#Jesus CHRIST what the fuck is going on with you!!!!

[tobeholyistobeempty]

“i’m goin’ home to fuck my wife.”

and those were the last words john uttered before slamming the palm of his hand down against his desk and leaving. spoken the way most things he says are - gruff and final, with no room for argument - stunning the room into silence until the door shut hard behind him.

everyone just looked at each other, dumbstruck.

“should we wait for him to come back?”

“what the hell does that mean—”

“is that code for something?”

“wait, he’s married?”

price didn’t hear a word of it - by that point he was already halfway down the hall, boots pounding concrete with purpose, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, everything else dissolving into white-hot static behind his eyes.

he can take a lot of bullshit. does it daily. but fuckin’ hell - they wouldn’t stop. wouldn’t stop talking, hovering, circling him like crows. clipping questions at him in endless fucking rotations.

what now, captain? what’s next? what do we do about makarov? do we move now or wait for shepherd’s greenlight? have you seen the updated file? should we pull soap and gaz back? do we burn the safe house? double-tap the asset? what’s the protocol—

jesus fuckin’ christ.

it’d been too long. john’s mentally checked out and he knows it. doesn’t care. he didn’t want to be in that room. didn’t want to sit at that table. didn’t want to give another goddamn order with five pairs of bloodshot eyes looking at him like he’s meant to have all the answers and none of the doubt.

he needs a break. not a debrief. not another satellite feed. not another fucking decision.

he needs to go home and fuck his wife.

needs to put his hands on something solid, something that he doesn’t have to second guess. something that’d let him burn off all the static and pressure and noise building between his temples without asking anything much in return. his sanctuary where he can fall apart and come back clearer. reset his head before it spun off his shoulders.

so he peeled out of the parking lot before he’d even properly put the car in drive, and sent you one text:

‘take off anything you value and put away everything breakable. i��ll be home in 15.’

[monimccoythings]

The Dirtiest Corners Of The Mind

I had A LOT of fun writing this. I wanted something silly and funny. I was thinking about Trilogy!Logan and the raw sexual energy that radiated from his pores.

Summary: Being a telepath has its perks, but it also comes with a great cost, specially if the object of your desire just cannot stop having very sexual and indecent thoughts about a coworker.

Tags: f!reader, Logan has a dirty mind, he's a perv (but he's in love), reader is clueless, telepath reader..

I wanna bend you over the counter and fuck you so hard I'll erase the memory of any other man from your mind.

You closed your eyes. Here we go again. Many people thought that being a telepath was a big win in the mutant lottery, but sometimes you'd wish you could stop hearing those voices altogether. Especially if they came from Logan.

Logan.

From the very moment he stepped foot on the mansion you had desired him like you had never desired anybody else. Big, muscular, with a roughness that made him handsome, he sure was a walking wet dream. But the thing that attracted you the most was his heart, behind all that toughness and snarkiness laid some sweet gentleness that one would have never thought possible coming from a man like Logan.

However, reality is a lot different from a cheesy romance novel, in the real world, where sadly you all have to love in, men like Logan would never spare a single glance at you. In fact, they always went after women like Jean. And how could you blame them.

Jean was sweet, kind, smart, and with looks that came out of a model catalogue. Anybody would be lucky to have her. You, meanwhile, were just... you. The sooner you accepted that Logan would never be interested in you the better.

That didn't mean it didn't hurt.

Because if Logan was anything was overly open with his thoughts.

Yeah shake that piece of ass f'me, sweetheart, can't wait to grab a bite.

You nearly dropped the bowl you were beatings the eggs in, your breakfast almost ruined.

Jesus Christ, you thought to yourself. He never stops. A part of you bitterly wondered why he wouldn't think that about yourself, but you quickly shut it down. Better lower your head, and accept reality as it is, even if it was the most painful thing you had ever done.

Maybe a bit of music would help you get distracted from the awkwardness and the soft pang in your chest.

It was like you could never escape him.

At the library, where all you wanted was some peace and quiet to finish your novel while sitting in the most unladylike manner ever known to woman, your fantasies were soon disrupted by his wild train of thought.

Open nice and wide. The big bad Wolverine wants his meal.

Fuck. You didn't know what Jean was doing to provoke that reaction nor did you want to stay long enough to discover it. You promptly shut your book and hurried away.

At the pool, on a hot summer day, enjoying an iced tea, and praying that they'll be too busy preparing for the next mission.

There are many ways to get you wet

You choked on your drink.

The last straw was during a team meeting, everything was supposed to be serious and professional. Keyword 'supposed'.

Wanna breed.

You paled. Out of all the things anyone could think during a meeting, that's the last thing you'd expect. You couldn't look at Logan, Jean or Scott in the eyes after that. Poor Scott. If only he knew what went through Logan's mind.

Something had to be done. Leaving the mansion until things cooled down or they finally fucked was too extreme and you didn't think your heart would survive that. Confronting Logan about his very inappropriate and very private thoughts was out of the question as well, it was too embarrassing and pathetic.

So, that only left you with a choice: avoiding him as much as you could for the rest of your life.

You didn't want to be rude. But it was getting harder and harder to escape him. It was a vicious circle of awkwardness and heartbreak that you didn't seem to be able to escape from. No matter what you did, there was a constant reminder that the only man you had ever loved would never give you the time of the day. Maybe some distance would help you heal.

And for a while, it worked. You found your well deserved peace and it helped you push any thoughts about Logan or your unrequited love to the back of your head.

Until they came back. Stronger than ever. Impatient. Angry. Desperate.

Where is she?

Where is she??

WHERE IS SHE

You knew Jean and Scott had parted in one of those super secret missions a couple of weeks ago, huh, you thought Logan knew it too. Weird.

It was a constant drilling in your head. Sometimes you had to take something from the mansion's self aid kit to be able to sleep well.

After another week of endless agony, Scott and Jean finally returned from a successful mission. That called for a celebration, and you were not going to say 'no' to a big party with all your friends.

It'd help you to let loose a little and have fun. And you were, until a thought, as powerful as a hammer to the head invaded your mind.

There you are.

You nearly sighed with relief, finally. Logan would see that they had come back safely and would stop driving you nuts with his miserable thoughts. You didn't know you could miss the horniness yet here we are.

As you looked up from your conversation, expecting Logan to be making puppy dog eyes at Jean for the rest of the evening, you found instead that at the end of his heated glare wasn't the redhead.

It was you.

As soon as he noticed you staring back at him, his eyes hardened. He started marching towards you like a man with a mission, not caring who got in his way. Somehow, you felt (and looked) like a deer in the headlights.

You quickly excused yourself and tried to get out from there before Logan pounced on you. You believed yourself safe in the hall, but you didn't get too far before his deep voice startled you.

"You've been avoiding me." His flat tone suggested he was indifferent to that fact, but boy did you know better.

"Uh-"

Naughty kitten let me put you over my knee and give you a good spanking.

He sure knew how to make the most out of a bad situation. Even now he was thinking about Jean?? Still, you were starting to have your own doubts about it. His intense gaze never wavered from you, and there was no Jean in the nearest vicinity. She was completely oblivious of whatever this confrontation was back at the party. It was impossible he could have directed that thought towards her, right? And if he wasn't thinking about her right now, then that would mean-

Oh.

Oh. Indeed.

"I've been hearing your thoughts!" You blurted out without thinking. You thought you'd never see the day when The Wolverine would turn red, well, you thought wrong.

His surprise soon turned into embarrassment, and after several seconds that felt like an eternity and your lack of reaction, his embarrassment turned into disappointment.

"Oh. I understand." His voice sounded calm, too collected and eerie. For once, you wished he threw at you what crossed his mind. "I'll let you be." He sounded so dejected, so defeated, it tore at your heartstrings. You knew you had to do something, you had never been one to give yourself false hope, but if there was a little chance, an itty bitty chance that all this time he had been thinking about you, shouldn't you be daring and take it?

What could you lose? Apart from your dignity? If things went south you could just move out and swap identities. Easy peasy, nothing to worry about.

"I thought they were about Jean."

That made him freeze in his trucks. Cautiously and angonizingly slowhe turned around. One of his bushy eyebrows formed a perfect arch that perfectly portrayed his disbelief while his head slightly titled like a confused kitten.

"Jean?"

You gulped, already regretting your stupid moment of bravery and mentally choosing which country would be best to spend the rest of your days.

"Well, it's a well known fact you feel something for her."

Well it's a better known fact I wanna put my dick in your mouth.

Your gasp may have come out a bit more short breathed and needy than intended. But what could you say, he was breathtaking. Logan smirk widened when he caught sight of your flushed face and prowled towards you like a lion cornering a tasty gazelle.

One of his large hairy hands went towards your waist, pulling your flush against his with a low chuckle, while the other delicately grabbed your chin to force you to look into his eyes. His pupils had blown up so much there was barely any room left for that soft tone of hazel you absolutely adored.

"You don't need to worry anymore, sweetheart. We ain't gonna do much thinking from now on."

[r66dusthewriter]

Fallout

Pairing: Simon Riley x fem!reader

Masterlist | Who am i? | REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

a/n: Been working pretty consistently on these so i thought i could spare some extra fics this week 😙

Genre: Angsty fluff

Warnings: suggestive comment

Word count: 1k

You sat on the other side of that table, spine straight and face blank, as though your entire career hadn’t just been put under a microscope. Simon stood across from you, the skull mask making him unreadable but you didn’t need to see his eyes to know the storm behind them. 

“I didn’t leak shit,” you repeated quietly, arms folded. “And you know it.” 

Ghost didn’t answer, only stood perfectly still with his arms behind his back like a soldier awaiting orders, except he was the order now. Your badge of CIA clearance sat on the table between you, useless now.

“Laswell tried to stall,” you added. “Said it was external but I was benched anyway and then someone with a personal vendetta against me changed the orders.” You leaned forward, voice sharp. “That someone sent you.” 

Ghost didn’t deny it either and you let out a breath, leaning back. “Jesus Christ, Simon. If they think I’m a mole, why send you specifically? They think I’ll crack under your gaze or something?” Still nothing from him, just breathing in a slow, methodical way, like he was buying time or bracing. “Say something!” you bit out. 

“You’re not the only one being watched,” he said finally, voice low and steady. “They’ll be listening.”

“Should I sign the confession now then, so you can take me to a cell and let me rot?”

“No,” he said, something like strain curling at the edges of his words. “I’m here to find the truth.” 

A bitter laugh escaped you, that was never within his obligations or orders. “That’s rich, coming from the man I’ve slept with for the last six months.” 

He flinched, just barely but you saw it. “Fuck it,” you added, voice low and accusatory. “You want the truth, Lieutenant? We both have secrets, yours just come with a balaclava…but that wasn’t me. You have to believe me”

He finally moved, pulling out the chair and sitting across from you. The gesture made your stomach twist. It was too normal and too intimate, the way the room felt like it was closing in. 

“I’ve been through the files,” he said, accent thick. “The breach happened through a secure CIA node in Jordan. Yours was the only login used in the last 24 hours.” 

“I was in London,” you snapped. “Ask Laswell, hell, ask Price… I was in a fucking debrief.”

“They scrubbed the logs.”

You stared at him expectantly despite the obvious continuity this situation would follow. “So that’s it then.” You shrugged, “You’re gonna take me to a shadow site, interrogate me…break me like a fucking twig and watch me die!?” 

“No,” he barked, voice dropping. “I’m going to prove it wasn’t you.” 

Silence spread between you, thick and pressurized. You watched him closely, trying to understand what was going on in his head.

“You’re not authorized to do that.”

“I don’t give a damn.” For a moment, the mask didn’t matter, his voice did. You felt it settle beneath your ribs, somewhere between fury and relief. 

“What’s the plan then?” you asked. 

Ghost leaned forward, lowering his voice. “In 2 minutes, Soap and Gaz are going to simulate a containment breach. While everyone’s distracted, I’m getting you out.” 

“You’re going AWOL.” you whispered, shocked.

“I’m gettin’ answers.” he corrected.

“You’ll get court-martialed.” you said, every word deliberate while looking into his eyes.

Simon’s gaze didn’t waver. “If I fail.” 

You stared at him for a long time, something clenching in your chest. “Why risk it?” 

He didn’t blink. “Because if they break you, they break me too.”

The lights cut before you could say anything else. It was a flicker and then pure darkness for seconds before the emergency lights turned on, barely bright but enough to shroud the room in shapes and outlines, enough to make your pulse skip.

You heard the shift of his boots first, slow and sure, then the quiet clink of the cuff key in his hand. Your wrists stung as the metal shifted, the weight of suspicion falling away with it. You didn’t say thank you, didn’t say anything at all.

His gloved hands brushed your skin, steady, methodical but you could feel the tremor anyway, beneath the practiced calm, the soldier’s mask…he was furious, not at you, not really but at them. At the idea that someone thought they could put you in a box, tie a noose around your name and make him the one to deliver it.

"You’re risking everything,” you whispered, breath catching. “For me.”

Simon didn’t answer at first as he fiddled with the key in the dim light, getting angrier by the second. 

“I thought we agreed,” you say, softer now, “we weren’t… this.”

“This what?” His voice was a murmur, barely audible above the hum of emergency lights outside the door. “Stupid? Attached? In too deep?”

You exhaled, shakily. “Whatever this is. It doesn’t belong in debriefings and holding cells.”

Another beat of silence and then suddenly, the cuffs tighten back around one wrist.

Not locked, not harsh. Just enough pressure to make your eyes widen and your breath hitch.

Your head jerked toward him. “Need help with the fucking key?”

In the near-dark, you heard a breathy low chuckle before the cuffs slipped free from one wrist, then the other, the metal clinking to the floor like a secret dropped too loud.

“I thought you liked it when I took control.”

You blinked, standing and rubbing your wrists to ease the pain from having them on too long. Your voice came out flat. “You’re an asshole.”

“Mm.” He hummed, handing you a gun, holding it for just a second longer between you before letting go. “Takes one to love one.”

The word love landed heavier than it should have. You didn’t flinch but you felt it and chose to ignore it. You stepped back, tucking the gun into the back of your waistband but he followed, just a fraction too close.

The air between you simmered with misplaced heat, unresolved tension and all the things neither of you ever said out loud, but that conversation wouldn’t happen anytime soon because whatever this was, you’d just stepped into something far bigger than either of you.

[formulafanfics13]

She's Got Me Wrapped - MV1

Masterlist

"Is that... is that a burp cloth on his shoulder?" Lando didn't even lower his voice.

Charles elbowed him hard in the ribs and whispered, "Shut up, he'll hear you."

They were already too late.

Max looked up from his coffee with the slow, unbothered confidence of a man who had survived two hours of sleep, a cluster feed, a projectile spit-up, and a 6:15am FaceTime with his wife where their daughter babbled into the camera while trying to suck on her entire fist.

His hoodie was rumpled. His hair was a disaster. There was indeed a tiny pastel muslin cloth draped over one shoulder, complete with a faint milk stain and a cartoon duck embroidered in the corner. His phone sat screen-up beside his coffee, looping a silent video of his baby girl trying to roll over, cheeks squished against a play mat, fists clenched like she was preparing for battle.

Max didn't even blink. "What?"

Lando blinked at the cloth again. "You've got baby stuff on you."

"Yeah," Max said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "She puked. Twice. I didn't want to change shirts. It smells like her."

Charles smiled softly. "You're... like, really in it, huh?"

Max sipped his coffee. "In what?"

"Dad mode."

Max shrugged, but a grin was already pulling at the corner of his mouth, the rare, real kind, the one that made him look like less of a world champion and more like the boy who used to race go-karts in the rain just because it felt cool. He opened his phone, tapped a video, and turned it around so both men could see.

It was grainy, clearly filmed half-asleep in a dark bedroom. His daughter was curled up on his chest, drool pooling onto his hoodie, her tiny hand fisted in the chain around his neck. Max's voice, low and wrecked with exhaustion, whispered from behind the camera:

"Look at her. Look at her little mouth. Jesus fucking Christ, she's perfect."

Lando's face twisted. "Okay, wait, hold on-this is the same Max who once threw a PlayStation controller at my head because I beat his time in F1 22?"

Charles tilted his head. "Didn't he used to say babies were 'loud and weird and useless'?"

Max didn't even flinch. "That was before I met her."

Lando choked on his orange juice. "You're gone. You're so gone."

Max grinned fully now, scrolling to another picture. "Bro. Look at her in this beanie. Tell me this isn't the most beautiful fucking thing you've ever seen."

He shoved the phone across the table. Charles picked it up with the same reverence one might use to handle a bomb.

The picture was pure domestic violence to the heart: a six-week-old baby girl swaddled in cream wool, blue eyes barely open, her mouth puckered in a sleepy pout. Max's hand cradled her head, massive by comparison, his knuckles gentle, his wedding band catching the light.

Charles sighed. "She looks just like your wife."

"She does," Max said proudly. "Same nose. Same pout."

"Same ability to ruin your life and you say thank you," Lando muttered.

Max laughed, full-bellied. "I love it." Then, softer, almost like a confession: "I've never loved anything this much before. It's like... my chest is full all the time. It hurts."

Neither of them knew what to say.

Max rubbed his jaw, looking suddenly shy. "Last night she gripped my finger while she was half-asleep. Like, properly held it. She can't even hold her bottle yet but she held me. Like she knew. And I nearly fucking cried. I was just sitting there in the nursery sobbing while she slept."

Lando blinked. "You've changed."

Max nodded. "Good. I wanted to."

Charles grinned. "And your wife? She okay?"

Max lit up like someone had flipped a switch in his ribs. "She's a machine. She's everything. I don't even have words. I thought I loved her before, but now, seeing her with our daughter? There's not a word for what I feel now. I'd burn the world down."

Lando fanned himself. "Okay damn."

Charles smiled. "Soft era Max Verstappen. Who would've thought."

"Shut the fuck up," Max said, but he was smiling. "Just wait. One of you has a kid and you'll be crying at CBeebies too."

Lando pointed at his own chest. "Not me. I'm still struggling to keep houseplants alive."

Charles chuckled. "I like sleep too much."

"You think I sleep?" Max shot back. "I haven't slept since November."

"Why are you glowing, then?" Lando narrowed his eyes.

Max shrugged again. "Because she smiles when she sees me. That's it. That's all I need."

His phone buzzed on the table. Baby girl just did her first giggle. Sent you a vid. COME HOME. Love you. Max smiled so hard it looked like it hurt.

"Boys," he said, already standing, already throwing cash on the table. "Breakfast was lovely. But I'm going back to my girls."

He tucked the burp cloth properly onto his shoulder, grabbed his hoodie, and started walking, then paused, turned, and said with zero shame "Don't text me unless it's about diapers or the next GP. And even then, only if it's urgent."

And then he was gone. Charles blinked.

Lando said, "I swear to God, we just witnessed the downfall of an apex predator."

Charles nodded. "And it was adorable."

*

The group had agreed to meet for breakfast again, same spot as before, same sleepy Monte Carlo café with the wraparound terrace and endless espressos. But this time, it was different.

This time, Max brought his girls. He walked in with a softness none of them had ever seen, hoodie zipped halfway, jaw scruffy, one hand curled protectively around the tiny bundle against his chest. You trailed behind him, radiant in that specific way new mothers glowed when they'd just managed to shower and drink a full cup of tea while the baby napped.

She was in leggings, an oversized knit jumper, hair tucked into a clip, and still, Max looked at her like you were walking on water.

But it wasn't his stare that drew attention. It wasn't even the way he practically hovered behind every step you took, like you might float away if he didn't keep a hand on you.

It was the baby. Wrapped in layers of cream cotton and fleece, their daughter was snuggled into Max's arms like a secret too precious to be exposed to the cold. Her tiny fists were balled against his hoodie. Her hat was slightly too big. Her eyelashes were absurdly long.

And Max... Max looked like he'd carved her out of marble with his own hands.

"Oh my God," Lando muttered under his breath as the couple approached the table. "That's the Verstappen baby. That's the Verstappen baby."

Charles blinked. "She's real."

"She's so small," Carlos whispered.

"She's a princess," Pierre added reverently.

The table went quiet as Max reached them. "Morning," he said casually, adjusting the blanket around her as he sat down, pulling a bottle from the baby bag like it was nothing. "She just fed, but she might get fussy soon."

You slid into the seat next to him, leaning in with a smile to smooth the blanket around her face. "She likes noise. Don't feel like you have to be quiet."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Lando said faintly, still staring at the baby like she might levitate.

"What's her name again?" Oscar asked quietly.

You smiled. "Elena."

Charles inhaled softly. "That's beautiful."

Max tucked the bottle away and gently shifted her so she was facing outward, head nestled against his collarbone. "She's six weeks today."

"She's perfect," Pierre said, totally sincere.

Then Elena made a noise, a little hiccuped gurgle, like she was trying to coo but didn't quite have the mechanics yet. Her tiny mouth opened. A squeak. Another gurgle. And she was looking directly at Charles.

He froze. "No, no-she's not-"

"She's looking at you," you confirmed.

"She likes you," Max added, grinning.

"She's got taste," Carlos joked.

Charles sat there, back poker-straight, as this impossibly tiny human blinked up at him with wide, watery blue eyes and made a bubbling noise in her throat like she was gearing up for full conversation.

Then she smiled. A proper baby smile. Gummy and wide. Directed entirely at Charles Leclerc. It was over. "Oh my God," Charles said, clutching his chest. "That's it. I'm done. I'm ruined."

Lando practically threw himself across the table. "Did she just smile at you?!"

"She's never smiled at me like that," Max said, mock offended.

"She loves Uncle Charles," you said sweetly, sipping your tea.

Charles was completely fucked. "Can I hold her?"

You nodded. "Absolutely."

Max paused. "Support her head."

Charles took her like she was made of glass, eyes wide, arms careful, like every single muscle in his body had turned into air. Elena wriggled once. Then sighed. And settled against him like she knew she was in safe hands.

Charles immediately stopped breathing. "Oh my God," he whispered. "She's so warm."

You smiled into your mug. "She has that effect."

Carlos leaned over to peek at her. "She's got Max's ears."

"And your lips," Max said, gaze on you.

You flushed. "Don't start."

"She does," he insisted. "And your nose. And your sleepy pout when you've just woken up."

"You're obsessed," Lando muttered, still trying to get a peek. "He's actually obsessed."

Pierre pointed. "You cried when she burped yesterday, didn't you?"

"She made a tiny noise," Max defended, "and her little fist clenched like she was proud. What the fuck was I supposed to do, not cry?"

Charles, still holding the baby, was gently humming under his breath, rocking slightly in his seat like some paternal instinct had been violently activated. Elena blinked up at him again. Her hand fisted the edge of his hoodie.

"Do you want one?" Oscar asked, half-serious.

Charles didn't look up. "Yes."

Everyone turned. "Wait, what?"

"I want one," Charles repeated, softer now. "Not now, obviously. But someday. This-" he looked down at her again, full-body soft, "-this is everything."

Max smiled, leaning back in his chair, arms folded across his chest. "Yeah," he said, "it is."

And for a moment, just a moment, all the bullshit melted. No media. No grid rivalries. No contract talks or brand deals or egos.

Just a group of men, sitting around a baby, watching her blink like she'd just invented light.

Max leaned in, pressed a kiss to your temple, then to his daughter's head as Charles cradled her. "You've got the world already, little one."

And somehow, somehow, she gurgled in reply.

[kathlare]

We need amelie’s reaction to lando flashing his abs during the austria gp😆

Omg yesss!! I’ve been just as obsessed with those Austria GP photos as you are 😮‍💨🔥 and you know Amelie would be too — there was no way I could let that moment slide 😏

So here you have the chapter with her reaction — I had so much fun writing it, and I really hope you like it!! Thank you for the request and for reading as always 💕🫶 Let me know if you have more ideas!!

nasty

Lando Norris x Amelie Dayman

Summary: Amelie finds herself spiraling after seeing a viral photo of Lando looking effortlessly irresistible in the paddock.

Wordcount: 5.0 k

Warnings: smut

full masterlist // request over here!

June 26th, 2025 - Paris, France

Amelie was seated in front of the vanity in her Paris hotel suite, surrounded by her glam team. One was delicately working on her lashes, another blending foundation down her jawline, while the third adjusted the waves in her long blonde hair, twisting a strand here and smoothing another there. The room smelled like setting spray, coffee, and the soft floral perfume she’d spritzed on earlier. Fashion Week chaos pulsed through the hotel walls, but in her suite, everything felt oddly calm.

Elysia was sprawled dramatically across the bed behind her, wearing one of Amelie’s oversized tour tees and eating a croissant with one hand, phone in the other.

—You good back there?— Amelie asked, not even turning around as a makeup brush grazed her cheekbone.

—Living my best life,— Elysia mumbled around flaky pastry. —You know, being supportive and hot and unproblematic.—

Amelie snorted.

—You're definitely something.—

They both giggled lightly, scrolling on their phones in near silence for a beat, broken only by the faint clicking of Amelie's phone as she double-tapped a fan edit of her walking into the Jacquemus show the day before. She was just replying to a text from Alex when a loud, bloodcurdling scream exploded from behind her.

—WHAT THE FUCK?!— Amelie yelped, nearly knocking over the makeup artist’s hand and smearing eyeliner into her eyebrow. —Jesus Christ, Elysia! I thought someone fucking died!—

—Someone did, ME! Look at this!— Elysia practically launched herself off the bed and shoved her phone in front of Amelie’s face, nearly elbowing the poor hairstylist in the process. —This man is not okay. He’s not real. There’s no way this is allowed.—

Amelie blinked at the screen.

And then blinked again.

It was a freshly posted photo from the paddock. Lando, in the middle of some media chaos, wearing one of the new Quadrant jerseys — navy with pops of white, his curls messy like he’d just run a hand through them, and the jersey lifted casually as he adjusted something at his waist. The hem was caught mid-motion, flashing tanned abs and just a hint of his boxers peeking over the waistband of low-slung jeans.

It was the kind of candid photo that shouldn’t have been legal. Or at least, not free.

—Oh my god,— Amelie muttered, grabbing the phone for a closer look. —What the fuck is he doing just... being like that?! In public?! Where children exist?!—

Elysia leaned dramatically against the wall, fanning herself with a silk pillow. —Do you miss him, or are you gonna spontaneously combust?—

Amelie didn’t answer right away. She stared at the photo like it was trying to personally ruin her day.

Her heart tugged in her chest, not just because her boyfriend looked stupidly hot, but because she missed him. Really missed him. The ache was real, and Paris, though beautiful, felt a little lonelier without his annoying commentary or him stealing her fries when he swore he wasn’t hungry.

She opened her own phone and searched his name on Twitter, only to be met with dozens of fan edits, thirst tweets, and even a video from a fan zooming in on the exact moment the shirt lifted.

—“it should’ve been me” tweets are going insane,— Elysia said, reading over her shoulder.

Amelie sighed. —He’s so annoying. Why is he hot and annoying? And why is he mine but I’m here and he’s there?—

One of the glam artists laughed. —You good, Amelie? Need a moment?—

—Yeah. A private moment with my phone and a lock on the door.—

Elysia howled, nearly choking on the last bite of her croissant. —Amelie! Oh my God. Go touch some grass. Or ice. Or like, FaceTime him and tell him to put on a turtleneck.—

Amelie rolled her eyes but didn’t look away from her screen. She was now fully spiraling, watching a slow-mo fan video where Lando turned to laugh at something someone said, and the fucking light hit his jawline like it had a personal vendetta against her well-being.

—I hate him,— she whispered dramatically, handing Elysia her phone and slumping back in the makeup chair like a heartbroken widow in a 90s telenovela. —I hate that man.—

One of the hairstylists, who had been quietly curling a final strand, snorted. —Sweetie, you hate him in the way girls hate ice cream when they’re lactose intolerant but still eat it with tears in their eyes.—

—Exactly,— Amelie mumbled into her hoodie sleeve. —He ruins me. And then texts me like “what’s up” like he’s not the reason I had to retouch my lip liner.—

The room filled with quiet giggles as she finally straightened again, blinking hard like she could force the thirst out of her bloodstream.

Elysia hopped back onto the bed and stretched. —I think you need to fly to the next GP and remind the world that those abs? Yours. That laugh? Also yours. The boxers? I mean… probably yours too.—

—Shut up,— Amelie muttered, but a smile pulled at the corner of her mouth.

She picked up her phone again, thumb hovering over their messages. No new texts. No stupid memes. No random “look at this weird cloud” voice notes like he usually sent.

They didn’t always text when apart — it was just how they were. The love was steady, constant, soft in the way the best things are. But that didn’t mean she didn’t ache a little for him on mornings like this, in hotel rooms that smelled like setting spray and croissants instead of his cologne and sleepy kisses.

She hovered for a second, then typed:

Ames💛: I saw the picture. You’re not real. I hate you. Please keep doing it.

Then deleted it.

Then typed:

Ames💛: When are you coming back?

Deleted again.

Elysia peeked over her shoulder. —You’re hopeless. Just send a thirst trap back. Play his game.—

—I don’t have a thirst trap on hand. I’m wearing a hoodie and eye patches. I look like a sexy raccoon at best.—

—He’d still simp. You could be wearing a trash bag and he’d be like, “fit check??” with heart eyes.—

Amelie sighed, putting the phone down dramatically like it had betrayed her.

—It’s the fact that I do miss him though. Like, not even in the clingy way. Just in the “I want him stealing my socks and making fun of my espresso order” kind of way.—

Elysia rolled onto her back and looked up at the ceiling. —Yeah, but that’s love, isn’t it? Missing the stupid shit. The normal stuff. That’s what counts.—

Amelie blinked at her sister, then laughed. —Damn. Okay, philosopher Barbie. Go off.—

Elysia grinned, flipping her off lazily. —Just call me the hot Socrates.—

The glam team burst into laughter, and even Amelie couldn't help but giggle, shoulders relaxing as the final touches were applied to her lips.

She stared at herself in the mirror for a beat longer. Hair perfect, skin glowing, eyes soft but tired. The kind of tired that came from missing someone who felt like home.

—Alright,— she murmured under her breath. —Let’s go look expensive and pretend I’m not soft as hell for a boy who plays Mario Kart professionally.—

Elysia raised her croissant. —To hot boyfriends and their tragic lack of clothing supervision.—

Amelie clinked her water bottle to it.

And somewhere in the back of her mind, she knew that Lando was probably missing her just as much. Maybe even scrolling through his camera roll, smiling at that video she took of him trying to cook eggs and failing spectacularly.

The kind of love that didn’t need constant words — just a look, a scream across a hotel room, and a photo that made you want to teleport.

Paris could wait.

But next time she saw him? She was definitely stealing that jersey.

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

liked by ameliedayman, amelieslittleliar, and others

norrisbabyupdates: HELLOOOOOOO???? LANDO IN THE PADDOCK TODAY WEARING THE NEW QUADRANT JERSEY AND LIFTING IT UP????? TANNED ABS?? BOXERS PEEKING OUT?? WHO ALLOWED THIS???

View all 81,407 comments

swiftienorris: HE’S NOT EVEN TRYING ANYMORE 😭 → lanmelie4life: @swiftienorris he’s flirting with the entire internet atp

amelieslittleliar: she definitely told him “wear the jersey but slut it up a bit” → formulagossip: @amelieslittleliar and he DELIVERED like amazon prime

gforcegf: he lifted that shirt like he was clocking in to ruin lives

quadrantstan69: i saw abs and black boxers and my soul left my body → lanloverrr: @quadrantstan69 your soul is currently in Amelie’s hands dw

chaoticwags: he’s adjusting his jersey like he ain’t got thousands of cameras on him 😭 → norisimp: @chaoticwags he knew what he was doing and i support the cause

monacowifey: imagine seeing this man lift his shirt like that IN REAL LIFE → sunnygridgirl: @monacowifey i’d combust on sight and go straight to hell smiling

lanmeliecore: Amelie’s somewhere sipping an iced matcha like “yes that’s mine” → baby4lando: @lanmeliecore she earned the bragging rights tbh 😭🫶

wagsafterdark: AMELIE LIKED THE PIC I REPEAT MOTHER LIKED THE PIC → gridgfenergy: @wagsafterdark i would too if those abs lived in my house

spicylan: he lifted that shirt like it owed him money → chaoticgrid: @spicylan amelie’s somewhere giggling and kicking her feet rn

pitwallprincess: the way he knows exactly what he’s doing…

ameliedayman: why show abs when you can show up... in my bed later? 😏 → lanmama: @ameliedayman calling the shots as always → ameliedayman: @lanmama always

spicylan: bro the audacity, I love it 🤣🤣

norrisimp: Amelie shutting down the entire paddock one comment at a time 😭 → lanloverrr: @norrisimp boss moves only

delulugf: this is the kinda energy I stan, no cap → ameliedayman: @delulugf gotta keep the balance between cute and savage

monacowifey: literally living for this banter, give me more pls → lanmama: @monacowifey it’s why we stan them so hard

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

The grand tent of the paddock’s driver dinner buzzed softly with low chatter and clinking glasses, the polished tables glowing under the soft chandeliers. Lando sat comfortably between Carlos and Max, the clatter of cutlery and the occasional burst of laughter weaving through the conversation like a warm backdrop.

Carlos was mid-story, animatedly describing his latest adventure off the track, while Max leaned in, smirking, clearly amused. Lando laughed along easily, the camaraderie of the drivers grounding him after a whirlwind day of interviews and photo calls.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. He glanced down discreetly and his lips twitched into a mischievous smile. It was a message from Amelie.

Ames💛: excuse me. Ames💛: EXCUSE ME. Ames💛: what the actual fuck are you doing looking like that in the middle of the paddock Ames💛: have some respect for my mental health Ames💛: and for paris. she’s grieving now.

Lando chuckled, a low rumble that made Carlos pause his story and look over. —Everything alright, mate?—

—Yeah, yeah, just Amelie being Amelie,— Lando replied, his eyes still glued to his phone, a playful glint in them. He typed quickly.

Lan🧡: What's wrong? You don't like the new kit? 😏 Lan🧡: I thought you’d appreciate the… breeze. Ames💛: The only breeze I appreciate is the one from me slamming the door in your face for being so criminally hot. Ames💛: Honestly. It's not fair. Ames💛: I’m in Paris feeling all sophisticated and shit and you’re out there flashing abs like it’s a public service announcement. Ames💛: I’m supposed to be at a boring dinner with boring people but all I can think about is ripping that shirt off you.

Lando’s grin widened, a flush creeping up his neck. He quickly glanced up to see Carlos now fully invested in his phone screen, a curious eyebrow raised. Max, on his other side, was subtly leaning in, pretending to listen to the conversation at the other end of the table, but Lando could feel his presence, a faint hum of anticipation.

Lando🧡: Is that right? And what would you do if you had the chance? Lando🧡: Be specific. For research. Ames💛: Oh, I'd be very specific. So specific your ears would burn. Ames💛: Let’s just say that jersey wouldn't be the only thing getting tossed aside tonight. And I’d make sure you remembered exactly who those abs belong to. Ames💛: I’d also make sure you couldn’t walk straight for a week.

Lando let out a small, choked sound, a mixture of a laugh and a gasp. He was trying to keep his composure, but the heat in his cheeks was undeniable. He could feel Max practically breathing down his neck now.

—Alright, mate, what’s so funny over there?— Max interjected, his voice a playful drawl, but with an underlying hint of exasperation. —You’ve been giggling at your phone for five minutes. Is Amelie sending you cat videos again?—

—No, not cat videos,— Lando mumbled, trying to slide his phone slightly away from Max’s line of sight, but it was too late. Max had already caught a glimpse of the suggestive text.

Max’s eyes narrowed, and he let out a dramatic groan, shaking his head. —Honestly, mate, I swear I’m way too old for this. You’re always caught texting her during the most inconvenient moments, and every time I accidentally see what you’re saying, it’s like I’m getting an unwanted masterclass in your sex life. I do not need to know that much detail, thank you very much.—

Lando laughed softly, shrugging like it was no big deal. —Hey, you asked for it, Max. Can’t blame me for being a devoted boyfriend.—

Max rolled his eyes but smirked. —Devoted, sure. But maybe tone it down during dinner? Some of us like to eat without turning beet red at the table.—

Lando just shook his head, a wide, unrepentant grin on his face. He quickly typed one last message to Amelie, ignoring Max’s theatrics.

Lando🧡: Sounds like a plan. Lando🧡: Just gotta finish this dinner. Give me a couple of hours. Lando🧡: And we’ll deal with it. All of it. Ames💛: Mmmm. Can’t wait. Don’t keep me waiting too long, Norris. You’ll regret it.

Lando’s fingers flew across the keyboard.

Lando🧡: Never. Lando🧡: See you soon.

He slipped his phone back into his pocket, finally looking up at Max, who was still muttering to himself about the lack of boundaries. Carlos, meanwhile, was trying to hide his laughter behind his napkin.

—Happy now, Max?— Lando teased, picking up his fork.

Max just glared. —Just eat your dinner before you send any more disturbing messages. Some of us are trying to maintain an illusion of professionalism here.—

Lando simply winked, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, knowing full well that professionalism was the last thing on his mind.

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

liked by oscarpiastri, kikagomes, and others

f1: Stefano’s dinner for the drivers! ❤️

#AustrianGP#F1

View all 39,893 comments

f1girlypopz: why is lando lowkey glowing like he’s someone’s favorite person in the world → smoothop77: @f1girlypopz because he IS. love looks good on him 😭

lansthetic: him laughing like that? yeah she texted him mid-dinner. → thirstyf1stan: @lansthetic she probably said “smile if you miss me” 😭

f1slvtz: no bc Lando showed up like he didn’t just break the internet this morning 😭 → gridmoments: @f1slvtz he’s got Amelie’s comment boosting his ego and it shows 💅🏼

chequedout: why did charles look like he was going to propose to the waiter → softleclerc: @chequedout that man said “still or sparkling” and Charles blushed

lanmelieedits: Lando pulling up knowing damn well Amelie already claimed him 😏 → wagsonwagsonwags: @lanmelieedits she put a leash on him with that comment and I respect it → lando4pres: @lanmelieedits it’s giving domesticated

amelieszn: don’t care about the race anymore I’m here for the real championship — who’s winning best dressed → chaoticwags: @amelieszn Lando in the Quadrant jersey with abs peeking??? give him the trophy now → wagwatcher77: @amelieszn but also George looked like he works in finance and vibes with it

gridgossiper: Max looked so chill like he didn’t have 3 group chats muted → paddockpov: @gridgossiper and you know Amelie and Lando are in all three 💀

lanmelieforever: just say you’re in love and go 🙄 → norrisimp: @lanmelieforever she literally did. on main. publicly. with a smirk emoji.

gridfangirlz: Lando showed up like he didn’t just get thirsted over by the entire internet hours ago 😭 → waghunny: @gridfangirlz and Amelie liked every single thirst tweet i fear → taylormclarenedits: @waghunny she’s literally the CEO of “that’s mine 😌”

lanmelieunhinged: Amelie didn’t even go to dinner but somehow still won??? → norrisimp: @lanmelieunhinged bc she left that COMMENT earlier and logged off. mic drop. → lanlives: @norrisimp that girl said “you can look but he’s showing up in my bed” and walked away 😭

sainzsunshine: not to be dramatic but i’d let Carlos order for me at any restaurant ever → charloscentral: @sainzsunshine and pay. and cut my food. and walk me home. → wagzone: @charloscentral he gives traditional man energy and we NEED it

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

Lando had never been so eager to say goodbye in his life.

The driver dinner was wrapping up, dessert plates half-empty and the soft murmur of lingering conversations fading as people stretched and stood, trading hugs and shoulder claps. Lando was already halfway out of his seat, practically vibrating with restless energy.

His phone buzzed again.

Ames💛: Two fingers or just one, baby? Ames💛: You’ve been gone for hours. I’m getting impatient.” Ames💛: Your fault if I have to take matters into my own hands 😇

Lando let out a soft groan that he tried to disguise as a polite cough. Carlos shot him a look. Max didn’t even try to hide the smug side-eye.

—She’s still at it?— Max whispered.

—Don’t.— Lando hissed. —If I die from blue balls, I’m blaming you. You started this with your nosy ass.—

Max raised both hands, mock-innocent. —You’re the one walking around with a loaded weapon and a trigger-happy girlfriend.—

Lando didn’t reply. He was too busy weaving through the tables like a man on a mission. He gave a few quick waves to the FIA execs, tossed a nod to the Alpine boys, and was just reaching the tent’s side flap when...

—Lando!— A hand clapped down on his shoulder.

Fuck.

He turned with a tight smile. —Oh, hey, Esteban.—

—You heading out? Just wanted to say, that turn 3 line from last year? Genius.—

—Cheers, mate. Yeah, heading out, actually, kind of a long day...—

—We should grab coffee tomorrow! Catch up, yeah?— Esteban said, chipper as ever.

Lando nodded blindly. —Yeah. Sure. Love that. Text me.—

He pivoted—only to immediately run into one of the media officers from F1TV.

—Lando, quick word? About the podcast thing with Nico? We might want to reschedule to Sunday instead of Saturday—

—Totally fine!— he chirped, already backing away. —Email me! Or talk to Charlotte! She handles that stuff now! Okay! Bye!—

He was almost at the exit. He could taste freedom. He could see it.

—Lando! There you are.—

He closed his eyes.

Zak.

—Hey, Zak,— Lando said, voice going just a little higher than usual as he turned around, absolutely fighting the urge to scream. His entire body was tense. His brain was melting. His dick had been in a state of emergency for nearly two hours.

—Just wanted to talk through the sponsor brunch tomorrow morning. They’ve added a Q&A bit, and I think you’d be great handling that part... maybe start off with a funny anecdote? You’ve got that charm, like the time you dropped the trophy at Silverstone? Classic.—

—Yeah! Absolutely! Funny stories! Love that! Let’s circle back on that, I’ll call you first thing, um, tomorrow, okay? Because I... uh... really need to... go. Like right now. Like now-now.—

Zak raised an eyebrow. —Everything alright? You okay?—

Lando nodded furiously. —Yep! Just very… hydrated. Need the loo.—

Zak blinked. —…right. Well. Goodnight, then.—

Lando didn’t even say goodbye. He turned and bolted.

Literally ran.

Dodged a Ferrari PR girl in heels. Swerved past an alpine mechanic. His phone buzzed again in his pocket, and he nearly tripped over his own feet as he shoved open the back door of the hospitality building and finally escaped into the cool night air.

He didn’t stop moving. Took the stairs two at a time. Slammed his hotel room door shut behind him like he was being chased.

Fumbled with his phone, breathless.

His fingers shook as he unlocked the screen, the light from the display catching the flush in his cheeks. His whole body was wired—heart racing, palms sweating, zipper already halfway down without thinking. He’d never needed anything so urgently in his entire life.

The screen lit up with unread messages.

Ames💛: Still waiting… Ames💛: You know, I could’ve finished by now. Twice. Ames💛: But I’m being good. Just for you. Ames💛: Aren’t you going to reward me, baby?

Lando let out a strangled noise, somewhere between a whimper and a laugh. He tossed his jacket on the floor, kicked off his shoes like they’d wronged him, and dropped down onto the edge of the bed, undoing the rest of his fly with a hiss of relief.

He hit the FaceTime button before he could even think. The phone rang once, twice, and then her face filled the screen.

And that’s when Lando’s brain completely short-circuited.

Amelie was propped up on pillows, the soft glow of a bedside lamp casting a warm halo around her. Her hair was a glorious mess, tumbled over her shoulders. Her lips, slightly swollen and glistening, parted in a slow, mischievous smile. But it wasn’t just her smile that stole his breath.

It was what she was wearing. Or rather, what she wasn’t.

She was in a tiny, whisper-thin black lace bra, barely there, showcasing the lush swell of her breasts. The matching thong was even less substantial, just a delicate scrap of fabric riding low on her hips, teasingly revealing the gentle curve of her stomach and the dark shadow where her thighs met. Her skin, smooth and luminous, seemed to hum under the delicate lace.

—Well, hello there, stranger,— she purred, her voice a low, husky caress that vibrated through the phone and straight into Lando’s core. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and sparkling with pure desire, raked over him, making him feel completely exposed, even fully clothed. —Took you long enough.—

Lando couldn’t speak. His throat had seized up. His eyes, wide and unblinking, were glued to the screen, drinking her in. His mouth was suddenly dry, and the blood had completely drained from his head, rushing south with a vengeance. He felt lightheaded, dizzy with a potent cocktail of lust and disbelief.

—Lando?— she prompted, a teasing smirk playing on her lips as she leaned back against the pillows, subtly arching her back, making the delicate lace pull taut over her breasts. The movement was slow, deliberate, and utterly devastating. —Cat got your tongue, baby?—

—Fuck,— Lando finally choked out, the word raw and desperate. He gripped the phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. His free hand instinctively went to the straining fly of his trousers, as if to physically contain the explosion happening beneath. —Amelie… what the fuck are you doing?—

She giggled, a soft, seductive sound that sent shivers down his spine. —Rewarding you, remember? I told you I’d be good. And good girls get rewarded, don’t they?— Her eyes dropped, explicitly tracing the line from his chest down to his lap. —Looks like someone else needs a reward too.—

He ripped off his McLaren jersey, buttons flying, and tossed it carelessly onto the floor. His jeans followed, shucked down his legs with a grunt, landing in a heap beside his discarded shirt. He stood there for a moment, just in his boxers, breathing heavily, the cool air of the room doing little to douse the fire raging within him.

—Show me,— he commanded, his voice hoarse, raw with a desperate urgency he hadn’t known he possessed. —Everything, Amelie. Show me everything.—

A slow, knowing smile spread across her face, her eyes alight with triumph and a shared hunger. Her hand, which had been teasing the strap, now slipped beneath the lace, her fingertips brushing against the soft curve of her breast. Lando watched, transfixed, as she slowly, deliberately, unhooked the front clasp of the bra.

The delicate fabric parted, falling away like petals, revealing the full, exquisite curve of her breasts. They spilled upwards, soft and full, tipped with taut, pink nipples that seemed to beckon him. Lando let out a ragged gasp, his vision blurring slightly at the sheer, unadulterated beauty of her. He wanted to reach through the screen, to feel the warmth of her skin, to taste her.

—Like that, baby?— she whispered, her voice a low thrum of pleasure as she shifted, arching her back slightly, offering herself more fully to his gaze. Her eyes never left his, a direct, challenging invitation.

—Fuck, yes,— he choked out, his voice a guttural groan. He leaned closer to the phone, as if proximity could somehow bridge the distance between them. —Now the rest. Take it off, Ames. All of it.—

Her fingers drifted lower, tracing the elastic band of the thong that barely clung to her hips. Her movements were slow, agonizingly deliberate, each one designed to torment him, to push him further to the brink. She hooked her thumbs into the sides of the tiny scrap of lace, her eyes locked on his, a playful challenge dancing within their depths.

Then, with a languid pull, she eased the thong down, over her hips, past the shadowed curve of her stomach, until it disappeared from view. Lando’s breath hitched again, caught somewhere in his throat. His entire body tightened, every muscle strained with the effort of holding himself back, of simply watching.

Amelie lay there, completely naked, bathed in the soft, intimate glow of the bedside lamp. Her body was a masterpiece of soft curves and shadowed hollows, breathtakingly beautiful and utterly hers, yet offered so completely to him. Her legs were slightly parted, an open invitation, and the dark, soft curls at her most intimate curve were just visible, a tantalizing promise.

—There,— she murmured, her chest rising and falling softly. —All for you, Lando. Are you happy now?—

Lando closed his eyes for a split second, a wave of dizzying sensation washing over him. When he opened them again, his gaze was raw, hungry, utterly consumed.

—No,— he finally managed, the word a desperate plea. —Not yet. Not until you’re here. With me.—

Amelie smiled, a deep, satisfied curve of her lips. —Soon, baby. Sooner than you think.—

Lando tore off his boxers, the last barrier between himself and the burning need that consumed him. He groaned, a deep, guttural sound, as he reached for himself, his hand closing around his rigid cock. His eyes never left Amelie on the screen, a silent, desperate plea in their depths.

—Amelie, baby, watch me,— he rasped, his voice thick with arousal. He began a slow, deliberate stroke, his eyes closing for a brief moment as a wave of pure sensation washed over him. When he opened them, Amelie was still there, her own eyes wide, fixed on him, her breath coming in short, quick gasps.

—You like that, Lando?— she whispered, her voice a seductive purr. Her fingers, long and slender, drifted down her own body, tracing a path over her stomach, down towards the soft curls between her legs.

—More than you know, Ames,— he choked out, his movements becoming more urgent. —Now, you. Touch yourself. For me.— He watched, mesmerized, as her fingers finally found their target, delicate and tentative at first, then with more confidence. A soft moan escaped her lips, and Lando felt a jolt of pure exhilaration. —That’s it, baby. Don’t stop.—

He continued his own rhythm, mirroring hers, their movements synchronized across the distance, a silent, intimate dance. He could see the flush on her cheeks, the slight parting of her lips as her pleasure mounted. Her head tilted back, a soft, almost inaudible whimper escaping her.

—Harder, Ames. Go harder,— he urged, his voice rough with his own rising climax. He watched her hips begin to rock subtly, the movements growing more insistent. —You’re so beautiful. So good. Don’t hold back.—

A soft cry escaped her, her body arching slightly, her eyes fluttering closed. Lando pushed faster, harder, his breath catching in his throat. He saw her shiver, a delicious tremor that ran through her entire frame. He felt the wave building within himself, a torrent ready to break.

—Yes, Ames. Yes!— he cried, his voice breaking as his own body convulsed, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washing over him. He collapsed back onto the bed, breathless, spent, but utterly, exquisitely satisfied.

On the screen, Amelie was breathing heavily, her body still trembling, a blissful smile on her face. Her eyes, heavy-lidded and sated, met his.

—You’re insane, Lando Norris,— she whispered, her voice still husky with arousal.

He laughed, a weak, contented sound. —Only for you, Amelie. Only for you.—

[ynasomniaur]

｡𖦹°‧ how does later sound, baby? | s.g

wc: 1.2k

thinking about satoru gojo leaning on a pillar, arms crossed, wearing a white longsleeve folded up to his elbows with the wrist watch you got him on his last birthday — just him intently watching you cradle your sleepy baby nephew.

you hum as the baby leans on your chest and flutters his eyelashes to sleep, and satoru?

oh god. satoru gojo just watches you with the most lovesick gaze that could ever exist — ocean eyes dilated with overwhelming admiration, lost, so lost, with observing you do your silly little dance as you cradle your nephew; you look so adorable he might melt.

the way your hair gracefully dances along the dreamy breeze that surrounds the two of you, how you look ethereally damning under the silver grace of this night — too much, he thought, it was a sight he wished to engrave on his mind, his skin, his soul.

he’s smiling, grinning, and he gets so breathless for he could feel how hard his heart slams against his ribcage, overflowing with the love he has for you.

he knows this isn’t the time but… jesus-fucking-christ he can’t help but think how much he would love to have you in the most romantic missionary position right now and give you a life to cradle within your body for nine months, he’ll revere it, kiss your belly every now and then if ever, a life that you two would raise — something he can share and build with you eternally, a family — no. stop it, he would snap at himself internally all while still watching you with utmost adoration and passion; almost like it’s devotion in its rawest form. perhaps it is.

the moment you looked up smiling at him because your nephew’s finally sound asleep, with triumphant eyes — he knew you knew. the way your excited eyes shifted into shock and the way you immediately averted them as your cheeks became flushed in just seconds; yup. he definitely caught that smile you hid by kissing your nephew affectionately on its cute oval sized head, the way you silently heaved a breath as you shook your head, chuckling — what a melody. he can listen to you laugh all day.

“oh, he’s asleep already?” your cousin chimed, half laughing as she walks over to you. “a major sleepyhead, not even 5 minutes in and he’s already asleep.” you grinned, gently passing your nephew to your cousin who laughed and said goodbye promptly to go back inside their room in this wide wedding venue, leaving you and satoru alone — all while the loud muffled sounds of karaoke and people shouting in the distance surrounded the premises you two were standing on.

satoru was still watching you with those eyes, intently memorizing everything about you as he walked closer, aching for your warmth, your embrace. who knew you’d be so good with taking care of kids? the thought alone made him spiral, let alone seeing you lull your nephew to sleep, it melted his poor heart helplessly drumming against his ribcage, longing to be yours. fully. utterly.

“stop it. i know what you’re thinking.” you cracked a smile at him, and he internally swore as his arms found their way to your waist, a muscle memory of him coming home — he swore he would marry you if he could right at this moment.

he rested his forehead on your shoulders, inhaling your scent, floral and powdery, ever-so-soothing; he’s never been so certain like this in his whole life before you.

he felt the way you leaned towards his touch as he nuzzled closer to the crook of your neck with the hopes of being a lot closer to you than just this. the way you seamlessly intertwined your hands with his; good god he always wondered if he was some saint or a hero in his past life for him to have you in this reality. too lucky. too blessed, even.

“for someone who doesn’t like kids you’re awfully good at taking care of them.” he teased, softly planting kisses on your shoulders as if there’s holiness imbued in each kiss, the only religion he’d speak of and worship.

“well.. it’s a skill. can’t hurt to learn it. especially if my cousins are all getting married and they’re all having kids.” you giggled and everything else just fades away. muted. you’re all he could hear. his anthem, ballad, of whatever the hell it is — you’re all he’d want to listen to; from waking up to falling asleep.

he loves these moments with you, it’s tender, solemnly tangled underneath the starry skies. he can’t help but smile. its fond. yearning. he’s incredibly deprived despite the close proximity.

the two of you stayed silent for a few moments. its endearingly intimate — the way he’s wrapped around you with reverence, cradling you with everything he could ever give and feel. the faint karaoke duets from your friends and cousins all becoming muffled as the two of you swayed gently, tranquil night skies with glimmering stars here and there, the calm sloshing of the pool water in front of you, the wind felt mellow and lulling on both of your skin.

satoru played with your fingers, memorizing the lines, the size, the warmth and how perfect they fit his calloused hands, how your touch feels like a remedy to his gaping heart. he’s visualizing what ring would fit best on your hands.

“if you want i can give you one —“ he suggested, looking up to meet your eyes, your eyes that met his with adoration — it makes his heart palpitate helplessly every-fucking-time, “only if you want, baby.” he laughed at your dumbfounded reaction. you sound so damn endearing he feels like he’s gonna erode. one with the earth. please. he squeezed your hands affectionately that earned another chuckle from you. do it more, he thought as he nuzzled on your neck again. “why are you talking as if you’re just going to give me a candy or a chocolate bar,” you replied, shaking your head.

hear that? that’s his heart flatlining.

“just saying, baby.” he laughed as he kissed your temple, swift, mellow and reverent, he’ll give you everything — even the most ridiculous things ever — if you’d ask him.

“you’ll do great. i’m sure of it.” he whispered assuringly as he pulled away from you and faced you, overflowing with devotion. he feels warm, like his body isn’t enough of a vessel for the love he has for you. he’s willing to surrender any time if you say so. he took your hands and brought it closer to his mouth — “just tell me so.” he smiled, not breaking any eye contact before he kissed your hands, lingering and feather light — like he’s uttering prayers and worshipping, before pulling you closer to him, and wrapping his hands around you, resting his forehead on yours; oh and the way you instinctively and immediately hooked your arms over his head? haywire!!!! he can’t take it anymore. couldn’t, maybe wouldn’t. god…

if he’s not the luckiest person then he doesn’t know who is because this? right here? with you? that’s more than winning the lottery. the greatest there could ever be and he’s so lucky he has you. surreal.

“how does later sound, baby?” he whispered, but he was sure it came out like a pathetic plead. he doesn’t care. as long as you love him, it doesn’t matter.

ִ ࣪𖤐── .✦

a.n⋮ ⌗ ┆: thanks for reading! if u enjoyed lmk <33 reacts and reblogs are highly appreciated. xoxo, yna!

[cleoselene]

I would like @otakuvampyre to know that no one is entitled to your body to survive without your consent, EVEN IF YOU'RE DEAD. We don't have mandatory organ donation FOR A REASON.

I would also like this person to know that I, a disabled person, believe this to my core. If my mother had been told, hey, your kid is going to get horribly sick in her early thirties, do you want to abort and try again? And she had chosen the easier path? You know what, that's her fucking right. If her life would have been made better by my non-existence, who am I to make her life worse?

I would also like this person to know that this woman had no ability to consent to her body being used like this, her family didn't want it, and this kid is going to have to live with the horror of their own creation if they survive, on top of their own disabilities

stop trying to act like it's eugenics for people to have bodily autonomy, jesus fucking christ

they kept a brain dead woman alive for months because she was 2 months pregnant at the time of her death and the abortion laws wouldn’t allow her to be taken off life support until she was no longer pregnant

her child was born at 27 weeks and less than 2 pounds after they spent weeks and weeks using her body in some kind of frankenstein-esque experiment

her body was desecrated so thoroughly, all for the chance that her child might live — and he might, but he certainly never had a chance at a “normal” life and will likely be profoundly disabled — which begs the question, was it worth any of this? the answer is of course a resounding no, but this is the reality in an america without roe v wade

i am so unspeakably angry for adriana smith, her death was a tragedy but the fact she was not allowed to be left in peace will go down as one of the most heinous things this country has done this century

[delulujuls]

head down and focus | mv33, gp

hi, long time no see since adult life is trying to crush me completely BUT i am not giving it up

here comes something intense, well, maybe this part is not as intense as the second one (because yes, there will be two parts of it because this bitch long as hell i got a bit carried away lol)

anyway, i guess this one is just for the real connoisseurs and if you dont like the idea of what i cooked here, just do it for yourself baby and scroll away

anyway, bon appetit! (and @subaru-copilot made those gifs btw)

summary: max and reader are secretly dating but it's nothing what an sharp eye of a race engineer couldn't spot. so if GP already got that something is going on between them, then why not invite him to their bedroom?

pairing: max verstappen x fem!red bull driver x gianpiero lambiase

warnings: s3x scene (in here just max x reader) nothing super explained though, some swearing i don't know how many times i used 'fuck' in here im sorry, mentions of voyeurism, is GP calling Max a good boy should have a trigger warning? idk

It started as a joke.

An innocent one, thrown out after one of the races to ease the tension.

After a while, the topic resurfaced—again as a joke—but this time it didn’t leave either Max or Y/N’s minds as quickly as it had before.

When the subject came up a third time, it was clear it had stopped being a joke. Even though they both wanted it to remain one.

"Do you think he leads like that during sex too?"

The question came at the least expected moment. Max was in the middle of putting on a condom, and Y/N, cheeks flushed, lay beneath him.

Max furrowed his brow at her question.

"Who?"

"GP," she answered, lifting her gaze to his face. Max’s cheeks were also tinged with red, his lips slightly swollen from kissing, and his tousled hair fell over his forehead.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Max shook his head in disbelief, adjusting the condom and moving a little closer to her. He wetted his fingers and ran them along her already soaked pussy. It wasn’t necessary—she was wet enough to take him comfortably.

"Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it too," she said, not breaking eye contact, partly to gauge his reaction. Max slid into her without a word, slightly more forcefully than he had intended, irritated by the remark. She hissed, sucking in air through her teeth and gripping the sheets with clenched fists. Max clearly hadn’t been as gentle as he’d planned, so he quickly braced himself on either side of her head and leaned down to kiss her. He moved his hips slowly, drawing out long, soft moans from her.

"Maybe I have thought about it," he said after a moment, towering over her and slowly letting her adjust to his size. It had been quite a while since they last had sex, and Max didn’t want to spend this moment thinking about his race engineer. "Doesn’t change the fact this isn’t the right time for that conversation."

"I’m just curious," she replied, pulling him closer and kissing his collarbone. Judging by Max’s reaction, she figured maybe she had gone too far, even if she had meant it jokingly. She didn’t want to piss him off.

"Hey, it’s okay," he assured her when he noticed her slightly sheepish expression. He touched her cheek and lightly rubbed it with his thumb. "And GP definitely seems like the type who leads during sex. No doubt."

She smiled, glad her stupid comment hadn’t ruined the mood. She grabbed Max’s cheeks and pulled him into a long, wonderfully messy kiss.

Their sex was so good it occupied their thoughts for days. But a few days passed, and duty called—meaning it was time to focus on racing and pretend they weren’t sleeping with a teammate.

Max and Y/N exchanged one last, silent smile—though both would have rather shared a kiss. But surrounded by mechanics and paddock staff, that smile had to do, as they each walked off to their respective parts of the garage.

Max returned every greeting with a smile. Nothing unusual there—both he and Y/N were well-liked. Contrary to the rumors and accusations, Red Bull had become a very tight-knit organization. Or, as the PR people said, they were simply one big family. Disfunctional sometimes, but still a family.

"Hey there, champ," Gianpiero smiled up at Max from behind his tablet. "Earlier than usual."

"Do you think he leads like that during sex too?"

The thought hit Max so hard, it felt like walking full speed into a glass door.

It took him about one and a half seconds longer than usual to pull himself together. He hoped GP hadn’t noticed.

"Morning’s quieter than usual," he replied, trying to maintain his composure. "Media folks must be stuck in traffic, so I figured I’d do something useful."

The man chuckled, swiping across his tablet screen, preparing to go over the latest updates with Max. Verstappen, if he could, would’ve high-fived himself. "Everything’s fine," he told himself as he set down his backpack and sat beside him. "Just act like nothing’s happening."

And really, if something is weird, pretending it’s normal often makes it feel that way.

Max listened intently as Gianpiero explained small changes made to the car and how they would suit the track’s specifications. Max was usually a focused student, listened a lot, and gave feedback. GP always made sure to be as clear and understandable as possible, enjoying it when things clicked.

This time, GP had again prepared everything excellently—but Max seemed to be in his own world, not quite the focused student today. Walking into the garage, he’d felt sharp and ready to prepare for the race. But seeing Gianpiero—and more than that, hearing his voice—completely knocked him out of rhythm.

How absurd was it to sexualize your race engineer? And more absurdly—why couldn’t he stop?

"Do you think he leads like that during sex too?"

"You’re not focused, Max," Gianpiero’s voice pulled him out of his daze. He had, indeed, drifted off in the most pathetic way.

"Sorry," Max quickly shook his head and leaned in closer. The scent of GP’s cologne enveloped him even more. Fuck, did he always smell like that? "I’m listening, I’m listening."

"Head down and focus," his voice wasn’t angry—wasn’t even annoyed. GP knew emotions had no place in engineering. He simply clicked back a few slides and resumed the topic he suspected Max had mentally wandered away from.

It wasn’t much easier now.

"Head down and focus," echoed in Max’s head like a tennis ball in an empty court. He gnawed the inside of his lip, eyes fixed on the notes, and whenever GP looked his way, Max nodded to signal understanding.

"Head down and focus"— fuck’s sake. Max grabbed his water bottle and took a sip, his mouth suddenly dry. "Head down and focus," he imagined Gianpiero standing over him while he lay between Y/N’s thighs, trying to get her off with his mouth.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

"We wanna get this nicely done, aren’t we? So head down and focus, Max. You can do this."

Max took another sip, squeezing the bottle a little too hard, making it crackle.

GP just shot him a mildly amused look, and Max quickly set the bottle aside. What he really needed to cool off wasn’t water—it was a bath in a tub of ice.

The situation didn’t improve when Y/N strolled into his side of the garage, pretending to casually check on things.

"Hi, GP," she smiled at him, leaning against the station where he and Max were sitting. "New haircut?"

Gianpiero laughed at her words, taking the jab in good humor. His relationships with both Max and Y/N were strong, relaxed, and full of such teasing.

"I really appreciate you noticing," he said theatrically, pressing a hand to his chest, making her giggle. She squeezed his arm warmly, wished them a productive day, and returned to her tasks.

"That girl," GP shook his head with a smile, swiping his stylus across the tablet.

"Such a minx, isn’t she?" Max watched her go.

"In that respect, you two are a perfect match," Gianpiero admitted, looking up from his tablet. When he did, Max quickly averted his gaze. But GP was much more observant than people gave him credit for—certainly more than Max or Y/N realized. Then again, he was a race engineer—being observant was practically his job description.

Max and Y/N did a fantastic job maintaining professionalism—so good, in fact, that probably no one, aside from Gianpiero, suspected anything was going on between them.

No one likely suspected either that Max wasn’t sleeping in his own hotel room on race weekends—like tonight, for instance.

"You seriously thought about that?" Max asked out of nowhere while they lay on the girl's bed. She was reviewing race notes; he was scrolling through social media. At some point, though, his finger stopped, and his thoughts—off the leash—wandered straight to Gianpiero.

"Thought about what?" she replied, not looking up from her pages.

"Please don’t make me say it," Max locked his phone and set it aside, leaning back. The girl looked at him, and he looked back, trying to make it obvious what he meant.

"I may be a great driver, but I still can’t read minds," she said, and Max sighed in resignation.

"I mean GP."

"My God, Max Emilian," she cut him off before he could continue, covering her face with her hands. "You’re seriously making this weird."

"I wasn’t the one who brought it up at the worst possible moment," he defended himself. "I’ve never thought about Gianpiero during sex!"

"Never?" she raised a brow, giving him a yeah-right look. "Seriously, never?"

"Give me one rational reason why I would," he said, looking right at her. Sure, GP had never crossed his mind during sex—Max had been too focused on more relevant things. But now? Now, if he went down on her, he couldn’t help but imagine GP standing over him, saying in that familiar radio voice, "Head down and focus."

"I mean, he’s attractive," she admitted. "You can’t tell me he’s not."

Max bit the inside of his cheek. He’d be lying if he said otherwise. GP looked good, always smelled good, and somehow managed to look great even after sleeping two hours the whole race weekend. Plus, he was insanely smart—which was sexy as hell on its own. And, fuck’s sake, that voice.

"He’s married," Max said, looking back at her. She just shrugged.

"So what? I’m just saying he’s handsome. And I'm saying that respectfully."

It was absurd. So absurd that Max started laughing under his breath. He rubbed his face with his hands and sighed. "I won’t be able to do the next race with him. I already couldn’t focus today on what he was saying to me."

"I'm impressed you managed as long as you did," she laughed, putting her notes aside. She knew there was no point continuing to study.

Of course, it’s not like they hadn’t had a conversation about who on the team they wouldn’t sleep with. Hell, who in the entire paddock they wouldn’t sleep with. Anyone who claimed they’d never thought about those things was lying. You spend such an obscene amount of time around these people that those thoughts pop into your head whether you want them to or not. Like, come on now.

They spent the evening having such ridiculous conversations that if someone had put a glass to the door and eavesdropped, they would’ve assumed a pair of teenagers were inside, just discovering what sex was. That level of ridiculous. So much so that Max, head down and cap pulled lower over his eyes than usual, walked into the garage the next morning.

Of course, the center of attention was none other than Gianpiero. And both of them, slightly ashamed—because GP definitely didn’t deserve to be sexualized like that—came to the conclusion that Max could fuck Y/N to the sound of his instructions.

The night passed, and the next day there was no escaping Gianpiero; they had a full day of work ahead of them.

"Hey," the man turned around after hearing the commotion behind him, caused by none other than Max entering the garage. The younger man smiled at him briefly and patted him on the back, but couldn’t get a single word out. Which was, of course, more than embarrassing.

"Everything okay, Max?" GP asked, after a moment of casting sidelong glances in the driver’s direction, now fully convinced something was wrong. "First race nerves? Isn’t it a little late for that, champ?"

He said it playfully, trying to lighten the mood. Max was already sitting in the car, ready to begin the practice session, staring off into space. When he heard the engineer’s voice, he sighed and shook his head. You’re acting like an idiot, Max, he thought. Get it together. Don’t make it weird.

"Everything’s fine," he nodded and looked down, adjusting the straps on his gloves. "I just want to get started already."

"Impatient boy," Max could hear the smile in his voice as the words came through his headset. Fuck you, GP. Fuck you so fucking much.

Max looked up toward Red Bull’s pit wall and saw GP standing with a slight smile, leaning back against the data monitors, swiping across his tablet—having no idea what he was capable of doing just by existing, completely unaware of it.

Soon after, the countdown ended and the cars slowly began to leave their garages, eager to get in some solid laps.

"Any feedback on the car, Max?" GP asked, as the Dutchman hadn’t said a word over halfway into the session. "Let me know how we managed the balance problems, please."

"Everything’s fine," Max said curtly, tightening his grip on the steering wheel as he took a corner more aggressively than planned. "Fuck, I mean—it's, uh, it’s fine."

"Copy that."

By the time the first practice session ended, Max felt like he’d driven the race of his life. He climbed out of the car, pulled off his helmet and balaclava, and wiped his face with his hands. But before he could take out his earpieces, Gianpiero’s voice came through again.

"Lunch together?" The Dutchman was just about to remove the earpiece but looked over and saw the man still sitting at the pit wall, now watching him intently. Fuck. "I think we need to talk, right?"

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

Max somehow managed to maintain eye contact and just nodded. The man smiled and turned back to his workstation, resuming his duties for a moment. Max, in that instant, wished GP would just forget the lunch and focus on work—his stomach twisted at the mere thought of the conversation ahead.

The Dutchman, of course, didn’t consider that Gianpiero, not just his race engineer but also a friend, might actually be worried about the strange behavior Max had been displaying for several days. Max felt like every filthy thought that had passed through his head in the last 48 hours was written all over his face, and GP—of course—would have no trouble reading it.

Shortly after the first practice session ended, Max headed to the canteen. He dragged his feet endlessly, but finally pulled himself together after an internal motivational speech—basically just swearing at himself to stop being a pussy—and appeared in the small Red Bull cafeteria. Gianpiero was sitting at a table in the corner by the window, eating lunch and scrolling through his phone.

"Sorry I’m late," he mumbled, placing the pasta and chicken salad on the table, pulling out a chair, and sitting down.

"No worries," GP smiled at him warmly. Fucking hell. This man was born without the part of the brain responsible for anger and negative emotions.

At first, they sat in silence for a while. Then, word by word, a loose conversation developed about the previous session, the car, and the collected data. Max managed to relax—he finally reminded himself that hey, it’s just GP. The person who knows everything about him—well, almost everything—who knows him like the back of his hand and who always wants the best for him. Everything is always fine when GP has his eye on it. Everything is just fine.

"Well, I wouldn't want this to be uncomfortable for you, so I’ll skip the lame small talk and just say I know," Gianpiero spoke up after a moment of silence, when his plate was empty and his coffee was nearly finished. He raised his eyes and looked at Max’s face, which didn’t flinch even a millimeter. He felt like his heart stopped for two full seconds.

Fuck.

"Know what, exactly?" Max twisted open a bottle of water and leaned back in his chair, taking a few sips. Gianpiero could tell he was tense. His body language tried to say otherwise, but there was no escaping it.

The man was about to speak when Y/N and Hannah walked into the buffet, deeply engaged in what he assumed was a lively conversation about the recent track events. He caught the girl's gaze and gave her a smile, which she returned. Still, her internal reaction was probably no different than what was consuming Max at that moment.

Fucking hell.

"That there’s more going on between you than just professional collaboration," he replied, watching them as they left the buffet with coffee cups and food containers. Max followed his gaze and saw only the familiar hair color and well-known silhouette still dressed in a racing suit as she walked out the door.

Max blinked several times. It took him a moment to process the words. Act cool. Act. Cool.

He knew there was no point in hiding the truth. He suspected that sooner or later people would start guessing. But that someone would be GP—his safe harbor—was a surprise. The last person who would judge him or throw unpleasant remarks.

The man looked back at him, waiting for him to respond. He was smiling slightly, sitting relaxed. Honestly, he had hoped to hear something more pleasant than the never-ending issues with car balance. But he had known Max for a long time and knew how professionally he approached his work—meaning, he wasn't the most expressive. Still, he wanted him to know that if anyone wasn’t going to judge him, it was him.

"Are we just terrible at hiding it, or is it your sharp eye?" Max didn’t quite sigh, but he felt like a massive weight slid off his chest. He smiled slightly and raised his eyes to him.

"Well, I wasn’t entirely sure," Gianpiero smiled more broadly. "But your recent behavior kinda confirmed it for me and well, here we are."

Max knew exactly what he meant. Yet in the spiral of absurdity, he forgot that Gianpiero might be referring to the fact that he was sleeping with a teammate—not that he was sleeping with a teammate and wanted him to guide them through it.

"Sorry," Max sighed this time. "I didn’t mean to act weird."

"Oh, come on, you don’t have to apologize to me," GP shook his head. "From a technical standpoint, as your engineer, I just wanted to know what might be occupying your thoughts."

"Technical standpoint?" Max laughed. "Not as my friend?"

The atmosphere loosened, and Max’s tongue untied on its own. He wasn’t particularly talkative by nature, but with Gianpiero, he had a tendency to ramble like the biggest gossip. From the outside, it might have looked like two grown men talking about work, but in reality, Max was close to giggling and GP was listening like a teenager’s best friend soaking in all the juicy drama.

Max felt so comfortable he barely stopped himself from saying too much. GP probably couldn’t handle that much in one sitting. The older man could tell there was something more, though—the moment Max looked down, fiddling with a salt packet, it was a clear sign something else was up.

"Is there something you want to add?" he asked, looking at Max’s face. He was still smiling gently, genuinely glad that Max had opened up to him. He knew it might not be a big deal—they were both adults—but close relationships in the workplace, especially in F1, were always a minefield.

Max stayed quiet for a while, fighting with himself. But when he looked up and saw nothing but his friend across from him, he thought, fuck it. Just fuck it.

He nodded silently.

Gianpiero, sensing the gravity of what Max was about to say, leaned in closer, rested his elbows on the table, laced his fingers together, and pressed them to his lips. He looked at Max silently, giving him the unspoken green light that he was ready to listen—if Max chose to speak.

The Dutchman looked up and, seeing there was no turning back, took a sip of water. It instantly felt like he'd just swallowed a kilo of sand.

"Promise me this won’t change anything between us, and if it gets weird, you’ll just forget I ever said anything, okay?"

GP nodded. "You have my word, Max."

"We’re looking for someone to join us, you know—" Max looked down again. He felt like he was having a sex talk with a parent.

"For a threesome?" GP asked, totally unfazed. To him, this might as well have been a weather chat.

"Not exactly," Max clarified. "We know you have a wife. It would be unethical."

"She’s a golden woman," GP laughed. "I promise, you’d be surprised."

"But it’s still not about sex," Max emphasized, continuing to play with the salt packet, which was starting to spill. "I mean, it is, but not the way you think".

"Be an adult, look at me, and tell me straight what this is about," he said when silence fell again. Max stopped moving his fingers and obediently looked up at him.

"Good boy," GP smiled. "See? That wasn’t so hard."

That innocent praise was loaded with sexual undertones—and Gianpiero did it entirely on purpose. This time.

"That’s exactly who we need," Max finally choked out. "To guide and lead."

Gianpiero stared at him, and that gaze burned holes through Max. The older man slowly processed what he had just heard, making sure he was following.

"You’re looking for someone to guide you during sex?" he asked, and Max just nodded. "Like a strategist during a race?"

Max nodded again. He was glad Gianpiero was smart enough that he didn’t have to spell it out.

"We both know you hate being told what to do," he said playfully, but Max could swear his voice dropped a little. "You barely listen to me in the car, and now you want to do it while pleasing your own girlfriend?"

A shiver shot through Max’s scalp and down his spine. Gianpiero seemed to be taking immense pleasure in how awkwardly embarrassing this was for him.

"And from what I know, following instructions is not Y/N's favorite thing either," he added, tilting his head slightly. "In that sense, you’re a perfect match."

"She has a praise kink," Max threw out, even though no one asked. "And she listens to authority. I promise, she values your knowledge and skills."

"You flatter me. I might blush," GP laughed, resting his chin on his clasped hands. "Alright, let’s say we’ve got one eager student. What about you? Would you follow instructions?"

"It would be a different situation."

"You’d still have to obey."

"You want me to say I’d be a good boy?" Max felt like he’d never blushed this hard. But something gave him incredible courage. He didn’t flinch and looked GP straight in the eyes.

"Would you be a good boy?"

Fucking Gianpiero Lambiase.

"Yes," Max swallowed hard. "I would."

"I need to hear the whole sentence, Max. Use your words, please," GP leaned back in his chair. A soft smile still danced on his lips. Seeing Max embarrassed like that after all these years together was wildly satisfying.

"Yes, I’d be a good boy."

Gianpiero smiled and finished his now-cold coffee. "I’ll talk to my wife and let you know soon."

Fuck.

Fuck.

Fuck.

What the fuck was that?

The conversation Max had with Gianpiero in the buffet certainly made him feel lighter. But it wasn’t until he stood under the hot shower in his hotel bathroom that it really hit him—he had just invited Gianpiero into his bedroom. His and Y/N's bedroom. Y/N, who didn’t know anything yet.

Later that evening, Max, without warning, went to the girl’s hotel room and knocked on the door. She opened in a robe and with a face mask on, clearly not expecting him. Still, she didn’t send him away. She continued her evening routine, and Max followed her closely. They talked about the day, Max sat on the edge of the tub, and she finished her skincare.

"I talked to GP," he said at one point, looking at her reflection in the mirror. She met his gaze—and seeing the look on his face, she knew exactly what he meant.

"No," her shoulders dropped heavily, and Max only nodded.

"You didn’t talk to GP," she turned to face him, and Max just nodded again. The girl pressed her fingers to her lips. Oh fuck.

"He was actually very positive about it," he admitted, shrugging. The girl shook her head and tilted it back.

"I can't believe you did that, Max."

"It was... definitely something," he admitted, glancing at the girl.

She sighed, shaking her head again and standing in front of the mirror, closing a jar of cream. "There's no way he's going to agree. We made ourselves look like complete idiots."

Matter of fact: They didn’t make themselves look like complete idiots. And GP had already agreed—in the buffet. His wife shortly after.

Max decided to go back to his room and relax a bit with a stream. He was just about to leave the girl’s room when his phone buzzed. With one hand on the door handle, he reached into his pocket with the other to grab the phone. When he saw who the message was from, his heart skipped a beat. He swiped the screen to unlock it and tapped on the message icon.

GP: Told you my wife’s a golden woman. Green light here. GP: Just let me know time and place.

Max smiled to himself, and before Y/N could even ask what was going on, he silently showed her the phone in his hand. They looked at each other and both burst out laughing.

So it’s happening. It really is.

[immaqulate]

stay inside (pt 2) | c.s

— chris sturniolo x fem! reader

— warnings: smut, VERY FILTHY, but itty bit of softness, breeding kink, raw sex, unprotected sex (creampie), “stay inside” (double entendre), possessive!Chris, praise kink, oral (f receiving), fingering, multiple orgasms, slight overstimulation, very vocal Chris, slight choking (light/consensual), reader begging, marking, cycle talk, cum play implied, emotional smut, 2nd person pov, established relationship, mildly feral behavior, slight pregnancy fantasy, post-sex clinging, no protection used (plz wrap it b4 u tap it), messy and intentional

You didn’t even have to say yes. The look in your eyes told him everything— and now Chris is desperate to stay buried inside you, until you forget how to breathe without him.

requested by moot! | word count: 836

You didn’t say the word.. you didn’t have to.

The look in your eyes when he whispered “Say the word and I’ll make it happen tonight” said everything. And that was all Chris needed.

He kissed you deep— almost dizzying, like he wanted to breathe through you— before tugging your shirt up and off, slow and reverent. His gaze locked onto your body like it was something sacred. Something he was ready to worship.

“You know what tonight is, right?” he rasped, voice low as his hand skimmed your waist. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice?”

You blinked, dazed. “Notice what?”

His fingers slipped between your thighs, pressing into the soaked fabric of your panties. He smiled— dark, satisfied. “Ovulating, baby.”

You froze.

“Your body’s been screaming for me all day.” His fingers rubbed slow, teasing circles. “Thought you were being subtle, but I know you too well.”

You whimpered when he pushed the fabric aside. “Chris—”

“Mhm. You’re so warm already. So wet.” He leaned in, brushing his nose against your jaw. “You think I don’t wanna give you everything? You think I don’t lie awake some nights thinking about you swollen and dripping and full of me?”

You moaned. Actually moaned.

That earned you a kiss. A filthy, tender, absolutely ruinous kiss as he laid you back and dragged his mouth down your body— between your breasts, across your stomach, then lower.

He didn’t speak again until he was face to face with your cunt.

And when he did— it was a prayer.

“Stay open for me, baby.”

You gasped when his tongue met your clit— wet and slow, swirling like he had nowhere else to be. He didn’t rush. Didn’t chase your orgasm. He coaxed it out of you, murmuring “that’s it, good girl” as you bucked into his mouth.

Two fingers slid in. Curled. Perfect.

“Fuck—Chris—”

“Let go, baby,” he whispered. “I got you. Wanna taste every drop before I give you more.”

You shattered. Hips trembling, eyes fluttering, his name leaving your lips like it was the only one you remembered.

And he didn’t stop.

He kissed his way back up, hand still teasing between your thighs, smile soft and wrecked as he hovered over you. “You ready?” he asked, like a gentleman. Like a menace.

“Please,” you whispered, pulling him down.

He pressed the tip in with a shaky groan, burying himself inch by inch, slow and torturous.

Your back arched. His breath hitched.

“Jesus Christ,” he choked. “You feel like heaven. So tight, baby… so warm…”

When he was fully inside you, he just held there. Chest against yours. Arms wrapped around your back. His forehead pressed to yours as his hips flexed experimentally.

You whimpered. “Move—Chris—”

“I will,” he whispered, “but I want this to last.”

He kissed you again. Slow, deep. His voice was hoarse. “I wanna fuck you like I’m trying to live inside you.”

And that’s exactly what he did.

Each thrust was steady and possessive — not rushed, not wild, just deep. Intentional. Like he wanted to imprint himself in your body. Like he was making a home out of your warmth.

“You want it?” he growled into your ear. “You want me to stay?”

You nodded, gasping. “Yes—stay inside, please—don’t stop—”

“Gonna make you mine, baby. Gonna stay buried in you until I know it worked.” His hand slid between your bodies, thumb rubbing your clit. “You want that? You want me to fill you up and let it drip down your thighs when I’m done?”

You cried out, legs tightening around his waist.

“Good girl,” he panted, hips starting to stutter. “Let me, baby. Let me fucking breed you.”

You came again— hot and breathless, clenching so tight he nearly sobbed.

He cursed. Slammed in one last time. And let go.

The sound he made— holy— was somewhere between a growl and a broken whimper.

And god, you felt it.

Hot, thick, so much. Filling you to the brim.

His arms were shaking as he stayed pressed against you, chest heaving, voice wrecked.

“I’m not pulling out,” he gasped. “Not yet. Can’t. Gotta keep it in. Gotta make sure it takes.”

You could feel him still twitching inside you, leaking, throbbing. Your thighs slick with a mess only he could make. And even when the high faded, he didn’t move.

Didn’t even try.

His hand moved to your belly. Fingers tracing slow, soft circles.

“You think it worked?” he asked, quietly.

“I hope so.”

He kissed your neck. “You want it?”

You nodded, fingers in his hair. “Yeah. I do.”

Chris smiled. Pressed a kiss to your stomach. “Then I’ll give it to you, baby. Every drop you need. Every night if I have to.”

You blinked up at him. “You’re still hard.”

He laughed, low and rough. “Yeah. Told you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Then— without warning— he rolled his hips again.

“Chris—!”

“Shhh,” he whispered, settling deeper, hand still stroking your belly. “Just one more time, yeah? Just to be sure.”

is it just me.. or is HOT in here.. 🤭

click here to be added to my taglist and here for masterlist <3

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[nostalgiaforplacesweneverknew]

hcs (sfw or nsfw) for todd stevens where reader kinda plays hard to get with him/ sort of challenges his whole fuckboy frat guy persona (a man who years is a man that earns🙏)

lol I love reforming a fuckboy frat guy <3

Todd Stevens x fem!Reader | 0.6k | Headcanon, mentioned spiciness (18+/MDNI) but nothing too explicit, hints of fluff.

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘 ▹ Wherein Todd meets his match.

I think Todd would initially not think much of it when you don’t show an interest in him. He’s rarely flustered by anything or anyone, and that arrogant, cocky part of him thinks you’re just trying to play it cool. 

Because girls don’t just walk away, all unimpressed and unbothered, when they meet him. They normally bat their eyelashes, press up against him in hopes of enticing him, giggle a little too loudly at his witty remarks. 

But then you just blink at him, give him a slow once over, and then tell him, “No thanks... I prefer guys with substance.” 

Brain.exe has stopped working, and he spirals in private. 

He can’t understand it. With substance? Like he doesn’t have substance?! He reads, he dresses nicely, he does well in his classes, and he volunteers at fundraisers—sure, that’s part of his duties as president of the frat, but he goes and that’s what matters?! 

Or when you tell him that he’s so unserious, thinking he’s such a big shot when the only reason girls sleep with him is because he’s the president of the frat and his parents have money. Not because anyone actually likes him.

“Not that anyone actually knows what you’re like, Stevens,” you smirk, crossing your arms over your chest, unknowingly squishing your boobs together and he’s short-circuiting. “Why is that, exactly? Afraid people won’t like what they see?” 

He’s so incensed, like “How fucking dare you?” but he’s also like, “Jesus H. Christ, why does she have to be so hot when she’s insulting me?” 

Todd’s never been a violent person, he’s the kind to silently fume and use his tone of voice and authority to keep people in line. But when he sees you laughing at someone else’s joke, when you just shrugged, unimpressed, at his own earlier quip, Todd suddenly wants this guy dead. 

No, those must be pity laughs. She’s better than that. Than him. She’s just trying to rile me up. 

If that’s the case, then it’s working because Todd’s slowly going crazy. 

He hears that you like cats and he’s like, “Psh, I could learn to love cats…” even though he’s actually deathly allergic, lmao. 

He walks by where you’re sitting more times than necessary, pretending like he’s not looking at you and not frustrated as hell when you obviously aren’t looking back. 

You’d literally just be existing—laughing with friends, reading, sipping coffee, typing up notes on your laptop during class, studying your textbook in the library—and Todd’s watching like you’re the most riveting film he’s ever seen. 

You’re walking across the quad lawn in the cutest little dress, and he’s so damn sexually frustrated because you’re not giving him the time of day. 

He’s the picture of cool, calm, and collected around his frat brothers, but he’s wrecked on the inside: 

God, her thighs. Her thighs are out. Fuck, I’d have those legs shaking. I’d ruin her for every other guy in the universe. I’d get on my knees and worship her like she’s my religion. I’d make her come so hard she forgets her own damn name… if only she’d let me. 

He has to keep adjusting how he’s sitting, his jaw clenched and the vein in his neck pulsing, because he’s half-hard just by looking at you. 

Obsessively checks your socials but doesn’t follow you, but he does view every story  almost as soon as it’s posted. He finds an 8-second TikTok that your friend posted of you dancing at a party. He rewatches it like a million times, trying not to think about the throbbing in his groin. 

I imagine he finally breaks one day, literally begs you for a date. I mean, sex would be good, it would be great, but right now? PLEASE just pay attention to him.

𝐉𝐎𝐈𝐍 𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐂𝐀𝐍𝐎𝐍 𝐒𝐔𝐍𝐃𝐀𝐘𝐒 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐕𝐈𝐕 ༊*·˚

[mephist00o]

dude can you imagine caleb’s borderline yandere behavior paired with someone who has a “No Bullshit” attitude towards everyone?

like he starts his little, “im going to keep you with me for your own protection” only to be interrupted by his partner with, “who the fuck are you talking to like that????” to be people outside of the relationship it seems toxic, but his crazy ass needs to be with someone STRICT.

FIREE IDEAA :D

desc: headcannons of caleb with a mc who puts his ass in his PLACE 🫠

a/n: reader and Caleb are just RLLY funny 😋, also trying a new head cannon format !!

As we know, Caleb is not one to shy away from being assertive when it comes to mc's saftey (I think we've ALL seen those edits on our fyps). But anyway, I can see a reader with a "no bulshit attitude" lowkey scaring him a bit? (and maybeee perhaps turn him on too?😜).

Imagine you and Caleb are out at a resturant with a bar. You go on your own and get yourself a drink when some guy starts hitting on you. He does every trick in the book: rubbing your arm, giving you half-assed compliments, the usual.

Of course, Caleb's wasting no time walking over to where you two are.

He makes his way over and starts off real nice. He's calm and collected and acting like he was just passing through. Then, when Caleb asks the guy if he knows you are not his hand makes its way around your waist, and he starts sizing the guy up.

He's on his little rant when you cut him off.

"Sorry, shes-"

"Not interested. And," you rip his hand off your waist, glaring at him, "not to be coddled."

The guy looks like he's about to shit himself. He makes a run for it.

Meanwhile you and Caleb start having it out publicly. He ends up grabbing your wrist harshly and dragging you both back home.

The innocent bystanders look at you two with pity. How could two people seemingly be so hurtful to one another?

Little did they know as soon as you both exited the building Caleb's immediately on his knees begging for YOUR forgiveness.

Caleb's had jelously issues since you two we're little. You never blamed him, especially after everything you two went through. But it still caused you way too much stress.

You have always been headstrong, and known what you wanted. This has increased as you've gotten older as well. But Caleb can't seem to shake off the fact that you're not the scared innocent child you used to be.

This leads to what happened back at the resturant. And it leads to people questioning the true quality of your relationship.

But quite honestly, you guys couldn't be better. Plus, instances like that restaurant barely scratch the surface of other stuff that's happened.

One time, you and Caleb were out on a stroll and some guy just happened to compliment the dress you were wearing. You paid it no mind but as soon as you and Caleb got home, he went fully batshit crazy.

The only reason you found out was because you saw his various web charts and tabs open in his bedroom. Before you can even process it, Caleb's already standing right behind you, his gaze looking over you.

"Pipsqueak, you know I'm just looking out for you,-" Caleb's eyes scan you, almost looking through you rather than at you. "because you're mi-"

"Caleb! Jesus christ, take this down." You roll your eyes at him and give him a look.

Caleb looks like he's been snapped out of whatever daze he was in a second ago and looks at you confused. Still, you continue to pester him.

"You heard me! You know, I'm getting really sick of this yandere act you got going on."

Caleb looks at you like a toddler who just got scolded on by his parents.

This leads to a screaming match, (well, you're the only one really screaming at him) and by the end of it you two are cuddled up on the couch together, Caleb's head resting on your lap, as you two binge watch the newest episodes of love island (I feel like you and Caleb would LOVEEE to make fun of the couples on it together).

I also just see another instance of one of Caleb's stalker moments where he eventually finds the person and threatens them using his gravity evol.

You'd walk up behind him and start telling him off for using his evol to threaten someone.

"But pipsqueak, he was clearly trying to start something with you!"

The only thing that man asked you was directions to the nearest post office. 🤦🏾

But despite it all, you and Caleb's bond never wavered. The dynamic you guys built with one another actually works even if it is a bit unconventional.

...

Lmk if y'all want moree <3

[we-love-lando-norris-over-here]

You know what’s cracking me up?

oscunt going “Fuck me, man. Jesus Christ.” after qualifying P3, and then following it up today with “Alpine still managed to find a way to fuck me over all these years later, huh?” because Gasly took to long to move out of the way, despite oscunt being securely in P2.

P3 and P2. And he's out here acting like he just got jumped in an alley.

Meanwhile Lando DNFs and still manages to take accountability and smile through interviews while the other one’s spiraling because the Alpines inconvenienced him.

Tell me again who’s the “mentally fragile” one.

[swe3theart-succubus]

community service- rafe cameron smau

Pt. 8

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻

the knock wasn’t gentle. it wasn’t even really a knock.

it was more of a pound, followed by the unmistakable screech of your front door being kicked open like this was a sting operation.

“YOU KNOW WHAT—”

you nearly jumped off the couch, almost dropping your phone as jj maybank, soaking wet and dramatic as hell, stormed into your living room like he wasn’t tracking rain all over your rug.

“first of all,” he huffed, slamming the door shut behind him, hair dripping, chest heaving like he’d just crossed a battlefield. “what the fuck was that little group chat assassination you pulled, huh? that was insane. that was psychotic. that was below the belt. that was—”

he paused, held up a finger, and fished something out of his hoodie pocket.

a blunt.

“—also, passable if you hit this first,” he muttered, lighting it like this was an everyday weather pattern and not an actual flood warning. he took a drag, then started pacing and rambling. “i came through the flood for this. you missed love island night. there’s a debriefing protocol. and you violated it."

“you walked here,” you start, dragging your eyes from the bottom of his dripping waders to the too-small rain jacket he definitely stole from kie. “during a literal hurricane.”

“uh, yeah,” he replies like it’s obvious, eyes narrowed. “because somebody decided to go full rom-com in a rec center instead of watching THEE fucking stallion. and you disrespected me in the group chat.”

you stare at him. rain dripping from his hair, the cherry of the blunt lighting up his dirty fingernails.

"jj—”

“NO. you don’t get to ‘jj’ me like this is normal. like you didn’t just confess to borderline treason.”

“you are so dramatic.”

“i am the correct amount of dramatic,” he insists, waving the blunt like a gavel. “you almost kissed rafe cameron. that’s like—like trying to make out with a brick wall.”

“jj.”

“he’s emotionally constipated, baby girl! you’re gonna end up writing sad poems in your notes app and pretending to like golf!”

you sigh. loud. dragging a blanket over your legs as you make room on the couch—because obviously he’s not leaving.

he frowns. sighs dramatically. and then peels off his waders, letting them fall to a soggy heap before flopping down beside you.

“it wasn’t like that,” you mutter, pulling the blanket up to your chin as he immediately invades your personal space like a damp, judgmental cat.

“mmhm,” jj hums, eyes closed, head tilted back against the couch like he’s praying for strength. “you just accidentally got soft for the island’s most emotionally unavailable trust fund.”

you groan. “jj—”

“don’t jj me.” he takes another hit and passes it without opening his eyes. “you almost kissed him.”

you take it. inhale. slow. “i didn’t though.”

“but you wanted to.”

you pause. exhale. “…maybe.”

“jesus christ,” he whispers. “i should’ve known when you started defending him. or when you let him wear the sticker crown. or when you told pope he was ‘actually kind of helpful’ last week.”

you glare. “i was trying to be nice!”

he scoffs. “you don’t even say that shit about me.”

you nudge him with your foot. “because you’re not helpful.”

“i bring you snacks.”

“you eat them before i get there.”

he waves that off. “semantics.”

you both sit in silence for a moment. the storm outside has finally quieted—reduced to a soft drizzle that taps gently at the windows, like it’s listening too.

jj leans his head on your shoulder. it’s warm. heavy. familiar.

“…you gonna see him again?” he asks eventually. voice low. not teasing anymore.

you blink at the TV screen, even though it's off. “i work with him. kind of hard to avoid.”

he hums. “but like. see him.”

you don’t answer right away. your eyes flick toward the sweatshirt still sitting crumpled on the end of the couch. the one you definitely could’ve left in his truck. the one that still smells like citrus and danger and boyish regret.

“…i don’t know,” you admit quietly.

jj doesn’t say anything. just sits there. lets you lean into him.

until, of course—

“if you start listening to sad music again, i’m changing your spotify password.”

you snort, tilting your head just enough to bump into his. “you don’t even know my spotify password.”

“no,” he says, smug, “but kie does. and she’s mad enough at you to help me.”

you laugh. actually laugh. and he grins, sharp and proud like he won something.

“seriously, though,” he murmurs after a second. “you good?”

you blink. glance down at your hands. then back at the sweatshirt on the couch.

“…i’m confused,” you say finally.

he nods, thoughtful. “you wanna make out with the emotionally unavailable glitter janitor. yeah. i’d be confused too.”

you elbow him, but it’s soft. tired. fond. “shut up.”

“hey, no judgment. i’ve hooked up with worse. remember that girl with the broken tooth who wanted to read my tarot cards mid-hookup?”

you groan. “don’t bring her up again.”

“i’m just saying,” he says, shifting to face you, “i get it. bad decisions are hot. just… don’t let it be one of those bad decisions that sticks, you know?”

you look at him. he’s not grinning anymore. just watching you. soft and serious and loyal in a way he’d never admit out loud.

you nod. “yeah. okay.”

he bumps your shoulder once. then again.

“…he is kinda hot though,” he adds, teasing back in full force. “for someone who probably thinks therapy is for poor people.”

“jj.”

“i’m just saying!” he throws his hands up. "every time he kicks my ass, i definitely look at his arms."

you stare at him.

he shrugs. “they flex when he throws. it’s hypnotic.”

“so you’re saying… you’d hit?”

“no,” he scoffs. “i’d let him hit. there's a difference.”

you blink. “i don’t even know how to respond to that.”

he shrugs again, grabbing a chip from the open bag and crunching like this is a normal Tuesday.

“you don’t have to,” he says through a mouthful. “i’m comfortable with who i am.”

you laugh softly. “comfortable with your homoerotic fight club fantasies?”

“hey,” he says, pointing a chip at you. “some of us process conflict through grappling and confusing emotions.”

you roll your eyes and settle back into the couch, finally feeling the weight of the day start to settle. your legs stretch across jj’s lap like muscle memory—like all the nights he’s shown up unannounced, soaked, scraped, pissed off, and still your favorite person.

he adjusts like it’s normal. like your knees belong tucked under his arm. one hand absently rubbing your shin, the other navigating the TV remote.

"lock in. the girls shake ass in this episode."

ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻*ੈ✩‧₊˚*ੈ✩‧₊˚༺☆༻

a while later, the snacks are long gone, the blanket is mostly on jj now, and the screen's dim light casts both of you in the same pale glow. your phone buzzes once—face-down on the coffee table—but you don’t move to check it.

jj glances at you sideways. “wanna talk about it?”

you hesitate.

“…i think part of me wanted him to kiss me.”

jj doesn’t flinch. doesn’t make a sound. just keeps watching the TV.

you shift. “not like, actively. but if he had…”

you trail off.

he nods, just once. slow. “you were curious.”

“i was stupid,” you correct.

he hums again. thoughtful. “sometimes that’s the same thing.”

you both go quiet.

“but,” jj adds, after a moment, “if he ever does kiss you?”

you glance at him.

“i better be the second fucking person you tell. right after your diary.”

you laugh. full-body. the kind that shakes your shoulders and steals your breath.

he grins too. pleased with himself. pleased with you. pleased that you’re still his, even a little.

you settle back into the couch, head tipping against his shoulder.

outside, the rain’s little more than a whisper now. inside, the air smells like chips and smoke and the sweatshirt still draped across the armrest.

jj shifts slightly, pulling the blanket higher over both of you. his thumb still absently brushing your leg like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

you stare at the screen, but your thoughts are somewhere else. stuck somewhere between storm-slick pavement and the look in rafe’s eyes when he said he wouldn’t stop you.

you’re not cold. not anymore. but you shiver anyway.

jj notices. doesn’t comment. just tugs you closer.

“i’d kill him, you know.”

you glance over.

“rafe,” he clarifies, voice soft, like it’s not a big deal. “if he ever hurts you.”

your lips twitch. “bit extreme.”

he shrugs. “nah. we're overdue for a fight.”

you hum. half-asleep now. mind slowing. body heavy.

on-screen, someone shouts about betrayal. jj mutes it. you barely notice.

he leans his head against yours. lets the quiet stretch.

“you don’t have to figure it out tonight,” he says finally. “just don’t lie to yourself about what you want.”

you don’t answer. but he knows you heard him.

you stay there like that, long after the episode ends, wrapped in smoke and leftover feelings and the kind of comfort that only comes from someone who’s seen you break before—and helped sweep up the pieces.

the TV asks if you’re still watching.

you’re not.

you should probably get up. move. wash your face. make jj leave.

instead, you say, “you staying here?”

he yawns. “obviously.”

you don’t argue.

he shifts to lie down, pulling you with him like it’s second nature. like it's something that used to happen every other night when the world was heavier on his shoulders than usual. your head slots beneath his chin, his hand slides under the blanket to rest at your waist.

“i’m gonna drool on you,” you mumble.

“if i cared about that, i wouldn’t be friends with pope,” he replies sleepily.

you smile. eyes slipping shut.

it doesn’t take long for both of you to drift—breathing synced, bodies warm, the storm outside finally silent.

your phone buzzes again on the table. once. then twice.

neither of you moves.

the sweatshirt stays where it is, still smelling like citrus and regret and something not quite finished.

and in the morning, you’ll pretend it doesn’t mean anything when you fold it up and tuck it into your bag.

you’ll pretend you don’t think about how rafe looked at you like he could see right through the bullshit.

you’ll pretend you don’t want to find out what it feels like when he finally stops holding back.

but for now,

you sleep.

[idliketobeatree]

@wordsinhaled NICK, MY DEAREST INDEED!!1! it's FINALLY time for me to yap after a weekend of work

i've had this gifset on constant repeat (charli style) for the whole past two days (might have spent as much as an hour at once just. looking.. so longingly... listening to the mix you sent me... envisionig, thimking even.....) and i NEED to hear out your director's cut! because!

truly i can't get your scene choices out of my head. like, i have a list prepared.

first gif already had me on the floor because, you see, i've started the poem with this maudlin expression tetheering on pained, but your “dearest charles” has this? lovesome, silly over, lightly exasparated quality that makes me yell! come one!!! when his name is on edwin's lips, what could ever feel wrong? INSANE. AND making the sconces PINK, i see you!!

I LOVE how you added the caseboard but specifically from the scene where charles says edwin is "proper missable", it puts the gifset firmly into that post-canon setting i really wanted to explore and it matches up PERFECTLY! all along, the agency moves on and the jobs keep getting jobbed. A++ scene

THIS IS THE ONE I PROPERLY LOST MY MIND OVER, the giddiness, the sheer HOLD on him that charles has is so palpable here. i loved wordplaying with the expression of "half brains" as in edwin gently chiding himself for acting a bit silly around charles, but also recognising that charles' own brilliance is balanced out between them two when it comes to the work. also, using their giggling to show that they've stayed like this for WHO knows how long, weeks or months after the confession those bitches still kick their leggies and blush like two schoolgirls. unmatched. kithing you on the nose for this

"I choose to believe" HEY NOW when i say i didn't EXPECT the actual confession thrown into the bit. THE TRUST IN HIS EYES. THE NODDING. he's just one conversation with niko + a google search away from blurting out "whatever you say beautiful" and it's killing me here

okay, but the way you coloured the green here is?? so utterly lovely? and i am once again not okay about your scene of choice (edwin looking down at the shoulder touch and charles smiling in the off-view??? fucks me well up) something about edwin suspecting charles knows here. knows what he's doing. well. well now

DEFINITELY UP THERE IN THE MOST SCREAM-INDUCING GIFS SECTION feeling his dead heart beat again my BELOVED

and my jaw fucking dropped when i saw this. i think i've spent like, 20 minutes on it alone. you were insane. god. edwin pointedly LETTING GO of the window frame over "ghosts / who cannot let go" (from the same PILOT) + charles' goddamn singlet beauty on "body--pliocene" like HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO FUNCTION EVER AGAIN AAAAAAAAAAAAAH OF COURSE THE EPOCH FAMOUSLY KNOWN FOR HAVING A HOTTER CLIMATE AND BEING A TIPPING POINT WOULD BE HIM ANEW AND REBORN AS A GHOST, BUT JUST AS ANCIENT AAAAAAA

i need to hunt you down for sport btw. jesus christ. i am so weak for, for almost confession!edwin being this mess of conflicting feelings that are too much for his body, nervousness, excitement, being bodied by the enormity of his affection and describing it like it's a threat, but he wouldn't have it any other way. his prey insticts locked in and he pushes through, because it's important. charles is the most important. UNWELL

THIS IS MADLY INGENIOUS btw i can tell (maybe more fully confirm lol) "the Magician's snow" was a reference to the Major Arcana Tarot card, which represents the connection between the spiritual and physical realms and it pairs up wonderfully with the wing of Death taking the spirit over as well. ofc the actual snow is just cherry on top. i don't think i even remembered they had the romantic snow falling around them scene when writing the bit and that it was. canon. ofc they did. smh

BELOVED CRICKET BAT of course i think edwin would be so fine about it, it's canon-- love the way the gif really focuses on the movement but it keeps edwin's pov in the back, won't let you forget about his presence

literally crying on the cold wet ground with him. this one surprised me THE MOST, because well, the original meaning was leaning more heavily towards "edwin wants charles to break through the last of his walls, but isn't sure how to ask for it"; making charles the focus of that line is a far more fitting and frankly better interpretation and i have zero shame in claiming it fully. like, they can coexist, sure, but this is cleary superior. and i am hurting so much. thank you thank you thank you

AAAAAAAAAJBDSHHDJFSFDFGNJNVSCDNW3OI2H5N34J53K4H5B345345HB345H345U34K6HB5MH6B45JHB52H4B53M4H6BM36B34H525B25B3H56B3JYEAH YEAH THIS GIF RIGHT HERE MISS DEATH [INSERT SCREAMING CAT EMOJI] god DAMN it edwin's pained expression at being REALLY left out and shut out when all he wants is for charles to let him IN is. i mean. sick an twisted also why did i write that and i'm so thankful you loved it enough to do this

+ an extra bcs WHAT DO YOU MEAN "ONE OF HOW MANY MORE" DO YOU WANT TO KILL ME (P((PLEASE)))

all in all, i am kissing you for a thousand years and loving you for a thousand more AND your playlist is going to put my soul into a blissful resting state if i'm not too careful!!!1 ! !

how i be looking upon this gifset and you for the next eternity:

— “decimal places, countable ticks” - a Payneland / Dead Boy Detectives poem by @idliketobeatree written for @mellxncollie

[whimsicalpolitical]

I have so many drafts rn so i cannot start another but I need someone to write about old man Ross in the oh Caroline mv... Sugar daddy Ross WHO FUCKING SAID THAT -carl1ghts

hehe, i love you so much! 18+ mdni, smut, !D WORD!

you honestly hadn’t planned on stopping by.

but when you got the text from ross- “they’ve got me in full prosthetics. look like someone’s granddad from sheffield. s’well grim.”- and you realized the shoot wasn’t that far from your office, it didn’t take much convincing.

so you picked up his favorite snack (that overpriced peanut butter bar he swears by, the one he eats so slow like it’s fine dining), and made your way over.

you don’t even mean to freeze in your tracks when you spot him.

but you do. completely.

ross is stood just off-set, arms crossed, sipping a cold coffee like it’s whiskey, looking out over the shoot like he owns the place. grey hair. full grey beard. deep, artificial wrinkles around his eyes and forehead. it should be funny. it should be weird.

but instead- your mouth drops open slightly.

and maybe it’s the way the sunlight hits the side of his face, maybe it’s the calm way he carries himself, or the grey suit they’ve thrown on him, or the little laugh lines that the makeup crew have pressed into his skin-

but it’s working.

and it’s really working.

he doesn’t see you right away, so you take a second. just one. swallow the flush rising up your neck. pull yourself together. then walk up like everything’s completely normal.

“brought you this,” you say, holding out the snack.

he turns, brightening instantly. “oh, hello, love.”

leans in, presses a warm kiss to your cheek like he hasn’t just aged forty years.

“you made it, thank you, i haven’t had this one for ages,” he adds, taking the snack and tearing it open like a kid. “s’bloody mad in there. you see george? he looks like he’s just come from the set of downton abbey.”

you can’t even laugh. you just blink at him.

“…you alright?” he says after a second, squinting at you. “you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.”

“no, i-“ you glance away for a moment, cheeks burning. “you just. look good.”

he pauses mid-bite, crumbs still on his lip. “yeah?”

you nod, too quick. “yeah. you, uh. you look good.”

he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and grins at you, properly. wide and smug and a little amused. “you fancy the silver fox look, then?”

“shut up.”

“no, go on. say it again.” he steps closer, eyes twinkling. “say how much you like it.”

you roll your eyes, though you’re still blushing. “you look good. handsome. disturbingly so, considering you look like you should be collecting a pension.”

ross laughs, low in his throat. “disturbingly handsome. i’ll take it.”

he lifts a hand to smooth out his beard that is now grey. “my skin feels horrible, though. itchy as fuck. can’t wait to rip it all off after we wrap.”

your face drops slightly. “don’t.”

“…don’t?”

“just- don’t take it all off. not yet, for me?”

he stares. then slowly, slowly raises an eyebrow.

“ohhh,” he murmurs, stepping even closer. “oh, you are into it.”

“ross-“

“you want me to drive you home like this, don’t you. pretend i’m a, what’s it called, dilf?. because if you really want that, i can.”

“ross.” you say again.

he grins, smug and delighted. “jesus christ. this is so going in the group chat,” he jokes.

you swat at his arm, and he laughs harder, catching your wrist just to kiss your hand, knuckles and all.

“when d’you finish work?” he asks, quieter this time. thumb brushing your wristbone.

“nine,” you say, breath still a bit uneven. “shouldn’t be too bad tonight.”

“i’ll be done by then, i think.” he tucks your hair behind your ear. “you want me to pick you up? then you wouldn’t have to walk here twice in a day.”

you glance up at him, at the greying temples, the wrinkled skin, the warmth in his eyes that isn’t fake at all.

“only if you promise not to wash all this off.”

his grin gets wider, “never thought you’d be the one with the granddad kink.”

“it’s not-“

but he’s already giving you a sweet kiss on your lips, smirking like the devil himself when he walks backwards, waving the half-eaten snack in your direction.

“see you at nine, darling.”

-

you’re zipping up your bag when your phone buzzes.

ross: i’m waiting outside x

you glance at the time. 8:56. you shut your laptop with a soft click and shove it into your bag, grabbing your charger, your jacket. suddenly a bit more awake than you were five minutes ago.

as you leave, your colleague calls a soft “have a good night” and you throw a quick “you too” over your shoulder, already halfway through the door.

the street outside is quiet, that sort of late-spring evening stillness settling in. warm air, soft light. and there he is, parked right outside, engine running low.

you spot him in the driver’s seat and pause.

he’s still in full costume. grey hair slicked back, the fake wrinkles around his eyes catching faint shadows. and the thing is, it should look silly. it should make you laugh.

but it doesn’t.

he looks… good. composed. confident. like he’s lived a life twice over and still has time for you.

the door unlocks with a soft click. he leans over and pushes it open.

“evening, love.”

you get in and shut the door, trying to ignore the way your face is already warming up. “hey,” you manage, pulling the seatbelt over your chest. “you kept it on.”

“course,” he says with a small shrug, eyes still on the road as he pulls away from the curb. “figured i’d give you what you wanted.”

you glance over at him, but he’s focused ahead, one hand on the wheel, the other resting easily on the gearstick. his posture relaxed. he looks like someone who doesn’t need to try.

you swallow, shifting slightly in your seat.

a few streets go by.

then his hand moves smoothly, almost thoughtlessly and settles on your thigh.

your breath catches.

it’s not new. he’s done this a hundred times before, without thinking. at gigs. in taxis. just a casual weight, a steadying kind of touch. but tonight it feels different.

you try to focus on the buildings sliding past outside. on the way the light pools under each streetlamp. anything but the way his thumb has started tracing a slow circle over the denim of your jeans.

he glances at you.

you look at him, then down at his hand, then back up to his face. you bite the inside of your cheek.

“you look like a hot dilf,” you say.

he huffs a laugh, turns to you with a raised brow. “do i?”

you grin. “one hundred percent.”

he makes a face, somewhere between amused and deeply pleased. “is that what you’ve got now? an age kink?”

“not a kink,” you say, but your smile’s giving you away. “just an observation.”

“right,” he mutters, mouth twitching as he turns back to the road. “just an innocent, completely neutral observation. that your boyfriend- while dressed as a seventy-five year old man- is apparently fuckable.”

“hotly fuckable,” you correct.

he laughs again, under his breath this time, shaking his head. but his hand tightens a little on your leg. like he’s trying not to react too much.

you reach over, brushing your fingers lightly along his jaw, just over the grey in his beard, the creases around his mouth, the soft curve of his cheekbone.

he stills.

you feel it in the way his breath catches. in the slight shift of his grip on your thigh.

you trail your touch up toward his temple, threading a bit of hair back behind his ear, letting your knuckles graze the skin just above his cheek.

“behave,” he says.

you let your fingers rest there a second longer, then slowly pull away. “just keep driving,” you murmur.

ross doesn’t respond straight away. he taps the steering wheel once. exhales.

then suddenly, he flicks the indicator on, takes a sharp left off the main road, and turns into a quieter side street. you watch as he glances once in the rearview, then again at the road ahead before pulling into a darker corner, streetlamp out, car idling softly under the trees.

he shifts the gear into park. kills the engine.

then he leans back in his seat and finally looks at you, properly, like he’s been holding it in this whole time.

“alright,” he says, “first of all. i don’t think you’re in the position to give orders and second, what are you playing at?“

you tilt your head. “i’m not playing.”

he eyes you for a second. then rests his arm over the back of your seat, turning toward you fully. “oh sure, love. don’t act all innocent,” he says, nodding to your expression, “don‘t pretend you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

you stay quiet.

but he sees the smile on your lips before you can stop it.

he sighs, long and slow, but it’s more amused than anything. his eyes flick over your face like he’s trying to memorise it in this low light. “you’re trouble.”

“and you like it.”

he hums. “unfortunately.”

his fingers lift again, this time brushing your jaw, mirroring what you did to him. the same soft touch. except when he does it, it feels heavier somehow.

you don’t even have time to say anything else before he’s leaning in and kissing you.

his hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck, thumb pressing just behind your ear as he holds you there, mouths moving slow. the kind of kiss that makes your chest ache a little.

you sigh against him. shift closer without thinking.

he breaks it, barely pulling back. “careful,” he murmurs, brushing your bottom lip with his thumb. “you keep lookin’ at me like that, and i’ll start thinking you need a proper lesson on how to behave.”

you feel your stomach flutter.

“maybe i do,” you say, just above a whisper.

he studies you for a second, eyes dark in the half-light. then he nods once, slow. like he’s made a decision.

you reach down and unbuckle your seatbelt with a soft click. lean across the console and press your hand flat against his chest.

he watches you move like he’s trying to commit every detail to memory. his own seatbelt undone now, one hand sliding around your waist, the other slipping under the hem of your jacket where your top has ridden up. fingertips finding skin.

his voice is quieter when he speaks again, “you know, back in the old days,” he says, putting on a slight rasp, deepening his voice just enough to make your stomach twist, “girls didn’t go round winding up older men in parked cars. was considered bad manners.”

you huff a laugh, fingers dragging up along the side of his neck. “sounds like you men were boring back then.”

he raises an eyebrow, just a flick of amusement under all that restraint. “boring, hm?”

you nod.

“but you’re not boring,” you say quietly, “considering what you’ve already done with me.”

his grip on your waist tightens.

“reckon i’ll have to do show you i’m still exciting, then,” he mutters, leaning in again, “show you i’m still fit.”

your breath catches. your hand drops from his face to the side of his neck, thumb pressing lightly under his ear as you kiss him again. you feel his fingers move against your skin, dipping just under the waistband of your jeans, not rushing anything, just grounding you.

you shift more into his lap, legs half on the seat, half still tangled in the awkward space between the seats, and he chuckles into your mouth.

“mhm,” he murmurs. “eager little thing.”

you pull back just enough to meet his gaze. “i feel like trouble tonight.”

he hums. “not just tonight. figured that out the day i met you.”

and then he kisses you again, rougher, fingers tightening on your waist like he can’t stand not having you closer. the car is quiet around you, but everything else is loud: his breath, your heartbeat, the pulse building between you.

his knuckles are grazing your sides, thumbs brushing over your ribs.

he watches your face the whole time.

then, without a word, he lifts the fabric up. you raise your arms for him, and he slips it off in one smooth pull, tossing it somewhere behind him into the backseat like it’s never meant to be seen again.

the cool air hits your skin and his eyes drop, just for a second. then flick back up to yours.

“look at you,” he murmurs, almost under his breath. “you should always be sittin’ pretty like this. in my lap. wearin’ nothing.”

you’re just about to say something but then he reaches behind your back, fingers hooking under the clasp of your bra.

and then-snap.

he doesn’t even undo it. just rips it open, firm and sudden, fabric giving way with a sharp sound.

“ross!” you gasp, half laughing, half shocked as you clutch at the loose straps.

you pout instinctively, shoulders hunching.

he just grins shamelessly, pleased with himself.

“relax, love,” he says, “i’ll buy you loads of new ones.”

he leans forward, mouth grazing the side of your neck. “s’what you want, innit?” his voice drops a little more, lips brushing your skin with every word. “for me to spoil you?”

you bite your lip, still pouting, but your body’s already leaning into him.

he kisses down the slope of your neck lingering at your collarbone. “should just give you my credit card,” he mutters, lips dragging lightly over the top of your chest. “let you run wild. pick out whatever you want.”

your fingers tangle in his hair before you can even stop them, pulling him closer.

he kisses lower, over your chest, over your nipples.

“gonna ruin all your nice things at this rate,” he murmurs, half-laughing against your skin. “don’t even feel bad about it.”

“you’re reckless,” you breathe out, but it sounds more like admiration than complaint.

he glances up at you from beneath his lashes, one hand sliding over your bare waist. “you’re in my lap right now in the middle of a street and i’m the reckless one?”

“yes,” you say, pouting again. “acting like you’re my sugar daddy.”

“mm,” he hums, pleased. “s’nice ring to it.”

his hand curves around your hip, squeezing lightly. “gonna keep calling me that?”

“depends,” you whisper. “you actually gonna spoil me?”

he leans in, presses a kiss to your shoulder, your jaw, your ear.

“darling,” he says, “you have no idea what i’d give you.”

his hand slides up your spine now, “and i like it that way.”

you press your mouth to his again, and he gives just as much back, one hand in your hair, the other holding you tight to him like he doesn’t plan on letting you move an inch.

the kiss is all tongue and messy and wanting. you want more. need more.

ross’s hand slides low on your back, fingers spreading at the curve just above your hips, holding you there. your body presses closer, and without thinking, you roll your hips forward.

his breath stutters.

you do it again.

“mmf- christ,” he mutters, leaning his head back a little, letting it rest against the headrest.

you giggle against his neck, breath warm there. “you’re the one who told me to behave.”

“this is not behaving,” he says, but he doesn’t stop you- not even a little. his hands slide down to your hips, guiding you even.

you grind again, a little firmer this time, and he groans.

you bite your lip, hiding your smile.

“thought you were the one in charge,” you say.

“i am,” he replies, eyes dark, that grin flickering back. “but i’m elderly now, aren’t i? can’t be expected to do all the work.”

you laugh, breathless. “right, of course.”

“respect your elders,” he says, “show some manners.”

“you’re ridiculous.”

“that’s not very nice,” he says, ”i’d be very careful if i was you.”

“oh?” you respond, “m’sorry, ross.” you engage in the game he wants to play.

he grins wider and leans forward again and mouths at your collarbone, tongue flicking light and hot over skin. you feel his beard scrape slightly and shiver as his hands slide under the waistband of your jeans.

you shift awkwardly, trying to make space. “hang on-“

“need help?” he asks, watching the way you squirm in his lap, clearly entertained.

you swat at his shoulder. “no. just- this is not easy in a car.”

he chuckles, “who couldn’t wait and kept squeezing her thighs together while looking at me?”

you shoot him a look, then push up on your knees and shimmy out of your jeans, clumsy and hot-faced as you try to peel them off along with your underwear in the cramped space. the clothes get shoved down into the footwell, forgotten.

ross is watching you the entire time, mouth parted, hands still resting on the backs of your thighs now.

“gorgeous,” he says. his eyes roam over your body slowly, and then he leans forward and kisses your chest again- tongue circling your nipple before his mouth closes over it, gentle but greedy.

your breath catches hard in your throat.

his hands run up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts as he lifts his head, eyes meeting yours. “you feelin’ clever now?” he murmurs. “gettin’ your way?”

you just blink down at him, flushed and warm, your fingers already tugging at his belt. he leans back slightly to give you room, raising his hips when you nudge at him. you undo the buckle, then the button, hands careful, breath picking up as you unzip.

his voice breaks in again, “there you go, love.“

you pull the fabric down, just enough, and he shifts to help you. the sound of leather, metal, breath. your fingers tremble slightly.

he watches you. like he’s letting you take your time on purpose. like he enjoys you like this: flustered, in control but not fully.

“gonna ride your old man now?” he asks, just under his breath.

you breathe out a soft laugh, somewhere between overwhelmed and exhilarated.

“if you can handle it.”

ross grins again, “darling, i invented handling it.”

his hand drifts between you. fingers trailing up your thigh, dragging softly, purposefully, until they reach where you’re warm and aching and far too ready.

he hums.

just that, a low, pleased little sound that sends a ripple through you.

then his fingers slide over you and he feels exactly what you don’t say.

“fuckin’ hell,” he mutters, nearly laughing. “you’re drenched.”

your breath hitches. you grip his shoulders tighter.

he looks up at you, all amused disbelief and that annoying glint in his eye. “don’t tell me this’s what gets you off.”

you blink, chest rising.

“me lookin’ like this?” he continues, fingers still teasing, “grey hair. you’re that far gone?”

you bite your lip. “shut up.”

he grins wider, presses a bit more firmly, making your hips twitch. “nah, come on. explain it to me.”

“ross-“

“no, i’m serious,” he says, playing at innocent while his hand keeps moving just enough to make you lose your focus. “need to understand what’s goin’ on in that filthy little head of yours. you see me on set with all this make up and suddenly you’re at my mercy.”

you press your forehead to his, flushed. “you look hot.”

“yeah?”

“yeah.”

“how d’you mean?” he asks.

you don’t answer at first, just lean in closer, mouth at his ear, breath warm. your lips brush the edge and you whisper it, soft and unsteady.

“you look like a daddy.”

he goes still under you.

completely still.

you feel it in the way his jaw flexes, the way his body tenses, the way his cock twitches beneath you, pressing hard now against your thigh.

“fuck-”

you can’t help it, you laugh, just a little, against his skin.

“a really, really sexy one.”

he shifts beneath you. the hand between your legs slides higher for a second, rougher now, and your breath stutters again.

“jesus christ,” he mutters, half under his breath, half to himself. “you’re fuckin’ mental.”

you smile, teeth against your lip.

“you love it,” you whisper.

he leans back just enough to see your face, still flushed, still buzzing.

“go on then,” he says. “if that’s what you want.”

you blink. “what?”

he nods toward his lap. “you said i look like a daddy. so go ahead. show me how polite girls say thank you.”

your breath catches.

and then you move.

you reach for him between you. his breath shudders when you touch him, just briefly and then you rise up onto your knees before you sink down completely.

you’re still for a moment.

he’s deep inside you, your body flushed and trembling, hands fisted in the sleeves of his shirt. your breathing’s uneven, you can’t catch it, not properly and you’re trying to hold onto your composure, but the fullness of him is already working you open, undoing every bit of restraint you had left.

ross looks up at you, head tipped slightly back against the seat, beard catching in the low light. his eyes roam your face.

“there she is,” he murmurs. “my clever girl. sittin’ so pretty now, aren’t you?”

your mouth falls open, but you don’t have anything to say. nothing useful. you shift a little, just a little and the angle punches a noise out of your throat you didn’t mean to make.

he catches it instantly.

his hands move, one up your spine to keep you close, the other trailing down again until his thumb finds your clit.

he starts to circle, just barely, the smallest pressure like he knows you’re already a breath away from falling apart.

you whimper, hips twitching. “ross-“

“yeah?” asks “too much already? and we barely did anything.”

you shake your head. “no, i-”

“no?” he echoes. “no what, love?”

you bite your lip. your body’s moving now, instinctively, rolling your hips in shallow waves, slow at first, trying to find rhythm while his thumb keeps moving in delicate, infuriating circles.

“need you,” you whisper.

he huffs, a soft, satisfied sound. “you have me. been sittin’ here like this for two minutes and you’re already gone, aren’t you?”

your nails dig into his shoulders. you move again, a bit harder now and his breath stutters for the first time.

his hand tightens on your waist.

“fuck,” he mutters, “you’re unreal.”

you find your rhythm. hips moving, thighs trembling, breath hitching with every roll down. and he lets you, lets you do the work, just like he said, only helping when you falter, thumbs guiding your hips back into place, hand rising again to cup your breast, thumb brushing your nipple until your eyes flutter.

“look at you,” he murmurs. “makin’ a mess on me. you should see yourself.”

“ross,” you gasp again, thighs starting to burn, everything going too hot too fast.

“that’s not my name now, is it?”

“go on,” he grips your chin with his thumb and forces you to look at him, “what’s my name?”

“daddy,” you whine out.

“that’s more like it. you’re doin’ so good,” he says, still circling you, still watching you closely. “that’s it, love. just like that. takin’ it all like a big girl.”

you moan at that, heat flaring under your skin, head dropping to his shoulder.

he laughs, “gettin’ all shy now? after whisperin’ daddy in my ear like a little devil?”

your breath catches hard.

he leans in, lips brushing your jaw. “you are filthy.”

you whimper again, less from embarrassment now, more from the way everything is crashing through you. every movement. every word. every pass of his thumb that makes your legs shake harder than the last.

your hands are braced against his chest, forehead tipped low, your body rising and falling over his in steady rhythm, relentless, needy, and far past the point of being subtle.

he groans under you, low and rough, hand tight on your hip to keep you steady as you move. his other hand is between you, thumb pressing and circling your clit in time with each roll of your hips. his touch is maddening, firm enough to ruin you, careful enough to keep you desperate for more.

“there you go,” he murmurs, voice breaking at the edges. “just like that. good girl.”

your breath shatters around his name. "ross-“

he answers with a kiss to your shoulder, the kind that doesn’t try to be gentle. his mouth is hot and open, and the sound you make when he bites down just a little earns a laugh from deep in his throat.

“perfect girl,” he mutters.”

“can’t-“ you gasp, chasing your rhythm again, “oh-“

“mm, i know,” he says, still adding perfect pressure, “you feelin’ it now, love? feel how deep i am?”

you nod, barely managing it.

“look at you,” he murmurs, eyes on your face, watching every flicker of your expression like he’s memorising it. “you look like you’re starvin’ for it.”

“i am,” you breathe, and he grins at that.

his hand tightens on your hip again, helping you keep the pace when your thighs tremble just slightly. you’re moving fast now, the sounds between you are too much, your body too hot, too loud, too raw to hold back anymore.

“that’s it,” he says again, “don’t stop. you’re takin’ it all so well. makin’ me proud.”

“ross-“

“i’ve got you,” he promises, that hand between your legs still coaxing, still building. “not goin’ anywhere. just let go, love. let me take care of you.”

his eyes are on you the entire time, steady and locked in, even while you shake, even while your voice keeps breaking around his name again and again.

"i need- god.”

“right here, darling,” he breathes, holding you tighter, “right here.”

your thighs are burning now, every muscle trembling with the effort but you don’t stop.

you can’t.

your skin is slick with heat and movement, bodies pressed too close in the tight space of the car, breath fogging the windows.

he’s watching you the whole time.

tilted back just enough to see the way your face twists every time you roll down onto him, the way your mouth falls open when his thumb catches just the right spot, the way you keep saying his name like it’s the only word left in your mouth.

“you should hear yourself,” he says again, breathless now, eyes dark. “you’re perfect.”

you try to answer, but it just comes out as a noise, something wrecked and shaky, and your hands scramble up his chest, fisting the fabric of his shirt.

his mouth twitches. proud.

“need help, love?”

you shake your head, but your movements stutter one of your thighs slips slightly and your body jolts, breath catching in a high, shocked sound.

his hand is there in a second. steadying you. holding you.

“careful now,” he mutters, “don’t need you fallin’ apart too soon.”

“fuck, ross-please-“

“please what, darling?” his voice drops low, “say what you need.”

you can’t get the words out. you move instead- grinding your hips harder, chasing that high that keeps just slipping past your fingertips. your forehead drops to his again, noses brushing, breath mingling.

he closes his eyes, jaw tight, groaning under his breath. “you’re drivin’ me mad.”

“you feel so good,” you whisper, dizzy.

“do i?” he opens his eyes again, looks up at you like he’s reading your whole soul. “that’s what you like, innit? me sittin’ here in all this-“ he huffs, nodding toward the grey hair, the fake lines still clinging to the edge of his jaw. “losing your mind on an old man.”

you whimper, mouth brushing his cheek. “so sexy.”

he groans again. his hips twitch up into you once and so hard it knocks the breath right out of your lungs.

he feels it.

his thumb picks up pace.

“you’re so close,” he breathes, “i can feel it. you’re clenchin’ round me like-fuck, like you need it.”

you nod, desperate, lips parting again.

he kisses you hard, catching that sound in your throat, swallowing every bit of it.

you can’t stop shaking when he parts.

you’re still riding him, hips stuttering now, barely holding on and ross has his mouth at your neck, lips parted, warm and wet against your skin.

and then it happens.

your body goes tight all at once, every part of you snapping taut like a pulled wire and you can’t help but scream out.

“there she is,” he breathes, still moving under you, still holding you so tight it hurts. “go on, love. that’s it. come on.”

you feel everything all at once. full. surrounded. burning from the inside out. his name is the only thing you can manage, over and over again, barely a whisper now.

“ross-ross-“

“i’ve got you,” he promises, kissing your cheek, your shoulder, your jaw. “i’m right here. let go.”

and you do.

everything breaks your whole body is quivering as you fall over the edge, right there in his lap, in his arms, still moving with him. you barely register when he follows, his hips pressing up into you hard, his grip tightening, head falling back with a groan that vibrates through your chest.

and then you both still.

nothing but the sound of your breathing, quick and ragged, the space around you dim and steamy, skin slick and warm everywhere you touch. your thighs are trembling. your chest is pressed to his. your whole body is humming.

ross runs a hand down your spine.

you rest your forehead to his, eyes closed, heart still thudding.

neither of you speaks for a long time.

you’re clinging to him, heart thudding hard against his. his arms are wrapped tight around your waist.

your cheek is pressed to his neck, skin sticky with sweat, mouth still parted.

he’s still inside you. not moving, just there. warm and solid and real.

you feel him kiss your shoulder. once. soft.

then he laughs under his breath. a proper low, chesty thing, muffled by the hair near your temple.

“jesus christ,” he mutters. “you alright?”

you nod, barely able to lift your head.

“mhm,” you hum, voice thin. “just… floating.”

he grins. you can feel it against your skin.

“yeah, i bet.”

you breathe in deep, nose brushing the curve of his jaw. he still smells like the cologne the stylist sprayed on him for the shoot.

you pull back just enough to see him.

and he looks at you like he’s never seen you more clearly.

his thumb brushes under your eye, catching a strand of hair stuck to your cheek.

“you were unreal,” he says, “so perfect.”

you let out a breathless laugh and bury your face in his neck again. “shut up.”

but he doesn’t.

of course he doesn’t.

he turns his head and presses a kiss just under your ear. “s’pose if all it takes is a bit of grey hair and wrinkles to get you goin’ like that…”

you swat his arm without any real force.

he goes on, completely unfazed. “maybe i should come home like this once a week. sit on the sofa, see how long you last before climbing into my lap again.”

“ross,” you warn, voice muffled against his neck.

he hums. smug. delighted.

“gonna have to tell the lads the look’s got potential,” he murmurs. “give the people what they want.”

you groan into his skin, but you’re smiling.

he cups the back of your head with one hand, gently pulling you in to kiss your forehead. you feel his lips linger there a bit too long like he’s still grounding himself too.

after a moment, he exhales.

“wish we didn’t have to move,” he says softly. “could sit like this all night.”

you hum. “we could still get dinner. late one.”

he nods. “any wishes?”

you smile lazily. “maccies?”

he snorts. “course.”

you lift your head finally and kiss the corner of his mouth.

he cups your face, thumb dragging softly along your jaw.

“i love you,” he says. “glad you’re mine.”

you grin, breath hitching just a little again.

“always.”

he kisses you again like he’s got nowhere to be. and when you finally shift off him and gather yourselves, clothes twisted, hair wrecked, everything still humming under your skin, you know the night��s far from over.

but it doesn’t need to be rushed.

not with him.

[ynnie631]

not proofread - unedited - suggestive - ooc hinata - shitty writing

~ 1,234 w.c

The door opens with a soft click! Hinata Shoyo in all his muscular glory peeks through the small crack, his orange eyes seem to widen at the sight of your messed and disgruntled form, clutching your bolster pillow in a vice.

"Can I sleep with you?" Your throat scratched and rumbled with a crack, it was dry, ragged, and edged with an abominable phlegm that sat in the back of your throat. 

It covered a portion of your airway, leaving you heaving, gasping for lumps of air at every hour. 

It was hard. Hard being sick, and having no means to get a check-up besides taking the no-drowse paracetamol your mother recommended. 

You heeded her advice— in some cases, she was absolutely right— but right now... 

You regret taking it.

If it weren't for your spotting vision and desperation to get peaceful sleep, you would've had the chance to tease and harass Hinata for growing red in the face.

Hinata sputters out a disbelieving 'are you serious?' before looking you up and down, darting his gaze elsewhere when he realized how stupid he was.

You were asking to sleep with him. Not 'sleep' with him. Stupid...

"I mean— of course, you can sleep with me-" he coughs, stepping sideways to let you in. "You're still sick, right?" 

You walk past him, having no energy to reply or question why he was shirtless in the first place. Who the fuck cares.

You're not here to ogle at him— 

Jesus Christ, your head is heavy and you feel the insufferable itch to cough and rush to the bathroom for the seventh time in a row.

You're just glad the phlegm subsided well enough for you to breathe properly.

Tossing a loose tank top on, Hinata saunters over the bed, taking his trusty volleyball pillow with a tired, but understanding grin.

"I can take the co—" 

"Get in the damn bed, Hinata."

"—uch, woah." Hinata fucking Shoyo had the audacity to look at you with an impish cock of his brow. 

That dirty asshole.

"Don't have to tell me twice, ‘ma."

You glare at him with much distaste before lifting the covers and letting him in his bed. 

The bed dips under his weight, combined with yours, the space between the solo bed was apparent. And being squished into the wall was never ideal in your case. 

So what's the best, possible solution to end this embarrassing nightmare of sleep-deprivation and seeking warmth from your long-time roommate?

Well that of course, is to straddle him to cancel out the embarrassment, like pemdas. 

How else are you able to fit in his goddamn bed? By sleeping sideways perhaps? And let sunshine take all the space for his back pain?

No way.

Hinata practically jumps as you swing your legs to straddle him. "W-wait...!" He stutters, putting his hands up in surrender. A drop of sweat dribbles from his temple, he tears his gaze away from you, mouthing the words he's supposed to say— to go against you, or agree? Both are tempting, but he considers your drowsy state of mind instead— the bags under your eyes were… Intense. 

In spite of that, the subtle flicker of hope betrays his nervous, worried outlook.

"I didn't think you'd be up for this- like right now?" He licks his lips in uncertainty— you might be tripping, and you probably are... but is that excitement you hear?!

"Pedro's in the other room and we haven't done any foreplay— if you aren't up for it, then I guess it's fine too." You suppress the urge to flinch as his hands lower to grasp at your hips. His thumbs draw slow and smooth circles, (you refuse to call it sensual) dragging his fingers up and down with a few squeezes here and there. 

A shiver precedes you, causing your back to shoot up straight in surprise. 

"Ahh." Hinata drawls, watching your face contort in shock and embarrassment. "So you're sensitive down here, huh?" He slowly, slowly drags his gaze down from your eyes, your lips... 

All the waayy down to your hips. 

Where his hands preside with a slow, teasing mark of his name traced in your clothed flesh.

Oh good lord. We must stay focus brothers- 

Okay so maybe… Maybe. You didn't really think this through. But honestly? Can you really blame yourself when Hinata's shoulder is the length of Choi's? 

No, not really.

You do NOT want to get hit by his shoulders, muscles, arms— Whatever! You've seen him slam volleyballs like a bullet— And with that freakish quick set of his? 

Hah. Yeah you choose to live, thanks.

You gulp, murmuring a prayer before asking: "Hina— what the hell do you think you’re doing?” 

"You know what I mean, ‘ma." He smiles innocently, brimming with the bright, sunshine behavior you've grown accustomed to when he moved in.

That all changed when he met a Colombian goddess named Gloria with double D's and a model face that could desecrate the entire runway if she wanted to. Too bad she only used Hinata for money... He was a mess for weeks. You would be too, if you lose a goddess like her— but that's besides the point!

You feel your headache worsen at his stupid, indecent teasing. "I'm gonna maul you one day- I swear to god—" He bursts out laughing as you slump and crumple in weak, barely restrained snorts, trying to keep up your tough facade to no avail.

"Feel better, at least?" He asks with a stifled yawn, letting his hands rest against your thighs with comforting pats.

You reply with a hum, lowering your head  at the base of his neck with a content sigh. 

"Thank you..." Fluttering your eyes shut, you let the force of exhaustion overtake you. Drained but elated with Hinata's quick thinking and way of tiring you out.

You were lulled by his steady breathing and heartbeat, drifting off to sleep in a minute. A mere minute against the raging hours you were left to endure earlier.

And as you slumber, you fail to notice the tinge of longing Hinata yearned for you to see, to gaze at him longer. Softer. 

The same, loving way he stares at your peaceful state. 

He briefly wonders if you notice how serious he was— but then again, you were sleep-deprived. He could clearly tell with the way your voice was so dry and hoarse, almost guttural in its sound. He debated on getting you water after his trip to the couch, but you wanted- commanded his presence. 

How else is he supposed to say no to you? If you're up to it then he's down.

It's also because your eyes struggled to stay focused on him, faintly shaking and adjusting out of control— he couldn't possibly leave you alone like that—You had a knack for neglecting health! 

You constantly brushed off Pedro's concerns, you'd even switch the topic around when he comes to ask you.

Clearly the only other person in the world that could make you do something was your mother.

And if it weren't for him, you would've worked until you faint or worse...

"At least, you feel better." He whispers, leaning down to press his lips against your hair. "My offer still stands, you know? Just..."

Hinata swallows, breathing in your scent. "...I just want to know if you're down for it, like I am."

☰ 𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬...

Dividers belongs to @hyuneskkami