okay, wishing you two a good night and then saying goodbye.

Luke isn't going to stay with you that night, since he won't be home. So before he left he came over to you to hug you tightly, almost breaking that image of security that you had tried to maintain. Whispers of comfort filled your ear before he pulled away, and with a small smile he left.

when you and Jack were alone, he took your hand and quickly led you to the car. You quickly climbed into the passenger seat, and when he sat down, it only took you a couple of seconds before you burst into tears. His arms wrapped around you tightly, moving your body and settling you on his lap. There, in his arms, was your safe place, where you could break and put yourself back together.

Jack spent the night reminding you how important you are to him, because he would never let you forget that, but at the same time, you did not forget him, and you tried your best to comfort him.

cuddled up in the bed you both share, you found your safe place again, where everything would be okay no matter what, because you have each other.

divider by: @cafekitsune

#☀️💞#softsunnyy #jack hughes x reader #jack hughes #jack hughes imagine #jack hughes x y/n #jh86 #jack hughes blurb #jack hughes fanfiction #jack hughes fic #jack hughes fluff #jack hughes one shot #jack hughes x fem!reader #jack hughes x you

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fastandcarlos · 1 year ago

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Streamer Baby : ̗̀➛ George Russell

summary: your baby is the ultimate daddy’s girl, but when george goes off to stream she doesn’t want to find herself away from him for too long

The squeals that came from downstairs immediately brought a smile to your face as you headed down to find George and your daugther running around the living room. It was typical for the two of them, charging around and causing chaos with wide smiles on their faces. Despite your constant pleas to calm things down as your daughter’s bedtime neared, George couldn’t ignore her whines to play with her and keep her entertained. They were so lost with one another that for a moment they didn’t even notice that you had walked into the room, that was until your daughter, Willow, went crashing into your leg, hitting the ground with a bit of a bump.

“Sorry love,” George smiled, walking over and picking Willow up from the ground in order to check her over.

“It’s going to take forever to get her down if she’s this giddy,” you reminded him, perching on the side of the sofa.

“Mummy, daddy kept tickling me,” your daughter complained, poking her finger into George’s cheek several times, making sure that you knew George was responsible.

“That’s because a certain someone kept climbing on me and trying to pull out my hair,” George defended, raising a questionable glance back at Willow.

“You’re both impossible,” you chuckled, knowing you had your hands full with the pair.

“But you love us,” George reminded you, standing himself up from the floor and placing Willow into your lap, making sure you had her before letting go.

“Hm, sometimes I guess you’re alright,” you teased, allowing George to press a kiss against the top of your head, and then one to the top of Willow’s. “How long do you reckon you’ll be?” You quizzed, knowing where George was heading as soon as he went to walk towards the door to your living room.

“I think Charles picked out a couple of games for us to play, we shouldn’t take long, with how rubbish we’ve all been at games recently I imagine we’ll all crash out pretty quickly.” George assured you, “but if you need me, come and get me and I’ll leave the stream.” As George went away, Willow stretched her hands out for George to come back. He poked her tongue out at her, watching as her smile grew and several giggles escaped, helped by the feeling of your hands attacking her sides.

Before Willow could cry out for him again, George left the room knowing she was still giggling and not paying attention. You moved down onto the floor to sit with her, picking up a couple of the toys that George had been entertaining her with whilst you finished your work in your office. For a while it seemed to work, but soon enough you noticed her eyes darting around the room as if she was looking for something, or someone.

“Daddy,” she muttered as soon as she met your eyes, confused as to where George had suddenly disappeared to.

“He’s playing with some of your uncles,” you told her, offering her as wide of a smile as you could make.

“Not with me?”

“He’ll play with you when he’s finished,” you assured her, scooping her up and sitting her into your lap, “why don’t you pick out a toy to play with for when daddy’s finished doing his work sweetheart?”

“I want to play daddy’s game,” Willow cried out, watching as your eyes went wide at her sudden request.

“You can’t play the games that daddy us, some of them are for adults like mummy and daddy,” you tried your best to explain to her. “I’m sure that daddy would love to play with one of your toys down here though.”

“Now?” She pushed, her impatience beginning to kick in.

“In a bit,” you sighed, almost feeling guilty that you weren’t able to keep her as happy as George seemed to. You were well aware you had a proper daddy’s girl on your hands, she doted on absolutely everything that George did, and when things didn’t go right, George was always the first person that Willow ran to whenever she felt tears threatening to spill.

Upstairs in the office that you had vacated only a few minutes earlier, George was lost in the game that he and a few of the other boys were playing. Every so often he slipped his headphones off to listen out and make sure that things were alright with you. As he went to check again, George was left confused by a banging sound that came from the other side of the door.

George stopped for a moment before excusing himself, walking over to the door. As he opened it up, two bright brown eyes stared back up at him. “Sweetheart,” George giggled as Willow innocently smiled.

“Daddy, I found you,” she proudly giggled, stretching her arms up to let George know exactly what she wanted him to do.

“I wasn’t lost,” he chuckled, kneeling down and scooping his little girl up into his arms. She rested against George’s chest as soon as he had her, cuddling into him nice and tight. George could only sigh, walking back into the room and sitting on his gaming chair with Willow against him. He didn’t have the heart to put her down, and certainly didn’t have the heart to tell her to give him some space. As much as Willow was a daddy’s girl, George was equally as obsessed with her. Although George set boundaries and tried his best to be a firm parent, he found it incredibly hard saying no to her, especially when she looked at him with her sweet smile.

George didn’t need to say anything, as soon as Willow appeared on the screen the comments on his stream began to increase. Everyone was thrilled to see her, George’s fans especially were in love with any interaction they saw between the two of them, particularly whenever George had Willow in the paddock with him with all of the cameras around.

“Lots of your uncles are here,” George grinned, placing the mic of his headphones in front of her.

“Hi,” she waved, shouting into the mic, unaware that she had just deafened all of the boys in the process.

“Sorry about that,” George laughed as he placed his headphones back on again, “this one’s a little sleepy so she’s going to stay here for a bit.”

“Such a whipped dad,” Lando couldn’t help but tease as he watched the duo on his screen, “I don’t know how your wife puts up with you.”

“Excuse me,” George sighed, shooting a glare down his camera. “I’ll have you know being a dad is the best thing in the world, you just wait, when you’ve got a baby doting on you one day you’ll understand,” he added, unaware of the many fans swooning as they watched the screen and saw George fiercely defend his family.

“You’re the best dad,” Alex interrupted, chuckling as Willow shuffled to get even closer to George. “You two have the sort of relationship I want to have with my daughter when I get older.”

“Still annoyingly cute,” Carlos interjected, “the rest of us have some catching up to do.”

“We used to always say we’d have a grid of our own children when we retired, and at the moment that’s a grid of one,” George reminded them all, disturbed by the door opening out of the corner of his eye. You let go of a sigh as you opened it up to see Willow snuggled into George’s side, watching as he smiled across at you, assuring you that he didn’t mind that she had interrupted his stream.

“Hi love,” George whispered once he had muted his mic.

“I thought I’d lost her,” you sighed, leaning against the doorframe and taking in the sight of the two of you before you.

“I think someone might have been missing their daddy,” George explained, pressing a kiss against the top of Willow’s head. “Sorry, I should’ve told you that I had her here.”

“Don’t worry, just as long as you don’t mind having her there,” you smiled back at George.

“I don’t mind.”

“Tell her that we don’t mind too,” Lando called out through the headphones having overheard your conversation.

“The boys say she has to stay,” George smiled, knowing that you couldn’t say no to those guys either. “Once she’s asleep I’ll let her rest and tuck her in when we’re finished here if that’s alright for you.”

As you noticed your little girl resting against George, you didn’t have it in you to disturb her. You’d fallen asleep enough times on George to know just how comfortable it was and so you couldn’t deprive your little girl of that comfort too.

“I’ll leave you guys to it if you’re happy,” you softly spoke.

“We’re all good, you go and get some rest.”

˗ˏˋ 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ! ´ˎ˗

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sharb · 2 years ago

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So i keep seeing people sharing game maker dunking on unity.

I'll be real with you. People behind game maker are probably just as bad.

They pushed a subscription service out when the tool uaes to be a life time license and im sure they're going to find a way to force life time licenses into a subscription model.

It's being handled by the company running OperaGX.

And most recently they pushed an update that broke the sprites on every project because they rushed the update out because they wanted to meet their monthly update deadline for the subscriptions.

If your starting out game dev i would actually advise staying away from game maker.(speaking as someone who used the program for over 10 years till it started crashing on me frequently and making me have to keep buying life time licenses)

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demie90s · 11 days ago

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Reader is a cheerleader at UConn and Nika’s been giving her attitude for weeks—except it’s not hate, it’s jealousy. After a game where reader’s talking to someone else, Nika corners her behind the arena and finally breaks. “You wanna keep playing with me, or you wanna admit you’re mine?”

You Knew

Nika Muhl x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: You’re UConn’s star cheerleader. Nika Mühl swears she can’t stand you, but her recent attitude tells a different story.

Word Count~ 0.8k

Genre: Jealousy, Flirtation, Confession

Warnings: Cursing, light possessiveness, tension

After a long-ass win, I’m still sweating under these damn stadium lights, half-wiped glitter on my cheek and pom-poms tucked in my tote, when I see her again. Nika Mühl, brooding across the court. Brown hair pulled back, jersey clinging to her frame, brows knit. She’s been like this for weeks. No words. No waves. Just that sharp-ass glare from across campus like I keyed her car or stole her last protein bar.

I should care. But I don’t. Not when I’ve seen her smile before—twice, tops—and it made my chest feel like it short-circuited.

So yeah. I don’t feed into it.

Instead, after the game, I’m posted near the back exit of the arena, talking to an old friend. A girl from high school, all dimples and good energy. Nothing serious—just catching up, laughing, reminiscing. And I feel it before I see her.

That stare.

The kind of stare that’s not just cold—it’s hot. Angry, tight-jawed heat that travels up your spine. I glance over my friend’s shoulder and sure enough: Nika. Leaned back against a wall like she owns concrete, arms crossed, mouth tight. She doesn’t wave. Doesn’t blink. Just watches.

We finish talking. My friend hugs me, walks away. I barely make it two steps before Nika grabs my arm and pulls me into the shadowed hallway behind the arena. It’s dim. Quiet. Heavy with something unsaid.

“Something on your mind?” I ask, yanking my arm free.

Her accent comes out low and fast, clenched like her jaw. “You wanna keep playing with me, or you wanna admit you’re mine?”

I blink, slow.

“Oh?” I lean against the wall like I’m bored. “I didn’t know you could speak. I thought you were all glares and sulking.”

Nika moves in closer. I can smell the sweat and lavender on her skin. Her hand plants beside my head, trapping me, tall and close and pissed off.

“I glare,” she murmurs, voice tighter than usual, “because every time I see you smile at someone else, I think about making you cry on me instead.”

I bite back a grin. “Jealousy looks real good on you.”

“You think this is a joke?”

“No.” I trail my fingers down the collar of my cheer uniform, slow. “I think you’ve been waiting weeks to say something. You finally done staring or…?”

She exhales sharp through her nose, and her gaze drops to my mouth.

“I hate you,” she whispers.

I smile wider. “No you don’t.”

Her mouth crashes into mine so hard my back thuds against the wall. And just like that, the glares start to make sense.

I gasp against it, but she doesn’t give me space to recover. She’s on me. Pressed so close it’s like she’s trying to crawl inside my skin. Her hand slides down to my waist, fingers tightening, gripping like she’s staking her claim.

And then that other hand—God—tangles in the back of my hair, slow and deliberate. She tilts my head how she wants it, like she’s kissing me for both of us. Not soft. Not sweet. But hungry. Like she’s been holding back since the first time I smiled at someone else and didn’t even know she was watching.

Her grip shifts—hand sliding from the back of my head to my jaw, her thumb dragging across my bottom lip like she’s testing me. Then she grips my chin and angles me up. Our mouths clash again, harder. Messier. Tongue slipping out like she can’t be patient anymore. It’s not cute. It’s not neat. It’s just need.

Sloppy. Deep. She licks into me like she’s starving, like she’s been mad for so long she doesn’t remember how to do anything else but devour me.

And I let her. Hell, I melt.

She moans—quiet but rough—into my mouth when I grab her jersey and pull her closer like I want this fight. My back hits the wall again from the force of her hips pressing forward. She’s fully in control now, and I can feel it in every breath. Every kiss. Every roll of her tongue against mine.

When she finally pulls back, it’s only because she wants to look at me. Her lips are red and wet. Her brown eyes drop to my mouth, then flick up—dark and wrecked and satisfied.

“Open your mouth,” she murmurs, accent thicker than ever. My lips part automatically. She slides her thumb inside, presses down on my tongue, slow.

“I knew you’d listen.”

She pulls her thumb out, replaces it with her mouth again—deeper, wetter this time, kissing like she’s pissed at how much she missed this before it ever started. When I whimper, just a little, she smirks against my mouth.

“You think I was gonna let you flirt around like you’re single?”

I pant between kisses. “You haven’t even asked me out.”

Her fingers curl into my waist again. “Why would I ask?” she growls. “You were mine the second you made me jealous.”

She goes back to kissing me like it’s punishment.I let her. Every second.

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264 @yorubagirlsworld @daffodil-darlings @h4untedghOul @followthesvn @hibiscusblu @sevikasleftbicep @swiftie4evr @babyphatbrat @sivensblog @beeop223 @huntedghOul @tpwkrosalinda @lightsgore @em-nems @salemsuccss @villain-ryuk @ihrtsarahstrOng @liyahh037 @sillystarv @somedetailsinthefabric @essence-134340 @mochelisgf @soph1asticated @heheievidbri @unvswrld @breezybellab @planet-ghoulborne @art-ofmusic @toorealrai

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meow286 · 2 months ago

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some ramblings today. with a little sketch and its tie down

drawing cats is always easy and almost automatic for me since theyre basically my foundation. so when i want to warm up on some concepts, theyre usually my go to.

recently ive been studying art again more seriously, really looking at where i was lacking and doing studies, reading a lot of art theory and reference books, life drawing, everything i can. getting better at grouping shapes, values, focusing on clarity of silhouette, simplifying information, have all become my priority. i really try to think the entire time im drawing now instead of going on autopilot. so even revisiting drawing cats occasionally, now feels new as im doing it with a new mindset/perspective on what i want to achieve. i tend to practice drawing 6-8 hours a day but the goal of where i want my ability to be still feels so impossibly far away.

i havent animated very much at all in the past year, and im trying to rekindle my love and drive for it, it scratches an itch in me that drawing never does. over the years of being a lonely teenager who tied their self worth to their online art presence, my self esteem was linked to how well i could perform artistically any given day eventually lead to me crashing and burning mentally. i could not animate without significant stress and feeling like i was going to throw up because i knew the end product wouldnt satisfy me. so i avoided doing it for almost a year.

i know a lot of younger artists follow me and its easy to fall into this trap, esp with how competitive it is and the incentive of social media attention. but it will make you miserable, and upset. even know i have to repeat to myself "its ok to make bad drawings" and that comparing myself to others has no purpose. this sounds overly dramatic since a lot of you know me as a former warrior cats animator, but ever since i made animation my career this thought process became increasingly difficult to escape and would affect my performance at work sometimes. i got a job working with dogs for a while since i didnt want to have the mental toll of doing professional work anymore. im trying to get back in the game now, almost reteaching myself art in a way. and ive been feeling a lot better.

im thinking of making some sets of cat anatomy tips, reference drawings, and my thought process when stylizing them to out up on gumroad for free. maybe some animation cycles and breakdowns too. if you read this far 😀 hi

#last year was hard #i lost two people in my life and two pets #i couldnt find animation work so i gave up #i felt worthless #recovering from it very slowly #but surely

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linkcharacter · 7 months ago

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Really like the recent analysis. I know I speak of curly in a more defensive way than most but I generally try to get the point you made across at the end of the day with my analyses on him and his behaviors.

People love to lock analyses around Curly solely based on what he could’ve done as a physical action and have this avoidance to acknowledging the realistic barriers at play when it comes to those solutions. It’s. The game tries to treat the pre-crash section as if they are grounded in social and organizational realities. So the what if he did this questions about the situation always fall short when the real answer is he either couldn’t or it wasn’t an actual viable option. But then when they talk about what he actually did do it’s surrounded by such bad faith interpretations that his actions were completely intentional or still not affected by outside sources. He’s a very much “road to hell is paved with good intentions” character. He cared too much and that’s a big part of his problem.

There’s such a “perfect victim or nothing” mindset in the fandom where people can’t admit that there are no such things as perfect victims but that also shouldn’t mean that even if there were it would absolve them of the mistakes they made. People want to moralize every action of every character that they don’t realize that some actions are done without any specific morale factor. People just do things, like you said. People assumed failed intentions immediately flip the thought process behind them “he meant to do good but bad happened, he must be bad” and that just is not how people work. It’s how perceptions work but only of the observer.

It’s such a sensitive topic because, yes, you are supposed to be frustrated, even mad, at what Curly didn’t do, but you have to acknowledge the fact these were good intentioned acts even if that good intent did jack squat in the end. That his responses are human and it’s supposed to be uncomfortable and hurt that they were realistic faults of his.

He enabled his friend and it ended bad for everyone including him. No one really tries to argue this fact but everyone seems to think it has to be tied to the morale dilemma and not certain human natures and social factors.

This is all to ask, why do you personally lean towards thinking Curly wouldn’t turn Jimmy in? Are you speaking in the short term of realizing how bad he got or long-term/overall? I feel like he could but it would not be easy and no matter the necessity he’d always have this guilt at feeling bad for doing it.

Ah yes Curly the most imperfect human man character.

Yep yep yep absolutely, people love to assign morality onto characters and call them good or bad and diminishing the depth and nuance of Mouthwashing, filling discussions with bad-faith interpretations or speculating on inconcrete understandings of the incomplete, intentionally vague, context. I adore Mouthwashing to no end for having this oppressive suffocating and constant atmosphere surrounding everything in the game. Really shows off that the environment festers, no one well-meaning guy could create a happy ending with individual actions alone because it's all systematic.

To elaborate from your question tho, at the point Curly was in (if Anya wasn't pregnant scenario), definitely no don't think so (would depend on Anya a too on whether or not she would go to the authorities outside). Curly knew Jimmy was a danger, and I do believe that subconsciously Anya's report to him on Jimmy gnaws at him, but not vividly enough. I want to point out a moment where Anya tells him about the pregnancy, he begins asking "Who would you-", then he's nudged by Anya that she told him and he should know who it is, and he does, instantly saying he's known him a long time and will talk to him. That moment of, for a second not connecting that Jimmy is the assaulter responsible just makes me drag my palm across my face for how much of a man (derogatory) Curly acted like for one dialogue line. Like he just 'forgot' for a brief moment that Jimmy harassed Anya prior? Granted, he instantly believes and takes Anya seriously, immediately dropping the search for the gun he was on in that scene, realizing the severity of the situation and of Jimmy. We also don't know what Anya has told him specifically, how long ago it happened, etc. but the 'implications' of the scene make me believe Jimmy's known sexual harassment on the ship slipped Curly's mind due to him being more invested in "the bigger picture" of Jimmy, not latching onto a harmful and a very serious fucking trivia fact about Jimmy because of his perception of who his friend is as a whole (and with his foggy sleep-deprived mind at the moment), 'losing a needle in a haystack' with how much unknown history Curly and Jimmy shared, so to say.

Maaaybe in some other circumstances, like if Jimmy didn't crash the ship or smth long term I could see him doing it, it would take a lot effort like you said, no matter the necessity. We will never know. If we're going into speculation and imaginary scenarios though, if Anya HERSELF were to try and get justice, Curly would be backing her up undoubtedly (still not disconnecting himself from Jimmy though and feeling guilt on his behalf). But that's all suppositions from my reading of the characters.

#mouthwashing #mouthwashing game #curly mouthwashing #jimmy mouthwashing #anya mouthwashing #i am so enjoying this dude like having a civil discussions is so euphoric fr like man thanks for the thoughts #asks #linkch yaps

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ms-demeanor · 10 months ago

Note

On insurance: I still live with my parents and don't know a lot yet about the sorts of things adults usually have to spend money on. I've always been skeptical of things like insurance and credit cards because it seems to me they wouldn't be selling that if they didn't expect to make money from it. I talked to my cousin a while ago about credit cards and basically came to the conclusion that they do that because they're betting on the customer getting sloppy and letting their debts stack up, and the way you beat that and get money from credit card companies is just by being careful.

I'm a little more confused about insurance though because it seems much more straightforwardly like a gamble they will simply not take if it won't pay off for them. Like, you don't go to a casino because every game they play at a casino is one they've done the math on and have determined that statistically most people will lose money on most of the time. Is insurance not kinda the same? Where they estimate the risk and then charge you an amount calculated to make sure it probably won't be worth it for you?

I know if you have a car you legally need car insurance so everyone knows you can pay for another car if you crash into someone, and I gather that here in the US at least health insurance companies have some kinda deal with hospitals so that the prices go down or something, and there's a reason I don't fully understand why not having health insurance is Really Bad. But we get to pet insurance, or like when I buy a concert ticket and it offers ticket insurance in case I can't make it to the show, and surely if they thought they were gonna lose money on that they just wouldn't sell it, right? Or they'd raise the price of it until it became worth the risk that something bad actually will happen? Wouldn't it only be worth it to buy insurance if you know something the insurance company doesn't?

So the deal is that most people don't use their insurance much, and often insurance companies will incentivize doing things that will make you use your insurance less.

So, for example, you can get a discount on car insurance if you have multiple cars because people who insure multiple cars are more likely to be responsible drivers (the ability to pay for multiple cars stands in as a representation of responsibility here). The longer you go without an accident, the lower your premiums get because that means that you are not costing your insurance company anything but you are paying into the system. The car insurance company's goal is to have the most responsible, safest drivers who never get into car accidents because they can predict (roughly) how much they're going to have to pay out to their customers and they want the number they pay out to be lower than what's paid in. So they try to discourage irresponsible drivers by raising their rates and encourage responsible drivers by giving them discounts.

Health insurance companies often do the same thing: I recently got a gift card from my health insurance company because I had a visit from a nurse who interviewed me about my overall health and made sure I had stable blood pressure and access to medications. It is literally cheaper for my insurance company to give me a $100 giftcard and hire a nurse to visit me than it is for me to go to my doctor's office a couple of times, so they try to make sure that their customers are getting preventative care and are seeing inexpensive medical professionals regularly so that they don't have to suddenly see very expensive professionals after a long time without care.

Insurance in the US has many, many, many problems and should be replaced with socialized healthcare for a huge number of reasons but right now, because it is an insurance-based system, you need to have insurance.

We're going to use Large Bastard as an example.

Large Bastard had insurance when he had his heart attack and when he needed multiple organs transplanted. He didn't *want* to be paying for insurance, because he thought he was healthy enough to get by, but I insisted. His premium is four hundred dollars a month, and his out of pocket maximum is eight thousand dollars a year. That means that every year, he pays about $5000 whether he uses his insurance or not, and if he DOES need to use the insurance, he pays the first $8k worth of care, so every year his insurance has the possibility of costing him thirteen thousand dollars.

The bill for his bypass surgery was a quarter million dollars.

The bill for his transplant was over one and a half million dollars.

His medication each month is around six hundred dollars. He needs to have multiple biopsies - which are surgeries - each year, and each one costs about twenty thousand dollars.

Without health insurance, he would very likely be dead, or we would be *even more* incapable of paying for his healthcare than we are right now. He almost ditched his insurance because he was a healthy-seeming 40-year-old and he didn't think he'd get sick. And then he proceeded to be the sickest human being I've ever known personally who did not actually die.

Health insurance costs a lot of money. It costs less money for people who are young and who are expected to be healthy. But the thing is, everybody pays into health insurance, and very, very few people end up using as much money for their medical expenses as Large Bastard did. There are a few thousand transplants in the US ever year, but there are hundreds of millions of people paying for insurance.

This ends up balancing out (sort of) so that people who pay for insurance get a much lower cost on care if they need it, hospitals get paid for the care they provide, and the insurance company makes enough money to continue to exist. Part of the reason that people don't like this scheme is because "insurance company" could feasibly be replaced by "government" and it would cost less and provide a better standard of care, but again, with things as they are now, you need to have insurance. Insurance companies are large entities that are able to negotiate down costs with the providers they work with, you are not. If you get hit by a car you may be able to get your medical bills significantly reduced through a number of means, but you're very unlikely to get your bills lower than the cost of insurance and a copay.

Because of the Affordable Care Act, which is flawed but which did a LOT of good, medical insurance companies cannot refuse to treat you because of preexisting conditions and also cannot jack up your premiums to intolerable rates - since Large Bastard got sick, he has had the standard price increases you'd expect from aging, but nothing like the gouging you might expect from an insurance company deciding you're not worth it.

Pet insurance works on the same model. Millions of people pay for the insurance, thousands of people end up needing it, a few hundred end up needing a LOT of it, and the insurance companies are able to make more money than they hand out, so they continue to exist. This is part of why it's less expensive to get pet insurance for younger animals - people who sign up puppies and kittens are likely to be paying for a very long time and are likely to provide a lot of preventative care for their animals, so they're a good bet for the insurer. Animals signed up when they are older are more likely to have health problems (and pet insurance CAN turn animals away for preexisting conditions) and are going to cost the insurance companies more, so they cost more to enroll (and animals over a certain age or with certain conditions may be denied entirely).

This weighing risk/reward is called actuarial science, and the insurance industry is built on it.

But yeah it's kind of betting. The insurance company says "I'll insure ten thousand dogs and I'm going to bet that only a hundred of them will need surgery at some point in the next year" and if they're correct, they make money and the dogs who need surgery get their surgery paid for out of the premiums from the nine thousand nine hundred dogs who didn't need surgery.

Your assessment of credit is correct: credit card companies expect that you will end up carrying a balance, and that balance will accrue interest, and the interest is how they make the money.

And it is EASY to fuck up financially as an adult. REALLY EASY. But you are still likely to need a good credit score so you will need a credit history. That means that the correct way to use a credit card is to have a card, but not carry a balance.

To do this, never buy anything on the card that you can't afford. In order to avoid needing the card for emergencies, start an emergency fund that is at least 3 months of your total pay *before* you get a credit card. That seems like a *lot* of savings to have, but from the perspective of someone who has had plenty of mess-ups, it's a lot easier to build up a $10k emergency fund than it is to pay off a $10k credit card debt.

If you don't understand how interest works on credit cards, or why a 10k savings is different than a 10k debt, here are some examples working with $10k of debt, 23% interest (an average-ish rate for people with average credit), and various payments.

With that debt and that interest, here's how much it costs and how long it would take to pay off with $200 as the monthly payment:

Fourteen years, and it would cost you about twenty four thousand dollars in interest, for a total amount paid of about thirty four thousand dollars.

To save $10k at $200 a month would take four years and two months.

Here's the same debt at $300 a month:

4.5 Years and it costs about six grand (again, just in interest - sixteen thousand dollars total). Saving ten thousand dollars at three hundred dollars a month would take just under three years.

Here's the same debt at $400 a month:

3 years, about $4000 dollars (fourteen thousand dollars total). Saving ten thousand dollars at $400 a month takes just over two years.

The thing is, with all of these models you're going to end up paying one way or another. Insurance vs out of pocket is you weighing the risk of losing a fair amount of money by signing up but not using the system, or potentially losing a catastrophic amount of money by not signing up.

For credit cards they really only work if you know you're never going to need them for an emergency, because an emergency is what you're not going to be able to pay off right away. I didn't have an emergency fund when Large Bastard had his heart attack and needed surgery, or when we moved between states suddenly, or when we moved between states suddenly AGAIN and needed to pay storage costs, or when Large Bastard needed a transplant, or when Tiny Bastard got in a fight with my MiL's dog, and the fact that I didn't have an emergency fund is still costing me a lot of money.

So, young folks out there: what's the takeaway?

Get insurance. Get the best deal possible, which usually ends up being the one you sign up for early. You may think you can let it ride without insurance, but man in the six months between when I graduate college (and lost my school insurance) and when care kicked in after 90 days at my job I got electrocuted and needed to go to the ER. If that hadn't been a worker's comp payout I would have had thousands of dollars in bills. Something could happen. You could break your leg, you could get hit by a car, you could suddenly find out that you actually have heart disease at twenty, you could develop cancer. Have insurance, you need insurance. You legally need car insurance in the US, and you financially need health insurance. If you have a pet, I think it's a good idea for them to have pet insurance.

Credit cards are not for emergencies, they are not for fun, they are not for buying things that are just ever so slightly out of your budget, they are for taking advantage of the credit card company and managing to get by in a system that demands you have a credit score. ONLY put purchases on your credit card that you already have cash for. Before you get a credit card, build up an emergency savings so that you aren't tempted to put emergency charges on your card.

If you DO end up with an interest-bearing debt, pay it off as fast as possible because letting it linger costs you a LOT of money in the long run.

Stay the fuck away from tobacco and nicotine products they are fucking terrible for you, they are fucking expensive, and they are not worth it put the vapes down put the zyns down put the cigarettes down I will begin manifesting in your house physically i swear to fuck. Knock that shit off and put the cash that you'd be spending on nicotine into a savings account.

Take care, sorry everything sucks, I promise that in some ways it actually sucks less than it did before and we're working on trying to make it suck even less but it's taking a while.

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