#I just can’t stop laughing at it because it’s so silly

[demonlorddiva]

Obey me! Brothers when your drunk!

You did really good on a test you’ve been working on and Diavolo said you could have anything you wanted! Any other human would ask for money, a vacation, or anything their hearts desired. But you? Your simple. Without the ability to buy human world alcohol in the devildom you asked diavolo to pick you up some for a night of fun! (And chaos) you decide that staying home and drinking is the best option as to not be in danger of other demons. How will the other brothers react?

*Obvi the reader is over 21 or the age of consuming alcohol in their country

Lucifer

You decided that since drinking demonus with him was one of your regular dates in his office, you could do the same thing and drink with him!

He’s glad to see you don’t want to leave the house. And that you want to drink with him makes him even more at ease

Plus his pride is soaring that hes the first person to see you drunk

The night is simple, drinks, music, and a wonderful conversation

It’s not often he gets to let loose and drink to his hearts desire, and with you? What a better time

If your walking funny he immediately picks you up and takes you to his room at the end of the night

He wants to make sure your okay through the night (and he wants to cuddle) (he’s v affectionate when he’s drunk)

He knew the night was happening, so by his bedside is pain meds, water, electrolytes, the whole nine yards

Will cuddle you in the morning and tease you about the silly things you said

Mammon

PARTY TIMEEEEE

You don’t wanna leave the house

He whines

You put your foot down

INDOOR PARTY TIMEEEE

You know he has his room set up for the perfect movie night, pillows, blankets, popcorn, the whole nine yards

Has a drinking game set up so you both can play

And ofc he set up the rules so you would both be hammered even before the movie ended

But the popcorn ran out and you guys are still hungry

Y’all have to hold hands as you go downstairs to the kitchen to make some instant noodles for each other

Lucifer catches y’all being too rowdy and forces y’all to go to bed

Mammon is absolutely WRECKED when he’s hungover (the hangsiety is real) not to mention his head pounding and his stomach hurting

You both spend the next day cuddling, with you telling him how much you love him, and how you think he’s still so cool even after you saw him faceplant on the floor

Levi

A night??? With you??? And you’ll be drunk??

He assures you multiple times that your safe and he absolutely doesn’t want to take advantage of you (not that you were worried in the slightest about that) (Levi bb calm down)

Y’all decide to play devil beerio kart (it’s like beerio kart if you’ve ever played, I’ll explain the rules)

Basically NO DRUNK DRIVING

During one race, you have to finish your beer (or other drink) you can drink it all before the race, stop any time in between, or stop before you finish the race and chug your drink

After a few races y’all are LIT

You guys end up yapping for a while before you put on an anime and cuddle (Levi’s to drunk to be nervous)

When you both wake up your hurting and hungover and Levi is FREAKING

The hangsiety is real with him

Just keep cuddling with him and tell him it’s okay and to fall back asleep

Satan

He seems like the guy who doesn’t care to drink

But for you? And to see you drink? But of course

I think y’all pull out a board game or card game and take a shot every time you lose

He’s curious after every drink how your feeling even though his ability to remember things is getting fogged

He’s giggly when he’s drunk, and that’s a somewhat rare sight in your day to day life so you spend the rest of the night laughing and talking

Hates that your hurting in the morning (even though this was your idea)

Has all the medicines and drinks for you on hand to help you feel better

Demands silence in the house so your headache doesn’t get worse

Asmo

PARTY TIME

I mean.. this is a special occasion right? Just because you can’t leave the house doesn’t mean you can’t have fun!

A slumber party is in order with all the works! Face masks, popcorn and snacks, and doing your nails of course.

Y’all get silly and chat and gossip all night

But you have to tell him NO PICTURES even if he begs

I feel like y’all get super sappy drunk girl talking

“NO YOUR THE GREATEST PERSON IVE MET”

At some point, after a bit of drinking someone (both of ya) get the great idea to start prank calling people

You: “is your refrigerator running?”

Beel: “uhhh yeah”

You: “well then you better go catch it!!” *click*

The other brothers had to deal with Beel guarding the fridge in fear that it would ‘run away’

We all know you guys are BIG BABIES the next day being hungover

Be prepared to cuddle and complain together all the next day

Beel

He also doesn’t seem to be a drinking guy

But he’s down to try anything! I think he’d like cocktails with fun ingredients

DEF loves Bloody Mary’s

So I think that’s the night, y’all spend your night in the kitchen coming up with different drinks and getting drunker along the way

Y’all order WAYYY too much Chinese takeout and have a great time

Feel like beel gets sappy when he’s tipsy and tells you how much he cares about you and y’all snuggle and stuff

Makes you a DELICIOUS hangover meal for you

Like a Waffle House setup but at home

Def cuddles you and is worried if you feel bad the next day (I feel like beel doesn’t get hangovers)

Belphie

Feel like he’s not a drinker as well

But the opportunity to drink with you? And he’s the only one who can see? Oh yeah he needs to see this

Y’all decide a movie drinking game.

Example: watch pirates of the Caribbean and drink every time they say captain or ship

Y’all get lit QUICK

Decide to pull a prank on Lucifer and you guys talk FOREVER about the plan, what your gonna do and it’s happening TONIGHT

.. queue YALL falling asleep and never do anything LMAO

The next day is full of bedrotting and sleeping

He makes fun of you for anything silly you did

But you can make fun of him back, the way he was stumbling was really funny

In true drinking fashion I wrote this while I was drunk HELLO

Obviously not proofread love you!!! Been really sad about the story not continuing with obey me so I’ll be posting my drafts and more ideas a bit more often for a while

[gottagobackintime]

Can’t stop thinking about Trent just making noises because he wanted to join the conversation and help them like…. Who are you??

[fuckyeah-bears]

Sometimes I just stop and giggle at how incredibly stupidly silly and ridiculous I am with the whole bearotonin, fuckyeah-bears, swearotonin thing. I really am unhinged but I amuse myself sooo much lmfaoo

[opera-ghost]

me laughing at the same jokes i’ve heard 1000 times every time i listen to/watch a recording of phantom

[rurinnfane]

Naughty shibes with obsessive licking behaviors get the donut of shame

[pearlymel]

That boy is mine.

୨୧ Summery: hsr men and their love languages.

୨୧ Including: Aventurine, Jing Yuan, Sunday, Veritas Ratio, Argenti.

୨୧ Warnings: none. Gn! Reader, All fluff, just the hsr men spoiling you like how you should be spoilt.

♡︎ Aventurine— receiving gifts.

“Err, Aventurine? This is the fifth diamond bracelet this month.”

“Today is a special day.”

“You say that everyday…” you whisper to yourself in amusement while your fingers brush over the expensive material sealed around your wrist. You try not to sound disappointed because—you’re not really disappointed but rather confused or guilty for him spending so recklessly with you.

Upon seeing the guilt he knew so well etched on your face, he quickly steps closer, “It looks pretty on you, which is all the reason i need.” He teases, his hand snaking towards your lower back. “You didn’t complain about the shoes and necklace I bought you,” he shrugs with a grin plastered on his face and you shake your head in return.

“I appreciate everything you do to me, i just dislike it when a lot of money is wasted.” You gently scold him but he brushes it off with a laugh. 

“Darling, you need to stop thinking like this. Money was meant to be spent.” He playfully flickers your forehead, before gently caressing the spot with his thumb.

“How can i ever spoil you back, hmm?” He grins at your question, his thumb that was caressing your forehead moves to your chin. Holding it with a firm, yet gentle grip. “I told you, silly,” he murmurs, leaning forward to bring his face closer to yours. “All you have to do is be cute, and give me a kiss every once in a while.”

“… is that it?” Your figure almost slumps at his too simple requests. From now on, you’d try harder to shower him with all the kisses and affection.

“That’s all it takes. Your cute little reactions and your pretty face are more than enough to spoil such a simple man, like me.” He says, his hand slipping down to your waist, pulling you closer. You take ahold of his face with your hands, pulling his face to give his lips some attention, his hand tightening around your waist “will this suffice?”

“I’m a bit greedy, one more.” He whispers, and you press your lips against his again for another chaste kiss. “Again,” he says in a bit more demanding tone this time, taking over the lead and kissing you even deeper, trailing his lips along your jawline then a final kiss just below your earlobe. Your whole face burning just from simple kisses.

“I will get you anything you want, everything you desire,” he whispers against your neck, “A yacht, a penthouse, jewels, whatever you want. My only condition is you stay with me, and make those cute little noises when i spoil you.”

“Cute little noises?” You squint your eyes at him, pulling back to see him, “you mean.. my surprised expressions?”

“Exactly like that. The soft gasps, wide eyes, and adorable smile.” You grins while taking you in a crushing embrace and you only laugh back at him.

♡︎ Jing Yuan— physical touch.

You suddenly can’t breath when the general came home particularly clingy today. Big arms preventing you from escaping his hold with his lips not leaving any spot untouched on your face.

“Missed you today,” he would whisper in his thick raspy voice, hands roaming around your body with strands of his hair almost covering your face, “my pretty spouse.” His voice is muffled from his face buried in your neck.

“You’re the clingiest man i know.”

His suddenly stopped for a moment, expression darkening slightly, “you know other men?”

“Ohh, the most jealous one too.” You chuckle when he shoots you a pout, sometimes you could imagine him looking like a big sad lion.

“Not that I’m complaining.” You press a tender kiss to his forehead, and just like that, his shoulders relax and his golden eyes seem to shine just a bit brighter. “Was work harsh on you today?”

Jing Yuan let out a drawn-out sigh, "Exhausting is more like it," he replied with a tired smile. "Still need to train Yanqing later tonight per his request,"

His expression softened as he looked down to meet your gaze.

"I've been looking forward to this time with you all week." He hums, resting his head on your chest and your hand immediately finds its place on his hair. Jing Yuan smiles as he feels your delicate fingers take out the red ribbon from his long, white hair, letting it cascade down to his shoulders.

"I should call in sick tomorrow," he grins when he hears you quietly chuckle, beginning to lean on you as your fingers worked through his hair. 

“Is this the general of the luofu?” You decide to tease him a bit, his rough hands squeezing your thighs in return. “No, this is just your spouse now. All putty for you."

♡︎ Veritas Ratio— Quality time.

Ratio was sprawled on his stomach, a large book held in his hands. He was so engrossed in the content that he didn't even hear you enter the room until you jumped onto the bed.

“What are you doing?” You simply ask as you make space for yourself next to him, He turned his head to glance at you for a second before returning his attention to the page.

"Reading a book on advanced mathematics," he replied, his voice sounding a bit distracted. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

“Oh the boring stuff.”

"Boring? Excuse you. This stuff happens to be quite fascinating. Not everyone can appreciate the complexity and beauty of mathematical theory, you know."

Your brain goes short circuit at his explanation, and you shake your head instead. "You can read your amazing stuff to yourself while i... Maybe brush your hair?"

Ratio couldn't help but scoff at your suggestion. "Brush my hair, really? What, do you think I'm a doll or something?"

But secretly, the idea of you running your fingers through his hair had a certain appeal to him. He shrugged nonchalantly, feigning indifference.

"Fine, go ahead. Do with my hair whatever makes you happy, I suppose."

"Yay," you immediately grab the brush from your drawer and gesture him to lean back against your chest, and he immediately obliged. Melting back against your chest while holding his book to his lap. “I love you,” you then whisper and he only hums in return.

You huff at his silence, "I thought you were going to say something like 'oh i love you to the moon and back!' or 'i actually don't love you'." You say in a mocking tone.

Ratio chuckled again, shaking his head in mock annoyance. "Oh, so you're expecting some sappy, romantic cliché, are you? Sorry to disappoint you, darling."

He reached up and gently poked your forehead with his index finger. "I don't think I could actually say something like that with a straight face. I have standards, you know."

Then you tug his hair gently with the brush, showing your annoyance, making him gasp. "Hey, careful with the hair," he protested half-heartedly, feigning irritation. "Do you want me to go bald before I'm thirty?"

"At least you look pretty now." You hand him a mirror to show him the creation you've made on his hair. Tiny braids. 

“Aeons, what have you done to my hair?”

"I made an artwork, thank you very much."

He took another look at his reflection in the mirror, tilting his head to examine the braids in his hair from different angles.

“Artwork, you say?” he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Looks more like a bird’s nest, if you ask me.”

You blink twice at his words, "Wait, what if birds actually lay their eggs on your hair?" His smirk vanished, replaced by a look of mock horror. "Oh gods, please don't give them ideas," he said, you both quickly start unbraiding his hair.

♡ Sunday— Acts of service.

“Is this better, love?” Sunday asks softly when he took off his coat to drape it around your shoulders instead, and you nod your head. He wouldn’t want his beloved to catch a cold now. 

Both of you decided to go on a walk in penacony as a date, just to enjoy each other’s presence for the night.

He wraps a protective hand around your waist, moving to walk on the side of the street while you were safely walking on the sidewalk.

“I wouldn’t ask for anything more.” You smile brightly under the light poles. "I’m relieved to hear that, darling." Sunday replied with a pleasant hum, giving your hips a gentle squeeze as you leaned into him for warmth. He smiled at your laugh, finding your happiness to be such a joyous sight. you had always been such an angelic being in his eyes; just the sight of your smiling and laughing was enough for his heart to flutter madly in his chest.

"careful, dont trip. watch your step."

You step to the side just in time to avoid tripping over a few rocks, giving him the sweetest smile, "Always caring for me, my love."

Sunday felt his cheeks flush ever so faintly at your smile. The soft feathers of his wings grazing his cheeks in a failed attempt to hide the redness. Your sweet personality and mannerisms tugging at the strings of his heart in an almost dizzying manner. 

"i cant possibly let my angel hurt themself on our date, now can i?"

It was your turn for your cheeks to flush at his words. Your tried turning around to avoid him seeing your face when your hand landed upon a bush of flowers.

You carefully pluck the crimson one before handing it to him, "for you,”

He took the flower from your hand and twirled it between his fingers, admiring the pretty, crimson hue. he tucked it behind his ear, the red complimenting his hair nicely.

he chuckled in amusement. “it's beautiful. how did you know red is my favourite colour?"

"Is it? Last time i gave you a blue shirt and you said it was your favourite colour." You laugh, plucking another flower to tuck it right at the fluttering wings next to his ears. 

“Hmm, everything you give me is my favorite. That’s only fair.” For some reason the way Sunday talks, makes you believe for sure that you’re definitely safe with him.

♡ Argenti— words of affirmation.

“I cannot get enough of you.” he murmured against your hair. It’s quieter than usual now with his presence, which is something you don’t hate either.

"You flatter me with your words, darling." You whisper, feeling protected around his arms, with your head resting on his chest where you could listen to his heart beat rather quicker than usual.

"And you flatter me with your presence, my love," Argenti replied, his voice a deep and velvety rumble. His hand rose to gently brush a stray strand of hair away from your face, his touch lingering on your cheek for a moment too long.

The steady rhythm of his heart seemed to pick up its pace as it thumped against his chest, a subtle giveaway of his growing excitement. "You make my heart beat faster than it should," he confessed, a hint of a smile playing on his lips.

“Your words always manages to make me fall head over heels for you.” You say dreamily, taking a few on his red end strands of hair to twirl with. He laughed softly, shifting his position so he could look down at you. He gently tilted your chin up, his thumb gently grazing your jawline.

"Where do I even begin? Your beauty is without equal, a sight so captivating it robs me of my breath every time I lay my eyes upon you," he whispered, his voice soft yet filled with affection. "Your intelligence is like a rare gem, sharper than the finest sword and just as precious. Every moment spent with you is a treasure, my love."

You shift in your place a bit to take a good look at his face, and you only see gentleness and sincerity behind it.

“I lied, my skin might burn from all this sweetness.” You admit, pressing your chin against his shoulder.

Argenti laughed again, and you might think it’s the sweetest sound you’ve ever heard. He gently wrapped his arms around yours, "Seeing the effect I have on you is a sight more beautiful than any sunrise," he purred, voice dripping like honey, his hand now moving to glide down your neck, fingers tracing patterns on your nape.

"I will never tire of making your skin burn, my love. Each blush and shiver you give me only adds fuel to my desire for you." His thumb traced circles on your nape, and you could just sleep right here.

“I never thought I would be this… desire-able?” You mumble, the hint of insecurity showing, making him sigh.

"Nonsense,” he tightens his arms around you, “The way you move, the sound of your voice, the way you look at me... it drives me to the brink of madness. I find myself craving you at all hours of the day, constantly longing for your touch, your presence alone is enough to make me weak in my knees." 

You frown at his words, relaxing right here, in the arms of your lover, “you’re too precious.”

“Likewise, darling.”

[yanderenightmare]

TW: angst, toxic traits, somewhat bullying, breakup

fem reader

You’re his first girlfriend. He’d never bothered with anything serious before—it seemed too messy to trifle with. He doesn’t know why he suddenly decided. Suppose he’d been feeling a little bored, and something within him saw you as a fool-proof opportunity.

It wasn’t because you were anything special. Actually, it was more the opposite. You didn’t seem like too big of a risk. You were just a normal, honest, nice person—a bit of a loser, too, if he was being honest. He could do a lot better and pick someone of the same caliber as him, someone with a cooler style and presence, but then he’d only get caught up in the competition.

You were more to his appetite—a dorky, blushy lil’ nerd who giggled nervously at everything he said. In other words, no competition at all. You’d never dare break his heart because you frankly couldn’t afford it. And he found solace in that imbalance—knowing he held all the cards and that you could only be grateful he’d chosen you.

At least, that had been what he’d thought. But then, here you are, holding his hands from across the table in a cute little sundae café, telling him how this just can’t work anymore.

He’s confused for a whole minute before it sinks in.

You’re breaking up with him.

He’s confused afterward, too.

You’re breaking up with him?

That can’t be right. You must be joking. He almost laughs, almost cackles, but ends up staying completely silent. Something about that pitiful look in your eye makes his throat tight, and he almost thinks he’s going to cry instead. 

You’re breaking up with him. You, with him. His foot starts to tap. Have you hit your head or something? You’re dressed in a hoodie, for crying out loud, with not an ounce of make-up on—effortless, as if his perception of you wasn’t any of your concern while you’re fucking breaking up with him.

No way. There’s just no way. You must be confused about something, is all. There’s absolutely no way you’re doing this.

“What are you talking about?” It comes angry. Louder than he’d intended, enough to make you jolt in your seat. A couple of heads even turn your way. You wait for them to turn back before answering.

“I just think we’re a bit too different. And… I don’t know…” You were trying to find ways of telling him you weren’t in love with him but ended up deciding it was unnecessary—it wasn’t exactly something he needed to hear even though you had a lot you could say.

You’re rude and arrogant and treat me like some rescue pet you’ve nurtured back to health. You act like you’re embarrassed to be with me even though you’re the one without any friends. You’re selfish and spoiled and—

“If you don’t know, then there’s nothing to talk about. Quit being silly.” He has a furrow between his brows as he picks up the pink menu between the two of you, scanning the different types of milkshakes you could share and forget all about it. After all, you weren’t breaking up with him—that would just be absurd. “Let’s get strawberry.”

“No—”

“Guess we could get mango if you want that instead—”

“I’m not sharing drinks with you—”

“What? You tryna lose weight or something? Not like anyone but me is gonna see you when all you wear are those baggy hoodies all the time. Speaking of which, you should wear mine instead, they’d suit you better—”

“Listen.” You stop his rambling. “I’m not sharing drinks, and I’m not wearing your clothes. I’m not being silly, either. I’m being serious. It’s over—”

“No, it’s not.” His fist bangs against the table—the look in his eye on edge and twitchy. “I asked you why, and you had no good reason—so it’s not, not until you convince me.”

You had wanted to avoid it, but it seems he wouldn’t allow you the grace to spare him. That being said, you hadn’t meant to be so brutally honest…

“You’re a narcissist. You don’t treat me like a girlfriend. I’m more like a charity case or some type of experiment to you. Half the time, it feels as though you’re just playing a game with everyone in your life like pawns for you to shuffle around the board as you see fit.” You’re the one with the furrowed brows now, unable to bite your tongue as you’d kept it in all this time. “I think you should seek help and get your controlling tendencies straightened out before having any type of relationship. Or don’t. In any case, I don’t think I’m the right girl for you.”

There’s a silence. The chatter of the café seems distant. You feel half inclined to apologize as you look at him and stare down the glassy tabletop as if trying to find his reflection for comfort—but then he beats you to the punch.

“You’re right…” he starts softly, mustering the words, and you’re almost proud to see him take it so well, but then there’s a viscousness to his next words. “You’re not the right girl for me.”

When he looks up again, his face is warped—callous and seemingly disgusted by the sight of you. Something about it even seems to lash out at you, seeking revenge.

“I can’t believe I thought I saw something in you,” he sighs. “Turns out you’re exactly what everyone warned me you would be—just a plane-boring old Jane. What a joke—wasting so much time on something so worthless. Forget breaking up with me, I should have broken up with you a long time ago.”

He gets up in a rush and bears over the table, both palms laid flat upon the surface.

“Charity case?” he seethes, then conjures a fake laugh and an even faker grin. “I couldn’t have put it better myself. Enjoy sitting here alone like the loser you are.”

And even though you’re the one watching him walk away while ordering a chocolate sundae for yourself, you can’t help but feel sorry for the poor guy… 

That had been the most emotion you’d ever witnessed come from him.

Obviously, he doesn’t take it very well, stumbling through the café before bursting out the door, but even he’s surprised by how disheveled it had made him. He’s hyperventilating when the fresh air hits him, almost sprinting to his car so that he can lock himself inside it.

But the car only makes it worse as he’s far from alone in there. You’re everywhere. On the hood, waiting for him with a smile. In the rearview mirror, waving at him. In the seat next to him with a pout, asking if you can stay over. In the backseat, naked with a coy twinkle in your eye.

He knows! He has some of your underwear at home—he’ll threaten to pass them around campus unless you beg him to take you back. No, what’s he thinking!? You’ll never come back to him that way. Fuck, what can he do, what’s he supposed to do!? He just called you worthless—what that fuck was he thinking?!

The tears startle him as they drip down and splash upon his whitening knuckles, where he grips the wheel for dear life even as the car stays completely still—safe and sound in the same plot.

There’s a light pink lip balm on the dash. Yours. You must have left it there—maybe on purpose? No… you don’t play games like that. You’d been honest in the café. The fact terrifies him—his heart seems to want to reject it at all costs, the way it tears in his chest.

He picks the slim pink stick up and rolls it around in his hand, which can’t seem to stop shaking. You’d sat on his lap in this very seat, laughing at something dumb he’d said while applying the very same balm on his lip—kissing his forehead while saying something sweet. He knows it wasn’t, but he imagines you’d whispered that you loved him.

When he smears the balm around his lips this time, he imagines kissing you and your soft lips and that everpresent smile he never bothered telling you was pretty.

He’s such an idiot. The birds in the parking lot take flight at the jostling of his car, but no one hears the roar.

And as he sits there in the following silence, wallowing in his own self-pity and regret, he can’t help but feel like the lead of some angsty teen romance.

And like the lead in an angsty teen romance, he swears… whatever it takes… he will win you back.

You will be his again.

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Dabi, Hawks ♡ JJK – Gojo, Naoya, some young type of Sukuna, or Toji ♡ HQ – Tsukishima, Oikawa, Sakusa, Miya twins ♡ BLLK – Reo ♡ AOT – Eren

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[i2sunric]

𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍𝐋𝐘 (l.hs)

PAIRING: heeseung x reader (f)

SUMMARY: due to a storm, his parents are stuck in a motel for the night while you are stuck at his house. with wi-fi not working, heeseung can’t think of anything better than recreating the scenes of your smutty books.

WARNINGS: established relationship, unprotected sex (don’t be silly, wrap your willy!), fingering, standing sex (?), missionary, pussy eating, masturbation, dirty talking, blowjob, oral (m and f receiving), rough sex, chocking, i lied about the doggy style, pet names (angel, baby), lmk if more, NOT PROOFREAD.

PUBLISHED: 13th August 2024

WC: 3.7k

TAGLIST: (permanent) @stolasisyourparent @jaeyunsbimbo @jwnghyuns @bangtancultsposts @shawnyle @jooniesbears-blog @skzenhalove @ro-diaries @onlyhyunjin @xcosmi @strawberrhypen @heeheeswifey (oneshot) @trizdoniki @love4hee @strayy-kidz @baribaaari @shirizula @astratlantis @jaeyungxrl @heestarry @heeseungismymanz @mitmit01 @rayofsunshineeee @heesexual74 @deezbin @jakeswifez @nikiswifiee @hqqj @diorfmu @isa942572 @yjwluvs @norihoyeon @starggukies @shiningnono @sunpov @iamliacamila @strawberrhypen @gnvi-eve @wildflowermooon @kaykay11sworld @erenswifesposts @star-hoon @aubaee @lvnglysunoo @heebear @enhypenlovre BOLDS COULD NOT BE TAGGED.

a/n: honestly the intro sucks and so does the outro but i swear the smut is GOOD. literally 3k words of filthy porn ngl. enjoy lol. please LIKE & REBLOG to spread and let me knows your thoughts 💗

What was supposed to be a cozy Thursday night ended up in you being forced to stay at Heeseung’s house for the night.

Forced? Not really, you enjoyed the excuse of spending more time with your boyfriend. Because of a flooding caused by the storm outside, you weren’t able to go back home.

But neither were his parents, who were supposed to have a nice date and ended up being blocked by the horrible weather.

The sound of the raindrops tapping against the window filled the room as Heeseung turned off the shower.

You were laying on his bed with your back to the wall as you peacefully read your book, thankful that your sixth sense made you bring it.

Heeseung entered the room with only a towel wrapped around his waist while he used another to dry his damp hair.

“Reading still?” He asked, nudging the book with toe. “Ew.” You stated, pushing his foot away “And yes.”

Heeseung just chuckled and moved to get his clothes from the drawer “Heard from your parents?”

He hummed “I called them before showering, they said they’ll stay at a motel,” He put his boxers on “But before they could say more, the line cut off.”

You threw a glance at the window “This storm is going to destroy a lot of things.”

Heeseung struggled to put on shorts and then rounded the bed, the mattress lowering where his weight was.

“I bet they’re having some wild sex right now.” You joked, flipping another page of your book.

Heeseung pinched your side “Ew? I don’t really want to think about my parents going at it.” He laughed, laying down beside you.

“Careful, you might have a brother soon.” You joked again, earning another gentle pinch.

A couple of minutes passed by and Heeseung groaned “Wi-fi doesn’t work.” He threw his phone at the end of the bed. “I can’t play games.”

“Poor you.” You cooed, caressing the hand he had placed on your hip, his chest pressed against your back.

“Can’t you put your book down and give me attention?” You could hear the pout in his voice “No boy, I’m at an important point.”

“Evil.” Heeseung murmured as he settled into a more comfortable position, strangely not going anywhere to do something else.

You felt his hand on your side, relaxed as well as his breath even. ‘He must’ve fallen asleep’, You thought, as you flipped another page of your book, unable to stop your eyes from reading the scene unfolding before you.

If Heeseung was to casually open his eyes and read even one line of the chapter, he would certainly make fun of you.

Who even reads smut in their boyfriend’s bed?

You felt his hand flex on your stomach but you didn't really mind, he would always move uncontrollably when asleep— sometimes, even kicking you.

As your mind proceeded the words written down on paper, your body reacted to it, almost unconsciously.

You could feel your core pulse in need, your body temperature raising and at the same time goosebumps appeared on your skin.

It always happened, you couldn’t help the way your imagination wandered with the characters of the book, the tension and the way they cared for each other. It was all too tempting, you could feel your stomach fill with butterflies.

But your boyfriend was sleeping and you didn’t want to disturb him, knowing he already had troubles falling asleep — the reason why he always stayed up late to play games —, so you kept quiet.

You felt Heeseung shift behind you, the hand on your stomach circling your waist until he was able to pull you against his chest, his breath hot against your ear.

You held your breath as he changed position, not making any sudden movement while he used you like you were a teddy bear.

Gulping down, you waited a few beats before focusing your attention back on the chapter.

It’s not like you and Heeseung had never gone further than third base, but it was always so… vanilla.

You longed for someone to use you for your own pleasure, to talk you through your multiple orgasms, to mark you up and manhandle you like a doll.

But you would never have the courage to confess that to Heeseung.

Yes, you two had been together for almost a year and half though you weren’t ready to open up to your contorted fantasies. Afraid that he may run away, you loved him too much for that.

So, you hid in your imagination, burying your nose in books that filled the void inside of you.

Letting out a quiet sigh, you tried to calm the fire igniting your bones, but your hips shifted uncomfortably, the ache between your legs too strong to be ignored.

Suddenly, Heeseung spoke to your ear, voice low and husky “You want to show me too?” You jolted and closed the book, catching your finger in middle, hissing at the pain.

You turned your face around and caught his gaze, something different inside it. Something primal.

“I-I thought you were sleeping.” You said, blinking faintly and Heeseung smirked, “I was reading with you.”

He reached the book from your hand and like a fool, you let him take it. He opened the page where you had left your finger in and cleared his throat “He looked at her with a strange urge, his attention gliding to her face,” He started reading.

“His voice was low when he said ‘Show me, show me how you touch yourself when you’re alone in the middle of the night’.”

The heat that was once in your stomach moved to your cheeks, embarrassment coating your expression.

“It’s just a chapter, I was skipping it.” You tried to reach back for your book but he held it up, sitting “Ah, lying is bad, Y/N.”

Heeseung’s smirk was cocky “You seemed pretty into it.” You scoffed, “Give it back.”

Your boyfriend was clearly enjoying it, the way you blushed and the flustered look on your face. He licked his bottom lip and eyed you up and down.

Only when you lowered your gaze, unable to meet his, did you notice the hard-on he was sporting. Was he enjoying it the same way you were?

“There’s no wi-fi.” He stated, “And my parents aren’t home, don’t you think we should occupy our time?”

This side of him was something you had never seen, perhaps, had he the same hidden likings as yours? Looked like you were about to find out.

“How?” You asked, your voice hoarse, barely yours. Heeseung glanced back at the page and said “Take off your shorts.”

Your breath hitched in your throat, “W-What?” And he just chuckled darkly “Do you think I didn’t notice your body language, mh? Do you think I didn’t see how you were craving… this?” He raised the book.

“Now, take off your shorts or I’ll have to do it myself.” Normally, you would comply, but you were feeling bold, adrenaline shooting in your veins, so you said instead, “Make me.”

His eyes darkened, his brow raised. He placed the book on the bed and crawled towards you as you backed away until your back hit the headboard.

He kept eye contact while his fingers hooked around your shorts, and instead of his usual slow pace, he yanked them off.

You gasped at the sudden force, soon enough your shorts were laying on the floor “Isn’t this what you want?” He questioned.

“You want someone to dominate you, uh? To show you what’s your place?” Your whole body shivered from his words as you mindlessly nodded.

“All this time I’ve been gentle, afraid to make you uncomfortable,” He gripped your panties “But all you wanted was to be fucked, hard, isn’t it?” He ripped them off you, the sound of fabric stretching making you gasp again.

He smirked and threw the messy fabric on the floor, with your shorts “So, I’ll follow what you like.” He pointed at the book resting on the duvet “Play with yourself.”

You widened your eyes. Heeseung’s behaviour was different from his usual one, though you couldn’t say you didn’t like it. Lord, you were drenched just from his words and he could see it, the way your juices coated your pussy, spread in front of him.

You gulped and slowly moved your hand down, reaching your clit which you started circling.

A soft hum escaped your lips at the sweet feeling and you watched him, his gaze so primal and full of lust as he took in the sight of you touching yourself.

Just a few beats passed before he asked “You know what she does now, right?” And you nodded, lifting your hand up to his lips. He hummed and took them inside his mouth, his warm tongue twirling around your digits.

The taste of you, even if it was just brief, was enough to make his head spin, so delicious and intoxicating.

You removed them “Let me watch while you fuck yourself.” He said and was suddenly aware of your position. Of how open you were in front of him, your folds clenching around nothing.

Heeseung raised an impatient brow and you hurried to coat your fingers in your juices, rubbing them against your entrance before thrusting one inside.

You moaned, your fingers brushing against your g-spot right away, given all the times you’d done this.

Heeseung licked his bottom lip, the taste of you still lingering in his mouth, on his tongue. He could feel his shorts grow tighter by the minute, his desire for you overtaking any rational thought.

“One more baby, I know you can take it.” He urged and you complied, adding a second digit to your ministration.

Heeseung let out a groan, his eyes locked on you as you brought pleasure to yourself. He quickly took the book back in his hands and flicked the page, a wicked smile on his lips.

“Yeah, bet you’ll like this.” He said as he pushed himself down the bed and took you by the back of your thighs, tilting your body until it was pending at the edge of the bed.

You stopped your movements and pulled your fingers out with a ‘POP’ sound, resting on your elbows to look down at him “Hee?”

“Don’t worry, angel.” He pried your legs open, his breath fanning on your cunt, making you squeeze your eyes “Just need to taste your sweet pussy.”

And then you felt it, the swipe of his tongue across your folds, your mind clouding from the pleasure as soft gasps escaped your lips.

Heeseung ate you like a starved man, alternating sucking on your clit and fucking you with his tongue, his strong grip prevented you from squirming around.

You rocked your hips against his mouth, needing to chase the pleasure building inside your lower belly.

You reached a hand and placed it on his head, your fingers tangling in his locks, “Mh, that’s it, angel.” He murmured, “Fuck my tongue.”

And so you followed his orders, moving with deep and slow thrusts, just enough to send jolts of pleasure through your jody as Heeseung stuck his warm tongue inside of you.

Soon, your movements grew sloppier and faster, your lips parted “I’m— I’m gonna—“ And before you could even finish your sentence, your orgasm hit you, making your back arch off the bed, your legs shaking.

“This was so hot, baby.” Heeseung pressed a few more kitten licks on your clit before raising himself, caressing your thighs with his thumbs.

You looked up at him, your breath still uneven from the great amount of pleasure he had put you in.

He gave you a small smirk before reaching behind you and taking your forgotten book back. He flipped the pages “Spoiler, she gives him a BJ.” He said.

You chuckled, your body now recovered as you sat up “And you don’t want it?” You batted your eyelashes.

Heeseung took a steady breath. “Don’t tempt me.” He quickly searched further one the book, scanning lines and as he found something he liked, he pointed at it, a small laugh escaping his lips.

“As much as I love feeling your mouth around me, I want to feel you whole.” He murmured.

You sat up, crawling towards him to the edge of the bed “Maybe I want to.”

His breath caught in his throat, your vicinity and your words going straight to his cock “The way she does.”

Heeseung went back to the chapter where it all started, scanning the lines until he read “After making her see stars, he quickly unbuttoned his jeans, his gaze dangerous. ‘Your moans were so sweet, darling.’ He murmured, lowering his jeans and boxers, his cock sprung free.” He paused to gulp.

“He took the back of her head and moved her ‘till her neck bent in an awkward position, his red tip brushing against her lips.” He lowered the book.

“Is this how you want it? Rough?” Heeseung questioned and you nodded “Might as well follow the script.” You shrugged.

A low groan built in his throat, you tugged the hem of his shirt “This off?” Your eyes glistened with fake innocence.

Heeseung swiftly worked his shirt off, throwing it on the floor. It’s not like you had never seen him without a shirt on, you were used to him during beach dates or pool parties, but it was always so breathtaking.

Heeseung smirked, noticing the way your hungry stare was studying his chest. In the blink of an eye his shorts joined his shirt, his cock hard and angry, some pre-cum smeared over the tip.

“Be a good girl and open up for me,” He murmured as he climbed on the bed, his hand clutching the headboard to keep himself steady.

You quickly laid down, his hips hovering on your face. You looked up at him, doe-eyes looking ever so pure… And then you took him all in your mouth.

Heeseung threw his head back at the feeling of your tongue swirling around his cock, your head bobbing back and forth.

“Fuck,” He breathed out, his eyes meeting yours “So good, always so good.”

He caressed your cheek, his thumb grazing gently your skin as his hips bucked, meeting your pace.

He then pulled out, making you frown which was soon transformed when his lips met yours.

You could feel his cock twitching between your breasts, one of his hands squeezing it as his lips claimed yours.

The kiss was sloppy and messy, both of your tongues moving together, his spit down your throat.

He was delaying his orgasm, you noted, because he would’ve cum just from a few licks of yours.

And then he pulled his lips away from yours to thrust his throbbing length inside your mouth again “Mh… Yes— Shit. You’re so good, angel. Mouth made just for me.” He praised as he moved.

You hummed, sending waves of pleasure all through his body.

You gripped his thighs, bobbing your head faster, desperate to bring him the pleasure he deserved.

Heeseung understood and gripped the headboard with both of his hands, his hips thrusting inside of your warm and wet mouth. He hit the back of your throat, making you gag “I’m so close.” He breathed out.

At his words, you ignored the burning sensation building in your throat and hollowed your cheeks, with a few more thrusts he was emptying himself with a groan.

When he pulled out, you licked any drop of cum that spilled out your mouth and hummed happily.

Heeseung chuckled, leaning down again to capture your lips in a messy but loving kiss.

You playfully bit his bottom lip and he pulled away, yelping “Brat.”

You smiled at him and sat up, your voice just briefly hoarse “What happens next?”

Heeseung’s gaze darkened but his words were serious “You sure you want to continue?” He sighed softly, “Baby, I don’t want to hurt you.”

You smiled reassuringly and beckoned to the book “Time to change chapter.”

Heeseung let out a quiet groan, his cock visibly twitching “He fucks her against the wall.” He narrated what he had read “Hard, hand around her throat… is that what you want?”

Just the idea of doing it that way had you drenched down there, a shiver ran along your spine “Yes, Hee.” You breathed out, and to emphasise you add “I need it.”

“My nasty girl.” He practically growled as he got up from the bed, taking you with him and slammed you against the wall of his bedroom.

You yelped when your back hit the cold surface, the tapping of the raindrops on the window your background music.

Heeseung claimed your lips again as one of his hands snuck to squeeze your backside, his fingers kneading it.

You could again feel his hard cock pressing against your stomach, its warmth infecting your core.

“I’ve always wanted to fuck you,” He whispered on you throat “To have you milk my cock as I take you so hard you can’t say a coherent word.”

You rocked your hips against his, a clear effect of his words, your arms wrapped around his neck.

As if you weighed nothing, he raised you and you wrapped your legs around his sculpted waist.

Without any warning except for the aligning of his cock, he slammed deep inside of you, making you moan out.

Heeseung wasn’t the biggest cock you’ve seen, but he surely was the longest. You could feel him so deep, he could probably even reach your stomach if he tried hard enough.

You gripped the back of his neck like your life depended on it as he moved without any mercy, pulling all the way out until the tip just to slam back in, knocking the air out of your lungs.

He snuck one hand between your breasts and reached your throat, wrapping it around it. He gripped, not enough to choke you but good enough to make you light-headed.

His cock pounded hard into you, driving your brain into nothing but a puddle of his name, the one you screamed and moaned.

Your nails dug into his shoulders and he grunted, rewarding you with a deeper thrust, one you can almost feel in your centre, where the familiar knot was tightening.

Your eyes rolled back, just moans and whimpers escaping your lips.

Heeseung removed the hand from your throat and gripped your neck instead, letting your lungs that were screaming in protest fill with air up to their capacity.

He moved so your forehead pressed against his, both of you panting in each other’s mouth, your pussy clenching around him.

He groaned, he put one of his hands on the wall to steady himself as his hips kept bucking fast on yours, the sound of skin slapping mixing up with the rain’s.

“Is this what you like, baby?” Heeseung asked, moving his face to gently nip on your neck.

Your whole body felt sensitive from the attention he was giving it, from his small hickeys to the way he kept hitting your sweet spot “Y-yes.” You croaked out “Feels s’good, fuck.”

Heeseung grinned and stilled, twitching inside of you with a groan.

Before you could even comprehend it, he had you with your back on the mattress, never pulling out of you.

Your legs spread open, eager to feel him in you, to let him claim him.

“Fuck,” He grunted out, his pace never once faltering as he gripped your thighs to help himself, surely there would be marks the next day “Feels like heaven inside of you.”

You answered with a muffled whimper, not sure if your brain could even form out a word anymore.

He leaned on you, chest pressed against chest as he hid his face in the crook of his neck, his hot breath hitting your skin.

You rolled your eyes back, the pleasure building inside of you almost unbearable “Hee..” You breathed out, gripping his forearm to warn him where words couldn’t reach.

“I know,” He murmured, “Me too, baby…”

You cried out as you tried to delay your orgasm the same way he could do, but the pleasure was too much and before you could even try to resist more, you saw white.

Your back arched off the bed and squirmed around, your walls clenching tight around Heeseung who, despite your state, never stopped thrusting.

“Shit— Where do you want it?” He asked, because it was in some ways a first timer. First time going rough, first time going raw.

You couldn’t find your voice, your eyes watery from the impact of your orgasm, so you wrapped your legs around his waist, trapping him.

He frowned “Are you— Fuck.” You felt his cum filling you up to the brim, the sensation so sweet a gasp left your lips as he rocked slowly, adrenaline lowering.

After a couple of minutes where neither of you had the energy to move, Heeseung raised himself and offered you a warm smile “How was it?” He questioned as he stood up.

The sight of you, sprawled on his bed with both your seeds running down your thighs was enough to make him pop another boner, which earned him a side eye from you.

“Don’t worry, baby.” Heeseung chuckled, opening one of the drawers to retrieve one of his shirts and helping you in it. He then carefully cleaned you up, dried the sweat running down your forehead and after putting back on his shorts and underwear, he laid beside you.

One of his arms snuck around your shoulder, he placed a gentle kiss on your forehead “You’ll have to go commando, since I ripped your panties.” You giggled, hugging him tighter.

“I really enjoyed… this.” Heeseung smirked, “I bet.” He glanced at the book, now resting on the bedside table “Come to me when you start another book, yeah?”

Heeseung absentmindedly squeezed your breast through the shirt “I’ll make sure to recreate it all… even may steal some of the lines.”

Content that he wasn’t going to judge you for your strange likings, rather supporting them, you let yourself be held as the storm outside slowly died, the breeze hitting your skin as you fell asleep, safe in his arms.

[pucksandpower]

Second Heart

Happy Nation: A Series of Standalone Fics

Lewis Hamilton x Senna!Reader

Summary: all you’ve ever wanted was to be able to race just like your Papai … no matter the cost (or in which always going for a gap that exists runs in the Senna family)

You sit cross-legged in front of the TV, shoulders hunched, the remote clutched tight in your little hand. The screen crackles, and there he is — Ayrton. Papai. His yellow helmet blazes under the bright afternoon sun, the car flying down the straight, smooth as a bird on water.

Your eyes don’t blink. The sound of engines growls through the speakers, vibrating all the way to your heart. It’s like he’s right there. Alive.

And so fast. So, so fast. You almost feel like you’re in the car with him, that if you close your eyes, you could taste the gasoline and the rubber, the wind whipping across your face.

“Papai …” you whisper, pressing the volume button louder.

Adriane steps into the room, the clink of her bracelets soft but steady. She pauses when she sees you, arms crossed, one hip jutted out.

“I thought you were doing homework.”

You don’t answer, too lost in the footage. The video cuts to a slow-motion shot of Ayrton weaving through the rain, tires spinning in the spray like magic. They call it genius — what he did at Monaco, at Suzuka, at Donington Park. To you, it’s just your Papai being Papai.

“Turn it off.” Your mother’s voice sharpens now. She hates it when you watch these tapes. You’ve heard her say it before, more times than you can count — It’s not healthy. You shouldn’t keep living in the past. But you don’t feel like you’re living in the past. You feel like you’re meeting him for the first time, every time.

“Just five more minutes,” you plead without looking away.

“No.”

“But I-”

“I said no, agora!”

Her tone makes you flinch. The remote slips from your hand onto the floor with a dull thud. But you still can’t tear your eyes from the screen, where Ayrton’s car crosses the finish line, the Brazilian flag draped over his shoulders as the crowd roars. Your heart beats faster. There’s a strange energy in you, like the buzz before a storm. You push yourself up to your knees, your voice small but determined.

“I want to race.”

Adriane’s laugh is immediate and sharp, like glass shattering. “Don’t be silly.”

“I’m not being silly!” You twist around to look at her now, the words spilling out. “I wanna race, Mãe! Like Papai!”

Her face changes. The air shifts, heavy and strange. You see it happen — the tightness in her jaw, the way her smile falls away like it was never there.

“No.”

“But-”

“No!” She snaps, louder this time, and it makes you shrink back. “Absolutely not. Never.”

You bite your lip, feeling the burn at the back of your throat. But you don’t stop. Not yet.

“Why not?” You whisper.

Your mother exhales sharply through her nose, as if the question alone is an insult. She crosses the room in two quick strides, crouching down until her face is level with yours. Her hands, delicate but strong, grip your shoulders tighter than usual.

“Because racing is dangerous,” she says, enunciating every word like she’s trying to hammer them into your skull. “Do you understand me? It’s not a game. It took your father from us.”

Her voice wavers on the last sentence, but you don’t care. There’s something stubborn growing in you, something you don’t quite recognize yet.

“Papai loved it.”

“And look where it got him,” she shoots back, her voice sharp as a knife.

You blink, stunned by the words. She’s never said it like that before. She sees your expression — hurt, confused — and her face softens, just for a second.

“Sweetheart …” She sighs, brushing a strand of hair from your forehead. “I know you miss him. I miss him too. Every single day. But I won’t let racing take you away from me.”

“But it won’t-”

“Enough.” Her voice is final, the way grown-ups’ voices get when there’s no more room for argument. “This conversation is over.”

You open your mouth, then close it again. She’s already standing up, brushing invisible dust from her jeans. The TV hums in the background, the commentators babbling about pole positions and podiums.

Adriane snatches the remote from the floor and jabs the power button. The screen goes black, as if Papai never existed at all.

You feel hollow.

Your mother stands there for a moment, the silence thick between you. Then she crouches again, her hands cupping your face this time, thumbs brushing over your cheeks.

“Listen to me.” Her voice is quieter now, almost pleading. “I lost your father. I can’t-” She stops, swallows hard. “I can’t lose you too. Okay?”

You don’t nod. You don’t speak. You just stare at her, your little heart breaking in ways you don’t fully understand yet.

“I’m serious,” she whispers, her forehead resting against yours. “No racing. Not ever.”

And then she kisses the top of your head, soft and lingering, as if that alone could erase the conversation, the dream, everything. She walks out of the room, her footsteps fading down the hall.

You sit there for a long time, staring at the blank TV screen, fists clenched in your lap. Your chest feels tight, like something inside you is being squeezed too hard.

You think about Papai. About how he smiled in the cockpit, how the car seemed to dance under his hands, how the crowd chanted his name like a song. He wasn’t afraid.

And neither are you.

You pick up the remote again. Your thumb hovers over the play button, hesitant for just a moment. Then you press it.

The screen flickers back to life, and Ayrton is there, flying through the rain like a miracle.

You smile.

One day, you think.

One day, you’ll race too.

***

The front door clicks shut behind you as you step into the house, dropping your school bag with a heavy thud. You bend down to untie your sneakers, already rehearsing what you’ll tell your mom — how your science project earned a gold star, how you managed to trade a snack with João without getting caught. You have it all planned, down to the way you’ll grin when she offers you that after-school snack.

But as soon as you straighten up, the voices hit you.

Loud. Sharp. Angry.

You freeze, one hand still on your shoelace.

“You have no right — none — to tell me how to raise my daughter!” Your mother’s voice is sharp, like glass breaking. She’s in the living room. You can’t see her from the hallway, but you don’t need to. You can imagine her perfectly — the tight set of her mouth, the way her arms probably cross over her chest.

And then, another voice, familiar in a strange way. Low and hard. “I’m not telling you how to raise her, Adriane. I’m telling you what she told me — how she called me crying because you refuse to let her chase the only thing she’s ever wanted.”

Alain.

Your heart skips. You know him. Everyone knows him. Papai’s fiercest rival — and, in the end, his friend. The man from the stories, from old photographs your mother keeps locked away. Alain, who came to the funeral and cried even when the cameras weren’t on him.

Why is he here?

You step closer, drawn by their words like a thread pulling you tight. You press yourself against the wall and peek around the corner, just enough to see them.

Adriane stands in the middle of the room, arms crossed exactly like you pictured. Her blonde hair falls in soft waves over her shoulders, but her face is tight, her jaw locked in anger. Alain stands across from her, looking just as frustrated. His hands move as he talks, fast and insistent, like he’s trying to grab hold of the air between them and shape it into something that makes sense.

“She’s seven!” Your mother snaps, her voice cracking at the edges. “She doesn’t understand what she’s asking for.”

“She understands better than you think,” Alain fires back. “She understands perfectly. She called me in tears — tears, Adriane — because you shut her down without even listening.”

“I listened.” Her voice drops, low and furious. “And I said no.”

Alain scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “You said no because you’re scared.”

Your mother’s eyes flash. “Of course I’m scared! She’s my daughter! You, of all people, should understand-”

“I do understand.” Alain’s voice softens, but only just. “I carried his casket. I watched you cry over him. But that’s exactly why you can’t do this to her.”

Adriane’s face crumples for a split second, so brief you might have missed it if you hadn’t been watching so closely. “He’s not here, Alain,” she whispers, and it sounds like a confession and an accusation all at once. “He’s not here to see this, to say if it’s right or wrong. And he’s not here to save her if something goes wrong.”

Alain’s voice drops, steady and determined. “And you think Ayrton would want you to stop her? You think he would want her to live her whole life wrapped in fear because of what happened to him?”

“She’s my child.” Adriane’s voice cracks like a whip, but there’s something desperate underneath it now, like she’s fighting to keep her footing in a conversation she knows she’s already losing. “And I will not lose her.”

Alain’s eyes narrow. “You’re not protecting her. You’re imprisoning her.”

Your mother stares at him, her breath coming fast and uneven. For a moment, everything goes still — so quiet you can hear the ticking of the old clock on the mantel.

Then Alain steps forward, his hands on his hips. “If you won’t help her, I will. I’ll teach her to kart myself if I have to.”

Adriane barks out a bitter laugh, but it’s laced with pain. “You can try,” she says, her voice brittle. “But don’t expect me to come watch. I refuse to set foot at a race, and I won’t look at her as long as I know there’s a chance she won’t come back.”

Her words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. You feel like you can’t breathe. You press yourself harder against the wall, your chest tight with emotions you can’t name.

And that’s when the floor creaks.

Both of them turn at the sound.

“Meu Deus …” your mother whispers, her hands flying to her mouth. “You’re home.”

Alain’s face softens instantly. He kneels down, arms open. “Come here, sweetheart.”

You hesitate, just for a moment. Then, without thinking, you bolt from your hiding spot and run straight into Alain’s arms. He catches you easily, wrapping you in a hug that feels like safety. Like warmth.

Adriane stands frozen, her hands still over her mouth. Her eyes are wide, filled with a mix of heartbreak and anger and something you don’t fully understand.

Alain pulls back just enough to look at you, his hands resting gently on your shoulders. “Hey,” he says softly. “I’ve got a question for you.”

You blink up at him, your heart pounding.

“How would you like to come to Switzerland with me?” His voice is calm, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “You could learn to kart there. I’ll teach you myself. What do you think?”

Your heart races. Switzerland. Karting. Learning to drive. It feels like a dream, one you didn’t even know you could have.

But then you look at your mother.

Adriane’s face is pale, her hands still clutched tight over her mouth like they might stop her from saying something she’ll regret. Her eyes are glassy with unshed tears, and there’s a kind of pain in them that makes your chest ache.

You know what this means to her. You know how much it hurts.

But you also know what it means to you.

You’ve wanted this for as long as you can remember — for as long as you’ve been able to understand what racing is. And here it is, right in front of you. A chance.

You swallow hard and look back at Alain. His expression is kind but serious, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“It’s your choice,” he says quietly. “No one can make it for you.”

You take a deep breath. Your hands shake a little, but you ball them into fists to steady yourself.

“I want to go,” you whisper.

Your mother makes a soft, choked sound — like someone punched all the air out of her.

“Minha filha …” Her voice breaks.

You look at her, and it feels like your heart is splitting in two. “I have to, Mãe.”

She closes her eyes, pressing her hands tighter to her face. For a moment, she just stands there, trembling. Then she drops her hands and wipes her eyes with quick, angry swipes.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice raw and broken. “Okay. Go, then.”

The words sting, sharper than anything you’ve ever felt. But you nod. You have to.

Alain gives your shoulders a gentle squeeze. “We’ll call every day,” he promises, glancing at Adriane, though she won’t look at him. “Whenever you want.”

Your mother doesn’t answer. She just turns away, her shoulders hunched like the weight of the world is pressing down on her.

Your heart feels heavy, but there’s something else now too — something lighter. Hope.

You glance up at Alain, and he smiles, soft and warm.

“Switzerland, huh?” You say, trying to sound brave.

Alain chuckles. “Switzerland.”

And for the first time in a long while, you feel like you can finally breathe.

***

Life in Switzerland feels like a dream. Every morning, the mountains rise outside your window, peaks dusted in snow even as the spring sun warms the air. The international school Alain enrolled you in is small, the kids friendly. They speak a mix of languages — French, German, Italian — and though it’s strange at first, you like how every word feels like a little puzzle to solve.

But school is just the beginning of your day. The real magic happens afterward.

Every afternoon, Alain picks you up in his car — a sleek, silver Audi with leather seats that always smell faintly like coffee — and takes you straight to the karting track just outside town. There’s a rhythm to your days now: school, then the track, where the scent of gasoline and hot rubber fills the air.

“Come on, petite championne,” Alain says every day as you hop into the kart, the nickname slipping off his tongue with an easy smile. “Let’s see if you can make me proud today.”

The kart rumbles beneath you, a buzz that shoots from your hands to your heart. The moment your foot touches the pedal, the world falls away. The wind rushes against your face, the engine purring with every twist of the wheel.

Here, in the kart, you feel free — like nothing can catch you, not even the pieces of your life that feel too big or too broken to understand.

Alain watches from the sidelines, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, his face calm but focused. He takes notes every time you race, shouting tips when you pull up to the pit lane.

“Don’t wait so long to hit the brakes before that hairpin, you lose too much time,” he’ll say. Or, “You’re getting faster through the straights. Don’t get greedy on the corners, though — you’ve got to feel the grip.”

You listen to every word, hungry to learn. And when he grins after you complete a lap, clapping his hands like you just won a Grand Prix, your heart swells.

By the time you drive home, your body hums with exhaustion, but it’s the good kind — the kind that comes from chasing a dream.

And every night, after dinner, there’s dessert.

“Glace au chocolat tonight?” Alain asks one evening, pulling two tubs of chocolate ice cream from the freezer.

You grin. “With whipped cream?”

“Obviously,” Alain replies with mock seriousness. “What kind of barbarian do you take me for?”

He adds a mountain of whipped cream to both bowls, handing one to you before plopping down on the couch with his own.

As always, an old race plays on the TV. Tonight, it’s Monaco — 1988, the race your father dominated, right up until the moment he crashed into the barrier. The screen flickers as the cars glide through the tight streets, their engines howling between the stone walls.

Alain leans back against the couch cushions, spoon in hand. “See that?” He says, pointing at the screen with a mouthful of ice cream. “Your papa’s line through the Swimming Pool section — perfection. Like poetry in motion.”

You tilt your head, studying the way the yellow helmet zips through the narrow chicane. “How did he do it?”

Alain smiles, scooping another spoonful of ice cream. “He just knew. Ayrton could feel the track better than anyone else. It was like … like he was connected to the car in a way no one else could be.”

You lick your spoon thoughtfully. “Did you hate him?”

The question catches Alain off guard. He freezes, then chuckles, shaking his head. “Hate him? No.” He pauses. “Not really, anyway.”

“But you fought a lot.”

“Oh, we fought.” Alain smirks, a mischievous glint in his eye. “He drove me absolutely mad sometimes.”

You giggle. “Why?”

“Because he never gave up. Not even for a second.” Alain gestures toward the TV, where your father’s car rockets through the tunnel. “Ayrton wasn’t just racing other drivers — he was racing himself. Always trying to be faster, better. It was exhausting.”

He says it like a joke, but there’s warmth in his voice, too. You can hear it.

“And that drove you crazy?” You ask, already knowing the answer but wanting to hear him say it.

Alain laughs, a soft, fond sound. “Completely crazy.”

You curl deeper into the couch, your ice cream bowl balanced on your lap. “But you were friends, right? In the end?”

Alain’s smile fades a little, but it stays, softer now. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “In the end.”

There’s a silence between you, filled only by the hum of the TV and the occasional scrape of your spoons against the bowls.

You glance at Alain, his expression lost somewhere between memory and regret. “Do you miss him?”

Alain looks at you, and for a moment, you’re not sure if he’ll answer. Then he gives a small nod. “Every day.”

You nod, too, even though you didn’t really know your father — at least, not in the way Alain did. But somehow, you miss him all the same.

The race continues on the screen, the cars weaving through the streets of Monaco, chasing the perfect lap.

“You’ll be just like him one day,” Alain says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

You blink, surprised. “You think so?”

“I know so,” Alain replies, nudging your shoulder with his. “You’ve got the same fire in you. The same stubbornness, too, I think.”

You laugh, and Alain grins, pleased with himself.

“You just need to tweak your braking,” he adds with a playful smirk. “You brake like me, not like him.”

“Hey!” You protest, shoving his arm lightly.

He chuckles, holding up his hands in surrender. “What? I’m just saying! Ayrton would fly into corners like a madman. Me? I was always a bit more … sensible.”

“Sensible is boring,” you tease, scooping up the last bit of ice cream.

Alain pretends to be offended, clutching his chest like you’ve wounded him. “Boring? Sensible is what win me four world championships, thank you very much.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re grinning.

The credits for the race coverage roll, but neither of you makes a move to turn off the TV. These moments — curled up on the couch with Alain, the scent of whipped cream still in the air — feel like they could stretch forever.

And maybe, just maybe, they do.

***

Four years blur by like the laps on a familiar circuit. Days turn into months, and months into seasons. You grow taller, sharper, and faster. The kart becomes a second skin, every turn and apex something you know instinctively, like breathing. The track is your playground now — your sanctuary.

Alain teaches you everything: not just how to drive but how to think, how to be patient when you need to be and ruthless when the moment calls for it. He tells you about strategy and racecraft, how to listen for the slightest change in the engine’s pitch, how to make yourself invisible in the slipstream until the perfect moment to strike.

Some lessons come easy. Others, not so much. Like when he makes you practice for hours in the rain, your hands frozen, your kart slipping through puddles. Or when you spin out during a practice race and Alain doesn’t even flinch. He just waves his hand in the air.

“Again!” He shouts from the pit lane. “You have to get comfortable with making mistakes, petite. No champion gets there without a few bruises.”

And so you go again. And again. Because this — this dream — is the one thing you want more than anything.

Now, after all those years, the day has finally arrived. You’re old enough to compete in the FIA Karting Championship. This is what you’ve been working toward.

But Alain surprises you one quiet evening at home. No ice cream, no old races on TV — just you and him, sitting across the kitchen table with two mugs of hot tea. His face is serious, but kind.

“There’s something we need to talk about,” he says, tapping his fingers lightly against the mug. “You have a choice to make.”

You lean forward. “What kind of choice?”

Alain tilts his head, his sharp hazel eyes studying you carefully. “Your name.”

You frown. “My name?”

“Yes. You’ve been racing locally for a while, but things are different now.” Alain takes a sip of tea, gathering his thoughts. “The FIA Karting Championship is international. There will be journalists, scouts, team representatives. If you race under your real name, everyone will know exactly who you are.”

You sit back, the weight of what he’s saying slowly sinking in.

“You can use a pseudonym if you want,” Alain continues. “Plenty of drivers do it, especially when they want to build their career on their own terms.”

You blink, caught off guard. You’ve thought a lot about racing — how fast you want to be, how badly you want to win. But this? The idea of hiding your name? It’s a curveball you didn’t see coming.

Alain gives you time to think, his hands wrapped loosely around his mug. “There’s no shame in it, petite,” he says gently. “It’s not about denying who you are. It’s about deciding how you want the world to see you.”

The words hang between you. He’s not pressuring you — Alain never does that — but you can feel the weight of the decision anyway.

You toy with the edge of the mug in front of you, tracing the rim with your fingertip. “Do you think … if I use my real name, people will only see Papai?”

Alain shrugs, but his expression is thoughtful. “Some will. There are people who won’t be able to separate you from Ayrton. They’ll compare you to him before you’ve even taken a proper lap.”

You nod slowly. You’ve known this would happen — how could you not? But hearing it out loud makes it more real.

“At the same time,” Alain adds, “it’s not something to be ashamed of. Ayrton was … well, he was Ayrton. If anyone has the right to be proud of their name, it’s you.”

You bite your lip, the edges of uncertainty fraying inside you. “What would you do?”

Alain smiles softly. “It’s not my decision to make, ma chérie. This is about you. Your future.”

You stare into your tea, watching the steam curl toward the ceiling like tiny ghosts. A part of you aches at the thought of hiding your father’s name — like you’d be denying him, pretending he didn’t matter. But there’s another part, quieter but insistent, that wants to know what it’s like to stand on your own. To earn your place without the shadow of a legend following you everywhere you go.

You tap your fingers against the table, the rhythm matching the beat of an engine in your mind. And then, suddenly, the answer clicks into place.

“I think …” You take a deep breath. “I think I want to use a different name. Just for now.”

Alain raises his eyebrows, curious but approving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You nod, more certain now. “It’s not because I’m ashamed. I’m not. I want people to know one day. Just … not yet.”

Alain leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So what’s the plan?”

You grin, the excitement building in your chest. “I’ll race under my mother’s last name. And when the time’s right — maybe after I win a few championships — I’ll tell them.”

Alain chuckles, shaking his head. “You think they’ll like the surprise?”

You laugh, a full, bright sound that feels like relief. “Can you imagine their faces?”

Alain grins, clearly amused. “I can already hear the headlines.” He adopts an exaggerated announcer voice: “The karting prodigy who stunned the world by revealing she’s Ayrton Senna’s daughter!”

You burst out laughing, the tension from the conversation melting away. “They’ll lose their minds!”

“And you’ll love every second of it,” Alain adds with a knowing smirk.

You grin, unable to hide the spark of mischief in your eyes. “Maybe a little.”

He shakes his head fondly, ruffling your hair as he stands up from the table. “You’re trouble, you know that?”

“Comes with the territory,” you say, beaming.

Alain gathers the empty mugs and places them in the sink, still chuckling to himself. “Well, I think it’s a smart choice. Gives you time to find your own rhythm.”

You nod, feeling lighter than you have in days. “Yeah. It feels right.”

Alain leans against the counter, crossing his arms as he looks at you. There’s pride in his eyes — quiet, steady, and unmistakable. “Your papa would’ve been proud of you, too,” he says softly.

Your throat tightens, but you smile through it. “Thanks, Alain.”

He nods once, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Come on,” he says, nudging his head toward the living room. “Let’s celebrate with some dessert. I think we’ve got tarte au citron in the fridge.”

You follow him, your heart light and your steps easy. The road ahead is still long — there will be races, wins, and losses. But for the first time, it feels like it’s yours to drive.

And that? That’s the best feeling in the world.

***

The drive from Switzerland to Imola is quiet. You sit with your thoughts, the hum of the engine beneath you and the road stretching endlessly ahead. Alain offered to come with you, but you declined. This is something you need to do alone.

It’s not that you didn’t want his company, it’s just … how do you explain to someone — even someone who knew your father so well — that you need to meet this place on your own terms?

For eighteen years, you told yourself you weren’t ready. Maybe you never would be. But here you are, taking deep breaths as you steer your way closer to the circuit where it all ended. Where everything about your life changed before it even really began.

When you finally arrive, the gates to the Imola track feel strangely peaceful, nestled under a canopy of autumn leaves. The air is crisp, and the sky is that soft, pale blue you only get in early fall. You park the car and head toward the Ayrton Senna memorial, your footsteps crunching through the leaves littering the path.

Each step feels heavier than the last, your pulse loud in your ears. You try to steel yourself — this is just a monument, just a place. You’ve been to a thousand race tracks in your life. But this one is different. This one holds pieces of someone you never got the chance to know.

As you approach the monument, you expect silence. You expect to be alone. But then you notice someone sitting there — another figure crouched near the bronze statue of your father.

The man shifts, startled by the sound of your footsteps on the gravel. His head turns, and you recognize him almost immediately.

It’s Lewis Hamilton.

He blinks up at you, clearly not expecting company either. There’s a moment of awkwardness, both of you standing there, caught off guard in a place meant for solitude.

You clear your throat. “I’m sorry,” you say softly. “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

Lewis waves off the apology, his face softening. “No, no. You’re not bothering me.” He pulls himself up a little straighter, brushing leaves from his jacket. “I always stop by here before Monza. Helps me … I don’t know. Reset.”

You nod, unsure what else to say. There’s something strange about seeing him here — Lewis Hamilton, one of the biggest names in motorsport, sitting quietly in front of your father’s monument like he’s just another fan.

“I came for the same reason,” you admit. “I’m Brazilian. Wanted to pay my respects.”

At that, something shifts in Lewis’ expression — understanding, maybe. “You’re Brazilian?” He repeats, a little smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “That explains it. Every Brazilian racer I know carries Senna with them like … well, like a second heart.”

You laugh softly, kicking a stray leaf with your shoe. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Lewis shifts, resting his forearms on his knees as he looks back at the monument. The wind stirs the leaves around your feet, scattering them across the ground.

“He’s always been my hero,” Lewis murmurs, almost as if he’s talking to himself. “Even before I really understood what racing was, I just … knew he was special.”

You don’t respond right away, your gaze fixed on the familiar features of the bronze effigy — your father’s intense, focused expression captured in metal. It’s strange, standing here with someone who feels the same reverence you’ve always felt but never quite known how to express.

Lewis glances at you again. “What do you race?” He asks, genuine curiosity in his voice.

You tuck your hands into your jacket pockets. “Formula Renault 3.5.”

His eyebrows lift, clearly impressed. “That’s a serious series.”

You shrug, trying to play it cool, though there’s a flicker of pride in your chest. “Yeah, it’s been good so far.”

“Good enough to think about Formula 1 one day?” Lewis asks, a knowing smile on his face.

You grin. “That’s the plan.”

He chuckles, the sound warm in the cool air. “Well, I’ll keep an eye out for you. What’s your name?”

For a split second, you hesitate. But you remind yourself — he doesn’t need to know everything. Not yet. “Just … Y/N,” you say casually. “For now.”

Lewis tilts his head, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes, but he doesn’t press. “Y/N. Got it.”

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, unsure how to fill the silence. But it’s not uncomfortable — just … quiet.

“You said you come here every year?” You ask after a moment.

“Before Monza, yeah,” Lewis confirms. “It’s become sort of a ritual. Helps me feel grounded, I guess. Reminds me why I do this.”

You nod, understanding more than you expected to. There’s something about this place — this simple, quiet memorial — that strips everything else away. The politics, the pressure, the noise. It leaves only the pure love of racing behind.

Lewis stands then, brushing dirt from his pants. “Well,” he says, “I should probably get going. Got a long weekend ahead.”

You nod, though part of you wishes you had a little more time to talk to him. There’s something easy about the way he carries himself — no arrogance, no pretense. Just a racer who loves what he does.

Lewis glances at the monument one last time, his gaze lingering on your father’s face. “He would’ve loved to see how many of us still race because of him,” he says quietly.

Your throat tightens, but you manage a small smile. “Yeah. I think so, too.”

He gives you a nod, something warm and reassuring in his expression. “Take care, Y/N. I’ll be watching.”

With that, he turns and walks down the path, his footsteps crunching through the leaves. You watch him go, the wind stirring around you again, carrying the faint scent of damp earth and autumn.

For a long moment, you stay there, standing in front of the monument, just you and the bronze figure of your father. You don’t say anything — there’s nothing that needs to be said. But in the quiet, you feel a strange sense of peace.

Maybe it’s the years of racing, the laps you’ve turned, the lessons you’ve learned. Or maybe it’s just knowing that people like Lewis exist — people who carry your father’s spirit with them, even though they never knew him.

You brush a hand over the cool surface of the monument, tracing the edge of the plaque with your fingers. “I’m gonna make you proud,” you whisper.

And this time, you believe it.

The wind picks up again as you turn away from the monument, heading back toward the car. Monza is waiting. And so is the rest of your story.

***

The paddock feels like a world unto itself — buzzing with life, engines roaring in the distance, team personnel hurrying from garages to pit walls.

You’re barely a day into your first GP2 weekend with DAMS, and it’s already overwhelming. The DAMS crew is friendly but businesslike, and the constant stream of engineers, mechanics, and journalists passing by your garage is a reminder that you’ve officially stepped onto the big stage.

Your heart pounds as you adjust the collar of your race suit, nerves crawling under your skin. You spent the morning doing seat fittings, debriefs, and media duties, but now you’re finally free for a few minutes before the next round of meetings.

Alain walks beside you, calm and collected as ever, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket. He’s been like a steady lighthouse in the chaos of this new chapter, guiding you through the storm with quiet assurance.

“Remember,” Alain says as you both weave through the paddock, “it’s just another race. Keep your focus. Don’t let the noise get to you.”

“Easier said than done,” you mutter, scanning the sea of faces for anyone familiar — or anyone dangerous, like a journalist with too many questions.

Alain smirks knowingly. “That’s why you have me.”

You can’t help but grin, a flicker of relief easing the tension in your chest. Alain’s been by your side for so long now that the idea of navigating a race weekend without him feels unthinkable.

Then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot someone you weren’t expecting: Lewis.

He’s walking toward the McLaren motorhome, surrounded by team personnel and a PR officer trailing closely behind, clipboard in hand. You see the moment recognition flickers in his eyes — he stops mid-step, gaze locking on you like he’s just solved a puzzle.

“Y/N?” He calls, eyebrows raised in surprise.

Alain glances sideways at you, bemused, but you can’t help the small, slightly guilty smile tugging at your lips. You wave at Lewis, feeling a little awkward but genuinely happy to see him.

Lewis strides over, his PR officer groaning softly but trailing after him anyway. “I thought I’d see you around here eventually,” Lewis says with a grin. “Didn’t think it would be so soon.”

You shrug, playing it casual. “Surprise.”

His eyes flick to Alain, standing quietly beside you. “And you … know Alain Prost?”

Alain raises a polite eyebrow, but there’s an amused glint in his eye, as if waiting to see how you’ll answer this one.

You shift on your feet, aware of Lewis’ confusion. “Yeah, he’s … been my mentor for years.” You keep your explanation vague, not ready to drop the full truth just yet.

Lewis frowns slightly, processing the unexpected connection. “You’ve been working with Alain Prost?”

You nod. “Since I was a kid.”

Lewis lets out a low whistle, looking between the two of you with new appreciation. “Wow. That explains a lot.”

Before you can respond, his PR officer steps in, clipboard clutched tightly in one hand. “Lewis, we really need to-”

Lewis waves her off without breaking eye contact with you. “Five more minutes. It’s fine.”

The woman hesitates, then sighs in frustration and backs away to give him space. Lewis turns his full attention back to you, his easy grin returning.

“So, GP2, huh?” He asks, hands on his hips. “How’s it feel to finally be here?”

“Terrifying,” you admit with a laugh. “But also kind of amazing.”

“That’s how you know you’re in the right place,” Lewis says, his tone encouraging. “The nerves mean you care.”

Alain watches the exchange quietly, and you can tell he’s measuring Lewis, sizing him up — not in a competitive way, but in that protective way he’s always had with you. It’s subtle, but you know Alain well enough to see it.

“I’ll make sure to catch the feature race,” Lewis promises, his grin widening. “I’ll be cheering you on.”

You raise an eyebrow, trying not to show how much that means to you. “Oh yeah? You sure you have time to slum it with us junior drivers?”

Lewis laughs, genuinely amused. “Come on, now. I started in GP2, remember? I know exactly how tough it is.”

“Guess I’ll have to put on a good show, then.”

“You better,” Lewis says, mock-serious. “Otherwise I’ll never let you hear the end of it.”

The two of you share a quick, easy laugh, and for a moment the chaos of the paddock fades into the background. It’s just two drivers, standing in the middle of it all, sharing a moment of understanding.

“You’re going to crush it,” Lewis adds, his voice low and certain.

Something in his tone makes you believe it — makes the nerves that have been simmering all day settle, if only for a moment.

Alain clears his throat softly, a reminder that time is ticking. “We need to get back to the team,” he says, his voice gentle but firm.

Lewis nods, taking the hint but not before offering you one last smile. “Good luck, Y/N. I’ll see you out there.”

You return the smile, feeling lighter than you have all day. “Thanks, Lewis.”

He gives Alain a respectful nod before turning to leave, his McLaren team falling into step around him as he disappears into the paddock.

As you watch him go, Alain leans in slightly, his voice quiet but laced with amusement. “Friend of yours?”

You smirk, still watching Lewis disappear into the crowd. “Something like that.”

Alain chuckles, and the sound is warm, familiar — like the engine note of a car you’ve driven a thousand times.

“Come on,” he says, nudging your shoulder gently. “We have work to do.”

You follow Alain back toward the DAMS garage, the nerves still there but tempered now with something else — excitement, anticipation, maybe even a little confidence.

Because this is your moment. Your chance to show the world what you can do. And with people like Alain and Lewis in your corner, you know you’re not facing it alone.

***

The Bahrain sun beats down relentlessly, the heat pressing against your skin even through your race suit. Sweat clings to your brow, mixing with the overwhelming, heady cocktail of fuel, rubber, and victory. You’re breathless, exhausted — but none of that matters.

You did it. You won.

The feature race trophy feels almost weightless in your hands as you stand on the podium, the sound of the Brazilian anthem thundering in your ears. The cameras flash, the crowd cheers, and for the first time since you entered GP2, you allow yourself to savor the moment. You close your eyes for a second, letting the anthem sink deep into your bones, and think of your father.

When the rose water sprays, it feels like you’ve broken through a barrier — proof to yourself and to the world that you belong here. That you’re not just someone chasing the shadow of a name, but a racer in your own right.

The post-race chaos is a blur — interviews, debriefs, more interviews. It’s not until you’re finally allowed to step away from the DAMS garage, damp with sweat and floral liquid, that the realization hits you again: you won your first GP2 race. The adrenaline still courses through your veins, but beneath it, there’s a quiet hum of contentment.

You round the corner of the paddock, searching for a quiet moment to collect yourself — when a familiar voice calls your name.

“Y/N!”

You turn, and there he is: Lewis, dressed casually in his McLaren team kit, that signature grin stretched across his face. His eyes are bright under the paddock lights, and his presence feels like a cool breeze against the heat of Bahrain.

Before you can say anything, he’s already jogging up to you, wrapping you in a quick, spontaneous hug. The smell of his cologne lingers in the air between you — spicy and warm, like cedar and citrus.

“That was incredible!” Lewis says, pulling back to look at you. “Seriously, you drove like a pro out there.”

You grin, still catching your breath. “You saw the whole race?”

“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s obvious, as if there was no way he could have missed it. “I told you I’d be cheering you on, didn’t I?”

“Guess I didn’t disappoint, then,” you say, teasing.

“Not even a little.” His grin softens into something warmer, more personal.

The way he looks at you — like he’s genuinely proud — makes your chest tighten, but not in a bad way. It’s strange, but comforting, the way he’s here, grounding you in the whirlwind of it all.

“Come on,” Lewis says, gesturing toward the paddock hospitality area. “You deserve a proper celebration. We’ll grab something to drink, at least — water, preferably, because you look like you’re about to melt.”

You laugh. “Thanks for the concern, but I’m not passing out just yet.”

“Still,” he insists, walking beside you. “Gotta take care of the winner, right?”

You follow him, your steps lighter than they’ve felt all weekend. It’s easy with Lewis — talking, walking, just existing in the same space. You can’t tell if it’s the lingering buzz of the win or something else entirely, but there’s a sense of ease between you that you haven’t felt with anyone in a long time.

He leads you to one of the quieter corners of the paddock, where a small group of McLaren personnel are relaxing. Lewis grabs two water bottles from a nearby cooler and tosses one your way.

“Catch.”

You catch it easily, the cool plastic a relief against your palm. “Thanks.”

Lewis leans against the back of a chair, his posture relaxed, but there’s a glimmer of curiosity in his eyes. “So … how does it feel?”

“To win?” You twist the cap off your bottle and take a sip. “Like … I don’t know. Like I can finally breathe again.”

He nods, like he knows exactly what you mean. “First win’s always special. But there’ll be more. I can feel it.”

You tilt your head, amused. “You think you’re a psychic now?”

Lewis chuckles. “Nope. Just good at spotting talent.”

You roll your eyes playfully, but there’s no denying the warmth his words spark inside you. You glance away for a moment, trying to shake the strange flutter in your chest.

“So,” he says after a beat, “what’s next? A second win in Spain?”

“I mean, that’d be nice,” you say, grinning. “But I’ll settle for finishing with all my wheels intact.”

“Good plan,” Lewis agrees, laughing. “That track’s a nightmare.”

The conversation drifts easily from there, flowing from racing to random paddock gossip to stories from his early days in GP2. You’re both standing close — closer than two people probably need to stand. But it doesn’t feel uncomfortable. In fact, it feels … nice.

He pauses for a second, watching you with that thoughtful expression he gets sometimes, like he’s trying to figure out what’s going on beneath the surface.

“You’re really something, you know that?” He says softly, almost like it’s just for you to hear.

The words catch you off guard, and you feel your cheeks warm under the intensity of his gaze.

“Just doing my best,” you say, trying to play it off, but your voice sounds quieter than you intended.

Lewis’ eyes linger on yours for a moment longer, and there’s a flicker of something between you — something unspoken, but not unwelcome.

Before either of you can say anything more, a loud cheer erupts from a nearby group of mechanics, jolting you both back to the present. You laugh, the moment slipping away like sand through your fingers.

“Guess the celebration’s already started,” you say, motioning toward the rowdy crowd.

Lewis grins. “Looks like it. You coming?”

You hesitate, not because you don’t want to celebrate, but because part of you likes this quiet bubble you and Lewis have found.

“I think I might stay here for a bit,” you say, leaning against the wall and taking another sip of water.

Lewis doesn’t move to leave. Instead, he stays where he is, like maybe he feels the same pull to stay in this moment, too.

“You know,” he says after a beat, his voice low and a little more serious, “I meant what I said earlier. About you being something special.”

You meet his gaze, and there’s no teasing in his expression now — just quiet sincerity.

“Thanks,” you say softly, the word not nearly enough to convey what you’re feeling.

He holds your gaze for a second longer, then gives you a small, crooked smile. “Guess I’ll just have to keep watching and see what you do next.”

“Guess so.”

And just like that, the air shifts between you — charged with possibility, like the moment before a green flag drops.

You don’t know what’s coming next, but for the first time in a long time, you’re not afraid of it. Not when Lewis is standing here, smiling at you like you’re the most interesting thing in the world.

And somehow, you think, this might just be the start of something worth chasing.

***

It’s late in the evening, and the Monaco paddock has fallen into a rare lull. The energy of race day — mechanics scrambling, journalists hounding drivers, engines screaming — has settled into a quiet hum. Most people have retreated to their yachts or hotel rooms by now, leaving only the occasional team member wandering through the maze of garages and hospitality areas.

You sit with Lewis on the edge of the harbor, the two of you tucked away from prying eyes. The water laps gently against the docks, and the principality’s golden lights reflect across the surface like scattered coins. Neither of you say anything for a while, content to let the quiet fill the spaces between you.

It’s been like this more often lately — stolen moments between races, conversations that drift into the small hours of the morning, and the unspoken pull that keeps you near each other, even when there’s no real reason to be.

Lewis shifts beside you, resting his forearms on his knees. “You ever just sit somewhere and wonder how the hell you got here?” He asks, breaking the silence.

You glance at him, the glow of the streetlights catching the sharp angles of his face. “All the time.”

He gives a small laugh, running a hand over his braids. “Monaco’s something else, isn’t it?”

You nod, hugging your knees to your chest. “Feels like the kind of place people dream about … like it’s not even real.”

He looks over at you then, his gaze lingering a moment too long. “Yeah,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Not sure what’s real sometimes.”

There’s something heavy in his voice, something unspoken. And for the first time tonight, the quiet between you doesn’t feel as comfortable. It feels loaded, like you’re both waiting for the other to say something neither of you know how to say.

You tilt your head slightly, studying him. “You okay?”

Lewis exhales slowly, glancing out over the water. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

He hesitates, like he’s not sure how to begin. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately … about the future. About what I want, and where I want to be.”

You shift closer to him, sensing that this isn’t just idle talk. “What do you mean?”

He leans back on his hands, staring at the water like it might hold the answer. “I’ve been with McLaren my whole career. Since I was a kid. But … I don’t know. Lately, it feels like I’m stuck. Like I’ve hit a wall.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

He looks at you then, and there’s something raw in his expression — something vulnerable. “I’ve decided to leave McLaren at the end of the season. I’m signing with Mercedes.”

The words hang in the air between you, heavy and unexpected. You blink, trying to process what he just said. “Mercedes?”

He nods slowly. “Yeah.”

“But … McLaren’s your home.”

Lewis shrugs, but there’s a sadness in his eyes. “It was. But things change. And if I don’t take this chance now … I think I’ll always wonder what could’ve been.”

You stare at him, your mind spinning. “Do people know yet?”

He shakes his head. “Not many. Just a few people on the team. I wanted to tell you before it got out, though.”

You chew on your bottom lip, absorbing the weight of his words. “That’s a big decision, Lewis.”

“I know.” He looks at you, his gaze steady. “But it feels like the right one. Even if it’s scary as hell.”

You let out a breath, feeling a strange mix of emotions — pride, worry, something you can’t quite name. “Well … if it’s what you want, I guess it’s the right move.”

He smiles, but it’s a small, almost hesitant thing. “Thanks.”

The silence stretches between you again, but this time it feels different. Like something has shifted — not just because of what he said, but because of the way he’s looking at you now.

“You’ve been there for me a lot lately,” he says softly. “I don’t think I’ve said how much that means to me.”

Your heart beats a little faster. “It’s no big deal.”

“It is to me.” His voice is low, and there’s something in his gaze that makes your breath catch.

He shifts slightly closer, and suddenly the space between you feels impossibly small. You can feel the warmth radiating from him, the subtle brush of his shoulder against yours.

“Y/N,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper.

You look up at him, and the world seems to narrow down to just this — just the two of you, sitting on the edge of the harbor, the night air thick with something electric.

And then, slowly — almost hesitantly — he leans in.

For a split second, you think about pulling away, about the million reasons why this might not be a good idea. But before you can overthink it, his lips brush against yours.

The kiss is soft at first, tentative, like he’s waiting to see if you’ll pull away. But when you don’t, he deepens it, his hand coming up to cup the side of your face.

It’s not the kind of kiss that demands anything — it’s the kind that promises everything.

When you finally pull back, your heart is racing, and your mind feels like it’s spinning in a thousand different directions.

Lewis looks at you, his forehead resting gently against yours. “I’ve been wanting to do that for a while,” he admits, his breath warm against your skin.

You smile, feeling a strange mix of exhilaration and disbelief. “Yeah?”

He nods, his thumb brushing lightly against your cheek. “Yeah.”

For a moment, neither of you move, caught in the quiet aftermath of the kiss. The world around you feels distant, like it’s just the two of you, floating in your own little bubble.

Finally, Lewis pulls back slightly, though his hand lingers on your face. “So … what now?”

You let out a soft laugh, the sound light and easy. “I have no idea.”

He grins, and it’s the kind of smile that makes your chest feel warm. “Guess we’ll figure it out, then.”

You nod, your heart still racing. “Yeah. I guess we will.”

And somehow, even though nothing feels certain — his future, your career, whatever this thing is between you — there’s a strange sense of peace in the not knowing.

Because whatever happens next, you know you’ll face it together.

***

The air in the McLaren garage is thick with anticipation. Cameras are set up, media personnel are adjusting their equipment, and there’s a palpable buzz in the air as the press conference prepares to start. You stand just behind the curtain, your heart racing. You can hear the hum of voices in the room beyond, reporters murmuring to one another, waiting for the big reveal.

The past few months have felt like a whirlwind — a blur of contract negotiations, meetings with McLaren’s team principal, and the quiet, creeping excitement of finally getting the chance to do what you’ve always dreamed of. But now that the moment is here, the weight of it is settling in. You’re not just about to become the first woman in F1 in decades, you’re about to step into the spotlight as Ayrton Senna’s daughter.

You take a deep breath, glancing down at the McLaren-branded polo shirt you’re wearing, the crisp fabric somehow making everything feel more real. This is happening. After all the years of hard work, all the sacrifices, you’re about to make history.

Alain stands beside you, his face calm, but his hand on your shoulder is firm and reassuring. “You ready?” He asks, his voice low, but steady.

You nod, swallowing down the nerves. “I think so.”

“Just remember why you’re doing this,” he says softly, his eyes meeting yours. “This is about you. Not your father. Not anyone else. You.”

You offer him a small smile. Alain’s always been good at grounding you, at reminding you that you’ve earned this, regardless of who your father was. He’s been there through it all — your highs and lows, your victories and failures. And now, here he is, standing beside you as you take this monumental step.

The curtains part, and the team principal, Martin Whitmarsh, steps onto the stage. The room quiets as he approaches the podium. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for joining us today,” he begins, his voice carrying through the room. “It’s not often we get to announce something of this magnitude. Today, McLaren is proud to welcome a new driver to our team for the 2013 season. Not only will she be the first woman to compete in Formula 1 in over 20 years, but she’s also someone with a legacy that speaks for itself.”

There’s a murmur of curiosity from the crowd, and you know the moment is coming. The reveal. The truth that you’ve kept hidden, even from the people closest to you.

“Please join me in welcoming, Y/N Senna.”

The sound of your name, followed by your father’s, echoes through the room like a ripple of shock. For a brief moment, there’s stunned silence. Then, the cameras start flashing, the murmurs turn into a roar, and all eyes are on you.

You step onto the stage, trying to steady your breath. The weight of the announcement, of who you are, feels heavier than you expected. But you push through, meeting the gaze of the journalists, the photographers, the team members standing off to the side. You can’t see him from here, but you know Alain is watching from the wings, his quiet support steadying you.

Whitmarsh continues speaking, but the words blur together as your mind races. It’s not until you hear the murmured whispers in the back of the room that your attention snaps back.

“Senna?”

“Ayrton’s daughter?”

“Why didn’t anyone know?”

As the press conference wraps up, and you’re led off stage, the questions start flooding in. Journalists swarm, desperate for a quote, for more insight into the mystery that you’ve kept hidden for so long.

But before you can respond to any of them, a familiar voice cuts through the noise.

“Y/N.”

You freeze, your heart dropping. You know that voice. You turn slowly, and there he is — Lewis, standing just a few feet away, his face unreadable.

The PR team tries to shuffle you away, but you shake them off, making your way over to him. “Lewis …”

He cuts you off, his expression dark. “You’ve been racing for all these years, and you never thought to tell me? Not once?”

The sting of his words catches you off guard, and you open your mouth to respond, but he continues, his voice low but sharp. “I thought we were close. I thought we were-” He stops, running a hand over his face. “You let me fall for you, and you didn’t even tell me who you really are.”

You feel the blood drain from your face. “Lewis, it wasn’t like that-”

“Wasn’t it?” He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours, hurt and confusion written all over his face. “I get it, okay? You didn’t want people to treat you differently because of your name. But me? I thought we were past that.”

“I didn’t want to use my father’s name to get ahead,” you say, your voice trembling slightly. “I wanted to make a name for myself, first. And I didn’t tell you because … because I didn’t want it to change how you saw me.”

“Well, it’s changed everything now,” he snaps, his voice tight with anger. “I thought I knew you, but clearly, I didn’t.”

You take a step back, the weight of his words hitting you harder than you expected. “Lewis, please. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He lets out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t mean to hurt me? You’re Ayrton Senna’s daughter, and you never even mentioned it once. How could you keep something like that from me?”

You bite your lip, trying to hold back the tears that are threatening to spill over. “I didn’t want it to come between us.”

“Well, it has,” he says, his voice quieter now, but still laced with pain. “I don’t know what to think anymore.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening. The distance between you feels insurmountable now, like a chasm that you don’t know how to cross.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, your voice barely audible.

Lewis looks at you for a long moment, his expression softening slightly, but the hurt still lingers in his eyes. “I need some time,” he says finally, his voice rough. “I just … I need to figure this out.”

You nod, the tears finally spilling over. “Okay.”

He turns and walks away, leaving you standing there, your heart heavy and your world spinning.

As you watch him go, you can’t help but wonder if things will ever be the same between you.

***

The air at Imola is still. The late-summer heat clings to your skin, and the only sounds around you are the distant hum of cicadas and the soft crunch of leaves underfoot as you shift your weight from one foot to the other. You stare at the stone memorial, the bronze relief of your father’s face, the flowers people have left here over the years. Some are wilted, some fresh. There’s even a small Brazilian flag tucked against the base.

You exhale slowly, your hands stuffed deep into the pockets of your jacket. It’s been exactly a year since you first stood here, heart in your throat, hoping to find some kind of connection, some kind of clarity. The weight of the past year presses down on you now — signing with McLaren, the media frenzy, the fallout with Lewis.

And Papai. Always Papai.

You kneel, brushing a hand over the smooth stone, fingers tracing the engraved letters. “I made it,” you whisper. “I’m almost there.” Your voice catches on the words, a lump forming in your throat. “I wish you were here to see it.”

You close your eyes, trying to imagine what he’d say if he were standing beside you. Maybe he’d be proud. Maybe he’d tell you to push harder, go faster, never settle. Or maybe he’d tell you to slow down, to find a way to reconnect with your mother before it’s too late. But he’s not here. That’s the problem, isn’t it?

A soft rustling sound pulls you from your thoughts. Footsteps, deliberate but hesitant, approach from behind, crunching through the dry leaves scattered on the ground. You turn, and your breath catches in your throat.

It’s Lewis.

He’s wearing a hoodie, hands tucked into the front pocket, his brows peeking out from beneath a baseball cap. He stops a few feet away, his dark brown eyes meeting yours. There’s something guarded in his expression, but there’s warmth there, too.

You straighten slowly, your heart hammering in your chest. “What are you doing here?”

Lewis shrugs, his gaze flickering to the memorial and back to you. “Monza’s coming up. Thought I’d stop by first … like I always do.”

The tension between you feels like a wire pulled taut, ready to snap at any second. For a moment, neither of you says anything, the silence stretching out like a canyon.

“I didn’t think I’d see you here,” you finally say, your voice quieter than you intended.

He takes a step closer, his eyes searching yours. “I didn’t think I’d see you here, either.”

You bite your lip, looking away toward the memorial. “I needed to. Before the race. I … I haven’t been here since last year.”

Lewis shifts, the soft scrape of his shoes against the ground. “I remember.”

The air feels heavy between you, thick with all the things you haven’t said to each other. The words are right there on the tip of your tongue, but they feel tangled, impossible to untangle without breaking.

Lewis is the first to speak again, his voice soft but steady. “I’ve been thinking a lot. About what happened. About everything.”

You swallow hard, your hands clenching into fists in your pockets. “Me too.”

“I was angry,” Lewis admits. “Hurt, too. But … I get it now. Why you didn’t tell me.”

His words catch you off guard, and you glance at him, surprised. “You do?”

He nods slowly, his gaze never leaving yours. “I know what it’s like to feel like you have to prove yourself, like the world’s already decided who you are before you even get a chance to show them. I just … I wish you’d trusted me with it.”

“I wanted to,” you say, your voice cracking slightly. “I did. But … it’s complicated.” You look down, kicking at a stray leaf with your shoe. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to figure out how to be his daughter without being defined by it. And now … now it’s all out there.”

Lewis steps closer, closing the gap between you. “You’re not just his daughter, Y/N. You’re you. And that’s who I fell for.”

The warmth in his voice makes your chest tighten. You blink quickly, trying to keep the tears at bay, but it’s no use. They spill over anyway, and you wipe at them angrily with the sleeve of your jacket.

“It’s not just about the name,” you whisper. “Racing … it’s all I’ve ever wanted. But it’s also what took me away from my mom.” You take a shaky breath, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. “She can’t even look at me without seeing him. I haven’t had a real conversation with her in years. The last time we talked was my birthday. And it was just a two-minute call.”

Lewis’ face softens, and he reaches out, gently brushing a tear from your cheek with his thumb. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head, sniffing quietly. “It’s not your fault. It’s just … hard, you know? I love racing, but it feels like it’s cost me everything else.”

He takes another step closer, his hand lingering on your cheek. “You’ve got me,” he murmurs.

You look up at him, your breath catching in your throat. “Do I?”

He smiles softly, his thumb brushing along your jaw. “Yeah. You do.”

The world feels like it tilts for a moment, everything narrowing down to just the two of you standing here, beneath the shadow of your father’s memory. And before you can think too hard about it, before the doubts can creep in, you lean in, closing the distance between you.

The kiss is soft at first — tentative, like neither of you wants to break the fragile peace that’s settled between you. But then his hand slips to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and the kiss deepens, the weight of everything unsaid dissolving in the warmth of his touch.

When you finally pull away, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads resting against each other.

“I missed you,” Lewis whispers, his breath warm against your skin.

“I missed you, too,” you admit, your voice barely audible.

For a moment, the two of you just stand there, wrapped up in each other, the rest of the world fading away.

Eventually, Lewis pulls back slightly, his hand still cradling the back of your neck. “So … what now?”

You smile, a small, genuine smile that feels like the first one in a long time. “Now … we go win at Monza.”

He grins, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Damn right we will.”

You laugh softly, the sound light and free, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the weight on your chest lifts.

As you stand there, hand in hand with Lewis, you glance back at the memorial one last time. “I think he’d be happy,” you say quietly.

Lewis squeezes your hand gently. “I know he would.”

And just like that, the knot in your chest loosens. You’re still Ayrton Senna’s daughter. But you’re also yourself. And that? That feels like enough.

***

The crowd roars so loudly that it feels like the earth itself is shaking. São Paulo is electric, the grandstands packed with people draped in green and yellow, waving flags, and chanting. You’ve been in big races before, stood on podiums, and tasted victory. But this … this is different.

This is Interlagos. This is home. And for the first time in your career, you’re leading an F1 race in front of your people.

“Alright, Y/N,” your engineer’s voice crackles over the radio. “Five laps to go. Everything looks good on the telemetry. Just bring her home.”

Your heart pounds against your chest as you navigate the tight curves of the circuit. Every bump, every rise, every dip feels familiar. You’ve studied this track since you were a child. This is where your father was a legend — and now, it’s where you can make your own history.

The tires hum beneath you, vibrations pulsing through your hands and feet. The sky is dark with heavy clouds threatening rain, but the track is still dry, for now. Behind you, Sebastian Vettel is chasing hard in second place, his Red Bull a glimmer in your mirrors, but you don’t think about him. Not now. This is about you. About crossing that finish line first.

Four laps. Then three. Every second feels like an eternity. You can hear the crowd over the sound of the engine, their voices rising every time you fly past the grandstands. “SENNA! SENNA!” they chant, over and over, as if your name — your real name — was always meant to be called alongside your father’s.

“Two laps, Y/N. Gap to Vettel is two seconds. Stay focused.”

Your grip tightens on the wheel. You shift gears, your mind and body moving in perfect sync with the machine around you. The wind whistles past your helmet as you race up the hill toward the final turn.

On the final lap, it starts to drizzle — just enough to slick the track and make things dangerous. Your car twitches as the tires search for grip.

“Be careful, Y/N,” your engineer warns. “You’ve got this. Just stay calm.”

You breathe in. Breathe out. And then the chequered flag waves ahead of you, and the world explodes into color and sound.

“P1, Y/N! P1! You’ve won the Brazilian Grand Prix!” Your engineer’s voice is hoarse with excitement. “That was incredible — you just won at home!”

Your heart leaps as tears spring to your eyes. You punch the air, screaming into the radio, not caring who hears. “YES! YES! WE DID IT!”

The car coasts into parc fermé, the engine humming its final notes as you switch it off. You rip off your gloves and helmet, letting the cool air hit your damp face. The grandstands are still shaking with the cheers of thousands. Your name — Senna — is on every banner, every poster, and every fan’s lips.

You climb out of the car, adrenaline still surging through your veins, and jump onto the chassis. The crowd roars even louder as you throw your fists into the air, pointing toward the sky. The thought flashes through your mind: This one’s for you, Papai.

You jump down and make your way to the barriers where your team waits, already celebrating with hugs, fist bumps, and slaps on the back. You push through the throng of mechanics, your heart so full it feels like it might burst. And that’s when you see her.

Among the sea of McLaren team uniforms, standing stiffly with her arms wrapped around herself, is your mother.

Your steps falter for a moment, shock flooding through you. She’s here. She’s really here. You blink, wondering if the tears in your eyes are playing tricks on you, but no — there she is. Adriane.

She’s thinner than you remember, her hair streaked with more silver now. She looks out of place among the mechanics, but she’s here. Her eyes, so much like your own, are filled with something you haven’t seen in years — pride. And something more. Regret.

For a moment, you just stand there, frozen. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry or run the other way. Then her face crumples, and she takes a tentative step forward, her arms reaching for you like she used to when you were small.

That’s all it takes. You close the distance in an instant, throwing yourself into her arms.

“Mãe!” The word leaves your mouth in a sob, and before you know it, you’re both crying, clutching each other like you’re afraid to let go.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers into your hair, her voice trembling. “I’m so sorry, minha filha. I was wrong. I should’ve-”

You shake your head against her shoulder, holding her tighter. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

She pulls back slightly, cupping your face in her hands like she used to when you were little. “I didn’t think I could do it,” she admits, tears streaming down her cheeks. “I was so afraid I’d lose you too. But then … then I watched you out there today.” Her voice cracks, and she brushes a strand of hair from your face. “And I saw him. I saw Ayrton. But more than that, I saw you. My daughter.”

You can’t speak — your throat feels too tight, and the tears won’t stop. So you just nod, leaning into her touch as the noise of the paddock fades into the background.

Adriane pulls you back into a hug, and for the first time in years, you let yourself feel it — the warmth, the love, the mother you thought you’d lost. And somehow, standing here with her in your arms, it feels like you’ve come full circle.

After a long moment, she pulls back and wipes her tears, a shaky laugh escaping her. “Look at us. Crying like fools.”

You laugh too, sniffling as you wipe your own face. “It’s okay. It’s a good day to cry.”

A voice cuts through the noise — your team calling you for the podium ceremony. You glance over your shoulder, feeling the weight of the moment settle on you. You turn back to your mother, hesitant. “Will you stay?”

She smiles, her eyes still glassy with unshed tears. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

You nod, squeezing her hand one last time before you let go and jog toward the podium. The crowd’s roar is deafening as you step up to the top step, your name flashing on the giant screens around the circuit. The Brazilian flag rises slowly, and as the national anthem plays, you close your eyes and let the moment wash over you.

It feels like home. It feels like peace. It feels like you’re exactly where you’re meant to be.

Later, after the champagne has been sprayed and the trophies have been handed out, you find Lewis waiting for you in the paddock, a grin stretching across his face.

“Not bad, Senna,” he teases, pulling you into a warm embrace.

You laugh, pressing your forehead against his. “Not bad yourself, Hamilton.”

The two of you stay like that for a moment, the chaos of the paddock swirling around you, but all you can feel is the steady beat of his heart against yours.

“Your dad would be proud,” Lewis murmurs, his voice soft in your ear.

You smile, closing your eyes. “Yeah,” you whisper. “I think he would be.”

***

The sun is setting over Monaco, casting the apartment in soft golds and pinks. You let yourself in quietly, the cool metal of the front door clicking shut behind you. Training was brutal today — your arms ache, and every muscle feels like it’s been wrung out. All you want is to find Lewis, maybe curl up on the couch together and recover with some takeaway.

You kick off your sneakers, already untying the knot in your ponytail, when you hear voices from the living room. You pause mid-step.

Lewis is talking to someone — no, two people. You creep forward on silent feet, heart quickening as the voices grow clearer.

“-I love her more than anything,” Lewis says, his voice low but certain. “And I want to spend the rest of my life with her.”

Your breath catches. You flatten yourself against the wall, just out of sight. It feels like you’ve stepped into some kind of dream, one where the pieces of your life are rearranging themselves into something both surreal and perfect.

Then you hear your mother’s voice — gentler than it used to be, softened by time and the walls you’ve slowly chipped away.

“You want my blessing?” Adriane says, her words slow, as if she’s tasting them, feeling their weight.

“I do,” Lewis replies. “I wanted to ask both of you. It felt right.”

Both of them? You inch closer, daring to peek around the corner. And there they are — Lewis, sitting on the couch, his elbows on his knees, looking more serious than you’ve ever seen him. Across from him sit your mother and Alain, side by side like a pair of mismatched bookends.

Alain leans back, arms folded, the corner of his mouth twitching as if he’s trying not to smile. “You realize what you’re getting into?” He asks dryly. “She’s more stubborn than Ayrton ever was.”

Lewis chuckles, but it’s a little nervous. “Yeah, I know.”

Adriane tilts her head, studying him like she’s trying to see through to his soul. “And if she says no?”

Lewis’ face softens, a quiet kind of love settling into his expression. “Then I’ll still be with her. Because I don’t need her to marry me to know she’s it for me.”

Something cracks open inside you. It feels like standing on the podium in Brazil all over again — overwhelming and humbling and impossibly full. You press a hand to your mouth, as if that will steady the emotion threatening to spill over.

Your mother leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. There’s a moment of silence so thick it hums.

“When Y/N was seven,” she begins slowly, “she told me she wanted to race. I told her no. I thought if I kept her away from the track, I could protect her from the same thing that took Ayrton from me.” She sighs, her gaze dropping to her hands. “But all I did was push her away.”

Alain clears his throat, glancing sideways at her. “It’s not easy,” he murmurs, more to Adriane than to Lewis. “Loving someone who belongs to the track.”

Your mother nods, her eyes glassy. “But you’ve made her happy. You’ve given her the space to be who she’s always wanted to be.” She pauses, blinking quickly. “And I see Ayrton in that. In you.”

Lewis rubs the back of his neck, clearly moved but trying not to show it. “That means more than you know.”

“And you promise me something,” Adriane says, her voice gaining strength, as if she’s gathering all her fears into this one request. “That you’ll never try to stop her. Not when things get hard. Not when it scares you.”

Lewis leans forward, looking her dead in the eye. “I swear. I’d never take that from her.”

Your mother exhales, like a weight she’s carried for years is finally lifting off her shoulders. “Then you have my blessing,” she says quietly.

Alain smirks, slapping Lewis on the back. “Looks like you’re in for the ride of your life.”

They laugh softly, the kind of laugh that comes with hard-won understanding.

And that’s when the floorboard under your foot creaks.

All three heads whip toward the sound, and you’re caught, frozen halfway between hiding and stepping forward.

Lewis’ eyes widen, and then a slow, guilty smile spreads across his face. “How long have you been standing there?”

You step fully into the room, arms crossed but fighting back a grin. “Long enough to hear that you’re plotting something.”

Alain chuckles, standing up and brushing off his jeans. “I think that’s my cue to leave.” He winks at you, patting Lewis on the shoulder as he makes his way toward the door. “Good luck.”

“Thanks, Alain,” Lewis mutters, rubbing his palms against his thighs, clearly nervous now.

Your mother rises as well, hesitating for a moment. She looks at you, her eyes soft. “I’ll call you later,” she murmurs, reaching out to squeeze your hand briefly before following Alain out the door.  

And then it’s just you and Lewis, standing in the golden light of your apartment, the door clicking shut behind your mother and Alain.  

You raise an eyebrow, trying to keep your voice light. “So … what was all that about?”  

Lewis steps closer, and suddenly the nervous energy from earlier melts away. He takes your hand, his thumb tracing lazy circles against your palm.  

“Y/N …” he begins, and there’s something so tender in the way he says your name that it makes your heart skip a beat. “I wanted to do this the right way. To ask the people who mean the mos to you.”  

Your breath catches as he drops to one knee, right there in the middle of your living room.  

He pulls a small box from his pocket, opening it to reveal a ring that catches the light like starlight on water. It’s simple, elegant, and perfect.  

Lewis looks up at you, his dark eyes filled with love, nerves, and hope. “I love you, Y/N. I’ve loved you from the moment I saw you at Imola. And I want to spend every day from now on making you as happy as you’ve made me.”  

You cover your mouth with your hand, tears already welling up in your eyes.  

“So,” he says with a smile that’s both warm and a little crooked. “What do you say? Will you marry me?”  

For a moment, all you can do is nod, words caught somewhere between your heart and your throat. Then you finally find your voice.  

“Yes,” you whisper, your smile breaking wide and free. “Yes, I’ll marry you.” 

Lewis’ grin lights up the room, and he stands, slipping the ring onto your finger before pulling you into his arms. You kiss him, slow and deep, and in that moment, it feels like everything — the years of struggle, of loss, of love — has brought you to exactly where you’re supposed to be.

When you finally pull away, breathless and giddy, Lewis leans his forehead against yours, his hands cradling your face.

“Guess Alain was right,” he murmurs, grinning. “This really is the ride of my life.”

You laugh, pure and full, wrapping your arms around him tighter. “Buckle up, Hamilton,” you tease. “It’s only just getting started.”

[jayschaconne]

blurb! | Park Jay

summary: Jay being silly and affectionate because he can’t seem to realize how drunk he is.

warnings: slightly suggestive themes.

genre: fluff!

a/n: had to write this cute little thing after those pictures dropped. seriously need to lay off writing smut for a while.

…

Wet lips that peppered sloppy kisses alongside your neck, giggles tickling the soft skin.

Your shared bedroom had fallen silent, with only sounds of Jay’s lips pressing down on skin he so deeply wanted to devour right now.

“Mm, my baby is so pretty,” he slurred sounding half-awake.

It had been 10 minutes with you trying to get Jay to go to bed. It always ended up with him springing back up and unbuttoning his shirt and undoing his belt. He’d slid off straps of your night gown, lips desperately searching for skin to leave his mark on.

“Baby, I wanna make love,” his lips would ghost over yours. A smile teasing as it grew against your lips. His fingers would work the ribbons coming undone on your back.

“Jay,” you’d say, pulling him away from you. “Baby, stop,” gasps would leave you at how much more intense he’d get when intoxicated.

“I just…feel so hot,” a sigh left him. “You keep making me put my clothes back on,” he frowned.

“You’re drunk,” you smiled, hands skimming over his shoulders, gently caressing his face.

“No,” a silly chuckle left his throat. “I’m Jay.” With knitted brows, his fingers were pointing to himself, making it seem like he himself wasn’t convinced.

“Wait…where’s my girlfriend?”

“I’m right here, baby.”

“No, no, no. You’re…” he gasped, his eyes droopy from all that consumed liquor.

“You seduced me, didn’t you?” He started panicking, rolling off the bed. “Baby,” He yelled into his phone. “I promise I’d never cheat on you,” he wept.

“You’re such a baby,” you sat there watching your boyfriend lose his mind over how he thought you were some other girl.

“Do you know how hot my girlfriend is?” He was lying back on the bed now. His words, unintelligible, slid off his tongue.

“Hmm? How hot?” You asked, failing to contain the laugh that slipped past your lips.

“She’s just…oh,” he put a hand over his heart, a drunken smile embracing his beautifully sculpted face. “She is so hot…there’s no way I’d ever have eyes for anyone else.”

“I bet,” you agreed with him, feeling giddy at how he talked about you. “What do you like about her?”

“Like?” He cackled. “I don’t know what you’re on about. I’m in love,” he confessed. That smile never wiping off his face.

You wanted to reach over and wrap him closely in between your arms. “You are so darn cute,” you whispered.

“She’s so much more than just my girlfriend.” He sat up again, a sleeve now sliding off his arm, making you giggle at how messy he was.

“Oh?”

“I can’t wait to marry her. Give her my last name,” he was starting to doze off amidst all his rambling. “Mrs. Park,” he flushed at the thought.

It left your heart feeling so full of him. Not knowing what you’d do with the amount of love that had sprouted deep within every each bone of your body by just the mere thought of him.

[5sospenguinqueen]

Djungelskog | Oscar Piastri x Teacher! Reader

Summary: Summer break means forcing Oscar to help you get your classroom ready in time for upcoming school year. 

Fluff. 2024 season. Pinterest pics

Requested: Yes by anon (here)

There's a little blurb halfway down

F1 Masterlist

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yn_ln just posted

liked by oscarpiastri, landonorris and others

yn_ln last day of term. last recess, last day of chalk drawings. i’ve had a lovely bunch this year and will miss them loads as they move on. looking forward to a much needed break

681 comments

bestfriend feet on the desk? empty classroom? looks like slacking to me

oscarpiastri can’t wait to spend summer break with you 

→ yn_ln it’ll be nice to not have to share you with lando

→ landonorris what makes you think you can get away from me

→ georgerussel63 that sounds like a threat, mate

hattiepiastri does this mean you’ll have time to take me to the babymetal concert? ‘cause mum keeps trying to get out of it 

→ yn_ln do i have to learn the all the lyrics? 

→ hattiepiastri you’re a teacher, learning is in your blood 

→ yn_ln osc, help

→ oscarpiastri no, you chose to befriend her

alexandrasaintmleux omg did the kids do those drawings? 🥹belle

→ yn_ln no, that was lando’s drawing

→ landonorris don’t be silly. i can’t draw that well

teacherfriend i’ll do my best to look after them next year but i know i can’t compete with the fabulous miss ln 

nicolepiastri when can we see miss ln turn to mrs piastri?

→ oscarpiastri this is why i don’t come home 

→ nicolepiastri no, you don’t come home because yn does your laundry now 

oscarpiastri just posted

liked by yn_ln, danielricciardo and others

oscarpiastri first part of the season done. first GP victory. first broken bone. looking forward to a much needed break for the rib

4,811 comments

landonorris omg stop copying your girlfriend’s caption style

→ yn_ln he can’t help it. he’s obsessed with me

→ oscarpiastri true

→ user1 let us innnnn

user2 does a broken bone mean he’ll win the next race

→ yn_ln only if i'm there

charles_leclerc and what have you been doing to break a bone?

→ oscarpiastri helping my girlfriend empty a classroom. there’s a lot of books in there

mclaren enjoy the break. we can’t wait to have you back racing and refreshed 

→ user3 he’s literally only just left the mtc, give him a minute of peace

→ yn_ln don’t worry. i’ll be putting them in a time out if they try and take him

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yn_ln just posted

liked by logansargeant, oscarpiastri and others

yn_ln my happy place. quick lunch break. dragging my big strong man to carry stuff for me in ikea 

814 comments

oscarpiastri before that bear, i was your big strong man :( 

→ yn_ln you broke a rib. you’re only so useful. the bear can’t break 

→ oscarpiastri it can if i pull it’s head off

→ yn_ln you were a biter, weren’t you?

→ hattiepiastri yes

landonorris why wasn’t i invited

landonorris sushi 🤢

→ yn_ln this is why you weren’t invited 

→ landonorris stop trying to push me out 

→ oscarpiastri i see you practically 10 months out of the year. she can have me for one afternoon

charles_leclerc oh i love ikea furniture! can i help?

→ yn_ln of course you can. we have snacks as well

→ landonorris blatant favouritism 

→ yn_ln yes 

danielricciardo omg the djungelskog. when can i meet him?

→ oscarpiastri he’s called skoggie for short 

→ nicolepiastri the closest i’ll get to grandkids

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Oscar grinned at the face filling up the front of his phone, sliding the button across to answer it. 

“He-”

“Babe, I need more glue.” You exploded, cutting him off before he could even greet you properly. “Oh, and paper.”

“-And I broke the scissors. But the good news is, Lan said he could come and help so could you actually pick up 3 pairs of scissors, please?” 

“Sweetheart, breathe.” Oscar reminded you, a soft laugh echoing down the phone. “I’ve literally only been gone for 10 minutes. All we needed was milk. How did you manage to rope Lando into this?” 

“Rope? He was practically hanging by the phone waiting for one of us to call. I asked if he could spare a few minutes - just to give you a hand moving the desk - and he was already in the car on his way.”

“At least he’s preparing us for our own children one day,” joked Oscar.

“How have you got paint in your curls? I didn’t ask you to paint because I knew you couldn't be trusted to paint,” the exasperated voice of his girlfriend echoed down the empty school hallways. Light radiated from a singular doorway at the end of the hallway, beckoning him forward. 

“Every year, I deal with a class of 30 five year olds, experiencing freedom from their parents for the first time. And yet I feel like I need to watch you more than I do them.” 

“But it was just sat on the side, with the lid off!.”

“So you felt the need to somehow stick your entire hand in it?” 

Oscar leant against the doorframe, watching affectionately as you used a wet wipe to get the paint off of Lando as best as possible. Despite the curly-haired Brit being old than you, it didn’t stop the caring instinct that came with being a first-year teacher. 

One wall was painted a soft lilac whilst the other three had been given fresh coats of white. The chairs and tables had been organised into little groups to help you see each child’s face from the front of the class, and the drawers were freshly stocked with stationery. A little rug and some bean bags were set up in the corner for the story nook, and all that was left to do was start hanging up the wall deco. 

“There?” 

“Little higher,” you remarked, after faking a contemplative pause. 

“Now?”

“Little higher,” you leaned back to really take in the view. “Oh, yeah, that’s good.”

The white t-shirt sat snugly on his strained biceps as he held the board up over his head. The hem rode up as he stretched, revealing a nice sliver of tan, muscular back. Nibbling on your bottom lip, you sighed deeply at the sight before you. How easy would it be to reach and smack-

“Babe!” Oscar called again, turning around to check on you. “I can’t hold this- Are you checking me out? You’re supposed to be telling me where this goes.” 

“You shouldn’t look that good then.”

Clambering down from the ladder, he placed the thick board down on the nearest table and sauntered over to you. Placing his hands on your hips, he pulled you flush against him. Pressing a kiss to your nose, he trailed his lips down to your jaw and then under your ear. 

“How about we call it a night? This’ll all be here tomorrow, and you can appreciate the view without the t-shirt.” 

When you didn’t smile at his enticing offer, Oscar pulled down to look at you. Brushing a strand of hair back from your face, he frowned at the furrow between your brows. 

“What’s up, sweetheart?” 

“I’m just worried that it’s not enough, you know…”

Oscar turned his head slightly, drinking in all the work you had put together. The butterflies made out of patterned cards that you had spent hours scouring stores for. The paper flowers decorating the whiteboard that you had spent days stressing about. The stack of drawers with each student's name labelled across the front. The days of work that had gone into ensuring that each little person that crossed your threshold was as happy as they could be. A teacher that cared. 

“I know they’re only five, and they’ve never had another classroom to go off but- I don’t know. I just want them to feel comfortable and safe, and happy. I don’t want them to feel like they’re in an institution designed to make them sit in a seat for six hours.” 

“Look at all the effort you’ve put in so far. Without all the lesson planning and actual caring you’ll do when those kids come under your care. Did you ever have a classroom like this growing up? No. Neither did I. You know why, because nobody cares as much as you do.”

Straightening, he swung you up into his arms, bridal style. A cheeky grin pulled at the corners of his mouth when you shrieked in laughter. 

“Now, let’s go home, Skoggie is waiting for us. We'll grab some dinner and take a bath together. What do you say?” 

“Okay, Piastri. Take me home or lose me forever.” 

oscarpiastri just posted

liked by mclaren, arthur_leclerc and others

oscarpiastri dating a teacher means spending summer break painting, cutting, glueing and then being told “it’s quiet time” whilst she decompresses from watching you do all the work 

3,381 comments

yn_ln you wouldn’t stop talking and i was trying to refresh my barbie knowledge

→ user1 princess and the pauper?

→ yn_ln absolutely 

→ landonorris i’m the erika to her annalise 

→ oscarpiastri whoa, you help with one classroom and think you can take my coveted spot? 

yn_ln plus it was hard work taking in the view 

→ oscarpiastri i had a pretty good view afterwards 🛁🫧

user2 idk why but the paint hands make me wanna scream

→ user3 omg i wonder if they made the little hand canvas things loads of couples have done

→ oscarpiastri we did! they’re now hung up over our bed

maxverstappen1 think you can make some more of those flowers for P’s room? 

→ oscarpiastri i’ve got paper cuts on top of paper cuts. don't ask me to do more

→ yn_ln i’ve got loads left over. she can pick the ones she likes best 

user4 the matching pjs 🥰 this couple has my whole heart

→ yn_ln he also has mine! 

user5 i love when oscar’s insta has something other than racing on it

→ user6 i want yn to let us onto hers so bad. i would sell my soul for the couples content on there

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yn_ln just posted

liked by oscarpiastri, charles_leclerc and others

yn_ln and it’s done. one week of relaxation left before the new term starts. i can’t wait to meet my new bunch of kids. a huge thank you to my constant kid @/landonorris for his help and mess. and an even bigger gratitude to osc. without you, this never would’ve been finished. you helped not only physically but mentally. my rock 💕

1,681 comments

user7 omg am i seeing things? is this actually oscar’s yn? 

oscarpiastri you did an amazing job 🤍 enjoy your last week off

→ yn_ln you better not win any more races without me

→ mclaren you know he can’t promise that 

landonorris maybe if you had been my teacher, i would’ve stayed in school

→ carlossainz55 doubtful 

maxverstappen1 P can’t wait to be in your class

→ yn_ln and i’m looking forward to being her teacher. although it might be hard to fight the urge to show favouritism 

hattiepiastri ew, don’t be cute online

→ oscarpiastri you're just mad that i'm her favourite piastri

→ hattiepiastri we both know that's a lie

→ nicolepiastri it's me

user8 um, can she be my teacher, please?

charles_leclerc i think this is a sign that i need to have children so that you can become their teacher 

→ alexandrasaintmleux let’s stick with leo for now 

→ nicolepiastri i keep trying to convince oscar and yn. you’ll be next, don’t worry 

→ oscarpiastri you have Skoggie. you don’t need any other grandkids

user9 we’re in! everyone say thank you oscar for making her come off priv

→ user10 their couple content is healing my soul

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Request for F1 fics are open.

A/N: Apologies for the delay in getting these out. I've been super busy making jumpers for my upcoming family Disney trip

Tag list

@peachiicherries @rosecentury @c-losur3 @heavy-vettel @evie-119

[cloudwisp]

Jealous Sylus unknowingly sets himself up when he takes you to a 9-course kaiseki experience for a quiet and intimate dinner date. You’re both seated at the chef’s counter and the charming man preparing the food and serving you tonight was on the younger and attractive side. You can tell the chef pours his heart and soul into each beautiful small plate so you savor each bite with blissful appreciation and praise him for making such delicious food so skillfully with ease.

Sylus wouldn't dream of spoiling your night just because something is preventing him from sharing your enjoyment, but when you kindly ask the talented chef for his name it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. He drags your seat closer to him, laying a soft kiss on your shoulder while maintaining a possessive grip around your waist. You’re infuriatingly oblivious to his display of jealousy as you keep your cute smiles about you and gently pat his cheek feeding him another bite.

After the lovely dinner experience, you and Sylus take a moonlit stroll basking in the cool night air. His thumbs are tucked inside his front pockets so you loop your arm through his to hold and lean some of your weight against him, exhaling that you didn’t know such simple and unique ingredients could make for such a tasty meal and you’d love to revisit the place again. You feel Sylus stiffen under your touch at that and his unimpressed response makes you realize his unusual behavior of keeping mostly quiet this entire outing. You pull him to an abrupt stop and with a tilt of your head and slight furrow to your brows you ask him what’s wrong.

Sylus takes a moment to collect his thoughts, glancing at the lamplight filtered road ahead of him then back at your concerned face and resigns with a small sigh. There’s an edge in his voice when he downplays the situation but the more he recalls your fangirl worthy attention toward the chef it slowly gnaws at him from within. “Nothing’s wrong. You just seemed to enjoy that food a little too much. And that chef a little too much.”

“Sylus, you brought me there so I’m not really understanding...? Of course, I enjoyed seeing the food be prepared right in front of us and the— Oohh, I think I see now.” You really should've tried harder to suppress the fond smile as your mind works to make perfect sense of the unwarranted tension between you and him. But it was truly adorable to think that even the fearsome Onychinus leader was jealous over something so silly and you reach up to playfully pinch his cheek. “Were you jealous? Is that why you were acting so strange?”

“Jealous, huh?” He laughs softly, but it sounds more like a scoff as his fingers curl around your wrist and he brings your hand back down to his side while brushing his thumb over your knuckles. “I wouldn’t say jealous, just… observant. You were practically gushing over the chef when I was right there.”

“Okay, I understand where you’re coming from. It seems I should be more interested in reminding my husband how much I love and adore him.” You encircle your arms around his neck and his expression softens with each tender kiss you trail across his face and meet his waiting lips for an achingly sweet kiss. His hands rest on your hips and tug you closer to him and he resists the urge to deepen the kiss like he’s a man obsessed and can’t get enough of his darling wife.

“I appreciate the reminder, kitten. But I might need another one when we’re back home for good measure.”

[emmyrosee]

“Do I have a cute butt?”

“Excuse me?” Osamu asks at your question, popping an eye open as he chuckles. You giggle at your matched silliness, gently patting his chest.

“You know.... like, is my butt cute?” You ask again, traveling your eyes to look. Your leg is hooked over his waist, his large hand running along your thigh sweetly.

Osamu sighs sleepily, “is this one of those scenarios where if I answer, you’ll hit me?”

You giggle at him, “depends on your answer.”

“Then I think you have, single handedly, the cutest butt in the world, sweet love.” His large hand travels down and gives your ass a gentle pat, almost like you were a baby.

Well, you are his baby, as he always assures.

Your heart flutters wildly at his words, they always have an effect on you, and you can’t help but nuzzle into his chest further to hide your face.

“Awww,” he teases. “Did I make my angel girl all shy?”

“Shut up,” you mutter, shoving him lightly. He chuckles lowly before shoving his hand under your hip and pushing you up, guiding you to straddle his waist. He gently caresses your sides and thighs, dopey, loving smile on his pink lips.

“I think every part of you is the cutest, my love,” Osamu whispers, making you roll your eyes.

“Oh yeah?” You challenge. “Like what?” He raises his own brows, “everything.” He gently takes your hand in his, “I love these small, sexy hands of yours.” He plants a kiss to each of your fingers before closing them, placing a final kiss to your knuckles. You bite your lip, brushing the fallen locks of hair out of his eyes.

“They’re not small,” you protest. “Yours are just massive.”

“Either way,” he continues. “I love these hips, and these legs that everyone stares at when you wear shorts,” he gently digs his fingers in your thighs slightly, leaving lightened prints before transforming back to your original skin tone.

You avert his gaze, “they stare because my hips come up to your thighs. Tall freak.”

“They stare because you’re hot,” he says, putting extra emphasis on the ‘T’ and grinning like the Cheshire Cat. “They stare because somehow, your stunning ass got stuck with me."

“I love being stuck with you!"

“I love it too,” he assures, smiling as you laugh. “That’s another thing,” he says. “That sweet laugh of yours.”

“Oh, you mean the dolphin mating call?” You scoff, crossing your arms.

Osamu shakes his head, “no, you brat. I’m talking about your laugh. Your sweet giggles. Your scoffs. The way it goes silent when you laugh really hard. It the fucking best.”

“No it’s not,” you groan. “You’re the only person on planet earth who could find a walrus being assaulted with a crowbar cute.”

“There’s nothing wrong with finding your little giggles endearing.”

“Yeah, right.”

“But you know what I love most about you?” He asks, cupping your ass and hips in his massive hands.

You quirk your brow, “what’s that, oh Prince Charming of mine.”

“My absolute biggest weakness about you, dollface, is...” he squeezed harder. “Messing with you.”

You can barely process what he said before he bucks his hips up against you, bouncing you up and down. You scream out in laughter, planting your hands to his chest. His own laughter mixes with yours, his thighs continuing to bounce you like you’re a rider on a horse.

“Okay, okay!” You manage between giggles. “I get it!”

“Don’t,” bounce “think,” bounce “you,” bounce “do.” He grins as he stops bouncing, sitting up to wrap his arms around you, pulling you flush to his chest as you both flop back down.

“You’re so bad,” you giggle, running your hands over his chest. Osamu chuckles, planting a kiss to your head.

“What can I say,” he sighs dreamily. “I'm a man of poetic genius.”

"If that's what you want to call it."

Immediately, hands dart under your arms to tickle you viciously, smirking as you shriek and clamp your hands to your sides and laughter pours out of your lips.

It truly was his favorite sound.

[eternity-death]

Penacony Reactions to you spanking them

No TW’s I think. Just sillies being silly. Established relationship with Reader in all these hc’s.

—————

Hanabi

Head snaps 180° at you and you scream.

She’s traumatized you and now you will never do it again.

This doesn’t stop her from getting you back, though. And she’ll do it in public to make it worse. It’s not a one-and-done deal either, it becomes a regular thing.

You’ve just sentenced yourself to a life of sore-booty and humiliation. Was it really worth it?

Black Swan

Stares at you.

Her expression is a little hard to read and the longer she looks at you the more you feel implored to apologize.

She’s not mad though, she’s actually rather amused. And she’s getting even more entertainment by watching you squirm.

Eventually she gives and just chuckles. If you’ll allow her, then she’ll give you a nice tap on the butt too.

Sampo

He does that one goofy (Mickey mouse) scream.

Very animated reaction. Jumps 10 feet off the ground and covers his behind. He looks back at you like a kicked puppy but you know it’s all fake.

Sniffles and says smthn like, “How could you do this to your best bud, Sampo?”

Gets you back when you least expect it. Like you actually scream bloody murder because your guard is down and you can’t hear him sneak up on you bc he’s light on his feet. It doesn’t matter if you’re in public either. Be very afraid.

Aventurine

“Woah! Getting a little frisky, eh?”

If you’ve got something separating you two like a chair or a counter, he will chase you around it to reach you. Spanks you back, harder, with zero hesitation.

He starts tapping your butt as a regular thing afterwards. Almost like a greeting.

“Hey babe.” Then a light slap. When he feels extra mischievous he’ll grab it.

Acheron

You are unable to slap her booty because she catches your hand before it makes contact.

Just kind of looks at you and goes, “What are you doing.”

You explain to her that spanking is a sort of gesture between close companions. She doesn’t quite get it but decides to just go with it.

Later on, when she greets you, she strikes her hand down on your behind so hard that your teeth clatter. She asks if she did it right with such a hopeful tone, that you can’t find it in yourself to tell her that shattering someone’s pelvis is not part of the gesture. (When she does find out that she’s hurt you she apologizes deeply and coddles you)

Dr. Ratio

Lets out a high pitched yelp.

Gives you the most scandalized look and defensively rubs his tush.

“Did you really just do what I think you did?”

Strategizes a way to get you back. He has a blackboard with physics equations for the perfect angle and fall of his hand, pinned papers and calendars with your schedule and his, etc. He’s terrible at hiding his intentions too. When the time comes for his revenge you already anticipate it. What you didn’t anticipate was how strong he was. You guess those biceps aren’t just for show.

Firefly

Why would you ever? What kind of monster are you?

She yelps and just stares at you; hands covering her behind, face flushed, and her mouth agape.

Apologize.

Sam

You have a death wish.

Another one who catches your hand before you can spank. He just puts your hand back in your lap and goes, “No.”

He actually just doesn’t want you to hurt yourself. His… butt… isn’t very soft, you see.

If you want him to, he’ll lightly tap yours back.

March 7nth

Gasps and launches herself at you with full intention of getting you back.

It turns into a chase, where you run in circles around the gazebo until she gets too tired and gives up.

You laugh about it but later forget. Little do you know, March has been scheming ever since.

“AHA!” You feel a harsh slap against your behind and yelp. The vendor you were talking to looks at you and your girlfriend as if you’ve both grown an extra head. She laughs victoriously, “See? I told you payback was coming!”

Robin

“Oh!!!” Gasps and covers herself. She’s a little freaked out at first but once she see’s it’s you she giggles.

You don’t really expect her to spank you back but she does. With the same amount of force that you used.

It kinda escalates into a competition where you two see who can land the most spanks in one day. Just don’t do it in front of her brother.

You’re losing btw.

Sunday

Do NOT spank him in public. He will be very crossed with you. Not funny did not laugh.

You may proceed with the spank if you are in private though.

He actually squeaks when you do. Then once the initial shock wears off he laughs, incredibly amused by you. Doesn’t say it but he plans on returning the favor.

When he does get you back you don’t expect it. You’re probably cooking or marking off the calendar when he passes you and goes, “Good morning, my love.” And then he slaps your butt. Moderate strength, enough to make you yelp but not enough to sting.

[luveline]

Can you write where the reader walks into James room and he's crying and its the first time shes seen him cry so she comforts him pls xx

thank you for your request! fem, 1.2k

James’ house is a sanctuary to everyone he’s ever met. There are scratches on the wall by the door where Sirius has thrown it open, long deep welts of ruin under a drunken hand, two best friends laughing to the bedroom where they share a bed. You’re used to Sirius by now, an extension of James you love and make room for, but waking up to the heir of the most noble family in London sleeping off a hangover with his face buried in your boyfriend's shoulder still surprises you. His snores never change. 

Then there’s Remus, the sweetheart, tracking dirt into the living room because he so often forgets he’s wearing shoes, distracted by a book or a thought he shares in half smiles knowing James will listen. 

You’re everywhere. In photos like the rest of them, in your coat on the hook, your clean washing on the stairs, your shoes in the bedroom cupboard. There’s a red smudge of your lipstick on the wall at the top of the stairs where James wiped your bottom lip and then used the wall to hang over you, kissing. He keeps meaning to paint over it, you know. He says the same thing every time you bring it up, a laughing, “I’ll get to it, you thing!” 

You’re used to smiles and sounds here. You aren’t acquainted with this. Sniffles from the bedroom, long, stringing gulps of air and the answering sob. It makes your chest flip. James hasn’t cried in front of you in a year of dating and two years of knowing him. James doesn’t even get pissed off unless it’s for somebody else. Something awful must’ve happened. You rush to find out what. 

In the bedroom, James is just sitting there falling apart. Just, sat on the bed, his head in his hands and his shoulders shaking like an awful jagged up and down, like he’s hurting; the shock of it is in every inch of movement. James is beautiful in everything, skin and hands and dark, dark hair, but he’s hurting now as he drags fingers wet with tears through frizzing curls. He must have heard you coming up but he can’t stop, lifting his chin, an apology twisted in his mouth that he doesn’t say aloud. 

“Lovely, what happened?” you ask, sure you’re gonna fall through the floor. “What happened? What–”

You aren’t giving him time to answer. You need to know. 

“No, it’s alright–”

“It’s not alright,” you say, standing in front of him with stiff arms. “What happened, James?” 

“It’s okay.” He cries a little, sniffs, looking up at you with swimming eyes. “It’s alright, I’m just– it’s just– well, it’s just everything, I suppose, but it’s…” He looks down, his mouth twisting again in an apology you don’t want to take. He shakes himself. 

“James, what’s everything?” 

“Silly stuff.” James takes your hand. Telling, that a boy who’s spent his entire life looking after the people he loves would attempt to comfort you with tears still hot on his cheeks. 

You look down at his long fingers. 

James plays piano. He learned your favourite song for you before he’d ever asked you out, and when he’d played it for you, he’d played so beautifully you felt sick for days, felt sick every time you thought of him, but in the moment he’d laughed at your teary eyes and pressed a quick kiss to the top of your head. Lovely girl, he’d said, laughing, I won’t play it again if you’re gonna cry like that.

You figure he must want comfort as he gives it, wrapping your arms around him to steer him toward a soft kiss, his hair like strands of satin under your lips. “Nothing that upsets you like this could ever be silly.” 

He pushes you away. Not without love, but pushing away regardless. He stands in the space you leave and wipes his cheeks with the backs of his hands. It’s nearly like he’s dancing. Just the way his arms move. But then he drops them and turns away from you, your heart plummeting to your stomach. 

“James.” 

“It’s not like that. I was hoping I’d be done before you got home. Should we go out for dinner or something?” 

“James–”

“What?” he asks, smiling, at odds with his sad eyes. “Love, it’s really fine, I’m fine.” Love. You let out a long breath, chest a cold ache slowly warmed by his gaze. There’s care for you in every eyelash, but it still shocks you when he hugs you. “It’s okay. Sorry I scared you.” 

James. “Fucking hell, Jamie, I’m not scared, I want you to tell me what’s wrong so I can fix it for you.”

He chokes on breath. “I’m fine,” he says. He doesn’t believe it himself, a crack running straight through his words. “Sorry,” he says, sickly, kissing the top of your head as you’d kissed his. 

Clearly he’s not going to let you be the one domineering the situation, but that’s okay. He can kiss your head and hold you on the edge of too tight. You slip a hand under the edge of his T-shirt to stroke his back, until your hand is numb to it, and he’s sagging against you heavily. 

“You’re really not fine, I can see that much.” 

He’s quiet, but you can tell there’s something he wants to say. 

“But that’s okay,” you say, hand clasping his back . You pat a steady rhythm there as he sighs. “It really is. I don’t know why you think you have to be finished crying before I get home, but that’s not true. You can cry. You can cry buckets. Please don’t pretend you’re not upset because of me, I’d feel so bad.”

Something hot and wet touches your forehead. “M’sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for.” You pull back to pat his cheek. 

James stares at you. Tears well in usually warm eyes and get caught in the wet hedge of his lashes. You try to wipe them away before they can fall —you don’t wanna see your sweetheart crying. 

“Don’t frown,” he says softly. 

“I’m trying not to. Here, let me,” —you wipe his cheeks with your sleeve, voice a muttering thing as his skin pinks beneath your touch— “just get that there for you. Your eyes are red, Jamie, I hope you haven’t been upset for too long.” 

“No, uh. No, not too long.” 

“Can you please tell me what’s wrong? I’d like to know.” 

James’ face presses to your neck in seconds. He pauses, and then he sobs. That’s more like it. You stand there in the bedroom until your legs are stiff, and then you only move to lay him down in bed to be your little spoon. “It's not fine,” you say, your arm around him, the other playing in the swirl of his parting, “but it will be. You’re really too handsome for all these tears.”

“You think I’m handsome?”

He sounds sweet when he’s trying to make you laugh. You reach over him to kiss his hot cheek.  

[absfawn]

♱ soft and silly sex with abby, but it’s just your body being caged beneath hers, her hands on either side of your head on the pillows that were once neatly placed, now messy under you. your hands hold onto her arms, nails lightly sinking into her skin and creating crescent-shaped moons in your wake, and her forehead is pressed against yours, watching every single action you make. abby adores the way your lips part, eyes flutter closed and your grip on her gets tighter with each thrust of her hips. it’s not fast, nor is it rough, it’s just enough to pull soft whimpers and whines from you. enough to have you feeling like you’re on cloud nine. for a moment, she doesn’t notice the tears forming in the corners of your eyes, it’s only when she removes one hand from beside you, to reach down and rubs light circles on your clit, eliciting a loud gasp from between your lips at the ministrations of her fingers that her eyes lock with yours, and she notices. “did i hurt you?” she murmured, voice laced with worry. she quickly lowers her head to kiss away a tear that falls. “do you want to stop?”

“no! no” you giggled, shook your head and cupped her face between your hands gently, thumbs stroking her cheeks lightly. “no, never stop. m’just feeling a lot of emotions, good ones, but don’t stop” you whispered, a smile tugging at your lips when she leans into your palm and kisses your skin. “you’re so beautiful” you can’t help but tell her, voice soft, smooth and gentle. one she always wants to hear. 

the apples of her cheeks change in colour, crimson red, at your words, but she’s barely able to form her own because your hand is moving down, no longer holding onto her arm, and instead you’re cupping her ass, squeezing the flesh tightly and tearing a groan from between her lips. the sound makes your clit throb.

“always knew you loved my ass a little too much” abby breathlessly laughed against your forehead, kissing it a few seconds later.

“yes well, sometimes i want to bite it” your voice slightly shaky but you still managed to grin up at her. like she wasn’t currently deep inside your cunt and making you forget everything you did this week. 

“s’cute, one day” she promised, smugly smirking at your sudden gasp, her fingers still rubbing circles against your clit. “don’t know if you can handle all that though, pretty girl”

“can handle you now, can’t i?”

♱ soft and silly sex with abby, who continues to pepper kisses all over your face, pressing soft ones to your lips, seconds after she helps you through your 3rd orgasm of the night. fingers lightly trailing up and down your legs, nose brushing up and down your throat as you try to steady your breath. your fingers thread through her damp hair, smiling and giggling when her breath fans your skin. 

the sound of your heartbeat calms her, and the sound of her hushed whispered words into your skin grounds you. the safety her hold and touch brings you, makes you sniffle and bury your face into the softness of her hair. abby doesn’t have to say anything, sometimes she doesn't need to. her actions alone are words. so she lays there, body on yours like a perfectly weighted blanket, and her fingers trace patterns on your hip slowly, lips leaving soft feather-like kisses on your shoulder. “thank you” you’re quiet, tired, and still feeling like you’re on cloud nine. “and not just for tonight, for everything, for being so gentle and patient. going at my pace, always” you mumbled into her hair.

“you deserve everything, i’ll do anything to make you feel comfortable. m’glad i get to have you all to myself. to take care of you, i love taking care of you, and it warms my heart that i’m the person you feel safest with. that’s all i want. for you to be safe, and loved. because i love you, with all my heart” abby admits, lifting her head at your sudden sniffle, her words melting your heart completely, and brushed her lips against yours. “i love you”

“i love you, always”