#and he has me do it and he said i had it???? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

cheftsunoda · 2 days ago

Note

Would you consider doing something with a quiet/ reserved reader. I love the idea of a reader who's an up and coming driver but isn't about the press or media at ALL. Like dodging cameras and running away from interviews, and maybe a boy (I don't mind who you pick) misunderstands and thinks that she's running away from them? Maybe add some drama from f1 update twt accounts escalating the situation and painting the reader in a negative light for being "rude" or "impolite".

Thx!! (Sorry for any confusion, English is not my first language but I hope you get what I mean)

miss misunderstood— op81

smau + blurbs

oscar piastri x !quiet/shy driver reader

yn has a lot of pressure on her shoulders— she is the only female driver in f1 and that leads to her consistently having to prove herself to not only her team, who took a chance on her, but the press who are constantly there hounding her. she has always been very shy and reserved— especially around people she does not know. when fans notice how she skips out on interviews and hides from big crowds, the hate pours in, especially after she is seen avoiding a conversation with the grids other most quiet individual— but he is persistent and wont give up on her.

(a/n) : such a cute idea anon! i understood you perfectly fine my love. i hope you enjoy this. i thought it would be fun to pair reader with someone who is also rather quiet and reserved.

fc : amna al qubaisi

—

f1gossipgirls

257,087 likes.

f1gossipgirls : Almost all of our favorite drivers have touched down in Barcelona for media day. Some of our first arrivals include YN LN, Charles Leclerc, Oscar Piastri, Lewis Hamilton, Lando Norris and George Russell.

—

view 32,057 other comments.

username0 : george not dressed properly for the weather pt 899

liked by f1gossipgirls

username10 : yn always looks like she doesn’t want to be there. why is she even in f1 if she hates to do the job??

username15 : everyone is smiling, waiving, talking to fans and press and then there is yn who immediately books it to the paddock and ignores everyone

username22 : ill say it once and i will say it again— f1 is not a silent film. she either needs to speak up and play the role or step aside. good driver or not. that job comes with more responsibilities than just driving around the track.

username5 : she gives off “im better than everyone else” energy and im sick of her.

username00 : every time i try and like her, she gives us absolutely nothing. cold and awkward isn’t a personality, babe.

↳ username9 : yet you guys eat it up when oscar does it. the double standard is insane.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username11 : its always the quiet ones y’all tear apart for not being loud enough. she’s there to drive. not entertain you.

liked by f1gossipgirls

username17 : you guys are extra hard on her because she is a female. and it is sick.

username101 : she minds her business, she’s fast, and she is unproblematic. you guys are just finding reasons to hate her. jealousy is a disease.

liked by f1gossipgirls

—

They say I’m cold. Unfriendly. Standoffish. Like I’m trying too hard to be mysterious or above it all. But they don’t know me. Not really. Because if they did, they’d know I used to be warm. I used to talk too much. Laugh too loud. Hug people without thinking twice. But that was before. Before the phone call. Before the hospital room. Before the person who knew me better than anyone else—who loved me without needing me to be anything but myself—was just… gone.

Losing a parent is something people talk about like it’s a passage. A sad inevitability. But they don’t talk about what it does to you when it’s sudden. When it’s brutal. When the last words you said were something stupid because you thought you had more time. My dad was my safe place. The only person I could fall apart around. He was the reason I started racing. The reason I believed I could do anything. And when I lost him, I didn’t just lose a person—I lost myself. I haven’t spoken about it. Not to anyone.

Not to my engineers. Not to my teammates. Not to the drivers who think I’m just “shy” or “quiet” or “moody.” Because once I say it out loud, it becomes real in a way I’m not ready for. It becomes the thing people pity me for instead of the thing I’ve survived. So I stay quiet. I keep the noise out. I protect the stillness inside me. People don’t understand it, and that’s fine. They think I’m emotionless when really, I’m overflowing and just trying not to drown. I hear what they say. The fans. The media. That I don’t engage. That I don’t give enough. But I didn’t come here to be their favorite. I came here to race. I came here to honor my father. To survive something else. To find moments of peace between the chaos and the grief that still sits like stone in my chest.

They’ll never understand why I am the way I am. Because they never saw me before. Before the silence felt safer than the world ever did. And I don’t owe them an explanation for that.

—

The air in Barcelona is thick with heat and noise—press cameras clicking, fans shouting driver names like spells, a thousand voices layered on top of each other. I keep my head down but offer a small smile, lifting my hand in a quiet wave. They cheer anyway. Some scream my name. Others don’t. Some just stare, waiting for me to trip or ignore them or give them proof I’m “as cold as they say.”

I smile again, even if it doesn’t reach my eyes. It’s not fake—it’s just not loud.

Security walks with me as I cross the paddock. My eyes flicker over the cameras stationed outside team motorhomes, the reporters already calling out names, hoping for a quote. I tighten my grip on the strap of my bag. Just a few more steps.

I keep walking. Fast, but not suspiciously fast. Just enough to dodge the press circling like hawks, waiting for a moment of weakness, a headline, a clipped quote that can be turned into whatever version of me they want to sell this week.

Finally, I step inside Red Bull. The air conditioning kisses my skin. The silence—relative silence—is heaven. I make it to my driver room, push the door shut with my shoulder, and lean against it for a second. Eyes closed. Deep breath. The chaos is muffled now, like a storm just beyond the walls. Then the door opens again without a knock.

“Nice escape,” Max says, completely unfazed. He shuts the door behind him like he owns the building. “You only almost ran over two photographers. New record?”

I huff out a laugh—quiet but real. “Felt like twenty.”

He drops into the chair across from me like he’s been doing this his whole life. Which, to be fair, he basically has.

Max studies me for a second, unreadable as always. “You look like you’re about to vomit. That your media day face?”

“Shut up,” I mutter, a tiny smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth.

He shrugs. “Just saying. You do realize they can’t eat you alive on camera, right? Legally.”

“I don’t know. I think one of the Sky guys has sharp enough teeth.”

He chuckles, dry and quiet. “You’ll be fine. Say as little as possible. Give one-word answers. Scowl a little. That’s what I do.”

“You give plenty of one-word answers.”

“Exactly,” he says, proud. “It’s an art.”

He leans forward, resting his arms on his knees, face softening just slightly.

“They don’t matter, you know. The journalists. The fans who think they know you. The Twitter freaks. You’re fast. That’s what counts. That’s what wins. Let them think you’re a robot or a villain or a Bond girl or whatever mood they’re in this week.”

I nod. A slow exhale.

“Thanks, Max.”

He shrugs again. “Just don’t cry on camera. I already have a reputation for being emotionally unavailable. Don’t need yours adding to the Verstappen Cold Front.”

This time, I laugh out loud. He grins. Mission accomplished.

“Go be scary,” he says, pushing himself up. “And if you panic, just pretend they’re all standing in front of your car at turn one.”

“I’d drive through them.”

“Exactly.”

He leaves without another word, and for the first time all morning, I feel like I can breathe.

—

I answer with the same even tone I always do. I deflect, redirect, smile where I’m supposed to. I’ve trained myself not to flinch. But it still chips away at me, a little at a time. I finally escape outside, tucked behind one of the Red Bull displays near the fan zone—close enough to be seen, far enough to feel like I’m not drowning. I sip from a water bottle, hoping the air might settle in my lungs again. That’s when I see her.

A girl, maybe twelve, in a handmade cap with my number scribbled on it in glitter glue. She’s holding a small notebook and a marker, standing with her dad and hesitating like she doesn’t want to bother me. I almost keep walking. I’m tired. Overheated. Ready to shut down for the rest of the day. But something in her eyes stops me. She doesn’t look like the others—she looks like she’s trying to be brave. So I walk over.

Her eyes go wide when I stop in front of her. “Hi,” I offer, voice soft.

She blinks. Then holds out the notebook with slightly trembling hands. “Um—sorry, I just—could you sign this? I know you don’t really like talking to people a lot, but you’re my favorite. You don’t have to talk if you don’t want.”

My chest tightens. Not in a bad way—in the way it does when something hits a nerve you didn’t know was still exposed. I take the notebook and sign it carefully.

“You know,” she says, voice quiet, “I get nervous talking to people too. But I think you’re really brave. I like that you don’t try to be loud just to fit in. You make me feel like that’s okay.”

I blink fast. It’s not the kind of compliment I get. It’s not about speed or podiums or stats. It’s about me. The parts I’ve always kept hidden because the world made me feel like they were wrong. I smile—genuinely this time—and crouch a little so we’re eye level.

“Thank you,” I say softly. “That means more than you know.”

Her face lights up like I just handed her a trophy. We take a photo. I sign her hat. She hugs me before I even have time to react—but I don’t mind. Not even a little. As I walk away, I feel lighter. Like the weight pressing on my shoulders loosened just a little. Maybe I’ll always be the quiet one. The misunderstood one. But to that one girl? I was seen. And that’s enough.

—

The moment I cross the line, the radio explodes.

“P1, YN! That’s P1! You did it! You absolutely nailed that last stint—what a drive!”

I don’t say much. I can’t. My throat is tight and my hands are shaking around the wheel. The pit wall is screaming, my engineer shouting through the static. The grandstands blur into one giant roar. I slow the car down and guide it into parc fermé, P1 board waiting. The marshals are waving, cameras already turned in my direction like hungry mouths. I sit still for a beat. The engine is off, the world is loud, but in my cockpit it’s just… quiet. Then I hear it—Max’s car pulling into P2.

“Let’s go,” I murmur to myself and start the slow climb out.

But my limbs feel heavy. Every emotion I’ve buried all year starts clawing its way to the surface, and I’m suddenly not sure if I’ll make it over the halo without falling flat on my face. And then—there’s a hand. Max, already out of his car, standing beside mine like it’s the most casual thing in the world. He holds his hand out without a word. Just a look that says, Yeah, I know. Take it. I take it. He helps me out of the car, firm but unshowy. As soon as I hit the ground, I sway a little, overwhelmed—but I don’t fall.

He leans in, dry as ever. “You know you’re supposed to breathe when you win, right?”

I huff out something between a laugh and a sob. “I’ll try next time.”

Our helmets clink together briefly as we hug—quick, tight, familiar—and then he nudges me toward my team. They’re already there—Red Bull crew surrounding me, cheering, hugging, spraying water. I let myself fall into it for a moment. I smile, genuinely. I hug back. One of the engineers lifts me off the ground and spins me, and I let them. Because this is theirs, too. Ours. But just as the broadcasters and press start pushing through the sea of mechanics, I slip away—ducking behind the barrier, walking briskly toward the cooldown room before they can catch me.

I hear a few voices behind me—“YN, one word for Sky? Just a few seconds?”

I keep walking. The cooldown room is blissfully empty. Cold, quiet, white walls and a table with water and towels. I sit, press the bottle to my forehead, and finally breathe. No cameras. No questions. No pretending. Just silence. Just peace. Just… me. And for the first time in a long time, it feels like enough.

—

The water bottle sweats in my hands, condensation dripping slowly onto my race suit. I haven’t said much since sitting down, and Max hasn’t asked me to. He’s lounging across from me on the other bench, head tilted back, eyes closed like he owns the room. His suit is halfway peeled down and his hair’s a sweaty mess, but he looks… content. Neither of us are fans of the overexposed post-race routine. The lights. The forced questions. The soundbites that get twisted a dozen ways before the sun even sets. So we sit here, in the eye of the storm, letting the world knock on the door without answering.

Max finally cracks an eye open. “You going to do the interviews?”

I lean my head back against the cool wall and sigh. “Eventually. Maybe. If they don’t forget I exist by then.”

He grins slightly. “You just won. They’ll send a SWAT team if you don’t come out soon.”

Before I can answer, the door opens — fast but tentative — and in walks Camille, my press secretary. She’s breathless. Her clipboard’s half tucked under her arm, and she looks like she’s been fighting off wolves outside.

“YN,” she starts, trying for calm but clearly begging on the inside, “I hate to interrupt, but they’re getting antsy. Sky, F1TV, everyone’s lining up. They want quotes, a soundbite—anything.”

I nod slowly. I expected this. It doesn’t make it any easier.

“I’m not doing the scrum,” I say. “Not the pen. Not the mixed zone.”

Camille looks like she wants to scream into a pillow. “Okay. Fine. What will you do?”

I glance at Max, who’s watching like it’s the most entertaining episode of Drive to Survive he’s seen all year.

“One interview,” I finally say. “That’s it.”

Camille’s already flipping through her mental rolodex. “Okay. Sky? F1TV? Maybe something for social? Martin Brundle is waiting and—”

“No,” I cut her off, gently but firm. “If I do one, it’s with Lissie. No one else.”

Camille blinks. “Lissie—Lissie Mackintosh from Sky?”

I nod.

“She’s the only one who doesn’t make me feel like I’m under a microscope,” I explain. “She’s kind. And she actually listens.”

Camille softens a little. “Okay. I can work with that. But they’ll push back.”

“Let them,” I shrug. “I don’t owe them anything else today.”

She studies me for a moment, then exhales and heads out, already dialing her phone as she goes.

The door shuts again, and I fall back into the silence like it’s a blanket.

Max raises a brow. “Lissie, huh?”

“She doesn’t try to make me a headline,” I reply.

Max gives a nod of respect. “Smart. Wish we all had a Lissie.”

I glance down at my fingers, still slightly trembling from adrenaline. “I just need someone who sees me.”

“You just won a damn Grand Prix,” Max says, standing and nudging my foot with his. “They’re gonna have to see you now, whether they like it or not.”

—

yn's post race interview with lissie mackintosh- barcelona

—

third person pov

YN steps down from the small stage, fingers tugging at the collar of her suit as if she’s trying to breathe easier now that the lights are off. She’s walking fast, already focused on making it back to the safety of the garage. She doesn’t see Oscar until she turns the corner, he is halfway through his own interview with a different outlet. He’s smiling—tired, but still upbeat—and when he spots her, his expression brightens like he’s been waiting for a chance to say something. Oscar turned to YN as she passed by.

“You should really be talking to the winner, huh?”

His voice is friendly. Joking. The kind of throwaway line that’s meant to show camaraderie, not pressure. YN pauses just for a second. She offers a small, polite smile—closed-lipped and barely there. No laugh. No response. Just a nod. And then she’s gone. Quiet steps, fast retreat.

Oscar watches her disappear down the corridor, his smile faltering slightly. His interviewer says something, but he doesn’t really register it.

“…Did I say something weird?”

He turns back to the camera, eyes a little more unsure. In the back of his mind, the question settles in— Does she just not like me? But the truth is simpler. And sadder. She doesn’t dislike him. She just doesn’t have room for warmth in the places where the world watches too closely.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirls : Race Winner, YN LN, only gave 1 two minute interview with @/skysports Lissie Mackintosh. Oscar Piastri who was P3 today, was also doing an interview when LN happened to walk by and made a joke to which YN just walked off. He then asked the interviewer if he said something wrong. Thoughts?

view 120,004 comments.

username00 : imagine winning a race and still managing to have the personality of dry toast 😭 poor oscar was just being NICE

username22 : as someone who watched the full interview with Lissie — she was genuine and soft spoken. maybe what she needs is respect, not attention.

username08 : i love Oscar but this isn’t that deep. she clearly has boundaries and isn’t fake about it. that’s kind of refreshing.

username09 : she didn’t even thank the fans today. one interview and vanishes? okay ice queen 🧊

username17 : not her making Oscar second guess himself when he was literally just being sweet? i would NEVER recover.

username20 : this is why she’s boring. no charisma, no interviews, no interaction. i said what i said. 🥱

username30 : are y’all ignoring the interaction she had with a younger fan today?? she is such a sweetie, she is just camera shy.

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, redbullracing and 1,7005,002 others.

ynfromredbull : good shit.

—

view 74,032 other comments.

lissiemackintosh : Honored to have been the one to share part of this day with you. Congratulations again, YN! ✨

liked by ynfromredbull

username0 : i feel like max is the only one that understands her.

maxverstappen1 : good shit indeed.

liked by ynfromredbull and redbullracing

oscarpiastri : Insane drive today, YN. 💪🏻

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ username0 : oscar is much better than me bc id be a hater rn

alexalbon : can someone pls nerf the redbull team. i am tired.

liked by maxverstappen1, ynfromredbull and redbullracing

username10 : can y'all shut up now- she is literally taking pictures with fans.

↳ username0 : wowww one time in her whole career.

carlossainz55 : such a beast. congratulations yn

liked by ynfromredbull

—

I don’t like nights like this. Too many people. Too many lights. Too many eyes that don’t know me but swear they do. I don’t stop for cameras, I don’t pose, I don’t even slow down when someone calls my name. I just head straight inside the theater like I’m late for something, even though I’m not. I keep my eyes low, find the row I asked Max to save for me, and drop into the seat beside him with a quiet exhale. He glances at me, unimpressed but amused.

“Nice entrance. Scared three PR people on the way in.”

I almost smile. “Was aiming for five.”

He snorts, and just like that, I feel a little more human. Max has always understood the value of silence. He never pushes, never demands more than I can give. We talk a little—about the ridiculousness of the event, the car updates, the championship—but mostly, we just sit. It’s enough. Until I feel a shift. I don’t even have to look up. I can sense someone walking toward us with too much hesitation, like they’ve already decided I’m going to run. When I do glance up, I’m met with wide brown eyes and a nervous smile. Oscar.

“Hey. Sorry—YN? Can I talk to you for a second?”

Max raises a brow. I pause, heart twitching in my chest for reasons I don’t fully understand, and then I nod. I follow Oscar into the hallway, the noise of the event fading behind me like static. The lighting is dimmer here. Softer. Still too bright. He turns to face me, shifting on his feet like he’s rehearsed this five times already.

“I, um—did I do something to upset you?”

My stomach drops.

“What?”

“After the race. I made that joke and you just… walked off. And I get it if you’re not a fan of me or something, I just—” He laughs nervously. “I keep thinking I said something wrong.”

I blink. I want to laugh, but I don’t. Instead, I look down, ashamed.

“No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” My voice is quiet, barely above a whisper. “It’s not you. It’s just… me.”

He looks confused. Still gentle, though. Waiting. I don’t know why, but I want to explain—just a little.

“When I was younger, I lost someone. My dad. He was… my person. The one who made the noise of the world feel a little less loud. And after it happened, I kind of… shut off. I don’t like being watched. I don’t like being asked to smile when I don’t feel like it. I just… exist better in the quiet.”

Oscar doesn’t speak for a long moment. But his expression softens in a way that makes my chest ache.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says eventually. “But thank you for trusting me.”

I nod, throat tight. Then, a flicker of guilt. “And I’m sorry for walking off like that. You didn’t deserve it.”

He smiles, shy and genuine.

“So… you don’t hate me?”

That makes me laugh. Just once, but it’s real.

“No,” I say softly. “I don’t.”

There’s a pause, and for the first time since I got here, I feel something shift in my chest. A crack of light.

He nudges me lightly with his shoulder. “Cool. Friends, then?”

I think about it. About how hard it is to let people in. About how much it scares me.

Then I nod. “Yeah. Friends.”

—

3 month time skip

ynfromredbull

liked by oscarpiastri, maxverstappen1, lando & 2,409,001 others.

ynfromredbull : as my counterpart @/maxverstappen1 would say— these last few months have been simply lovely. 🏆💪🏻

—

view 127,002 other comments.

username0 : this caption is the most personality i’ve seen from her all season.

username14 : i can’t believe she is leading the wdc rn

maxverstappen1 : id sue for copyright infringement if i wasn’t so proud

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : very artistic post yn

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ ynfromredbull : thank you mr. piastri

liked by oscarpiastri

↳ lando : OMG SHE SPEAKS

liked by ynfromredbull

↳ lando : yn i didn’t mean that in a bad way pls don’t drive me off the track

liked by ynfromredbull

georgerussell63 : it is against fia regulations to have a teddy bear in the car. RACE BAN (she is still destroying all of us— it would not help save the season)

liked by ynfromredbull

—

f1gossipgirls

428,023 likes.

f1gossipgirls : For the first time in her F1 career, YN LN has not walked into the paddock alone. She walked in with none other than Oscar Piastri himself. Not only did she walk in with him but the two stopped for the press multiple times and stopped to talk with fans. Many people say that this is the most they’ve seen her smile in her whole career. Thoughts?

—

view 15,539 other comments.

username00 : from Oscar “did I do something wrong?” to Oscar walking her in and making her smile… the arc is so insane

username15 : f1gossipgirls is finally being NICE about her. this is how powerful love is

username17 : i haven’t seen her this relaxed since she debuted. i’d cry if i wasn’t already crying.

username22 : this is NOT a drill. she SMILED. she TALKED. she STOOD STILL for the PRESS. what is happening

username0 : So now she wants the attention? Pick a side. Either be private or don’t.

username14 : she’s literally only tolerable when she’s standing next to a man. that’s so sad lol

username20 : i’m sorry but this whole “she’s just shy” thing got old last season. f1 drivers are public figures. she knew what she signed up for.

—

It happens slowly. Like sunlight through tinted glass — warm but filtered, creeping in without permission. Oscar’s been around a lot lately. Not just in the paddock, where we’re both supposed to be, but everywhere in between. Track walks, post-race debriefs, long flights, short layovers, dinners in quiet towns we don’t name on social media. He’s become part of the background noise of my life, and for once, that doesn’t scare me.

I notice it when we’re sitting side by side in the sim room, not speaking, just existing. The silence between us feels easy now. Familiar. Like I don’t have to earn my space — I just have it. I notice it when he hands me a coffee before I’ve even asked, the way he always remembers I take it black with a splash of oat milk, no sugar. Or when he throws a hoodie at me because I always forget I get cold before FP3.

I notice it most on the plane ride. He’s asleep beside me, his head tilted toward me, headphones slipping. I’m staring at the clouds and thinking about how close I am to the title. Closer than I’ve ever been. I should be terrified. But I’m not. Because he’s here. And for some reason, that grounds me.

He mumbles something in his sleep and leans slightly toward my shoulder. I freeze. Not because I’m uncomfortable — but because I’m suddenly too comfortable. My heart stutters. It’s a dangerous thing, comfort. I’ve avoided it for years, convinced it would disappear the moment I reached for it. But Oscar—he never asked me to reach. He just stayed.

Now I’m sitting in row 8F of some transatlantic flight with a soft-voiced Aussie curled up next to me and a World Championship lead in my lap — and all I can think is... God, I might actually be in love with him. And that’s scarier than any press conference I’ve ever dodged.

—

I could already feel the heat of the Monaco sun pressing down as we stepped out of the car. The walk to the paddock always felt long, even when it wasn’t. My palms were tucked into my jacket pockets, nerves dancing beneath my skin like they always did. But this time, I wasn’t alone.

Oscar walked beside me, chatting softly about absolutely nothing — the weather, the coffee at the hotel, the chaos of the Monte Carlo grid. I appreciated it. His voice was grounding. I didn’t have to say anything, and he didn’t expect me to.

I kept my eyes low, used to the flashes of phones and the buzz of people trying to get my attention. Normally, I’d keep walking. Fast. Direct. No room for error. But then I heard it.

“YN!”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t aggressive. Just… hopeful. I slowed down without thinking. Oscar noticed instantly and stilled beside me.

“You good?” he asked quietly.

I nodded. “Yeah. Just… give me a sec.”

I turned toward the barricade. A young fan was holding a poster of my car from Australia. I’d won that race. My name was scrawled across the sidepod in sharp lettering — a moment frozen in time I’d barely let myself process. I took the marker from their hand, signed it quickly but neatly.

“Thank you for today,” the fan said, eyes wide. “You’re… amazing. You’ve always been amazing.”

The words hit me somewhere in the chest I didn’t know was sore.

“…Thanks,” I said, almost too quietly. Then louder: “Thanks for saying that.”

They smiled like I’d handed them gold. I took one photo — just one. And then I stepped back beside Oscar, who gave me a subtle smile. Not too proud. Not too over-the-top. Just there. Solid. Steady. We weren’t even halfway through the paddock before a Sky Sports reporter called out.

“YN! Oscar! Over here?”

I froze.

Oscar looked at me. “Wanna skip it?”

I shook my head. “Just one.”

We walked over together. I didn’t say much — I never do — but I stood there. Present. Listening. And when they asked how I was feeling going into the weekend, the words came before I could edit them.

“Focused,” I said. Then, after a breath: “And a little less alone today.”

Oscar glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. There was a flicker of something soft there, something understanding. It felt… safe. When we finally reached the Red Bull garage, I exhaled for what felt like the first time in twenty minutes. I peeled off my jacket, tugged at the brim of my cap, and tried to disappear through the back. But Max was already leaning on the pit wall, headset half-on, watching me with that unreadable Verstappen face.

“You smiled,” he said, completely monotone. “Terrifying.”

I rolled my eyes. “Don’t start.”

He smirked just slightly. “I’m just saying… if you become media friendly, I’m going to have to be the difficult one now.”

“You already are,” I deadpanned.

Max laughed under his breath and tossed me a bottle of water. “You did good, LN.”

And for once, I let myself believe it.

—

The world was quiet around us. The kind of hush that only existed in moments like this — between heartbeats, between stares. Monaco’s lights flickered just beyond the windows, gold threads pulling through navy silk. I could hear the sea in the distance. Oscar lay beside me, legs stretched across my duvet like he belonged here. He wasn’t touching me, not yet, but he was close enough that I could feel every inch of space between us — and it made my chest ache.

“You’re quieter than usual,” he said softly, barely above a whisper.

I turned my head toward him. “That’s saying something.”

He smiled, tired and tender. “Fair. Still true.”

I didn’t answer. Because truthfully, I was scared. This was all new. The closeness. The comfort. The way he looked at me like I wasn’t hard to figure out. Then he said it — no fanfare, no buildup, just a simple truth.

“I think I’m falling for you.”

It should’ve terrified me. But it didn’t. Not really. It cracked something open.

I stared at him, eyes burning, heart folding in on itself. “I think I already have,” I breathed, voice barely there.

The silence that followed was thick — not heavy, not awkward. Just real. He reached over, his fingers grazing mine so gently it made my skin buzz. It wasn’t a grab. It was an invitation. And for once in my life, I accepted. I laced my fingers through his and sat up, pulling open the drawer next to my bed. There was only one thing inside — an envelope. Worn at the edges, the flap taped down three times because I’d opened and closed it more than I should have. I handed it to him. His brows furrowed as he opened it slowly. The photo slipped into his hand.

Me, at six. All tiny teeth and wild hair, grinning up like the sun had never set. Standing next to a man in a racing suit. His hand was on my shoulder. The same eyes. The same smirk. My father. Oscar looked between the photo and me, and I saw the shift happen in real time — confusion to understanding to quiet reverence.

“That’s… is that who I think it is?” His voice cracked just slightly.

I nodded, swallowing hard. “My dad.”

I didn’t say his name. I didn’t need to.

“He died when I was eight. It was… it was violent. Sudden. One second he was there, and then he wasn’t. He was my safest place. My everything. After that, I… broke. I stopped talking for months. And when I started again, it was never the same.”

He didn’t move. Just stared at me like I was something delicate, like if he breathed too loudly I might fold in on myself.

“I never told anyone,” I continued, voice barely holding. “I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want to be treated like some ghost of his shadow. I wanted to be me. Just me.”

Oscar’s fingers tightened around mine — not too much, just enough to remind me I wasn’t alone anymore.

“You are,” he whispered. “You’re everything.”

I looked at him then, and for the first time in a long time, I didn’t feel like hiding.

“I think he’d like you,” I said, smiling through the burn in my throat.

Oscar leaned in, resting his forehead against mine, and whispered back, “I like you more than I should.”

And in the soft glow of the Monaco skyline, wrapped in the quiet I used to fear, I finally let myself feel it all. Love. Safety. Peace. Him.

—

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, ynfromredbull & 8,029,003 others.

f1 : Your 2025 World Champion, YN LN! Incredible drive this season, YN. This is well deserved.

tagged : ynfromredbull

—

view 239,492 other comments.

username00 : MY QUEEN! CONGRATULATIONS YN.

username15 : gonna be insufferable about this for the next 40 years ok????

susie_wolff : YN has made history. I am forever proud of her.

liked by ynfromredbull and f1

username30 : people doubted her, the press dragged her, and she STILL smoked them all. cold-blooded. we love a quiet assassin 💅

lissiemackintosh : I’ve seen your journey up close. You are everything this sport needs. Congratulations, champion. 💫

liked by ynfromredbull

oscarpiastri : No one more worthy. What a season, YN. 🏆🤍

liked by ynfromredbull

lando : MY GOATTTTTT LFGGGG

liked by ynfromredbull

lewishamilton : It’s been inspiring watching you come into your own. World Champion sounds good on you. 🔥

liked by ynfromredbull

maxverstappen1 : Couldn’t be more proud. YN deserved this more than anyone.

liked by ynfromredbull

—

ynfromredbull

liked by maxverstappen1, oscarpiastri, lando and 12,037,024 others.

ynfromredbull : this is what it is all about. thank you all. it is an honor to be your 2025 world champ. i hope you grow to love me as much as i love all of you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

We were far from everything — the noise, the cameras, the endless headlines. Just a small coastal town somewhere in Portugal, sun-drunk and slow, the kind of place where people didn’t care about championship points or last names. Oscar and I had spent the day walking through sleepy markets, eating too much gelato, and laughing at nothing. Now, the two of us lay tangled together on the bed in the little apartment we rented, the linen sheets kicked down to our ankles and the windows cracked open to let in the salt-kissed night air. His hand rested on my stomach, thumb drawing slow circles over the hem of my shirt. The world outside our window was quiet, but my mind wasn’t. Not tonight.

“I want to do it,” I said into the stillness.

He turned his head, his voice a low murmur against my temple. “Do what?”

I hesitated, even though I already knew he’d understand. He always did.

“The interview. I want to finally say it. Talk about… him. All of it.”

Oscar sat up slightly, enough to look at me properly. “You’re sure?”

I nodded, throat tight. “It’s time. I’ve hidden behind the silence for so long. And I don’t want to anymore.”

He searched my eyes, then gently tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “You don’t owe anyone your pain, you know. You don’t have to justify who you are.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But I want to tell the story. My story. People have made it for me for so long — all the gossip, the assumptions. I’ve let them believe I’m cold or arrogant or just awkward. But the truth is…” I swallowed. “The truth is, I’m just someone who lost the one person that made the world feel safe.”

Oscar’s hand found mine under the sheets, his fingers warm and steady.

“I think he’d be proud of you,” he said softly. “For everything. For surviving. For being brave enough to do this now.”

I blinked hard, staring up at the ceiling to stop the tears from spilling.

“I miss him so much, still. Every day. Sometimes I think that little girl in the paddock died with him — the one who used to talk to everyone, who smiled without thinking about it.”

He pulled me into his chest, pressing a kiss to the top of my head. “That girl’s still in there. I see her every time you light up after a race. Every time you laugh when you think no one’s listening. You’re still her. Just… grown, and stronger.”

I breathed him in — the cologne I’d come to associate with safety and something close to peace.

“Will you be there? When I do it?” I asked quietly. “When I finally say his name?”

“Every step,” he said without hesitation. “Always.”

And in that moment, with his arms around me and the stars blinking somewhere above the rooftops, I knew I wasn’t alone anymore.

Not in the silence. Not in the truth. Not ever again.

—

‘hey lissie— its yn. i want to do an exclusive interview with you. if you’re willing.’

’omg hey champ— obviously id be willing to. where do you need me?’

’my house. next week? i can send a plane your way.’

’ill be there. i am honored, yn. truly.’.

—

world champion, yn, sharing her truths from her home in monaco with lissie mackintosh - 1/2/2026

—

ynsenna

liked by maxverstappen1, redbullracing, oscarpiastri & 17,023,004 others.

ynsenna : i’ve spent most of my life trying to be quiet enough not to be noticed. not because i didn’t have anything to say—but because grief took the words from me before i ever had the chance to speak.

this season changed my life. not just because of the results, but because i finally stopped running from the part of me that hurt the most. my father was everything to me. and losing him the way i did shattered something i didn’t know how to rebuild—until recently. the truth is- i’m proud to be his daughter. but i’m also proud of the woman i’ve become, entirely on my own.

to those who’ve seen me when i couldn’t see myself—thank you. to the ones who stayed kind even when i stayed quiet—you mean more than you know.

and to the person who reminded me i’m allowed to be loved, messy and whole—i love you.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

twitter!

f1gossipgirl : YN just did an interview from her home with Lissie Mackintosh going into detail about her childhood and revealed that Ayrton Senna is in fact her father. She spoke about how her father’s tragic death left her emotionally shut her down for most of her life— and she chose silence as form of self protection. She led Lissie through a room in her house which held a large collection of her father’s helmets and trophy’s and she shared a few photos of them on her instagram today— which her new instagram handle is @/ynsenna. She also revealed in this interview that she is indeed dating Oscar Piastri. Oscar was behind the camera silently supporting her during the interview. Thoughts?

—

view 802,482 comments.

username0 : i’m crying real tears. she carried the weight of that legacy in complete silence. absolute warrior.

username14 : Oscar being behind the camera and just silently supporting her???? marriage. immediately.

username20 : now it all makes sense. the silence, the eyes that always looked a little sad. she’s been carrying so much. proud doesn’t even begin to cover it.

username15 : she didn’t win the championship for the world. she won it for her dad and for the little girl who lost her dad. i’m not okay.

username17 : everything about this interview was raw and honest. we don’t deserve her but god do we respect her.

username30 : the fact she said nothing for years and let people think the worst of her, just to protect herself?? she’s not cold. she’s human. and she deserves peace.

—

oscarpiastri

liked by ynsenna, maxverstappen1, lando & 10,273,005 others.

oscarpiastri : proud to know you. proud to love you. you are the strongest human i know. you made him proud, sweetheart.

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

The interview with Lissie had gone live less than twelve hours ago. I’d barely blinked since then. I was curled up on my couch, hoodie three sizes too big, hair in a bun, face completely bare. Oscar sat on the floor in front of the coffee table, his back leaning against the couch between my legs. I absentmindedly ran my fingers through his hair while he scrolled through TikTok with the volume low. My phone buzzed every five seconds on the table, but I ignored it. Oscar didn’t ask questions. He just stayed. And he was quiet in that way that felt like peace.

The soft hum of city traffic below filled the silence until—

BANG. BANG. BANG.

Someone was knocking on my door like it owed them money. Oscar and I both jolted.

“Are you expecting someone?” he asked, twisting to look at me.

“No—wait. Shhh. Listen.”

BANG BANG BANG.

Then—“YN! OPEN UP! YOU OWE US A DAMN EXPLANATION!”

That voice. That unhinged tone.

“Oh my god,” I whispered. “Is that—Max?”

Oscar looked up at me. “Should I get the bat?”

I was still laughing as I padded to the door, the sound of voices growing louder.

“Carlos, stop pressing the buzzer, it’s annoying.”

“She’s probably ignoring us—”

“She probably moved to Brazil, bro.”

“Shut up, George.”

“YN, IF YOU DON’T OPEN THIS DOOR I’M GETTING THE SPARE FROM CHRISTIAN!”

I opened the door. And immediately got hit with a wave of chaos. Max was at the front like the ringleader. Behind him stood Charles, Lando, Carlos, Pierre, Yuki, Lewis, George, and Alex, all staring at me like I’d just casually announced I was royalty.

“Hi,” I said blandly.

“‘Hi’?! That’s all we get?” George sputtered.

Max shouldered his way in first, eyes wide. “You—YOU—” He pointed at me. “Are Senna’s daughter and you didn’t tell anyone?!”

“I told Oscar,” I mumbled, leaning against the door frame.

“Yeah, okay, Oscar gets a free pass,” Lando said dramatically, waving a hand as he walked in. “Since he is the boyfriend.”

“I can’t believe you’re his,” Pierre said, mouth open as he stared around the apartment.

Yuki beelined for my kitchen. “Do you have snacks?”

Carlos gave me a look that was half stern, half soft. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

Lewis stepped forward, eyes kind. “You didn’t have to. But… damn. That was powerful, YN.”

“Yeah,” Charles agreed, nodding slowly. “I cried, but that might’ve been the wine.”

The room was buzzing. Full of movement, questions, half-jokes, too much cologne, and disbelief so thick I could feel it crackling in the air like electricity. And yet, through it all, I just… Chuckled. I mean — this was my life now? Eight world-class athletes pacing my apartment like it was a race strategy debrief while Oscar, my boyfriend, my soulmate, looked like he wanted to protect me from the emotional onslaught with nothing but a throw pillow.

Max stared at me. “What’s funny?”

I smiled — wide and honest. “You guys are all losing your minds in my living room. Like I’m a unicorn or something.”

George raised a finger. “To be fair, you are. We just didn’t know it.”

Lando turned toward Oscar. “You knew. You absolute sneaky bastard.”

Oscar held up his hands, all innocence. “She told me. I didn’t say anything. Not even in the group chat.”

“I’m so proud of you, and also I hate you,” Pierre muttered, clapping Oscar’s shoulder.

And then — without warning — Max said, “Alright, that’s it. Everyone shut up.”

I blinked. “What—”

He lunged. Then Lando. Then Charles. Then George. Before I could even think to protest, I was being dragged into a ridiculous, suffocating, all-limbs, too-many-colognes, full team group hug. My face was squished between Max’s shoulder and Pierre’s head. Oscar laughed and wrapped his arms around all of us from the outside.

Someone yelled, “We’re proud of you!”

Someone else yelled, “She’s a Senna but she’s our YN!”

And I think it was Alex who shouted, “WE LOVE YOU, WORLD CHAMP!”

I couldn’t breathe. Not from the pressure of the hug — from the feeling of it all. Acceptance. Support. Love. After years of walls, of silence, of solitude, it all rushed in like the wave I didn’t know I’d been bracing for. And I let myself sink into it. Maybe, just maybe, I didn’t have to carry the legacy alone anymore.

—

1K notes · View notes

hairmetal666 · 2 days ago

Text

Six months. For six months Steve has been listening to this radio show and not ever one time did he expect to hear the host, Eddie Munson, growl out the words “Hawkins, Indiana," but here they are. The name said.

Steve stops the car dead in the middle of the road, can’t hear anything aside from the radio show host listing Hawkins facts in his sonorous voice.

He should have known. Like rationally, he should have considered it a possibility that Hawkins might come up on this late night talk radio show called Hellfire about monsters, cryptids, folklore.

It’s just. He thought. Hawkins hadn’t exactly made national news, and what had was about a toxic gas leak and a government coverup, not exactly this show’s focus.

But enough, apparently. Obviously.

Eddie starts talking about the disappearance of Will Byers, and Steve lays his head on his steering wheel, tries to ignore the way his hands tremble.

For six months Hellfire brought him comfort and companionship as he roams the dark street of Hawkins on what Robin calls his patrols. It’s not like he can sleep, not anymore, so what better to do than make sure everyone is safe? That there’s no signs of the Upside Down? That the gates are still closed?

Hellfire has been his companion through it all and now—now—

Eddie’s talking about the Department of Energy, MK Ultra, a fake body in the quarry.

He could turn it off. Or better yet, go home. But he sits in his car out by Lover’s Lake and he listens to Eddie detail the rumors and speculation. Listens to the callers who share their two cents and conspiracy theories—none close to the truth.

The thing is. He’s become—fond of Eddie, of Hellfire. He doesn’t care about cryptids, isn’t interested in Big Foot, but he was captivated by Eddie. Not just him, though, it’s the whole thing with his producer, Gareth, and his two other best friends who pop in from time to time. They’re funny, nerdy, love that dork game the kids play. And if the low resonance of Eddie’s voice makes him a little melty? Well, that’s between him and 3am.

Steve calls in, sometimes. Has called in. Just, you know, once a week or so. It's not like he knows anything about the monsters, but he asks questions, likes to listen to Eddie talk no matter if he understands.

They finish with a caller and Eddie says, "unfortunately, we'll probably never know what happened."

And Gareth cuts in to say, "Hawkins is only an hour a way. You know. If you find that interesting."

"What are you saying, Gar?" Eddie asks. "That we should go?" He laughs.

"Why not? We could do our own investigation. Maybe we'll find something the authorities don't want us to."

"Hmm, what do you think, listeners? Should we don our adventurer caps and head into the unknown?"

He doesn't remember putting the car into drive, but he knows he's speeding toward the little two-pump gas station on the edge of town and the deserted pay phone there.

The line beeps and beeps when he dials. He tries again and again, until finally there's a click, and Eddie's radio voice booming in his ear.

"Thank you for calling Hellfire," he laughs, manic. "You're--

"You can't go to Hawkins," he interrupts.

"Sweetheart," Eddie croons. "Haven't heard from you in a while. How are you?"

"I'm Fine. Stay out of Hawkins."

"You gotta ease into it a little, baby. Little small talk first."

"Eddie..."

"What do you know about Hawkins?"

"N--nothing. I've heard bad things about it. Cops."

"Cops," Eddie snorts. "I'm not afraid of Hawkins PD. Are you calling because you're worried for my well-being, sweetheart?"

"Yes." Steve doesn't hesitate.

"You're my favorite listener, you know that?"

"I'm being serious."

"It's cute."

"It's a really bad idea to go to Hawkins."

"Do you know what's funny? You didn't know what a chupacabra was, but you know about Hawkins."

"I--" he swallows. "Have specific interests."

Eddie laughs. "What do you know about Hawkins?"

"Nothing," too quick.

"Are you lying to me?"

"I can't say."

"You just keep getting more and more mysterious."

"Please, stay away. It's--there are things, people--you don't want their attention. Just, please. Trust me."

"I'll agree on one condition. Tell me how you know this."

"I can't," he whispers. "That's why you need to trust me."

"What's stopping you?"

He flashes back to an interrogation room, Hopper's stern face, the even sterner ones of the government agents, the four-inch high stack of papers to sign, again and again and again.

"NDAs."

Dead silence on the other line until Eddie asks, "wait, PLURAL?" excitement spikes through the speakers.

That's when Steve hears the distant click down the line, knows it isn't him or Eddie, knows--

The line goes dead.

"Fuck."

He goes straight to the cabin. It's late enough in the morning now that he's unsurprised to see the glowing ember of a cigarette near the porch steps.

"What'd you do, kid?" Hopper asks when Steve gets out of his car.

"Called into a radio show about monsters."

The chief sighs, drops his hands to his sides, muttering. The crunch of gravel way up the long drive has them both turning.

"Guess we're in for a long day." Hopper stomps out his cigarette.

---

Steve isn't allowed to listen to Hellfire anymore. Is forbidden from calling in. And he gets it, okay, he knows. He said too much on the radio, but he hopes that he didn't get Eddie in trouble, that they don't try to come to Hawkins.

He gets a late start on his patrols one night. Took the kids to the movies, caved within minutes when they begged to go for ice cream after, Robin giving him a fond eye roll when he stops.

It's late, summer sun set for hours already, and he's driving on backroads behind the lab. And it's been--it's been a few weeks, okay, since the last call, long enough that he's stopped thinking Eddie will show, so when he sees the van on the side of the road--when he sees the van he doesn't stop right away.

It's tan and white or maybe grey, old, from the 70's or something; spiky black lettering on the side. It says Hellfire.

Steve slams on the breaks so hard the tires squeal, car skidding. He parks haphazardly on the side of the road, only grabbing a flashlight before hurling himself into the woods.

He figures Eddie and the guys will be easy to find, bumbling through unfamiliar forest, but minutes pass with nothing but his own feet crushing through the underbrush. He's afraid to yell, afraid it will draw the wrong kind of attention, but he does a kind of hoarse whisper, knowing it's not enough.

There's a small rock formation that he skirts past, mind everywhere but on his surroundings. He hears a rustle, he thinks, turns, and in the space of a breath, collides with something distinctly solid, warm, and judging by the pained grunt, human.

"Fuck. Gareth?" A very familiar voice asks.

"Eddie??" He responds. His fingers scrabble for his flashlight, illuminating the leaf strewn forest floor and some nearby tree roots.

A beam of light illuminates his chest and face, forcing his eyes down. "Who are you?"Eddie demands.

Steve finally grabs his flashlight, points it at Eddie's middle. Has a second to take in his long, curly hair, his cut-off t-shirt, pale skin and the swirl of inky black tattoos. "I'm--I--I called into your show. I--I told you not to--"

"Oh," Eddie's breath hitches. "Sweetheart. You said not to come to Hawkins and then you--you--" He blinks, seems to struggle to find words. "I didn't expect you to be so beautiful."

He smiles. "i--your show, I loved it. I miss listening to you. I miss--" He takes a step, closes the distance. Eddie smiles and it grips something in his stomach, doesn't let go.

Over Eddie's shoulder, there's a flash of movement, catches in Steve's periphery. It's an unfurling, an opening, there's a shine of saliva, teeth.

His heart stops.

"Eddie--"

"Yeah, baby?"

"Run."

1K notes · View notes

whatsverstappeningnow · 1 day ago

Text

how f1 drivers react

when they want you back after you break up with them (part two to this fic)

drivers mentioned: MV33, LN4, OP81, AA23, CS55, CL16, LH44, GR63

max verstappen

Weeks pass in painful silence. For days after the sudden breakup, Max tried to call, to text, to contact you. But the longer you ignored him, thinking it was for the best, the more it hurt. Eventually, the phone calls stopped, and the texts too. Your world descended into self-inflicted silence and loneliness.

You knew it would be hard without him, but the loneliness was worse than you could have ever imagined. It settled deep in your bones, carved into your soul and invaded every aspect of your life. Every moment of silence was a reminder of what you had given up.

Every second of silence was a reminder of how alone you were.

Friends tried to comfort you, tried to tell you that you had made the right choice. But in the middle of the night, with nothing but the cold emptiness of your apartment to hold you, you could only spiral into darker thoughts: you had done the wrong thing. But it was too late. What was done was done. Max had stopped calling, moved on likely. You needed to as well.

You couldn't bring yourself to watch his races. You told yourself that it was for the better. You needed to let go completely. It was the only way you could move on and build a life without Max.

But when you see him again, finally, it’s not at a race. It's not some flashy paddock media day or high-stakes press event, things you used to loathe and love so much. It’s on your doorstep, hoodie pulled up, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion.

“I keep waiting for you. Every night. I keep thinking you'll call, you'll turn up at my house. You never do,” he says quietly, holding your gaze for the first time in forever. “Look me in the eye and say it again. Tell me our love isn't worth it. Tell me you don't love me anymore. C'mon. Tell me to leave and I will.”

You open your mouth to reply, not even sure what you could possibly say in response beyond what you'd already said that infamous night, but Max just holds up one hand to quiet you. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his phone and taps it a few times before a sound starts to play out of it quietly.

It's you.

Your voice echoes back to you, happy, laughing, talking about something stupid. You hadn't realized��he’d saved it. You're not sure why he would until the sound of you hanging up echoes around you both.

I'll talk to you later, ok? Bye Maxie. I love you!

“That’s the last time you said you loved me,” he says, voice low, pure exhaustion dripping from his words. “And I’velistened to it every single night.”

Tears sting your eyes and threaten to fall. Max finally steps closer but still doesn't reach out for you.

“I haven’t driven better. I'm getting worse, I'm making stupid mistakes. I haven’t focused more. I’ve just... missed you. Every day. Every night. You think you were holding me back? I'm scared every time I drive, scared of winning and still going home alone. Scared of doing well and you thinking that it proves you right when I know I'm fucking miserable. I'msorry I told you to leave. I shouldn't have... fuck, I'm just scared, and tired, and I want you. Please.”

Behind him, thundering clouds threaten to erupt and pour down over the city. Dark storms brew with forbearing gloom.

“You want to protect me? You want to make me a better driver? Then stay. Let me love you again. Because losing you has nearly fucking destroyed me."

His hands finally reach out for yours, holding them tightly. His hands are cold, but you find that you don't mind. You need to feel him so desperately that you're willing to endure the torture of the weather on your fingertips. Within you, a deep desire to keep Max warm and safe resurfaces with renewed conviction.

“You are the only thing I’ve ever wanted outside of racing. Please. I love you. I've only ever loved you.”

Despite the tears welling in your eyes, a small smile spreads across your face.

"It's cold. Come inside." You whisper the words, tugging slightly on his hands.

"Only... only if you mean this. I can't come inside if you're just going to turn me away again."

Swallowing guilt, swallowing your hurt and fears, swallowing everything you thought was right that turned out to be so wrong, you say, "Come inside, Max. Please."

Love you think, is the sound of Max closing the door behind him and knowing he is here to stay.

lando norris

You know you shouldn't watch it, but when the clip comes up on your instagram you can't help but pause and watch. It's instinct: you see Lando, you watch. Despite everything, all you said, all that happened and tore you two apart, you still care deeply for him.

It’s a post-race interview. Lando’s just gotten a podium, according to the video's caption anyway. He looks as he always does after a tough drive: hair stuck to his forehead from sweat, eyes wide, adrenaline high as he slowly calms down and takes deep breaths inwards. His smile is wide, until the journalist makes a passing comment...

"Must be nice having all the distractions out of the way now."

Something shifts in his expression. It’s barely a flicker, but if you know him—really know him—you can see it. You know what the interviewer means, the media, the sprint, the free practices, quali, it's all out of the way now. He only has to think about starting P1 tomorrow. All the distractions are gone. Almost all the opsticals of the week have been passed. But the joke doesn’t land. His smile falters, then falls completely. His eyes are hollow with want, tinged with a hint of fear.

And then he says it.

“Not all distractions are bad.”

The interviewer laughs, confused, asks him to elaborate, and he seems all too happy to comply. But he keeps going. The world around you seems stuck, you can't take your eyes away from the screen. If you listened carefully, you swear you can hear your life caving in around you.

“Sometimes the things everyone else thinks are a distraction are actually what keeps you grounded. What keeps you… you.”

He looks down, clears his throat, doesn’t continue. What's said is said. When he finally looks up again, staring into the camera lens, it feels like he is looking right at you. His eyes meet yours for the first time in weeks, even if it's just through the screen. The familiarity of his gaze burns. Your heart cracks. You miss him. God, you miss you.

The video cuts off and you are stuck again in the quiet abyss of your empty apartment. Everything is quiet again. But later that night, you get a text.

I didn’t mean to say that. but I meant it.

Before you can question yourself, second guess your instincts, you reply.

congrats on P1 I didn't see quali but I saw the interview

Then, after a moment of consideration, you add:

I miss you too, btw

It's a few minutes of dead silence, eerie uncomfortable nothingness, before he responds again.

can i call you? please

You think of his words earlier, of the way he looked as you walked out of his life and shattered all you had built together. You call him without thinking of the alternative.

"Hey," his voice rings out through your speaker.

"Hi."

There’s a pause. The kind that aches. You can hear his breath, unsteady, shallow, like he’s been holding it since the second your name lit up his screen.

“I didn’t think you’d reply,” he admits quietly.

“You didn’t leave much room not to,” you say, your voice almost a whisper. “You're not the only one who feels alone right now, Lando.”

“I know I can’t take back how I made you feel," he murmurs, "I just… I need you to know none of this, none of the podiums, none of the wins, means anything when I’m not coming home to you.”

Your throat tightens. You try to swallow it down, but his words eat at the fear in your heart...

“I thought I was doing the right thing,” you say softly. “Giving you space. Taking myself out of the equation. I didn’t want to be the reason you—”

“You were never the problem,” he cuts in, firm but gentle. “You were the only thing that made the rest of it bearable.”

Another pause. This one is softer. He exhales.

“I want to fix this. I don’t care how long it takes.”

And maybe you should hesitate. Maybe you should ask for more time, time to think it over. But you’ve already spent weeks apart, feeling the ache of a life half-lived. And now, hearing his voice, hearing the tremble he’s trying to hide, something in you unclenches.

“Okay,” you whisper.

“Yeah?” He sounds like he doesn’t quite believe it.

You smile, a little cracked, a little shaky, but real for the first time in days. “Yeah. Win your race, Lan, then come home to me.”

oscar piastri

The past few weeks had dragged by you in a dull, confusing haze. The sun felt dimmer, the rain less harsh, the breeze not so calming. Everything was just... off. You knew adjusting to being alone again would be difficult, but you never imagined it would feel like this. So helpless, so cold.

Without Oscar, someone you relied upon and loved so completely, your life felt empty. You spent your days going through the motions. You woke up, ate, slept, worked. It all felt so monotone. It was impossible to do something without wondering where you would be if you were still with Oscar.

A seed of doubt planted itself in your mind. Maybe, just maybe, you think, you were wrong. Maybe things would have been better if you were still together. But you cut the sapling before it could grow into a full thought.

Dwelling on the past was killing you. Dwelling on the past was leaving you tired. Not the kind of tired that sleep could fix, but the kind that left you feeling nothing at all. Heaviness hung in your bones.

Sleep seemed to abandon you these days, leaving you alone in the moonlight hours. The howl of the wind was your only companion in the night.

It’s past midnight when your phone buzzes. With nothing better to do, and no inclining that sleep would find you anytime soon, you reach for it from where it is charging on your bedside table.

Oscar's name stares back at you through the bright light of your phone, blinding you momentarily in the darkness of your bedroom.

You hesitate before opening it, his name on the screen still does something awful to your chest. Memories of past late night calls, tired giggles and intimate words, swirl around you in a haze of regret. But, to your unexpected surprise, it’s not a text. It’s a voice note.

You press play. The second you hear his voice, the pounding in your heart seems to double in speed. And yet, the comforting familiar sound also puts you completely at ease.

Hey. Sorry, I know it’s late where you are. I shouldn't— I know— I just got back from dinner with the team. Everyone was laughing about something, and I almost turned to tell you about it. As if you would be there, next to me.

He exhales sharply, so suddenly that it shocks you out of the trance you're in. Hearing his voice again, speaking directly to you, feels like a delusion after all this time. There’s silence for a few seconds, just the quiet rustle of fabric, the unmistakable sound of him rubbing his hands against his clothes that way he always does when he’s nervous.

You can imagine it as if he’s standing right in front of you. But you know that if he was here, standing close and looking you in the eyes, you wouldn’t know what to say, how to act, to look him in the eyes and not admit all the regrets you’d been having.

Missing him feels like longing for a lost childhood toy, something you remember so fondly and yet is so resolutely out of reach. But loving him is something you can never let go of.

It’s stupid, I know. It's been weeks. We haven't even talked once since. I know. I should know better. But I just… I don’t think I’ve gone one day without reaching for my phone to text you, call you. And I haven’t sent anything, 'cause I didn't want to hurt you more than I already have. But tonight it kind of hit me that maybe I should. Text you, I mean. Reach out. So, I guess that's what I'm trying to do. I don't even know if you'll listen to this. I wouldn't blame you if you didn't. I should have fought harder. Should have told you more often how much you mean to me, how much you still mean to me. You were never a distraction. You were my balance. My constant. My love.

You wouldn't hear me then, but I have to make you hear me now. I love you. I love you. I'll say it as many times as you need to believe it again. And I miss you. Every day. I just want to try again. Please, let me show you how much I need you, how much I love you.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling. When the recording stops, you drag the audio back to the beginning and listen through it again. Over and over, you replay the section where he tells you he loves you.

He sounds just as truthful, just as honest, as the first night he said it to you. The night he held you so close, kissed you so slow and carefully that you wanted to melt into the floor and never touch anyone but him ever again. The night you felt whole, and loved, and so at peace with your life. The night you had remembered over and over through the past few weeks with a longing dread. Suddenly, yet slowly, in small thoughts, then all at once, it feels like you have no option but one.

You don’t text him back. No.

You press call. He picks up immediately.

carlos sainz

You probably should have expected this, should have seen it coming from a mile away. Carlos is not one to let something, or rather someone, he loves slip through his fingers like spring water. He's built his life around the people he cares about, painstakingly carved out a space for each of them in his chaotic, fast-paced life… he wouldn't let you think so lowly of yourself for long.

It’s only been a few weeks, but it’s felt like a lifetime.

You open the door of your apartment, dressed in pyjamas and an oversized hoodie that was likely his, once upon a time, to find him standing there. Hair slightly messy. Hoodie zipped halfway.

His eyes drift over you, slowly, taking every inch of your appearance. It doesn’t feel crude though, or intrusive, his gaze is so familiar, so kind, it fills your heart with joy just to be seen by him again. A small pit of guilt sinks in your stomach, you are the reason you haven’t seen him. This was your choice, after all, one you made for him.

He holds a takeout bag in one hand, your favourite food from the place you always used to order from together when it rained. It was the food that comforted you in your worst moments and excited you when you were feeling your best.

You haven’t seen him in weeks. Yet here he was.

He offers the bag, holding it out in one hand while the other settles on his hip. But he doesn’t move closer. He looks stuck in place, unsure of what moves to make and yet so confident in his presence at your front door.

“I’m not here to fix anything. Not if you don’t want me to,” he says softly, a tone of admittance colouring his words. “I just thought… you probably haven’t eaten. You always forget when you are stressed, or tired.”

You take it. Hands brush. He pulls away first. You find yourself immediately missing his touch.

Carlos looks down, then back up, eyes dark and earnest.

“I’ve had a lot of time to think. And I’ve been telling myself to let you go if that’s what you need, what you really want. But I also know you pushed me away thinking it was helping me. That it was the unselfish thing.”

He pauses, breathes deeply as if centring himself. He speaks with a tone that tells you he has been thinking of the right words to say for days, and is still afraid of driving you away.

“But cariño… you were the thing keeping me sane. I didn’t need saving from you. I needed saving with you. I need you to save me. Every day I need you to save me.”

You bite your lip and look down at the bag. The familiar smell fills your nostrils.

“My house is so empty,” you admit, and it feels like exposing the deepest part of your soul. “I’ve still been watching you drive. You’re doing well. I’m happy for you.”

“I’m driving well, maybe. But I’m not happy, cariño. You have known me long enough to know that is the truth.”

You can’t find it in your to meet his eyes, he keeps speaking anyway.

“I’m not driving well because you are gone. I’m driving well despite it. Because my life is nothing but racing now and I am miserable. Every day I think of you. There is no one else for me, and you must let me show you again. Without you... without you I am no one. You make me whole.”

His words are sweet, and so painfully honest that they burn into your heart.

“I’ve missed you. More than I should. Even though I feel like I shouldn’t. I want you to become everything you’ve ever dreamed of. But watching you do that without me…” you trail off, unable to explain the hurt you have inflicted on yourself by forcing him to go. Doing this, this conversation, out in the open feels too exposed. You want to tell him you love him in the comfort of your home. The home you want to share again.

“Do you want to come in?” You ask it in a hushed whisper, like saying it loud will frighten him away again

He smiles faintly. “Only if you want me to stay this time.”

“Will you? Please? I think... I think we need to talk.”

His smile is soft, understanding, filled with hope, “Of course, my love.”

That night, he holds you close. He doesn't leave, you don't ask him to.

alex albon

You don’t pick up the first time he calls.

Or the second.

But the third? You answer.

“…Hey,” he says, voice gentle and soft, but cautious. He's holding something back. Like he is afraid of scaring you off.

You don’t say anything at first. Just breathe. Just listen. You half expect him to hang up, regret his decision to contact you and disappear again. After all, you were the one who walked away, who could blame him for holding onto resentment and anger and just... hanging up?

The,n quietly, you say, “Alex.” His name feels like the only thing you could possibly say.

He lets the silence stretch out. It doesn’t feel awkward, just heavy. Shared. Weighted with everything that’s been left unsaid for too long. Everything you didn't explain that day, everything you struggled to say. The silence reminds you not of the emptiness of your apartment, but of the comforting quiet of lying in each other's arms. Everything, even silence, feels better with him around. Even if it's just his voice.

“I don’t want anything from you,” he says, finally. “Not really. I’m not calling to change your mind. I just—” He sighs, shaky and unsure. “I just wanted you to know I think about you. Still. Every day.”

You close your eyes and press your forehead to your knee, trying too hard to not let your thoughts spiral away from you. You’re sitting on the floor of your apartment, hoodie sleeves tugged over your hands, and your heart somewhere between breaking and blooming at the sound of his voice.

“I’ve been driving ok, not great, not badly,” he continues. “Doing the media stuff. Smiling for the cameras. Saying the right things when they ask. Everyone keeps saying I look happy.”

Happy, just like you wanted him to be. That's the reason you did all of this. For him. To help him, even if it hurt your soul to do it.

There’s a pause. Then a quiet, dry chuckle.

“But I’m faking it. All of it.”

Your breath catches, stuck in your throat. No.

“I catch myself thinking about you in the stupidest moments,” he says, softer now. ��Like... I’ll be walking out of the paddock and I’ll reach for my phone to text you something dumb. Just muscle memory. Or I’ll hear a song you used to sing in the shower and it’ll hit me like I’ve run out of road.”

You stay quiet, swallowing hard and fiddling with your jumper sleeves. Against your better instincts to run, to hang up and hide yourself from the truth that maybe breaking up wasn't saving him, you stay.

“You remember how you used to tease me for holding my breath when I’m nervous?” he says, voice roughening just a little, like he's holding in a hollow laugh that is bubbling in his chest. “Like, properly holding it—like I’m underwater?”

You smile, just a little. Of course, you remember.

"Yeah..."

“I keep catching myself doing it again. A lot. I didn’t even realise until Carlos pointed it out during a sim session... said I looked like I was about to pass out.”

Another small pause.

“Anyway,” he says, trying to collect himself. “If this is really what you want, I'm not here to yell at you. But I need you to know. I just... I hope you’re okay. I really do. But if you’re not, if there’s ever a day you want to talk, about anything, bout everything.... I'm here. I'm always here”

You don't hang up.

"I'm sorry," you whisper into the phone. "I ruined this. All of this."

"No, baby, no. Please don't apologise. You were doing what you thought was right." His voice cracks a little, rushed and urgent, like he’s terrified you’ll disappear again.

“I miss you,” you say. Simple. Honest. Like breathing.

“I miss you so much it makes my chest hurt,” he says. "I know I can’t go back in time, but I want to move forward. With you. If there’s any part of you that wants that too…”

You wipe your eyes again and sit up straighter.

“I want that,” you whisper. “I’m scared. But I want that.” And that's all it takes.

charles leclerc

After weeks of moping around your apartment, mourning your own decisions and cursing yourself, your friends had put their feet down and ordered you to have a night out. Something to take your mind off of him. Despite the fact that you had no desire to go out, you agreed. More for their peace of mind than your own.

You're dressed in your favourite dress, make-up done, hair perfectly in place. At any other point in your life, you would feel beautiful, but for some reason, you don't feel much of anything at all. From the second you enter the party, some rooftop bar event your friends had heard of through word of mouth, you want to go home. But you don't want to let them down, so you try and stick it out, try to pretend you feel ok.

Time passes by you, and it's hours before you notice it. Notice him. Because of course he is here. Why wouldn't he be?

Charles walks through the dancing crowd and it's like the sea parts for him, people move effortlessly out of his way despite the lack of room on the dance floor. His eyes scan the room and then, as if on instinct, they land on you.

He walks over without any dramatics, but there is a speed in his step. He's afraid if he's too slow you'll disappear into the crowd again. He's barely a metre away when he starts speaking. You can only just hear his voice over the booming music, but the heartbreak in his voice is unmistakable.

“Every time I win, I wish you were there. Every time I lose, I need you.”

You inhale sharply. He's suddenly right in front of you. He looks down at you with tired, hurting eyes.

“You said you didn’t want to hold me back. But love doesn’t hold me back—it grounds me. Keeps me from getting lost in all of this. Cheri, how could you ever believe your love was hurting me? Without it, I am nothing.”

You’re frozen in place, drink in hand, heart in your throat. You thought this night couldn’t possibly get worse... you never imagined it might get better. You never thought you'd get the chance to explain yourself to him again.

“Charles…” you say, barely audible, unsure if he even hears it over the bassline of the song thumping through the bar the screams of joy that pervade around the room, the sound of dancing feet shaking the building.

But he does. Of course he does.

“I know I should have said something earlier,” he continues, closer now, lips practically against your cheek so you can hear him clearly. His hands hold yours, keeping you close with a grounding grasp. His eyes flick briefly to your friends standing behind you, watching from the edge of the crowd, unsure whether to swoop in and save you or stay back and let this moment unfold. You hope they stay away, you couldn't stand to lose this moment because of well-meaning friends. His gaze returns to yours, and it’s the same one you’ve seen a hundred times before.

“But I wanted to give you space. I thought… if I gave you time, you’d come back when you were ready.”

You laugh softly, but there’s no humour in it. “I wasn’t going to come back.”

“I know,” he says, voice strained and tired. “That’s why I’m here. One of my friends saw you in the crowd, I had to come. I'm sorry. I had to try one last time.”

The music shifts suddenly to something slower, softer. You glance over your shoulder as the crowd shifts to accommodate the new rhythm, but Charles doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care. He only sees you. The rest of the room fades into the background for him.

“I didn’t think I deserved you,” you admit. “I didn’t think I could watch you go out there every weekend, chasing something so dangerous and demanding, and not become the thing that dragged you down.”

“You were never the weight,” he says, without hesitation. “You were the anchor. There’s a difference.”

You don’t speak for a moment, letting his words settle over the noise, the lights, the blur of people around you. You’ve imagined this moment a hundred ways over the past few weeks, some louder, some messier, but none quite like this. There is something so soft about this, despite the noise.

“You look beautiful,” he adds quietly. “But you don’t look like yourself.”

That’s what undoes you. That sentence. The gentle truth in it.

“I haven’t felt like myself.”

“Then let me take you home.”

“Charles—”

“Not like that,” he says gently, quick to clarify. “Not unless you want that. I just… I want to talk. Or sit in silence. Or be there while you fall asleep on the couch watching something terrible. I don’t care what it is, just... let me come with you this time.”

You look at him, really look. And for the first time in weeks, the ache in your chest loosens, just a little.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Let’s go home.”

lewis hamilton

You’re alone on a walk, one headphone in and hands stuffed into the pocket of your hoodie, desperately trying to shield yourself from the cold wind of the mid-afternoon, when a familiar voice calls your name. The sound of the voice, so comfortingly recognisable, causes you to stumble over your own feet. He's here.

It's Lewis. Hoodie on, hood up, looking just as surprised as you feel seeing him out in the world. He stops a few steps away from you. The distance feels like a gorge you could fall into if you take a wrong step. The fall would go on for ages, you can't risk slipping now.

“I’ve been writing, texting you, then deleting it all before I send it,” he says quietly. “Trying to find the right words to say. Honestly, I don't think they exist. Every time I think I've figured out what to say, it just feels wrong.”

You just stare, hands fidgeting in your pocket as you feel stuck to the concrete sidewalk.

"I'm sorry. I know you probably want me to walk away, but if I don't say this now, in person, I never will."

Before you can stop yourself, you say softly, "I never want you to walk away, Lew." The truth of your own words surprises you. Lewis can only smile slightly at the sudden interjection. But he knows, just as well as you do, that you didn't leave him because you fell out of love. It was fear that drove you away.

“I thought I could prove something by letting you go. That I could be strong. But the truth is, I’ve felt lost without you.”

"Lew—"

“I miss you,” he adds, and it’s almost a whisper. “God, I miss you so much. I've stayed up at night just thinking about what you said. I can't believe I let you believe all those things about yourself. I can't believe I didn't fight harder to prove how much I love you.”

You stare at him. This is the version of him that you always knew. The one who cares so deeply, it scares him. The one who never walks away unless he thinks he has to.

“You could’ve sent any of those texts,” you manage to say, voice uneven and slow. “I probably would’ve answered, no matter what you said.”

“I didn’t want to reach for you until I knew I could be what you needed. You need someone who can show you that you aren't a burden. You need someone who can prove how loved you are. You deserve perfection.”

You let the silence linger a beat longer. Then you take a slow, steady step forward.

“I didn’t need perfect,” you say. “I just needed you.”

Lewis reaches out, gently, finally closing the gap between the two of you. “Let’s start again. Somewhere quiet. Just us.”

You nod before your voice catches up.

george russell

It’s been raining all day, light, misty showers that make the city feel cold. The world is sad, you want to say to your friends, but you don't think they'd understand what you mean. Maybe you just mean you are sad. But even that feels wrong.

You’ve left the windows open just a crack, a small sliver of room to let in the crisp storm air as you curl up on the couch. There's a cup of tea in your hand that's slowly going cold, but you don't drink it. It's more for the company than for taste. The TV plays something you aren’t watching. It's just background noise to keep your thoughts from drifting back to him.

It’s been weeks. Long enough that you’ve memorized the silence his missing presence has left behind. You miss him, but it was all for good reason.

You don’t hear the footsteps outside your apartment, you don’t hear his car as it arrives at your building. But when the doorbell rings, something deep inside you seizes up.

You freeze.

You haven’t seen George in weeks. But when you open the door, he’s there, suitcase by his side, hair messy, expression shaken. You realise suddenly that he must have come straight from the airport. His race ended only 15 hours ago. He's come straight to you.

“I’m not here to argue,” he says softly. “I just want to talk. Please.”

Against your better instincts, you hold the door open and step aside, welcoming him in in silence. He walks in slowly. His eyes scan your apartment like he doesn't recognise it, like he hasn't been there a hundred times before. Seeing him feel so out of place feels like a punch to the gut. It's a reminder of what you said to him, the way you pushed him away so suddenly, so cruelly.

Eventually, after a moment of quiet contemplation and awkward insection, he sits on your couch, wringing his hands in his lap. When he speaks, finally, his voice holds with it a tone of practised care. He's been thinking about what to say for days, you're sure of it.

“You said I needed to focus. That I needed to be selfish.”

He looks up.

“Well, this is me being selfish. I need you to hear me, let me speak before you turn me away again. Please."

You swallow the lump in your throat and settle yourself down across from him on the couch. You keep a bit of distance from him, not trusting yourself to be able to not fall apart if you sit within arm's reach. You missed him more than words could explain, but you owed him the chance to speak. You know you do.

After a deep breath, long and slow, he starts to speak again.

"I need you. Not just the good parts. I want the hard days. The fears. The panic at 2 am. I want all of it. I’ve spent every day since you left wondering if I could’ve... should've... done more. So here I am. Doing more.”

You press your hands into the couch cushion beneath you to stop them from shaking, trying desperately to listen to every intonation and shake of his voice, as if you could uncover every thought he's had for the past few weeks if you just listen close enough.

You aren’t sure what to say. You thought you were protecting him by leaving, giving him an out to finally focus. But now, here he is, telling you the absence of you is the only thing that’s really hurt him. The truth hurts more than your fears ever did.

“I kept thinking… maybe if I just left you alone, gave you time and space, you’d feel free again. Feel more like yourself again. ” His voice dips. “But I think about you constantly. Every second since you walked away. And I don’t feel free... I feel hollow. And you're right, I should be more selfish with my career, my life. So this is me being selfish about what I want: I want you. I want you next to me all the time. Every day. Every night.”

He swallows, hard. Like saying all he's feeling out loud is hurting him. But he keeps going despite it.

“If you don’t want this anymore, truly don't, not because of what you think is best for my career, for me, but because you don't want it, I’ll go. But I had to try. I had to tell you that you weren’t a distraction. You were my calm in the chaos. You still are.”

You stare at him, heart caught in your throat and eyes glued to his sombre gaze. Your voice breaks when you speak.

“I've missed you so much, George.”

His shoulders sag with relief. “I know I'm not perfect. I know I wasn’t always good at balancing it all. But I never stopped loving you. That has never changed. Not for a second.”

He shifts, adjusting his posture sat upright on your couch. After a moment's hesitation, he asks, “Can I hold you?”

When you nod he moves slowly, carefully, like he’s afraid he’ll wake you from some fragile dream. But when his arms wrap around you, it’s like the weight of everything you've ever feared has finally lifted off your shoulder.

You melt into him.

And for the first time in weeks, you breathe easy.

taglist: @fastandcurious16 @coolpeanutchaos @hangingwiththestars

-> ree here! I'm sorry for the length inconsitancy and any mistakes! I tried to just do what felt right for each set up and I have editted this very sleep deprived from uni study... send help for my incoming essay due dates i am avoiding by writing imagines instead...

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siriuslywicked · 2 days ago

Text

Okay, hear me out… Robby with a partner who has a hard time orgasming (because I need to feel seen, and hopefully y’all do too). MDNI 18+!!!

a/n: I know we all love a good smutty fic where the reader gets to cum like three times, but let’s be honest, that is not reality for most people. I need some representation for those of us who live the antidepressant lifestyle. I know I asked about Robby/Michael, but something about this felt like a 'Robby' fic (idk). Next time I write about this man we will go with Michael, pinky promise. Wrote this after working a 50 hour week and did not revise it. Also haven't written smut in literal years. You have been warned.

In recent years, getting yourself to orgasm has become a challenge. Sure, you can get there on your own with some patience and a trusty vibrator, but it takes time. And sometimes being with a partner, especially a new one, means you don’t really want them trying to get you there for forty fucking minutes. So, when you and Robby start seeing each other you don't exactly fake it, but you don’t let him focus his attention on you for long before you turn the tables and start pleasuring him.

But Robby isn’t stupid, and he needs to know you’re enjoying yourself as much as he is. So, a handful of times into sleeping together, he finds himself in a familiar position: dressed in only his briefs, lying sprawled out on his stomach, head between your open legs, putting his mouth to good use. You’d be lying if you said it didn’t feel fucking amazing. His beard scratches at your inner thighs and below your entrance as he uses his tongue to steadily lap at your clit. The pressure and rhythm he's giving you is enough to make pleasure burn low in your pelvis; you can’t help but rock your hips into his face, using your grip in his hair as leverage to make sure he keeps his tongue right fucking there.

Robby can feel the urgency in the way you’re pulling his face impossibly closer. He knows damn well that you haven’t cum for him in any of your previous times together, he’s had over thirty years of experience with women, not to mention he’s a fucking doctor, he knows what an orgasm looks like (and sounds and tastes and feels like). He can tell each time you give up and move the focus away from your own pleasure, trying to distract him. This time though, he isn’t stopping until he gets what he wants. He moves his hands from where they rest passively on your thighs, one going to grip your hip and anchor you to him, the other coming to rest flat and warm on your lower stomach. You let out a moan at the feeling of his palm on your stomach, the feeling in your pelvis has grown into something that feels more tangible. So much so, that your legs begin to shake with it and you think you might actually cum this time. Robby thinks so too, feeling your thighs trembling on either side of his head. He groans softly into you, and chooses this moment to push down on your belly.

You jolt your head up in surprise, grip tightening on his head. “Fuck, Robby that feels good.”

He moans again in response, and thanks to your more upright position you catch his hips rolling into the mattress. Dutiful as ever, he continues applying pressure with his palm and doubles down with his tongue, pushing himself to go faster, harder, anything to feel you cum on his face.

You’ve moved to be fully sitting up now, one hand behind you for support and the other firmly anchored in his hair. You grind your hips almost frantically, sweat beginning to collect on your face and neck, chasing an orgasm that is so close you can taste it.

“Oh,” you huff out followed by a hum that borders on whiny, “I think ‘m getting close.” Your teeth grit around the words, body tensing up in its pursuit of pleasure.

Robby opens his eyes to peer up at you. Your head has lolled back, eyes squeezed shut, your mouth now hangs open on a silent moan. Your clit has gotten more swollen than he thought it could and he can feel you getting wetter by the second, it’s practically dripping off his chin. You are so close, so nearly there.

And yet…

“Fuck,” you whine out, and not in a good way. Your hips stop their movement, thighs no longer shaking with pleasure. Robby slows his ministrations and watches as you flop onto your back once more, arms coming to rest over your face, pout evident on your lips.

With a grunt, he pulls himself up and crawls to lay beside you.

“Sweetheart, can you look at me?” He places a hand on one of your arms, tugging gently to remove it, only to be met with firm resistance.

“No.”

“Please?”

You let out a sigh and allow him to move your arms off of your face. He pulls the one between you into his chest, interlacing your fingers with his.

Still refusing to look at him, you stare straight ahead at the ceiling. This close, Robby can see the tears of frustration welling up in your eyes. Your face is flushed, now from a mixture of embarrassment and exertion.

When you remain silent and continue to avoid his gaze Robby prompts you further.

“You’re okay, nothing to be embarrassed about,” his thumb rubs soothingly along the back of your hand, “All I want is to make you feel good, sweetheart. But, I can’t do that if you don’t talk to me about what's going on.”

Your eyes close tightly, tears finally spilling over and running down your cheeks as you nod in agreement. After a moment you open them again and finally turn to face him.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper softly, eyes darting between his own. You elaborate a few moments later: “for not communicating.”

“It’s okay, what’s important is we’re talking now. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod.

Robby waits, prepared to begin asking you questions in a diagnostic manner if you don’t speak up, but is pleased when you begin without prodding.

“I- uhm,” a pause, “It takes a lot for me to uh- finish, most of the time.”

He hums in acknowledgment, scooting closer and pulling you into a quasi embrace, hand draped over your waist.

“Can you tell me what ‘a lot’ looks like for you?” Your eyes meet his again, unsure.

His voice is low, almost gravelly, “When you touch yourself, what do you like? How do you make yourself cum?”

He asks with genuine interest in learning how best to please you, but his manner of speaking makes you feel suddenly hot as your thighs squeezing together. Robby doesn’t miss it.

“I use my fingers mostly… but I have a vibrator too that I like. Mostly it just takes a really long time.”

“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” he waits for your nod of assent, “There is nothing I would rather do than take my time making you feel good.”

Feeling at a loss for words, a small ‘okay’ escapes you.

“Good. Now, how about we try again and you tell me what you need from me, and we’ll go for as long as you want to. I would happily go all night without getting off if it meant I got to see you cum for me.”

A smile grows on his face as he speaks, the tone shifting from serious to playful once more. You mirror his energy, grinning as you respond, “That sounds really fucking nice.”

Forty seven minutes later (after Robby had all but tackled you into the bed for a solid makeout sesh and used his mouth once more to warm you back up) you find yourself perched on his lap, cock snug inside you. Robby sits with his back against the headboard, hands on your hips to guide the steady rock of your hips into his own. You have a tight grip on one of his shoulders to steady yourself, and an even tighter grip on the vibrator that you had sheepishly produced from the bedside drawer.

“Come on baby, you’re doing so good for me, take whatever you need,” he encourages, voice rough with his own pleasure.

“Feels really good, Robby,” you moan, resting your forehead against his as your hips pick up speed.

Robby rolls his own up to meet yours, feeling you start to clench around him periodically.

“I know it does, can feel you gettin’ all tight on me,” he laughs and all you can do is moan weakly in response. “Turn up the vibrator, you can take it sweetheart.”

He feels you almost shake your head no to his request, before giving in and increasing the speed.

“Oh- oh shit,” the effect is instant, your cunt feels so wet and warm as it grips him somehow tighter. Robby can feel his control starting to slip, and despite his earlier promise he knows he won’t last forever like this. Oh shit indeed.

“Feel so good around me. Tell me what you need, baby. Please,” He begs.

“Talk to me? Please, Robby ‘m so close, just wanna know I’m being good for you.”

“I got you baby, we’ll get you there. Me and that vibrator,” you both laugh at his comment, but Robby doesn’t lose focus for a second, using his grip to maintain your rhythm. “You’re doing so good, keep riding me just like this.”

Nodding, you can feel the tell tale signs of your orgasm starting to creep in. The relentless buzzing at your clit coupled with Robby’s assistance in rolling your hips back and forth have you barreling towards the edge.

“Yeah, that’s it. Just let it happen baby you’re right there, gripping me so fucking tight.”

Your movements start to grow erratic, hips beginning to lock up.

Robby reaches down and places his thumb over yours where it rests on the “up” button.

“Gonna look so pretty coming on my cock, such a good girl,” he presses his thumb down.

It comes on fast and strong. Your core is tightening as your back curves, your hips go dead still and lift ever so slightly as you shake on top of him. “Robby, please,” it comes out as a pitiful whine, begging him for something, anything, even as your orgasm is ripping through you.

“Fuck,” he grits out, hips slamming up into you, continuing to use his one hand to make sure the vibrator stays on your clit.

Robby can feel you still clenching around him as his own orgasm overtakes him, and he rides it out for as long as he can, groaning out incoherent praises as his hips begin to slow.

He’s brought back into reality when you whine frantically and at your joined hands holding the vibrator, suddenly oversensitive. Even without the stimulation, the aftershocks are powerful as you quake above him. He does his best to pull you back flush with his hips, tucking you into his chest as you ride it out.

After several minutes of holding you in his lap, Robby helps you to the bathroom, only teasing you for how bad your legs shake once. Once you’ve both cleaned up, you wind up back in bed.

“Thank you for that, I think you’ve ruined me for all other men.” You say it jokingly, but there’s nothing but truth behind the words.

“The pleasure was all mine.” He kisses the top of your head where it rests on your chest.

Just as you're drifting off to sleep you hear him mumble, “Do I need to be jealous of that vibrator?”

#michael robinavitch #the pitt #dr robby x reader #michael robinavitch x female reader #michael robby robinavitch x you #smites fics #smites smut #dr robby smut

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flux1563 · 2 days ago

Text

Scandal Payment

Winter x big cock

Words : 6k

Tags : squirting, multiple orgasms, big cock, spanking, creampie, deep throat, cum in face

Winter sat cross-legged on her bed, her eyes glazed over as she stared at the glowing screen of her phone. The room was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the thunderous applause and screams that usually filled her ears during performances. Her heart raced, a wild stallion galloping through her chest, as she scrolled through the articles that had turned her world upside down. The headlines were a blur of accusations and betrayal. How had it come to this?

Her manager, Mr. Kim, knocked tentatively on the door, his voice a trembling whisper. "Winter, the CEO is here to see you. Are you ready?"

Winter took a deep, shaky breath and nodded, even though she felt anything but prepared. She knew the gravity of the situation, the weight of the scandal threatening to crush her career and her life. She had to face the music.

Mr. Park, the CEO of the agency, walked in with a solemn expression. He was a man who had seen the darkest side of the industry, his eyes reflecting a reservoir of unspoken secrets. He glanced at her, his gaze a mixture of pity and resignation. "Winter," he began, his voice a heavy sigh, "we've got a problem."

Her stomach twisted into a knot. She had been dreading this moment, the moment when her entire world could come crashing down around her. She had always worked so hard, striving for perfection in every move, every note, every smile for the cameras. And now, it could all be taken away because of one mistake.

"It's... it's not what it looks like," she stuttered, her voice barely above a whisper. But she knew the truth was written all over her face.

Mr. Park sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping as if the weight of the world rested upon them. "I know it's not easy for you," he said, his voice softer now. "But the damage is done. The company's reputation is at stake."

Winter's eyes widened in horror as she realized what he was implying. The scandal wasn't just about her anymore; it had become a battle for the agency's survival. Her heart pounded in her chest like a drum, echoing the fear that had taken root in her soul.

"What... what do you want me to do?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Mr. Park leaned forward, his eyes boring into hers with a fierce intensity. "I have one solution," he said, his voice a low growl. "One way to save both of us. It won't be easy, but it's the only way out."

Winter felt a chill run down her spine. She knew she was about to make a deal with the devil. But she was desperate, clinging to the last thread of hope.

"I'll do anything," she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Mr. Park's eyes narrowed, a glint of something akin to victory sparkling in them. "One of our investors," he said slowly, "has made an offer. He's willing to help us cover up this... incident."

Winter felt the blood drain from her face. "What kind of help?" she asked, though she already knew what was coming.

"He wants you to be his... companion," Mr. Park said, his voice thick with the unspoken words. "If you agree to this arrangement, we can keep this scandal under wraps and your career can continue. You'll be under his protection, but you'll still be part of the company. You can still be an idol."

The room spun around her, the walls closing in as if the very air had turned to lead. A sex slave. That's what she was being offered as a lifeline. Winter felt the bile rise in her throat, the thought of giving up her body, her very being, to some faceless monster too much to bear. Yet, the alternative was unthinkable. Ruin, disgrace, and the end of everything she had worked for.

"You're asking me to sell myself," she managed to croak out, her voice a hoarse whisper.

Mr. Park nodded, his eyes never leaving hers. "It's the only way," he said firmly. "It's either this or face the consequences. The choice is yours."

Winter felt like she was drowning, her thoughts racing faster than she could comprehend. Her mind was a tumultuous storm of fear, anger, and despair. But amidst the chaos, a flicker of defiance began to burn. She had worked too hard, come too far, to let it all slip away without a fight.

"Fine," she said through gritted teeth, her voice shaking with the weight of her words. "I'll do it."

The CEO's expression didn't change, but she could see the tension in his shoulders ease slightly. "Good," he said, his voice cold. "I'll arrange everything. You'll be informed of the details when it's all set."

Winter nodded numbly, her mind racing. How had it come to this? She had always been the good girl, the one who followed the rules, the one who had it all figured out. And now she was being sentenced to a life of servitude.

Days passed in a blur, each one more surreal than the last. Her world had shrunk to the confines of her room, where she waited for the message that would dictate her fate. It came in the form of a sleek black envelope slipped under her door. Inside, a simple note with an address and the words "Come to this private mansion. Wear only a jacket without anything fabric inside. Mr. Y/N is waiting."

Her heart pounded in her chest as she read the message over and over, trying to convince herself that this was just a nightmare, that she would wake up any moment. But the cold reality remained, seeping into her bones like a relentless frost.

The day arrived, and with it, the heavy weight of her decision. She showered, trying to scrub away the feeling of filth that clung to her skin. She slipped on the jacket, the chilly air of the early spring evening brushing against her bare skin beneath it. The fabric was all that stood between her and the unknown.

With trembling hands, she took a cab to the address provided. The mansion was a fortress of opulence, nestled in the heart of a quiet neighborhood. Its grandeur was a stark reminder of the power she was about to face.

Winter stepped out of the taxi, her legs threatening to buckle under the gravity of her situation. The massive gates swung open, revealing a long, winding driveway lined with meticulously trimmed hedges. The house loomed before her, its windows dark and mysterious, like the eyes of a predator watching its prey.

The door to the mansion opened, and a man in a tailored suit emerged, his face a stoic mask. He gestured for her to follow, and she took a deep breath, steeling herself for what was to come. The door closed behind her with a finality that echoed through her soul.

The interior was like something out of a magazine, with gleaming marble floors and grand chandeliers casting dramatic shadows on the walls. The air was thick with the scent of expensive cologne and a hint of something else, something darker and more sinister.

Mr. Y/N was waiting for her in a dimly lit drawing room, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. He was older, with silver hair and a sharp jawline, his eyes as cold as the metal around his fingers.

"Welcome," he said, his voice like velvet over gravel. "I trust you've come to your senses."

Winter's stomach churned, but she forced a smile, her heart hammering in her chest. "Thank you for... helping me," she managed, her voice a shaky whisper.

He took a sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving hers. "Consider it an investment," he said, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. "An investment in your future."

The words sent a shiver down her spine. She knew what he meant. This wasn't just a one-time deal; she was being bought and paid for, a commodity to be used at his whim.

"Now," Mr. Y/N said, setting his glass down on a side table with a clink. "Let's get started, shall we?"

Winter's mind rebelled, but her body obeyed. She knew she had made her choice, and there was no going back now. As she followed him up the grand staircase, she couldn't help but feel like she was climbing the steps to her own personal hell.

When they reached the top, Mr. Y/N turned to face her, his eyes darkening as they swept over her bare skin. "Open the jacket," he instructed, his voice a low growl.

Her hands trembled as she slowly unbuttoned the jacket, revealing herself to him. She felt exposed, vulnerable, a piece of meat on display for his perusal. The cold air in the mansion nipped at her skin, making her shiver.

Mr. Y/N took a step closer, his eyes lingering on her body like a connoisseur examining a fine piece of art. "Very good," he murmured, his voice a caress that made her skin crawl. "Now, let's go to your new quarters."

He led her down a long hallway lined with closed doors, each one a potential nightmare waiting to be unlocked. Finally, he stopped at one and opened it, revealing a plush, velvet-covered room that looked more like a prison cell than a bedroom.

Inside, the air was thick with the scent of flowers, almost cloying in its sweetness. The walls were lined with mirrors, reflecting her image back at her from every angle, a constant reminder of the deal she had made.

Mr. Y/N's eyes raked over her, a hunger in his gaze that made her stomach churn. He took another step closer, his breath warm against her cheek as he reached out to trace the line of her neck with one finger. "You're more beautiful than I imagined," he murmured, his voice thick with lust.

Winter felt his hands slide down her body, the fabric of her jacket whispering against her skin as he pushed it off her shoulders. It fell to the floor, leaving her naked and trembling before him. His gaze dipped to her breasts, his pupils dilating as he took in the sight of her hardened nipples.

Without a word, he leaned in, his mouth closing over one sensitive peak. He sucked hard, his teeth grazing the tender flesh, and she couldn't help the gasp that tore from her lips. The sensation was almost unbearable, a mix of pleasure and pain that had her body responding despite her mind's protest.

He moved to the other side, giving her no reprieve, his tongue swirling around the sensitive nub before he bit down, eliciting a whimper. Her body was a traitor, arching towards him, craving more of the exquisite agony he was inflicting.

The room spun around her, the world narrowing to the feel of his mouth on her body. She felt his hands on her hips, guiding her back towards the bed, and she knew what was to come next. But she couldn't stop it, couldn't even bring herself to protest as he pushed her down onto the soft, velvet surface.

Mr. Y/N's eyes gleamed with victory as he climbed over her, his body pressing her into the mattress. He trailed kisses down her torso, each one leaving a fiery path in its wake. When he reached her navel, he paused, his tongue flicking out to taste her.

Winter's breath hitched as his mouth moved lower, his teeth grazing the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. His hands gripped her hips, holding her in place as his mouth found her most intimate spot. She wanted to scream, to push him away, but she was paralyzed with fear and a perverse excitement that she despised herself for feeling.

He took his time, savoring her like a fine wine, his tongue dancing around her clit with a skill that belied his age. She felt herself responding, her body betraying her once more as she grew wetter, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

And then, just when she thought she couldn't take it anymore, he stopped, his eyes meeting hers in the mirror above the bed. "You're mine now," he said, his voice a dark promise. "And I intend to enjoy every inch of you."

Winter's body was a live wire, her nerves singing with the anticipation of what was to come. She felt his hand slide down her stomach, his fingers delving into her wetness, and she couldn't help but arch her back in response. He chuckled, a sound that sent a shiver down her spine, and then his mouth was back on her, his tongue lapping at her clit with an intensity that stole her breath away.

Her body tensed, her muscles coiling tight as a spring. And then, with a suddenness that took her by surprise, she felt it. The warm rush of liquid that spurted from her, soaking his face as she lost control. Mr. Y/N's eyes widened slightly, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he licked at her, savoring the taste of her submission.

The sensation was overwhelming, the most intense thing she had ever felt. It was as if her entire being was concentrated in that one point of pleasure, exploding outwards in a shower of sensation. Her legs trembled, her body shaking with the force of her release.

Mr. Y/N pulled away, his face glistening with her arousal. He licked her lips, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror. "Magnificent," he murmured, his voice a low rumble of approval.

Winter felt a twist of shame, but it was quickly overshadowed by the realization of what she had just done. She had squirted for this man, this stranger who now owned her. It was a humiliating reminder of her new reality, one that sent a jolt of arousal through her body despite herself.

He climbed off the bed, his erection straining against his pants as he moved to a closet and pulled out a set of restraints. "Time to get comfortable," he said, his smile cold and predatory.

Her heart racing, she watched as he approached the bed, the restraints jangling in his hand. She knew she had no choice but to submit, to become the plaything he desired. She allowed him to bind her wrists to the bedposts, the leather biting into her skin as he secured them tightly.

Mr. Y/N's eyes gleamed as he surveyed his handiwork. "Now," he said, his voice a low growl, "we can truly begin."

He unbuttoned his shirt with deliberate slowness, revealing a chest that was as hard and unyielding as the rest of him. His pants followed, pooling at his ankles to reveal the monstrous erection that strained against his boxers. Winter couldn't tear her eyes away, a mix of fear and fascination warring within her.

With a smirk, he pushed his underwear down, freeing his cock. It was massive, a thick, veiny beast that stood proud and erect before her. At least twelve inches of pure, unadulterated power, a symbol of his dominance over her. She had never seen anything so big, so intimidating. Her eyes widened as he stroked it, watching as it grew even larger.

Mr. Y/N stepped closer to the bed, his cock mere inches from her face. "This," he said, his voice a velvet caress, "is what you're going to serve from now on. You're going to take it any way I want it, whenever I want it."

Winter's breathing grew shallow as she stared at the imposing member before her. She had never felt so small, so powerless. Yet, a strange thrill coursed through her, a dark excitement that she didn't want to admit to herself.

He climbed onto the bed, positioning himself between her legs. Her heart hammered in her chest like a wild beast trying to break free. The weight of his body was like a mountain pressing her into the mattress.

"Open your mouth," he ordered, his hand guiding her chin up.

Winter stared at the massive cock in front of her, the tip glistening with precum. "It's so big," she said, her voice trembling. "I don't think it can fit."

Mr. Y/N chuckled darkly. "You'll manage," he assured her, his voice filled with the promise of painful pleasure.

With a deep breath, she parted her lips, feeling the head of his cock brush against them. It was hot and heavy, the pressure making her mouth water with a mix of fear and anticipation. He pushed forward, and she felt the tip enter her mouth, stretching her lips wide. His hands were in her hair now, guiding her, urging her to take more.

"Relax," he murmured, his voice a dark whisper in the quiet room. "Take it slow."

Winter did as she was told, her eyes never leaving the mirror. She watched as his cock slid deeper, inch by inch, her mouth stretching to accommodate his girth. Her teeth grazed the sensitive skin, and she tasted the saltiness of his desire.

The feel of his cock filling her mouth was almost too much, the sensation overwhelming her senses. She could feel the veins pulsing beneath her tongue, the power in his grip as he held her head in place. He began to thrust gently, pushing her boundaries with every stroke.

Panic began to bubble in her chest as she struggled to breathe, her throat tightening around him. "I... I can't," she gasped, her eyes pleading in the reflection.

But Mr. Y/N was relentless, his eyes dark with hunger. "You'll learn," he said, his voice a low growl. "You'll learn to take it all."

He pushed deeper, the head of his cock touching the back of her throat. She gagged, her eyes watering, but he didn't stop. Instead, he began to fuck her mouth, his hips rocking in a slow, steady rhythm.

Winter's eyes widened as she felt her throat opening for him, the muscles relaxing despite her fear. She took a deep, shaky breath through her nose, focusing on the feeling of his cock sliding in and out, the way it filled her up.

To her surprise, she found herself growing wetter, the sensation of being used, of being his to do with as he pleased, turning her on in a way she had never experienced before.

Her mind was a whirlwind of conflicting emotions – fear, anger, humiliation, and a dark, pulsing need. She hated herself for it, but she couldn't deny the way her body was responding to his dominance.

And as he continued to use her mouth, pushing her further than she ever thought possible, she realized that she had made a deal with the devil. And she was about to pay the price in full.

Winter's saliva began to dribble from the corners of her mouth, trickling down her chin and onto her chest. She felt the warmth spread across her skin, a stark contrast to the coldness of the room. It was a humiliating reminder of her new role, a symbol of her degradation that seemed to only fuel Mr. Y/N's desire. He watched the droplets with a hunger that made her stomach turn and her pussy throb in equal measure.

"You're doing very well," he murmured, his voice thick with lust as he praised her efforts. "Your mouth is so tight, so eager to please me."

As his praise continued, she felt something shift within her, a strange pride swelling in her chest. Despite the fear and disgust, she found herself eager to make him happy, to satisfy his hunger. His grip on her hair tightened, his thrusts becoming more urgent as he approached climax.

Suddenly, just as she felt the pressure of his cock about to burst within her, he pulled out, his hand coming to rest on her cheek. The head of his cock hovered before her, the veins bulging and pulsing with the force of his impending release.

With a guttural groan, Mr. Y/N pulled back and sprayed her face with his hot, sticky cum. It hit her like a warm, wet slap, coating her cheeks, her nose, and her mouth. Winter's eyes widened with shock, but she couldn't help the way her tongue darted out to catch a rogue drop that had landed on her bottom lip.

He watched her, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror, as he painted her face with his seed. She felt a mix of revulsion and arousal, a confusing cocktail that left her trembling and breathless. When he was done, he leaned in, his cock still semi-hard and glistening with the remnants of his release.

"Look at yourself," he said, his voice a harsh whisper. "Look at what you've become."

Winter stared at her reflection, her eyes red-rimmed and her face a mess of cum. She had never felt so exposed, so utterly owned. And yet, there was something undeniably erotic about it, something that had her body begging for more.

"Now, get on all fours," Mr. Y/N ordered, his voice a low growl that sent a shiver down her spine.

With trembling legs, she complied, her knees hitting the plush carpet with a soft thud. The coldness of the room was a stark contrast to the heat between her legs, her pussy aching for his touch. As she positioned herself, she couldn't help but feel like a creature at his mercy, a pet awaiting its master's command.

He climbed off the bed, his eyes never leaving her. She watched in the mirror as he walked over to a nearby dresser, his erection still at half-mast. He opened a drawer, the sound of leather and metal clinking together reaching her ears. Her heart raced, her breathing shallow and fast as she waited for what was to come.

When he turned back to her, he was holding a riding crop. The sight of it sent a fresh wave of fear and excitement through her. "You're going to learn to be a good girl," he said, his voice a dark promise. "And this will help."

He approached the bed, the crop swishing through the air as he walked. "Spread your legs," he instructed, his eyes cold and calculating.

Winter did as she was told, her thighs parting to expose her wet pussy. She felt vulnerable, like prey caught in the sights of a predator. He stepped closer, the scent of leather and his cologne wrapping around her like a noose.

He trailed the tip of the crop along her spine, the sensation sending goosebumps racing across her skin. She couldn't help but arch her back, presenting herself to him like the whore she had become.

Without warning, the crop came down hard on her ass, the sting making her yelp. The pain was a shock, a bolt of lightning that sent her senses reeling. But it was quickly followed by a pulse of pleasure that had her pussy clenching around nothing.

Mr. Y/N chuckled darkly, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he watched her squirm. "Again," he said, the crop rising and falling with a sickening thwack.

Winter bit her lip, the pain turning to fire as he struck her again and again. But with every blow, the heat grew, the flames of desire licking at her core until she was a writhing mess of need and desperation.

"Fuck," she panted, her voice high and tight. "It's too big. It won't fit."

Mr. Y/N chuckled, the sound sending a shiver down her spine. "Don't worry," he said, his voice a dark whisper. "We'll make it fit."

He set the crop aside, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, he reached down and stroked her swollen clit. The pleasure was instant, a spark that ignited the bonfire of her lust. He circled the sensitive nub with his thumb, watching her reactions with a clinical interest.

Her eyes rolled back in her head, her body trembling as she moaned, her pussy clenching and unclenching in anticipation. He took his time, building the fire until she was begging for release, her hips bucking back towards his hand.

And then, without warning, he stopped, his cock nudging at her entrance. It was a blunt, thick presence that made her gasp.

"Ready?" he asked, his voice a low growl that sent shivers down her spine.

Winter nodded, her body trembling with anticipation. She knew this was the moment she had been dreading, the moment she would be truly claimed.

Mr. Y/N gripped her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh as he pushed forward. She felt the tip of his cock breach her, the pressure almost unbearable.

"Relax," he murmured, his voice a dark caress. "Take a deep breath and push back."

With a whimper, she did as she was told, feeling the head of his cock pop inside her. The pain was like a knife, stealing her breath and making her eyes water. But she didn't stop, didn't pull away, driven by a need she didn't fully understand.

He pushed further, inch by torturous inch, until she was stretched to the limit. Her muscles protested, her pussy screaming for relief. But the pain was mixed with a pleasure so intense it was almost indistinguishable.

"Please," she gasped, her voice a desperate plea. "I can't..."

But he was relentless, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror. "You can," he said, his voice a harsh command. "You will."

And with one final, brutal thrust, he seated himself fully inside her, his balls slapping against her ass. She felt like she was being split in two, the agony and ecstasy blending into one overwhelming wave that crashed over her.

Mr. Y/N didn't give her time to adjust, his hips moving in a punishing rhythm that sent shockwaves through her body. The pain grew with every thrust, but so did the pleasure, a twisted dance that had her moaning his name.

"You're so tight," he groaned, his grip on her hips tightening. "So perfect."

Winter's eyes widened in the mirror, the pain of his entry like a brand seared into her very soul. She had never felt so full, so stretched, so... violated. But even as the agony tore through her, she felt her pussy clench around him, her body's natural response to the intrusion.

"Fuck, Mr. Y/N," she whimpered, her voice a desperate plea.

He leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back as he whispered in her ear. "Call me 'Master'. It's what you're here for."

The word was like a slap across the face, the reality of her situation hitting her with the force of a freight train. She was no longer Winter, the beloved idol. She was a sex toy, a plaything for this monster.

"M-Master," she corrected, her voice shaking.

His thrusts grew more forceful, his cock pounding into her like a hammer against an anvil. Each stroke sent a fresh wave of pain through her, making her scream.

"FUCKKK, MY PUSSY WAS TORN," she screamed, the pain so intense it stole her breath away.

Mr. Y/N's only response was a growl of satisfaction, his pace never faltering. She felt her insides tear, her body protesting the brutal invasion, but she knew it was too late to turn back now. She had made her deal with the devil, and she would see it through.

The room was a blur of pain and pleasure, the two intertwining until she couldn't tell one from the other. Her mind was a whirlwind of fear, anger, and a dark, twisted desire that had her panting for more.

With every thrust, she felt herself slipping further and further away from the girl she once was, her identity fading like a distant memory. But even as the pain grew, so did the thrill, the excitement of being used so completely.

Her orgasm built, a crescendo of sensation that threatened to shatter her into a million pieces. "Master, please," she begged, her voice a ragged whisper. "I'm going to come."

Mr. Y/N chuckled, his grip on her hips tightening. "Cum for me," he ordered, his voice a dark rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. "Squirt for me."

Winter's eyes widened as he pulled his cock out of her, the sudden emptiness making her gasp. But she knew what he wanted, what he was waiting for. With a cry of pure abandon, she pushed back against his hand, her pussy clenching around his fingers as she came.

The release was explosive, a geyser of liquid that spurted from her, soaking the bed beneath her. Her body convulsed, her muscles tightening and releasing in waves of pure pleasure. It was like nothing she had ever felt before, a powerful, primal force that seemed to consume her.

Mr. Y/N watched with a hungry gaze, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror. "Beautiful," he murmured, his voice filled with awe. "You're a natural."

Winter's cheeks flushed with a mix of pride and embarrassment. She had never felt so exposed, so utterly vulnerable. But she couldn't deny the thrill of his praise, the way it made her pulse race.

He slammed back into her, the sudden intrusion making her gasp. The angle was different now, the head of his cock hitting a spot deep inside her that had her toes curling with every thrust. It was like he had found a secret button, one that sent her hurtling towards the edge of oblivion.

With his free hand, Mr. Y/N reached around and slapped her ass, the sound echoing through the silent room. "Tell me," he growled, his breath hot against her ear. "Tell me what you want. Tell me how it feels."

Winter's eyes rolled back in her head, her mind a haze of pain and pleasure. "I want... I want it all," she moaned, the words spilling from her lips like a confession. "I want you to use me, to fill me up."

He slapped her again, the sting making her pussy clench around him. "And how does it feel?" he demanded.

"It feels..." she gasped, her voice trailing off as she searched for the right words. "It feels like... I'm on fire. Like I'm being torn apart and put back together."

Mr. Y/N's hand came down again, the pain turning her words into a scream. "Again," he said, his voice a harsh whisper. "Tell me again."

"It feels amazing," she managed, her voice hoarse. "It feels like... like nothing I've ever felt before."

The slap of his hand on her ass grew more rhythmic, matching the tempo of his hips. "And do you want more?" he asked, his voice a low, dark rumble.

Winter could feel the orgasm building, a pressure that threatened to consume her. "Yes," she panted. "More, Master. Please."

With a smirk, he reached between her legs, his thumb finding her clit. He began to rub in tight circles, the added sensation pushing her closer to the brink. "Beg for it," he said, his voice a command.

"Please," she whispered, the word a desperate plea. "Please, I need it."

He increased his pace, the friction of his thumb driving her wild. "Say it," he demanded. "Tell me what you need."

"I need your cock," she gasped, her voice a needy whine. "I need you to fuck me, to make me squirt again."

The words were like a trigger, and she felt it building, the pressure growing until she couldn't hold it back any longer. With a scream, she came again, her pussy pulsing around him as he continued to pound into her.

Mr. Y/N's breath grew ragged, his own release close. He pulled out, the wet sound making her whimper. "Look at me," he ordered, his voice strained.

Winter managed to lift her head, her eyes meeting his in the mirror. "Master," she whispered, her voice shaking.

He stroked himself, his hand a blur as he worked his cock. "Tell me," he said, his voice tight with need. "Tell me how much you want it."

"I want it," she moaned, her pussy still clenching in the aftermath of her climax. "I want it all."

Mr. Y/N chuckled darkly, the sound a stark contrast to the desperation in her voice. He positioned the tip of his cock at her entrance once more, watching her with a hunger that seemed to consume him. "You're going to take it," he said, his eyes never leaving hers in the mirror. "You're going to take it all."

With one powerful thrust, he was back inside her, filling her completely. Winter's eyes rolled back in her head, the pleasure so intense it was almost painful. She could feel herself stretching around him, her body trying to accommodate his massive size.

"Fuck," she whimpered, her voice a desperate plea. "It's too much."

Mr. Y/N leaned over her, his chest pressing against her back as he began to fuck her with a ferocity that stole her breath. "Is it?" he asked, his voice a low growl. "Is it really too much?"

Winter's eyes met his in the mirror, the need in his gaze reflecting the tumult of emotions churning within her. "No," she gasped, the word torn from her lips. "It's... it's not enough."

The room was filled with the slap of skin against skin, the sound of their ragged breathing. Her moans grew louder, the pleasure building like a storm within her. She had never felt so alive, so consumed by another person.

With every stroke, she felt herself slipping further and further into darkness, into a world where pleasure and pain were one and the same. She had never been so lost, so utterly at the mercy of another.

Mr. Y/N's hand came down on her ass again, the pain making her jolt. "You're mine," he said, his voice a dark promise. "You're mine to use, to break, to build back up again."

Winter's body responded to his words, her pussy clenching around him like a vise. "Yes," she whispered, her voice a ragged confession. "I'm yours."

He slammed into her, the force of his thrusts making the bed shake beneath them. "Good girl," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear. "Such a good, obedient little slut."

Winter's eyes squeezed shut, the sting of his words only adding to the whirlwind of sensation. She didn't want to be a slut, didn't want to be used like this, but she couldn't deny the way her body responded to his commands. Her pussy clenched around him, her orgasm building with every brutal penetration.

"Yeah," she panted, her voice a desperate plea. "Keep fucking me, Master. Make me forget."

The pressure grew, a tight coil of need that threatened to shatter her into a million pieces. She could feel herself slipping away, her mind a blank canvas of sensation. The pain in her ass, the fullness in her pussy, the burning in her throat from screaming his name – it was all she knew, all she was.

And then it hit her, the orgasm ripping through her like a tornado. She felt her pussy spasm around his cock, her muscles contracting in a symphony of pleasure. "Master," she screamed, her voice hoarse. "I'm cumming!"

Mr. Y/N chuckled darkly, his thrusts never slowing. "I know," he said, his voice a low growl. "And I'm going to keep fucking you until you can't think anymore."

Her vision swam, the world around her fading into a haze of ecstasy. The only thing that remained was the feeling of his cock pounding into her, the sound of his slaps echoing in her ears. She was lost, adrift in a sea of pleasure that seemed to have no end.

"Cum for me," he ordered, his voice a harsh command that sent shivers down her spine. "Cum until you can't move."

Winter felt her body respond, her pussy spasming around him as she climaxed again. The pleasure was so intense it was almost painful, a never-ending wave that crashed over her again and again. She didn't know how much more she could take, didn't know if she would survive this.

But even as she thought it, she felt the need building once more, the hunger growing insatiable. She was a creature of pure instinct, a living embodiment of lust.

With a final, brutal thrust, Mr. Y/N released his hold on her, his cum flooding her insides. She felt herself contract around him, her orgasm milking him for every last drop. It was a powerful, primal feeling that left her trembling and exhausted.

As he pulled out of her, she collapsed onto the bed, her body limp and spent. The only sound in the room was their harsh breathing, a testament to the intensity of what had just transpired.

#kpop smut #male reader #girl group smut #gg smut #aespa smut #winter smut #kim minjeong

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docrobinavitch · 2 days ago

Text

chasing ghosts

dr. abbot x f!resident!reader masterlist content: 18+ mdni, sexually explicit content, lots of angst, age gap, swearing, alcohol, mentions of child death/multiple casualties at the beginning during a shift words: 8.1K synopsis: you and jack share a kiss during your second year of residency and you spend the next two years trying to outrun those feelings. until the pitt's annual summer party. jack abbot is down absolutely fucking horrendously. like i meaaaaan unprecedented levels of yearning. a/n: hi, i think i blacked out while writing this. eyeeeee had so so much fun. i hope i did jack justice. let me know what you think!!!!

The annual summer party for the Pitt is an all day affair in order to make sure everyone, regardless of who’s working what shift that day, has a chance to stop in.

You wouldn’t think it, but the ER knew how to throw a good party. In the morning, it started with brunch at a place downtown with bottomless mimosas, top tier pancakes, and a drag performance. After brunch, they’d go hang out at the park by the river for a few hours before reconvening for dinner and bar hopping downtown.

Jack Abbot was off today, but still skipped all the morning and afternoon activities in favor of the evening. His sleep schedule was built that way now and even on his off days, it was rare for him to be out during the day. Besides, he was hoping he’d run into you there after your own shift.

You never came to these types of events, but that didn’t stop him from hoping every time. His eyes were always searching, hoping they’d stumble upon yours.

He hadn’t seen or spoken to you much in the last two years, since you switched to the day shift. When shift change occurred, you largely avoided him. He asked Robby about you and Robby always said the same thing, “She’s a great doctor, but she keeps to herself.”

It hadn’t been like that when you were on the night shift. You were shy, sure, but it hadn’t taken Jack very long to pry you out of your shell.

He wondered sometimes if you regretted it, now. Letting him in.

Now, he was making the rounds at the first bar of the night, not so subtly looking for you.

“You’re pathetic,” Robby teased as he sipped his beer.

“Huh?” Jack said, finally bringing his eyes back to the man in front of him.

Robby smirked knowingly, “She is here, you know.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” He said, “But her boyfriend is supposed to be meeting her here.”

His heart stuttered in his chest, “Boyfriend?”

Robby nodded, “I didn’t know she was seeing anyone until today. I overheard her mention it to Heather.”

Fuck. Not only were you seeing someone, you were bringing him here, to meet everyone in the Pitt. You must’ve been serious about him, then.

“Do you know where she is?”

Robby tilted his head as he looked at Jack, “You sure you wanna go down that road?”

“I just want to talk to her.” He said, and it was true. Mostly.

The two of you hadn’t had a real conversation since the week before you had requested the shift change. That night on the roof. He felt it was long overdue for the two of you to sit down and talk about it like adults. Maybe Robby was right, maybe it was much too late for that.

But Jack couldn’t accept that.

Robby sighed heavily, “I saw her go upstairs to the rooftop bar with Heather and Samira twenty minutes ago.”

“Thanks, brother.” Jack clapped him on the back as he headed up the stairs.

***

You liked the quiet of the night time. Being awake and working when everyone else was asleep brought with it a sort of peaceful solitude you couldn’t quite explain.

But Jack hadn’t needed you to explain, he had understood it intrinsically.

The night shift, of course, could become hectic and even nightmarish at times. But if you stepped outside for some air, either on the roof or the ambulance bay, the quiet of the night cocooned you in safety.

And that’s where you were that night two years ago, on the roof and leaning over the railing, trying to catch your breath.

There had been a six car pile up almost immediately rushed in after the day shift had trickled out. Ten patients. Four of them were in critical condition when they arrived, in that terrible purgatory between life and death. For five hours, you, Abbot, Shen, and Ellis had bounced between them. Still, you lost all four of them.

You had kept it together for the half hour after you had called the last patient, despite the fact that you had felt Jack’s eyes on you the whole time.

But he seemed able to keep it together, to not fall apart, so you would too. The knee jerk response to impress him, to make him proud of you had never quite dulled in your two years of residency. It felt a bit fucking pathetic, actually.

Worse, still, that he seemed to notice how badly you craved his validation and so gave it freely.

“Hey,” He stepped close to you, his warm breath caressing your cheek, “Go take a break, I’ll come find you in fifteen.”

“I don’t need a break.” You said quickly.

“You do,” He said, undeterred, “You’ve been staring dead eyed at the board for the last two minutes. Shen tried to call you over for a code stroke thirty seconds ago and you didn’t blink.”

You turned to him finally, panic on your face, “Fuck, seriously?”

You started to walk to go find Shen and the stroke patient, but Jack grabbed your arm, “Nope, uh-uh. Break first. Now.”

It was rare that Jack wasn’t joking with you, trying to make you smile. Now he looked deadly serious. Like he would physically remove you from the floor himself if you refused. You must’ve looked like shit.

“Okay.” You said finally, “Fine.”

He released your arm, but his eyes trained on your every step as you walked away, “I catch you on a patient in the next fifteen minutes and I’m sending you home.” He called after you.

You raised your hand over your head in a thumbs up to signal that you’d heard and kept walking.

And that was how you ended up on the roof. Bathed in the moonlight with the quiet midnight streets of Pittsburgh below, silent tears streamed down your cheeks as you greedily sucked the night air into your lungs.

You weren’t aware of time passing and your mind had gone blissfully blank until you heard him come up behind you.

“How come you, Ellis, or Shen didn’t need a break?” You asked, your voice wavering, “Is there something wrong with me?”

He leaned over the railing at your side and turned his head to look at you, but you avoided his eyes, knowing they’d be soft and warm and inviting. You did not need to see him looking at you like that right now. Just like you had been trying not to notice the way he watched you more than the others, touched you more than was necessary, handed out praise to you more generously.

“Not even a little bit.” He said softly, voice rough, “You were perfect down there. Nothing else you could have done.“

You breathed out a shaky breath, “Then why does it feel so bad?”

“Because you’re human,” He said softly, “And because you were the only one of us to call time of death on a seven year old tonight.”

You swallowed, tilting your head up towards the sky so you could see the moon. A moon that seven year old kid would never see again. “Does it ever hurt less?”

“Fuck, no.” He sighed, “But it makes you a better doctor, I think. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself to try to make it all mean something.”

Finally, you looked at him, and the sight of your red rimmed eyes wrecked him, “It does make you a better doctor,” You hiccuped and gave him a small smile, “The best, probably.”

He shook his head, smirking, and looked down at his hands, “Careful, kid. You keep talking like that, I might think you actually like me.”

Feeling brave, you nudged your shoulder against his, “I mean it. I feel really grateful that you’re my attending. I wouldn’t want to learn under anyone else.”

He pushed his shoulder back against yours and your hands brushed where they each grasped the railing, “I came up here to make you feel better and somehow you’re the one comforting me. How did you get so good at deflecting?”

You laughed through your tears and he relished the sound, “I learned from the best,” You said pointedly as you looked over at him.

“See,” He pointed at you, teasing, “That’s what I’m talking about. Much better. You’re way less unsettling when you’re mean.”

You smiled and he found himself staring at your mouth, enraptured by it, really. The truth was, he had noticed the ways in which he was better when he was around you. Both as a doctor and a teacher. You made him want to be better. He knew he had been giving you more attention than the others, bordering on an inappropriate amount. And he knew, before he came up to the roof, that he’d have a hard time being alone with you and not imagining what you taste like or what your soft skin would feel like under his calloused hands.

He thought you felt the same, but you could be hard to read sometimes. Sometimes, he swore you leaned into his touch, other times you jumped away from it as if he had burned you. Sometimes you went whole days seemingly trying to avoid him, others you followed him around like a puppy waiting for a pat on the head and for him to tell you what a good girl you are.

But now, fuck, now you were gazing at his mouth, too. And he tried, really fucking tried, to rein in the desire. He shouldn’t have kissed you. And he would think about it every day for days and weeks and months and years how badly he wished he could take it back. Not because he didn’t mean it or didn’t want it, but because it had started this downward spiral of silence and distance until you were so far away he hadn’t really seen you up close in two years. If he could go back, he would’ve told himself it wasn’t worth it. Because having only this much of you day in and day out while he yearned for more was better than having nothing at all, than you slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

But he didn’t know then what he knew now.

Cautiously, he moved his face towards yours, waiting for you to pull back. But inch by inch he moved, and you stayed put. And when he was close enough to share breath with you, he met your eyes and was greeted with pupils that had completely devoured your irises. No color in sight, just an endless abyss of desire and want. Your breath faltered when his lips just barely brushed yours, and he stilled for a moment before his self restraint crumbled.

The kiss was hesitant and gentle, at first. Jack kept his hands to himself, slowly kissed you in a way that repeatedly seemed to ask Is this okay? Is this alright? Are you okay? Are you sure?

It was you who deepened the kiss first, tongue darting out to swipe gently at his lower lip.

And the cord between you, that was already so tenuous and frayed, snapped.

His hands shook as he touched you, moving from your waist, to your neck, to your face. It was like his body knew first what his brain didn’t, that he was taking too much and not enough, that hours and days and months and years of touching you would never satiate him anyway and he should just fucking quit while he was ahead. His traitorous mouth that moaned into yours was a bottomless, greedy pit and it could never have you, not really, not even as it sucked desperately at your neck in a useless attempt to mark you as his.

The marks would fade and you would fade from him along with them.

He thinks now he probably knew as soon as you pulled away, at the panic in your eyes, that he had lost you before he had even really had the chance to have you.

But he would deny it to himself, even as you ran off the roof ignoring the way your name came out strangled from his throat.

He would deny it when you didn’t look at him the rest of the night, when you pretended not to hear when he tried to talk to you after the shift change that morning.

He would deny it when you handed him your shift change request form after a week of avoiding him, asking for his signature as you looked anywhere but at him.

He would deny it when his broken voice asked “Is this really what you want?” and you only silently nodded.

Jack Abbot knew he had lost you, he wasn’t delusional, but he could convince himself it was only temporary. He was patient. So fucking patient. He’d find you again, when you were ready.

***

Jack could admit that you having a boyfriend had not been part of his plan. Not that he had a plan, more so an overwhelming sense that if he waited long enough, you’d fall back into him.

But you had still been fleeing the ER at shift change without acknowledging him. He was patient, but it aggravated him to no end, the way you seemed so unaffected. Sometimes it made him feel like maybe he had made it all up in his head and that you had never wanted him at all. But then the film would play on loop again in his head and he knew he didn’t imagine your blown out pupils or the way you deepened the kiss first or the way you moaned when his mouth plucked bruises from your neck like ripened strawberries.

You had wanted him just as badly, he was sure of that. He just couldn’t understand why you were still acting like he didn’t exist.

When he got to the rooftop and looked around, he found you first at a table in the corner, eyes glued to your phone. Another quick glance around and he saw Heather and Samira talking at the bar.

Perfect. You were alone.

When he crossed the roof and sat in the empty seat next to you and you didn’t immediately look up, he realized you had marked his presence on the rooftop as soon as he got here.

The man was like a fucking sonar to your brain. You knew when he was in the same room as you before your eyes could track him. Tonight was no different.

“You look like you could use a drink.” Jack said.

Oh, you hadn’t realized how much you had missed the pleasant roughness of his voice, how it soothed you effortlessly. It practically sent chills down your spine.

You swallowed, continuing to stare at your phone. The second you met those warm hazel eyes, it would be over for you, you knew. It was the reason you had avoided him so diligently the last two years.

“Heather and Samira are getting me one.”

He wordlessly held his own drink out to you. When you stared blankly at it for a few moments, he shook it lightly, ice rattling against the glass, “It’s just a tequila soda. It’s not poison.”

Against your better judgment, and perhaps to indulge that stupid fucking instinct in your head that demanded you not disappoint him, you took it from him. You did your best not to pay attention to the sensation that shot across your skin when your fingers brushed, but the traitorous goosebumps spread across your arms anyway.

You took a sip and handed it back to him, still looking at your phone.

“Why aren’t you with them at the bar?”

“I had to take a call.”

“From your boyfriend?” Finally, fucking finally, you looked at him. It was disdain all over your face, but fuck it, he’d take it. He smirked and held his hands up in surrender, “I didn’t ask, Robby told me. Said he was meeting you here.”

Quickly, you looked back at your phone and he saw your throat bob, “He called to say he couldn’t make it, so.”

Jack watched you carefully, the way you frowned and your mouth turned down just slightly. You were upset, and not just at him.

“I’m sorry,” He said softly, but you scoffed at his apology and shook your head. And that pissed him off, “Look, you may fuckin’ hate me, but I still care about you and I mean it. I’m sorry if he stood you up. I don’t like seeing you sad.”

You rubbed at your forehead in agitation, “I don’t hate you. I’ve never fucking hated you. That’s the problem.”

Well, that was news to him. But he decided not to comment on it. He didn’t want to piss you off anymore than he already had, which seemed to be an awful lot considering he had just got here.

“How long have you been together?” You shot him that annoyed look again, “Christ, I’m just making conversation.”

“Right,” You said sarcastically and shook your head, but you answered all the same, “Two and a half years.” You said quietly. It hadn’t quite caught up to you yet, what you were admitting when telling him that. It took a couple of moments for your brain to catch up, but by then it was too late.

But Jack’s brain was already there, making the mental calculations you had long forgotten about.

Two and a half—? No, that—That couldn’t be right. Because that would mean—

Your face and ears had reddened and you wouldn’t look at him.

Jack’s ears were ringing. He started to say your name—

“Dr. Abbot,” Heather and Samira were back, the latter handing you a drink, “Catching up with your old resident?”

He forced a smile and stood, acted like his world wasn’t fucking falling apart around him, like you hadn’t just dropped a fucking bomb on him in casual conversation.

He was impressed with his ability to hold damn near cheerful conversation with Heather and Samira until he was able to excuse himself.

And this time, it was you who called after him when he left the roof.

“Jack,” Your voice was a soft plea behind him. It was a language he used to be fluent in, but clearly, he didn’t fucking know you anymore. He was starting to think he never had, “Jack, wait—“

He rounded on you in the stairwell, you still a couple of steps above him so the two of you were eye level, “Why didn’t you fucking tell me?”

You seemed to be caught off guard that he had actually stopped, and just blinked at him for a moment, “What difference would it have made?”

“What difference—?” He ran a hand through his hair in frustration, “All this time I’ve been driving myself out of my goddamn mind trying to figure out what I did wrong when it turns out I was your fucking, what, side piece? Affair?”

“Affair?” You hissed incredulously, “We kissed once!”

He squeezed his eyes shut and hung his head, “Does he know?”

“What?”

He was quickly becoming frustrated with your inability to keep up with the urgency this situation demanded. To him, at least, the whole world had shifted around him. And you were behaving as if he was the one acting crazy.

“Your boyfriend, does he know? About us?”

“Jack,” You said breathlessly, “There is no us. There was never an us.”

Jack shook his head, “How do you do it?”

“Do what?” You asked, exasperated.

“I’ve been pining after you for two fucking years and you’ve compartmentalized so goddamn well that you’ve convinced yourself it was nothing. That it meant nothing.”

For a second, he thought he saw a flicker of the version of you he used to know. Your face faltered for just a second, but then the walls were immediately back up, “I don’t owe you anything.” You said coldly, “It’s not my fault you’ve spent the last two years chasing a ghost.”

You stared each other down for a few more moments, the rage pulsating between you, before Jack broke your stare by tossing back the rest of his drink, “You’re right,” He said finally, and turned away from you to head down the stairs, “I’m sorry I disrupted your evening. Won’t happen again.”

You sighed, “Jack—“

“It’s Dr. Abbot,” He said coldly, turning back to face you again, “If you don’t mind.”

Your face fell marginally and he almost took it back when he thought he saw your lower lip wobble, but he couldn’t be sorry. If you wanted to pretend like there was nothing between the two of you, then he would do the same.

He turned again and jogged down the rest of the stairs. He needed another drink. Or seven.

***

Your hands were shaking. You stood in the stairwell staring stupidly after Jack for longer than was acceptable. You couldn’t go back upstairs to Heather and Samira like this, they’d know something was up. And you certainly couldn’t follow after Jack.

You should just go home. It was a stupid fucking idea to come here in the first place, you knew it was. And still you had come, why?

Because some part of you wanted to see him? No matter how much you denied it? Never mind the fact you had basically only invited your boyfriend because you knew his presence would keep you accountable if you were forced to be alone with Jack?

You hadn’t wanted him here, not really. Not for reasons that made sense. If you were honest with yourself, which you hadn’t been in a long, long time, your relationship had been over for at least six months.

Seeing Jack again, hearing his voice again made that very clear to you. And a part of you hated Jack for it. You had been able to convince yourself for two years that your current relationship was as good as it would get. Your mistake with Jack on the roof was just that, a mistake. Nothing more.

You had thought after all this time Jack must’ve felt the same. He fucked up and kissed his hot, younger resident, just once. He hadn’t meant to and he would be glad it was all over. You had been doing him a favor, you thought.

But when you had allowed yourself to look at him, really look at him tonight, that hadn’t been what you’d seen. In fact, he was angry with you. He had looked at you with such hurt and betrayal as if all this time he had been in love with you.

It didn’t make any fucking sense. You sat in the stairwell and pressed the heels of your palms into your eyes. None of it made any fucking sense.

You should go home.

***

Robby eyed Jack with silent suspicion when he joined him back at the bar and ordered two tequila sodas. He knocked the first one back in one go and then rested his head in his hands on the bar top.

“So it went well, I take it?” Robby asked mildly.

Jack glared at Robby and then looked back at his drink, “She has a boyfriend.”

Robby nodded, “Right. I’m glad we’re on the same page about that, now.”

Jack shook his head and felt the tequila make its way through him, “No, you see, she’s had a boyfriend. Since before she moved to the day shift. The same one.”

Robby was silent for a moment, then, “Oh.”

“Yeah.” Jack knocked back his second tequila soda and ordered another.

“Alright, I can see you’re upset, but all the tequila sodas in the world aren’t going to make you feel better.”

“No,” Jack agreed, “But maybe it’ll stop me from thinking about her for just a while.”

Just then, as Robby was trying to subtly get the bartender to cut off Jack, Robby’s phone buzzed with a text from Heather.

What did Abbot say to Y/N? Found her crying in the stairwell. She won’t stop.

He sighed heavily and turned back to Jack, “You made her cry?”

“What?” Jack looked at him incredulously, “No.”

“Heather says she’s sobbing in the stairwell.”

Oh, he hated the way that sent an ache through him. There was a time when he would’ve taken off running to get to you if he had heard that. Maybe even just earlier today. Not now, though.

“Believe me, her eyes were fucking bone dry when I left her.”

Robby’s phone buzzed again.

Never mind. Finally got her to say something coherent. Broke up with her boyfriend over the phone. Nothing to do with Abbot.

Christ. Nothing to do with Abbot. Right, Robby thought and rubbed a hand down his face, somehow he doubted that very much.

Robby looked back at his friend, debating if he should deliver this news to Jack or not. But Jack was very drunk now and he’d probably just tear after you like a man on a mission. Neither of you needed that right now, Robby thought. He’d tell Jack in the morning.

***

Heather and Samira sat on either side of you as you tried and failed to explain everything to them. You were very bad at this. Having work friends. Shen and Ellis had tolerated you, always including you, buying you coffee, but you knew really you were mostly third wheeling. And you hadn’t minded it. You had always tried to draw a firm line between your work and personal life, which is probably why the situation with Jack fucked you up so badly.

Heather started again, “So you and Abbot—“

“Yes.”

“And that’s why you switched to the day shift.”

“Yes.”

“And Jack also wanted you moved to the day shift?”

This is where things got murky for you. Tiredly, you rubbed your eyes, “I don’t know what Jack wanted because I never asked.”

“He didn’t know about your boyfriend then, either?”

You shook your head slowly, “I thought the fact that I was his resident was excuse enough. I left because I didn’t trust myself around him and I thought it’d be easier on us both.”

“And today was the first time you’d really spoken in two years?”

“Yes.”

“And this one conversation spurred you to break up with your long term boyfriend on a whim?”

You looked at Heather and smirked, “So you’re getting it now? Why I should be institutionalized?”

Heather and Samira both laughed, but Heather shook her head, “I don’t think you’re crazy. I think you’re finally being honest with yourself about your feelings. Which is really fucking brave.”

“I say we go to the next bar and get very drunk.” Samira said, standing.

“Oh, I— No,” You shook your head, panicking, “What if he’s there?”

“Oh, I hope he is.” Heather laughed and the two of them linked arms with you.

***

Robby walked silently next to Jack as they made their way to the next bar, his hands stuffed in his pockets, “Brother, I really think maybe you should just sleep this one off.”

Jack turned to Robby, “It’s only 10 PM which is roughly 10 AM by my standards. So there will be no sleeping from me for a while. But you, by all means, can go home.”

Robby inhaled slowly through his nose. He was fucking exhausted, but he didn’t trust Jack in this state. And he had seen you go off with Heather and Samira not too long ago, headed in the same direction they were walking in right now.

So he kept walking, eyeing Jack every so often until they got to the bar.

He should have just gone home, probably.

Because once they got to the bar, all hell broke loose.

***

The room was spinning. The text had come in just moments after back to back lemon drop shots and your vision was blurred. You were unsure if it was from tears or the alcohol.

“Hey, what happened?” Samira was shouting in your ear over the din of the bar.

You passed the phone to her wordlessly as you ordered another shot. You needed to be belligerent if you were going to survive this.

Samira’s jaw dropped as she watched the video. She scrubbed back and forth a few times before she handed the phone back to you.

“This is the boyfriend who couldn’t meet you here because of ‘work’?”

You nodded.

“Well, you made the right call then, breaking up with him.”

You laughed humorlessly, and then you were sobbing, “I don’t know… why I care…” You hiccuped, “I don’t think I’ve loved him for a long time.”

Samira sighed, rubbing a hand down your back, “It sounds like you tried really hard to salvage the relationship. Probably feels like a waste of almost three years of your life now,” This renewed your sobs and Samira looked at you with alarm, “I’m not saying I think you wasted three years, I just mean, it probably felt that way— I’m gonna go find Heather, she’s much better at this sort of thing.”

Alone, you ordered a drink and wiped at your cheeks. You knew Jack was next to you before you smelt his cologne and sighed heavily.

“Don’t worry,” He said softly, “I’m just getting a drink and then I’ll go as far away from you as possible.”

You only nodded. The man you had chosen to fight for had stood you up to go to a bar across town and make out with the coworker he swore for months you had nothing to worry about while your best friend unknowingly filmed him from across the room.

The man you were beginning to suspect had been in love with you for close to four years now, you had spent the last two years running away from and now he hated you.

It felt like a big cosmic joke.

You rested your head on your arms and willed him away so you wouldn’t have to confront the long string of bad decisions you’d made that had led you here.

But Jack just couldn’t resist when you looked so miserable, “Are you alright, kid? Hate seeing you like this.”

You pushed your head up and met his eyes. Despite your earlier argument, he was looking at you with tenderness and concern. He meant it, that he cared, you could see it all over him. It made you want to burst into tears again. And maybe that’s why you decided to poke the bear, see how far you could push, what would make him really, truly loathe you? It was what you deserved after all, right?

You turned your head away from him and unlocked your phone, tapping to the video your friend had sent, hitting play and sliding it over the bar top to Jack, “You’ll be happy to know this is what my boyfriend was too busy doing to meet me tonight. Some sort of fucked up karma, I suppose.”

Jack’s face betrayed nothing as he watched the video, but you thought maybe a muscle in his jaw ticked. He slid the phone back to you, “Whatever you think of me, I’m not enjoying this.”

You scoffed and shook your head, looking down at the bar top.

“I’m serious. I would never—“ You hear him sigh in frustration, “Just because I’m hurting doesn’t mean I wish you were hurting, too. If anything, if you were happy, maybe it’d all make more sense to me.”

He tapped his finger on top of your phone case, “That guy’s a fucking idiot. You deserve way better than that.” You chewed on the inside of your cheek, carefully avoiding looking at him, “Hey,” He said and crooked a finger under your chin, gently pulling until you met his gaze, “You deserve better, okay?”

You were conscious of the fact that you wanted to kiss him. And you knew he saw the way your eyes drifted dangerously to his mouth.

“I did the same thing to him.” You said quietly, still staring at his mouth, “Only seems fair.”

Jack released your chin and shook his head, “Don’t compare what we did to… To that.”

He sounded disgusted and it made you want to laugh, “How is it any different?”

“That is just drunken lust.” He leaned towards you on his forearms, “What we did meant something. Maybe not to you, but it did to me.”

“And that makes it better?”

“Did it mean something to you?” He shot back.

His face was very close to yours now, you could smell the tequila on his breath.

“Tell me,” He said slowly, “Tell me it didn’t mean anything to you and I swear to God, I’ll walk away and you’ll never hear from me again.”

You swallowed, blinking rapidly to clear the watering of your eyes. Of course you couldn’t tell him it meant nothing. You had thought about it nearly every day for two years.

But you were drunk and a fucking wreck and you didn’t know anything anymore except that you still remembered exactly what Jack Abbot tasted like and that he was looking at you right now like he would get on his knees for you in this crowded bar if you asked.

“I should go.” You whispered softly, broken, and slid from your bar stool.

He let you pass, but then called after you, loudly enough that people around you quieted, “What the fuck are you so scared of?”

You turned back, knowing that your face was flushed from the attention of others, “Goodnight, Dr. Abbot.”

***

“Hey, let her go,” Robby stood in front of Jack who was now trying to exit the bar and follow after you, “You’re drunk.”

“I’m fine,” Jack insisted, and when he looked around Robby, he saw it had started to downpour outside, “She’s drunk and it’s storming out there.”

“Heather will check in with her and make sure she gets home okay.”

Jack looked from the door to Robby a few times before sighing and running a hand through his hair, “Sorry, I just… She really gets under my fucking skin.”

Robby nodded and tried to stifle a yawn, “I noticed.”

Jack sighed, “Go home, Robby, seriously. I’m not gonna do anything stupid. I promise.” He shook his head, “I should probably just go home, too.”

Robby offered a sad smile and clapped him on the shoulder, “It’ll all make more sense in the morning, brother.”

Jack snorted, “Historically, that has never been true for me.”

***

It felt pretty melodramatic to be standing in the park overlooking the river as it poured. It was all very Jane Austen of you, you decided. Except Mr. Darcy would not be showing up to declare his love for you, Mr. Darcy was likely dry and headed home in his UberX.

You didn’t know where home was anymore. Luckily, you hadn’t moved in with your boyfriend yet. It was one of the many things that should have been a red flag, the fact that you hadn’t had a desire to cohabitate with him. You liked when he left in the morning and you liked the nights where he got home too late and went to his own apartment so as not to disturb your rest.

But still, there were traces of him all through your apartment. You didn’t want to be there.

You’re not sure how long you sit in the warm rain before your phone buzzed. You expected Heather or Samira, but were shocked to see Jack’s name on the banner, alerting you to a text.

Jack hadn’t texted you in something like two years.

I know I shouldn’t be texting you, it read, But I just want to be sure you got home safe. Please text when you’re home.

After staring at your phone for a few minutes, now soaked with the rain, you attempted to dry the screen with the sleeve of your jacket. It worked only slightly, but allowed you to hold down the text and “like” it.

After about thirty seconds, the speech bubble appeared on your phone to indicate he was typing.

Well don’t just fucking like the message. Are you home?

You could lie, you supposed. Probably, you could walk into PTMC and sleep in an empty room upstairs.

But you were growing tired of all the pretending.

no. You replied finally.

His reply was immediate, Where are you?

in the park.

It’s raining.

excellent observation, dr. abbot.

You stared at the screen as his speech bubble appeared and disappeared, over and over, for a couple minutes.

Send me your location. Then, almost as an afterthought, Please.

This was a bad idea, probably. After the events of today, you should not be sending Jack Abbot your location. You should not be speaking to Jack Abbot at all. After today, you should probably resign from your residency and maybe join a convent.

You watched as seemingly of their own volition, your hands tapped all the right buttons to send Jack a pin.

A few moments later, he texted a screenshot of an Uber being sent to your location with the car information and license plate.

i don’t want to go home. You sent him in a rush.

Yeah, I got that, he replied, The Uber is bringing you to me.

You blew a long breath out between your lips, you sure that’s a good idea?

Nope. Uber’s pulling up now.

Sure enough, headlights lit up the raindrops behind you. You turned to see the car, quickly giving the license plate a cursory once over to make sure it matched what Jack sent.

You could send the car off. Say it was a mistake. Not get in. Showing up at Jack’s apartment soaked to the skin in the middle of the night, still drunk and emotionally unstable felt like boarding a train you knew would derail.

You still got in the car, though. You didn’t have anywhere else to go.

***

When Jack opened the door to his apartment, the frigid air from his AC assaulted you and you shivered, wrapping your arms around yourself.

He stepped aside to allow you in and you kicked off your water logged shoes.

You had been here only once before, the first week of your residency. Jack would host a team dinner (early, so you could all still make your shift in time) whenever a new resident was added to the night shift.

You had been really nervous you recalled, until Jack had cracked a joke that made you choke on your soda.

It had been almost four years, but his apartment hadn’t changed much at all. It was neat and tidy, nothing out of place. The furniture was well taken care of, but everything was in varying shades of gray and blue. The only hints of personality being some pictures on his fridge, vinyls by a stereo, and some books on a shelf.

But one photo on his fridge caught your eye and before you knew what you were doing, you were walking to it.

Early in your second year of residency, you had presented your research on cardiogenic pulmonary edema outcomes in the ER at a conference in New York. Jack had shown up without telling you he was coming. He stayed near your poster all day while you presented to interested passersby, giving you a thumbs up or “solid work” when you needed it, smuggling you snacks, making sure you drank water. And at the end of it you remembered he took you out to dinner and told you how proud he was of you and what a great emergency medicine doctor you would be.

You had taken a picture with him in front of your poster and this was the photo on his fridge. You had a huge smile on your face and Jack had an arm wrapped around your shoulders.

“I didn’t know you had this.” You said softly.

He didn’t say anything so you turned to look at him, but his eyes were trained on the photo, “Let’s get you out of those wet clothes,” He said finally, walking by you to his bedroom.

You watched in his doorway as he pulled a pair of clean sweatpants and a t shirt from his closet and placed them at the edge of his bed, “The shower’s in that room,” He pointed to a door off the bedroom, “There’s clean towels under the sink, use whatever soap you like.”

He started to walk past you, but you grabbed his arm, and he stopped, eyes snagging on the hand that was touching him, “Thank you.” You said softly.

His eyes slowly roved upwards until they met yours. He searched your face, though you weren’t sure what he was looking for, then pressed a kiss to your forehead before he left the room.

***

After you were showered and changed, you wandered out to the living room where Jack sat on the couch, an arm draped over his forehead. He had taken his prosthetic off and it was propped up next to the coffee table.

When he heard you pad into the room, he cracked his eyes open, “Feeling better?” You nodded. “Good. Take the bed, I’ll sleep out here.”

But you still stood there, staring at him, arms wrapped around yourself, “Do you love me?” You asked, voice small.

He stared at you for a moment and sat up, running a hand over his face, “Have I not made it painfully obvious?”

“For how long?”

He shook his head and smiled at you incredulously, “You don’t get to do this.”

“Do what?”

“You’ve been in control of this,” He gestured between the two of you, “From the second I fucking met you and now you’re trying to what, decode the situation? See what outcome is most advantageous? I mean, Jesus Christ, what do you want?”

“What do I want?”

“Yes,” He said, “Not what seems correct, not what seems rational, what is it that you want?”

“I—“ You shook your head, “I don’t– I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do.” He said firmly, “Do you want your cheating boyfriend?”

You frowned, “No.”

“Did you ever want him?”

You huffed in frustration, “What do you mean?”

“I mean when you chose him over me, was that what you wanted?”

“That’s not a fair characterization of what happened—“

“Was it what you wanted?”

You faltered, “It was what was safest.” You said softly.

He smiled at you sadly, “He couldn’t hurt you if you didn’t love him, right?”

You stared up at the ceiling, willing the tears back into your eyes, “I didn’t think it meant that much to you.”

“You never gave me the chance to tell you.” He rubbed a hand over his jaw, “I’ll ask you again, what do you want?”

You looked at him, eyes watering, and you swallowed hard before you moved to him. He watched you as you placed a knee on either side of his legs, straddling his lap. His eyes followed your every movement reverently, your face just above his as you rested your forehead against his. His hands knotted themselves in your hair, “I’m scared,” You breathed shakily into his mouth.

“Of what?” He asked, his mouth near centimeters from yours.

“Of you. Of wanting you too much. Of losing you. Of everything.”

“I can’t promise you that this will work,” He said softly, “But I can promise I’ll fight like hell to make it work.”

You swallowed, “Because you love me?”

Finally, he laughed, “Yes, I fucking love you. Now be quiet.” He said before he kissed you.

He tasted exactly like you remembered, except tonight, there were remnants of tequila on his tongue. It was like he was trying to make up for lost time, the way he kissed you on that couch. He pushed his tongue into your mouth almost immediately, like he was searching for something he’d lost. Already, you were out of breath, hips grinding down on him without realizing. He sucked your lower lip into his mouth and bit down gently, groaning when you rubbed yourself on his growing erection.

“Slow down,” He chastised.

“You started it.” You reminded him.

“Fuck,” He moaned and then pushed you off him so he could crawl over you, “You’re sure?” He asked as you looked up at him, hair fanning around your head on the couch cushion like a halo.

You nodded, “I want you.”

He smirked and lowered his head to yours again, pulling kisses from you as one hand worked its way under your t-shirt. Your skin was smooth and soft there and he inched up slowly, until his fingers just brushed the underside of your breast. Touching you like this, he thought a lot about that night on the roof, the way he had kissed you like he knew he was already out of time.

Now… Now the world seemed to open up. He could take as much time as he wanted. You weren’t going anywhere, not this time. You were his and he wouldn’t let you go so easily again.

Gently, he tugged the t-shirt over your head so he could look at you and he was unable to suppress the sigh that tumbled from his lips. He squeezed your breast with one hand, thumbed your nipple and watched it pebble as you sighed. Still watching you, he pinched your nipple lightly between his thumb and forefinger and your eyes rolled back into your head as you writhed beneath him.

He kissed you, fingers still teasingly rolling your nipple between his fingers, and then he began to kiss down your jaw and neck until he was able to suck your nipple into his mouth. The moan that fell from your lips when he swirled his tongue around you went straight to his cock.

He was overly conscious of the fact that because he had imagined this very moment for two years minimum, likely longer, because he had imagined it hundreds of times while getting himself off, it was likely he would last all of thirty seconds once he was inside you, once he felt the real thing. So he would make this last for you.

Jack shimmied the sweatpants off of you and forgot that because you were here and you had just showered, you weren’t wearing panties. And suddenly, he felt feral.

“Jesus Christ,” He shook his head looking at you, it felt like maybe he was dreaming a little, having you naked beneath him. He felt almost delirious with it.

You looked up at him, those pupils once again whole saucers, “Touch me, please?” You whined.

He kissed you again, licking into your mouth as he reached a hand down between your thighs. You gasped as he fully sunk a finger into you. When he moved his mouth back down to suck on your other nipple, your back arched and it sent him into another dimension, being able to make you feel like this.

With two of his fingers pumping you slowly and a thumb on your clit, he felt the moment when you climaxed before you cried out, “That’s it, sweetheart,” He said softly, “Look so pretty when you come for me like that.”

As you caught your breath, you watched as he pulled his fingers out of you and then sucked your juices from his digits. “Taste so good, too.”

Your eyes stayed locked on one another as he reached for a wooden bowl on the coffee table. He took the top off, pulled out an aluminum packet, and closed it again. And suddenly you were giggling, “What?” He asked, ripping the package open.

“D’you fuck mad bitches on this couch or something, Jack?”

He rolled his eyes, but smirked, “Shut up.”

When he slid into you, forehead pressed to yours, you gasped at the sensation. You had thought about this countless times before, Jack Abbot above you, like this. What you had never really thought about was that maybe while he did it, he’d be looking at you like he was in love with you. And it nearly shattered you.

“I love you,” You murmured into his mouth as you felt him beginning to come undone, “I love you so much.”

He moaned your name as he finished and collapsed against you, damp and breathless, “You love me, huh?” He said after a moment.

You lightly scratched the back of his head, “I’ve loved you for years,” You said softly, “Just spent a lot of that time denying it.”

He pulled his head back and kissed you messily, your chin grasped firmly in his hand.

“Better late than never.”

#the pitt #the pitt fic #the pitt x reader #jack abbot #dr abbot #jack abbot x reader #dr abbot x reader #dr abbot smut #dr abbot imagine #mine

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blueberrybirdsworld · 3 days ago

Text

Out of frame 2/4

Summary : Y/N and Lando Norris have been together for three years. Their relationship is real, steady, and full of quiet love but always behind the scenes. While fans know they’re a couple, Lando has never posted about her, avoids public displays of affection, and never mentions her in interviews. At first, Y/N understood. She believed it was about privacy, about protecting what they had. But over time, being constantly left out of frame has started to hurt.

Genre : angst, SMAU

Pairing : Lando Norris x reader

Faceclaim : @suanbeiii

Main Masterlist

Series Masterlist

@landonorris 📍Tokyo, Japan

Incredible night. Thank you to everyone who came out to support us. Big things coming 🫡

@_user1 he really posted all his friends but not his gf again... yikes

@_user2 is Y/N not in Japan with him? 😭

@_user3 nah this is getting embarrassing at this point. she literally always supports him and he can’t even tag her once??

@_user4 QUADRANT IN JAPAN LET’S GOOOO🔥

@_user5 the helmet is SICK omg 🔥

@_user6 weird how he never has a problem posting the boys 👀

@_user8 so hyped for this drop!! love seeing quadrant going global 💥

@_user10 where’s the queen?? y’all okay??

@_user11 y/n deserves a man who posts her like she posts him. period.

@your_username 📍Monaco

Girls can buy themself flowers too 💐

@_user1 wait. no japan trip for y/n this time?

@_user2 something’s off. they never miss a race weekend together 😶

@_user3 how is she real 😭😭 Lando you better be sending her flowers too!!

@_user4 the softest prettiest queen 🩷 Lando won the lottery and acts like he forgot

@_user5 Lando… be fr. how do you not post HER???

@_user6 she looks like a dream. if my gf looked like this I’d post her every 5 minutes lol

@_user7 you’re literally the prettiest person I’ve ever seen I can’t even hate you I’m obsessed 🥲

@_user8 i don’t care what’s going on but if he lets her go… we need to talk, Lando 😭

@_user9 okay but where do I sign up to be your girlfriend if Lando’s slacking??

@_user10 I hope he knows what he has. because the rest of us DO.

Texts messages

Lando You didn’t like the flowers I sent you?

Lando Seriously, Y/N? That post? What is that supposed to mean?

Y/N It means exactly what it says.

Lando So you ignore my apology and post something that makes it look like I did something wrong ?

Y/N You sent flowers. That’s not an apology, Lando. It’s a gesture. A pretty one, but not what I needed.

Lando You always want more. It’s never enough with you.

Y/N Because you don’t listen. I told you how I felt and you acted like I was being dramatic. I didn’t ask for a parade. Just for you to acknowledge me

Lando So you skip the race, don’t say a word for days, and make me look like an idiot online?

Y/N I said I had work.

Lando No. You said “don’t worry about it.” That’s code for “figure it out or I’m gone,” right?

Y/N You want to talk about code? Because not posting me, not bringing me up, not defending me when people speculate, THAT’s a message too.

Lando I thought keeping us private protected you

Y/N It doesn’t feel like protection, it makes me feel like a secret

Lando This again…

Y/N Yes. Again. Because you keep brushing it off like I’m asking you to tattoo my name on your forehead

Lando You want public affection. Fine. But maybe you could’ve talked to me instead of putting it on Instagram?

Y/N I tried to talk. You shut down. You always do.

Lando Because every time I mess up, you make me feel like I’m never enough

Y/N And every time I open up, you make me feel like I'm too much

Lando Right. Okay. Here we go.

Y/N Yeah. Here we go. Again. You don’t want to make the effort? That’s fine. Your loss.

Lando You know that’s not fair

Y/N Neither is loving someone who makes you feel invisible

Lando I have a race to focus on.

Y/N Enjoy it, Lando.

Lando Sure.

@F1LiveMoments 🎥Live interview moment of Lando at the Japan GP

Interviewer: “We didn’t see your girlfriend this weekend, is she not in Japan with you?” Lando Norris: laughs “Which girlfriend?”

@_user1 nah “which girlfriend” is CRAZY??? like are you trying to be single or stupid 😭

@_user2 he really said that on live TV… with a mic… and a camera… okay.

@_user3 and this is the man she’s been flying around the world to support in silence 💀

@_user4 he better deactivate, apologize and send 400 roses

@_user6 this girl has been nothing but quiet and supportive and he humiliates her like that? I’d be GONE.

@_user7 you can’t be “private” and also crack jokes like that… pick a struggle 😐

@_user8 and then men will say “why is she upset with me” like sir… you said WHICH GIRLFRIEND

@_user9 his media training just packed its bags and left the building

@_user10 @your_username deserves BETTER. we’re all saying it.

@_user12 this man’s idea of romance is “which girlfriend” I can’t breathe 😭😭😭

@your_username 📍Monaco

Sunday ritual 🧡

@_user1 she still supports him after that interview?? I’d be EMBARRASSED

@_user2 baby you didn’t see the clip, right?? pls say you didn’t

@_user3 I have to respect the loyalty but girl… the way he said “which girlfriend” like it was nothing 🤡

@_user4 wait… WHY is she still watching him like this?? I’m actually speechless

@_user5 this is such a sweet post but… after that live interview 😬

@_user6 girl did you see the interview from yesterday 💀

@your_username which interview?

@_user9 oh no oh no oh no 😭😭😭 she doesn’t KNOW

@_user10 this one comment just ended their relationship for real

@_user12 NAH IM SCARED. SOMEONE TAKE HER PHONE AWAY

@_user13 Lando better call her RIGHT NOW because this is about to go so bad

Texts messages :

Y/N “Which girlfriend?” Are you fucking serious right now?

Y/N Was that funny to you? Was humiliating me on live TV was what you needed?

Y/N You really went out there and said that like we’re nothing. Like I never existed.

Lando Y/N... Don’t do this.

Y/N Don’t do what, Lando? Get mad that my boyfriend made a joke like he doesn’t even know me?

Lando You didn’t want to come to Japan. You literally said you needed space What was I supposed to do?

Y/N NOT JOKE THAT YOU HAVE MULTIPLE GIRLFRIENDS ON LIVE TV MAYBE? Just a thought.

Lando It was sarcasm. The interviewer caught me off guard

Y/N No, what caught you off guard was the reality of being called out for once

Lando I didn’t mean it like that

Y/N You never do. That’s the problem.

Y/N Everything’s a joke or a deflection or a fucking PR-safe answer You don't even realize how much it hurt. You made me feel invisible

Lando You ghosted me for a week. You turned down my calls, ignored my flowers, and posted some cryptic caption like I never tried

Y/N Because sending flowers isn’t trying, Lando. It’s damage control

Y/N I was begging for real effort, for presence, for proof that I matter to you

Y/N And you know what you gave me? A joke about having multiple girlfriends ??

Lando It was a stupid moment. I panicked

Y/N God, do you even hear yourself?

Y/N You panicked and defaulted to disrespect. That says more than anything

Lando Okay well maybe if you were actually there we could have talked like normal people.

Y/N Don’t flip this on me.

Y/N I didn’t come because I was hurt, Lando. I needed space to breathe, not to be mocked globally

Y/N You know how hard it’s been? I kept telling myself you just needed time, that you were scared. Or shy. Or private

Y/N But maybe you were just comfortable keeping me secret, comfortable not choosing me when it’s inconvenient

Lando That’s not true.

Y/N Then prove it

Lando I’m trying to...

Y/N Trying would’ve been not letting those words leave your mouth.

Lando I messed up, okay? I didn’t think. I was tired and pissed...

Y/N No. You chose the words.

Y/N Enjoy the rest of Japan. Don’t worry about me.

Lando Y/N…

Y/N No. Fuck you, Norris.

Taglist (closed) : @angelluv16, @httpsxnox, @anunstablefangirl, @chocolatemagazinecupcake, @mayax2o07, @freyathehuntress, @verogonewild, @lilyofthevalley-09, @esw1012, @its-me-frankie, @linneaguriii, @ezzi-ln4, @rlbmutynnek, @actuallyazriel, @sofs16, @thulior, @sltwins, @henna006, @stylesmoonlight12, @lilaissa, @sideboobrry11, @l3thal-l0lita, @lorena-mv33, @ispywlittleeye-blog, @lesliiieeeee, @sageskiesf1, @adynorris, @curlylando, @rebelliousneferut, @justcharlotte, @secret-agents-stole-my-bunnies, @emneedshelp, @lando-505, @yukimaniac, @sashisuslover, @f1norris04, @hi26loveie, @bunnisplayground, @nina481, @reallifemermaidprincess, @cars-and-frogs, @delululeclerc, @txmhxllqnd, @lydia-demarek, @destinyg237, @rhaenyrasversion, @sarascabiosa, @readz4u, @tvdtw4ever, @mynameisangeloflife, @teti-menchon0604, @suns3treading, @op814kitty, @prettyboyroseberg, @willowsnook, @ariesandwolves, @clarksgf, @knivesdoingcartwheels, @pinklemonade34, @fat-meh, @tiaajosephin, @landosbabe4, @easy4, @jule239, @mercrussell, @skylandori, @ryuucollapse, @nickie-amore, @fairyjinn, @seonaw, @mattslovelygf, @strawberrylov-er, @linnygirl09, @dilflover44, @bell1a, @f1fantasys, @sillyfreakfanparty, @janonymus0, @taetae-armyyyyy, @charlesgirl16, @angstynasty, @jules-bea2308, @afternoonarchive, @itsbieberxholland, @rexit-mo, @chlmtfilms, @vampgege, @mochimommy2002, @budgetcupid, @lemon-stvrrr, @bell1a, @taebearyoongs, @hazzasmunchkin, @sainz0fthetimes, @didaaa4, @madelyn2000, @il0vereadingstuff, @march32nd, @chlmtfilms, @literallysza, @cheapdocmartens, @wolfstarsimpxx, @pretzelcat4-blog, @larya810, @6-noir, @urfavftoomie, @ficr3ccs, @strawberrylov-er, @wosof1, @behindmygreyeyes, @justheretoreadthxxs, @pinklemonade34, @ninass-world, @landosbabe4, @leclercdream, @raynetargaryan2,

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jaegerbby · 2 days ago

Text

➳ brat taming

╰┈➤ word count; 5045

╰┈➤ rundown; how he would deal with you catching an attitude. i had toji fushiguro, sukuna ryomen, suguru geto, ryusei shidou, katsuki bakugo & touya todoroki in mind for this ;)

╰┈➤ caution; female! brat! reader, use of the words bitch, slut, fuck doll, begging, blow job, deep throating, face fucking, spanking, choking, rough + unprotected sex, creampie, dumbification, marking (hickies and scratching), hair pulling, he is MEAN.

pls let me know if i should add any more warnings !! not proofread !!

"babe." you throw your head back in annoyance, reaching for the large palms gripping your hips as if trying to right your wrongs but it only upsets him further.

"told you no touching." he roughly pins your wrists to the bed, his face nears yours and you find yourself leaning closer to kiss him but he just won't give in. "keep them there."

his warm touch finds your thighs, coaxing along the flesh before his hips roll and he slowly fucks into you.

he feels good, too good.

he always does but right now this isn't enough. the slow stroke of his cock pulling your cunt apart and the swollen head nudging your cervix isn't enough.

you feel every vein, even ridge, every bit of his stiff cock but he's fucking into you so painfully slow. your chest heaves, fingers twitching, desperate to be on his skin. you're desperate to have him messily kissing you until his pink lips are swollen.

his eyes look stony, gazing at your cunt swallowing every inch. he seems to take in every bit of slick that coats him. you're soaking. you've drenched him entirely.

he can feel you pulsing along him, he can feel your slick hot and sticky on his cock.

he loves your pussy too much for his own good. he's drunk on you and you know it too well. that's why he has to do things like this.

every pump of his hips to fill your cunt, is too slow for you to think straight.

you're aching for a rough pounding, you're aching to sink your nails into his back, to have his chain hanging in your face and his gravelly moans in your ear.

but this.

this is torture. you think this might be the worst punishment you have ever received.

he is mad, you can see it all over his face.

you spent the entire drive home squeezing your thighs together looking at him grip the steering wheel so hard his veins were more pronounced.

maybe you would've behaved if you knew this was what he had in mind.

you would think a man this enraged would have less restraint but somehow it seems to be the opposite for him.

your jaw hangs, a muted whimper escaping you as he cants his hips and sinks his cock inside you again. it feels like forever before his tip kisses your cervix. you can't help that your hips buck forward, you can't help that your legs tighten around his narrowed waist, urging him closer.

he doesn't budge.

his fingers squeeze your hips and you swear you've broken his resolve but you're left hissing in surprise when he pulls out. it's the first thing he has done swiftly all night.

"do you ever listen?" his lips pull back in irritation.

"i said i was sorry." you whine. your cunt clenches around nothing, only leaking with more slick. you're all doe eyed feigning innocence as you look up at him.

"you weren't sorry when you were acting all bitchy" he quips. his darkened eyes trail over your messy cunt, your neglected clit is just begging for his touch. for him to rid you of an itch only he can scratch.

you raise yourself to your elbows, eyes never leaving his. his breath slows when your hand caresses his chest. your skin is far softer than his.

he's only growing angrier.

he finds himself wishing he wasn't this weak for you but truthfully, he wouldn't change a thing.

your touch trails down from his stiff chest to the ridges of his abs. his head tilts to the side, you're really pushing it tonight. you stop just before his cock, your eyes skim over the stiffened thickness of his girth, coated in your wetness and leaking.

you bite down on your bottom lip before your fingers find your cunt, trailing through the wetness, you're so sensitive your back arches as you sink two fingers as deep as they can go.

"i promise i'm sorry. want you to fuck me like you mean it, think i deserve it." your voice is all whiny and soft. all honey dew and sugar coated.

you're spoilt rotten, he's the one responsible for it. you know how to get your way, you're good at it.

but you're forgetting he is as stubborn as you.

your fingers slip out, sticky with strings of wetness and you're spreading your cunt for him to see. he breathes hard.

you jolt when he roughly snatches your hand.

"you think you deserve it?" he says incredulously. "really?"

the corners of your lips tip into a sly smile that you're fighting to conceal.

"mmhm and i really need you." you know how to fuck with his head. you know how to destroy his sanity. "need to feel you deep inside me, need you to fuck me until i can't think."

you're shoved down against the sheets, his hard body meets yours, you hum at the feeling. his eyes are darker. his chest heaves more. you feel his cock brush your dripping hole and your legs instinctively hitch higher on his waist.

"if you want to get fucked, you need to listen." his hands are so much bigger, they enclose your wrists and press them to the sheets.

your tongue slips out to wet your lips and you nod. "i'll do whatever you say."

your jaw hangs in a drawn out moan as his cock slowly fills you. his abs tense due to your relentless clenching.

he's closer now, he's on you now.

you tilt your head up, lips brushing against his but he doesn't lean closer than that.

"keep your hands to yourself." he breathes. "and you only take what i give you."

you nod.

your cunt aches a little more, he's so big. every time he sinks back into you, you feel yourself stretching. he pulls you too wide and goes too deep. it rids your mind of any coherent thoughts.

you're huffing hot breaths, trying to control your hips. trying to be obedient.

your eyes trail over his face. he's pretty.

his lengthy lashes flutter, nose scrunching ever so slightly every time he feels you. he likes being in your cunt, he likes how hot you feel on him. and he likes-

"so fucking tight."

you're smiling. of course you are. your body rocks while he fucks into you. but it's still slow. he rolls his hips forward with a low grunt.

"babe."

he ignores you. he's too busy plunging his aching length inside your messy cunt.

"babe." you whine, a pout on your lips when he meets your eyes. "y'know, you haven't kissed me for the night."

you lean up to nudge your nose with his and he hates the way he falters. he hates the way he can do nothing to stop his hips roughly pounding into you before he finds his bearings.

he hates how pleased you look. he hates the way you dumbly smile with a ditzy look on your face from only a few heavy strokes of his cock. he is breathing hard into your shared air before his jaw clenches.

"listen to me or i won't fuck you at all." he doesn't know how much longer he can hold up this stupid punishment. he wonders if he's punishing you or himself because he has his pelvis flush to yours and your sticky pussy is slurping on him like you don't ever want to let him go.

too tempting.

"you're bluffing."

"try me." he grits his teeth.

he sits back on his knees, you find yourself disappointed at the distance.

"don't move."

he pumps his hips. moving shallowly, only the base of his cock exiting your gummy walls before he fucks it back into you.

you mewl. his dextrous fingers find your clit and he rolls the stilted bundle of nerves for the first time tonight.

he looks pretty like this, he looks pretty with his eyes trained on your cunt and his cock deep in you. he looks pretty with tense shoulders and a heaving chest.

you're really trying your best, you're trying to restrain every bit of you that is begging to touch him. but how can you really help yourself?

he looks good when he's mad. he looks good when his jaw is locked and you think it's cute how he flares his nose.

you know how to push his buttons. you're desperate to push him over the edge and break his resolve.

"it wouldn't make a difference if you stopped, this doesn't count as fucking me anyway." it's terribly unconvincing because your voice is all watery and broken.

he presses hard on your clit before his hand harshly smacks the twitching bundle of nerves, your hips cant upwards on his cock still lodged inside you.

if he was angry before, you feel like steam would be coming out of his ears now.

"you know what? i don't have to deal with this nasty attitude when my hand works fine." you flinch as he suddenly pulls out.

he wouldn't stop, right?

"mine does too." you retort but the ache between your legs is still begging to be quelled.

his arms flex, biceps bulging as his fingers grip your face and he squeezes your cheeks. his eyes are narrow.

oh, you've done it now.

"go ahead, fuck your little cunt for yourself. see if i care." his voice has deepened, strained with anger and his unsatisfied desires.

you can use your hand.

you can fuck your cunt until you cum. you know your body as good as he does but it won't be the same.

that wouldn't be enough.

it would not compare to his heavy body over you, or his fingers knotted in your hair. it would never compare to the girth of his cock pulling you wide open and fucking you until you're plugged full of hot, sticky strands of his seed.

why do it yourself when you can have him?

even if it means begging a little.

"babe, c'mon." you quip. he looks like he has already made up his mind and it won't change.

"i'm sick of your shit." he moves off of you, sitting at the edge of the bed but before he can reach for his boxers you are on him.

he breathes a little harder as your lips find his neck, your hand threading through the thick locks of his hair before caressing his angular jaw and trailing down his firm chest.

he jerks in surprising when your much smaller hand strokes his cock, still hot and sticky from your dripping pussy.

it's all he's thinking about, sinking deep inside you again sounds much better than depriving himself of your cunt.

he wishes you weren't so prissy then he would fuck you the way you're aching for.

"m'sorry." your voice should not be this adorable. no one could possibly resist you.

"yeah, right." he says through gritted teeth, eyes slightly rolling as your delicate hand palms his cock. he can hardly think straight and your goal for the night seems to be destroying him completely.

and then you whine in his ear like a fucking sex drunk slut.

"m'really sorry, y'know i didn't mean it. just missed you." he lets out a shaky breath, biting his lip as his eyes flick down to watch the languid strokes of your touch gliding up and down. he is covered in so much slick, so much of you that it's easy to tug at his cock.

"that's your excuse every fucking time. you act like a bitch and then say s'cause you missed me." your finger trails along his ear, a second later your tongue replaces it. he curses lowly, too caught up in the feeling of your lips trailing down the column of his throat. leaving his skin heated with saliva from sucking marks. "how does that make sense, baby?

"you're the one that didn't see me for three days." your voice is less begging now, bordering on irritation as you separate from his neck.

"there's that attitude again." he sucks his teeth, biting back a groan when you squeeze around the base of his thick cock. he tilts his head towards you, his nose nudging yours and he is all too pleased at how quickly you melt.

your eyes go wide and teary, your lips pouted and all he wants to do is bite them until they're swollen red. "i'm sorry, m'sorry, babe." he really is trying to resist you but then your little hand leaves his cock and reaches for his nape to pull him for a kiss so desperate it erases every thought of denying you.

he lets you, he lets you have your way with him. he lets you trip and fall and act like your world will end without him.

he likes you this way.

you're whimpering apologies with your tongue lashing his and he is licking into your mouth with renewed vigor.

he likes knowing how entangled you are in him.

you separate just barely, shared air growing dense with tension, with palpable want. "i'll make it up to you." you hum and his chest heaves as you steady yourself on your knees at his side and lean down to teasingly lick right below his navel.

he swallows hard because your ass is bare and perched out for him to see and all he can think about is how badly he wants to leave it bruised and stinging.

his jaw clenches tight enough to grind stones when your tongue laps over his leaking tip. you were trying to fray his resolve at the edges but it was undone a long time ago and he cannot deny himself of you any longer.

"wonder who you love more, me or my cock?" your breath is hot and damp while your slick tongue glides around his blushed head. his length glistening with the remnants of your juices and resting it's taste on your tongue.

"love you." you whimper, soft hand jerking his cock before your lips press to the tip and saliva is spewed down it.

he likes how nasty you get for him. he loves seeing the defiant heat in your eyes when you're being all mean to him because he knows this is what you'll be reduced to a second later.

he bites down on his bottom lip, hips thrusting up and muscles bulging as your slimy tongue rolls around and prods his slit.

it's hard to believe you love him more than his cock when you have the swollen and dripping head between your puffy lips and you are soaking it with spit after he had it lodged in your cunt.

"you're so big." your voice practically vibrates against his cock before you take it into your mouth, slow and deliberate. he has seen this sight too many times to count but he would never tire of it.

a soft groan rumbles in his chest as you lower yourself further. the taste of you and him, laying heavy on his throbbing erection, is one of salt and sin. the heady mixture instantly makes your head spin.

he has your mouth wide as you take him deeper, he borderline whines when you reach his base. his cock hitting the back of your stretched throat and he has to fight the urge to thrust.

all he can feel is the warmth of you wrapped around him and every muscle gripping him.

"you piss me the fuck off. always get me mad and then do shit like this... s'fucking annoying." he can hardly contain himself when his dick is shoved so deep in your throat that your pretty eyes are watering.

you hum around him, the vibration making his eyes roll before your cheeks hollow and you suck.

you are taking his soul. there is no doubt about it.

then, you go in for the kill because you bob your head and he swears he is seeing stars. "fuck. fuck, baby." his hips jerk, he wants to fuck your mouth, he wants to hold your head down and use your bratty throat as he pleases.

with the feeling of velvety warmth surrounding his cock and your pretty face coated with tears, his hand reaches for your ass.

"look so good with your mouth stuffed like this, can't talk shit when you're choking on my cock, huh?" he gropes the flesh of your ass before his hand rears back and connects with your skin. you jolt, still swallowing his cock over and over until messy strands of spit collect on his length and stream down his balls.

he soothes the sting with soft circles of his callous hand but he's smirking at the way you let out a muffled shriek when he does it again.

"s'not really your fault that you act like this, i know." he coos, eyes narrowing as he glances down at you. his dexterous fingers trail between your ass cheeks before cupping your soaking pussy. "it's hers. she makes you act all stupid, cause you let her do all the thinking."

his hand smacks your messy cunt and you whine around his cock, drooling around his girth.

you pull off with watery eyes, reaching down to rub your sticking spit into his swollen cock. every bit of you has wrecked him, he smacks your puffy cunt again, practically growling when you yelp and your cheek meets the dense muscle of his thigh.

his breathing is ragged while you work his cock, your thumb pressing hard against the vein that pulses along his underside before you lean in to drag your tongue along it.

"you're a fucking menace." he snarls, his hips bucking as he seeks more of your silken touch and your heated mouth.

you tug his cock down to envelop him back in heat as you swallow, your jaw aching at the stretch and your tongue squirming against him. his hand tangles in your hair driving his hips forward until you are gurgling and your lips are wrapped around his base.

he throws his head back, you feel unreal, you drive him insane. "actually g'na kill me." he groans, fucking into your mouth and cooing at the sight of furrowed brows and endless tears as he hits the back of your throat repeatedly.

"my pretty baby, love when you're being sweet." he hums, voice breaking into a stuttered moan. he can't get enough of your mouth, of the addictive feeling of you and having you at his mercy.

he grips your hair tight, shoving his entire length down your throat before letting go. you pull off his cock, gasping for air, spit and precum webbed in your mouth and sticking to his pulsing length. you sit up, liquid staining your jaw as you swallow the mess.

your pretty face is close to his, "still mad at me?" your voice is raspy all because he had his heavy cock deep in your throat.

he knows it will be sore tomorrow.

he knows that anyone you talk to tomorrow will be able to tell you let him raw your little throat.

"yeah." his voice lowly fills your ears yet he cups your cheek, stroking it gently which tells an entirely different story.

your kiss swollen lips pull into a smile that makes his heart beat quicken.

"won't stop until you're not mad." you clamber onto his lap, straddling his muscular thighs as you reach down for his hefty cock. you drag the thickness between your folds before position it at your soaking hole.

he grips your thighs as you take him, you both sigh in unison as you slowly take every inch of his pulsing cock. "pussy's so in love with me, look at how she opens up for my cock." he groans but you can tell how little control he has because his nails are digging into your flesh.

"uh huh, loves you s'much." you drawl, looping your arms around broad shoulders, face overtaken by bliss because you finally have what you wanted.

"i know, couldn't even go three days without it cause you're fucking obsessed with me." strong muscular arms surround your waist as you drop down on him, thighs smacking against his and your back arching once you are filled to the hilt.

he has your body flush to his, so much bigger than you that he engulfs you completely. he pulls out only a little before roughly slamming into you and making you shriek.

the stretch hurts so good.

he has your cunt spread and strokes every bit of your gooey insides and now any restraint has long been thrown away.

you desperately kiss him, lips softly smacking and a smug smile tugs at his lips. "just need fucking dick to make you act right. always need me to stuff you with my cock, that's the only time you stop running this slutty mouth."

he says all of it knowing he would live and die for your pussy, he is equally as obsessed with you.

he drives his hips roughly into you, his sodden cock jamming into your walls so hard your teeth grit and your back arches.

"this is what you wanted right? wanted to get fucked so hard that you can't think. look at you, drooling for it like a slut." his lips curl back in a snarl, wet squelches filling the room with every pound of his hips.

you whine, your hands scrambling on muscly and broad shoulders as your mind goes blank. "yes, yes, s'all i wanted! feels so good." he hugs you tighter, squeezing your body against him, fingers digging into your flesh.

your body is shaking as he pounds open your sopping pussy, roughly jolting from the weight of his thrusts, your thighs practically peeling away from his each time.

you gasp into his mouth when he hits a spot deep inside you that has you entirely consumed by the delicious feel of him claiming your cunt again.

his jaw drops into a moan too, cheeks reddened and brows furrowed before his tongue flicks out. yours meets his, slimy muscles glide together as his pulsing cock drags along your insides.

"fucking nasty, your pussy is so messy for me. she's crying on my cock cause she wanted it so fucking bad. would've fucked her out earlier but you just had to be a bitch."

your fingers knot in thick tuffs of hair and he hisses when you roughly pull. you arch against him like you want to be closer even though your skin is flush to his built body.

"you love it, you love when i'm a bitch. love when i fight you and make you chase me." your plush lips part in a high pitched moan because the weight of his thrusts only increases. "s'why you fuck me like this." you whimper.

he jerks his hips, rough and powerful, it hurts. your body grinds against his and he only fucks you harder, the rhythm punishing. your forehead meets his, gasping for air because he takes it all away. his fingers are digging into your flesh and you know without a doubt they leave bruises in their wake.

"yeah." he leans in to lick into your mouth, using your body like a weightless fuck doll. "i love when my baby thinks she can mouth off to me cause it means i can fuck you like the little slut you are. don't have to feel bad about being mean to you when you deserve it." he snarls but he leans in to claim your lips in a sweet kiss.

his firm muscles are all tense and straining, your thighs trembling while he continues to buck upwards, absolutely no exhaustion overcoming him.

he kisses down your sternum before taking your nipple into his mouth, rolling the pert bud with his tongue and biting down. he groans when you tug his hair but he's sucking down and grazing his teeth on the sensitive flesh.

"you're fucking hot, baby. s'annoying." one arm keeps you secured to him, entirely at his mercy. his other hand wrapping around your throat, that's dwarfed by the size of his palm. he squeezes, enough to make you feel it, feel him.

his cock slips out shallowly and slides back into your soaked cunt with a filthy suctioning noise like your pussy wants to keep him stuck deep inside you. like she never wants to let him go.

your trembling thighs are stinging every time dense muscle meets the underside, your body already aching from the rough fucking.

"cunt's still tight as hell. doesn't matter how many times i've fucked her, she's still strangling my cock." creamy white has started collecting at his base, each thrust driving into you harder than the last and he is slamming your body down to meet every movement.

he presses his lips to yours, tongue fucking into your mouth like his cock is drilling into your pussy. he can taste himself on your tongue.

your body convulses, cunt incessantly clenching around him and it only goads him to drive deeper into you. your nails scrape at his shoulders, it seems he has fucked you entirely dumb.

his touch glides up your back before raking down your spine, leaving similar red welts. you are shivering in his lap, your cunt drenching him so much that it stains his thighs and drips down his heavy balls.

you can only let out ragged gasps as his cock throbs inside you with a steady pulse. you swear you feel every single vein on his thick cock.

"giving you exactly what you wanted, always do. got you so spoilt." his voice is low and it only makes your cunt squeeze him.

his lips find yours, hungry and demanding and you reciprocate with your tongue messily tangling with his. "so fucking tight."

he growls against your mouth, meanly pounding up into you. you can't take much more. your brain is scrambled and tears have long been streaming down your face.

"you love it, love me and my cunt and how it chokes your cock." it is throbbing, it is spewing strings of pre cum in you already.

"nasty girl, you get so nasty for me." he reaches down to strum at your swollen and jittery clit. your cunt spasming and guzzling around him. "could fuck you forever, i could live inside your pussy."

"you better." you've left streaks of red scratches down his back and chest, desperate on his skin as you lose your bearings. "you better fuck me forever, don't want you to ever stop."

he lowly laughs at your admission, his eyes blown out with desire.

his swollen lips curl back in a snarl, holding you flush to him as he quickens his hips. your pussy sucking on his cock as he begins to drill into you rougher then before, harder than before. hitting so deep you swear your vision is turning white.

he hits that spot inside you every single time, the knot in your stomach binding tighter and tighter.

your fingers pull his hair but it does little to move him, shrieking watery moans every time his cock plunges into you. you grit your teeth, lids fluttering to send an onslaught of fresh tears down your cheeks.

you are shaking, your syrupy walls spasming and gripping him tightly. he is rolling your clit quickly and intensely.

your body is jolting like you want to get away but you are holding him and pressing against him like you need him to fuck you to completion.

you can feel his cock swelling inside you, his thrusts becoming more erratic and uneven the longer he fucks you.

"g'na cum, babe. m'gna cum." you whine, crying as your head drops to his firm shoulder, you are jerking with zero restraint.

"give it to me, baby. cum all over my cock, show me how much you love it." your gummy walls quiver against him, spasming before wrapping around him so tight that he is hissing. the rhythmic pulsing has his eyes rolling before your pussy floods with your release.

it coats his cock endlessly but even then he doesn't stop fucking you open.

"s'too much, fuck it's too much." you whine and his eyes flash.

he lets you go, you barely steady yourself on trembling hands as you rest them back on his knees.

both your eyes find the messy exchange of your pussy pulled wide around his cock, your slick covering him. callous hands grip your waist and he pumps into you, quickly and unevenly.

his abs tensing and biceps bulging. you feel too good on him, you feel like heaven sent.

"take it. fucking take it all, cause this is what you were acting up for." he can barely get the words out, they're all gruff and gravelly.

his expression is overtaken by open mouth moans as he watches his cock plunge into your pulled apart slit.

you shriek at how hard he grips you, at the sting of his thighs clapping against yours. all he is looking at is how completely ruined you are.

"you're so fucking perfect." his voice breathy and drawn out, brows knitted together before his jaw hangs and his hips slam up to fill you to the brim.

you're crying out his name, you can feel his cock throbbing inside you then thick spurts of cum coat your insides. the heated liquid streams deep within you and once he has thoroughly creamed your pussy, he gathers you into his arms.

your fingers thread through his hair and your lips meet his.

"i love you so much." he pants.

"i love you too." you whisper, a bit dopey and in awe when a smile spreads across his face. he looks good when he's angry and seething but he arguably looks better like this, with flushed cheeks and softened eyes. with sweaty skin and ruffled hair. you're admiring him as you lay limp against him.

"i hope you learned your lesson."

you lightly laugh, pressing a wet smooch to his lips and though you're nodding your head the mischievous smile on your face is proof that you're plotting your next scheme.

luckily, he loves dealing with your little attitude.

thinking thoughts , still working on the other fics i mentioned

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pitlanepeach · 3 days ago

Text

Radio Silence | Chapter Forty-Three

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, pregnancy, strong language, birth, post-birth emotional disconnect.

Notes — Feeling sentimental. I really love you all so much. Thank you for your support and interest in this fic. It has meant the world to me. That said... TWO MORE CHAPTERS TO GO

2024

This was not the plan.

Barefoot was not the plan. Leggings soaked through with amniotic fluid and pain spiking low in her back like white-hot wire as her mom helped her out of the car was not the plan.

Thirty-eight weeks wasn’t pre-term. Everyone kept reassuring her, saying that she was full-term. Normal. Fine. But it wasn’t the plan. Her spreadsheet had said forty weeks. Her due date was still two weeks away.

Her brain had been prepped for forty. And this — this was chaos.

The private maternity wing at Northamptonshire General was everything she’d asked for. Calm. Modern. Quiet.

But not now.

Now it was too bright. Too noisy. Too uncontrolled.

Amelia flinched as the double doors to the ward opened automatically, the high-pitched whirring mechanical sound cutting sharp through her head. She shrank in on herself as the fluorescent lights bounced off polished linoleum and made her vision haze.

Her hands fluttered in midair, then pinched hard at the inside of her elbows. Over and over. She knew it was going to leave bruises. She didn’t care.

“Contraction,” she gasped, one hand bracing the wall. “Stop. Wait—”

Tracey was there, one hand between Amelia’s shoulder blades, the other pressing the call bell. “You’re okay, baby,” her mum whispered. “You’re doing so good.”

Amelia shook her head rapidly, breath catching in her throat. The pain wrapped around her middle like a vice and pulled. The floor tilted. The lights burned through her skull. Her mouth opened but nothing came out except a panicked inhale.

“Amelia?”

The voice was low. Calm. Warm, but neutral. Controlled.

Fiona.

Familiar. Early 40s. Irish accent. Quiet shoes. Soft jumper. Smelled like vanilla and Dettol. Amelia had met her a handful of times now, for appointments. She liked Fiona. Fiona didn’t make her feel like she was wrong for needing things said twice, or for needing silence, or for asking for bullet points on birth options.

“Alright. Hi, honey. It’s good to see you. I’ve got you,” Fiona said, stepping in close without touching her. “You're safe. The lights are bright, I know. We’re going to move to a quiet room, and there’s some fairy lights strung up in there. Would that help?”

Amelia nodded so fast her braid whipped against her shoulder.

“Can I take your hand?” Fiona asked gently.

Another nod. Shaky this time.

Fiona’s hand was warm. Dry.

They turned the corner into a private room, and as soon as the door shut behind them, Fiona moved with crisp efficiency — lowering the lights, drawing the blinds, speaking to the nurse in a clipped whisper. The temperature adjusted. The tones softened.

Still, Amelia kept stimming — fingers now tapping the underside of her chin in fast, repeated bursts. The pain was stealing her words.

She needed Lando.

“I’m going to say everything out loud before I do it, okay?” Fiona said. “Your blood pressure, then we’ll get you on the monitor. You’re safe. Nothing’s being done without your say-so.”

“Where’s—” Amelia rasped.

“Lando?” Tracey translated from her side, rubbing her shoulder. “He’s coming, baby. Three hours. Your dad just text. They're already on the plane.”

Amelia shook her head again, furious tears springing to her eyes. “He should—he should’ve answered the phone. Why didn’t he—he should have answered my call.”

“I know,” Fiona said softly, and she meant it. “I know. But you’re doing this. And you are not alone. Do you want your headphones?”

Amelia blinked.

“I remember you had sensory overload in your birth plan. I’ve got noise-cancelling ones I can give you. Music, white noise, or just silence.”

“White noise,” Amelia croaked.

Fiona pulled them from the drawer. Slid them on gently. Adjusted them without touching her ears.

The static hum clicked on and it helped.

The room dulled. The air stopped buzzing so loud. Her limbs stopped flinching like she was being shocked.

“Better?” Fiona asked.

Amelia gave a thumbs up.

“Okay, love. We’ll time the next contraction together. You just let it happen. I’ll talk you through everything. Then I’m going to pop your legs up, and we’ll see how dilated you are, okay?”

Amelia nodded.

Squeezed her mom's hand with bone-breaking force.

And held tight to the image of Lando — messy curls, warm eyes, that breathless voice — walking through the door.

He would come.

She just had to hold out until he did.

—

Lando was pacing.

Still in his race suit, hair matted to his forehead, jaw locked so tight it ached.

The garage was quiet—the kind of quiet that only follows an early retirement. It wasn’t peace. It was tension. It was post-mortem silence.

It was stunned mechanics and snapped radio comms and the faint echo of tyres being wheeled away.

On the overhead screen, Oscar was being handed the P2 trophy on the podium.

Lando couldn't even look.

He was still reliving Turn 3.

The outside line. Max. The squeeze. The goddamn nudge.

The second he felt the contact, he knew it was done.

Puncture. Floor damage. Game over.

Both of them out. Two DNFs. No points. Just fury.

He’d thrown his gloves across the garage the moment he climbed out.

Now his hands were still shaking, chest still tight with adrenaline and rage.

“Fucking dickhead,” he muttered under his breath, pacing. “Every time. Every single fucking time—he can’t help himself.”

No one said anything. No one dared.

The media would already be writing the headlines.

‘Norris cracks under championship pressure.’

He didn’t care.

His phone had buzzed three times. He didn’t look at it.

He didn’t want to see who the hell was brave enough to be the first one to call him.

Didn’t want to deal with PR or statements or apologies.

He just wanted to scream. And maybe punch Max in the face.

He spun again—too fast. Nearly walked straight into Zak.

“Jesus, Lando—” Zak grabbed his arm. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I know,” Lando snapped, still breathless, still fuming. “Sorry. I just—Max—he fucking ruined it.”

Zak didn’t even flinch. “Forget Max. You need to listen to me. We have to go. Now.”

Lando’s stomach dropped.

“What?” he said, blinking. “Go where?”

“Home. To England. Amelia just called.”

The words hit harder than the collision.

His face drained. All the heat of his anger snapped to cold panic.

“What—what's wrong?” His voice cracked.

“She’s in labour. Tracey’s with her. She tried to call you—she’s okay, far as I know—but it’s happening. Now.”

Lando staggered back a step, pulling out his phone with shaking hands.

Three missed calls. Two texts. One from Tracey. One from Amelia.

Amelia:

IN LABOUR!

Tracey:

She’s okay. We’re on our way to the hospital. Northamptonshire, as planned. Get here fast.

“Fuck,” he breathed, pressing the phone to his forehead. “I didn’t answer—she called, and I didn’t—fuck.”

The guilt hit like a punch to the chest.

Two weeks early.

Was it the crash?

The stress?

She was watching. She always watched. She was on the comms today too, wasn’t she?

Did watching him get taken out—watching the car spin, the team panic—did that trigger something?

Did he do this?

His throat felt raw. “Is she in pain? Is she scared?”

“I don’t know. All she did was tell me to come and get you,” Zak said quietly. “That’s all. But if we don’t move now—”

Lando didn’t wait.

He ran.

Helmet abandoned. Suit unzipped. Gloves forgotten.

Sprinting down the paddock like the lights had gone green again and everything was on the line.

He nearly collided with Oscar, fresh from the podium, champagne still drying on his suit.

“Lando?” Oscar said, frowning. “What’s going on?”

“Amelia’s in labour.”

Oscar’s eyes went wide. “Wait—now?”

“Yes, now!” Lando barked, eyes wild. “And I missed her call. I missed it. I’m not there, and she needs me—fuck—”

Behind them: rapid footsteps. Heavy breathing.

“What the fuck is going on?” Max, fresh from media, damp curls plastered to his forehead. Still in his suit. Still furious—until he saw Lando’s face.

“Amelia’s in labour,” Oscar said, breathless.

Max went still. “Shit.”

“She’s on her way to the hospital,” Lando said, voice cracking. “And I’m not there. I didn’t answer—I was so fucking angry, and I didn’t check, and she—” He clenched his fists. “What if it was the race? What if we stressed her out so much that it happened early? What if I fucked this up too?”

“Hey—no,” Oscar said quickly, stepping forward. “No, mate.”

Max grabbed his arm. “Fuck the race. I don’t give a shit. We need to go.”

“You just crashed into me,” Lando snapped. “Why are you even talking to me?”

Max didn’t even blink. “Because she’s my family, mate.”

There was a beat of silence. Lando swallowed.

“My jet’s at the airfield,” Max added. “Fastest way to England. No bullshit. Let’s go.”

Zak jogged up behind them, car keys in hand. “You can bring the whole damn grid for all I care. But we leave now if you want to make it in time.”

Lando’s lungs hurt. His heart was racing.

Oscar beside him. Max right behind. Zak in front.

Don’t let me miss her, he thought, over and over. Please. Please don’t let me miss her.

—

The receptionist barely looked up before buzzing the doors open.

Lando didn’t wait. He shoved through them, sprinting.

His shoes squeaked against polished linoleum.

His heart was hammering. His brain was a mess of white noise and guilt and prayer.

He was too late. He was too late.

He should’ve answered the phone.

Should’ve known.

Should’ve been there.

The midwife at the station looked up just as he rounded the corner.

“Norris?” She asked knowingly.

He nearly collapsed with relief. “Yes. I’m—yes. I’m Lando. My wife—Amelia—”

“She’s okay,” the midwife said quickly, already standing. “Room 307. I’ll take you.”

He didn’t hear the rest. He was already moving.

The lights were too bright. The walls too white. His skin itched with leftover adrenaline and travel-sweat. He still wore his fireproofs under his hoodie, and he felt like he might vibrate out of his skin.

You weren’t here.

He turned a corner.

She needed you.

He reached the door.

And stopped.

He could hear her.

Not words—just breath. Short, shallow, uneven. The sound of someone trying not to panic.

He opened the door.

Amelia was there. On the bed.

Half propped up on pillows, her hospital gown pulled tight over her belly. Her hands fisted in the thin blanket. Her face flushed with pain.

A yellow golf-ball in her lap.

Her head snapped up when she saw him.

And for a moment, neither of them said anything.

“You took so long,” she whispered, voice wrecked.

Lando crossed the room in three steps, already shaking. “I know. I’m sorry, baby. I’m so sorry. I didn’t check my phone—I was—I was pissed off with how my race ended and I didn’t think and I should’ve known—fuck—” He dropped to his knees beside her, pressed his forehead to her arm. “I thought I’d be too late,” he said into her skin.

Amelia reached out—tangled her fingers in his hair—and tugged, sharp. “Stop,” she said, voice hoarse. “None of that.”

His eyes were already red. His cheeks wet. He didn’t know when he’d started crying.

She looked exhausted. Pale under the flush. But she was here. And so was he. Finally.

“You didn't miss it,” she said. “She waited for you.”

“Of course she did,” he whispered. And then he kissed her. “And you. You’re the strongest fucking woman in the world. You know that?”

She exhaled a laugh. “I’m also five centimetres dilated and out of patience, so if you want to be helpful—please hand me that cup of ice.”

He did. With shaking hands.

“My mom braided my hair,” she added after a moment, voice softer now. “You missed that part.”

“I’m not going to miss anything else,” he promised.

He kissed her forehead. Her temple. Her knuckles. Gave her mom a small smile.

Tracey was sat in the corner, near the window, working on a knitting project. They looked like tiny booties from what he could see.

He’d hug her later. Thank her a million times just for being there — even though he knew she wouldn’t choose to be anywhere else in the world rather than at Amelia’s beck and call.

“I ran through the paddock,” he murmured. “Max and Oscar came too. We took Max’s jet. Your dad nearly had a coronary at the airport.”

Her eyes softened. “They came?”

“Yeah.” He brushed her damp hair back. “They’re all downstairs. Waiting. Your dad wasn’t sure you’d want him here, didn’t want to overwhelm you. They’re freaking out. Because they love you.”

“I want them to come and say hi after,” she said. Her face twisted with discomfort. “But— I just it want it to be you and my mom, okay? Until she’s here.”

“Okay, baby. Whatever you want.” His fingers slid over hers. “I— I need to call my parents.”

“I already took care of that, honey. They’re on their way.” Tracey said.

Lando exhaled with relief.

Then he leaned in and kissed his wife and said, “You have never looked more beautiful than you do right now.”

—

It was over.

Except it wasn’t.

There was a cry.

And then hands, gentle, practised, passing something small and slippery and impossibly alive onto Amelia’s chest.

“Here she is, Amelia,” Fiona said softly. “You did it. She’s here. Healthy and pink.”

Amelia couldn’t speak.

She couldn’t think.

Because everything in her brain was screaming: “this isn’t real.”

This wasn’t how she’d rehearsed it in her head. In her spreadsheets. In the checklist she’d kept taped to the fridge.

This wasn’t theoretical.

This wasn’t a due date or a biometric scan or the size of a cantaloupe at 38 weeks.

This was weight. Heat. Movement.

A baby. Her baby.

On her. In her arms.

Not inside anymore.

The disconnect hit her like a crash.

Amelia flinched; only slightly, but enough that Fiona paused, watching.

And so did Lando. And her mom.

Her breathing had gone shallow again. She was blinking fast, trying to recalibrate.

The baby; the baby, the baby — it wasn’t a concept.

It was a person. With skin and breath and a heart that was beating fast.

A heart that had come from her.

Amelia’s whole body trembled. Not from pain, but from the sheer impossibility of it all.

Ada.

Her name had been a theory. A hope.

Now it was a face. A body. Tiny hands.

But faces were hard. Faces moved. Eyes blinked. Skin flushed. Tiny limbs twitched.

And she was touching her. Skin to skin. The warmth was overwhelming.

Every sensory processor in Amelia’s brain screamed. She wanted to dissapear. She wanted to cry. She wanted to understand — and she didn’t.

“You’re okay, baby,” Lando whispered from beside her, voice cracked and reverent. “Just let yourself have a few minutes. Just… just look at her.”

Amelia’s hands hovered uselessly in the air, a few inches away from Ada’s damp, curled back. She couldn’t bring herself to touch.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, voice paper-thin. “I don’t—I don’t know her.”

Fiona gently nudged Ada higher. “She knows you. Smell, heartbeat, voice. She knows you, Amelia.”

But that made it worse.

Because Amelia was so full of love she couldn’t speak — but she was also full of fear, static, disorientation. Her brain was desperately trying to map a new universe with no manual.

Lando leaned in. Rested his forehead to hers. One hand on Ada’s back. One over Amelia’s hand, still hovering.

“You’re doing it,” he said softly. “You’re already doing it.”

Ada made a small sound — nothing loud, just a hum. A nuzzle. A twitch of her mouth.

And Amelia finally, finally, laid both hands over her daughter’s back. Just fingertips.

Ada shifted, rooting instinctively.

“She’s a hungry girl,” Fiona said, voice warm and gentle. “Would you like some help?”

Amelia nodded, but her eyes stayed locked on Ada — this tiny, impossible thing who had been an abstract dream for nine months and now weighed heavy and warm on her chest.

She guided her with Fiona's aid, shaking slightly; and Ada latched like she’d done it in a past life.

“Look at that,” Fiona whispered. “First try.”

Lando made a choked sound. “Daddy’s girl.”

Amelia didn’t even look at him. She reached blindly, grabbed the empty bedpan from the table beside the bed, and whipped it in his direction.

It bounced harmlessly off his leg. He laughed.

“I deserved that,” he murmured.

Amelia still didn’t look away from Ada.

Her fingers, once frozen, were now stroking her daughter’s back. Tentative. Learning.

“I don’t understand how she’s real,” she whispered.

“It’s okay,” Lando said, voice barely a breath. “You’ve got a lifetime to learn her.”

Amelia’s throat closed. A single tear slid down her cheek, hot and sharp.

Ada suckled rhythmically, peacefully. Her skin flushed. Her impossibly tiny hands curled into fists.

And Amelia fell in love.

—

The room was quiet.

Tracey had slipped out to tell the world that Ada Rossella Norris had arrived safely. That Amelia was okay.

In the soft lamplight and afterbirth hush, everything stood still.

Lando sat half-on the bed, one arm wrapped around Amelia’s shoulders, the other curled around her waist.

Ada lay nestled between them, tiny cheek resting against her mother’s chest, her breath a faint whisper of warmth.

Amelia hadn’t spoken in a while.

Not since the first latch. Not since the bedpan throw.

She was staring down at Ada like she couldn’t possibly look away. Like if she blinked, this would all turn out to have been a dream.

Her fingers moved slowly—carefully. Memorising. Mapping. A tactile inventory.

“She has your nose,” Amelia murmured, her voice cracked and reverent. “But flatter. Less of the Norris ski slope.”

Lando huffed a laugh against her temple. “I don’t have a ski slope.”

“You do,” she said, brushing a finger over the curve of Ada’s. “But it’s endearing. Especially in winter photos.”

She stroked over Ada’s tiny forehead. “And my pouty lips. Poor thing.”

“Baby.”

“It’s okay. She’ll grow into them.” Amelia paused, then added, “Her ears are yours. Exactly. Same tilt. Same soft cartilage. She’s going to hate them in school and love them by the time she’s an adult.”

Lando’s grip on her tightened, just slightly. “She’s perfect.”

“I know.” Amelia’s voice cracked. “She’s so real.”

Ada squirmed softly, stretching a hand, and Amelia caught it — thumb gently placed against tiny fingers.

“She has fingernails,” she whispered, as though it shocked her. “Actual fingernails.”

Lando kissed her hair. “Yeah. She’s a whole person.”

Amelia was quiet again, but only for a second. And then, still not looking up, she began to speak.

“Ada,” she said, voice low and even, like she was introducing the baby to the room, to her own existence. “You were born on a Sunday. In a maternity ward in Northamptonshire. At 38 weeks and three days. You came early because you are, apparently, impatient. Or maybe just a bit dramatic. Your dad swears it had nothing to do with the fact that he and Max crashed and stressed your mummy out. I’m not convinced.”

Lando groaned softly, head tilted back against the wall. “Don’t blame her dramatic entrance on my DNF.”

“I’m just saying,” Amelia murmured, brushing Ada’s cheek, “the timing is suspicious.”

Ada twitched, shifting closer into her chest.

“Well, then, let’s see. You’re part British, part Belgium, part American, but I’m not sure you’ll be jumping to claim that last one. You have a Formula One driver for a daddy. And an engineer for a mummy.”

Lando chuckled. His hand came up to rest over hers, both of them cupping their daughter together.

“You’ll grow up in paddocks. You’ll learn to walk in motorhomes. Your first sunscreen will be whatever your mummy can find in the team stash. Everyone’s going to spoil you rotten. Oscar, well, that’s your Uncle Ducky — he’s already bought you this sweet little onesie with a hundred tiny little cartoon ducks on it. And Max, Verstappen, well, that’ll be your uncle too. I don’t have a brother, but he’s the nearest thing.” She whispered. “But you’ll have another Uncle Max too, and that might get a bit confusing for you, but we’ll be patient.”

Amelia leaned her head on Lando’s shoulder. Her voice dipped lower, like she was confiding a secret to Ada, or maybe to herself.

“You’ll be so loved,” she said. “So much. By people who’ve waited their whole lives to meet you. By a daddy who would cross the continent in race boots to get to you in time. By me, even when I’m tired and anxious and unsure of how to be your a mummy and a person at the same time.”

She sniffed hard, blinking fast again. “You’ve been born into a world that’s chaotic and messy and fast and loud—but it’s ours. And we’re going to make sure it’s yours, too.”

Ada breathed. Soft and slow. Eyes still closed. Tiny fist curled against her cheek.

Lando rested his chin on top of Amelia’s head.

—

Dim afternoon light pooled in soft gold across the linoleum floor, filtered through thick hospital curtains. Machines beeped softly in the background, steady and forgettable.

Amelia was sleeping.

Not deeply — her body too raw, her brain too wired — but enough to rest. Enough for her face to soften, for her lashes to flutter, for her breath to even out against the pillow.

Lando hadn’t taken his eyes off her for hours.

But now — just for a moment — he was pacing near the window, his arms full of something precious.

Ada.

Swaddled and warm and impossibly small in his hoodie-covered forearms, her tiny head nestled into the crook of his elbow, mouth parted, breaths soft. She smelled like hospital linen and baby powder. Like nothing and everything.

Lando couldn’t stop looking at her.

He kept glancing back to Amelia, as if to make sure she was still there — still breathing, still safe, still his. And then back down to Ada again, like he couldn’t quite believe she’d made it out of someone so extraordinary.

“You know,” he said softly, voice barely above a whisper, “I really thought I’d miss it.”

He swallowed. Looked down at the little bundle blinking slowly up at him — unfocused, unaware, content.

“I was so fucking angry. You wouldn’t believe it. Max and I — well, you’ll hear those stories when you’re older. But I was in the garage, ready to murder someone, and I missed three calls.”

He shifted Ada gently in his arms, pacing another slow length of the room.

“And then your grandpa Zak came in and told me your mum was in labour and I…” He laughed under his breath. It cracked in the middle. “I think my heart actually stopped.”

Ada scrunched her nose, then relaxed again.

“I thought you might be born without me there. And I would never have forgiven myself.”

His voice dropped to a hush, as though even the words themselves were too loud.

“And knowing that your mummy was in pain, and overwhelmed, and everything would be moving too fast and she needed me — and I wasn’t there.”

Lando exhaled, slow and ragged.

“But she waited. You waited. And now you’re here.”

Ada shifted slightly, a little sigh escaping her lips like the smallest secret in the world.

Lando smiled, tears pricking at his lashes again. He bounced her gently, rocking her as he gazed out the window, the hospital grounds bathed in quiet light.

“I don’t know if I’m going to get this right,” he admitted, voice barely audible now. “Being your dad. Being your mummy’s husband. Balancing all of it. But I swear to you, Ada—” He glanced down again, kissed the side of her velvet-soft head. “I swear I will love you so much that even on the days I get it wrong, you’ll never doubt that part.”

Behind him, Amelia stirred slightly but didn’t wake.

Lando turned, adjusting Ada one-handed so he could settle into the armchair beside the bed, still cradling her close.

She was falling asleep again.

He watched her eyelids flutter.

“Everyone’s going to want to meet you soon. Oscar and Max and your grandpa Zak. My mum and dad are coming too, and they’re your other grandparents. Nanny Cisca and Grampy Adam. You’ve got a whole army of people who love you already.”

Ada didn’t respond, of course. But Lando smiled anyway.

—

There was a soft knock.

Amelia stirred at the sound, her eyes fluttering open.

Lando was beside her, Ada nestled in his arms, both of them silhouetted against the low amber light from the window. He turned toward the door at the knock, but didn’t speak.

Tracey peeked her head in first. “They’re climbing the walls out here. You ready for visitors?”

Amelia didn’t answer right away — just nodded, slow and small.

The door opened.

Her dad entered first, still in team gear, face flushed and drawn with tension that hadn’t quite released. Max followed close behind, jaw set, eyes scanning every inch of the room. Then Oscar, quietest of all, hovering in the doorway, his hands clenched around the hem of his t-shirt.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then Zak exhaled sharply — a sound that came out almost like a sob — and crossed the room in four long strides.

“She’s here,” Lando said, voice thick with emotion.

He was smiling — tired, tearstained, messy-haired, beaming. His hoodie had been peeled back at the chest, skin-to-skin with Ada, whose sleepy face peeked just above the blanket.

Zak made it to them first. He didn’t ask permission — just leaned in, reverent, pressing one palm gently to Ada’s impossibly small back.

“Wow,” he whispered. “She’s perfect.”

His voice cracked.

“She’s healthy,” Lando said. “They both are.”

Max stood frozen for a beat, as if unsure if he was allowed to move — then his whole body softened, and he stepped forward, too. No jokes, no bravado.

He leaned down and kissed the top of Lando’s curls — and just like that, the tension of the day, of the collision and the angry team-radios, were forgotten.

Then, he looked at Ada.

“Dag meisje,” he murmured, voice low and Dutch-soft. Little girl. “What a beautiful girl you are.”

Amelia blinked over at them; Lando, crying silently, Zak with both hands now cradling the baby’s tiny back, Max brushing a finger over her little cap of dark hair.

But Oscar hadn’t moved.

He stood just inside the door, eyes locked on Amelia. Not the baby. Not Lando. Just her.

She gave him a nod.

And in an instant, Oscar crossed the room. No words — not yet — just a deep, shaking breath as he dropped to his knees beside her bed and wrapped his arms around her shoulders.

He was warm and real and trembling just slightly.

“I thought—” he choked on the words. “I didn’t know if you—”

“I’m okay,” she whispered. “It’s okay.”

Oscar nodded into her shoulder.

“Sorry I made you worry.” She told him.

“It’s fine,” he said hoarsely, voice muffled. “Did you see my podium?”

Amelia let out a breathy laugh and nodded. Then she reached for his hand and squeezed.

Behind them, Max was now peppering Lando with questions — rapid-fire Dutch, mostly — about the birth, the midwife, whether Ada had opened her eyes yet.

Zak hadn’t stopped touching Ada, like if he let go, she might disappear.

Oscar still hadn’t looked at the baby.

“Can I see her?” He asked Amelia softly.

Amelia gave another nod. “Yeah, ducky. Of course you can.”

Oscar stood, eyes wide, cautious like she was made of glass; but when Lando held Ada out to him, he took her without hesitation.

She fit perfectly into his arms.

“Hi,” he breathed, eyes going impossibly soft. “Hello, baby Ada. You look just like your mummy.”

Amelia lay back against the pillows and closed her eyes.

Her dad come and gave her a kiss on the forehead.

Max kissed both of her cheeks and told her that she looked beautiful.

And then Ada was back in her arms, all scrunchy nosed and wet-eyed, and the world narrowed down to her.

—

The house was too quiet.

Which was absurd, given they were no longer alone.

But that was exactly the problem.

The silence left too much room for Amelia’s thoughts.

She stood in the nursery, arms crossed tightly over her chest. In a baggy tee and oversized cotton pyjama pants, hair still braided but frizzed at the edges.

She hadn’t let go of Ada in hours — not really.

Even now, with Ada asleep in the crib just a few feet away, Amelia felt like she hadn’t let her go.

Lando stood a few paces behind, leaning against the doorframe in his joggers and a white t-shirt, barefoot and watching her with soft eyes.

“We don’t have to leave her,” he said gently. “Not even for a second. There’s a basket in our room for a reason, baby.”

Amelia didn’t answer.

She rubbed one hand up and down her arm, fast, rhythmic. A stim. Comfort.

“She’s just so small,” she said eventually. “And she was inside me and now she’s not, and my brain hasn’t — hasn’t caught up to the idea that she’s real and separate and still… fine.”

Lando stepped closer, slow and careful, like approaching a scared animal. Not because he thought she’d snap, but because she was stretched thin and too full and too raw, and he knew better than to rush her.

“I know,” he said. “It’s weird, right? How quiet she is? How not imaginary?”

Amelia exhaled sharply, a little laugh catching in her throat. “I keep expecting someone to come take her away. Like — like we’re just the transport team.”

Lando reached out, his hand resting lightly on the small of her back. “They handed her to us, remember? In the hospital. And no one looked worried. Not a single nurse said ‘actually, we’ve changed our minds’.”

“I don’t feel qualified.”

“You grew her.”

“I did,” she whispered, blinking hard. “And now I’m supposed to… put her in a crib and go to bed like she’s not still part of me?”

“You don’t have to,” he said again. “We can pull the moses basket all the way next to your side of the bed. You can have your hand in there with her, baby, if that’s what you need to do. And we got those little toe clips, didn’t we? To make sure she’s still breathing. I’ll set up the white noise machine. I can hold her while you shower. Or while you lie down. Whatever feels okay.”

She stared at him.

“I don’t want to close my eyes,” she admitted. “I don’t want to stop looking at her.”

“We can take turns.”

“But you need to sleep.”

“I’ll nap tomorrow.”

“Lando.”

“Amelia.”

She cracked a smile then — barely, but real.

And he took her hand, warm and grounding. “Come lie down. Just lie down. I’ll keep one hand on her and one on you. I’ll be right there.”

Amelia hesitated.

Then nodded.

She let him guide her back to their bedroom. Lando had already rearranged everything — bassinet beside the bed, a lamp dimmed low, muslins folded with surgical precision. He lifted Ada gently from the crib and laid her into the basket with infinite care.

Then he slid into bed, propped up by pillows, and held out his arms.

Amelia didn’t need to be told twice.

She curled into his side, one hand reaching instinctively toward Ada’s sleeping form, her fingers resting just beside the basket.

No blankets. No teddies. No safety hazards.

Just a perfectly swaddled baby in a white onesie, her tiny chest rising and falling in a rhythm Amelia was already memorising. A monitor was clipped gently to one of her toes — nothing intrusive, just a soft band — but if anything changed, even slightly, it would ping Lando’s phone in an instant.

“I’m going to check on her every ten minutes,” Amelia mumbled, eyes already heavy but refusing to close.

Lando kissed her hair. “That’s okay. I probably will too.”

She nodded once, almost automatically, and settled deeper against him — but her fingers didn’t move from the edge of the basket. Her mind was moving too fast to follow, darting down rabbit holes.

“Did you ever get nightmares as a child?” She asked suddenly, her voice a little hoarse.

Lando blinked. “Um. Yeah. A few. Why?”

“I read somewhere they can run in families. It’s neurological. Patterns of sleep. And I just… I want to be prepared.”

He didn’t say 'You don’t have to worry about that right now.'

He didn’t say 'Let it go.'

He knew better.

So he said, “Only when I was overtired. I’d sleepwalk too, sometimes. My mum said I used to go looking for my kart in the middle of the night.”

That made her smile a little — soft and crooked. “Of course you did.”

He chuckled under his breath. “What else do you want to know?”

“Did you have a favourite toy?”

“Plastic steering wheel. I wouldn’t let anyone else touch it. It had a red horn button. I’d sit on the living room rug and pretend I was racing.”

“Were you scared of the dark?”

Lando glanced down at her, at the way her brow was pinched just slightly.

The questions weren’t idle.

They were a defence. A rhythm.

A way to keep the storm in her head at bay.

“I hated the dark,” he said simply. “I used to leave the bathroom light on; on purpose. It used to drive my dad mad, but I didn’t want to admit that it was because the dark hallway scared me.”

She was quiet for a moment, her hand still resting near the basket.

“I need to hold her,” she said finally. Her voice didn’t wobble, but her lip did. “Just for a minute. Just to make sure she’s… she’s okay.”

Lando didn’t even hesitate. “She’s yours, baby,” he murmured. “Ours. We can hold her whenever we want.”

So he got up and placed Ada gently in her mother’s arms, careful not to wake her.

Amelia’s breath hitched as she pulled their daughter close, cupping the back of her tiny head, pressing her lips to soft baby hair and inhaling like she was trying to fuse them back together.

And Lando just watched.

“I’m scared,” she whispered, eyes still locked on Ada.

“I know.”

“But I love her so much I can’t even — there’s no room left in me for anything else, Lando.”

He brushed her curls back from her forehead. “I know. Baby, I know.”

She smiled at him wetly. “Thank you for giving me her.”

He kissed her, soft and sweet and gentle.

—

By day three, the house had softened.

They’d settled into a new kind of rhythm. One shaped around feeds and burps and naps so short they barely even counted. The clock meant nothing anymore. Light filtered in and out of the windows. Lando had stopped checking the date. Amelia had stopped pretending not to be terrified by every sound Ada made.

But the bleeding had slowed. The cramps had faded. The adult diapers were gone — finally, thank God — and Amelia was wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants as she sat cross-legged on the couch with Ada against her chest.

The baby nursed noisily, fingers flexing near her mother’s collarbone, head resting in the crook of Amelia’s arm.

In her free hand, Amelia held her iPad — an older engineering article open, written by Adrian, full of dense paragraphs and complex diagrams about brake duct airflow and thermal optimisation. She read it aloud like a lullaby, her voice soft but steady.

“‘By increasing the front duct’s diameter by 2.3 millimetres, the delta in peak rotor temp dropped below critical thresholds in high-deg circuits, including Catalunya and Marina Bay…’ You hear that, Ada? Heat efficiency. That’s how we stay fast and safe.”

Ada made a small noise — halfway between a sigh and a snuffle — and latched more firmly.

Lando passed through the room with a laundry basket in his arms. His curls were still wet from a rushed shower, and he wore mismatched socks. But he smiled when he saw them.

“She asleep yet?” He asked, pausing.

“Almost.” Amelia didn’t look up from her screen. “We’re learning about regenerative braking.”

“Alright, baby,” Lando said, and disappeared toward the washing machine.

The doorbell rang just as Amelia was settling Ada into the bassinet. Ada didn’t flinch, but Amelia suddenly startled and stared at her little sleeping form with a frown.

Was she too cold? Was her neck at the wrong angle? Had she been burped properly—

“It’s okay,” Lando said, his voice low. “She’s fine. I’ll get the door. You stay and watch her.”

She nodded, stepping back, watching the rise and fall of her daughter’s chest like it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.

And then: voices. Familiar ones.

Max (Fewtrell) and Pietra. Their laughter was gentle, not loud — filtered with care.

“Hey,” Max said, stepping into the living room with a Tupperware box already in hand. “We’ve both antibacced our hands. We come in peace.”

Pietra went straight to Amelia, arms already open. She didn’t say anything, just wrapped her up in a firm hug — grounding, real, warm — and kissed the side of her head.

“You have done so well,” she whispered.

Amelia didn’t cry, but her throat caught. “Thanks. She’s… she’s perfect. I’m just tired.”

“We know.”

Meanwhile, Max clapped Lando on the shoulder, hard. “Mate. You look like you’ve seen things.”

“I’ve seen things,” Lando muttered, rubbing his eyes.

“Go sit down. We’ve got this.”

They didn’t ask to hold Ada. Didn’t hover or coo or crowd. Pietra pulled on rubber gloves and started wiping down the kitchen counters like it was the most natural thing in the world. Max took out the bins. Then he came back in and started unloading the dishwasher without asking where anything went.

Amelia watched all of it from the couch, stunned by how quickly the air changed — less pressure, more breathing room.

“You don’t need to do all that,” she murmured.

“We want to,” Pietra said, straightening up with a dish towel in her hand. “This is the bit no one helps with, and it’s the bit that matters.”

Lando appeared beside Amelia, dropping onto the couch, sliding a hand over her knee. She leaned into him automatically.

“Tell them thank you,” she whispered, eyes half-shut.

He did. She already knew he would.

And for the first time since Ada’s birth, Amelia let herself fully exhale. Not just a breath. A letting-go. Just a moment.

The baby was sleeping.

The house was quiet.

And they were not alone.

—

They took Ada out for her first proper walk on a Tuesday.

The sky was low and soft, pale blue smudged with thin clouds. Not warm, not cold. Just… fresh. There was the smell of cut grass in the air and the quiet hum of summer insects returning to their business.

The pram rolled smoothly along the country trail, thick tyres handling the uneven gravel without so much as a jolt. Lando had triple-checked the suspension before they left the house.

Now he hovered two steps behind Amelia, a muslin cloth draped over one shoulder, spare dummy in his hoodie pocket, checking the pram’s hood every three seconds like the sun might have suddenly grown sharper.

“Do you think it’s too bright?” He asked, squinting up. “Should we have brought the other hat?”

Amelia didn’t break stride. “She’s fine.”

“What if she gets cold?”

“She’s in a fleece-lined sleep suit and the foot muff, Lando. She’s not cold.”

He hesitated. “I just—she’s so little. Doesn’t feel right to have her out here.”

Amelia’s expression softened, but only a little. She didn’t stop walking. “Fresh air is important for newborns. It regulates their circadian rhythm. Improves lung function. Strengthens immune development.”

Lando jogged a step to fall in beside her, peeking into the pram. “I know. I just feel like she should still be wrapped in bubble wrap. Or, I don’t know… a titanium exosuit.”

Amelia side-eyed him. “She’s a human baby.”

“Yeah. But she’s our human baby.”

Amelia finally looked over at him, a tiny smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, eyes still scanning the trail ahead. “Lando. She’s okay. I promise.”

He huffed, shifting closer to peer into the pram again. “I know. I—I do know. But she’s just… so small.”

“She’s also fast asleep.” Amelia nodded toward the pram. Sure enough, Ada’s tiny features were slack with the soft stillness of newborn sleep, one fist curled near her chin and her lips parted slightly, breath feathering.

Lando smiled, almost reluctantly. “She really is perfect.”

Amelia slowed a little, letting the rhythm of her footsteps match the soft crunch of gravel underfoot. Her hand brushed against his, and when he didn’t pull away, she laced their fingers together.

“She’ll be okay,” she said, softer now. “I’m going to be good at this part. The structure. The systems. The planning. Schedules. Routines.”

“You’ve been good at all of it,” Lando said without hesitation.

She wrinkled her nose. “Maybe not all of it.”

“Name one thing you’ve been bad at so far,” he challenged, raising a brow.

“Holding her while she cries,” she replied instantly, too fast and too honest. “I never know how to help. I just freeze.”

He shook his head. “Doesn’t count. You can just wear your ear defenders.”

“I think they scare her,” she admitted, glancing away. “She cries harder when I put them on.”

Lando nudged her shoulder gently. “Nah. She’ll get used to them. Babies cry. That’s literally their job.”

She gave a quiet laugh, tugged closer by his steadiness. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

They walked in silence for a minute, the trees rustling softly around them, the path dappled in filtered light.

“You want me to push her for a bit?” He asked.

She nodded and handed over the pram with a small sigh of relief, flexing her fingers. “My arms were starting to ache, and I don’t even know why. I wasn’t carrying her.”

“It’s the new mum muscle fatigue,” he said knowingly. “Totally scientific.”

She snorted, then went quiet for a beat. “I’m so glad I’m not, like, constantly peeing myself anymore. That was weird.”

Lando nodded. “Honestly, I think you handled it really well.”

She gave him a side-glance, almost shy. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He reached out and squeezed her hand again. “I was expecting way more tears. And not from Ada.”

“There were tears. I just cried in the shower.”

He smiled, but it was soft and genuine. “I know.”

Amelia exhaled, some of the tension rolling off her shoulders. The walk, the fresh air, the steady feel of his hand wrapped around hers — it all helped. Ada stirred once in her sleep, a tiny sound escaping her lips, and they both stopped walking for a second, listening.

Still asleep.

They exchanged a glance — equal parts relief and awe — and kept walking.

—

Later that evening, their house glowed with the golden warmth of soft lighting, the scent of something mildly burnt wafting from the oven (Lando insisted it was “crispy” on purpose). The table was already set — half by Lando, half by Cisca, who had taken it upon herself to silently reorganise the cutlery the moment she walked in.

Dinner was simple. Pasta. Store-bought garlic bread. A pre-made chocolate tart that Adam had brought with a proud grin and a whispered, “Don’t let Lando see the packaging — he’ll think his mother spent hours making this.”

Ada had just gone down in her bassinet upstairs.

Amelia hovered in the hallway, half listening, half pacing, fingers twitching at her sleeves. She’d made it through dinner prep, through greeting Lando’s parents and making small talk, but her ears were tuned in a thousand different directions — to the baby monitor, to the creak of the upstairs floorboards, to the faintest imagined cry in the silence.

“She’s okay,” Lando said gently, coming to stand beside her. “She’s asleep.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Amelia said, clutching her elbows. “Or she was and now she’s not. Or she will be and then she won’t be, and then they’ll all want to hold her and I’ll have to say no because she’s finally down and they’ll think I’m rude—”

“Okay,” Lando said, calm and sure and already moving past her.

She blinked. “What are you doing?”

“Getting her.”

“Lando—”

But he was already climbing the stairs. Moments later, he reappeared with Ada bundled in her swaddle inside her moses basket, blinking in that newborn stunned way, somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. He paused only to press a kiss to the top of Amelia’s head before disappearing into the kitchen.

Amelia followed him, heart caught somewhere between panic and confusion — until she saw what he’d done.

He’d cleared the centrepiece from the kitchen table. Moved the salt and pepper. And right in the middle, like the guest of honour, was Ada. Swaddled and content, her moses basket taking pride of place between the lasagna and the chocolate tart.

Everyone paused.

Then started to laugh.

“Lando,” Cisca laughed. “You did not just put the baby on the table.”

“We can keep an eye on her,” he shrugged, completely deadpan.

Even Amelia, still frazzled, couldn’t help the laugh that escaped her. Her shoulders dropped. Her heart settled.

“Okay,” she said softly, moving closer and brushing her fingers across Ada’s cheek. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe.” He grinned. “But she’s calm. And you’re calm too. So I win.”

The rest of dinner was easy. Light. Ada stayed asleep, safe in the middle of it all. Lando’s parents only peeked at her — no passing her around, no unsolicited advice. Just gentle smiles and hands folded in laps and the occasional, “She’s so beautiful.”

Amelia stared at her daughter as she ate her lasagna.

And there would be photos passed around in fifteen years time. Of a baby in the middle of the dinner table, in different outfits during different times of the year. Easter and Christmas and Birthdays. Newborn and then not.

Ada Rossella Norris, fifteen years old, will blush and squeak and say, “Mum, that’s so weird! Why was I on the table?”

And Amelia will swipe her hand across her daughter’s freckled cheek and say, “Where else would you be?”

—

Amelia sat cross-legged on the couch, one of her old engineering textbooks open in her lap. It was more comfort object than useful now — dense equations and fluid mechanics — but it gave her something to hold, something to do.

From down the hall, the sound of water running filled the quiet.

She turned a page absently. Then another.

Then paused, head tilting slightly.

Lando’s voice drifted out from the bathroom. Soft. Muffled. A kind of singsong narration.

“There’s your little foot… and here’s your other one… look at those perfect toes, Ada-bug…”

Just her husband. Bathing their daughter.

Amelia closed the book, the spine pressing into her palm.

She didn’t need to go check. Didn’t need to see with her own eyes to know he was being gentle, and cautious, and silly, and Lando.

And the realisation landed with no fanfare, no dramatic swell of emotion — just a quiet, settled truth.

She trusted him.

Completely.

With the most precious thing in the entire world.

She tucked the book beside her and got up slowly, padding barefoot to the doorway of the bathroom, where Lando knelt beside the little tub, sleeves rolled up, Ada’s soft, soapy body cradled between his careful hands.

He looked up and grinned when he saw her.

“Hey,” he whispered. “She loves the water.”

Amelia leaned against the doorframe, her eyes soft.

“I like it too,” she said. “And I like you. Like this.”

He flushed a little, smiled wider. “Yeah?”

She nodded.

Ada squealed and splashed her fists in the water.

Amelia smiled at her little girl.

—

The paddock was quieter than it would be on race day — a lull before the storm.

Just the low hum of cameras, the occasional mechanical clatter of a forklift, and the shuffle of early-arriving team personnel cutting through the cool morning air. But even that — the muted version of Silverstone — pressed in around Amelia like static behind her eyes.

Too many overlapping sounds.

Too much motion at the edges of her vision, flickering like faulty headlights.

Ada shifted against her chest with a soft grunt, the wrap keeping her snug and swaddled, the rhythm of Amelia’s heartbeat her steady metronome. One of Amelia’s hands stayed curled protectively around the baby’s back, her thumb tracing a repetitive pattern she didn’t consciously register. A grounding mechanism. Something to keep her tethered.

Her dad met them at the back entrance of the McLaren motorhome, face gentle, voice pitched low like he was afraid to set something off.

“Hello, my beautiful baby girls,” he said, already holding the door open. “We’ve cleared the top floor. Everyone knows to stay out. You’ve got total privacy.”

Amelia gave a small nod. Didn’t speak.

Her whole focus was on getting inside — away from the press of noise, the open sky, the potential germs and the unknowns.

Lando was already there.

The moment she stepped through the doorway, he turned as if pulled by a thread. His whole expression shifted — softened in an instant — as his eyes landed on them. His daughter, safe and warm. His wife, upright and moving, even if she looked like she was carrying the weight of the world and then some.

“You made it,” he breathed.

“I said I would,” Amelia murmured. “I made a plan.”

And the plan was always the comfort.

He didn’t crowd her, just hovered at her side as she allowed herself to be guided up the narrow staircase to the engineer’s meeting room. It had been transformed — not sterile, not chaotic. Just… still.

The blinds were drawn. The harsh fluorescents replaced with soft lamp lighting. A white noise machine hummed gently in the corner, masking the distant clatter of wheel guns and rolling crates. Someone had set up a chair by the window, a footstool just beneath it, a bottle of water and sanitiser waiting on a little table nearby. She didn’t know who had prepared it. Probably more than one person. That thought, strangely, comforted her.

Amelia sank into the chair and exhaled for what felt like the first time all morning.

Lando crouched beside her, fingers light on the edge of the wrap. He didn’t try to take Ada. Just looked at her like he was memorising the details — her milk-drunk mouth, the dusky pink of her cheeks, the faintest tuft of dark hair under her little hat.

“Hi, baby girl,” he whispered. “Welcome to Silverstone. A week old and you’re already in the paddock. You know how crazy that is?”

Amelia didn’t smile. Not exactly. But her shoulders loosened slightly.

“We’re only staying for an hour. Maybe less. I just want to go over the strategy notes with Tom. I’ve already emailed them, but—”

“You want to go over them in person,” Lando finished. “That’s fine. That’s perfect.”

She adjusted the wrap slightly, fingers brushing Ada’s tiny back. “It’s too soon for her to actually be here for the full weekend. Her immune system, her ears…”

“I know,” Lando said gently. “She’ll be ready soon.” Then, quieter, “Maybe in a kart.”

Amelia’s eyes snapped to his. “Only if she wants to. Only if it’s her idea.”

He lifted a hand. “Of course.”

There was a knock at the door.

Oscar stood just beyond it, holding two coffees and that neutral expression he wore when he didn’t want to spook anyone.

“Hey,” he said, eyes flicking to Amelia. “I can come back later?”

Amelia glanced at him, then at the room, then back to Ada — still sleeping, undisturbed. She gave a small nod.

Oscar stepped in with careful movements, like he knew what it cost her to allow anyone near the baby (because he did). He crouched beside the chair, not quite close enough to breach her space.

“She’s here,” he said quietly.

“Amazing, innit,” Lando murmured, standing up to take one of the coffees from him.

Oscar didn’t take his eyes off Ada. “You’re a machine,” he told Amelia. “For coming here. Thank you.”

“She slept the whole car ride,” Amelia said. “I packed enough supplies for three days rather than three hours.”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. “You think that’ll be enough?”

“It's fine. My dad’s probably stashed nappies all over this motorhome,” she said dryly. “You can call Zak Brown a lot of things, but you can’t call him unprepared.”

That made both men laugh, the sound low and soft enough not to wake the baby.

Twenty-seven minutes.

That’s how long Amelia stayed.

Long enough for her to sit in on the strategy meeting, long enough to pass off her annotated packet of data to Tom with a few muttered clarifications. Long enough for her to reassure herself that her world hadn’t spun too far off its axis.

She knew it had been twenty-seven minutes because she set a timer on her phone. Not a second longer.

And when they left — quietly, quickly, Lando carrying her bag, Oscar offering to hold the door open — she didn’t look back.

She had a baby girl to focus on.

And Lando would follow her home when he was done.

—

The front door clicked softly shut.

Ada stirred in her basket. Amelia looked up from her book — well, from the same paragraph she’d read six times — just as Lando stepped into the living room, damp curls flattened beneath his McLaren cap and a tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Behind him, Oscar hovered with two takeaway bags and a sheepish shrug. “He called me stupid for planning on going to the team hotel,” he said. “I didn’t fight that hard.”

Lando dropped a kiss to her temple as he passed. “She’s been awake?”

“Two feeds,” Amelia said, adjusting the blanket draped over her lap. “Four nappy changes. She’s settled now.”

Oscar was already crouching beside the basket, peering in at Ada like he hadn’t seen her just a few hours ago. “She’s still so small.”

“She’s seven days old,” Amelia pointed out. “She’s supposed to be small.”

“I know. But like… look at her.” He grinned, voice hushed. “She’s smaller than my forearm.”

Amelia blinked.

Lando had taken the food into the kitchen. She could hear the fridge opening, the rustle of takeaway containers. Oscar was now sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Ada, humming softly under his breath.

The room felt full. But not crowded.

She marked her place in the book — something about fluid dynamics and downforce — and looked around.

Lando came back in with three bowls of food and no cutlery, because he always forgot the cutlery. He kicked off his shoes, dropped onto the sofa beside her, and pulled her close with a casualness that would’ve stunned her thirteen-year-old self.

Amelia rested her cheek against his shoulder.

She thought about being thirteen. About hiding in the corner of the school library, rereading the same paperbacks while her classmates whispered and passed notes about their crushes.

She’d never understood the obsession. Never wanted the chaos of it.

She’d convinced herself she wasn’t built for any of it — romance, affection, softness. She figured she’d grow up and live alone in a quiet flat with neat shelves and a routine no one could break.

And now she was here. Baby in a basket. Working in the sport she adored. Married. Her best friend sitting on her living room floor, humming to her daughter as she slept.

It made her chest ache, a little. With disbelief. With gratitude.

“Hey,” Lando said softly, glancing down. “You okay, baby?”

She nodded. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

She looked at him, her expression unreadable and full at once. “I didn’t think I’d get this.”

Lando’s brows drew together, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I didn’t think I’d ever want it. I thought I wasn’t… wired that way.” Her voice was even. Gentle. “I have never been so relieved to have been wrong about something.”

He kissed her again, this time on the side of her head. “Love you.”

Oscar, still on the floor, looked up with a half-smile. “Is this a bad time to ask if you’re willing to half your naan bread with me?”

Amelia laughed. Then she tore it in half and gave it to him.

Lando passed her a fork.

She hadn’t even noticed him go get it. But of course he had.

And as Ada shifted softly in her basket, a tiny sigh in the quiet, Amelia thought, ‘This. This is what home is.’

And she hadn’t even known to hope for it.

494 notes · View notes

hanniebaeee · 3 days ago

Text

Bambi

Hyunjin x fem!reader

Warnings: Suggestive 18+ MDNI

Genre: idiots to lovers, frat boy au, fluffy, suggestive

Summary: Something has you stuck in Hyunjin's glare list, and you don't even know what. Felix and Jisung, your mututal friends, are here to stir the pot, and everything unfolds in the most dramatic way during a party.

a/n: It's crazyy. But yeah. It is what it is. Please let me know if you see any errors. I swear I had a moment where my hand slipped and I wasn't where I was supposed to type. Anyway, I'm too sick to do another round of editing rn. But I will get to it soon! Hope you enjoy this!

You really didn’t know what you did to piss off Hwang Hyunjin, but God, the man hated you.

Hated. Like full-on, glares-like-you-kicked-his-dog and flinches-when-you-speak kind of hate. And it wasn’t even subtle.

No, Hyunjin had made it his full-time side hustle to make you stutter and stumble. And it did you no good because you were just a soft, shy lit major who wore your cardigans a little too big and had a heart so soft, it fluttered like it was malfunctioning when he was around.

It wasn't especially convenient when you spent way too much time at the frat house, because Felix was your closest friend, and you two bonded over baking - almost every day.

---

Now, you stood in the kitchen of the Sigma Kappa frat house, hair tied up in a scrunchie that matched your baby blue skirt, piping bag in hand, and Felix bopping next to you to some song. You were here, helping Felix set up the snacks for some achievement party at the frat house.

“More sugar,” Felix said, dipping a finger into the frosting and licking it with a satisfied hum.

“It's way too sweet already, Lix,” you mumbled, but added a spoonful more into the bowl anyway.

“You’re sweet,” Felix grinned, poking your cheek. “Too sweet. Which is why some people are going feral every time you breathe.”

Your spine stiffened. You knew exactly who Felix meant, and the thought alone made your brain glitch. You remembered the way he’d glared at you as you walked in with Felix merely thirty minutes ago - like you had burned down his mother’s garden. And it made your stomach turn like a haunted carousel.

You licked some frosting off your fingers absent-mindedly, glaring at Felix, who was now chucking.

“Ohmygodstop,” you hissed. “He doesn’t.”

“Babe.” Felix winked. “You don't know half of it.”

And speak of the devil.

Hyunjin was trying not to hover outside the kitchen like a creep. He was trying so hard. But you were in there with Felix. In that damn skirt. And he'd just seen Jisung step out of the shower, which meant he was going to sniff out the fact that you were here.

Jisung was a leech. According to Hyunjin at least. A cross between a horny golden retriever and a leech if there could ever be something like that. Because the moment Jisung spotted you anywhere in the vicinity, he was on you. Like on you. And it drove Hyunjin up the wall.

Now why should it bother him, when he didn't even like you? Well, the entire world, except for you knew that he was crazy for you. Hyunjin- the gorgeous broody artist - a little emotionally constipated, yes, but totally gone for you.

His friends were sick of watching him silently eye fucking you and growling at anyone who even looked your way. Yeah, the entire frat house was sick of it. But he thought you were too good for him. Too nice. Too delicate. He didn't want to ruin you. He thought you deserved better.

Hyunjin heard Jisung's loud obnoxious singing - moving down the stairs now. And his body was working on autopilot.

---

“Can you not lick your fingers like that in public?” Hyunjin snapped from the doorway, shirt half-tucked, and a scowl carved deep into his face.

You shrank back, holding the piping bag like it was a weapon.

“I wasn’t…I didn’t -”

“Relax, oh my God,” he muttered, brushing past you, the heat of his body grazing yours in a way that had your entire frontal lobe short-circuit.

“You okay, Bambi?” Jisung appeared right on cue.

He threw his arm around your shoulders and leaned into you with a smile. Jisung, bless him, loved the drama, and he adored you, maybe a little too much. But he also knew that Hyunjin needed a little nudge in the right direction to get things moving.

“Don’t mind Mr. Tall-and-Twitchy. He’s just mad it's me and not him.” He whispered, his hand sliding suspiciously low.

You elbowed him, whisper-yelling, “Ji!!”

Felix cackled, but Hyunjin wasn't laughing. In fact, he was glaring so hard at Jisung's hand resting way too close to the curve of your ass, it was a miracle that a storm cloud didn't magically pop up over his head.

Unfortunately for him, Jisung didn’t miss it. “What, you want a turn?”

You expected him to swear at Jisung and storm off - the usual. But then, he stalked over to you, grabbed your wrist (still holding the piping bag), and dragged you out of the kitchen. Just like that.

You blinked up at him as he speed walked with you down the hallway, completely confused and struggling to keep up. But he stopped just as abruptly and you stared up at him.

“What the hell was that?” he hissed, crowding you against the wall with the intensity of someone about to commit a crime.

Your eyes went wide. “What do you mean??”

“You let him -” His hands clenched and jaw flexed. “He was all over you like - like you’re some kind of chew toy.”

You continued to stare at him, utterly confused.

“Jisung's like that with everyone-”

“So? You'd just let him paw at you -”

“Why do you even care?”

That seemed to stun him. His mouth opened and closed, and his eye twitched. He seemed like he was having an existential crisis.

“I don’t care,” he snapped finally, stepping back. “It’s just - it’s gross. He’s gross. This whole thing is gross.”

You looked down at the piping bag, and then down at Hyunjin’s shoe, which was now spotted with rogue dots of frosting.

“So you dragged me out of the kitchen,” you said slowly, “while I was frosting cupcakes… for your party… because you’re grossed out?”

Hyunjin glared, but his ears were red. “Shut up.”

“I’m literally so confused right now, Hyunjin.”

He looked like he wanted to throw himself out the window. Or maybe throw you on the counter. Either way, your heart did wild somersaults as he held your gaze.

“Go back in there,” he said. “And tell Jisung if he touches you like that again, I’ll kill him.”

Your brows lifted, as you tried to hide your amusement. “Should I tell him you said that because you don’t care?”

He didn’t answer. He just turned and walked away, muttering curses under his breath while you stared after him, pink-faced.

Felix poked his head out of the kitchen with a grin and asked, “So… did he confess his love, orrr…?”

You threw the piping bag at him and he ducked, laughing.

The party was in full swing.

The boys were socializing. Chan looked stressed as he watched the cups plates pile up beside the snack table (even though he did leave a bin next to it, yeah, it was ignored).

You, on the other hand, were stuck between Jisung and the snack table.

“Bambiiii,” Jisung purred into your ear, arms slung around your waist. “You smell like cupcakes, and it's doing things to me.”

“You’re doing things to yourself, Ji” you murmured, not even turning around as you reach for a cookie. “Stop pressing your boner on my ass.”

He groaned, half in pain, half in pleasure. “Don’t say boner in that voice, are you insane -”

You elbowed him hard. He doubled over dramatically, clutching his stomach with a low whimper that was way too breathy to be appropriate.

“That’s another bruise,” he groaned. “Do you hate me or do you want me to die with a hard-on? Just tell me.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“You like it.”

You rolled your eyes. But you didn’t move away - he was warm, and you were a little tipsy, and honestly - maybe it was petty, maybe a little spiteful. But you had caught Hyunjin watching again, over the rim of his cup, eyes narrowed like he was five seconds from coming over.

He was seething. Not saying a word. Just standing there, jaw clenched, eyes locked on Jisung’s hand on your waist. He didn’t even blink when you looked at him.

Like he was imagining what you’d feel like against him instead.

You blinked and turned away, cheeks flaming.

“Ji,” you murmured under your breath, “If you grind on me, I will cut your dick off with a butter knife.”

Jisung gasped and said, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

You reached around and pinched his side, right above his waistband. He moaned into your neck, enjoying this way too much.

“I hate you,” you sighed.

“I love you,”

"I love you too,"

"I know," Jisung grinned.

“You’re an idiot.”

“You let me do it.”

God help you. He was right.

Felix appeared out of nowhere, leaning into your side.

“You two are about three seconds from getting kicked out. Or murdered.”

Jisung smirked. “I'd die happy.”

Felix giggled and flicked Jisung’s forehead.

“He’s gonna explode.”

“Why is he always so mad?” you asked, exasperated. “Like, what did I do?”

“Oh, Bambi.” Felix gave you a look. “He’s not mad at you. He’s mad at his boner.”

You blinked. “What -”

Too late. Because Hyunjin had moved. One second you were talking. The next, he was behind Jisung, grabbing him by the collar of his sweatshirt and yanking him off you like he’s swatting away a mosquito.

“What the f- Hyunjin!” Jisung yelped, flailing as Hyunjin threw him a full foot back. “I was talking to her!”

“You were humping her,” Hyunjin growled, standing between you and Jisung now, tall and tense and radiating murder.

You blinked up at him. He didn’t even look at you, his eyes were still on Jisung.

“Back. Off.” he bit out.

“Bro, seriously -”

“I swear to God,” Hyunjin’s voice was low, furious. “Touch her again and I’ll break your fucking fingers.”

You inhaled sharply, taking a step back. Jisung stared, wide-eyed for a moment. A very fleeting moment, because the next, he was grinning. "Someone's cracking."

And he had the audacity to take a step forward. And so did Hyunjin. Jisung took another, and Hyunjin’s hand shot out, landing on Jisung’s chest, making him stumble back a little. Jisung, with zero self-preservation instincts, just laughed, brushing himself off like he didn’t almost get decked.

“Whoa, Hyunjinnie, save the foreplay for Bambi!” he teased, dodging as Hyunjin lunged, fist raised, eyes blazing.

“Call her that one more time, and I’ll end you,” Hyunjin growled, his voice low and dangerous, but the way his hands were shaking betrayed how close he was to cracking. Jisung’s grin only widened, because of course it does - he’s been playing this game all night, winding Hyunjin up like a toy car and loving every second of the chaos.

Before Hyunjin could make a move, Chan’s voice boomed across the room like a foghorn.

“EMERGENCY FAMILY MEETING! KITCHEN! RIGHT FUCKING NOW!”

Ah. There it is. The Chan Voice™.

The partygoers barely blinked, fights and drama were absolutely normal at a frat bash - but the boys knew better than to ignore Chan’s summons.

Hyunjin's eyes met yours, and you huffed at him before storming off towards the bathroom, slamming the door shut.

You gripped the sink, staring at your flushed reflection in the mirror. Your pastel cardigan was slightly askew, your cheeks pink, and your heart was doing cartwheels.

“You’re fine,” you muttered to your reflection. “He’s just… intense. And hot. And confusing. And…oh my god, stop it, you’re not helping!”

You splashed cold water on your face, hoping it’ll douse the fire in your chest, but it was of no use. Hyunjin has got you spinning, and Jisung’s relentless flirting wasn’t helping.

---

Jisung sauntered toward the kitchen, followed by Hyunjin, who was still vibrating with barely contained rage. Felix slung an arm around Hyunjin’s shoulders, steering him toward the kitchen.

“C’mon, loverboy, let’s not murder Ji in front of the guests. Bad for the vibe.”

Hyunjin muttered something that sounded suspiciously like “I’ll kill him later,” but he let Felix drag him along.

Chan was at the head of the kitchen island, looking like he was about to give a lecture on responsibility, but the glint in his eyes said something else entirely. Felix patted Hyunjin on the back and perched on the counter, swinging his legs, while Jisung leaned against the fridge, munching on a cookie like he wasn't the catalyst for this chaos.

Hyunjin was pacing like a caged tiger, his hoodie sleeves pushed up, his jaw so tight.

“Alright,” Chan started, clapping his hands to get everyone’s attention. “What the hell is going on? Hyunjin, we never raise our hands at each other. So spill.”

Hyunjin glared at Jisung, who was licking cookie crumbs off his fingers with exaggerated slowness, smirking like the gremlin he was.

“He’s been all over Y/N all night,” Hyunjin snapped, his voice dripping with venom. “Grinding on her, calling her Bambi, acting like he’s got some claim -”

“Claim?” Jisung interrupted, raising an eyebrow. “Oh, Hyunjinnie, I’m just giving Bambi the attention she deserves. Unlike some people who just glare at her like she stole their favorite paintbrush.”

Hyunjin took a step toward him, fists clenched, but Felix hopped off the counter, blocking his path with a grin and a sly, “Down, boy.”

Chan raised an eyebrow and said, “Hyunjin, you’ve been acting like a caveman all night. Care to explain why you’re so obsessed with Bambi?”

Hyunjin froze, his eyes darting around like he has been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

“I’m not…obsessed,” he stammered, but his flushed cheeks and the way he was gripping the edge of the counter said otherwise. “She’s just... always flitting around in those stupid skirts, smiling at everyone, letting Jisung -”

He cut himself off, dragging a hand through his hair, and the room went quiet for a split second.

Jisung, of course, cackled.

“Oh, please. You’re so gone for her it’s pathetic.”

He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, but it’s loud enough for everyone to hear.

“Bet you’ve been jerking off to the thought of her in that skirt, haven’t you?”

“JISUNG!” Chan barked, but he was fighting a laugh.

Felix was trying so hard not to laugh, because he wanted to support Hyunjin - while Hyunjin looked like he was going to spontaneously combust.

“You’re dead,” Hyunjin growled, lunging again, but Chan stepped in, grabbing his shoulder.

“Enough!” Chan said, though his lips were twitching. “Jisung, stop antagonizing him. Hyunjin, use your words like a big boy and tell us what’s got you so twisted.”

Hyunjin’s mouth opened, then closed, the gears grinding in his head. He was trapped, cornered by his own feelings and the relentless teasing of his frat brothers.

“She’s just… she’s too much,” he finally managed, his voice low, almost defeated. “She’s so soft and sweet and…fuck, I can’t think straight when she’s around, okay? And then Jisung’s all over her like some horny octopus, and I -”

“Horny octopus?!” Jisung choked, clutching his stomach as he laughed. “Oh, that’s rich. Bambi loves my tentacles, ok?”

“Hyun, you’re not fooling anyone. You’ve been crushing on her since she showed up with that first batch of cookies. Its like what? Two years now? Just admit you want her so bad it’s making you stupid.” Felix laughed, and Hyunjin looked absolutely embarrassed.

“I do not -” Hyunjin started, but Chan cut him off with a raised hand.

“Nope, you’re done lying to yourself,” Chan said, his tone firm but teasing. “You’re jealous as hell, and it’s obvious to everyone except maybe her. So either man up and tell her how you feel, or Jisung’s gonna keep doing this just to see how long it takes you to snap.”

Jisung grinned, completely unfazed.

“I mean, I’m having fun either way. Bambi’s got those little pinches that sting so good…think I’m bruised to hell under this shirt.” He lifted his shirt, showing off a scattering of red marks on his stomach, and Felix howled with laughter.

“You’re a freak,” Chan said, shaking his head, but he’s grinning now. “Hyunjin, for the love of god, just talk to her.”

Hyunjin’s face was a mix of fury and mortification, but there was something else there too. Something raw and desperate. He was cracking, and everyone in the room knew it.

---

Back in the Bathroom:

“You can do this,” you whispered, smoothing your skirt. “Hyunjin’s just… intense. And Jisung’s just Jisung. And you’re not gonna melt into a puddle just because Hyunjin looked at you like he wanted to eat you alive. Nope. Not at all.”

But as you step out of the bathroom, you had no idea you were about to walk into a firestorm.

You were sulking. Still no clue why you were the walking target of all his emotional instability and/or wet dreams.

The kitchen door has been shut for Chan’s “emergency family meeting,” and you were stewing in a mix of confusion, irritation, and Hyunjin-induced heart palpitations. You could hear Jisung’s cackle and Hyunjin’s low growl through the door, and it was driving you nuts.

You were back by the snack table. Alone. With your thoughts. And a tray of brownies you absolutely didn’t remember seeing earlier.

They looked rich. Fudgy. Gooey.

You stared. You definitely didn't bring that. You knew they weren't Felix's. But they looked so good.

You shrugged, because stress eating is a coping mechanism. Right? Not your best one, but it’s better than crying in the pantry again.

So you grabbed one, and took a bite. Ohhh, that was good. You had another. And then another. Because you had no self-control and those things tasted like sin.

But halfway through the fourth one - your skin tingled. Not in a “this is tasty” kind of way. In a “why do I suddenly want to make out with the refrigerator” kind of way. Your head felt floaty. Your heart beating louder. And your thighs? They were squirming.

“Oh my god,” you whispered in horror. “These are sex brownies.”

The kitchen door creaked. You looked up, eyes blurry, mouth half-full of brownie, pulling at the neckline of your cardigan.

Felix stepped out first, smiling when he saw you.

“Hey, babe...” He faltered, seeing the way you were fanning yourself dramatically with a paper plate.

“Bambi, you okay?” he asks, eyeing you with suspicion.

He glanced at the chocolate on your fingers. And then cocked his head to look behind you on the snack table.

“Babe, what did you eat?” Felix rushed over, smelling your fingers without hesitation, and then picking up the tray of brownies off the table and smelling them.

He swore under his breath, before turning to glance behind him. Because there he was - Hyunjin, looking angry and brooding and violently hot for you.

Your eyes meet again, and your skin buzzed. Your nipples were embarrassingly hard. Ah oh, you were aware.

His walked towards you, eyes locked onto you, but instead of the usual glare, there was a flicker of concern - probably because you were swaying like a palm tree in a hurricane.

“You okay?” he said gruffly, eyes darting over your flushed face.

“You,” you slurred, jabbing a finger in his direction, your cardigan half-off one shoulder. “You and your stupid… stupid face!”

You were trying to sound fierce, but the brownies made it sound more like a squeak. “Always glaring at me, snapping at me, acting like I’m some… some problem! And then you’re all up in my space, looking like you wanna -” You paused, eyes going blank for a second. “ Like, like -”

Felix snorted, leaning against the snack table, clearly enjoying the show. Jisung was peeking out from the kitchen, grinning.

Hyunjin’s jaw dropped, and he stepped closer, his voice low and strained.

“You think I’m glaring because I hate you?” he said, his eyes blazing with something that was definitely not hate. “You’re out here, being…you…, and I -”

He stopped, dragging a hand through his hair, looking like he was about to implode. “You drive me fucking insane, okay? I can’t think, I can’t sleep, I can’t -”

You were barely listening, because goddamn, it was hot in here. Your cardigan was strangling you, and in a fit of brownie-induced madness, you started yanking it off. Except it got stuck over your head, trapping your arms in a tangle.

“Ugh, why is this so tight?!” you whined, flailing like a pastel-colored T-Rex. The room was spinning, your skin was tingling, and you were pretty sure you were dying.

Hyunjin froze (again), his rant cut off as he stared at you, half-trapped in your cardigan, your hair a mess, your cheeks flushed.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he muttered, stepping forward to help. With a sigh of exasperation and resignation, he gently tugged the cardigan over your head, freeing you. Your hair was now a static-charged halo, and you were panting, fanning yourself with both hands.

“It’s so hot,” you complained, your voice whiny as you start tugging at the hem of your cami top, ready to strip that off too. The brownies had obliterated your inhibitions, and you’re about two seconds from flashing the entire party.

“Nope, nope, nope,” Hyunjin said, his voice panicked as he grabbed your wrists, stopping you before you could yank the top over your head. His hands were warm, his grip firm but careful, and you swore you felt a spark where his fingers touch your skin. “You are not stripping in the middle of the living room.”

“Why not?” you pouted, swaying closer to him, your high brain deciding he’s the most fascinating thing in the room. “You’re mean, but you’re sooooooooo pretty. Like… really pretty. Why’re you so pretty?”

You reached up, trying to poke his cheek, but he dodged, his face turning an alarming shade of red.

Felix lost it, doubled over laughing, while Jisung called from the kitchen, “Bambi, you’re my hero! Keep roasting him!”

Chan facepalmed so hard, you (high as a kite) could hear it from the living room.

Hyunjin had had enough.

“That’s it,” he said, his voice a mix of frustration and something softer, almost protective. “You’re going back to your dorm. Now.”

Before you could protest, he was scooping you up - bridal style - because of course he is, and marching toward the door. Your head was spinning, and you were giggling uncontrollably, your hands flopping against his chest.

“You’re so strong,” you slurred, patting his pecs.

“Please stop talking,” Hyunjin muttered, but his cheeks were flaming, and he was holding you a little tighter than necessary as he stepped out the back door.

Felix trailed behind, still snickering, while Jisung shouted, “Take care of my wife, Hyunjinnie!”

---

You stumbled into your room, collapsing onto your bed with a dramatic groan.

“It’s so hot,” you whined again, kicking off your shoes and flopping around like a fish out of water. Hyunjin stood in the doorway, looking like he was struggling to hold himself together.

“Stay put,” he said, his voice gruff but laced with concern. He grabbed a bottle of water from your desk, shoving it into your hands. “Drink this. And don’t eat random brownies ever again.”

You sipped the water, pouting up at him.

“You’re so bossy. But… kinda hot when you’re bossy.” You giggled, then hiccupped, and Hyunjin pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing.

You were out like a light not long after, curling up in a ball, whimpering softly in your sleep about “stupid pretty boy” and “sex brownies.” Hyunjin pulled your blanket over you, his fingers lingering as he tucked it around your shoulders. For a moment, he just watched you, his expression softening, the hard edges of his usual scowl melting away. He brushed a strand of hair from your face, his touch so gentle.

But as he walked back to the frat house, he couldn’t shake the image of you - high and feisty, tugging at your clothes, calling him pretty - and he knew he was in deeper than he could ever admit.

You were still recovering from last night’s brownie-induced chaos, your head slightly foggy but your pride fully intact. You were perched at your usual desk in the lecture hall, your notebook open, trying to focus but mostly replaying last night's events. You were equal parts mortified and furious - furious at Hyunjin for being such a confusing jerk, and mortified at yourself for the whole brownie thing.

You were determined to play it cool today, but “cool” wasn’t exactly your brand. You were more…chaos.

Jisung was already sprawled in the seat to your right, his legs kicked up on the desk, grinning like he’s got a PhD in stirring shit.

“Morning, Bambi,” he drawled, leaning close enough that you could smell his cologne “You look cute when you’re hungover on mystery brownies. You sure you're ok?”

You shot him a look that was supposed to be withering but probably just makes you look like a disgruntled kitten.

“Shut up, Ji,” you muttered, scribbling nonsense in your notebook to avoid his eyes.

He was chuckling, when the lecture hall door swung open, and Hyunjin strode in. He was all dark jeans and fitted black sweater, his gaze zeroing in on you immediately.

He didn’t say a word, just stalked over and dropped into the seat on your left, his long legs sprawling under the desk, his arm brushing against yours. The contact sent a jolt through you, and you stiffened, refusing to look at him. You can feel his eyes on you, though, burning into the side of your face.

Jisung was practically vibrating with glee, his grin so wide it was a miracle his face didn't split. You, on the other hand, were giving Hyunjin the meanest side-eye you could muster. Your lips pursed, your brows furrowed, and clutching your pen like a weapon. Hyunjin didn’t flinch, but his jaw tightened, and you saw his fingers twitch on the desk.

The lecture was a blur. You were hyper-aware of Hyunjin’s presence, the way his knee kept bumping yours, the way he was tapping his pen like he was trying to keep his hands busy. Jisung had his unhinged commentary running the whole time - “Bet he’s imagining you in that skirt, Bambi, all bent over his easel” - and you were torn between wanting to laugh and wanting to yeet him out a window.

When the professor finally dismissed the class, you were ready to bolt, but Hyunjin was faster. He was on his feet, grabbing your wrist before you could escape.

“We’re talking,” he said, his voice firm, and before you could protest, he dragged you out of the lecture hall, Jisung’s laughter echoing behind you.

“Get it, Hyunjinnie!” he calls, and you heard Felix’s cackle join in from somewhere in the crowd. Traitors, both of them.

---

Hyunjin didn’t stop until he’d pulled you into a quiet corner of the campus courtyard, a secluded spot tucked behind a cluster of trees, the brick wall cool against your back as he crowded you against it. He was close - too close - his hands braced on either side of your head.

“What is your problem?” you snapped, crossing your arms, though the effect was ruined by how your voice shook. “You can’t just drag me around like some caveman every time you’re pissed!”

“My problem?” Hyunjin fired back, his voice rough, like he has been holding it together by a thread. “You’re out there, letting Jisung drape himself all over you, calling you Bambi, acting like you don’t even notice how it’s driving me fucking insane -”

“Driving you insane?” you interrupted, poking his chest. “You’ve been a jerk to me for months! Glaring, snapping, acting like I’m some annoying little bug you can’t stand! And now you’re mad because Jisung draped himself over me? Make it make sense, Hyunjin!”

He stared at you, his chest heaving, and you could see the moment he broke.

“You think I hate you?” he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You think I can’t stand you? Fuck, you’re so -”

He raked a hand through his hair, stepping closer, and you feel the wall press against your back. “ I don't hate you. I can’t stop thinking about you. Every time you’re around, with your stupid soft smile, and your cupcakes, I lose my fucking mind, okay?”

Your breath caught, and you’re about to say something - probably something dumb - but then he was closer, and you were closer, and suddenly you were kissing. You didn’t know who moved first, and you didn’t care. It was messy, rough, all teeth and tongue and pent-up frustration, his hands gripping your waist, pulling you closer. You were tugging at his sweater, pulling him closer, and it was like the world had narrowed down to just this - his lips, his heat, the way he groaned against your mouth like he’s starving.

You broke apart, gasping, and his forehead rested against yours, his breath ragged.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice hoarse. “The frat house. It’s closest.”

You nodded so fast you nearly gave yourself whiplash, your brain too scrambled to overthink it.

“Yeah, okay,” you breathed, and before you could say anything else, he was kissing you again, his hands sliding under your shirt, fingers grazing your skin.

You giggled into the kiss, because it was ridiculous, it was perfect…and more than anything, it was Hyunjin, and you were so gone for him it wasn't even funny.

Outside the lecture hall...

The hallway was silent. Felix sighed and turned to Jisung, who was biting into a protein bar.

“So,” Felix said slowly.

“So?”

“Ji.”

“What?” Jisung said, chewing dramatically, starting to walk.

“Don’t start your clueless act. Not with me.” Felix said, giving him a flat look.

Jisung fell quiet, and shrugged.

“They’re happy,” he said after a beat. “Jinnie’s wanted this for so long. He’s happy. That’s all that matters.”

Felix didn’t speak right away. He just sighed.

“I told you this would blow up in your face,” he said gently.

“Yeah, yeah.” Jisung smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Felix huffed out an exasperated laugh, “You’re an idiot.”

“I’m fine,” Jisung said, too quickly. “I really am.”

Felix stopped walking, grabbed Jisung’s arm and turned him around.

“Stop doing that,” he said, seriously. “I know the minute I step away, you’re gonna cry in a janitor’s closet.”

“Am not,” Jisung muttered, offended.

“Ji.”

“Ok, maybe a little.”

Felix’s hand slipped into his, fingers warm and grounding.

“She’s so sweet,” Felix whispered. “I won’t blame you...”

He chuckled under his breath, and Jisung joined him, head tilted back.

“They deserve each other,” he said finally, voice low, but sincere. “I mean, have you seen the way she looks at him? Like he’s made of stars and Greek yogurt.”

Felix raised a brow. “Greek yogurt?”

“Shut up.”

They both laughed, and then fell into silence again.

“I need a drink,” Felix said finally.

“Yeah, me too.”

Divider: @saradika-graphics

Tags: @moonchild9350 @velvetmoonlght @hwangjoanna @pixie-felix @sailor--sun @chancloud8 @captainchrisstan @hansmic @emilyywhyy @inlovewithstraykids @my-neurodivergent-world @nightmarenyxx @channie4lifeee143127 @lezleeferguson-120 @silly250 @pansexual-and-eating-pancakes @sammhisphere

#stray kids #skz #hyunjin x reader #hyunjin x y/n #hyunjin x you #hyunjin fluff #jisung fluff #skz x reader #skz fluff #stray kids x reader #stray kids fluff #skz scenarios #hyunjin scenarios #stray kids scenarios #bambi by hanniebaeee

499 notes · View notes

whenstarsundress · 2 days ago

Note

hello! i wanted to ask if you could write a scenario where the boys find the reader's self harm scars that the reader has been hiding for years? i know it's a difficult subject and feel free to ignore this ask or change up the request however you wish if it's something you're not comfortable with. no pressure at all! my favorites are zayne and sylus but i'm not picky, you can write the prompt for someone else if you'd rather! your writing is amazing and i really appreciate you sharing your work! :)

an: thank you for trusting me with this request, wherever you are, I’m sending you love.

sylus – protective, soft but quietly wrecked

he didn’t mean to see. he was tracing your skin with those featherlight touches. his usual calm reverence written into every movement.

but then his fingers stilled. “…angel,” he murmured.

you froze. he didn’t ask what it was. he already knew. his jaw clenched and for a second his fingers tightened around you. but when you tried to move, tried to hide, he caught your hand and kissed the scar instead. then another, and each that he could find.

“this… this doesn’t scare me,” he said thickly. “but it hurts that you went through something like that alone.”

he held you all night and whispered that he was proud of you. that you were still here. that he’d protect you from every shadow, including the ones in your own heart.

zayne – devastated, gentle, desperately wants to understand

he spotted it when you were changing. your shirt had barely lifted before he saw the marks. his entire expression dropped, his entire body went rigid.

“…baby?” his voice cracked. “can i… ask you something?”

you turned away, but he rushed to you. not to demand answers or to see, but to wrap you in his hoodie, pressing his forehead to yours.

“i’m not mad,” he whispered. “i just… i wish i’d known. i could’ve held you when it was bad. i still can. please don’t hide from me.”

that night, he made you hot cocoa and wrapped you in his clothes, in his blanket, in his arms. and let you talk or cry or say nothing at all. he sat beside you on the floor, lacing your fingers together, as if to silently say, “you’re not alone anymore.”

caleb – quietly fierce, immediate emotional anchor

he noticed the scars when you reached to grab something. you didn’t even realize until you saw his eyes on your wrist. he didn’t speak right away, because what do you say when the love of your life was hurting and you didn’t know?

“tell me who hurt you,” he said. “and if it was you… tell me what made it feel like the only choice.”

his voice didn’t carry judgment. just fury that something in this world—something in your past, or even right now—could carve that pain into someone he loved. he kissed the skin gently and said, “scars don’t scare me. but not knowing what you’re carrying does. so talk to me. or let me hold it with you.”

and he did. whatever you need, caleb would give it to you. forever.

xavier – emotional, deeply shaken, poetic and present

you didn’t think he’d notice. not through the long sleeves, but xavier always noticed everything about you. one night, curled in bed, you shifted, and your sleeve rode up. he saw. his heart dropped before beating so fast, like it tried to claw out of his chest, and to yours. to surround you with love, warmth and protection.

his fingers ghosted over the mark. “was this pain?” he asked, his voice hollow. “or… silence?”

you didn’t answer right away. but your eyes brimmed with tears and that was enough. he took your wrist in both hands, kissed every inch with reverence, like he could rewrite what had happened with softness.

“these scars,” he whispered, “don’t define you. but they’re part of your story. and i’m not afraid of your shadows. i love all of you. even the aching parts.”

rafayel – surprisingly serious, stays with you through every emotion

he usually makes everything lighthearted until he saw the faint scars on your thighs. his voice dropped to a serious low. “you did this to yourself?”

you nodded, too scared to look at him. he didn’t joke or tease. he stepped forward and knelt in front of you, resting his cheek gently against your leg, as a quiet act of devotion.

“i’ve made mistakes, too,” he said softly. “you don’t have to hide the hurting from me. i want the real you, even the parts you think are unlovable.”

he pressed a soft kiss to the scar before he got up again, and wrapped you tightly into his arms. “i got you. no matter how heavy the pain is, we’ll carry it together. okay?”

final words - you are not your scars. you are not broken. you are worthy of gentle love, understanding hands and unwavering presence.

and my dear? you’re so strong for being here.

these boys—sylus, zayne, caleb, xavier & rafayel—they wouldn’t run from your past. they’d stay, heart first.

492 notes · View notes

cheftsunoda · 11 hours ago

Note

Hi lovely!! If you open to the idea, would you be able to do something where leclerc sister (maybe like 16/18) is adopted, but they were waiting to tell her. Then somehow a gossip page leaks it, which makes everyone go crazy. Reader is basically paddock princess so she has multiple people backing her up and protecting her?

paddock princess — ob87

smau + blurbs

charles leclerc x !adopted sister reader

ollie bearman x !leclerc sister

yn leclerc is loved by all— especially her family. however, they have been keeping a secret from her. what happens when a gossip page gets their hands on this and yn learns that she is adopted? will she run? will she stay?

fc : julia knezevic

(a/n) : love love love this idea. i made the reader 19 for just story purposes and i’ve had quite a few requests to write about ollie so i just added him as a comfort to the reader and love interest. thank you. hope you loveeeee

extra long my bad

—

yn_leclerc

monaco 📍

liked by arthur_leclerc, maxverstappen1, carlossainz55 & 3,090,002 others.

yn_leclerc : nasty 19 ft alex (the loml) and the cake she made me 🥺

tagged : alexandrasaintmleux

—

view 175,394 other comments.

alexandrasaintmleux : always my baby. im so glad you loved the cake — i love you!! happy birthday mon ange 🤍

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : i love you to the moon and back.

arthur_leclerc : all the love for alex but no love for your brothers?? 🙄 (i love you sm)

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : did you make me a jellycat cake???

↳ arthur_leclerc : no but i have given you unconditional love your whole life.

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : letting it slide because you promised a shopping spree tomorrow.

liked by arthur_leclerc

↳ arthur_leclerc : i am going to be POOR.

lewishamilton : Happy Birthday, little one. Keep shining the way you do. Proud of you always. 🤍

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : love you lew🥺

↳ arthur_leclerc : what is it like having THE lewis hamilton in the comments on your bday post? i never got this kind of treatment.

↳ yn_leclerc : he does not love you as much as he loves me

liked by lewishamilton

lando : happy birthday little leclerc! love you 🧡

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : love you sm lan. thank you for my gift !!

liked by lando

carlossainz55 : Mi dulce pequeño— there are not enough words to tell you how proud I am of you. Happy Birthday. Love you always.

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : mi carlitos!!!! love you forever n ever

liked by carlossainz55

lorenzotl : le plus joyeux des anniversaires à ma petite sœur! je t’aime!

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : je vous aime tellement!

lilymhe : alexandra deserves an award for the cake, you deserve one for being so cute! happy birthday lovely

liked by yn_leclerc and alexandrasaintmleux

↳ yn_leclerc : love you sm 🥺 thank you for all the jelly’s sent to my door this morning. (tell alex i said thank you as well)

liked by lilymhe and alexalbon

↳ alexalbon : anything for the princess

maxverstappen1 : i blinked and you grew up. i absolutely hate that. but i love you. happy birthday, kleintje. (little one)

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : love you always maxie 🤍

liked by maxverstappen1

scuderiaferrari : Happy Birthday YN!! We love you!💛❤️🎂

liked by yn_leclerc

username0 : oh to have the grid in my comment section

username10 : happy bday queen!

olliebearman : happy birthday, yn! ❤️

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : thank u bearrr🤍

liked by olliebearman

isackhadjar : joyeux anniversarie à toi!! 🎈

liked by yn_leclerc

↳ yn_leclerc : merci beaucoup, isack :)

liked by isackhadjar

—

If I ate one more bite of anything, I was going to spontaneously combust in front of my entire family. The small chocolate cake that was just placed in front of me was a lot, to say the least—complete with a sparkler that looked like it was about to set fire to the wine list. Maman clapped her hands together like it was the most magical thing she’d ever seen, Arthur was making explosion noises like a child, and Lorenzo was scolding him through laughter. I couldn’t even be mad. It was one of those rare nights where everything felt still and soft.

“I’m literally full,” I groaned, leaning back in my chair. “Like really full. I might explode.”

“You say that now,” Charles smirked, “but just wait until we bring out the gifts.”

“Oh no,” I groaned. “Charles, if you bought me another scooter like last year—”

“I said I was sorry about the scooter!” he interrupted. “You looked like you wanted to try one.”

“I wanted to try one, not watch you crash it into a bush,” I said giving him a playful glare.

That made everyone laugh—Alexandra almost choked on her wine and Charlotte covered her mouth mid-giggle. It was peaceful and perfect and mine. And then it wasn’t just us anymore. Because the double doors to the private dining room burst open without warning.

“IS THIS THE AFTERPARTY?!” Lando’s voice rang out first, carrying over the sound of chairs scraping and shocked gasps. I blinked in complete disbelief as Pierre, George, Carlos, Lewis, Alex, and Esteban followed behind him in various states of gift-carrying, tux-wearing madness.

“What—what the hell—” I started, but I was already being pulled into a hug by Pierre, who lifted me off the ground like I weighed nothing.

“HAPPY BIRTHDAY, PRINCESSE,” he shouted in my ear before promptly spinning me in a circle.

“Oh my god,” I laughed, tears already threatening. “You guys didn’t.”

“We did,” Lewis said with a warm grin, walking up and handing me a white Chanel shopping bag. “And this is just the beginning.”

I opened it with shaking hands—and my jaw dropped. It was the bag. The vintage, pearl-handle, mini Chanel bag I had drooled over in Paris two months ago. The one that had been sold out within hours. The one I thought I’d never even touch.

“I mentioned it once,” I whispered. “Once.”

“Lando tracked it down,” Lewis said casually, gesturing toward the Brit, who was smugly leaning against a wall and pretending to scroll through his phone.

“You’re kidding.”

“He begged a stylist in New York for it,” George added, not hiding the grin on his face.

Lando just shrugged. “Had to beat Verstappen to it somehow.”

I ran into his arms, bag clutched to my chest like a treasure. “You’re insane. I love you. You’re insane.”

“Happy birthday, princess,” he whispered into my hair.

And then came Carlos, cool and collected as always, dressed in black with a velvet box in hand.

“Oh, no,” I said, already emotional.

“Oh, yes,” he replied, opening it to reveal a dainty but breathtaking diamond necklace. The kind of necklace you’d see in Vogue editorials.

“Carlos,” I whispered. “That’s too much.”

“You’re worth more,” he said softly, and I suddenly understood what it meant to be speechless.

He stepped behind me and gently fastened it around my neck while I stood frozen, tears brimming in my eyes, trying not to break down in front of everyone.

“This is insane,” I finally croaked. “You guys didn’t have to—”

“We wanted to,” Charles interrupted, suddenly next to me with Arthur and Lorenzo behind him. “You make all of our lives better just by being in them, petite sœur. Of course we showed up.”

I couldn’t even argue. And as I looked down at the necklace on my collarbone, the bag clutched to my chest, and the grins surrounding me, I knew this was one birthday I’d never, ever forget.

—

By the time I made it back to my apartment, my feet were screaming, my necklace was slightly askew, and I was fairly certain I was still full from four courses and three desserts. All I wanted was to throw on sweatpants, wash the remaining makeup off my face, and sleep for fifteen years. But instead, I walked into yet another surprise. There, smack in the middle of my living room coffee table, was a massive bouquet—no, a floral fortress—of white hydrangeas, soft yellow peonies, and pale pink roses. It looked like something out of a royal wedding Pinterest board. Elegant. Expensive. Intentional. There was a tiny cream envelope nestled in the middle. I dropped my bag on the floor and blinked at it like it might explode. Before I could even touch the card, Charles’ voice rang from the hallway behind me.

“What is that?”

Oh no. I turned slowly. There they were—Charles, Arthur, and Lando—squished in the hallway, clearly having followed me home like nosy little puppies.

“It’s… flowers,” I offered weakly.

“From who?” Arthur asked immediately, stepping forward like an over-invested bodyguard.

“Why are there roses?” Lando added, already reaching for the card. I swatted his hand away.

“Back off, Norris.”

Charles narrowed his eyes. “Is it from someone we know? Someone we like?”

I sighed dramatically, plucked the card out of the arrangement, and read aloud.

“Happy Birthday, Princess. Sorry I couldn’t make it tonight—hope this makes up for it. x – Ollie”

Silence. Then— “Bearman?!” Arthur practically screeched, spinning around like he’d been personally betrayed.

“You let Ollie Bearman call you Princess?!” Charles demanded, face already morphing into Big Brother Mode.

“I didn’t let him—he just—it’s a nickname! Everyone calls me that!”

Lando was already flopped onto my couch, cackling. “Oh, you’re dead. You are so dead. Ollie’s never escaping this.”

“He sent roses,” Arthur said, pacing now. “He’s trying to flirt. That’s flirting. Is he trying to date you? Is this a date thing?!”

“He’s Twenty!” I protested.

“You’re nineteen!” Charles snapped.

“Exactly! It’s barely an age gap—”

“Oh my god,” Lando groaned from the couch. “You like him.”

“I never said that!”

“Which means you do,” Arthur concluded.

I buried my face in my hands. “I literally just wanted to go to sleep. That’s all I wanted.”

Charles grabbed his phone. “I’m calling Ollie.”

“You will do no such thing!”

Too late—Arthur was already speed-texting someone. Meanwhile, Lando was now examining the bouquet and the card up close.

“Okay, but… this is a really good arrangement. Like, props to him. He’s got taste.”

“Lando, you’re not helping.”

—

f1gossipgirls

1,283,009 likes.

f1gossipgirls : In a shocking turn of events, sources close to the Leclerc family have revealed that YN Leclerc—known as F1’s beloved “paddock princess” and younger sister to Ferrari’s Charles Leclerc—is not biologically related to the Monégasque driver. According to documents obtained, YN was adopted by the Leclerc family as a baby. While the Leclerc's have always presented a united and loving front, fans are now questioning why this detail was never made public—especially as YN’s popularity continues to skyrocket. Why was this kept a secret? Was YN ever told? Is there more to the story than meets the eye? Neither YN nor the Leclerc family has commented yet, but we expect the grid to go into protection mode fast. With half the paddock practically treating YN like royalty, this story is far from over. More updates soon.

—

view 350,384 other comments.

username0 : her and charles are literally identical— i never would’ve guessed this.

username15 : you’re telling me someone dug through adoption records to post this?? she’s literally 19. what is wrong with you people.

username30 : “not biologically related” and??? they are still her family. y’all are weird for this one.

username22 : the fact that this was leaked on her birthday week is so disgusting. someone really said “let me ruin a teenager’s day for clicks.” i’m sick.

username17 : i hope charles sues y’all into oblivion

username00 : so… she’s adopted. AND?? she’s still the paddock princess. still the sister of Charles, Arthur and Lorenzo. still our girl. NEXT.

username10 : y’all forgot she’s the grid’s little sister. max is about to say his first emotional thing ever.

username11 : it’s the way she literally brings joy to the paddock. she’s always hugging people, always cheering, always there. you really tried to knock her down? pathetic.

—

third person pov

Arthur was in the kitchen with Pascale and Alexandra, laughing as he scrolled through photos from YN’s birthday dinner the night before. The second Lorenzo’s voice broke—sharp, panicked—Arthur dropped his phone.

“They posted it.”

Pascale froze. “Posted what?”

Lorenzo’s voice was trembling. “The adoption. They leaked her adoption. It’s everywhere.”

Time stood still. Alexandra’s hand flew to her mouth. Arthur’s face drained of color. Pascale slowly took the phone from Lorenzo, her fingers shaking as she read the headline aloud in a whisper. The air left the room.

Pascale sank into a chair. “She doesn’t even know yet…”

Arthur was already pacing, muttering curses in French, furious in a way he hadn’t been in years. “How—how did they even find out? Who would do this to her?”

“She’s going to be devastated,” Alexandra whispered, blinking back tears.

Lorenzo was already dialing Charles. Charles didn’t even say hello when he answered—just, “I saw it.”

His voice was tight. Controlled. Scary calm.

“I’m going to her now.”

“Don’t let her see it yet,” Pascale said, standing up, voice firm despite the tears in her eyes. “Don��t let her read that article before she hears it from us.”

Charles’ voice cracked just slightly. “She trusted us.”

—

your pov

It’s crazy how much your life can change in twelve hours. Last night, I was blowing out candles. Laughing so hard I nearly choked on the cake Alexandra baked me. Lando handed me the bag I’d been dreaming about, Carlos gave me jewelry like I was royalty, and my brothers were annoyingly soft all evening. I felt so… loved. Safe. And now?

Now I’m sitting on my bedroom floor, phone in my lap, staring at an article that managed to make everything feel different. Like someone cracked open my world and spilled secrets I didn’t even know were mine. Adopted. The word is loud in my head. Foreign. Distant. Like it belongs to someone else. No one told me. Not Charles. Not Maman. Not Arthur. They all knew. And I didn’t. The silence in the house is deafening. I keep waiting to hear footsteps—his voice. Something. But it’s just me. Me, and a truth I never asked for.

—

I didn’t want to stay in my apartment anymore. The silence was suffocating, and every corner seemed to remind me of the secret I never wanted to know — that I was adopted, and somehow, that fact was now public. The leak felt like a knife twisting in my chest, and I just needed to get away. Without thinking much, I grabbed a bag — some clothes, my favorite hoodie, a journal I never leave behind — and headed straight to Max’s place. It was the one place that felt like home, no matter how chaotic the world got.

When I got there, Max opened the door before I even knocked. His face softened the moment he saw me, like he already knew something was wrong. Kelly was there, too, and she immediately wrapped me in a warm hug that felt like safety.

“Come in,” Max said quietly, guiding me inside. “You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to.”

I just shook my head, sitting on the couch, my fingers trembling as I clutched my bag. Kelly sat nearby, giving me that quiet, calm support only she could. Max came over and wrapped me into a tight hug, pressing a kiss to my forehead. Just letting me cry, just letting me exist.

After some time, Max’s phone buzzed. He looked at me with a small smile. “Lando and Carlos are coming over. They insist on seeing you.”

When they arrived, Lando was first — his usual grin was softer, eyes full of concern. Carlos came in behind him, nodding at Max and Kelly.

Max left me in the guest bedroom to rest, but Lando and Carlos came in, settling next to me on the bed. Lando gently took my hand, fingers warm and steady, while Carlos wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

I closed my eyes for a moment, then started to speak, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t understand why they did this. Why they thought it was okay to tear open my life like this.”

Lando squeezed my hand. “Because they don’t understand what family means.”

Carlos nodded. “We do. You’re ours. Nothing changes that.”

I let the tears come, finally allowing myself to be vulnerable. They didn’t say much — just held me, letting me pour out my pain and confusion. For hours, we stayed like that. I talked, cried, and they listened. Their presence was something I didn’t know I needed, a reminder that no matter what the world said, I wasn’t alone.

—

third person pov

Charles arrived at YN’s apartment, his heart pounding with worry. He needed to see her — to explain, to fix whatever had been broken. But when he pushed the door open, it was slightly ajar, creaking softly as it swung inward.

“YN?” he called, his voice tight with concern. The apartment was eerily quiet.

He glanced around the living room and kitchen, then made his way to her bedroom. His eyes immediately landed on the nightstand, her journal was missing. A knot tightened in his stomach. She had packed up. She had left.

His hands trembled as he pulled out his phone and called Arthur. “Arthur, YN’s gone. She left her apartment — her journal’s missing too. I don’t know where she is.”

“Stay calm, Charles,” Arthur replied evenly. “Where do you think she went?”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, panic rising in his chest. “I don’t know. But I have to find her. I have to.”

He looked around once more, the weight of guilt pressing down. How had it come to this? And how could he make it right before it was too late?

—

your pov

After a while, Lando spoke softly, his voice almost a whisper. “YN, can I ask you something?”

I nodded, eyes still closed. “Anything.”

“Did you ever want to know?” His words caught me off guard.

“Want to know what?” I asked, my voice shaky.

“About being adopted. About your past.”

I took a deep breath. “I always felt like something was missing, like there was this part of me I wasn’t supposed to see. But honestly? I was scared. Scared that if I found out, everything I knew — my family, my life — would change.”

Carlos squeezed my shoulder. “But nothing about who you are changes because of that. You’re still YN, still the person we care about. Family isn’t just blood.”

“I know,” I whispered. “But it feels like my whole identity was a lie. Like I wasn’t real enough.”

Lando shook his head gently. “You’re more real than anyone I know. Being adopted doesn’t make you less than. It means you were chosen. And that’s powerful.”

Carlos smiled softly. “You belong with us. With all of us. And no gossip or secret can ever take that away.”

I blinked back tears, feeling the weight in my chest ease just a little. For the first time in hours, I felt seen truly seen and accepted. The fear was still there, but maybe, just maybe, I wasn’t alone in this.

“Thank you,” I whispered, clutching their hands tighter. “For staying. For reminding me who I am.”

—

The next morning came too fast. I hadn’t slept much — just drifted in and out of shallow dreams that always ended with the same knot in my stomach. The ache in my chest hadn’t eased either, even with Carlos’s steady breathing beside me and Lando still curled up at the foot of the bed like an overgrown golden retriever. I was staring at the ceiling when my phone buzzed on the nightstand.

(your bff) 💌 calling…

I sat up, quietly untangling myself from the warmth of my boys, and slipped into the hallway before answering.

“(your bff)?” My voice cracked a little.

“Oh, thank God. I was about to fly to Monaco myself,” she said immediately, her voice filled with the kind of love only someone who’s seen you through every awkward phase of your life could manage. “How are you, sweetheart?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted. “Like I’m floating above myself? It doesn’t feel real. I haven’t really stopped moving since it happened.”

She sighed. “I hate this. I hate that it got taken from you like that. You deserved better than a headline.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Yeah, well. Headlines don’t wait for permission.”

She was quiet for a moment. “Come with me.”

“What?”

“I mean it,” she said firmly. “Come with me to the lake house. Just us. No noise. No social media. No press. Just trees, a fireplace, and the world leaving you alone for a minute. I’ll cook. You’ll cry. I’ll feed you again. We’ll yell into the void. It’ll be healing.”

I laughed softly, the sound surprising even me. “I don’t know…”

“You need air, baby. And space. And maybe wine and marshmallows and bad horror movies from 2005. Come hide with me.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I don’t even know what to pack.”

“Nothing. Just bring your hoodie and that one fuzzy blanket you refuse to wash because it ‘smells like childhood,’” she teased. “I’ll handle the rest.”

I blinked away tears. “Okay. I’ll come.”

“I’ll be there by the afternoon. No backing out. I’m kidnapping you.”

“I love you,” I whispered.

“I know,” she replied gently. “Let’s get you out of the storm.”

—

By late afternoon, I’d finally worked up the courage to get out of bed. My head was pounding from the constant swirl of thoughts, and the emotional whiplash of the last 24 hours had left my body aching like I’d run a marathon. I padded into the kitchen, where Max was chopping fruit like a domestic god, and Kelly was sitting at the counter scrolling through her phone with her glasses low on her nose. Carlos was half-asleep on the couch, and Lando was rummaging through the pantry like he hadn’t eaten in days. I cleared my throat, instantly grabbing everyone’s attention. Max turned first, eyes softening the second he saw me.

“Hey,” he said quietly, setting the knife down.

“Hey.” I paused, twisting my fingers together. “I, um… I just wanted to let you guys know (your bff) is on her way. She’s picking me up.”

Lando frowned, abandoning the bag of chips in his hand. “Picking you up?”

I nodded. “We’re going to her lake house. It’s out in the middle of nowhere — no press, no people, no internet unless we climb a tree. Just… quiet.”

Carlos sat up straighter. “You’re leaving?”

“Just for a while,” I said quickly. “I need space. A second to figure out what I’m even feeling. I’ve been kind of… drowning.”

Max walked over and pulled me into a hug without a word, holding me tight against his chest.

“Are you sure this is what you need?” Kelly asked gently from the stool.

“Yeah. I think so,” I whispered. “I love you guys so much, but right now, even being around people who love me hurts. It makes it real.”

Lando crossed the kitchen and stood in front of me, arms crossed, lips pressed into a thin line. “Just say the word and we’ll be there. You know that, right?”

“I know,” I smiled weakly. “I feel safer because of you. I just need to remember how to feel like me again.”

Carlos came over, cupping my cheek briefly. “Call us. Even if you just need to hear someone breathe.”

I let out a watery laugh. “You’re so weird.”

“Still true though,” Max muttered, and we all laughed, just for a second. It felt good.

A knock on the door broke the moment. I moved to open it, and there she was — oversized hoodie, sunglasses, and a messy bun. “Are you ready for your dramatic escape from reality?”

“You have no idea,” I said, hugging her tightly.

Behind me, the boys stood at the doorway like I was heading off to war.

“I’ll be back,” I promised. “I just need some time.”

“You better come back,” Lando muttered. “Or we’re burning the lake house down.”

“Good luck finding it,” She called over her shoulder as we walked to her car. “GPS gives up halfway in.”

I looked back one last time. Max gave me a thumbs up. Carlos blew a kiss. Lando mouthed call me with way too much drama.

—

f1gossipgirls

325,037 likes.

f1gossipgirls : YN Leclerc was seen leaving Max Verstappen’s apartment complex with her best friend, @/yourbff. The two were later seen boarding a private jet at a local airport. Seems as if she maybe did not know about the adoption news.

—

view 52,974 other comments.

username0 : she went to max’s apartment… that’s her safe place. oh she really didn’t know 😭

username5 : if charles wasn’t the one who told her and she found out from the internet i’m gonna SCREAM

username8 : this whole situation is SICK. media needs to back OFF. she’s not a storyline, she’s a human.

username15 : the second max got involved i knew it was serious. he’s not the “let me comfort you” type unless it’s life-shattering.

username20 : i hope whoever leaked this steps on legos for eternity. she deserved to hear it from her family

—

third person pov

“Max, she’s with you?” Charles’s voice was sharp, disbelief mixed with panic. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

There was a brief pause before Max spoke calmly, carefully. “She was, yeah. But she left a little while ago. Said she needed to clear her head.”

Charles ran a hand through his hair, his voice cracking. “Clear her head? Max, she’s my sister. She’s been hit hard by all this. I should be the one helping her.”

Max took a steady breath. “I get that. But right now, she needs space from everyone—even us. She’s processing all of this in her own way. She’ll come back when she’s ready.”

Charles’s voice softened, desperation seeping in. “I just want to be there for her. She can’t go through this alone.”

“She’s not alone,” Max said firmly. “We’re all here, waiting. Trust me—when she’s ready, she’ll reach out.”

Charles exhaled slowly, trying to calm the storm inside. “Okay. I just hope she knows that.”

“She knows.”

—

yn_leclerc

liked by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, lando & 4,009,001 others.

yn_leclerc : mind over matter.

tagged : yourbff & olliebearman

—

user has disabled comments on this post.

—

I was curled up on the oversized couch in a hoodie that swallowed me whole, sipping lukewarm tea, when I heard the front door open.

Her voice rang out, sing-song and suspiciously cheerful. “I brought someone who’s guaranteed to cheer you up!”

I groaned into my cup. “Unless it’s a French bulldog or a bottle of wine, I do not care.”

“Nope,” she grinned, walking into the living room. “Better.”

Footsteps. A second pair. A familiar pair.

“Hey, sunshine.”

I looked up—and nearly dropped my mug.

“Ollie?!”

He was standing in the doorway with that crooked grin and warm eyes, a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, looking like he belonged here more than I did.

Before I could say anything else, I was on my feet and running straight into his arms. He caught me easily, arms wrapping tightly around my waist as he lifted me off the ground and spun me once, laughing. “There she is,” he murmured into my hair.

I squeezed him tighter, trying to blink away the sudden sting in my eyes. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

“She bribed me with baked goods,” he said teasingly, setting me down but not letting go. “Also, you didn’t answer any of my texts, which was very rude.”

I laughed into his chest. “Sorry. Been a little busy having an identity crisis.”

“Well,” he said, gently pulling back to look at me, “you still look like my favorite person.”

I shoved his shoulder playfully. “You’re so annoying.”

“Still made you smile.”

(your bff) appeared in the doorway with two mugs and a proud little smirk. “I know my girl.”

And she really did.

—

The sun warmed my skin and the fresh lake breeze tangled through my hair as the boat cut smoothly through the calm water. I sat close to Ollie, his hand resting gently over mine, fingers lacing naturally like they’d known each other forever. Somehow, everything felt easy here — no pressure, no noise, just quiet moments that spoke louder than words.

Ollie’s smile was soft and a little shy, the kind that made my heart flutter without me even realizing. Every so often, his eyes would catch mine, and that quiet look between us said everything I needed to hear.

At one point, he reached out, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. His touch was feather-light but sent warmth straight to my chest. I leaned into it without hesitation, resting my head against his shoulder. The steady beat of his heart beneath my cheek was the most comforting thing I’d felt in a long time.

“Perfect day, huh?” he whispered, voice low and steady.

I smiled against his skin. “The best.”

We spent the afternoon drifting in and out of conversation — silly jokes, quiet dreams, shared secrets. I loved how he listened like every word mattered, and how he made me laugh even when my chest still felt heavy.

As the sun started to dip lower, painting the sky with soft oranges and pinks, Ollie pulled me close, wrapping his arm around my shoulders. I curled in, feeling safe, warm, and more hopeful than I had in weeks.

“You’re amazing, you know that?” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

I smiled, heart swelling. “So are you.”

And in that golden light, with the water shimmering around us, it felt like maybe this was exactly where I was supposed to

—

Ollie and I stood at the edge of the boat, the water shimmering invitingly below us. I couldn’t resist — a sly grin spread across my face.

With a quick push, I tried to catch him off guard and send him splashing into the water. But instead of falling alone, Ollie grabbed me by the waist and pulled me down with him. We both tumbled beneath the surface, laughing as we surfaced together, water dripping from our hair.

He looked at me with that familiar, warm smile, eyes twinkling in the fading light. “Guess we’re both swimming now,” he said, brushing a strand of wet hair from my face.

Before I could answer, he leaned in, and our lips met — soft, warm, and perfect. The world around us disappeared, the only thing I could feel was him.

From the shore, I saw her watching us from the porch, a smile tugging at her lips. Knowing she was there, sharing this moment quietly, made it feel even more special.

—

After our swim and showers, I slipped into one of Ollie’s oversized sweatshirts. It was soft and warm, and still smelled faintly of him—like a little bubble of comfort I could hold onto. The sleeves swallowed my hands completely, making me feel small and safe, like a kid again.

I made my way back to the living room where Ollie was already waiting for me. His eyes softened when he saw me, and without saying a word, he reached out and pulled me gently into his arms. I leaned against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. It was the kind of calm I hadn’t felt in a long time.

We settled onto the couch, me resting my head on his shoulder while his fingers traced lazy, soothing circles on my arm. The silence between us was warm, like a quiet sanctuary from all the noise and chaos I’d been swimming through.

After a while, Ollie’s voice broke the stillness, quiet and gentle. “Hey… if you want to talk, I’m here. About everything. Whenever you’re ready.”

I hesitated for a moment, scared of what might come out, but looking up at him—so patient, so steady—I felt a crack in my walls. Maybe it was okay to open up.

“It’s just… everything’s different now,” I started, voice barely above a whisper. “I always thought I knew who I was—where I belonged. But now… this news, it feels like someone pulled the rug out from under me. Like the family I thought I had was just a story. I’m scared, Ollie. Scared of losing them, scared of losing myself.”

He tightened his arms around me as if to keep me from drifting away. “You’re not losing yourself. You’re just figuring out who you really are. And that’s okay.”

I swallowed hard, the lump in my throat growing. “I don’t even know how to be ‘me’ anymore. How do you keep going when everything you thought was true suddenly feels like a lie?”

Ollie brushed a damp strand of hair behind my ear and kissed my temple softly. “One step at a time. And you’re not alone in this. I’m here, and so are all the people who care about you. You’ll find your way, I promise.”

I closed my eyes and let his words sink in. For the first time in days, the panic in my chest eased, replaced by something like hope. Wrapped in his arms, with his steady warmth holding me together, I felt like maybe I could breathe again.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

He smiled against my hair. “Always.”

—

It had been a week and a half since we escaped to the quiet calm of my best friend’s lakeside house. The kind of place where the wind whispered instead of screamed, and the days bled into one another with the softness of a watercolor painting. It had been healing—slowly, painfully, but healing all the same.

Ollie and I were lying on the porch swing that overlooked the still, glittering water. My head was on his chest, and his fingers absentmindedly combed through my hair, lulling me into that rare space between peace and thought. The sun was starting to dip low behind the trees, casting everything in this golden, aching kind of light.

My phone buzzed on the table beside me. I thought about ignoring it. But something in my chest tugged at me.

When I saw her name—Alexandra—my heart twisted.

I sat up a little straighter and looked at Ollie. “It’s Alex.”

He didn’t say anything at first, just brushed his thumb across my knee and gave a gentle nod. “Answer it, love.”

With a breath I didn’t know I was holding, I picked up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, bébé.” Her voice was soft, tentative, but unmistakably her. “I didn’t want to push or intrude… but I just—God, I needed to hear your voice.”

The moment I heard her, really heard her, something in me cracked open. My eyes welled up before I even said a word.

“Hi,” I whispered back, my voice breaking slightly. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you so much.” She exhaled like she’d been waiting days just for this. “Are you okay? No pressure to answer that honestly.”

I laughed, watery and sad. “I don’t know. Some days I feel okay. Some days I feel like I’m just floating above myself.”

There was a beat of silence on the other end.

“I was wondering,” she said softly, “if maybe… you’d think about coming back. Just to talk. Not to fix everything, not unless you want to. But… I think your brothers would sleep again if they could just hug you. And I—” her voice cracked, “I want to hug you too. I hate not having you near.”

Tears spilled freely now, and I didn’t bother wiping them. “Did you know?” I asked, almost in a whisper. “About the adoption?”

The pause that followed felt like a century.

“…Yes,” she said quietly. “But not until after I’d already fallen in love with you as my little sister. And I didn’t say anything because it wasn’t mine to tell. God, YN, I wanted to so many times. But your family wanted to wait until the moment was right. They never wanted it to be like this. Never.”

I closed my eyes. I believed her. Somehow, it didn’t make it hurt less, but it made the ache a little less lonely.

“I don’t know if I can look them in the eyes,” I admitted. “Not yet. Maybe not ever.”

“You don’t have to decide that today,” she said. “But just know that you are still their sister. You are still loved beyond reason. And I love you. Always.”

I felt Ollie’s hand find mine, our fingers lacing together tightly. I glanced at him, and he gave me the softest look—patient, steady.

“I’ll come back,” I said finally. “Not today. But soon. I think I owe myself that much.”

“I’ll be there,” Alexandra said, her voice thick with emotion. “Whatever you need.”

After we hung up, I just sat there, the ache still swirling under my skin—but now there was warmth with it.

Ollie squeezed my hand. “When you go… if you want me there, I’ll be there. Right next to you.”

I turned to him, eyes glassy. “What did I do to deserve you?”

He smiled, brushing his thumb across my cheek. “Just being your perfect self.”

—

yn_leclerc added two posts to her story!

seen by charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux & 5,020,330 others.

{caption 1 : last day on the lake 😰} {caption 2 : when he knows your smoothie order by heart, he’s a keeper}

alexandrasaintmleux : i am so excited to see you. i will be there for whatever you need.

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↳ yn_leclerc : thank you love. see you soon.

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lando : literally bouncing off the walls because you are coming home. i love you i love you i love you.

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↳ yn_leclerc : love you more

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—

I don’t know how long I stood there in front of the door—my door, technically. My childhood home. The place where I took my first steps, where I spent holidays and birthdays and Sunday mornings in pajamas too big for me, dancing around to whatever song Maman had playing. And now it just… looked different. But Alexandra opened it before I had a chance to knock.

“Mon bébé,” she whispered, eyes already misting as she pulled me into the tightest hug. Her arms wrapped around me like a life jacket, like if she just held tight enough, everything would rewind and be okay again. I melted into her, head buried in her shoulder, her soft scent grounding me in a way I hadn’t realized I missed.

“You came back,” she murmured, brushing a hand through my hair. “I’m so proud of you.”

I swallowed. “I didn’t come alone.”

Behind me, Ollie stood close, his hand finding mine without hesitation. “She’s not doing this by herself,” he said gently, his thumb tracing soft circles over my knuckles.

And then came the footsteps. Lando, Carlos, and Max flanked us with a kind of quiet strength, each of them unreadable but exuding this palpable energy like: If anyone says the wrong thing, they’ll deal with us first. The house felt heavier with every step I took inside.

Charles stood in the living room, pacing. Arthur by the window, looking tense. Lorenzo and Maman were already seated on the couch, stiff and silent. I felt like a stranger in a house full of people who used to know me better than I knew myself. No one said anything for a moment. And then I spoke.

“You all knew,” I said, my voice somehow steady despite the tornado inside me. “All of you. And none of you told me.”

Charles took a step forward, but I held up a hand. “Let me finish.”

I looked around, taking in their faces.

“I don’t care about the fact that I’m adopted. That’s not what hurts. What hurts is that I had to find out from strangers. From a tabloid. I had to read about it, with the whole world watching me fall apart. And not one of you thought I deserved to know before that.”

“YN—” Arthur tried, but his voice cracked.

“I deserved the truth,” I said quietly. “I deserved that much.”

My voice broke on the last word, and Ollie’s grip on my hand tightened as he pulled me closer to him.

“I wanted to be angry,” I whispered. “I am angry. But I also love you. And that makes everything worse.”

Lorenzo’s voice came next. “We didn’t want to hurt you. We were waiting for… the right time.”

“There’s never a right time for something like this,” I replied. “You were just scared. And maybe I would’ve been, too. But I needed you to trust me with this part of my story. And now I don’t even know who I am when I look in the mirror.”

Max shifted behind me, clearing his throat. “She came to us because she didn’t feel safe. That’s not on her. That’s on you.”

Silence. Alexandra crossed the room and placed a hand on Charles’ arm. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, eyes rimmed red. “I tried,” he said hoarsely. “So many times. But every time I looked at you, I saw the little girl who used to sneak cookies into my room and make up dances with Maman in the kitchen. I didn’t want to be the reason you stopped smiling like that.”

“You weren’t,” I told him softly. “Lying was.”

He winced like I’d hit him.

Carlos spoke gently from the side, “You can be mad. You should be. But you’re still loved, and you’re still you. Nothing changes that.”

Lando stepped forward, hand briefly on my shoulder. “We’ve got your back. No matter what.”

Arthur finally moved from the window, coming to kneel in front of me. “I know I’ve joked with you, teased you, been the dumb older brother… but I’ve always, always loved you like my own blood. That part was real. It still is.”

I couldn’t hold it in anymore. The tears came like a storm—hot, aching, full of everything I’d bottled up. I sank into Ollie’s arms as he held me, steady and quiet. No judgment. Just warmth. Familiar. Safe. And slowly, one by one, the others joined. Alexandra wrapped her arms around both of us. Then Charles. Arthur. Lorenzo. Maman. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t fixed. But for the first time since everything fell apart, I felt like maybe—just maybe—we could start putting the pieces back together.

—

I didn’t say anything when Maman gently reached for my hand and led me toward the garden. The sun was low, casting golden light across the patio where I used to sit with a juice box and coloring books. Everything looked the same. Except me. We sat down in the chairs across from each other. She didn’t let go of my hand.

“I used to sit here with you,” she said softly, “when you were so small I could still carry you up to bed after you fell asleep.”

I smiled faintly. “I remember.”

She sighed, eyes misty. “You were so full of light, ma chérie. Still are. And when you came into our lives, I thought I was prepared to love you. But what I didn’t know is that you’d teach me how to love differently. Fiercely. Selflessly. You didn’t come from me, but I chose you. Every day.”

Tears blurred my vision. “Then why didn’t you tell me?”

She looked at me, eyes wide with sadness and guilt. “Because I was scared that if you knew, even a small part of you might believe that you didn’t belong. That you weren’t a Leclerc. That you weren’t mine.”

I let out a shaky breath. “But I felt it anyway. I felt the distance growing for years. After Papa died… I didn’t feel like I had a place anymore.”

She squeezed my hand tightly, her voice cracking. “That was never my intention. I lost your father and I clung to your brothers, because I knew I had to keep the family together. And in doing so… I failed you. I let you feel alone in a house full of people who loved you.”

I stared down at our linked hands. “I think a part of me always knew. But I wanted someone to say it out loud.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I am so, so sorry.”

And when she leaned over and pulled me into her arms, I let myself collapse into her. For a moment, I wasn’t angry or confused or lost. I was just her daughter. That was enough.

—

Later, after Maman went inside, I found Charles and Arthur sitting quietly in the living room. They looked up like I was the only person in the world who could either break them or put them back together. And I felt it — that ache of being their little sister again. Of wanting to crawl onto the couch and be safe between them.

I sat down. Silence fell again.

“I always looked up to you two,” I said, my voice small. “I wanted to be like you. Brave like Arthur. Thoughtful like Charles. And when things got hard, I watched how the two of you carried each other through it. But I didn’t feel like I was allowed to be carried. Like I had to be strong on my own.”

Arthur looked like he wanted to cry. Charles already was.

“I thought if I worked hard enough, if I was quiet and impressive and good enough… I could belong, even if something about me always felt different.”

Charles reached for my hand first. “You never had to earn your place. You had it. Always.”

Arthur nodded, voice low. “And we should’ve told you. Fought harder. We were just—”

“Scared,” I whispered. “I know.”

A beat passed. Then Charles moved closer, pulling me gently into his side like he would when I’d fall asleep on the plane rides.

“I don’t care what anyone says,” he murmured, holding me close. “You’re my sister. Blood or not. You’re mine.”

Arthur wrapped an arm around my legs and rested his chin on my knee. “And you’re stuck with me, forever. Even if I annoy you. Especially then.”

I laughed through my tears. “You both annoy me.”

Charles kissed the side of my head. “Good. That means you’re feeling something again.”

And for the first time in weeks, I did.

—

yn_leclerc

liked by lando, charles_leclerc, arthur_leclerc & 7,007,001 others.

yn_leclerc : happier than ever <3 (fuck everyone that had part in the leak) (you all will be hearing from my lawyers very soon)

tagged : arthur_leclerc, charles_leclerc, alexandrasaintmleux, charlotte2304, olliebearman, lando and carlosssainz55

–

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maxverstappen1 : my girl. so proud of you. also— ollie, care to come over for a chat? 😁

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↳ username0 : big brother max always gets me.

pierregasly : proud of you, ma belle. love you

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carlossainz55 : can’t believe charles stole my thunder and gave the big brother speech on his own 🙄

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↳ charles_leclerc : you do realize she is my actual sister, right?

↳ yn_leclerc : charles he was so excited to act all big and mean and you stole it right out from under him.

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—

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nanamisgirly · 16 hours ago

Text

Body hair?? not stopping him from his meal! ྀི

CW oral (f. receiving), kento calls her 'greedy thing' & honey, he's eating wellll, hairy reader!, college au., once spitting, I had young nanami in mind with his pretty blonde bang, established relationship, pussy drunk!, a bit of plot ig either we're diving right in 😼

you're kissing

messily, hungrily—your lips part with a wet pop as you gasp for breath. kento's full weight is pressed against your body, his thigh slotted between your legs, his lower stomach grinding hard against your core. one of his hands cups your jaw roughly, angling you where he wants it.

“i didn’t know we would go further…i didn’t shave and uh..im quite hairy. even my stomach” you mumble shyly. “i didn’t even shave my armpits. or down there.” your fingers threading through the long strands of his blonde bangs—trying to get his attention.

you gently push them back, letting your hand slide into his hair until you’re gripping a handful at the nape of his neck—a deep groan escapes his throat at the tug.

doubt is creeping in you…

“i didn't know we were gonna go this far tonight…” you repeat. “i didn't shave. like, anywhere...”

kento pulls away from where he was attacking lovely your neck with wet kisses. his eyes met yours—heavy-lidded, pupils blown so wide they almost eclipse the warm brown of his irises. his brows furrow, not in judgment, but because he genuinely has no idea what you just said.

“honey, i quite literally have no idea what the problem is,” he says, and then drags his fat tongue sloooowly, obscenely, all the way from your collarbone to your jaw. as he feels his glasses slide down his nose, he adds : “actually, take my glasses off. . don't want them in the way while i’m tasting you.”

“but kento—”

“i said. remove. them.”

“it's probably not hygienic,” you whisper. “i mean—body hair and, like… going down on me?”

kento's lips curl slightly. “who said that?” he mutters, then sinks his teeth a bit harshly into the crook of your neck. “society?” he continues, words muffled against your skin. “tell me this, do you wash your pussy properly?”

“y-yes—” you gasp.

“then where the heck is the problem?” his voice dips into something dark so sure of itself, it turns your whole body to liquid. one of his hands slip under your shirt and slides up, palm pressing against your stomach—and when he feels the soft trail of hair leading down…

“fuuuuck,” he breathes in the soft hair of your neck. “you smell like soap and lavender, your skin's clean and soft. i don't shave either, by the way. i'm not exactly hairless under this button-up.”

he presses down harder, strong abs pressing deliciously against your heated core.

“now stop worrying.” his teeth graze the skin above your waistband as he mouths hungrily at your stomach.

he's already undoing your pants with one hand, the other braced beside your head like he needs leverage to keep himself from just tearing them apart. he doesn't even slide them down—he rips them past your hips in one desperate motion, underwear bunched and clinging wet to your center.

there's a split second where he just stare—jaw slack, lips parted.

the soft dark hair above your slit glistens with the damp warmth beneath it, “fuck. fuck—fuck..” he spreads your legs wide—too wide that they ache instantly. he loses no time to bury his face between your legs, nose hitting your dripping folds and sniffing. he swipes his tongue devastatingly precisely, from your clit to your entrance and back again, groaning into the slick mess he's creating.

as your hips jerk up violently, he brings his hands to your hips and pin you down, keeping you in place. his tongue works in filthy little circles, mouthing and sucking enthusiastically your clit. when he pauses to speak, his voice is hoarse and soaked in spit. “this…this hair—” he pants, dragging his tongue right through where you have them the most. “don't you dare wax this pretty pussy. you taste divine, honey.”

he presses two fingers to your puffy hairy lips, spreads them open, and spits—watching it drip down between your folds. he dives back in, slurping so loudly it’s the only thing you can hear in the room.

kento can't help but grind onto the mattress—his hips rutting in rhythm with his tongue that trusts into your hole. The friction against his huge cock, trapped tight in his slacks, is maddening. he's not even trying to hold back the pleasure he’s having from this—choked and whining noises leaving his lips :(

“kento, please—” you sob, pleasure crackling up your spine.

“mm-mmmhh” he hums against you, tongue getting sloppier. to have better access, he lifts your hips, tilts them just right and devours you from underneath, tongue circling your clit only to drop and lap at your dripping hole again, wide flat strokes followed by desperate, suckling kisses.

he moans loudly as his rough fingers part your folds once again, exposing that sensitive bundle slick and twitching for him. “greedy little thing,” he grins.

“ken—ken…i—t-too much,” you whines.

“too bad,” he growls, voice deeper than usual. he bites into your inner thigh, rough and claiming, then licks over the sting. “thought i'd care about some hair…?” he shakes his head in disapproval. “i want it messy. sooo messy, you have no idea.”

he’s glassy-eyed when he looks up at you—dazed. drunk on taste and scent.

“i’m gonna fuckin’ lose my mind if i don’t stay down here,” he mumbles, voice hoarse, tongue darting back out to drag one more slow, obscene stripe through you. “look at this. look at this mess. it’s all mine.”

“you're just so pretty, honey. i need more.”

˶‾᷄ ⁻̫ ‾᷅˵

#I just know he's a nasty eater #i want him between my legs it's not funny :(((#jjk #jjk x reader #jjk x you #jjk smut #jujutsu kaisen #nanami kento #jjk drabbles #drabbles #kento smut #jjk kento #nanami smut #nanami x reader #nanami x y/n #jujutsu kaisen nanami #x reader smut #jjk x reader smut

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tttabii · 3 days ago

Text

── 西村力 EYES ON YOU ; NISHIMURA RIKI

pairing ୭ bad boy! ni-ki x student council president! reader.

word count: 9162 ; mentions of ni-ki and the others smoking cigarettes, fluff, college au!

THE STUDENT COUNCIL OFFICE WAS unnaturally still save for the swish of the papers as you flipped through another round of proposals for the festival. All the ideas had been swimming around in everyone's heads since the fall festival only a month away; some of them were truly imaginative and some just downright stupid.

You let out a tired sigh as you stamped "Approved" on a handful of ideas that might actually have a chance: a food fair, with international dishes made by students, a photobooth with a vintage train design, and a long horror escape house that jumped off the page. You had to admit it was smart. If executed well, they could get interest from other nearby schools and also be a plus on the academy's record. That was worth approving.

You finished up the last file and then you heard it; that knock. You had become used to it. Annoyingly familiar like a ringtone you had grown too tired to change.

You groaned. "Ni-ki... what now."

When you opened the door you saw the same sight: Nishimura Riki with a crumpled piece of paper in hand and an annoyingly smug smile like he had already won.

"I know the deadline's over, but come on—just take a look at it," he said, holding out the paper with those stupid puppy eyes he always used when trying to get his way.

You crossed your arms. "No. A deadline's a deadline. I'm not making exceptions for some dumb festival stunt of yours."

You were closing the door when he stuck his foot in like his mother owned the place, and let out an exaggerated sigh. Rolling your eyes, you back at your desk, regretting not locking the damn thing.

He strolled in with bravado. "Come on, baby. Just this once."

You gave him a glare, your heart beating just a bit faster with that term of endearment, which only annoyed you more."I'm not your baby. And you can stop calling me that. This isn't one of your little games."

But you took the paper out of his hand anyway. Because, of course, you always ended up hearing him out, no matter how much you told yourself not to.

You quickly scanned the proposal. A foam party.A real foam party. It sounded absurd and almost genius.You cocked an eyebrow. "And who exactly ae you doing this with?"

He leaned on the edge of your desk with ease. "My bros. We've been talking about it for a while."

You sigh quietly and gave the paper back. "I'll think about it. But don't get your hopes up."

He laughed, clearly enjoying the moment, and began stepping away from you to head to the door. "I won't. but you are going to approve it, I know you can't resist a good-looking guy with an agenda."

You dismissed him, "Go away."

He walked away, but not before catching the way your eyes lingered a second too long on his outfit. He has seen it, he knew it. You never stared outright—but with guys who know how to dress, he knew he could expect your attention, whether you liked it or not.

The next morning, the wind was light as you walked up the few stairs of the school, the white sundress flowing around your knees. You wore your bag slung over one shoulder, your glasses slipping down your nose as your eyes tried to focus on the paper in your hand. You were mentally reviewing your schedule for the day, already dreading the backlog of reports you'd have to approve.

You'd seen Ni-ki earlier, surrounded by a couple of girls leaning against a tree, wearing that obnoxious smile that surely belonged on the cover of a magazine. You ignored him, as you always did.

But of course, he had to announce his presence. He deliberately collided with you, and before you had a chance to do anything, he had snagged your glasses off your face, holding them above him like a smug toddler with a toy.

"Ni-ki!" You shifted your arms to reach for them, annoyed. "Give them back!"

He just grinned like he was in on the joke, and held them a little higher. "Nope. Not until you say please."

You stood on your tiptoes again to reach, and one hand instinctively gripped his arm for balance. Standing that close, he could see everything. The soft curve to your lashes, the blush on your cheeks, the way your eyes appeared so much clearer and prettier and more... you without the frames.

"You know," he leaned in and teased, "you look so much better without these."

Without warning, his other hand slipped around your waist, steadying you when you almost lost your balance. You jolted, realizing it was him, and stepped back instantly. "You're such a nuisance," you muttered, snatching your glasses from his hand and hurrying off toward the student council office, vision still slightly blurred.

Behind you, a few boys turned to look to take a good look at you.

And Ni-ki noticed.

Oh, they were definitely going to be a problem.

As the girls from earlier tried to distract him, laughing too loudly and clinging to his arm, Ni-ki wasn't paying attention. His eyes were still on you.

You had just rubbed your eyes tiredly, while waving small hellos to your fellow student council members. Your dress was hugging you beautifully perfect—elegant while also feeling effortlessly comfortable.

Your hair was down with soft waves and a small white bunny pin on the side, held back just enough. Your bangs framed your face gently, loose and natural. He thought you looked way too cute for someone who claimed to be tired.

His eyes dropped down to your lips. You had put a light gloss on your lips—subtle and pretty but also dangerous. He wondered what type of lipstick it was. Actually, maybe he didn't care. Maybe he would just wipe it off with his lips if given the chance. Those girls would for sure be jealous.

But they didn't matter.

He had long stopped being a playboy, the moment he actually laid eyes on you for the first time. It all started weeks ago in the infirmary. He was only there to skip class, claiming to be sick when in reality he just wanted air conditioning and a decent bed. He was about to fall asleep himself—until he noticed you.

You were all curled up on one of the beds, face slightly to the window so that warm sunlight hit your cheeks. You looked peaceful at first, and then your brows furrowed as the discomfort woke you. A heat pack pressed to your stomach, and you were hugging a pillow tightly. He wasn't expecting that.

The cold, powerful student council president fitted into the bed, looking so small, like a girl who just wanted to survive painful cramps in peace. That was the moment he realized there was more to you than just a sharp tongue and standing straight. When you did wake up, he was there, watching you.

"Can I help you?" you asked flatly, your eyes still narrowed as if you just woke up.

"Yeah," he said, already smirking. "Do you mind giving me a little kiss?"

You grimaced. "Are we deadass right now..."

You then stood up and walked away without second thought. And yet, you still lingered in his thoughts.

The very next day, you caught him smoking behind the school building with Jake and a few others. He figured he was done for—but Jake gave you those ridiculous puppy eyes and, surprisingly, you let them off with a warning. Strict, but not cruel.

He remembered how close you stood when you handed out the warning. Your cherry-sweet perfume hit him all at once. You avoided his gaze when he looked straight at you. He saw the way your fingers fidgeted at your side. Even then, he could tell: you weren't as cold as you pretended to be.

Later, his friends told him you were actually younger—by a full year. The first and youngest student council president their school had ever had. You earned that title by merit, not by a favor—organization, leadership, and grace under pressure.

The resentment that came from the assistant president—also one of Ni-ki's exes, the one that lasted all of one month—was inevitable. Actually, almost every relationship he ever had lasted a month. If not, even less time.

But it all stopped once he started seeing you from a distance. And realized something even worse—

You might be unattainable.

If someone good—really good—were to notice you, they could take your heart before he got the chance to do it. Someone with no bad boy reputation; who had no gossip flying around like second skin. A clean-cut man who liked cold girls with secret warmth who would treat you right. And never make you cry. Someone worthy of you.

But he also knew... you weren't cold. Not really. And he certainly was not going to let anyone else be the first to warm you up.Not without a fight.

('−ㅿ−')

It was already the evening, the softly lit glow of the sunset streaming through the windows as students hurried about with flyers, costumes, posters, decorations—the whole deal. Some students were juiced and rehearsing on the quad lawn. Others were in deeper planning meetings, but you had just ended yours with the council. Your arms were filled with files and event charts—everything neatly color-coded.

That was when it happened.

Yunah. Again.

She plowed into you on purpose right outside the council room, her shoulder hitting your shoulder harder than it needed to have . You twisted your heel a bit, and your knee smashed into the cold, hard, and rough concrete floor, scraping it hard against the tiles.

"Oop-sorry," she said with her make-believe sweet voice as she never even turned her head as she took off down the hallway.

You took a deep breath, moving your hair back and squeezing the files harder to your chest. "It's fine," you murmured to yourself, hoping to sound more convincingly steady than you felt.

You stood up, brushing the dust from your skirt, and limped forward—unaware of the thin trail of blood running down your knee. You had a job to do. The gym was the final stop on your daily rounds. After this, you could go back to your dorm, shower, and maybe nap before the late council online meeting tonight.

You pushed the gym doors open.

The air carried that rubber flooring odor mixed with sweat, pierced with metallic clinks of weight and the sounds of boys' voices. You had your clipboard in one hand, scanning the space quickly and efficiently. Everything in order. Equipment in appropriate locations. Towels where towels belong. Floors clear. Good.

And then you saw him. Ni-ki.

He was rocking a black tank and pants, hair slightly wet against his forehead. He was seated at a weights machine, forearms pumping with veins as he effortlessly lifted. You could see his biceps flex every time he pulled the weights, and your breath caught in your throat before you reignited and glanced away in a panic.

Stay focused, damn it.

You took a shaky step back, still limping without realizing you did, and flipped your clipboard to the gym report—

"Hey."

You blinked up in surprise. Ni-ki was suddenly standing before you, holding a towel against his neck, brow furrowed as he looked you over.

"What happened?" his voice now a lower pitch.

"What?" You looked up in confusion for a moment, before following his gaze. He wasn't looking at your face. He was looking at your knee.

Where blood was trailing slowly down your skin, now obvious against the pale background of your socks. You flinched slightly as he dropped to one knee, his hand resting gently on your injured one. The touch was light, but you still shuddered.

"Oh... it's nothing," you mumbled. "Someone just... bumped into me."

"Uh huh." His voice was dry, clearly unconvinced. He looked up at you for a second, something unreadable in his eyes. And then—without another word—he stood and called over his shoulder to the other boys, "I'm heading out. Later."

"Where are you—"

"Sit."

He motioned to the bench nearby. You blinked, unsure if you were even supposed to obey—but your legs were tired, and honestly, your knee stung.

So you sat.

You watched him silently, as he cleaned up the wound, and then unwrap the bandage with just as much caution as he used to dab away your blood, pressing it to your knee just right, running his thumb over the bandage to make sure that it was secure. He didn't say anything again until he stood back up, wiped his hands, then jogged over to the vending machine.

He was back in a moment, and dropped a cold chocolate milk into your hands.

"What's this for?"

"Sugar," he said, now sitting beside you, again not too close, but close enough that your knees nearly brushed.

"You looked like you could use it."

"I'm not a child," you countered, though you were already uncapping it.

"I know," he said, looking sideways to you. "You're the president. Cold, nonchalant and untouchable."

You raised your brow at him, but he wasn't finished.

"But you limp like a normal person," he added, biting back a smile.

You exhaled a short laugh despite yourself and took a sip.

Ni-ki leaned forward, arms resting on his knees as he looked ahead. He leaned back, elbow resting casually behind you on the bench, eyes glancing sideways as you sipped quietly on the chocolate milk he got you.

"Who pushed you?" he asked, voice steady, but there was a weight there, layered underneath. He didn't look at you—just stared at the gym wall across from him like your answer didn't matter.

You didn't say anything.You kept your eyes down on the page you held in your lap, fingers messing with the edge of it, pretending that the milk tasted more interesting than the buzzing tension between the two of you.

He made a small, humorless laugh. "Figured."

You glanced at him, brows drawing slightly together. "Yunah has always been looking at you like that," he said plainly, like it was something that he had noticed a million times before and filed away. "Especially when I'm around. Like this morning."

You blinked. "This morning?"

"Yeah, when I took your glasses and I held your waist."

You immediately looked away, the heat rushing up your neck as you let the memory wash over you—how close he had been, how your heart jumped and you pulled away very quickly and blushed.

"She saw the whole thing," he added, not sounding particularly concerned. "She didn't say anything though."

You paused, then mumbled, "Could've just been someone else who pushed me. Maybe it was a stranger."

Ni-ki shrugged, like he had already thought of it and shot it down. "Maybe. But I don't usually guess wrong. And Yunah... she's petty enough to push someone over less."

You took the last sip of your milk, and held the empty bottle in your lap for just a second, until Ni-ki took it from you, just brushing his fingers against yours as he did so. He stood up, walked to the bin, and tossed it without saying a word.

You stood up too, dusted off your dress and grabbed your clipboard, and walked off without saying goodbye.

You turned on your heel, and his voice came behind you, teasing."Not even a bye, prez?"

You didn't turn back, didn't answer.But he caught the way your hand went up for just a moment to scratch the back of your neck—anxious, a bit flustered—as you walked down the hallway and turned around the corner toward your office.

૮₍ ˃ ⤙ ˂ ₎ა

The library was quiet, the soft hum of the built-in café mingling with the distant sound of pages turning. Instead of locked in your student council office like usual, you chose to be on this rare break in a different spot—curled up by the corner window seat of the library, nursing a cold latte, and flipping through your notes for the upcoming autumn festival.

Honestly, you were juggling more than you should be. Between your responsibilities in student council and being part of a baking club—which let's be honest, insisted on running a full baking competition booth—you hardly had time to breathe.

It was a fun idea: visitors could taste different pastries and vote on the best one, provided the participants knew what they were doing. This wasn't a bake-off for beginner bakers. You already wrote of the safety list three times.

But for now, you just wanted your highlighters. You rifled through your bag, trying to dig out the familiar pack when your fingers stopped, heart sinking ever so slightly.

One of your plush keychains was gone.The little bunny with the dark red ribbon. Missing.

You paused for a moment, scanned your open bag again just in case, and then exhaled softly through your nose, disappointment creeping over your expression.

Your fingers clenched around the only charm that still hung from the zipper, and your teeth grazed your lip as your face dipped from its normally neutral expression.

It was subtle, but still—anyone who truly knew you would see it. You didn't show much in public. Stoic, organized, composed—always. But right now, you were unguarded in a way you rarely allowed.

Meanwhile, on the rear path near the library's back entrance, Ni-ki had been taking a quiet smoke break. The wind ruffled his black hoodie a little, and he was leaning against the railing with half-lidded eyes, letting his mind wander. That was when he noticed something odd in the grass.

A little, dirty, plush bunny, facedown.

He stared for a second, then bent down and flicked the ash from his fingers, and carefully lifted the bunny by the ribbon.

He recognized it right away.

Of course he did.

He'd seen it enough times hanging off your bag—cute, a little worn, something he figured you probably had for years. His lips twitched in a tiny smile, just barely there, as he tucked the bunny into his pocket and stubbed out his cigarette.

You had just come out of the library, clutching on to the last charm on your butchered bag, distractedly gazing at your feet.

You were perhaps hoping the bunny had dropped somewhere close and that no one had stepped on it or thrown it somewhere completely different. And then you heard it—the sound you had grown unfamiliar too. The sound of jangly chain jewelry.

You almost choked, eyes instinctively shifting without even turning. You knew who it was before you had turned.

Ni-ki, walking up the path toward you, the chrome hearts keychain on his belt swinging and clinking as it bumped against the metal chain clip on his pants. A few charms were hanging loose, glistening as they swayed in the briefest of sunlight exposure.

His heavy silver earrings twinkled from their usual spot, and the fake lip ring—one of the things that always made your stomach twist for reasons you refused to acknowledge—sat crooked against his lip and stuck out like a sore thumb.

His messy black hair fell over his eyes, bangs as low as always and unkempt around his forehead, as if he had just rolled out of bed without a thought. He never made it look intentional, and yet it was so infuriatingly good on him.

Your hand curled instinctively around your bag's strap, trying to act unaffected as he slowed to a stop in front of you.

He didn't say anything at first. Just held something out.

You blinked.

And there it was—your plush bunny, a little dirty now but still intact, dangling from his fingers by its dark red ribbon.

"You dropped this," he said, voice low, casual.

"Oh... thank you," you said, your fingers brushing against his as you got the stuffed bunny back. You couldn't even look at him—either too awkward or maybe just too closed off—before quickly re-attaching the charm onto the zipper of your backpack and sort of twisting away. You stood there for a second, awkward, not knowing what to do, and then made the choice to do what you always did when things felt strange.

You walked away.

The faint smell of smoke was still with him, curling around you along with the warm wisp of that familiar cologne of his, something sharp and clean, something spicy underneath. It wasn't unpleasant. In fact, it felt... familiar. Even comforting. You didn't recoil from that smell. Not the way most people did.

You grew up with it. Your parents smoked when you were little, and the smell was forever tied to memories of home, of quiet evenings, and cold winter nights. It didn't disgust you. It never had. He noticed. He caught the tiny change in your face, the nuance of bringing the smell into your body with no negative reaction. He didn't say anything. Just stood silently and watched, as he always did, as you walked away.

૮ – ﻌ–ა

It wasn't the last time he "coincidentally" ran into you.

You had your doubts about how accidental it really was.

Especially when it kept happening like this—in places you definitely wouldn't expect him. Like, for instance, the baking club room. Today was extra busy, obviously. You and your clubmates were trying out different cake flavors as you attempted to work your way through which flavor would be used at the festival's opening ceremony. The whole campus was abuzz about the festival, especially with some higher-profile guests likely to show up.

The club wasn't really that big, but was really close-knit. You weren't the leader—there was enough responsibility on your plate being student council president already—but you still pulled your weight, always listening to the instructions and never acting like you were above it. You liked it this way. Less pressure, more time to focus on the fun.

And today was fun.

You were dressed casually, in low-hanging sweatpants and a slightly oversized jersey top, one side slipping off your shoulder, the black strap of your bra visible in a way that was clearly intentional—it matched the design, and you liked the look. Your hair was pulled into two loose pigtails, bangs falling messily across your forehead, and your apron was already a little dusted with flour and sugar.

You stood at one of the mixing stations, wooden spoon in hand, stirring the thick, creamy mixture, wildly. Quickly, checking around to see if anyone was paying close attention - you dipped your finger in and popped it in your mouth—soft vanilla with a warm cinnamon background.

Your lips turned into a small smile, briefly so, it could've gone unnoticed. You quickly released it when you realized. You weren't alone. You added a pinch of cinnamon sugar anyway—quietly hoping—wishing, that your cake will receive more votes. That people would like it. And even if you didn't show it, you love when people like the thing you bake.

You spent time, figuring that flavour out, layering it warmth with some little surprise at the end. It mattered to you, more than anyone cared to know. You turned to help a clubmate ice another test batch, apron tied tight behind you.

And just outside the door, lingering just out of sight—was Ni-ki, with Jake and a few of their friends, having been roped into delivering something artwork nearby. But he'd stopped when he passed the glass window and caught a glimpse of you.

His gaze lingered.

The way you smiled to yourself—a real one, so rare it almost felt like a secret. The way your top slipped down slightly to give me a glimpse of that black strap. The way you licked the batter off your finger like you didn't even know that was distracting.The look on his face changed ever so slightly.Jake caught it right away.

"Bro," Jake grinned, shoving him with his elbow. "You're down so bad."

Ni-ki didn't say anything. He looked away with a blank expression and ignored the teasing as he shoved his hands in his pockets and looked ahead like he hadn't been caught.

After Ni-ki left the baking club hallway, he meandered through the main building with his usual lazy charm, side by side with his group of friends, and a handful of the girls from his class following closely behind him, still asking him questions about the course they were in—but let's be real, half of them were just using the questions to try and keep his attention for another second.

He hardly looked interested. Answering with some short, amused comments. His hands stuffed into his hoodie pocket, chain jewelry chiming softly as he walked, their silver glimmers reflecting from the hallway lights. After the end of class, he stepped outside to breathe, leaning a little and then stopping suddenly.

You were there.

Right on the edge of the main path with your clubmates. You were holding out your tray of neatly portioned cake samples to passing students. You were focused and professional—smiling only slightly, your usual guarded expression locked back on your face. Still, you had a rhythm. Offer a piece, introduce the flavor, remind them to vote at the club.

Jake stepped out of class and you caught him first, carefully holding the tray out toward him, quietly saying: "Try this one."

He took a bite, eyebrows raising. "Oh—yo, this is actually fire."

That was when Ni-ki walked up, that telltale sound of his pants chain dragging against metal making your ears twitch slightly before your gaze flicked in his direction. You immediately recognized the grey hoodie—sleeves bunched at his elbows, zipper half undone, showing a glimpse of his collarbone and toned chest.

Fuck.

He didn't even try to look good. He just was.

You swallowed hard, lips twitching with annoyance, and turned to leave when—

"You're just going to ignore me after giving Jake cake, huh? Damn," he called out behind you, his tone casual but still hinting at that smirk. "What a president you are."

You froze for a second, rolled your eyes slowly, then turned back and deadpanned. "Do you want to try it or not?"

He raised an eyebrow, stepping in a little closer. He still had his hands in his pockets. "Have you even tried your own cake?"

You gave him a confused look. "No. Except for the batter."

He smirked, that lazy smug smirk of his. "Try it, baby."

You exhaled sharply. "I told you to stop calling me that."

Jake snorted. "You two sound married."

Before you could snap back, Ni-ki moved casually and took the small plastic fork out from your hand and shoved a bite of your own cake in your mouth before you could stop him. "Mmh!" You choked, in shock, at how fast he'd gotten the fork around your lips.

He smirked wider. Then, like it was the most natural thing in the world, he leaned in and dragged the same fork through the cream on the remaining cake sample and licked it clean with a hum of approval. "Damn. That's actually so good."

You were still flustered, wiping your lips when his eyes locked onto your mouth. There was whipped cream clinging to the corner. He didn't say anything for a few more seconds, and before you could wipe it away yourself, he discreetly used his thumb—almost teasingly—to brush it off gently.

"Sweet," he muttered quietly before licking off his own thumb with a satisfied expression on his face.

Your brain literally flat-lined for a second.Then you heard it—a voice that could ruin any moment.

"Ugh. Didn't think she was the one who baked it. Looks like someone's using her position for pity points," a girl's voice sneered from behind. She was clearly talking to her friend, but her eyes were on you.

One of Ni-ki's exes—not Yunah. Another one. Pick-me energy, rude smile, and only trying not to conceal the blame dripping off her every feature.

Ni-ki's whole face changed right away, jaw tensing—but he was still not reacting outwardly. Just standing there, silent. Like the calm before the storm. Pretending like neither of you heard it, still clear as day.

You muttered to yourself more than you were talking to him, "Why do you date such weird girls?"

His gaze darted back to you, the tension in his shoulders relaxing just a little as he tilted his head. "Aren't you a weirdo one, too?"

You scoffed, "Well, we're not dating. And we'll never date."

That amusement, sharp look returned to his face—one brow raised, his eyes seeming to dip for one impossibly small moment to your bare shoulder. The little curve of your collarbone showed under your loose jersey top. It wasn't scandalous, if anything it was trending. A lot of girls wore it. But you saw where his eyes traveled and the way they paused made your heart skip.

"Mhm," he said with a hint of a smirk, and his voice low. "Whatever you say, princess."

The word dripped off his tongue, a bit of tease and a bit of dare. Jake, still chewing on his second sample, muttered "This is better than Jungwon's K-dramas."

You rolled your eyes, spun around, and whipped away in a whirlwind—muttering curses under your breath—but not before hearing Ni-ki chuckle behind you.

Then the votes were tallied and the results posted on the club board.

You saw your name first again. You blinked at it for a second until the club members screamed and brought you in for a mini group hug. You had won. That cake would be served to our guests for tonight's festival.

A smile immediately stretched across your face as your club began preparing to haul the cake to the display area. The cake, embellished with whipped cream, fruit slices and nice touches, looked beautiful. You just gave them a few quick instructions about not tilting the tray or turning the garnishes around. It had to be perfect as it sat there until tonight.

By the time everything was settled and the club booth was set up, the grounds were starting to fill with energy. Students were dragging props out, hanging decorations, testing lights and microphone systems. Music faintly played in the background, greetings were being shouted from all over the campus, and the buzz was everywhere.

It was only 10 a.m. but the ambience was already wild— and it wouldn't be until 7 p.m. tonight before the real thing began.

Still, after baking the entire morning and walking in and out of the sun making sure every tiny thing was in place, you were parched.

You held your printed speech in one hand, eyes scanning it while your throat started to feel dry and rough. You glanced around the campus yard, seeing booths still half-open—no one seemed to be selling drinks yet.

Then, without warning, a warm hand pressed gently onto your shoulder.

You turned around.

Ni-ki stood there clad in a black tank top, silver chain at his collarbone, and hair still damp from the heat. His fingers were cold from touching your shoulder, but in his hand was a small chilled yogurt drink pack, the same kind you used to drink with breakfast while still trying to rush out the door.

He just held it out to you, saying nothing, eyes soft but unreadable.

You blinked at it then at him. "You looked like you were about to pass out," he said as simply as ever. "Take it. It's good for you in the morning. Probiotics and all that."

"...Thanks," you mumbled as you took it. The cold plastic felt so nice in your hand, and you didn't realize how badly you needed it until now.

You poked the straw in and sipped as he stood beside you, like it was totally normal. "You ditched your booth?" you asked, side-eyeing him.

"They'll survive without me," he said. "Besides, they're doing the foam thing right now. I'm not trying to get soap in my eyes this early."

"You mean you ditched your bros to stalk me?"

"I'm accompanying you," he corrected, pretending to sound offended. "Very different."

You shot him a look, but he only smiled and walked alongside you as you did your rounds. He didn't try to take over, didn't interrupt, just followed along—his hands in his pockets, his eyes darting between the booths and your checklist.

The assigned students was setting up a horror escape room, and someone from the art department was hanging huge photo booth banners and string lights. It actually looked kind of... magical. The warm colors, everything for fall. The music floating by.

You felt the excitement growing in your chest, but that familiar emptiness was also there—a quiet reminder that you didn't really have anyone to enjoy this with. Not really. Not like that. Most people didn't get too close to you. Some people were intimidated. Other people didn't bother.

You learned to manage. Ni-ki didn't seem to mind though. He wasn't talking much, but he matched your pace, sometimes handing his bottle of water to you without asking when he saw you squint from the sun. His presence was annoyingly... soothing. You hated how comfortable you were getting with it.

At one point, he tilted his head toward the large LED board being wheeled toward the main stage. "You nervous for the speech?"

You shrugged. "It's just a welcome speech. I've done worse."

"You practicing earlier was kinda cute."

You turned your head sharply. "What?"

He lazily shrugged again, pretending he was too invested in some balloon arch being taped together across the walkway. "Just saying. You get all serious and focused when you take charge. It's adorable."

You stared at him.

He blinked at you like what?

You turned away quickly, sipping the rest of your yogurt drink. "You're annoying."

He grinned at the way your ears turned a little red."Can't be that annoying. You didn't brush me off this time."

After making sure every booth was set and all details were arranged, you quickly ran back to your dorm around 5 p.m., like the rest of your group. The buzzing sensation in your chest was starting to get harder to ignore. You took a quick shower to wash the day away and let the steam take away some tension from your tight muscles.

The shower also allowed you to take time with your skincare routine. You brushed out your hair, curling just the ends, incorporating your straight bangs to fall just right across your forehead. You picked out the little dress you had been planning since the day you decided to host this festival. It was cute, not too much. And it was enough that you would be noticed faster than the guys with their decorated crops.

You sprayed perfume gently behind your ears, the floral scent subtle but sweet. A few pieces of jewelry shimmered softly on your neck and wrists. One last look in the mirror... and you nodded to yourself.

By 6:30 p.m., you were back on the festival grounds.

Everything looked different under the setting sky. Lights had turned on—golden, pink, soft blue—casting a warm glow on students from both your campus and others who were already lining up at the entrance. The atmosphere was buzzing with anticipation.

You inhaled deeply and checked in with each of the club presidents over your phone and some brief verbal check—in rounds to make sure everyone was settled. You held the speech card with shaky fingers although you had said that speech hundreds of times. You weren't afraid of the crowd, you simply didn't want to screw this up. Not after all that work.

Then the clock hit 7. The festival officially started.

From the stage, you saw faces—so many faces—and just off to the side you could see Ni-ki in the crowd wearing a loose dark jacket and black tee, slightly damp from the foam, laughing at something Jake said as they finished adjusting the drink booth setup.

You swallowed your nerves and stepped up.

Your voice warmed through the field, steady but bright. You welcomed the guests, thanked everyone for coming, and opened the festival. You even got a cheer. When the MC mentioned the winning cake, your name was said—along with the tray. Students actually clapped when they tasted it. You stood at the side, cheeks warm, heart full, pretending not to look for a certain someone's reaction.

Later, you returned to your stand beaming as students were now piling up for pastries and treats. You handed out cake slices and mini croissants, complemented peoples costumes and hair in passing, softly chuckling when someone recognized the fruit tart from your submission. You carefully packed one into a box, waved goodbye to your club members now arriving to take the next shift, and just let your feet go where they always went these days.

Ni-ki's booth.

You noticed Jake first, then Jungwon, both were busy pouring drinks or were busy chatting it up with the students that slipped in and out of the foam pit. There was laughter and chaos, but it was a fun chaos, the type that endears you to the moment, making you feel and think this was something you would want to remember.

You avoided the foam, walking up to the drink section instead, and delicately placed the box of tarts on the counter. "My treat," you said softly, smiling.

Jake blinked. "Wait—really?"

"Seriously?" Sunghoon ventured as he looked over his shoulder. "Are you actually treating us now?"

"Just shut up and take it," you said lightly again, your eyes darting Ni-ki, who seemed to pause mid shake with the drink blender.

They all exclaimed, "Thank you!" as they opened the box and saw the tart; their eyes widened as they cut into it with plastic forks and started to compete for the strawberries.

Ni-ki backed away from the counter and wiped his hands with a towel, heading straight for you and sliding into your space like it belonged to him. "Didn't think you'd actually come by," he said, his voice lower now, only meant for you.

"I said I'd roam freely," you said, "I just happened to look in here."

He raised an eyebrow. "While holding a box of fruit tart?"

You rolled your eyes, but a smile peeked through as you lightly leaned against the counter. He looked at you for a second—really looked. From your curled hair to the light shimmer on your cheekbones to the little details in your jewelry.

"You look..."he paused. Then leaned just a little closer. "Dangerously good."

You scoffed. "Are you working, or are you flirting?"

"Multitasking," he said plainly, giving you that infuriating soft smirk. "Wanna try one of our drinks? I'll make it special."

You raised an eyebrow. "Do you say this to every girl?"

"Is it bold of you to assume I have other girls?"

"Uh huh," you scoffed. "Wanna look at the line of girls behind me? I'm practically cutting the queue."

"Yeah, but they're obviously here to see the other guys," he chuckled as he nodded towards his friends.

You narrowed your eyes. You're not sure about that, as you caught sight of a girl by the foam pit sheepishly pointing to Ni-ki, and absolutely squealing to her friend. "I see one already squealing looking at you."

He just laughed, a low laugh, the kind of laugh that made something flutter in your chest—and walked away to grab you a drink. He didn't ask what you wanted. He just knew. A little sweet, a little refreshing—something cold and creamy to balance out the summer night heat.

He handed it to you with a grin before casually slipping his arm around your shoulder like it was second nature. His fingers played with the end of your curled hair, making your stomach twist in ways you hated admitting. The guys behind the booth were already yelling things like "Whipped!" and "Get a room!" as Ni-ki waved them off, dragging you gently away from the foam party.

"Why are you leaving your friends?" you asked, sipping the drink—and wow, it was good.

He shrugged, leading you into the crowd. "The student council president needed some time to enjoy with a hot guy like me."

You glared at him. "Your ego is insufferable."

"You still haven't denied it," he teased, his thumb briefly brushing your shoulder as he adjusted his arm around you again.

You really tried not to get flustered. But the way his cologne wrapped around you like a second skin, woody and warm, and the way he just effortlessly steered you through the crowd like he belonged beside you, it was too much.

He led you right to the food district. The lights here were golden and warm, and the stalls were bursting with colors and scents. You let him lead you to a takoyaki stall, and you could see that his eyes were sparkling with excitement.

"Alright, this one is non-negotiable," he said. "You have to try this."

"Why?" you asked, letting him handle the ordering.

"Because I'm Japanese," he said with pride, "and I'm making it my mission to teach you all the things that are tasty."

You blinked, your lip curling. "So you're essentially flexing your culture onto me?"

"Damn right," he smirked. "You need to know what actual good food is."

You and him moved from booth to booth trying mochi, karaage, yakisoba—him explaining each dish with that stupid twinkle in his eye, the way he seemed to be sharing part of himself with you, and you paying way too much attention for someone who swore to not fall into his trap.

People noticed—of course they did. Your usual cold expression had softened, and Ni-ki, the boy known for charming every girl that breathed near him, hadn't flirted with anyone else the entire month. Not once. Just talked politely when someone approached, but his attention always snapped right back to you. Boys who usually tried to talk to you looked away, realizing they didn't stand a chance when Ni-ki was practically glued to your side.

You pretended not to care.

But your fingers brushed his when he handed you another skewer, and your heart jumped. Just a little.

Then, he turned to you again with a glint in his eye.

"Wanna try the horror escape room next?"

You froze. "Like... right now?"

His smirk widened. "You're not scared, are you?"

"No," you lied immediately.

You couldn't understand why you agreed to it—perhaps it was how his eyes lit up with mischief, or how smug he looked when he said, "Scared? You?"

But here you stood, at the door of a horror escape room, regretting your whole life. Ni-ki handed the entrance tickets to the usher in one hand, and took your hand with the other—and just like that, he was pulling you inside. His jacket was draped loosely over your shoulders—warm, slightly big, the sleeves covering your hands because the moment you'd shivered earlier, he had taken it off without a word, and draped it around you, and now you were holding onto it like it was a lifeline.

As the door creaked shut behind you, darkness covered the room and creepy music began to play, like a reverberating echo. You shrunk your pace, stepping cautiously. Ni-ki turned around and grasped your hand like it was something he was used to.

"Come on," he said, his voice low and smooth. "I'll lead."

And lead he did. You mostly let him guide you, letting your body follow his—walking just behind him, peeking out from his side, your fingers now clutching his bare arm since the jacket had already claimed you. His skin was warm, and the muscle beneath was hard, flexing slightly each time he moved.

You almost jumped out of your skin when the first actor hopped out, wailing. You screamed. Very loudly. And you immediately threw yourself to Ni-ki's side, clutching his arm with both hands in a tight grip.

"You okay there?" he murmured, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. You nodded quickly, releasing him a little, but not much.

When there was finally a moment to breathe, he pointed with one of his long fingers to a dim hallway. "We should separate for the first part that's reasoned-"

"No." You started to shake your head so quickly you reminded him of a panicked puppy eyes wide, as if defiant to abandon him even the slightest.

He burst into quiet laughter, "You're like a scared little puppy." He chuckled, clearly enjoying his laughter at your expense. "Kinda cute though."

You scowled at him defiantly, but it probably looked like you were not even close to ready to cause any bodily harm to him being practically glued to his arm. He merely ruffled your hair with a smirk, and continued walking while you pressed against him the entire time.

Eventually, when you escaped, blinking into the hallway lights as you exited the room, you shoved him softly with your hand heel. "I am never doing that again. Ever."

He laughed, full-bodied and proud. "You were clinging to me like I was your boyfriend."

You rolled your eyes. "Shut up," you muttered.

But the extra warmth in your cheeks betrayed you. You barely got a second to breathe before he pulled at your wrist, tugging you along. "C'mon."

"To where?"

"The photobooth," he said, smiling. "Duh."

The tiny booth was only about big enough for the two of you—warm and faded with the weight of the last couple, barely lit by peeking neon hearts that flickered with the camera sensor. As soon as you crossed the threshold, Ni-ki plopped down onto the seat and pulled you into his lap like you barely weighed anything.

You squealed in surprise. "Ni-ki!"

He laughed loudly and freely and it really sounded like he loved the sound of it. His hands barely rested on your waist steadying you. "Relax, it's just a chair, and you're sitting on me. I'm fine with that."

Not able to connect with any words, you huffed but stayed put. You could feel the rise and fall of his chest against your back, and the slight breeze of his breath on your neck from how close he was. And his hand had moved a little to play with the hem of the jacket he had draped over you.

The camera blinked.

First photo: He reached up and squished your cheeks together, pulling the most dramatic heart-eyes face while your expression was frozen mid-annoyed-pout, lips squished and eyes wide in disbelief.

Second photo: He nudged you. "Flex your arms. C'mon."

"I don't have muscles," you muttered, but did a small awkward pose anyway.

Ni-ki laughed and put his arm behind you, flexing. The camera caught the ridiculous contrast between his sharp, defined muscle and your soft arm and the look of pure betrayal on your face.

"Wow," you muttered. "Thanks for embarrassing me in high def."

Third photo: you gave up and finally decided to just throw a peace sign with your lips twisted up into the faintest of smiles. Ni-ki did some random sign that didn't even look like anything—something between a thumbs up and finger guns—all while grinning like an idiot.

Fourth photo: You weren't prepared. You weren't even looking at the camera when you felt it—soft and sudden, a warm press of lips to your cheek. You turned your head sharply just as the flash went off, catching the exact moment that your eyes bulged open and mouth dropped in shock, a single hand reaching gingerly to your cheek in disbelief.

Ni-ki leaned back, victorious, completely unconcerned.

"You—! That's cheating!" you groaned, lightly slapping his chest.

He tilted his head, "You didn't say no."

After the photobooth, you were still in recovery mode from being surprised by that last photo—the press of his lips against your cheek, your heart still thumping. And as if all of that wasn't enough, Ni-ki went even a step further.

He pulled out his phone, and instantly inserted the strip of photos into the plastic case on the back, smoothing it down in pride. "There," he said proudly, holding it out towards you. "Now you do it."

You blinked. "No way."

"How come?" he smiled as he was reaching for your phone. "C'mon. Let's be matching."

"Ni-ki, it won't even—" you said, but he was already messing with your phone case. And even though it was clear that the case was not made for photos, he somehow manhandled the photo in there, bent in half and slightly crushed, until it was behind your phone just like his.

You looked at it trying to look annoyed. "You just ruined my aesthetic."

"I am your aesthetic," he smirked.

That was that, and together you walked back to the foam party.

The scene had changed drastically—the field was alive with glowing lights, music thumping through the air, and foam cascading from the machines like snowy clouds. There were students everywhere now, splashing around, slipping and sliding like kids at a water park.

As soon as you entered the suds, Ni-ki didn't waste any time—he scooped a handful of bubbles and threw it directly at you.

You shrieked, stumbling back. "Ni-ki!"

Of course, your hands retaliated, flinging a palm of foam into his chest. It splattered across his shirt and him only laughed, shaking his head like a wet puppy, sending suds flying.

He leaned in close and used a finger to dab just a bit of foam to your nose. "Boop."

You wiped it off with a glare and then used your hand to pointlessly run it through his hair, making it appear he just survived a soap hurricane. His friends were somewhere to the side losing it over the two of you—hollering half-teasing comments like

"Get a room!" and "We totally lost him to the council president!" as you both rolled around on the ground, chucked, and begged bubbles to go his way.

You were laughing so hard, you didn't even notice he was standing over you, still grinning, with foam sticking to his shirt. His chest was puffing a little bit as if he couldn't manage keeping up with his own grin, and then...

He leaned down.

Before you could react, Ni-ki took your face in his warm, slightly damp hands from all the foam. He leaned forward and kissed you before you even got the chance to blink.It wasn't rushed. It wasn't sloppy. But it was slow and deliberate, almost instinctual—like he couldn't help himself anymore.

Then, the ghost of his tongue ran across your bottom lip asking for entry, waiting. You froze. And then you let him in. The world melted away. The music, the foam, the teasing voices, all of it blurred until it was nothing and your lips moved against his. His hands stayed put, just holding you, almost afraid to let you go like you would disappear when he did.

He tasted like fruit punch and something sweet that you didn't know. Maybe it was just him.

Oh god, Ni-ki thought, heart racing as he kissed you deeper, the shy ones are always the boldest. He didn't even see the people watching or the foam that was still being thrown in the background. All that mattered was just you.

But then you pulled away.

Not because you wanted to—but because reality struck you like a cold gust of wind. Your eyes were looking around. Public. You were in public. Your heart dropped. Your reputation.

What if you were just another girl? What if you were just a girl that he was messing around with like they said—like all the rumors suggested? You pulled back quickly, a shaky breath leaving your body, Ni-ki looked at you blinking, his expression changing—then reaching out and brushed your cheek for the foam residue.

You swallowed. Because maybe you weren't sure if you were just another girl. Or maybe you were starting to hope that you weren't.

"Are you okay?" Ni-ki asked, voice softer than usual and assessingly scanning your face for any sign of sickness.

You slowly nodded yes, even though your heart was still pounding, and your lips still tingled from the kiss. The foam clung to your body like snowflakes, soaking into your clothes, coating your arms and bare legs.

You stood awkwardly, trying to brush it off when Jake tossed you a towel from the sidelines with a cheeky grin. "Here. You might wanna clean up before someone thinks you got into a war with a bubble machine."

You gave him a half-laugh before Ni-ki stepped closer, towel in hand, brushing the soap gently off your arms and shoulders. Then he crouched down, hands ghosting over your legs. "Sit," he said, glancing up at you with a small smile. "You'll slip."

You paused considerably, but finally sat on the wooden ledge of the booth, he looked so earnest, and you didn't want to disappoint. His fingers were soft as they wiped away the foam from your shins, just the tender kind of attention you would never have expected to come from a self-proclaimed playboy. His hoodie still draped your shoulders, still warm and slightly damp from you earlier, and your mind was racing.

And then he left—telling you he'd be right back. Just disappeared into the crowd.

You stared at the foam affect that covered the ground and your mind was racing. That kiss. Those eyes. His hands on your cheeks. His arms wrapped around you like you were some kind of trophy.

Sunghoon sat down beside you a moment later with Jake behind him and, then, Jungwon and Jay following. They were all smiling—like they'd just witnessed a rom-com scene play out in real time.

"What's with the serious face?" Sunghoon nudged your arm.

You hesitated. "...What if I'm just another girl to him?"

You could see their instant reactions. Jake snorted, "Oh please. You're the only girl on his mind right now."

"Yeah." Jungwon nodded. "You think he goes around making out with every girl in front of all of us?"

"He's been different. He barely smokes anymore, he keeps leaving parties early because you're not there... he doesn't even flirt around like he used to. It's weird." Jay leaned in, shaking his head with a grin.

"Weirdly wholesome," Jake chimed in.

Before you could respond, Ni-ki reappeared—holding two cones of ice cream, one already melting a little. Tucked into one of them was a folded piece of paper and a small flower, slightly crumpled but clearly picked with intention.

He walked straight over to you, holding it out with a sheepish grin. "It's not fancy or anything. But..."

You took the paper cone and opened the note.

Will you be my girlfriend?

Straight to the point. Direct. Just like him.

Your breath caught in your throat. "Ni-ki..."

Jake leaned over next to you, speaking in a whisper like it was some deep secret, "When he goes after something he wants, he makes a move before anyone else does."

You smiled then—your heart flipped, your pulse racing—and looked up at Ni-ki. "Yes," you breathed.

The minute the word left your mouth, his hands were right back on your cheeks, thumbs moving across your skin like he didn't even think about it and he kissed you again. It was a softer kiss this time, but no less full of meaning. God, this was the first time you had ever been with someone like this—someone so openly affectionate, someone who made you feel like you were the only girl in the world. Like you weren't being seen, but rather... chosen.

He pulled back, smirking at you with eyes full of mischief. "You're in for a long ride, princess."

Then, without warning, his lips pressed against the corner of your jaw, trailing lower to the curve of your neck. Your breath hitched—completely caught off guard by how intimate he was being, especially with everyone watching.

But for some reason you did not give a fuck.

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