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motorsportbarbie13 · 1 month ago

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Christmas Showdown

In which you and Lando run into an ex-boyfriend while you're home for the holidays.

Warnings: talk of abusive relationship (no details though). Established relationship. Protective Lando. This could probably be better and it's pretty short buttttttt I needed to get this out of my head, so enjoy! Pairing: Lando Norris x Girlfriend!Reader Word Count: 1.8k words

Master List

It had been several years since you spent the holidays in your small Midwestern hometown. Usually, your family flew out to London or Monaco to spend the holiday’s with you there, much preferring to leave Michigan’s several feet of snow that was typically on the ground during Christmas. This year was different thought. Your grandmother had been too ill to make the long flight so instead, you came to them. Which was fine with you, you had missed seeing friends that were home for the holidays and missed the nostalgic nights spent around the Christmas tree with your family. The one person who was not fine with it, however, was your boyfriend.

Lando Norris simply hated the cold. He hated being cold. Hated thinking about the cold. Hated the snow. Anytime the temperature dipped below 50 degrees Fahrenheit ( which also a fight you two had often was how he refused to learn the difference between Fahrenheit and Celsius while also simultaneously refusing to do the same for him.) So you knew he must really be down bad for you when he had agreed (albeit a bit sluggishly) to spend the Christmas holiday with you in your (freezing) hometown.

There was minimal complaining for the first few days you were at home, mostly because it the weather was fair enough to not be something comparable to the North Pole, but trouble arose the day of your Aunt and Uncle’s infamous Christmas party. The first sign of trouble was your brother’s insistence on a family outing to the sledding hill that was a few miles from your house. Of course Lando had packed several parkas but when he had seen the Canada Goose store in the mall the day before, he had bought the thickest, best cold rated puffer jacket he could find. Despite that and several layers of long johns and sweaters, by the time you reached the sledding hill your poor boyfriend was shivering like your grandma’s ancient chihuahua.

To his credit though, there was not one single utterance of a complaint or plea to go back to your parents house for a cup of hot chocolate then entire time. Lando happily chased your nieces and nephews around the sledding hill and even went down the hill a few times with you.

“Okay, folks!” Your dad calls out as the afternoon sun hangs low in the sky. “I think it’s time we all head home and get ready for Judy and Steve’s party tonight. I expect everyone to be at their house by 7pm sharp!” The ‘this reminder is for your benefit’ look that your dad sends you has your already wind chapped face turning even more red.

“I don’t know why you’re glaring at me! I’m always on time!” You shout, grabbing for Lando’s hand. “We’ll see you guys tonight!”

Once you get in the Range Rover that Lando had rented for the two week visit, he immediately turns the heated seats on full power and cranks up the heat.

“Do you want to swing by Starbucks and get something warm before going home?” You ask as Lando pulls out of the park and onto the snowy street. “I feel like I might need to just get you an IV of hot chocolate at this point.”

Lando gives you a sidelong glare. “I think I have icicles in my nose hairs.”

Laughter tumbles out of you, quick and light, sending a thrill of pleasure down Lando’s spine. You two had been dating for a few years now and there were still times he’d look over at you and think ‘how the fuck did I convince this girl to be my girlfriend?’. You had come into his life at a particularly challenging time and had been his rock since day one.

“Starbucks it is, my poor little snowman. There’s one up here in this strip mall. Turn left at this light and then it’s on the right.”

The parking lot, which is a shared lot with several other big box stores, is an absolute zoo and you can see the line snaking around the inside of the Starbucks before you even go in. To save some time, Lando drops you off at the front door while he goes and finds a spot for the large SUV.

The line is long when you get inside but you’re thankful to at least be out of the bitter cold. While you wait in line, you mindlessly scroll on your Instagram, which is locked down tighter than Fort Knox. Going private on all socials and not being featured heavily on Lando’s had been one of the things you two had agreed upon when things started getting serious nearly two years ago now. People who were huge Lando fans knew who you were but the casual F1 fan probably wouldn’t have been able to pick you out of a lineup.

Your casually scrolling, minding your own business, when a deep voice calling your name jolts you out of your little social media bubble.

“Jeff?” You sputter, surprised to see your college boyfriend standing in front of you in line, huge smile on his face.

Jeff had been one of the guys you and your best friends had drooled over in high school, having been nearly two years ahead of you when you were teens. You didn’t start dating him until your freshman year of college, when he was already a junior. To say the man was toxic was an understatement. In fact, now that you had a few years distance between the now and the end of the relationship, you could confidently say Jeff had been pretty abusive.

“Hey, stranger!” He says, leaning in for a hug. You go completely still, totally unprepared to be faced with the man who had caused you so much trauma in the two years you had dated. “I have’t seen you in ages, visiting your family for the holidays?”

You toss a look over your shoulder, desperately wishing for Lando to come walking in the door. “Uh, yeah. First time in a few years. I usually fly them over to London or Monaco for the holidays.”

A dark shadow passes over Jeff’s face at the mention of where you live now. “Monaco, huh? You always thought you were too good for us here, didn’t you?”

Your stomach twists painfully at the look in his eyes and you briefly consider just turning around and walking right out of the Starbucks without your drinks.

Before you can stutter out a response, a strong pair of large hands wraps around your waist as Lando drops his head onto your shoulder. “Darling. Baby. Sweetheart. Love of my life." Lando croons in your ear, not yet picking up on your body language. "I adore you but why the fuck did you have to be born in a place where the air hurts your face?”

You laugh stiffly despite yourself. “Talk to my parents about that one, love.”

Lando drops a kiss on your cheek before looking over at the other man. “Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you were talking to someone.”

Across from you, Jeff had been watching this exchange between Lando and you with an increasing amount of annoyance. Who the fuck was this and why was he calling you the love of his life?

“Lando, this is Jeff.” You turn slightly, giving Lando a knowing look which he catches onto immediately. “Jeff, this is my boyfriend, Lando.”

“That’s an interesting name. Only heard that name twice before, once in Star Wars and…” Jeff’s voice drops off as he finally makes the connection. “Wait. Lando…as in Lando Norris?”

The smug grin that stretches across Lando’s face nearly has you giggling. “That’s me. And you’re Jeff, huh? I’ve heard a lot about you. None of it good.”

Lando remembered the first time you had ever opened up to him a few months into dating about how you had been in an abusive relationship in college and how much work it had taken to recover from it. He had been your first serious relationship after leaving Jeff, having left the country just to get away from him. Internally, Lando raged at the man standing in front of you two, the protective instinct in him screaming to just lay the guy out right here.

Jeff’s already ruddy face turns red with incandescent rage. You had totally forgotten he was a big Formula One fan and when you remember the fact that not only is he an F1 fan, but a huge McLaren fan, the urge to giggle hits you again. Oh, this was just too good.

“How’d you…” Jeff stutters. “How’d you manage to bag yourself a Formula 1 driver?”

The question is a pathetic attempt to rile you up and insult you but both you and Lando see that question for exactly what it is.

Lando plants another kiss on your cheek and you know he’s doing it to be an asshole. “I was actually the one who pursued her. She turned me down left and right for nearly a year, didn’t you baby?”

You nod, remembering the way Lando had come into your office at the McLaren Tech Center day after day just to make small talk at first but finally had worked up the nerve to ask you out. You were one of the newer people on the comms team back then and you hand’t wanted to jeopardize the career you had worked so hard for so you had turned him down for nearly a year, insisting that you wanted nothing more than a friendship with the driver.

“But eventually, he wore me down. He flew me to Monaco and took me out on his yacht for our first date, it was all very romantic.” It had actually been Max’s yacht, but Jeff didn’t need to know that bit.

You can see Jeff practically seething at this point, knowing that you’re doing so well and he’s still apparently stuck in your hometown.

“And how are you doing, Jeff? Still working at your dad’s law firm? How is Vance doing? And Laura?” You know it’s killing him, asking about his parents by their first name.

Jeff just blinks at you for a few moments, realizing you weren’t the little girl he used to push around and take advantage of in college anymore. “Made partner last year, actually.”

“That must be easy to do when your dad owns the practice, huh?” Lando says, voice nothing but light innocence.

Jeff’s eyes bounce between you and Lando for several moments before he suddenly reaches into his pocket. “If you’d excuse me, it looks like the office is calling me.”

“A call from the office the day before Christmas! Gosh, you must be very important, Jeffery.” Lando’s low blow to Jeff’s big ego hits true and without another word, the man scampers out of the Starbucks without a second glance in your direction.

Once he’s gone, both you and Lando dissolve into giggles, your head finding it’s favorite spot on Lando’s shoulder. “I’m surprised he didn’t try to deck you there are the end.”

“And mess up his pretty lawyer hands? Honey, I doubt he even knows how to throw a punch.”

tag list @shelbyteller @formulaal @martygraciesversion381 @longhairkoo @samantha-chicago

#f1 #formula 1 #lando norris #f1 fanfic #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #lando norris x you #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris fluff #lando norris fanfic

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giuseppe-yuki · 3 months ago

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money, money, money

normal!max verstappen x billionaire!reader

w.c.: 6.8k

warnings: curse words, allusions to sex, RUDE people, sprinkle of angst (?)

summary: you introduce max to the good and bad sides of having money.

a/n: roughly inspired by crazy rich asians- one of my fav movies!!!

edit: bonus birthday oneshot :)

photo credits from pinterest :)

it was no secret to the majority of the world that your bloodline was rich- filthy rich. with your father’s side of the family owning the equivalent of half a small country and your mother’s side of the family the owners of several major corporations, you had no lack of paper bills in your bank accounts.

along with your siblings and your cousins, you grew up pampered, only going to your country’s best schools and wearing only the latest fashion. you were picked up by a chauffeur in a personal sleek black bentley and had a team of maids at your beck and call. hell, you were even granted access to a private jet in case you wanted to fly somewhere exotic just for fun!

as a child without a sense of the value of money, you thought all children lived like this. every birthday, you expected only the very best from your parents. on your sixth birthday, your parents closed down disneyland and let the kids rampage throughout the park. for your cousin’s grade school graduation, your aunt bought an entire cruise liner (company) and held a week-long party on the water to celebrate. when your little brother passed his driver’s license, your father bought him a customized ferrari pista (that he might have crashed three days in) as his first car. when christmas came by, your grandma flew in your entire family to her private island in first class, and surprised all the kids with their very own mini play homes in the backyard that were each the size of a small apartment.

slowly, as you matured, you realized how lucky you were. while eating the caviar and champagne at the expensive gala, the homeless were out in the cold, eating the leftover crusts in oily crumpled pizza boxes that they fished out of the trash. each dollar in your bank accounts could go to sick children whose parents couldn’t pay the hospital bills for, and instead, they were going to mega yachts that sat in the monaco bay most of the year. besides, wouldn’t your parents' money run out some time?

it seemed that many of your cousins and siblings didn’t give a fuck. you watched them exponentially abuse their power, blowing through thousands of grands for luxury cars they drove only once and exclusive rooftop parties where they swam in pools of champagne. one by one, you saw them drop out of school and spend every day as the life of the party. once they rapidly grew out of the excuse of being “young, naive, and not knowing better” their reputation to the general public became “spoiled and out-of-touch” with society.

you of course, weren’t totally exempt from this. you had to admit that you occasionally spent a few k on a nice little bag for yourself, or had an occasional trip to bali for some sun. however, you focused much more on your studies and helping others than partying. instead of spending your draining your mother’s company assets, wouldn’t it be better to have your own? why wield a black card embellished with your father’s name in gold when it could be your own name? with your own money, you could also donate huge amounts to people in need- all under your name.

slowly, you built up your own credible business using the knowledge you gained, and it soon skyrocketed into a world-wide profitable company.

even with such success however, all your siblings and cousins laughed at you. running a company? they had chuckled, in their balenciaga suits and miu miu dresses. why do such tedious work when you can just marry into a rich family?

rich family, you scoff, looking at one of your cousins at the yearly family party that your family threw. though she was dressed to the nines, hair done up and jewelry glistening on her neck, she looked absolutely miserable. her husband, that everyone knew she had just married “for the money” stood on the opposite end of the room, flirting unashamedly with a rather uncomfortable looking waiter. that was really funny, considering that your cousin had been bragging about how much her husband loved her at the last function. she had even shoved a picture of her next to a humongous flower bouquet into your face, teasingly stating how “you never had this experience before, huh?”

your brother wasn’t that much different. although he looked rather successful with a big quarter of your mother’s company stocks, you knew that he was in major debt from burning through his bank accounts gambling at casinos around the world. he paraded around the room with his wife, who hung on his arm so proudly, but only because she didn’t know a thing. if you hinted at your brother’s little “problem,” you knew that she would have the divorce papers ready by afternoon the next day.

as the party went on and the alcohol broke down the painstakingly-built facades of your family’s relationships, you began to stop envying their so-called perfect lives. you realized that all they knew about was money. what did they know about love?

love to you was a kind man with blue eyes that crinkled whenever he smiled at you, light brown hair that was oh-so-soft to run through with your hands, and a soothing voice with a twinge of an accent and slight lisp. love smelled like his soft cologne, and tasted like the spiced sweetbreads he would bake on the weekends.

max was the total opposite from the cocky and money-hungry douchebags from your home country that were more attracted to your wallet and family influence, which was what you liked about him. even the way you met him was different. usually, the men would make it all about themselves, trying to impress you with their “achievements” (owning three ferraris is not a keystone achievement, david) or throwing technical jargon at you to sound smart. if you somehow invited them on a second date, they always showed up late and would tear off their clothes the second they got in the house, expecting to get to third base immediately. however, you met max through a friend of a friend at a small party in monaco. he could barely look you in the eyes and stuttered through his sentences, which you found quite refreshing compared to the arrogant guys that you usually encountered. on your first date, he got you some rather wilty looking tulips, but also brought some homemade bread that you swore was the best you ever ate. on the second date, he yapped about all the flags of all the countries he knew, but you didn’t mind because he let you ramble your own interests after. before long, you moved in with him in his apartment on the edge of monaco, and had the honor of calling him your boyfriend.

so now, lying in his arms on his tiny bed, you felt more at home than ever.

the sunlight streams in through the windows above his bed, casting a glow across his face and filtering through his impossibly long eyelashes. you take a minute to admire the angelic scene, before one his cats leaps off of who-knows-where and jumps on his face.

he yelps, and unwinds his arm from around you to softly push who you assume to be sassy away from his head.

you flash a glare at sassy for ruining such a nice moment, before picking her up and attempt to “throw” her off the bed.

unfortunately, max yanks her out of your hands before you are able to.

“hey!” he says in a chastising tone. “be nice to sassy. i’m sure she didn’t mean to.”

max sits up on the bed and gives sassy a few head scratches before placing a kiss on her soft head. sassy meows at you, which you swear is in a mocking tone. across the room, jimmy sprints over and takes a spot next to max, purring for head scratches too, effectively pushing you off the bed.

you didn’t understand how your boyfriend couldn’t see that his cats were literally devils. you were basically subject to their abuse every day (i.e. random ankle attacks, knocking over all you fragile items, unplugging your devices, cat hair in your food, and the worst one, stealing max away from you). scowling, you surrender your rightful spot on the bed and pad into the kitchen in your slippers to start the coffee.

it’s not until both the coffee and breakfast is ready when max finally enters the kitchen, now freshly dressed. the cats scamper around his feet, curling lovingly around his ankles.

“sorry about that, baby.” he says, pulling out his chair and taking a seat in front of his plate of food. “jimmy and sassy just wanted some love.”

you roll your eyes before settling down into your own seat.

he spears a few sausage links and eggs into his mouth before glancing at the clock. eyes widening, he shoves the rest of the food into his mouth and chugs down the hot coffee.

“so sorry, i have to run!” he sputters out, “i’m going to be late to my engineering meeting!”

he dashes to the bedroom to grab his bag before running back into the kitchen to press a kiss to your cheek in goodbye.

“have fun at work too, baby!” he yells before the front door slams closed.

sighing, you finish your plate before washing the dishes in the sink. he was always late for his engineering job at a small office in downtown monaco. max somehow always got to his office in time though, but probably because he raced his little yellow renault clio rs on the streets like he was some type of formula one driver. meanwhile, you had your “work” at home (which typically meant one phone call to your secretary to make sure everything was running smoothly, a quick scroll through your company accounts, and then netflix on the couch).

from the time you met to the time you started dating, you never got to telling max about your family history or your job. it was actually kind of unbelievable that he didn’t notice actually, even when all your clothes were covertly designer and heels were always red bottoms, or when you seemingly traveled out of the country every other weekend for company meetings. however, he never asked, so you never told.

well, that was until he came home that night.

his footsteps echo on the ground as he walks out from the bathroom, but stops before he gets into the kitchen

“hey baby,” he says, tilting his head. “what’s this?”

you stop stirring the pasta sauce, looking back to see your freshly showered boyfriend questioningly glancing at your open macbook on the couch.

you must have forgotten to close out of your company bank account tab. quickly, you throw the spoon aside, slam the laptop shut, and throw it to the side.

“that’s nothing, baby.” you say, rushing back to the kitchen and stirring the bubbling red mixture again.

“oh-kay…” he says, walking up behind you and reaching over to help strain the pasta noodles.

while straining the water out in the sink, he flashes you a quick glance. “was it like…” he whispers quietly. “adult material or something?? is that why you didn’t want me to see it?”

what?

you look back him, an unimpressed look at your face. “adult material, max???” you repeat back at him. “no. i was not watching adult material on my work laptop.”

“okay, whatever you say, baby.” max says, clearly not believing you. clearing his throat, he continues. “so, um… anyways, my coworker george was talking about how he met his boyfriend alex's parents over the weekend, and i realized that i never met your parents before. do you think we can maybe pay them a visit?"

you freeze, halfway sliding out a plate of garlic bread from the oven.

“i- um, don’t think that’s wise, maxie.” you reply quietly.

your boyfriend wrinkles his brow. he stops the plating of the noodles and walks over to you, placing a hand on your shoulder.

“is it…is it because they are assholes?” he asks, looking at you seriously. “cause it’s okay if they are- i understand, because my dad…my dad is not very kind either.”

you can’t help to think about your family in your home country. you could never take your maxie there. they would rip him to shreds, degrading him for being rather plain and destitute compared to them. you would never want to put your boyfriend through your parents, either, who would probably criticize him for wanting to marry you just for the money, even if max didn’t know a goddamn thing about how you earned your funds.

you rub your face. “no, it’s not that.” you sigh, “i- mean- it’s just complicated over there in my home country. i don’t want you to feel pressure or uncomfortable-”

max cuts you off with a hug, and presses a kiss to your cheek. “i really don’t mind, baby. i’d really like to meet the people who made such a kind and beautiful person like you.”

you blush a little at his words. even if you have an uneasy feeling to your stomach, you nod lightly. it can’t be that bad, right?

if you were to take max over to your home country, there was no doubt he would be exposed to your massive fame and influence there. to slowly ease him into the more luxurious side of your life, you first introduce the luxuries of a private jet the day you take off from the airport.

“a private JET???” your boyfriend shrieks, looking at his speciality boarding pass.

hurriedly, you shush him to avoid the glares of other travelers within a yelling distance of you both.

“max, please be quiet.” you hiss into his ear. “yes, it says private jet.”

maneuvering your cart with your lv-branded luggage to the side of the terminal, along with max’s one small carry-on and two pet cages with the reincarnations of the devil inside, you pull out your phone to check the location of the driver who would take you to the separate private-jet entrance.

like magic, he materializes behind you, tapping you on the shoulder.

politely, he takes your horde of luggages and max’s items before politely gesturing towards a massive black lincoln that was definitely not parked there before.

“this way miss,” he says curtly, before reaching forward to open the car door for you.

max, snapping out of his confusion, snaps his hand out first and roughly yanks the door open, and nearly hitting both you and the driver.

“i’ll open the door for my own girlfriend, thanks!” he retorts, glaring suspiciously at the driver, who just shrugs and starts loading the luggage into the back of the car.

when max climbs into the spacious back of the lincoln, you can’t help but giggle into your hand.

“max, you need to relax,” you laugh, placing a calming hand on max’s leg. “he’s my driver. it’s his job to open the door, okay?”

your boyfriend sniffs, pouting a little.

“fine.”

after boarding the jet and ascending safely into the air, you settle into your padded chair. meanwhile, max runs around the jet like a little kid, pointing out the “special features,” much to the amusement of the staff.

“omg, baby, look!” he yells, pointing at a wooden-paneled door behind your chair. “the bathroom is huge!”

you nod, and hum in agreement, sparing a quick glance at max, who was opening and closing the door as if it would change what was behind it.

he then charges toward a cabinet near the middle of the plane, which is stuffed to the brim with your favorite snacks. “wow!” he shouts, before sprinting towards a similar cabinet further down, which you know is the alcohol storage area.

there’s a moment of silence before max steps into view with three gin and tonics and one of your favorite drinks in hand. he carefully sets them down in front of you, batting away a disgruntled-looking bartender who held a half-open bottle of gin that you assumed he was in the middle of pouring when max snatched the bottle away.

you apologize profusely to the bartender while max watches on, straight up chugging his drinks.

“this is wild!!” he whispers, pointing to the cups in front of him.

no more than five minutes after sending the bartender away with a little tip, max has already finished two of his three gin and tonics and was already bounding out of his seat to explore the rest of the plane.

once you hear his exclamations of joy from the back of the plane, you know he has discovered the master bedroom.

before you have a chance to take a sip of your own drink, max basically pounces on you and drags you towards the private bedroom. your boyfriend pushes you onto the soft bed, yells out the door.

“give us a little bit of privacy, okay?” he shouts to no one in particular, before slamming the door shut.

he turns back to your figure lying spread-eagle in the bed, and wiggles his eyebrows.

max is the first one to talk after you both lay on the bed, lips swollen and cheeks red.

“so…?” he says, running a hand down your back.

“so… what?” you ask, looking up at him from your position sprawled on top of him. from your point of view, you could feel the slight rise and fall of his chest, his slightly damp hair, and the way his blue, blue eyes study your face.

“so, when were you going to tell me that you were…like…rich?” he replies.

you maneuver yourself to a sitting position on your boyfriend’s lap, looking him nervously.

“well…” you remark, twiddling your thumbs. this wasn’t the way you thought you were going to break the news to max.

“i grew up more- comfortably in my home country, thanks to my family and their connections. i was lucky to not have to worry about money at all. when i became a little older, i separated myself from the rest of my siblings and cousins to form and take care of my own company. then, on a business trip, i met you and then.. yeah, you know what happens next.”

an awkward silence fills the room, with max digesting the information and you toying with a stray thread from the bedcovers.

your boyfriend opens his mouth slowly.

“a company?” he questions, turning to you. “what company?”

you scramble off the bed for your phone, and type something quick in the search bar. when you find what you are looking for, you rotate the phone towards your boyfriend, the glowing screen reflecting on his features.

it only takes one or two seconds for max to scan and decipher the words on the screen.

“YOU’RE THE CEO OF REDBULL??” max shouts.

when the wheels of your private jet hit the bumpy runway, it was midnight. your pilot’s voice crackles on the intercom, politely notifying you that you have arrived, and are free to disembark whenever you’d like. outside, you can see several workers unloading your luggage, along with jimmy and sassy in their pet carriers.

you turn to max, who was intensely staring at his screen, unmoving. you assume he was still in the middle of his fervent wikipedia dive of you and your family’s entire history that he insisted on learning, once he got over the initial shock.

“max,” you say, nudging him slightly.

he doesn’t budge, eyes trained like an eagle on his screen.

you pull on sweatshirt before nudging him again, this time a little harder. “max, come on, we gotta go.”

he snaps up, and pockets his phone before mock saluting you. “yes, of course, miss ceo! whatever you say!”

you roll your eyes. max was a little extra sometimes.

he trails behind you obediently as you climb down the stairs to get off the plane, and into a sleek black limousine.

before long, you find yourself on the familiar streets and freeways that you used to frequent when you were younger. it feels the slightest bit nostalgic, so different from the streets of monaco that you became used to thanks to max.

you look back to find max tilting his head at you.

“where to now, miss ceo?” he asks in a curious tone.

you smile.

”i know just the place.”

even when it was close to three am, the downtown streets were still packed with people. vendors engulfed the street sides, selling delicious soups and snacks beckoned to people, and little shops with bright signs advertised souvenirs, clothing, stationary, and everything in between. the car inches to a stop when you come upon a familiar old building that you remember visiting often as a child. bright glittery letters on the storefront and windows exclaim, “lombardi ice cream shop.” a line of people streams out the door, an ode to the delicious creamy treats that the shop has been selling for years. god, you could basically taste the ice cream on your tongue already.

you practically leap out of the car, dragging max with you towards the front of the shop. the red bottoms of your heels click against the concrete, turning many heads in the crowd along the sidewalk. you hear gasps of shock and a few whispers of your name along the crowd. they automatically parts like moses and the red sea when you get closer. max hesitates, wide eyed, at the edge of the crowd.

”c’mon,” you laugh, taking his hand and leading him through the people.

an old woman, back hunched with age, waddles out of the kitchen and greets you warmly when you arrive at the counter. without realizing, a warm feeling spreads across your chest. she was basically like a second mother to you, considering you spent your entire childhood frequenting this shop with your cousins and siblings. whenever you visited your home country, you would always make sure to pop by her shop (not that she needed your business- her lines always curled around the block, day and night).

“ahh!! welcome back, honey,” she exclaims, wiping her wrinkled hands on her apron. “you’ve gotten so beautiful!” throwing a glance at a shy max hesitantly hidden behind you, she sends you an eyebrow raise. “ah, and i see you brought a boy back huh?”

you reach over to give the weathered old woman a hug, blushing. “hello, momma lella! yes, this is my boyfriend max.”

max waves a polite hello, one hand still nervously holding yours.

the elderly woman smiles kindly at max, not hiding how she looks him up and down. “well, i approve!” she states, giving you a thumbs up and a wink. “polite and handsome!”

without another word, she grabs the largest size cup and fills it to the brim with creamy chocolate ice cream. sprinkling a good amount of sprinkles and shoving two spoons into the cup, she offers it to you.

“on the house!”

you and max sit on the sidewalk with the cup of ice cream, watching people walk by and cars zoom through the traffic. occasionally, max takes his spoon and shovels a large helping of chocolate ice cream into his mouth.

“you look like you’re really enjoying the ice cream,” you state, noticing the chocolate smeared over the corners of his mouth.

max just smiles at you in the way he always does, with the dimples and the crinkle in his eyes.

suddenly, your moment is ruined when a flash goes off in your face.

max jerks back, rubbing his eyes, not used to the invasive cameras that made up your childhood.

you whip around towards the flash, seeing a small herd of paparazzi smiling wickedly. a rare spotting of you in back in your home country for the first time in years? that was payday for them. a flash of anger shoots through you, causing you to throw your wooden spoon at their expensive cameras. unfortunately, it just bounces off of the arm of a short looking man carrying a heavy duty camera.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” you yell, shooing them away from max. “can you just leave us alone for one second?”

bothersome paparazzi like this was common when you grew up in a family rich with drama and money. you recall them camping in front of your house, shutters clicking once they saw a sign of movement. whatever mistake you made, like tripping over a small rock or fighting with your sister over a doll, was publicized and dramatized into unrecognizable stories on gossip magazines that were popular in your home country. it was a pity that this was max’s first introduction to these pests.

you pull max with you as you shove your way roughly through the paparazzi. they deserved it if you accidentally smashed someone’s lens.

max stumbles behind you.

“wha-?” he says, holding the half-empty chocolate ice cream. “where are we going?”

you huff. “away from those wannabe photographers- i hate them so much.”

you flip open your phone to call your chauffeur, but your app notifies you it would take a total of ten minutes for him to weave through traffic to get to you both. in the distance, the paparazzi raise their cameras again, shutters clicking as they photograph your pissed off expression and a dumbfounded max next to you. you can practically see the headlines tomorrow- ‘bratty billionaire back in country!!’

like a godsend, a futuristic-looking car rumbles to life next to you. that will probably get you home and away from these fuckers fast, right? hurriedly, you march over to the disgruntled middle-aged man in the passengers’ seat.

“five million for your car- right now.” you say, dead serious.

the man’s eyes widen comically large.

“five mi-“

you cut him off quickly, seeing the paparazzi darting closer to max, who was still holding the ice cream and eyeing the cameras wearily.

“yes, five million. i’ll mail you the check.”

without another word, the man tosses you the keys and hefts himself out of the car. you leap into the drivers seat just as he gets out, and jam your finger on the window down button to beckon max into the car immediately.

the moment he sits down on the expensive-looking leather seats, you rev the engine and leave the paparazzi behind in the dust.

it’s not until you are halfway back to your penthouse when max finally speaks.

“this is a super nice car,” he states, running his hand against the interior side panels.

you look around, really noticing the detailings of the car. the sides look like they are made with some carbon fiber material, and it seemed like it didn’t even have a door handle- just straps you pull on the corner of the dashboard.

”yeah, i guess so,” you admit. “i just bought this off of that dude back there in order to get away from the damn paparazzi.”

max wrinkles his brows.

“you bought-?? what??? you know this is an aston martin valkyrie, right?”

the next morning, when the sun shines through the skyline windows lining your penthouse, you keep your promise by instructing one of your staff to send the promised check to the random guy on the street (fernando, he said his name was). your boyfriend scrolls idly on his phone next to you, probably scrolling through your family’s lengthy wikipedia page again. his cats stamp around your white bedsheets as if they owned the place. you think about what you both could do today. perhaps visit the children’s hospital? before moving to monaco, you frequented many small hospitals, bringing gifts for the children. it always felt good seeing the sick kids light up with joy. or, you could go shopping, although you did spend a little bit much on the random car yesterday. or-

before you can complete your thought, a familiar ringtone lights up the screen of your phone. your mother’s name lights up your phone, as if taunting you. before you second-guess yourself, you smash your finger into the green ‘answer’ button and place the phone to your ear.

your mother’s voice flows through the speakers, sending a wave of nostalgia throughout your body.

“darling!” the voice hums, “why didn’t you tell me that you were back in your home country? i had to find out over the silly little paparazzi pictures on the newspapers!”

damn it, you think, cursing silently in your head. it seemed that the paparazzi from yesterday night had probably sold your pictures to some trashy gossip magazine that had caught the attention of your mother. that meant that you had to face your family sooner or later.

“hello, mother,” you reply curtly, trying to avoid the topic. “how may i help you?”

your mother tuts through the speakerphone. “oh, your own mother can’t just call to say hello?”

you groan. “no- i mean yes-“

your mother cuts you off, laughing. “i’m kidding, darling. i just wanted to let you know that i’m hosting a party at our estate tomorrow, to celebrate your arrival! you’ve been in monaco for a god-awful long time. your cousins and siblings will be coming too- i’m sure they’ll all excited to see you after your hiatus in monaco!”

you hesitate before responding. your first instinct was to say no, because everybody knew full well that the only reason your cousins and siblings even bothered to show up at these kind of events is to save face and show off their new ridiculously expensive clothing and cars, not to welcome you. however, this also gave you a chance for max to meet your parents, like he wanted back in monaco. it isn’t a hard choice when you agree to meet the next day.

max revs the engine once again as he pulls the valkyrie to stop in front of the valet at the front of your family’s estate.

through the tinted windows of the car, you see one of your snobby cousins, dressed in an jeweled gown, jump at the loud sound and clutch her husband’s arm tighter however, her husband ignores her to get a good look at your aston martin supercar, which makes you laugh. to your surprise, he is not the only one. a few other family members gather around, admiring the hypercar.

in the passenger’s seat, max’s mischievous grin slowly turns into a frown of nervousness as he spots the crowd of people gathering around you both. you know it must look intimidating, meeting your significant other’s family, especially when they had such high expectations of you. you place a kiss on his cheek.

“you ready, maxie?” you ask, patting his shoulder comfortingly.

he nods, before opening the car door.

like the gentleman he is, max quickly hurries over to the passenger’s side of the car to help you out of the car. you gladly take his hand, and step out of the vehicle daintily. straight away, you can hear the confused mutterings and jealous glares of your family members start up, which follow the both of you into the house.

like expected, your childhood home is decorated a little over the top. people mingle under crystal chandeliers around staircases draped with real flowers. from the second living room, music drifts out that sounds suspiciously like martin garrix. a fancy bar is set up a room that was usually the dining room, with a bottle of every single alcohol you can ever think of. the courtyard, usually empty save a few plants, was turned into outdoor buffet bar, complete with a five story cake and massive chocolate fountain.

once inside, max attempts to introduce himself to the first friendly-looking family member that he sees, which happens to be your aunt on your mother’s side. he sticks out his hand, a smile gracing his face.

“hi, my name is max,” he says, “i’m your niece’s boyfriend.”

your aunt nods politely, shaking his hand.

“hello max,” she says, visibly studying him, “what are you, a ceo? businessman? sports star?”

”auntie!” you say, shocked, cutting max off from his response. that rude bitch. although she looked relatively kind from the outside, all she really cared about anyone was their power and money. which was probably why your cousin married a mega popstar that was away half the time. like the rest of your family, money trumped true love. “you can’t just start a conversation like that!”

max shakes his head, “no, no, it’s alright. i’m an engineer.”

“ah,” your aunt says, knowingly. taking a sip of her champagne, she continues, “head engineer, huh? of what company?”

thinking he might have misheard her, max corrects her, “oh- no, not head engineer, just an engineer, like in an office.”

your great-aunt’s friendly demeanor automatically drops.

“just an engineer?” she responds, coldly.

you notice how max’s face falls the slightest bit, before he plasters a fake polite smile on his face. he shuffles uncomfortably, glancing at you, as if saying, did i say something wrong?

before you can say something rather rude to your aunt, a hand clasps your shoulder. turning around, your brother beams at you.

“sister!” he exclaims. “i haven’t seen you in a hot sec. too busy partying in monaco, huh? or doing your silly little business things for redbull?”

he then eyes max, to which he wiggles his eyebrows at you. “who’s this, huh? your boyfriend?”

”yes,” you snap, still a little pissed from your aunt’s rude reaction.

your brother puts his hands up jokingly, in a surrender position. “damn, okay, no need to be defensive.”

he sticks out his hand to your boyfriend, who takes it gladly.

“what’s up, dude,” your brother says, shaking max’s hand. “i saw you pull up with my sister in that sick aston martin valkyrie! you must have some insane connections- the waitlist for that baby is like years long.”

your aunt answers before your boyfriend can.

“there’s no way he could have bought that car- he’s just an office engineer at some company at who knows where,” she says pointedly.

hearing this, your brother’s impressed look turns into a sneer of disdain. he steps back from max in disgust, as if he had just turned into some horrible monster. he chuckles at you.

”wow, sister, you’ve outdone yourself huh? an office engineer?”

your family, slowly becoming aware of something going on, turns towards the scene. a wide-eyed martin garrix turns off the booming music in the back.

you shove your brother further away from max, causing the glass of champagne to spill onto your brother’s designer suit.

“what’s wrong with you?” you exclaim angrily. “at least he has a job, unlike you!”

ignoring the bubbling liquid staining his suit and your enraged expression, he turns toward max, still eyeing him with disgust. “how pathetic, leeching off of my sister’s money as a ceo? ha, you probably used her card to buy that valkyrie, didn’t you?”

next to you, stunned into silence, max’s blue eyes begin to fill with tears.

behind you, your aunt lets out a cackle of laughter, along with a few members of the crowd.

you just about launch yourself at your brother, wanting more than anything to bash his head in.

as if it couldn’t get worse, your mother pushes through the crowd gathered around you both, and grabs your arm before you can make contact with your brother.

“hey!” she yells, yanking you back. “what is going on here?”

your brother grins, pointing at max. “your precious daughter went and got herself a little gold digger boyfriend- and look, he’s crying!”

you glance over to max, heart sinking. like your brother said, he had a tear running down his face, and he shook a little with embarrassment. it reminded you of a story that max once told you, how his father had often upset him as a child when he was forced to do karting. an anger flared inside of you. max had only wanted to be a good boyfriend and introduce himself to your family, but was in turn ridiculed in front of a crowd by your hypocrite brother.

your mother turns to max, then turns to you.

“is this true, darling?” she asks, tilting her head. “does he exploit you for money?”

does max exploit you for money? you can hardly even comprehend the ridiculous sentence. you roughly yank your arm out of your mother’s grasp and march over to max. you lace your fingers through his, giving his hand a squeeze.

you turn towards your chuckling brother. he won’t be laughing soon.

“you’re really one to talk, brother! you think you’re hot shit, with a large chunk of mother’s company stocks. well, wouldn't it be a shame if everyone knew that you are in debt from your uncontrollable gambling problem, hmm? i wonder what your wife feels about that?”

you take comfort in the way the smug smile drops from your brother’s face, now replaced with a withering glare. the silent crowd gathered around the scene lets out a gasp, in light of this news. their focus now was trained on your brother instead of max.

“and you!” you exclaim, turning to your aunt. “since you think the word gold digger is so funny, auntie, wouldn’t you like to know how your own daughter is one, huh?”

your aunt jerks back, not used to the crowd’s attention trained on her, along with your harsh words.

”yeah,” you continue, “if you would stop judging people based on their worth in money, you might have been able to see that all she does is spend her husband‘s money on inane things in order to ignore his multiple affairs!”

from the back of the room, you hear your cousin burst into tears while her mother, your aunt, standing in front of you, turns as red as a tomato.

gently, you lead max towards the gilded gold front door. your family gives you judgemental looks as you make your way through the crowd. turning back one last time before you step out, you address the crowd. “don’t think any of you guys are any better. all you lot do is leech off of trust fund money!”

max stays silent all the way to your penthouse, as do you. after a hot shower, you bundle him up in your soft fluffy blankets until he looks the puft marshmallow man. you can’t help but feel terrible. he silently shuffles towards you, which you respond by pulling his head against your chest. jimmy and sassy watch wearily from a distance on the carpet.

you are the first to cut through the silence.

“i am so sorry that my family did that to you, maxie.”

he doesn’t answer, but the new tears that soak your expensive silk pajama set does the answering for him.

you run your hand through his damp strands of light brown hair, and rub his back comfortingly.

he pulls back from your embrace to wipe his eyes briefly.

“why do you love me?” he hiccups, cheeks wet with tears. “like- i have no money, two cats that you hate, and- and- a tiny apartment-“

“max!” you say, cutting him off from his ramblings. “listen to me.”

you look into his watery eyes, eyelashes wet with tears.

”i really don’t care if you lived in a literal dirt hole with no job, or if you were a formula one world champion. i would love you no matter what. i love your blue eyes and your pouty lips and your lisp, and your cologne, and the bread that you bake, and your little apartment and even though it may not seem like it, i love your stupid cats too.“

he chuckles wetly at the last part of your sentence.

you kiss the top of his head.

”you don’t know how much i love you, max emillian verstappen.”

a devious grin slips onto his face. he shoots you a sultry look.

“show me.”

and you do.

later, when max lays asleep on the bed, love bites on his neck, face slightly flushed, and back bare, you get up to fetch your phone.

the person you seek is only a few taps away. he picks up on the second ring, politely greeting you even though it was an ungodly hour. you tell him your request, but he hesitates slightly.

”are you sure-“

you cut your financial advisor off as politely as possible.

“yes, that’s right. i would like to buy the entirety of my mother’s companies and my father’s estates.”

the sounds of pencil scratching paper fills your ears before your financial advisor lets out a sound of approval.

“right away, ma’am!”

a/n: APOLOGIES for my week-long hiatus!! take this fic as an apology... your normal spinoff series! scheduling will resume shortly <3

also let me know if you have a better name for this piece- i was STRUGGLING trying to name this one ;-;

#f1 x reader #f1 fic #f1 x female reader #f1 x y/n #f1 x you #f1 fanfic #f1 rpf fic #f1 imagine #max verstappen x y/n #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #mv1 x y/n #mv1 x reader #mv1 x you #📝

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mostlysignssomeportents · 6 months ago

Text

The true, tactical significance of Project 2025

TODAY (July 14), I'm giving the closing keynote for the fifteenth HACKERS ON PLANET EARTH, in QUEENS, NY. Happy Bastille Day! NEXT SATURDAY (July 20), I'm appearing in CHICAGO at Exile in Bookville.

Like you, I have heard a lot about Project 2025, the Heritage Foundation's roadmap for the actions that Trump should take if he wins the presidency. Given the Heritage Foundation's centrality to the American authoritarian project, it's about as awful and frightening as you might expect:

https://www.project2025.org/

But (nearly) all the reporting and commentary on Project 2025 badly misses the point. I've only read a single writer who immediately grasped the true significance of Project 2025: The American Prospect's Rick Perlstein, which is unsurprising, given Perlstein's stature as one of the left's most important historians of right wing movements:

https://prospect.org/politics/2024-07-10-project-2025-republican-presidencies-tradition/

As Perlstein points out, Project 2025 isn't new. The Heritage Foundation and its allies have prepared documents like this, with many identical policy prescriptions, in the run-up to many presidential elections. Perlstein argues that Warren G Harding's 1921 inaugural address captures much of its spirit, as did the Nixon campaign's 1973 vow to "move the country so far to the right 'you won’t even recognize it.'"

The threats to democracy and its institutions aren't new. The right has been bent on their destruction for more than a century. As Perlstein says, the point of taking note of this isn't to minimize the danger, rather, it's to contextualize it. The American right has, since the founding of the Republic, been bent on creating a system of hereditary aristocrats, who govern without "interference" from democratic institutions, so that their power to extract wealth from First Nations, working people, and the land itself is checked only by rivalries with other aristocrats. The project of the right is grounded in a belief in Providence: that God's favor shines on His best creations and elevates them to wealth and power. Elite status is proof of merit, and merit is "that which leads to elite status."

When a wealthy person founds an intergenerational dynasty of wealth and power, this is merely a hereditary meritocracy: a bloodline infused with God's favor. Sometimes, this belief is dressed up in caliper-wielding pseudoscience, with the "good bloodline" reflecting superior genetics and not the favor of the Almighty. Of course, a true American aristocrat gussies up his "race realism" with mystical nonsense: "God favored me with superior genes." The corollary, of course, is that you are poor because God doesn't favor you, or because your genes are bad, or because God punished you with bad genes.

So we should be alarmed by the right's agenda. We should be alarmed at how much ground it has gained, and how the right has stolen elections and Supreme Court seats to enshrine antimajoritarianism as a seemingly permanent fact of life, giving extremist minorities the power to impose their will on the rest of us, dooming us to a roasting planet, forced births, racist immiseration, and most expensive, worst-performing health industry in the world.

But for all that the right has bombed so many of the roads to a prosperous, humane future, it's a huge mistake to think of the right as a stable, unified force, marching to victory after inevitable victory. The American right is a brittle coalition led by a handful of plutocrats who have convinced a large number of turkeys to vote for Christmas.

The right wing coalition needs to pander to forced-birth extremists, racist extremist, Christian Dominionist extremists (of several types), frothing anti-Communist cranks, vicious homophobes and transphobes, etc, etc. Pandering to all these groups isn't easy: for one thing, they often want opposite things – the post-Roe forced birth policies that followed the Dobbs decision are wildly unpopular among conservatives, with the exception of a clutch of totally unhinged maniacs that the party relies on as part of a much larger coalition. Even more unpopular are policies banning birth control, like the ones laid out in Project 2025. Less popular still: the proposed ban on no-fault divorce. Each of these policies have different constituencies to whom they are very popular, but when you put them together, you get Dan Savage's "Husbands you can't leave, pregnancies you can't prevent or terminate, politicians you can't vote out of office":

https://twitter.com/fakedansavage/status/1805680183065854083

The constituency for "husbands you can't leave, pregnancies you can't prevent or terminate, politicians you can't vote out of office" is very small. Almost no one in the GOP coalition is voting for all of this, they're voting for one or two of these things and holding their noses when it comes to the rest.

Take the "libertarian" wing of the GOP: its members do favor personal liberty…it's just that they favor low taxes for them more than personal liberty for you. The kind of lunatic who'd vote for a dead gopher if it would knock a quarter off his tax bill will happily allow his coalition partners to rape pregnant women with unnecessary transvaginal ultrasounds and force them to carry unwanted fetuses to term if that's the price he has to pay to save a nickel in taxes:

https://pluralistic.net/2021/09/29/jubilance/#tolerable-racism

And, of course, the religious maniacs who profess a total commitment to Biblical virtue but worship Trump, Gaetz, Limbaugh, Gingrich, Reagan, and the whole panoply of cheating, lying, kid-fiddling, dope-addled refugees from a Jack Chick tract know that these men never gave a shit about Jesus, the Apostles or the Ten Commandments – but they'll vote for 'em because it will get them school prayer, total abortion bans, and unregulated "home schooling" so they can brainwash a generation of Biblical literalists who think the Earth is 5,000 years old and that Jesus was white and super into rich people.

Time and again, the leaders of the conservative movement prove themselves capable of acts of breathtaking cruelty, and undoubtedly many of them are depraved sadists who genuinely enjoy the suffering of their enemies (think of Trump lickspittle Steven Miller's undisguised glee at the thought of parents who would never be reunited with children after being separated at the border). But it's a mistake to think that "the cruelty is the point." The point of the cruelty is to assemble and maintain the coalition. Cruelty is the tactic. Power is the point:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/03/09/turkeys-voting-for-christmas/#culture-wars

The right has assembled a lot of power. They did so by maintaining unity among people who have irreconcilable ethics and goals. Think of the pro-genocide coalition that includes far-right Jewish ethno-nationalists, antisemitic apocalyptic Christians who believe they are hastening the end-times, and Islamophobes of every description, from War On Terror relics to Hindu nationalists.

This is quite an improbable coalition, and while I deplore its goals, I can't help but be impressed by its cohesion. Can you imagine the kind of behind-the-scenes work it takes to get antisemites who think Jews secretly control the world to lobby with Zionists? Or to get Zionists to work alongside of Holocaust-denying pencilneck Hitler wannabes whose biggest regret is not bringing their armbands to Charlottesville?

Which brings me back to Project 2025 and its true significance. As Perlstein writes, Project 2025 is a mess. Clocking in an 900 pages, large sections of Project 2025 flatly contradict each other, while other sections contain subtle contradictions that you wouldn't notice unless you were schooled in the specialized argot of the far right's jargon and history.

For example, Project 2025 calls for defunding government agencies and repurposing the same agencies to carry out various spectacular atrocities. Both actions are deplorable, but they're also mutually exclusive. Project 2025 demands four different, completely irreconcilable versions of US trade policy. But at least that's better than Project 2025's chapter on monetary policy, which simply lays out every right wing theory of money and then throws up its hands and recommends none of them.

Perlstein says that these conflicts, blank spots and contradictions are the most important parts of Project 2025. They are the fracture lines in the coalition: the conflicting ideas that have enough support that neither side can triumph over the other. These are the conflicts that are so central to the priorities of blocs that are so important to the coalition that they must be included, even though that inclusion constitutes a blinking "LOOK AT ME" sign telling us where the right is ready to split apart.

The right is really good at this. Perlstein points to Nixon's expansion of affirmative action, undertaken to sow division between Black and white workers. We need to get better at it.

So far, we've lavished attention on the clearest and most emphatic proposals in Project 2025 – for understandable reasons. These are the things they say they want to do. It would be reckless to ignore them. But they've been saying things like this for a century. These demands constitute a compelling argument for fighting them as a matter of urgency, with the intention of winning. And to win, we need to split apart their coalition.

Perlstein calls on us to dissect Project 2025, to cleave it at its joints. To do so, he says we need to understand its antecedents, like Nixon's "Malek Manual," a roadmap for destroying the lives of civil servants who failed to show sufficient loyalty to Nixon. For example, the Malek Manual lays out a "Traveling Salesman Technique" whereby a government employee would be given duties "criss-crossing him across the country to towns (hopefully with the worst accommodations possible) of a population of 20,000 or under. Until his wife threatens him with divorce unless he quits, you have him out of town and out of the way":

https://www.google.com/books/edition/Final_Report_on_Violations_and_Abuses_of/0dRLO9vzQF0C?hl=en&gbpv=1&dq=%22organization+of+a+political+personnel+office+and+program%22&pg=PA161&printsec=frontcover

It's no coincidence that leftist historians of the right are getting a lot of attention. Trumpism didn't come out of nowhere – Trump is way too stupid and undisciplined to be a cause – he's an effect. In his excellent, bestselling new history of the right in the early 1990s, When the Clock Broke, Josh Ganz shows us the swamp that bred Trump, with such main characters as the fascist eugenicist Sam Francis:

https://us.macmillan.com/books/9780374605445/whentheclockbroke

Ganz joins the likes of the Know Your Enemy podcast, an indispensable history of reactionary movements that does excellent work in tracing the fracture lines in the right coalition:

https://www.patreon.com/posts/when-clock-broke-106803105

Progressives are also an uneasy coalition that is easily splintered. As Naomi Klein argues in her essential Doppelganger, the liberal-left coalition is inherently unstable and contains the seeds of its own destruction:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/09/05/not-that-naomi/#if-the-naomi-be-klein-youre-doing-just-fine

Liberals have been the senior partner in that coalition, and their commitment to preserving institutions for their own sake (rather than because of what they can do to advance human thriving) has produced generations of weak and ineffectual responses to the crises of terminal-stage capitalism, like the idea that student-debt cancellation should be means-tested:

https://pluralistic.net/2022/05/03/utopia-of-rules/#in-triplicate

The last bid for an American aristocracy was repelled by rejecting institutions, not preserving them. When the Supreme Court thwarted the New Deal, FDR announced his intention to pack the court, and then began the process of doing so (which included no-holds-barred attacks on foot-draggers in his own party). Not for nothing, this is more-or-less what Lincoln did when SCOTUS blocked Reconstruction:

https://pluralistic.net/2020/09/20/judicial-equilibria/#pack-the-court

But the liberals who lead the progressive movement dismiss packing the court as unserious and impractical – notwithstanding the fact that they have no plan for rescuing America from the bribe-taking extremists, the credibly accused rapist, and the three who stole their robes. Ultimately, liberals defend SCOTUS because it is the Supreme Court. I defended SCOTUS, too – while it was still a vestigial organ of the rights revolution, which improved the lives of millions of Americans. Human rights are worth defending, SCOTUS isn't. If SCOTUS gets in the way of human rights, then screw SCOTUS. Sideline it. Pack it. Make it a joke.

Fuck it.

This isn't to argue for left seccession from the progressive coalition. As we just saw in France, splitting at this moment is an invitation to literal fascist takeover:

https://jacobin.com/2024/07/melenchon-macron-france-left-winner

But if there's one thing that the rise of Trumpism has proven, it's that parties are not immune to being wrestled away from their establishment leaderships by radical groups:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/06/16/that-boy-aint-right/#dinos-rinos-and-dunnos

What's more, there's a much stronger natural coalition that the left can mobilize: workers. Being a worker – that is, paying your bills from wages, instead of profits – isn't an ideology you can change, it's a fact. A Christian nationalist can change their beliefs and then they will no longer be a Christian nationalist. But no matter what a worker believes, they are still a worker – they still have a irreconcilable conflict with people whose money comes from profits, speculation, or rents. There is no objectively fair way to divide the profits a worker's labor generates – your boss will always pay you as little of that surplus as he can. The more wages you take home, the less profit there is for your boss, the fewer dividends there are for his shareholders, and the less there is to pay to rentiers:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/04/19/make-them-afraid/#fear-is-their-mind-killer

Reviving the role of workers in their unions, and of unions in the Democratic party, is the key to building the in-party power we need to drag the party to real solutions – strong antimonopoly action, urgent climate action, protections for gender, racial and sexual minorities, and decent housing, education and health care.

The alternative to a worker-led Democratic Party is a Democratic Party run by its elites, whose dictates and policies are inescapably illegitimate. As Hamilton Nolan writes, the completely reasonable (and extremely urgent) discussion about Biden's capacity to defeat Trump has been derailed by the Democrats' undemocratic structure. Ultimately, the decision to have an open convention or to double down on a candidate whose campaign has been marred by significant deficits is down to a clutch of party officials who operate without any formal limits or authority:

https://www.hamiltonnolan.com/p/the-hole-at-the-heart-of-the-democratic

Jettisoning Biden because George Clooney (or Nancy Pelosi) told us to is never going to feel legitimate to his supporters in the party. But if the movement for an open convention came from grassroots-dominated unions who themselves dominated the party – as was the case, until the Reagan revolution – then there'd be a sense that the party had constituents, and it was acting on its behalf.

Reviving the labor movement after 40 years of Reaganomic war on workers may sound like a tall order, but we are living through a labor renaissance, and the long-banked embers of labor radicalism are reigniting. What's more, repelling fascism is what workers' movements do. The business community will always sell you out to the Nazis in exchange for low taxes, cheap labor and loose regulation.

But workers, organized around their class interests, stand strong. Last week, we lost one of labor's brightest flames. Jane McAlevey, a virtuoso labor organizer and trainer of labor organizers, died of cancer at 57:

https://jacobin.com/2024/07/jane-mcalevey-strategy-organizing-obituary

McAlevey fought to win. She was skeptical of platitudes like "speaking truth to power," always demanding an explanation for how the speech would become action. In her classic book A Collective Bargain, she describes how she built worker power:

https://pluralistic.net/2023/04/23/a-collective-bargain/

McAlevey helped organize a string of successful strikes, including the 2019 LA teachers' strike. Her method was straightforward: all you have to do to win a strike or a union drive is figure out how to convince every single worker in the shop to back the union. That's all.

Of course, it's harder than it sounds. All the problems that plague every coalition – especially the progressive liberal/left coalition – are present on the shop floor. Some workers don't like each other. Some don't see their interests aligned with others. Some are ornery. Some are convinced that victory is impossible.

McAlevey laid out a program for organizing that involved figuring out how to reach every single worker, to converse with them, listen to them, understand them, and win them over. I've never read or heard anyone speak more clearly, practically and inspirationally about coalition building.

Biden was never my candidate. I supported three other candidates ahead of him in 2020. When he got into office and started doing a small number of things I really liked, it didn't make me like him. I knew who he was: the Senator from MBNA, whose long political career was full of bills, votes and speeches that proved that while we might have some common goals, we didn't want the same America or the same world.

My interest in Biden over the past four years has had two areas of focus: how can I get him to do more of the things that will make us all better off, and do less of the things that make the world worse. When I think about the next four years, I'm thinking about the same things. A Trump presidency will contain far more bad things and far fewer good ones.

Many people I like and trust have pointed out that they don't like Biden and think he will be a bad president, but they think Trump will be much worse. To limit Biden's harms, leftists have to take over the Democratic Party and the progressive movement, so that he's hemmed in by his power base. To limit Trump's harms, leftists have to identify the fracture lines in the right coalition and drive deep wedges into them, shattering his power base.

Support me this summer on the Clarion Write-A-Thon and help raise money for the Clarion Science Fiction and Fantasy Writers' Workshop!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/07/14/fracture-lines/#disassembly-manual

#pluralistic #politics #project 2025 #heritage foundation #history #jane macalevey #rip #tactics #republicans in disarray #turkeys voting for christmas #rick perlstein #know your enemy #fracture lines #when the clock broke #john ganz #hamilton nolan

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the-modern-typewriter · 8 days ago

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The villain, who doesn't typically celebrate much anything gets invited to an event (holiday, gala, birthday, etc) by hero with no strings attached.

This is a Secret Santa snippet gift @snowshowerwriting 😊 Have a great one! I hope you enjoy.

---

“…And I was just wondering if, maybe, if you’re not too busy, you’d want to go with me?”

The villain stared at the hero for a long moment, watching the colour slowly creep up the hero’s cheeks and all the way up to the tips of their ears.

Snow begin to drift and eddy lazily on the empty rooftop around them.

“Only if you want to,” the hero said. “Sorry. You’re probably too busy, what with being…you. Forget I asked! It’s not a big deal or anything I just—”

“—You want me to go to the peace ball with you.”

“Only if you want to!”

“Why?”

The villain could think of a dozen reasons why, but none of them exactly fitted with their impression of the hero in front of them.

The annual peace ball was a tinsel-strewn, glittering festive affair designed to promote good will across the city by forcing all heroes and villains to join together in a night of absolute truce. No fighting. So help anyone who tried scheming, though of course everyone still did. Good will to all super-powered men, women and others on earth!

The villain had been invited before, in the first few years that the ball was hosted, by a few of the boldest players on either side of the roster. They’d always said no. Never mind that they’d never been much one for making a big deal out of arbitrary times of year. The hero in front of them was not a particularly bold creature, though, heroics aside. Nor were they the sort to want to make some kind of statement.

The hero was bafflingly genuine. Too true to themselves to be of much use in politics, and too powerful for most to want to risk taking a run at them. Powerful enough, certainly, that they didn’t need the villain’s protection or the implication of an alliance between them. Good enough, surely, that the villain struggled to envision a scenario where the hero tried to enlist them over mince pies.

Indeed, as far as the villain could tell, the hero had absolutely nothing to gain by having the villain on their arm.

The hero’s head tilted at the question. “Because I think it would be nice?”

“I’m not nice.”

“Well, no. But it would be nice to spend more time with you. But only—”

“—Only if I want to,” the villain finished.

The hero’s blush deepened. It was possibly one of the most adorable things that the villain had ever seen. Still, the hero stood their ground and waited for an answer, arms folded grumpily against their own overly expressive face.

“Yeah,” the villain said, smothering a smile. “Okay. Sounds…nice.” They kept their voice light. Casual. Their heart hammered in their chest, giving an almost painful squeeze at the bright grin that shamelessly crossed the hero’s face.

“Yeah?” The hero raised their eyebrows. “Nice.”

The villain snorted.

The hero’s grin grew, delighted. “I’ll pick you up at seven? Unless you’d rather meet there?”

“Seven is fine, but I’ll come get you. What address works?”

They made the arrangements, the hero practically fizzing, like they really were looking forward to a night with the villain at their side. No strings attached. It was…well. It was really was so damn nice. There was a rare, warm feeling buzzing in the villain’s chest.

Still.

“You do know you’re going to get hell for turning up with me, don’t you?” the villain asked. “Whatever your reasons.”

“Mm.” The hero made a show of thinking. “I fought a literal mutated snowman last week, but you know what really scares me? Other people’s dumb opinions at the Christmas party.”

The villain found themselves laughing.

“Honestly,” the hero said. “I don’t know how we’ll survive.”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“You could get hell for turning up with me. Whatever your reasons.”

“It’s cute that you think anyone other than you dares to give me hell about anything.”

“I could be a terrible, hellish date.”

“Oh yeah?” The villain took a step forward, before they could stop themselves. A belated lightbulb flicked on inside their head. “Is that what you are then? My date?”

“I mean—" The hero’s eyes widened. They floundered. They bit their lip, drawing the villain’s attention immediately, and parties were lame but that mouth was absolutely not. “Only if you want me to be!” the hero said. “We can just go as friends. Long suffering colleagues. I’m not trying to—”

“Oh, no. You’re my date, darling. No taking that back.”

“Oh, thank god.”

That time, the villain utterly failed at smothering a smile.

“Oh, crap. I mean—” The hero scrambled for a more eloquent, less relieved, cooler response. They came up endearingly blank.

“Nice?” the villain offered.

The hero narrowed their eyes, playful. “You’re mocking me. Rude.”

“I would never dream of mocking my date.”

“No?”

“It wouldn’t be very festive of me.”

“Oh, yes. Because you’re such a big fan of festivity and seasonal celebrations.”

The villain blinked, mostly out of surprise that the hero had been paying enough attention to even notice that. Maybe they shouldn’t have been surprised all things considered. The hero was smarter than they let on. “And yet,” they said, “you invited me to a seasonal celebration.”

“Well.” The hero shrugged, mostly managing careless that time. “Limited opportunities to take you out anywhere else. I think people might panic if I just turned up with you for a dinner.”

“We’d be served very quickly. I do tend to clear our restaurants with my presence.”

The hero snorted.

“So what does one do at a peace ball?” the villain asked, voice a murmur.

“There’s food. Drink.” The hero recovered themselves, reaching out and taking the villain’s hand, drawing them a few steps closer, leaving footprints in the snow beginning to coat the roof. Their voice softened too. Liquid caramel. “Dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“You done much of that before?”

“You might have to teach me.”

“Well, we start by you wrapping your arms around me like this…”

The villain might have shivered. The hero might have grinned, humming a made-up tune beneath their breath as they swayed together.

The weeks until the ball flew by.

***

People did stare when the two of them walked in. The villain chose to believe it was because the hero looked absolutely gorgeous, despite their dubious choice of wearing a festive jumper to what was clearly supposed to be a black tie event. The jumper was red and said ‘yule can do it friend’.

Maybe the hero was bold, in their way. The villain definitely thought, in the last few weeks, that they’d underestimated their sometimes-enemy.

There were a lot of people crowded into the city hall venue. Pretty much everyone. The villain abruptly missed their usual peaceful night of strolling around the city, relishing the way that the streets emptied as everyone bundled away to wherever their festivities were.

No panic. No screaming or nervous looks. No chance of some would-be-hero showing up demanding what the hell they were doing.

The hero set a steadying hand on the small of their back, studying their face, and their easy read of the villain’s emotions should have been alarming. It was alarming. It was also…

“You good? Do you want to go and grab a drink?” the hero asked. “What can I get you?”

“I don’t drink in public.”

“They have hot apple juice and hot cocoa too. Some fancy mocktails.”

“You don’t mind that I’m not joining you on the champagne?”

“Why would I?”

Some people, the villain thought privately, minded. They had specific ideas on what a party was supposed to be like and felt judged should the villain deviate from that pre-determined idea. The hero led them through the party, expertly weaving people.

“So?” the hero waggled their eyebrows. “What will it be?”

The villain retreated from the stand with an alcohol-free glass of sparkling. Easy to blend in, even if the taste was nothing special. The two of them watched the room for a while, trying out the various different canapes in the buffet, chatting.

It felt better with the hero at their side. They so obviously knew what they were doing at a party, smoothly carrying conversation with anyone who came over, but not in a way that made it seem like they were schmoozing. It didn’t make the villain’s skin crawl. The hero mainly got excited about and asked for pictures of everyone’s pets. Whenever anyone tried to comment on the fact that the two of them were there together, the hero said cheerily that it was “nice, wasn’t it?”

They’d catch each other’s eyes as whoever it was left. An inside joke. It had been a long time since the villain had been in on an inside joke. With the hero, it was a little thrilling.

Of course, as the evening wore on, there was dancing.

The movements were familiar, after all of the hero’s ‘lessons’ in the lead up to the ball. It made it easy to ignore the rest of the room, and the gaudy tree, and the awkward feeling that they might destroy their reputation for the sake of a party. The hero didn’t care about their reputation, did they? They just did what they wanted to.

“So,” the villain said. “What else does one do on a date?”

The hero’s eyes lit up, better than any fairy-light or candle. They stroked their fingers along the nape of the villain’s neck. The music took the opportunity to change to something slow and intimate, inviting everyone to press a little closer. It should have annoyed the villain, but with the hero in their arms, grinning at them, it couldn’t possibly.

“Well,” the hero made a show of considering. “There’s hand-holding.”

“Indeed.” Their fingers wrapped around each other as they moved.

“And kissing.”

“Ah, kissing,” the villain said. Their gaze dipped, inevitably, to that mouth worth going to parties for. “You might have to teach me.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve kissed before,” the hero said, amused. “But I’m always happy to provide a refresher.”

“Part of being a good, heroic citizen I imagine. Helping out the needy.”

“Needy, are you?”

The villain opened their mouth. They registered what they said.

“You’re blushing,” the hero said.

“It’s rude to point it out and mock your date.”

“I would never dream of mocking my date,” the hero said. Then, finally, the hero leaned in to kiss them. Sweet, honeyed, and the warm thing in the villain's chest glowed. They dragged the hero closer, wanting more, more, more. The hero laughed with breathless pleasure and nipped at their lips.

The next year, the villain vowed right then, they were taking their hero somewhere private.

#secret santa 2024 #secret santa snippets 2024 #secretsntasnippets2024 #hero x villain #villain x hero #hero and villain #heroes and villains #villains and heroes #writing #story #romance

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solxamber · 2 months ago

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Trash Novel Chronicles - Stealing the Plot for Drama || Jamil Viper

The book you've been looking forward to turns out to be a piece of crap, and you have the bad luck of getting pulled into it as the villainess. So you decide to steal the main character's show, just for sport.

Series Masterlist

It’s your birthday, and you’re over the moon. You’ve been frugal, cutting out fancy coffee and takeout for weeks, all to splurge on this one, glorious, limited-edition novel from your favorite author. The packaging is pristine, the book jacket glimmering like a beacon of literary greatness. Today is the day. You’ve built this moment up for weeks—you’re practically vibrating as you sign for the delivery.

You tear into the package like it’s Christmas morning, clutching the book to your chest, grinning ear to ear. You settle in with a cup of tea, your coziest blanket, and crack open the book, fully expecting your soul to ascend to a higher plane of literary enlightenment.

It takes precisely three pages for your entire existence to collapse. This is bad. So bad, you can feel your spirit shriveling. Your entire life is a lie.

The book is like a train wreck—every sentence is a mangled piece of steel, but you can’t look away. Tears start forming in your eyes, not from emotional depth, but from sheer despair. It’s like the author forgot how to write in between winning their last award and releasing this... dumpster fire of a novel. But you’re not a quitter. You’ve made it this far—you’re not going down without a fight.

You turn the page with trembling hands, determined to push through.

The plot is standard—heroine is a saintess (yawn), love interest is the Duke of the North (ugh, of course), and the second male lead is the Prince (because originality is apparently dead). But then the villainess shows up. Finally, some promise. You grip the book a little tighter—maybe this will be it! The saving grace! The villainess is the queen of high society, beloved and powerful, absolute girlboss vibes. She runs everything with an iron fist and sharp wit, but then…

Then it happens.

The heroine’s hair comes loose. The villainess, in a rare moment of kindness, gently points out that her hair is falling out of its bun. And what happens? Does she get thanked for her thoughtfulness? No. No. The heroine goes, “You must be jealous of me,” and everyone agrees.

What. The. Hell.

You blink once, then twice. Is this…is this supposed to be a serious plot point? The villainess, this badass social queen, gets ostracized for suggesting a quick touch-up? Is this a joke? You flip back a few pages. Surely, there’s a mistake. Maybe you missed something. You didn’t miss anything. This book missed you with anything resembling logic.

So now, this powerful woman, once the queen of high society, is branded as jealous and bitter. She’s exiled from everything she’s ever known, her entire life crumbling because the heroine’s fragile ego couldn’t handle a little advice. And she’s not even the worst part. No, because guess what?

The only person who stays with her through it all? Her fiancé, Jamil Viper. Jamil, a baron she helped rise to the position of Duke, the man she loved, is by her side while everyone else abandons her. The romance potential is there. It’s right there. You’re practically shaking the book at this point.

And what does the author do with this beautiful setup? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. The villainess, broken and misunderstood, alienates herself from Jamil. She pushes him away. And then—just to really twist the knife—she dies alone.

You drop the book onto your lap, staring at the ceiling. Infinite romance potential, wasted. You can feel your soul leaving your body. Jamil could’ve saved her. They could’ve had it all. But no. She dies alone, unloved, in the most tragic yet pointless way possible.

And that’s when it happens.

Something absurd. Something so stupid, it feels like divine punishment for buying this book. Maybe it's the way your body tenses in sheer disbelief at the plot; maybe the universe decides to play its cruel hand, but you feel a sharp pain in your chest.

Suddenly, the room spins, and your vision goes black. As the world fades around you, your final thought isn’t about your family, your friends, or the countless dreams you had for the future. No.

Your last thought is:

“Really??? On my goddamn birthday?”

And then, you die.

You wake up, stretch, and feel… odd. You glance at your hands and freeze. Your nails aren’t chipped? Your cuticles are trimmed? In this economy? You sniff the air. Lavender? Something’s very wrong here. You sit up and take in your surroundings. Ornate tapestries, a bed so massive it could host a small nation, and a freaking chandelier.

Oh no.

First thought: Have I been kidnapped? But hold up—what kind of kidnapper does their victim’s manicure? You wave your polished hand around like it's suddenly sprouted five extra fingers. This is definitely not normal.

And then your gaze lands on the giant, gilded mirror at the side of the room. You stumble towards it, ready to face the worst, and when you see your reflection, the realization knocks the wind right out of you.

“Fuck my life… I’m the villainess.”

Panic mode: activated. But then you pause, staring at your impossibly gorgeous reflection. No need to lose your shit just yet. You've read enough of these novel-turned-isekai tales to know the drill. It’s bad, yes, but it could be worse.

You’re not the heroine, which means less plot armor, but you are rich. Villainess rich. The kind of rich where you don’t even know how much a loaf of bread costs anymore. There’s power in that, right?

Alright, you just need to avoid the male leads like they have the dragon pox or something equally contagious and unattractive. If they even sneeze in your direction, you’re running faster than a Black Friday shopper in a sale.

Best course of action? Stick to your fiancé, Jamil Viper. He clearly liked the original villainess in the book, and you’re betting you can use that connection to survive this ridiculous plot.

Oh, and because this novel’s plotline literally killed you, you’re taking the queen of high society title back. Out of spite. It’s petty, but who cares? You're gonna be shady, throw aristocratic shade like you’re handing out party favors, and maybe casually humiliate the heroine for fun. She can't be that saintly.

But before anything else? Shopping.

You are now rich in a fantasy world, and you are not going to waste this opportunity. First order of business? Find a dress so stunning it could make a commoner drop dead on the spot. The kind of outfit that makes peasants weep and enemies tremble.

As you stride to the wardrobe, you can't help but feel a little smug. Sure, you're the villainess, but damn, you're gonna be a well-dressed one.

Your first shopping spree as a villainess. And not just that—there are maids! You stare at them wide-eyed as they begin dressing you in silks and satins, and you can’t help but think, “Holy shit, I have maids now.”

They fuss over you with a precision that can only be described as obsessive, tieing ribbons, adjusting jewelry, and brushing your hair like it’s a rare silk. You check yourself in the mirror, and honestly? Damn. The heroine's got nothing on you.

You twirl, and every inch of you screams hot and dangerous. It's like the universe is apologizing for killing you off with that god-awful book by giving you this absolute glow-up. You’re feeling unstoppable, like you could bench-press societal expectations and then strut away in heels.

But then your butler approaches, bowing as if you’re some untouchable deity. “My Lady, your fiancé, Lord Jamil Viper, has arrived to see you.”

Wait, what? Jamil is here? THE Jamil?? The only person with an ounce of brain cells in that trash fire of a novel? The one man who actually made sense? Please let him be hot.

You take a deep breath, mentally preparing yourself. God, I hope he looks exactly like he was described.

When the doors open, you nearly pass out on the spot. Correction. He’s hotter. Infinitely hotter. If Jamil Viper was a fire hazard in the book, in person, he’s a full-on inferno. You’re almost thankful you died just so you could see him. He greets you, and his voice? Sexier than advertised. You’ve hit the isekai jackpot.

Without a second thought, you grin, loop your arm through his, and drag him toward the carriage. You’re already imagining the two of you showing up to the next ball in matching outfits, causing hearts to break and jaws to drop. Jamil is a little confused by your sudden enthusiasm, but like a champ, he just goes along with it.

As the carriage rolls down the cobbled streets, you casually drop, “By the way, I’m done moping about being ostracized by high society. I want revenge on the heroine.”

His eyes darken, and there’s an unmistakable gleam in them. He leans back, smirking. “Good. I hate the Prince anyway. The number of problems he caused me while I was trying to rise through the ranks? I’d love nothing more than to ruin them both.”

And you? You’re in. Oh, you’re so in. Why not? Why not when Jamil Viper looks so attractive while plotting the downfall of others?

He pauses his scheming for just a second, looking at you with a rare softness. “Thank you… for recognizing my talents. I wouldn’t have had the chance to even think about insulting a prince if you weren’t by my side.”

Your heart does a little flip, and you take his hand in yours, a silent promise forming in your mind. You’re going to make the original villainess proud. You’re going to destroy the heroine.

For what this book did.

And also because, well… revenge is sexy when Jamil Viper’s involved.

You both stride into the store, ready to make a statement. But, of course, because the universe is a petty comedian, there she is—the heroine, acting like she’s never seen a price tag before. “Oh, I couldn’t possibly accept such an extravagant gift!” she gushes loudly enough for the entire store to hear.

Meanwhile, the Duke—Mr. "I-have-no-emotions"—is doing his signature act: standing there, looking aloof, but you can tell he’s mentally calculating how impressed everyone is supposed to be.

Jamil doesn’t even need to speak. You both share a glance, a silent conversation filled with mutual disdain. "These people suck." It's not even a question. It's a fact.

“I’ll take everything here,” you say suddenly, your voice loud enough to cut through the heroine’s overly sweet prattling. The shopkeeper’s eyes widen as they hurriedly approach, unsure if they heard you correctly.

“Everything?” they stammer.

You nod casually, like buying an entire store’s worth of clothing is a daily occurrence. “Yes, everything.”

From the corner of your eye, you can see the Duke’s facade slip for just a moment—his cold mask cracking ever so slightly as he glances at you. The heroine looks like she’s about to choke on her own words. You flash them a bright, borderline condescending smile. "Oh, I hope I didn’t interrupt something. You were saying?"

Jamil steps closer, his hand resting on the small of your back as he coolly adds, “Also, we’d like matching outfits. Something… striking.” His tone is as indifferent as ever, but you can feel the smug satisfaction radiating off him.

The heroine looks utterly flustered, her hands fidgeting as she glances between you and the Duke, who is doing his best to act unbothered. But you can tell he’s silently fuming, his pride taking a serious hit.

Jamil leans in slightly, his voice low enough for only you to hear. “A power couple move? Bold. I approve.”

You grin. “I thought we’d show them how it’s really done.”

A short while later, you and Jamil emerge from the dressing rooms in outfits that would make gods weep with envy. You glance at yourselves in the mirror, and wow. You two don’t just look good—you look devastatingly unstoppable. The kind of couple people would kill to look like in their wildest dreams.

The heroine looks on with wide eyes, clearly trying to mask her jealousy, while the Duke’s cold expression cracks further, his irritation almost palpable. He probably thought he was the only one who could pull off the whole “I’m-rich-and-powerful” vibe. Sorry, buddy. You’re just not in the same league.

Jamil gives you a rare, genuine smile, one that’s laced with quiet triumph. “Not bad,” he says casually, though his eyes linger on you a moment longer than necessary.

As you step out of the store—victory sealed—you take Jamil’s hand without thinking, your mind already moving on to your next move. “Now,” you say, eyes focused on the road ahead, “about that revenge plan. I’m thinking we start by—”

But as you plot and scheme, you don’t notice that Jamil isn’t looking at the road. His gaze is on you—quiet, intense, and filled with something deeper.

"Whatever it is," he murmurs, "I'm in."

Power couple goals, indeed.

The ball is here, and, like any self-respecting villainess, you’re not about to let the opportunity for chaos slip by. If you’re going to be stuck in the plot of a novel, might as well make it entertaining, right?

As your maids fuss over your dress, they spill some of the hottest gossip yet. Apparently, the prince? The one who’s always preening like a peacock and acting like he’s too good for everyone?

Yeah, he got caught trying to serenade his tutor’s cat—and failed. He’s tone-deaf, and worse, the tutor is furious because the cat’s been hiding in her curtains for days, traumatized. You nearly choke on air.

“Oh, this is going to be a biblical shitstorm,” you murmur, your eyes practically sparkling as you imagine the carnage that’s about to go down tonight.

By the time you meet Jamil outside, you’re practically vibrating with excitement. And speaking of Jamil—holy hell. He’s standing by the carriage in a sleek, dark suit, looking all brooding and mysterious like he was custom-made to steal hearts.

"Wow," you say, openly staring at him. "You’re killing me right now. How are you real?"

Jamil shifts, tugging at his collar like he’s trying to downplay how good he looks. “Stop,” he mutters, his face ever-so-slightly flushed, but the tiny smile tugging at his lips gives him away.

“No, seriously,” you press, circling him with an exaggerated critical eye. “Is this what ‘stunning’ looks like in person? I need to know because I feel like I’m about to pass out.”

“You’re impossible.” He shakes his head but doesn’t make eye contact, probably because he knows he’ll crack. But he’s smiling, and that’s all the confirmation you need.

When you arrive at the ballroom, it doesn’t take long before you spot Kalim. He’s practically bouncing with excitement, waving as if you weren’t already heading his way.

"You guys look amazing!" he cheers, pulling both of you into a hug before you can protest. He’s so enthusiastic, you almost forget you have a mission. Almost.

You lower your voice conspiratorially. "Kalim, did you hear about the prince?"

He blinks. “No? What happened?”

Jamil side-eyes you like he knows exactly where this is going, but he doesn’t stop you. He’s in on this. “Well, apparently, our dear prince has been… spending some quality time trying to serenade his tutor’s cat.”

There’s a pause, then Kalim’s eyes widen in shock. “WAIT, REALLY?”

You and Jamil barely manage to suppress your laughter. Kalim just broadcasted that to half the ballroom. Mission success.

From there, you and Jamil strategically split up to mingle with the nobles, making sure the gossip spreads like wildfire. Every time someone asks, you pretend to hesitate, then whisper it to them like it’s the juiciest secret in the world. By the time the prince arrives, the entire ballroom is buzzing with whispers.

You grab two drinks and take your spot in a corner where you have the perfect view of the incoming storm. Jamil joins you, leaning casually against the wall, but you can see the amusement in his eyes. “I’d say we did well,” he says softly, as you hand him one of the drinks.

“Too well,” you say, grinning wickedly. “I can’t wait to see how this plays out.”

The prince enters, completely oblivious to the fact that everyone is staring at him like he just walked in with toilet paper stuck to his shoe. The imperial family follows behind him, sensing that something is off, but they keep up appearances, declaring the ball open.

Then, the dancing begins. And oh, the rejection. The prince approaches lady after lady, only to be turned down one by one, each with some flimsy excuse. You’re cackling into your drink at this point, nearly spilling it as you watch the absolute carnage unfold.

And then—oh, this is the best part—the heroine finally arrives, blissfully unaware of the prince’s latest scandal. She’s practically glowing as the prince, desperate and clearly not understanding the situation, asks her to dance. She accepts with a delighted smile, preening at all the attention she thinks they’re getting.

The whispers intensify.

Jamil watches, his eyes gleaming with mischief. "I’m impressed," he murmurs. "That spread faster than I expected."

"Never underestimate the power of pettiness," you reply, clinking your glasses together.

Across the room, the king’s aide is whispering something to him, and the poor man looks like he’s just aged ten years. He shoots a glance at the prince and then at the heroine, his expression screaming “I can’t believe I have to deal with this.”

Then comes the final nail in the coffin. After the dance, a group of younger noblewomen approaches the heroine, and she’s clearly expecting them to fawn over her for dancing with the prince. But instead, they absolutely rip into her. “How could you dance with him after what he did?” one of them demands, while another makes a snide comment about the cat.

The heroine, bless her heart, has no idea what they’re talking about and stumbles over her words, trying to defend herself. But she just makes it worse. Within minutes, she’s in tears, running from the ballroom in a dramatic scene worthy of an award.

The Duke—her Duke—chases after her, looking like he’s reconsidering all his life choices.

You’re laughing so hard now that you’re practically leaning on Jamil for support. "This is better than I could’ve ever hoped for," you gasp, wiping away a tear.

Jamil chuckles softly, his gaze focused entirely on you. “Glad you’re having fun.”

“Oh, I’m having the time of my life,” you reply between giggles, clutching his arm. "But seriously, this is gold!"

Jamil smiles, but there’s a softness in his eyes as he watches you. "Whatever you want to do, I’m in." His voice is quiet, but there’s a sincerity in it that makes your heart skip a beat.

And you know, with him by your side, this is only the beginning.

The quiet clatter of quills and the shuffle of paper fill the room as you and Jamil work side by side. It's supposed to be a normal afternoon—just the two of you getting through the absolutely thrilling task of making plans to merge your estates after your marriage.

Riveting stuff. But there’s a certain coziness to it, like you’ve finally settled into this life together. A faint smile tugs at your lips as you glance at Jamil, whose attention is currently fixed on a particularly dense contract.

He glances up, noticing your stare. “Do you want some tea?” he asks casually, already reaching for the bell to summon the butler.

You nod, and in moments, the butler arrives, bowing politely before leaving to retrieve the tea. But as the tray comes in, Jamil pauses, scanning the selection like he’s some kind of beverage connoisseur. He frowns—frowns—and turns to the butler. “Get the other blend. The one she likes."

The butler stutters for a second, then hurries off to fix the apparent blasphemy of tea serving. You’re too amused to even process how sweet the whole thing is.

“Did you really just send him back to get another blend?”

Jamil shrugs, not meeting your eyes, focused instead on stirring the exact amount of sugar and milk you always put in your cup. “You prefer it this way,” he says, his tone nonchalant, but there’s a softness to his expression.

And you’re just sitting there, heart doing weird flips because—he noticed. He’s been watching you, memorizing the tiny details like how you take your tea. Your chest warms as you realize just how deeply he pays attention to you, even in the most mundane things.

“You’re so—” you start, but then you stop yourself, realizing you’re dangerously close to getting all gooey and sappy. “Ridiculous. You’re ridiculous, you know that?”

He shoots you a deadpan look, but the corners of his lips twitch upward. “You’re welcome.”

You laugh, sipping the tea he prepared exactly how you like it, the moment stretching out in peaceful harmony. That is until—

THUD.

You nearly spill your tea as Jamil suddenly launches himself away from his desk, eyes wide in utter horror, looking as though someone just told him he’s been forced to join a Kalim-led dance troupe.

“What—what happened?” you ask, a little alarmed.

He doesn’t answer, instead standing stiffly a good five feet from his chair, eyes fixated on something on the floor. You glance over, curious, and there it is—a massive spider, just chilling on his desk like it’s there to collect taxes.

You stare. He stares. The spider doesn’t move, but the tension in the room could cut steel.

"That thing could eat me," Jamil mutters under his breath, still rooted to the spot like a cat who just saw a cucumber.

You take a deep breath, rolling up your sleeves with all the confidence of someone who has faced worse, like nobles who talk about land taxes at dinner parties. “Alright, let’s do this,” you mumble to yourself.

Grabbing a piece of paper, you march toward the eight-legged horror with all the grace of someone about to tackle a dragon. There’s no elegance, no finesse. You scoop up the spider—your hands a bit shaky—and march over to the window, tossing it outside with a not-so-dignified “Go in peace, demon.”

There’s a beat of silence as you wipe your brow, feeling like you’ve just saved the world. When you turn around, Jamil is staring at you like you’ve just descended from the heavens, all in slow motion, with angelic choir music playing in the background.

“What?” you ask, still catching your breath.

“I was going to handle it,” he says, but the way his voice wavers betrays the fact that he absolutely was not. He glances away, still avoiding the spot where the spider used to be.

You raise an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Sure you were. I bet you were gonna make friends with it too.”

He opens his mouth to argue but then just chuckles, shaking his head. “You’re something else.”

You walk over and bump his shoulder lightly. “And you’re lucky to have me. Spider exterminator extraordinaire.”

Jamil finally lets out a real laugh, the sound filling the room in a way that feels warm and right. When you both settle back into your paperwork, there’s an undeniable sense of something more growing between you, a feeling that neither of you says out loud, but is there nonetheless.

You look over at him again, your heart feeling too big for your chest. He meets your gaze and smiles, the unspoken affection hanging between you like a comfortable silence. Whatever’s coming next in your future, you know one thing for sure—there’s no one you’d rather handle paperwork (or spiders) with than him.

It was a fine day for chaos, and you had a brilliant, absolutely ridiculous idea: a dance competition. The heroine was boasting loudly again, this time about her “dazzling” ballroom skills, fluttering around like a pigeon trying to impress the Duke. You leaned over to Jamil, raising a brow.

“I bet I can make her regret that,” you whispered, eyes gleaming with mischief.

Jamil sighed, eyes flicking over to the heroine, who was twirling like she was the queen of the ball already. “You really want to stir this up?” he asked, his voice dripping with his usual calm exasperation.

“Absolutely. It’ll be hilarious,” you said with a grin. “Just trust me.”

“Those are usually your most dangerous words,” he muttered, but the little twitch at the corner of his lips told you he was more than ready to see how this would play out.

You sauntered up to the heroine, who was mid-spin, nearly knocking over a servant carrying a tray of wine glasses. “Oh my, such grace!” you exclaimed, voice layered with just the right amount of false admiration. “You must be the best dancer here. How about we make it a little more interesting?”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously, clearly sensing a trap but too vain to back down. “What are you proposing?” she asked, puffing up like a puffin in a tutu.

You shrugged nonchalantly. “Oh, just a little friendly dance-off. You, me, the floor. We’ll let the crowd decide who’s the real star of the ball.”

The Duke, standing behind her, snorted, clearly thinking there was no way his precious heroine could lose. You could practically hear his thoughts: What could go wrong?

Jamil, now standing at the edge of the growing crowd, looked at you with an expression that screamed Why are you like this? You shot him a quick wink.

The heroine smiled smugly, already envisioning her inevitable triumph. “Fine,” she declared, loud enough for the entire ballroom to hear. “But don’t cry when you lose.”

Oh, sweetheart, you thought, grinning like a Cheshire cat. You have no idea what’s coming.

The music swelled. The crowd parted, forming a perfect circle around the two of you. The heroine began her routine, performing a series of twirls and steps that were technically fine but lacked any real flair. She was all stiff arms and forced elegance, like a bird trying to pretend it was an elegant swan but failing spectacularly.

“Wow, she’s… uh, something,” you heard Jamil mutter from the sidelines, barely able to contain his laughter.

When it was your turn, you decided to dial it up to eleven. You started off slow, a simple waltz that quickly escalated into an absurd series of moves that defied both logic and physics.

At one point, you grabbed a nearby tablecloth, twirling it like a cape as if you were part ballroom dancer, part magician. The crowd was gasping and laughing all at once. You even threw in a couple of exaggerated backflips—just for dramatic effect, of course.

Jamil, still trying to remain composed, was leaning against a pillar, shaking his head with a mix of pride and disbelief. “This is insane,” he muttered, but you caught the faintest smile playing at his lips. He was definitely entertained.

The finale? You did a sliding split across the marble floor, popping up dramatically at the end to a round of thunderous applause. The heroine, meanwhile, looked like she had swallowed a lemon. Her face was pale, and her jaw had dropped halfway through your performance and never quite recovered.

“Not bad for a warm-up,” you said casually, dusting off your sleeves. “Want to go again?”

The heroine stammered something unintelligible, while the Duke shot you both a venomous glare. You, however, were far too busy basking in the crowd’s cheers to care.

Jamil approached, his expression unreadable as he handed you a glass of wine. “You’re unbelievable,” he said, though there was a mirth in his voice that wasn’t there before.

“I know,” you replied with a smirk, taking the glass from him. “But you love it.”

He let out a small, reluctant chuckle. “Unfortunately.”

As you took a sip, the heroine stormed off, dragging the Duke behind her, muttering something about “cheating” and “unfair advantages.” You couldn’t help but laugh.

“You realize you’ve just made yourself the villain of the entire evening, right?” Jamil remarked, glancing around at the nobles, who were still talking animatedly about your performance.

“Good,” you replied, a glint of mischief in your eyes. “Villains always have more fun.”

Jamil raised an eyebrow. “And what are you planning to do next?”

You gave him a sly smile. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll challenge her to a sword fight next?”

Jamil’s eyes widened. “Please don’t.”

You just laughed, leaning into him. “Relax. I’m kidding. Mostly.”

He sighed but didn’t push you away, clearly resigned to whatever madness you had planned next. As the two of you walked away from the scene, hand-in-hand, the nobles whispered behind you, wondering just how deep your relationship ran, how formidable of a pair you truly were.

But all Jamil cared about in that moment was that you were smiling beside him, radiating with confidence and joy. He didn’t care if the heroine hated you or if the Duke was sulking somewhere in the corner. As long as he had you, the rest of the world could fall into chaos.

And honestly, with you around, it probably would.

You gave Jamil a quick glance, noticing the soft, adoring look in his eyes, and nudged him playfully. “Hey, stop looking at me like I’m your entire world.”

“Too late,” he shot back, the smallest smile on his lips.

“Ugh,” you groaned dramatically, but the blush on your cheeks betrayed you. “You’re impossible.”

“And yet,” he added, leaning in just a little closer, “you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled, taking his hand. “Let’s go cause more trouble.”

The plan had been perfectly crafted. You and Jamil had spent hours scheming, laughing at the thought of humiliating the Duke during the archery and horseback competition.

Your excitement grew with every passing minute as you imagined his arrogant face faltering. But when the Duke not only kept his composure but nailed each target while galloping on horseback, you felt your competitive spirit surge.

There was no way you were going to let him win. Not today.

So, of course, you went all in—because why wouldn’t you? Leaning into your impulsive nature, you urged your horse into a full-speed sprint, adrenaline surging through your veins.

And then, because you’re apparently half-crazy, you decided standing on your saddle while your horse bolted forward would be the best course of action.

The world slowed as you drew your bow, the wind whipping through your hair. You could hear the crowd’s gasps, see the Duke's smug expression turning into something more surprised, and feel Jamil's tense gaze on you. In that moment, you released the arrow.

Bullseye.

The crowd erupted into shock and awe, but you were too busy grinning like a complete idiot to care. You dismounted with all the grace of someone who just pulled off a dangerous trick, your steps light as you practically skipped over to Jamil.

"Did you see that?" you beamed, heart still racing. "I totally nailed it—"

But instead of matching your excitement, Jamil’s expression was stormy. His usually composed features were twisted in a way you hadn’t seen before—part fear, part anger, and all worry. Without warning, he grabbed your shoulders, his fingers digging in just a little too tight.

"What the hell were you thinking?” His voice was sharp, laced with panic. “Are you out of your mind? You could’ve gotten hurt, or worse!”

You blinked, surprised. “I… I was trying to win?"

“Trying to win?! You were trying to break your neck!” His grip tightened as he almost shook you, frustration evident in every word. “That wasn’t worth it. Nothing is worth risking your life like that!”

It dawned on you then that he wasn’t just mad—he was terrified. You reached up slowly, cupping his face with both hands, and his expression softened, though the storm in his eyes didn’t fully dissipate.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, the wind knocked out of you by just how much he cared. “I got carried away. But hey—” You grinned a little, trying to lighten the mood. “I looked cool, right?”

Jamil groaned, exasperated, but the corners of his mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, though his grip on your shoulders relaxed. His forehead dropped against yours, and for a moment, the world around you melted away. It was just the two of you, breathing the same air, sharing the same space.

“I know,” you whispered back, closing your eyes. “But you love me for it.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, his hands slid down to your arms, his touch lingering as if grounding himself after the scare. You could feel the warmth radiating from him, his breath steadying as he leaned into you. It was such a sweet, unspoken moment, and you felt your heart swell.

All around you, whispers started to spread like wildfire among the nobles.

"Oh, they're perfect together."

“They’re like something out of a romance novel.”

Meanwhile, the Duke—who had watched the whole display—stood fuming, while the heroine, eyes narrowed, looked like she was seconds away from throwing a tantrum. But you didn’t care. All you cared about was the way Jamil was holding onto you, as if letting go wasn’t an option.

“Let’s go,” Jamil finally whispered, pulling back just enough to meet your eyes. His gaze was softer now, more relaxed, though still tinged with concern. “No more dangerous tricks. Promise me.”

You smiled softly and nodded. “No more. I promise.”

He huffed, clearly not entirely convinced, but he let it go. You leaned against him for a moment, basking in the warmth of his presence, completely oblivious to the fact that half the noble court was watching the two of you with admiration—or that the other half was stewing in jealousy.

As you both walked away, hand in hand, it was clear that whatever plan you and Jamil had originally devised, the real victory was this: him, you, and the world falling away as the two of you found something far more precious than winning a competition.

The nobleman’s sneer was so potent you could practically taste it in the air. “Ah, yes,” he drawled, looking down his nose at Jamil. “Nouveau riche, how quaint. No matter how much money you accumulate, you’ll never have the refinement or bloodline of true nobility.”

Jamil stood there, bored as ever, giving the man about as much attention as one would to a pesky fly. But you? You were vibrating with the sheer intensity of your rage. And then you heard it—her.

The heroine chimed in, her voice drenched in faux sincerity. “Well, it’s true, isn’t it? The Duke has been managing the North so well—keeping everything running smoothly for years. Not everyone has the skills required for such a delicate task.”

Your eye twitched. Oh no. Oh no.

Jamil had been single-handedly keeping the kingdom’s economy afloat, using his brilliance to ensure food and resources flowed into the North during the harsh winters. He had done more in the span of a few years than these fools had done in their entire blood-soaked lineages. And this… this… buffoon had the nerve to look down on him?

The Duke, sensing the incoming storm, began discreetly tugging at the heroine’s sleeve, but she was as oblivious as ever. The prince, bless his spineless little heart, looked like he was ready to faint from second-hand embarrassment.

And that was your breaking point.

You stepped forward, a smile that could only be described as a harbinger of doom plastered across your face. “Oh, dear,” you cooed, your voice as sweet as poison. “Did I hear you correctly? You think the Duke is managing the North?”

The heroine blinked, clearly not catching the danger. “Well, of course! He’s—”

“Managing to exist in the North without Jamil’s trade routes, maybe,” you interrupted sharply, turning your gaze to the Duke, who now looked like he wanted to crawl into the nearest hole. “You should be on your knees, thanking Jamil for saving your people from starvation every winter. But no, please, continue on about how ‘delicate’ your situation is. Maybe you’ll convince yourself one day.”

“How dare you,” you snapped, your voice rising as you turned to the heroine. “And you. Sitting here, all wide-eyed and clueless, nodding along like you understand the gravity of the situation. You wouldn’t last a week managing a pantry, let alone a region.”

You didn’t give her a chance to reply before turning your sights on the nobleman. “And you,” you started, eyes narrowing as you stepped closer, “talking down to Jamil like you’ve ever lifted a finger to actually do something useful. Do you think your bloodline is going to rescue you when your estate crumbles from your own incompetence? If you spent half as much time working on something productive instead of sneering at people better than you, maybe you wouldn’t be such a leech on society.”

The nobleman’s face went red with anger, but before he could sputter a reply, you had already turned to the prince.

“And as for you,” you said, fixing him with a look of pure disdain. “What exactly is your contribution to this little scene, hm? Standing there, wringing your hands like a wet sponge. Do you have any idea what Jamil has done for your kingdom, or are you too busy polishing your tiara to notice?”

The prince opened his mouth, but no sound came out. It was glorious.

You turned back to Jamil, who was watching you with an amused but unreadable expression. “We’re done here,” you said, grabbing his arm and marching out of the room without a backward glance.

The carriage ride back was thick with silence, the weight of your outburst pressing down on you. Jamil hadn’t said a word, but you could feel his eyes on you, sharp and calculating. You kept your gaze fixed on your hands, guilt creeping up your spine.

“I— I didn’t mean to make it look like you couldn’t defend yourself,” you started, the words tumbling out of your mouth in a rush. “I just couldn’t stand the way they were talking about you—”

Before you could finish, Jamil’s hand gently tilted your chin up, and before you knew it, his lips were on yours. It wasn’t soft or tentative—no, it was a kiss that made your heart race and your mind go blank.

When he pulled away, you were breathless. “I found it hot,” he murmured, smirking.

You blinked, utterly thrown off by the confession. “What?”

He kissed you again, slower this time, and when he pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, his breath warm against your skin. “You have no idea how much I love you,” he whispered.

You let out a shaky laugh, still trying to process everything. “I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice full of emotion.

Jamil’s eyes softened, and without another word, Jamil swept you into his arms, lifting you effortlessly in a bridal carry as the carriage pulled up to your manor. He carried you inside, past the stunned servants, and straight to the bedroom, where the door closed with a soft click behind you.

As he laid you gently on the bed, you could only smile up at him, the weight of everything melting away in the warmth of his gaze.

And for once, the world beyond the two of you didn’t matter at all.

The scandal erupted at the royal ball like a badly timed burp during a quiet opera.

The heroine—bless her, she meant well, but her foot was permanently lodged in her mouth—had done the unthinkable. You and Jamil watched from across the ballroom as she stood before the fae delegation, attempting to “honor” their centuries-old traditions.

But instead of the elegant gesture of goodwill she was supposed to offer, she made a noise that can only be described as an awkward impersonation of a dying goose and proceeded to bow backwards.

That alone wasn’t even the worst part.

“Oh no,” Jamil whispered under his breath, eyes wide with disbelief as he took in the scene. “She’s about to—”

Before he could finish his sentence, the heroine reached into her dress and produced… a bouquet of mushrooms. Not just any mushrooms. The fae’s sacred mushrooms, rumored to be foraged under the light of a blood moon and infused with mystical properties.

She shoved them at the fae emissary like a child offering wilted flowers to a stranger, and then—oh gods, why—she patted his head.

Dead silence fell across the ballroom.

The emissary, who had remained calm despite the bowing fiasco, now stared down at the mushrooms with a look of profound insult and horror. His fellow fae were vibrating, their wings fluttering ominously, as though on the verge of launching an interdimensional war over a bouquet of fungi.

You snorted, barely containing your laughter. “She’s done it now.”

Jamil, ever the diplomat, pinched the bridge of his nose. “Do you know what those mushrooms symbolize to the fae?”

“No, but I’m assuming it’s not ‘Congratulations on your promotion’ or ‘Get well soon’?”

“Death,” Jamil muttered, casting a glance at you that screamed please don’t laugh. “She just handed them a bouquet that says, ‘I wish for your demise and the utter destruction of your family line.’”

At that, you couldn’t hold it in anymore. A small laugh escaped before you slapped your hand over your mouth, trying—and failing—to keep your composure. Jamil shot you a warning glare, but even he looked like he might break. The absurdity of it all was too much.

The fae emissary spoke, his voice sharp enough to cut glass. “This is an outrage. We demand recompense for this offense.”

The king and prince rushed over, trying to smooth things over with promises of reparations, apologies, anything to keep the fae from turning the court into a smoking crater. But the damage was done. The fae delegation was livid, and rightfully so. There were whispers of broken treaties, wars brewing, diplomatic chaos that would take decades to resolve.

And who did they turn to for help?

You and Jamil, of course.

Later that evening, as you lounged comfortably in your private manor, feet propped up on an ottoman, there was a frantic knock on the door. You exchanged a look with Jamil, who was reclining next to you, casually sipping his tea as though the kingdom wasn’t on the brink of a magical apocalypse.

The door swung open, and the king, the prince, and a handful of stressed-out nobles barged in, their faces pale with desperation.

“You two!” the prince bellowed, his voice barely keeping it together. “You’ve dealt with the fae before! Fix this!”

Jamil didn’t even look up from his tea. “No.”

The prince blinked. “Excuse me?”

Jamil sipped again, then casually set his cup down on the table. “I said no. I’m done. We’re done.”

You nodded, not even bothering to hide your amusement. “I think the heroine has this under control. She’s doing great.”

“She insulted the fae. She gave them a bouquet of death mushrooms!” the prince cried, waving his arms dramatically like a man in the throes of a panic-induced breakdown. “They’re going to declare war!”

“Sounds like a you problem,” you quipped, grinning.

The king, who had remained uncharacteristically silent, took a step forward, his eyes pleading. “Please, for the sake of the kingdom…”

Jamil sighed deeply, finally turning his attention to the royal mess in your doorway. “We’ve dealt with more than enough idiocy for one lifetime. How about this? You let the heroine finish what she started. If she can bungle her way into this disaster, surely she can find a way out.”

The prince spluttered, incredulous. “But you—”

“Nope,” you interrupted, standing up and stretching lazily. “We’re officially on vacation. Jamil, pack the bags.”

Jamil stood with a casual grace that belied the utter chaos unfolding behind him. “Already done.”

The king’s jaw dropped. “Vacation?! Now?! The kingdom is on the verge of collapse!”

You grabbed your coat and slung it over your shoulder with a smirk. “Well then, I’d suggest you start learning how to negotiate with the fae. Maybe start by not giving them death mushrooms.”

With that, you and Jamil strolled out of the manor, leaving the baffled royals standing in your doorway like confused children. The sound of the prince’s sputtering protests faded behind you as you made your way down the garden path, the night air cool and refreshing against your skin.

Jamil chuckled beside you, his hand slipping into yours as you walked. “Do you think they’ll manage?”

“Oh, absolutely not,” you said with a laugh. “But we deserve this. Let them figure it out for once.”

“And maybe…” you paused, letting the words hang in the air for a moment. “Maybe we should make it official while we’re at it.”

Jamil stopped in his tracks, turning to look at you, his brows lifting in surprise. “You mean… get married?”

You smiled, leaning into him. “Why not? We’ll be far away from prying eyes, just the two of us, in the summer hours. It sounds perfect.”

For a moment, the world stood still. Then Jamil’s lips curved into the softest smile you’d ever seen. “I think that sounds perfect too.”

And so, you and Jamil left the court and its catastrophes behind, fleeing to the countryside like two fugitives on the run from royal idiocy. The villa you’d chosen was perfect—nestled in the hills, far away from the fae, the heroine, and the ridiculous drama that followed her like a bad smell.

The first morning, as you lay in bed next to Jamil, sunlight streaming through the open windows, he turned to you with a grin.

“So, what now? Do we just… hide out here forever?”

You shrugged, pulling him closer. “Why not? We can start a goat farm. I’ll name all the goats after the people we hate.”

Jamil laughed, burying his face in your neck. “A herd of royal goats. Perfect.”

And somewhere, in the distance, the kingdom probably crumbled. The heroine probably insulted more magical creatures. But for once, it wasn’t your problem.

You and Jamil had found peace in the countryside.

And maybe, just maybe, you’d throw a wedding in between all the goat naming.

The days that followed were blissfully quiet, each one blending into the next in a haze of sun-soaked afternoons and peaceful nights. You and Jamil fell into an easy rhythm—waking with the sun, wandering through the countryside, sharing meals beneath the open sky. It was simple, and that simplicity was a balm to both your souls.

The court sent letters, of course—pleading, begging for your return. But each one went unanswered. The Fae situation had likely escalated, the heroine’s blunder growing more disastrous by the day, but it wasn’t your problem anymore. Let them sort out the mess. You and Jamil had something far more important now—a life of your own making.

One evening, as you sat together on the porch of the villa, watching the sunset, Jamil leaned over and whispered, “Do you think they’ve figured it out yet?”

You laughed softly, leaning into him. “That we’re never coming back?”

He smiled, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Yes.”

“They’ll figure it out eventually,” you said, your voice light, but filled with certainty. “But by then, we’ll be long gone.”

And you were. Far from the court, from the games of power and politics, from the endless demands and expectations. You had found your own path, one where the only thing that mattered was each other.

In the end, the kingdom survived. The heroine, somehow, managed to blunder her way through the Fae negotiations, though the details remained hazy in the few letters you received from old acquaintances. The Duke, as always, remained by her side, a constant fixture in a world you no longer had to care about.

But as for you and Jamil? You stayed in the countryside, living in the warmth of each day, far from the reach of courtly drama. And when the summer finally faded into autumn, you knew, without a doubt, that you had made the right choice.

Together, you had built a life out of love, quiet and unassuming, but richer than anything the court could have ever offered. And in the end, that was more than enough

Series Masterlist ; Masterlist

The next one is Floyd!

#twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #twst #twisted wonderland #jamil viper x reader #jamil x reader #jamil #jamil viper #jamil viper x you #jamil x you #trash novel chronicles

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defmaybe · 4 days ago

Text

Pineapples

12 Days of Christmas: Day 5, December 29th, 2024

BABYMONSTER’s Kawai Ruka x Male Reader

4.3k words

Christmas Masterlist

A/N: First Ruka fic?

—

“Bitch.”

The answer to how she got into your dorm room remains a puzzling mystery. There’s a security guard outside that won’t allow women to access the men's dorm. Still, any question here is thrown out of the window, with her jerking you off from behind like this, sliding her dexterous hand up and down in a languid motion. You’re shifting and shifting in her embrace on your own bed.

You were sure that the door was locked before you went out of your room this morning—tightly shut. She must’ve lock-picked her way into here. She always has a hairpin with her. You aren’t denying that it looks gorgeous on her, hot even. You could spend the whole day just staring at her with her hair tied up into a bun, topped off with the hairpin piercing through the center of the bunch.

Sure, it’s a little degrading for you to submit to her like this every time you meet. She’ll call you a bitch, a slut, a whore, anything that she could think of that day. You’ll call her by her name, on the condition that you avert her gaze. Still, there’s something to be enjoyed in this power dynamic.

It’s the thrill of submission.

She makes sure to swipe her thumb when her hand reaches the top of your cock. It’s for fun, she says. Of course, it’d be fun for her. You moan like a bitch every time she does that.

“You love having me jerking you off like this, don’t you?” she asks, her voice venomous, yet so magnetic. God, why is she so attractive?

You can only nod with a whimper, so clouded in the pleasure her hand is giving you. Indeed, it didn’t start slow. She ordered you to sit on the bed, pants off, shirt on (she said that it’d be a bit too cold for you). Your top is going to get all creased, with her pressing up against your back like this, but you couldn’t care less. You love the way she’s reducing you into her toy like this. You feel pliant. You feel obedient. You feel–comfortable.

“And don’t you dare fucking other women with this cock. It’s mine, only mine, understand?”

You nod again. Your hands are all limp from the pleasure coursing through your body. You are unable to move your body by a single inch, with her limbs placed meticulously to lock you in your place like this. Though, it’s like you’d resist, anyway.

Now, back to the beginning. You’d argue that it’s nothing short of rote. You two went over a year from being just a familiar face in your class, always walking past each other without much notice, until a fateful night at the bar.

—

“Ah!” you two exclaimed simultaneously. It seemed that you just crashed into each other. Your drink spilled from your glasses. They weren’t shattered yet, thankfully. Although, it left wet spots on your clothes.

“Sorry!” you apologized, shouting to fight the music.

“It’s fine! I’m sorry too!” she shouted back. God, the music was so loud there.

“Ruka! Right?”

“Yeah!” Ruka responded with a smile, taking a sip of whatever was left in the glass. “And you are?”

You told her your name, also taking a sip of whatever is left in the glass. She seemed to be happy about it. You two finally knew each other after a year of silence.

“So, uh, I should go back to my table now. My friends are waiting,” said Ruka, tilting her head slightly away from you.

“Oh, yeah, I should go back too. See you around, I guess?”

“See you around!”

—

The night rolled on until the bar closed. You and your friends left the bar, preparing to go back to your dorms, but not without your eyes meeting Ruka just on the outside.

“Hey!” Ruka shouted. Her walking was funny, judging from how she carried herself towards you that night. She was definitely drunk, but so did you. You could barely walk straight.

“Hi,” you said. Her friends were looking at you two, murmuring something to one another.

“Sooo~ we’re having an after-party at my placeee. Wanna joinnn?” she asked, intoxicated. Her breath was full of alcohol.

“Uhhh–” you glanced around at your friends, who seemed to have no opinion on it.

“Up to you, man,” Soobin said, shrugging. “I can go with you. It’s Saturday tomorrow.”

—

“Seven minutes in heaven doesn’t seem like a bad idea,” Pharita said, tilting the empty beer bottle in her hand.

The eight of you were inside Ruka’s room, on the floor, preparing to watch the bottle spin. It was somewhat large for a dorm room. Her parents were probably rich. It was clean and tidy, no stray strands of hair could be seen.

“You’ve cleaned the bathroom, right?” Asa asked.

“Just this morning.”

—

“I don’t think I’ve ever got to properly know you,” Ruka said. Her voice was low. The guys are probably eavesdropping from the outside. “We just kinda–”

“I get it, yeah,” you cut her words off with a smile. Your posture was reserved. You remembered you were leaning against the door that day.

Ruka smiled, before asking, “You like women, right? I mean–I don’t wanna assume.” Her expression was full of anxiety—eyes on the floor, tucking her hair behind her ear. She was probably afraid to offend you.

“Yeah, yeah,” you answer, chuckling.

The tension was thick, too thick. Your smile faded. You two kept averting each other’s eyes. There was apprehension within the situation. You gulped and gulped, playing with the hem of your shirt.

Boldly, she grabbed onto your collar, pulling your face closer to her, before she latched her lips onto yours. Her tongue invaded your mouth without any caution, and that made you melt into her embrace. Her lips tasted like alcohol, with a hint of rose on her. You were faltering.

And she pulled back.

“Never knew your lips taste this good,” Ruka said, wiping the saliva off her lips. She looked hot doing so.

You said nothing, only swallowing hard. You could feel blood rushing to the lower part of your body. It was aching. Your hands were trembling, letting out endless whimpers. You didn’t pay attention to her eyes enough to notice that they were gleaming with desire.

“Ooh~” she uttered, voice below a whisper, pressing your body against the door even harder. Her hands started to be where it shouldn’t. Her alcohol-filled breath invaded your personal space. It was uncomfortable, yet–there was something else in it. “You’re one of those guys, don’t you?”

Another whimper escaped you. You were trying to look away from her, too shy to look her in the sharp eyes. You could see her biting her lip in the corner of your eyes, so ready to take over your body. Fuck, she was so attractive doing that.

“What if I.” She grabbed your chin with her left hand softly, heightening the tension in this bathroom. Her breath remained steady, so unfazed by the whole situation. She was good at that.

Her right hand found its way onto the tent on your pants, squeezing your crotch gently. You let out a whimper under her touch. She seemed satisfied with that. She seemed satisfied with your unwavering submission.

“What a good boy for me,” she uttered, grabbing onto your collar tightly. Her voice was nothing short of dangerous. “You fucking love this, don’t you? You love being a bitch boy.”

You weren’t too sure how to answer the question, but there was probably some truth in it. You were revelling in the way she used you. You loved the way she takes control. You loved how she kisses you like that—invading your mouth like it is her property (it’s her property).

“Answer me, bitch,” she hissed, pushing you up against the door. You were tiptoeing on the ground. Fuck, she was strong. “Or I’m going to fucking edge you until you moan like one.”

You’d be dead if the door wasn’t thick, either would that be heard by the guys or breaking the door with her force.

“I–I love b–being a bitch boy, R–Ruka,” you answered, shaken. Her cat-like eyes were so alluring. They pierced through your heart like a bullet. You were in awe of her beauty, and a bit scared of it.

She laughed mischievously, enjoying the power she had over you. Her adept fingers were still giving your bulge squeezes after squeezes. You whimpered with each touch.

“Should’ve known that you’re a submissive little slut,” she scoffed, rolling her eyes upwards. “Now, if you’d kindly follow my instructions~”

You let out a whimper, too clouded within the expectation of her pleasuring you. You were exploring the ways that she could give you the feeling of utter divinity. Hand? Mouth? Thighs? Pene–

“Here’s what I’m going to do,” Ruka started, hands playing with the hem of your pants. You sucked a sudden. Her soft fingers felt so good on your slutty waist. A soft, airy moan left your lips.

“We have–” she looked at her watch, trying to estimate how many minutes you got. You wish you could just press her mouth down on your cock and get this over with, but that wasn’t how it worked, not when she was in control like that “–four minutes left.”

You nodded in response. Full-on penetration was probably out of the window. There were still a few choices for you to ponder on.

“I’ll suck you off. I’ll make it clean. Don’t moan too loud.” Three orders—direct, quick—and as you were processing the information, Ruka pulled your pants down quickly. Your lower body was left just in boxers. Your erection became more prominent than before. A loud moan left your lips. Good thing she managed to close your mouth in time. The guys didn’t hear that.

“I said, ‘Don’t moan too loud’, bitch,” Ruka sneered. “Do you want me to fucking edge you, huh?”

You shook your head with a whimper. She seemed to be satisfied with the answer. She had to be; there’s barely four minutes left. She couldn’t afford any more time wasted berating you.

In a quick motion, she pulled your boxers down, kneeling before you. Your erection was freed from the fabric cage that held you. She didn’t waste any more time judging the size of it. Instead, she dove right into enveloping her mouth around your cock, eyes closed. You could barely contain your moans.

She let out a satisfied hum around your cock. She was happy with your taste. You had to use your hands to cage the whimpers coming out.

Her mouth felt so warm, so wet, so tight. She bobbed her head back and forth adeptly, using her hands to help ramp up the intense pleasure you were feeling. She even went a mile further and started to hollow her cheeks, creating a suction on your cock. You couldn’t help but use all of your inhibition to not let out the loudest moan of your life. Thankfully, it came out as a quiet mewling.

She definitely loved your cock. Hell, she probably got addicted to it. You could feel that she was using all of herself on your cock, sucking on it in such an enthusiastic nature. She finally opened her eyes, looking up to see her bitch boy writhing in the pleasure she was giving to him. She let out a giggle at you.

Three minutes left.

She upped her ante, trying to milk your cock before time ran out. Her movements quickened, yet still deliberate. Her hands rubbed on your cock faster and faster, coaxing suppressed moans out of your mouth. That felt great.

You fell in love with her cat-like eyes. They were so magnetic that night. They pulled you into another realm that was beyond your comprehension. It was a place full of her, and only her.

She then ran her fingers along your lips, feeling the chapped texture of you. As if you knew, you opened your mouth, letting her plunge her fingers into your wet cavern. Her hand reeked of the earlier alcohol—mostly beer. There was a hint of sweat on it. She was addictive. She was like a fucking drug.

“Nngnn.”

You were sure that you were going to remember that forever—getting sucked off by your classmate in her bathroom while drooling on her fingers at the same time. Her one hand was caressing your cock adeptly. Her friends were trying to eavesdrop on the other side, and you were doing your best not to moan like a slut she wanted you to be.

Two minutes left.

Satisfied, drunken hums left your lips. You were revelling in the way she used you like her little fucktoy like this—her mouth on your cock, her fingers in your mouth. The taste of alcohol lingering on her digits filled your mouth. You fucking loved it.

She definitely had talent in sucking a cock. It was as if she had practiced a lot (it was a few guys and her wide variety of toys, she later told you). She created this suction around your cock that made you whimper like a common whore. The guys would’ve heard that if it weren’t her fingers inside your mouth (she argued later that a strap would’ve also worked).

Her fingers invaded your mouth with an unmatched dexterity, sweeping the insides of your mouth ever so masterfully. Your teeth grazed against her fingers. Her head bobbed back and forth, creating an absolutely vulgar image in front of you.

“Fuck, your cock taste good,” she uttered, muffled by your length. Her features were utterly wrecked by your hard cock. You can see tears running down her face, painting streaks of black marks on her cheeks.

It was peculiar, from strangers to something close to a fuck buddy in the span of a few hours. Those conversations in class weren’t going to be the same. The image of her mouth around your cock is going to be imprinted inside your mind forever.

One minute left.

You were doing your absolute best to contain the whimper out of your lips. The feeling was just too heavenly. You clenched your hand into a fist. The all-too-familiar feeling built up in your loins. Your breathing grows frantic. You were going to cum inside of Kawai Ruka’s mouth, with her friends on the other side of the door!

“Hhgnn.”

“Cum, bitch,” she ordered, her words muffled by your hardness.

“I–I’m trying,” you reply, trying to keep your voice below a whisper.

She upped the act into another ante, blowing your cock at a pace quicker than ever. She really wanted you do cum, didn’t she? Her fingers snake onto the rim of your asshole, sending a special kind of shock through your body.

“Fuck!”

Her fingers circle around your tightness. It feels great, being caressed in the ass like this. It feels like you’re her object, and that’s the feeling you absolutely love. Your hips jerk forward into her mouth. She gags a little, but it doesn’t stop her from neither sucking your cock in full force, nor your peak. You’re going to cum inside of Kawai Ruka’s mouth!

And all you could see was white. Your entire body jerked with pure pleasure. Your cock shot ropes of cum into her filthy mouth. Bliss coursed through your bloodstream to your entire frame. You couldn’t even stand straight. You painted the insides of her mouth, not leaving any corner untouched.

You twitched inside her violently, enveloped in her warm, wet cavern. The spurts grew softer and softer, from frantic shots to drizzles. You tried to suppress your moans with her finger, sucking on them harshly.

And just as you thought she’d spit it out in her sink, she swallowed, expressionless. It was splendidly obscene—the way she just drank your cum so damn easily. You remember that you could only gulp at the vulgar sight.

She pulled off of your spent cock. “Need more pineapples,” she said, licking her lips and making a pop sound with her dirty mouth. She’s clean—no trace of your nectar inside her mouth. Fuck.

She stood up, as her eyes were still bored into yours. She was examining your after-blowjob expressions like a predator watching its prey.

“Twenty seconds left. Put your fucking pants on,” she hissed. “Wouldn’t want the guys to know, would you?”

Hastily, you put on your pants. It was sloppy. It was even stuck on your knees at one point. Fuck, why is this so hard? Thankfully, it finally followed your hands up to your slim waist. You frantically buckled your belt for the final touch-up.

She wipes off the black marks on her cheeks. She has probably done it a few times before, because her face looks so damn clean after that.

Time’s up.

Ruka opened the door to the outside, wiping her mouth with her cuffs. You turned around, frozen under the gaze of the people in front of the doorway, still unable to make sense of what had just happened in the bathroom.

You saw Soobin giving you a knowing smirk. The others also probably know what’s up, but at that point, you just couldn’t care less. You just opened a whole new door with the help of Kawai Ruka.

—

She plants her teeth on the back of your neck, making you jolt in response. It’s a playful bite, you can feel it. There’s a lot to be processed right now, still—her hand on your cock, her body pressing up on you, her hot breath brushing against your neck. It feels too good.

“Nasty little slut,” she whispers into your ear. You moan again at the degrading word. You love it. You love the way she takes control over you like this. “Too bad I didn’t bring my strap here, or I’d be fucking your mouth with it.”

You say nothing, only moan. The air thickens with lust and the smell of sex. Ruka quickens her motion from behind you. Your moans are getting louder and louder. She loves this; she told you once. She loves her men moaning like a whore.

“Yeah, moan like that, you pathetic little bitch,” she growls. The demeaning words only serve to push you further into bliss. She then takes a soft bite on your earlobe, making you jolt in response.

“What a sensitive slut,” she continues. She won’t stop calling you these names, will she? Not that you don’t want that, though.

The tension starts to coil inside your muscles. Your eyes flutter. Your breathing becomes rapid. Your toes curl. You’re going to cum in the hands of Kawai Ruka!

“Aww~ gonna cum already?” she coos, her tone mocking. Her hand jerks you off even faster. The swipes on top of your cock aren’t there anymore, but the sensation of her hand rubbing you rapidly is more than enough.

You can’t answer anything but grunting and groaning at her mastery. The warmth of her body on you is comforting, yet so wicked in its own way. It completely engulfs you, making you completely hers.

“Cum in my hand then, bitch. Make a goddamn mess like the slut you are,” she keeps the insults coming in waves. You’re more than happy to welcome that, being reduced to her nasty little slut like this.

“Nghnn.”

Your dam breaks, your cock shoots out spurts and spurts of cum in her hand. Some land on your shirt, some land on her legs. Hell, some even land on your pretty face. She keeps jerking you off through your high, coaxing as much cum as possible out of your cock.

Successive spurts grow softer, from shots to small dribbles. Your cock is still twitching violently in the grip of her hand.

Eventually, your orgasm dies down. Droplets of cum rest on your cock idly. Trails of it can be seen running down, leaving viscous marks all over.

Ruka then scoops the remnants of your cum on your cock before sucking her fingers lewdly. You swallow hard. You can’t quite get used to the image of her drinking your nectar yet. She closes her eyes while doing so. God, what a sight.

“That’s enough pineapples,” she says, sucking on her fingers enthusiastically. The obscene sounds of it ring in your ear. She’s enjoying your taste.

“Want a taste?” She then offers her fingers to you, and you happily accept them. You suck on her fingers like a whore. You find out that you are really sweet today. That’s probably enough pineapples, as she said.

“I can buy you some more pineapples from my dorm if you want,” she says.

You nod, still sucking her fingers like a bitch, tasting the remnants of your own sweet flavor. You absolutely adore the way she’s using you like this, and you just wish you can stay like this forever.

Suddenly, she pulls her finger out of your needy mouth, leaving the taste of yourself lingering—sweet, intense.

“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says with a giggle, before unlocking you from your restraint. You can finally move freely again, at the expense of her warm embrace. You let out a whimper in disappointment.

Ruka gets off of the bed. She gives you a hand, the messy one, with a smile. Your cum stains can still be seen on it. They haven’t dried off yet. You accept her hand before getting up from your bed.

“Thanks,” you say, before heading to your bathroom to clean yourself up.

—

The damage to you wasn’t that much, but you figure that maybe a shower is needed. It’s 10 p.m. already. You soak yourself in the warm water from the shower head above, cleaning the filth on you.

Suddenly, the door opens. It’s Ruka, all naked in the glory, hands on her waist. Her toned, muscular body is on full display. Her small breasts are sitting on her chest beautifully, so tantalizing to your touch. And her abs, god, her abs, it looks so attractive on her body.

“Can I join?” she asks, chuckling. You’re accepting her request, either way.

“Come on in.”

She then walks towards you. There’s seduction in the way she does it—the swaying of her hips, the finger bite, the languid pace, the sensuality. She’s looking straight into your eyes doing so. Your cock hardens again at the image of her.

Ruka lets out a laugh as she reaches you, catching you in her embrace. She feels warm, contradicting the insults (which you happily accepted) thrown at you. Her smile feels sincere under the warm water. She looks–gorgeous.

“So,” Ruka says, caressing your face. “I want to talk to you about something.”

You raise your eyebrow, intrigued by her words. “Uh huh?”

“I want to talk–” she lets the last words flow along with the running water. She goes silent for a while, trying to think of her next words. You nervously wait in anticipation “–about us.”

You do a double take, perplexed by the way this topic comes up like this. “Oh.”

“Yeah,” she continues, averting your eye contact. Both of you swallow hard, as she’s too apprehensive to say the next words.

“Wh–What about us?”

“I–” and she pauses. You wait, and you wait, and you wait. She keeps avoiding your eyes, hands still on your burning face. “–I want–more.”

“Oh.”

You guess it immediately. The concept of you two dating hasn’t been very far-fetched since that fateful night, but you’ve never thought she’d be the one to–

“I’ve been thinking a lot about it, and–I feel like–” she pauses again, looking elsewhere, trying to find comfort in the shampoo and body wash bottles around you, but she can’t let this go on forever. She has to say it “–I’ve fallen for you.”

Your eyes widen, unable to comprehend the words that were just coming out of her lips. You’ve never seen Ruka like this, so–raw, so–vulnerable. It’s so strange.

Still, you may have been feeling the same way about her. You know the way she smiles (she always closes her mouth when she does, as if she’s trying to suppress it). You know how she eats (she usually eats the vegetables in the dishes first). You know her favorite show (it’s Ally McBeal). You know, you know, you know.

“A–Are you okay with that, with–us?”

You open your mouth, but no words are coming out. It’s a difficult decision to make. You’re tying yourself to her if you say yes, but also–

You want to see that smile every day. You want to hear that laugh. You want to hear her call you a bitch. You want to go out and eat Neapolitan spaghetti with her. You want, you want, you want, you want.

You swallow hard, carefully choosing your next words.

“I–”

She looks into your eyes expectantly. Her grip on your face grows tighter, but that can’t compare to the feeling building up inside your heart.

“I think I like you too, Ruka.”

And with that, she pulls you into a kiss, a fervent one. It’s one filled with unspoken desires. Tongues battling for dominance. Hands roaming over each other’s body frantically, afraid of losing each other. You grind your body on hers, trying to feel her as much as you can. The bathroom is filled with your moans and the sound of water, and you couldn't be happier.

“Mmmph, just like that,” she says, her hands traveling down to your ass, giving your cheeks firm squeezes. You jolt in response to her touch, as she giggles softly into the kiss.

She then pulls back from the sensual, fiery kiss to catch her breath. Both of you are panting under the flowing water, fulfilled. You see her smiling with joy, before she laughs, and you can’t help but to do that along with her.

“Bitch.”

—

#ruka #babymonster #ruka smut #babymonster smut #kpop fanfic #kpop smut

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sidneywasfound · 8 days ago

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WHY NOT BOTH...? | Lando Norris x Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader 🎁

Pairings: Oscar Piastri x Fem!Reader, Lando Norris x Fem!Reader,

Warnings; Lando being jelous because of Oscar and Reader,Reader being a brat,Smutt,Hair pulling/grabbing,threesome,Unprotected sex,Dirty talk,Oral (f recieving),Handjob,A scene inspired by the movie 'Challengers' hehe.

AUTHORS NOTE; MERRY CHRISTMAS GUYS, I know it's Christmas Eve,but I'm gonna give you the christmas present now ♡

English is not My first lenguage this may have some mistakes hehe

⋅°₊ • ୨୧ ‧₊° ⋅

You and Oscar don't have any kind of Shyness when it comes to Public displays of...love?...You used to get Comfortable in his lap while he was sitting on the couch,both watching tiktoks in his phone. All this kind of affection really Made Lando upset about the situation between You and him,At first you were flirting with him, and now you're sitting on Oscar's lap?. It is the last year christmas party that Max organized, everyone was chatting,eating something from the snacks,dancing...but lando was watching you both,laughing together,talking...He knew that Oscar did it secretly, but every time he laughed he hid his face in your neck to pretend he was trying to hide his laugh, but he is clever and Lando knew it,he just wanted to find a stupid excuse to feel your neck and Vanilla scent on his face and lips.

Later,People started to celebrate, dancing and doing parties stuff. Almost all the lights in the huge house were off except for some party lights. Lando lost sight of them, since Yuki had invited him to the karaoke that was in the other room. After a while he saw them,Sitting on the big couch, She was on Oscar's lap kissing him Passionately,With one hand resting on Oscar's cheek and the other grabbing the hair from the back of his head,pulling him wildly towards her while their tongues moved in each other's mouths, Oscar stared to move his hand towards your inner thigh making you lower your kisses to his neck and play with the hem of his sweatshirt. Lando was freezing,watching You and Oscar like some kind of fetish, Fascinated with the movements of your tongue, wishing to be the one who is kissing you aka Oscar Fucking Piastri.

Lando decided that this was enough teasing for the night,and when You went to the kitchen for a beverage he approached You ."Hey,are you busy?" Lando said leaning on the kitchen countertop,You looked at him in surprise as you poured yourself some coke."Are you that desperate...?" You said,and god he was dying,It was a pretty common thing of you,You were never with someone just to be with someone, You emanated superiority and power making yourself seem unreachable,and that made Oscar and Lando die to be with you,looking like two chihuahas humping to your leg for attention. "i'm not desperate." Lando said trying to be tough. "And why were you spying on me while i'm kissing Oscar? Or maybe you were spying on Oscar ? Don't worry, I'm not judging!" She said mockingly,a thing that also put the two of them in a shy and submissive mood. "Of course not!,but i'm done of being with him one day and me the next, is this a joke to You?" Lando said grabbing your arm and making eye contact with you ."maybe...If You guys stop being such bitches to me, we could make an arrangement between us..." Lando looked at you confused, "just...Okay Lando, I'll wait for you in the room upstairs... let's finish this quickly..." She went up the stairs and lando stood in the middle of the kitchen surprised.

Lando decided to wait a little before going upstairs,He had to mentally prepare himself to fuck her so good that she would have to stay with him for the next few days. He sat on the couch,beside Oscar and Charles. Oscar looked at him sideways in confusion and started using his phone. Instead Charles decided to talk to him "are You okay mate? You look kinda weird and nervous" Charles said with sympathy and his thick accent. " Yeah mate,just a tough night,isn't?" Lando says joking "Yeah,sure" Oscar says unexpectedly with pride without taking his eyes off the phone. Now Lando really wanted to hit him, "sure,Yuki beat us all at karaoke, it seems that he has a hidden talent!" Charles says innocently "You two should compete sometime,To see who is the Best and toughest of you haha!" Charles said naively,while Oscar and Lando look at each other smirking with pride in their imaginary competition.

Finally Lando decided it was time to enter the room,She was lying on the bed with her clothes disheveled,She was barefoot, a strap of her top fell revealing a part of her bra,Her skirt was a little raised, revealing her panties between her legs,Her hair was messy,Her breathing was Messy,making her chest rise with each breath, and making her tits press against her tight top. "Fuck,You are going to kill me..." Lando said feeling the bulge in his pants grow. He approached her kissing her desperately "Wait Lando...stop..." She said as he kissed her neck "what's...wrong?...?" He said in between Kisses,"We have to wait for Oscar...",She said making lando stop abruptly,moving away from your neck to look at you. "W-wha-?",he was interrumped by the sound of the Wooden door opening."My God, You gorgeous...teasing me all the night wha-..." Oscar came through the door, paralyzed with the view of your legs wide Open and Lando between them."What is Lando doing here?!" He said upset. She pulled Lando off her and sat on the edge of the bed. The two, Dazed, without asking quickly went to sit beside her, leaving her in the middle.

"it's just...i love You guys so much!..and...I can't resist having just one of You..." She said with a fake pout."Well,You have to decide...You can't keep teasing us like this..." Oscar said,putting a hand on your thigh. She remained silent,She raised her head looking at Oscar and approached his face,Their breaths touched, she caressed his cheek lightly,He put a hand on her waist. She brought her lips closer and made them touch Oscar's,With their mouths half open,Slowly and slightly she began to put the tip of her tongue in his mouth,making him grab the back of her head to kiss her Passionately,Her tongue played his tongue, while he devoured her lips making obscene noises. Lando was dumbfounded,Looking at Oscar with jealousy while she lightly touched his inner thigh. She slowly separated from him while he looked at her enamorated with his mouth half open, leaving a thread of saliva between their lips.

Lando was silent ,thinking that he had already lost his chance until she turned to him. She came closer and started kissing him desperately, in a completely different way than how she kissed Oscar. Lando brought her closer to him, putting his tongue in her mouth and kissing her lips that let out soft moans. She started to put a hand under his shirt but stopped and separated from him, staying back in the middle. The two looked at each other waiting for her to decide, but she remained silent without saying anything.She looked at them flirtatiously smiling,"Why not both?".She began to take off her top, revealing her bra that they were wanting to see so bad. Without hesitating any longer, the two coordinated at the same time to kiss her neck on both sides,She moaned and grabbed both of their heads, lifting her head to give them space.

She started kissing desperately Oscar while unbuckling Lando's pants. From one moment to the next, Oscar appear between your legs lifting your skirt to kiss the Slim fabric of your underwear. You let out a moan that echoed on Lando's lips making him harder,You put your hand in his pants to take out his member stroking it. Oscar pulled down your underwear to give a lick to your cunt. You moaned lightly after this, moving your hand faster making Lando whimper too. Oscar started to move his tongue between your folds,Licking your clit and sticking his tongue as deep as he could. Lando lowered his hand to your cunt to start rubbing your clit,Leaving Oscar with less things to lick. You moaned as you kissed Lando with your hand squeezing and moving up and down his length. "I-im ah..." Lando couldn't finish his sentence when he felt his orgasm coming, leaving only a very pornographic moan. Staining his abdomen and a little of your hand. You grabbed Oscar's hair and pulled it, moaning as you felt your orgasm coming "ah Oscar!..." Luckily you didn't finish so you pushed him towards you, leaving him on top of you, making his member touch your crotch.

"Come on Lando...if you position yourself correctly I can suck you off..." You said while kissing Oscar but Lando was defeated on the side of the bed "Calm down guys, I already fucked her yesterday...I'm exhausted" Oscar laughed and you blushed when you heard that. "H-hey!,I just wanted to include you know..." Lando looked at her "Well next time we do this I'll fuck you." Oscar lined up and slowly entered you, letting out a moan from both of you. "Wait...again?,You're okay with that?" Lando looked at you pretending to stop and think,While Oscar began to thrust into You making You moan, And cling to his back "As long as I can enjoy watching you get fucked this good then I don't care." Lando said watching as Oscar rammed into you wildly,You just rolled your eyes."looks like The little slut's game went wrong" Lando said mocking You."She was trying to make us jealous and now she's like the obedient whore",Oscar said thrusting you faster.

You felt the wave of pleasure pass over you and you moaned as you felt Oscar finish inside you.The three of You lay on the bed face up, both of them lying on her tits, The music of the party was loud but isolated."Do you think this relationship will work?" She said, Lando and Oscar looked at each other. "If we continue like this, I hope it lasts forever" Oscar said laughing,You and Lando smiled, you were about to talk when you heard a familiar voice outside the door.

"Yes and I hope You guys clean the room and the sheets after this!"no other one but Max Verstappen shouted at them from outside his room.

"shit" The three of them said seeing all the clothes thrown all over the room.

⋅°₊ • ୨୧ ‧₊° ⋅

Tags: @that-one-little-soybean

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natalievoncatte · 8 days ago

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Everything was in place. Lena dropped down into the passenger seat of Jess’s car. The trunk was loaded with presents and books and Lena was ready. Jess fired up the engine of her 2009 Honda Civic and off they went, navigating National City traffic.

Lena’s stomach was full of butterflies. She had her hood up and was dressed down in sweats, not looking at all her fashion place self. Jess parked by one of the service entrances and a security guard let them in with a curt nod. Lena had dropped him a four figure tip to cooperate.

The kids were gathered in a common area on the fifth floor pediatric intensive unit, ranging in age from three to fifteen. Lena fought the lump that formed in her throat as they gathered, some of the younger ones in the laps of the older.

Lena started with a reading of How the Grinch Stole Christmas, complete with sill voices and big smiles and a lot of effort on her part to keep tears from welling in her eyes.

Some of these kids were having their last Christmas, and some of them knew it. Some didn’t. Others would go home, and a lucky few would help change the world with their participation in clinical trials.

On some level Lena knew that Kara would show up eventually- she’d been dropping in regularly enough, once learning that Lena read to the kids.

Sure enough, she showed up as the kids were eating turkey and mashed potatoes and gravy prepared under the supervision of a Michelin star chef that Lena had hired at great expense to prepare their dinner.

Supergirl, all swagger and power, strode into the room. The response was curious. They knew her of course, and she’d been there enough times, even read to them, that there was a peculiar familiarity to her visits and only the new kids got truly excited.

They were more excited by Kara’s plus one. She’d brought with her the most perfect Santa Claus that Lena had ever seen. No fake beard here; every whisker was real, as was every crease and wrinkle. Even his costume was flawless, velvet coat and paints lined with genuine fur. He had a huge beach sack thrown over one shoulder and greeted the kids with a cheer, setting to work handing out gifts.

Kara came over and stood next to Lena.

“You’ve outdone yourself this time,” said Lena.

Across the room, Santa gave a hearty Ho! Ho! Ho!, and had taken up a seat to invite kids onto his lap.

“Believe it or not,” Kara said, “he owes me a favor.”

Lena snorted and Kara winked.

“‘sides, I live at the North Pole, too. Sort of.”

Lena watched the man with the children. He really was quite good, a consummate professional.

She looked over at Kara. There was a twinge of pink in her cheeks and snowflakes melting in her hair, and her new suit showed off her muscular arms. More than that, there was a look of a wistful joy in her eyes as she watched the kids enjoy themselves.

Lena’s heart would have grown three sizes that day, if it didn’t already feel like it might burst through her ribs every time she looked at Kara, really looked at Kara.

She’d long ago admitted her feelings to herself- it was getting them out that was the problem, even now.

Across the room, Santa Claus stood, startling Lena out of her reverie.

“I’m sorry kids, but I really must go. Lots more visits to make tonight!”

He stood and walked over to Kara. “I do have that one stop to make before I begin my rounds proper. Shall we?”

He even had the perfect Santa voice.

Kara turned to Lena and offered a hand.

That was how Lena ended up in something like the setup for a bad joke: Riding in an elevator with Santa Claus and Supergirl.

It was actually rather awkward. Kara opened the roof access door and motioned for Lena, and the Santa Claus impersonator followed her out. Kara went last, lingering by the door.

“May we speak in private?” Santa said.

“Sure,” said Lena, happy to play along. She pulled her hood up against the chill and walked a few dozen paces from Kara, and Santa turned to face her.

“I’m sorry I didn’t bring you that easy bake oven you wanted when you were six,” he began.

Lena’s face fell. Lillian had exploded at her when she asked on Santa’s lap, a much less convincing Santa, and asked for the silly cooking toy.

She’d screamed that menial tasks were beneath a Luthor and Lena was supposed to ask for the American Girl dolls that Lillian had already bought, and what an ungrateful, spoiled little bitch she was. It was the first time that Lillian had called her that and far from the last; she’d added many insults to it over the years, like stupid or lazy or, most painfully of all, fat; dropping that one had sent Lena into a spiral of crash dieting that almost turned into full blown bulimia by the time she graduated from high school.

She’d never told anyone about the easy bake oven. Not even Kara.

Before Lena could demand an explanation or even speak, Santa reached into his bag, withdrew something, and handed it to her.

Lena took the stuffed bear on instinct. When she did she knew it was more than a bear. As her hands touched the somewhat ratty fur and she saw the little tear in his left ear she knew, she knew.

When the Luthors took her in, Lillian destroyed everything of her old life- everything of her mother, as if to erase her from ever existing. It was spiteful, and hateful. Lillian couldn’t revenge herself on his husband’s mistress so she did it to her child.

She’d burned Lena’s stuffed animals. They were all gone, reduced to ash.

Except… except…

“Clive?” Lena whispered, hot tears burning down her cheeks. “This is impossible, how…”

He placed a gloved hand on her shoulder and Lena felt a wave of indescribable shock roll through her. Something just… opened.

Her mind filled with an image of perfect clarity, and a song fresh and bright in her ears. Her mother’s voice and the distant sound of the sea that would eventually take her. All her life Lena could barely remember her mother- she clawed at scraps, more able to feel her than truly remember her.

Not anymore. As she clutched the bear to her chest, memory flooded her mind like warmth from a hearth fire filling a cold room. She grinned like a fool and choked back sobs.

“How?” Lena chirped out.

“Kara asked me to bring you something very special, and I do owe her a favor. I really must get going, though.”

Then she heard it. Jingling bells.

Lena had seen a woman fly; said woman had saved her from splatting on the pavement too many times. She had never seen reindeer fly, pulling a sleigh behind them.

Wait.

No.

This was not possible.

Santa Claus threw his sack in the rear of the sleigh and climbed aboard. He threw Lena a wave.

“Merry Christmas, Lena Luthor.”

“Wait,” Lena called. “Did you bring Kara something?”

“What Kara Zor-El Danvers wants, I cannot give her,” he said, with a cryptic grin.

Lena stumbled back as the reindeer launched into a full gallop with a blast of air, the rider snapping his reins. It was only then that Lena noticed that the lead animal had a glowing red nose.

Kara stepped up behind her and put her hands on Len/ shoulders.

“Kara,” Lena said. “That was the real Santa Claus.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t understand. That was the real Santa Claus. He’s real. Santa Claus is real and he gave me my stuffed bear back.”

As Lena turned, Kara smiled. “I know, baby.”

Lena swiped at her cheeks.

“I-I don’t know how you did this, but thank you. Thank you so much. I don’t even know what to say.”

Kara stepped closer, into her space. Very gently, she brushed away one of Lena’s tears with the pad of her thumb.

“You don’t have to say anything.”

“He said he couldn’t get you what he wanted. I find that hard to believe.”

“He can’t just give it to me because it’s not his to give. He did give me this, though.”

Kara reached under her cape, drawing out a small twig with a pair of scalloped leaves and some red berries.

“Is that mistletoe?”

“Yeah,” said Kara.

She lifted it over her head and held it there, smiling at Lena.

It took a moment for her brain to catch up. Kara was holding the mistletoe over her head. She was under the mistletoe.

Lena faltered for just a moment, but then stepped forward, closing what little gap was left between them. Kara was every inch the dashing prince as she put her arm around Lena’s waist, spinning her a little as the other hand cupped her chin and tilted her head just so for Kara to place a gentle, loving, and utterly devastating closed-mouth kiss on Lena’s lips.

Suddenly Lena understood what it was that Kara wanted and for the second time in as many minutes her heart soared and Lena threw her arms around Kara’s neck and they swayed there like dancers amid the snow flurries until Kara flew them home.

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httpiastri · 1 year ago

Text

control freak – ln4

lando hates a lot of things. not being in control is definitely one of them.

genre: smut

pairing: female reader x lando norris

warnings: smut 🤭 i dont remember what it's called? but lando gets tied up. he likes to be in control, so i guess dom!lando is kinda insinuated. it's a bit dirtyyy but there are also some soft elements bcs who would i be to not include those :)

requested?: yes! thank you for requesting 🤍 (requests are still open!)

author's note: this was supposed to be just a blurb but something happened lol. also, very much inspired by this ask and the just him talking about how he needs to be in control in that video. this thought has been living in my mind rent-free since that moment. hope u all enjoyyyy<3<3 (if this doesn’t work this time. idk what to do. anyways.)

f1 masterlist

18+ content below, minors dni!

–

"there we go..." you say, leaning back slightly and letting go of lando's wrist. "you alright?"

"my hands, yes. my ego, however..."

earlier this year, you and lando had agreed to buy one of those adult christmas calendars, one with a new toy or tool for the bedroom every day. so far, you'd gotten a blindfold, a massaging oil, and even a smaller vibrator. and today's present? a pair of sleek, white silk ribbons.

lando had immediately pulled the little strings out of the box, measuring them around your wrists. but you had shook your head, snatching them out of his hands and telling him it was his turn.

he had just cocked an eyebrow at you, assuming you were kidding. but the grin you had worn, one that told him that you were fully serious, had made him chuckle, rolling his eyes. no way, he'd told you, giving you a pat on the head before he leaned down against his pillow again. he had assumed this would be a lost cause for you, because there was no way he was letting you expose him to one of the things he hates.

lando hates a lot of things. number one: he hates not being in control, and he hates it so much.

the fact that he needs to be in control is very well-known in your relationship, and it applies to most situations. he needs to be the one driving, even if you're just going on a short trip to the supermarket; he needs to know who's invited to a dinner party so he can plan ahead; and of course, he feels a need for power in the bedroom.

but you are nothing if not persistent. lando is the very definition of stubborn, sure, but you would not give up on this one.

your boyfriend always thought you must be some kind of witch, because your effect on him is paranormal. the way you bat your eyes at him, your soft touch on his cheek, and your sweet kisses lingering on his lips – they could get him to agree to almost anything. even this, apparently.

since today was a friday, you had gone out for dinner and some drinks tonight before hurrying back home to try out your new present. lando was still a bit hesitant, but your lips pressed against his and your hips brushing his crotch as you sat on his lap on your bed made him give up yet again.

and that's how you find yourselves here, him already stripped out of everything except his boxers, with the sleek white ropes connecting him to the headboard. you twirl the fabric by his right wrist around your finger one final time, smiling at the little bows you've made. "you look so pretty right now," you hum, leaning down a little and tracing a finger along his jaw. "kinda wanna take a picture."

"do it."

you shake your head, not wanting to bring out your phone and possibly ruin the moment. you smile at the firmness in his voice, pressing a quick peck to his lips. "next time."

lando's chest vibrates with his chuckle. "oh, you think there will be a next time?"

"i know there will, because i'm in charge here."

the retort he was planning gets caught in his throat as your lips meet the side of his neck. he sighs at the feeling of your kisses traveling down to his chest, tongue coming out to lick the skin occasionally. he instinctively tries to grab your hips with his hands, momentarily forgetting about his restraints and letting out an annoyed groan when he's held back. you giggle against him when you hear the ropes snap against the headboard.

"already?" you ask, hands dragging up and down his beautifully tanned skin as your kisses trail even further, meeting the skin of his hipbones, giving both sides equal attention.

you can see how he clenches his fists from the corner of your eyes, knuckles already turning a little white. "i hate this. i really hate this," he mumbles.

"but you like me, don't you?" you counter, sitting back on your heels between his legs and letting your hands find the waistband of his boxers. "let me have my fun."

"great to know one of us is having fun, i guess." you take your time pulling down his underwear, enjoying every second of watching his impatience. when he's finally fully naked, his cock springs up to his stomach, a little precum leaking from him already.

"lando," you start, your thumb rubbing around the tip before spreading the precum along him. "don't you trust me?" you lower yourself down to press a kiss to his tip. "do you really think i won't make sure you enjoy this, too?"

his answer comes in the form of a shaky exhale, his eyes fluttering shut when he feels your tongue lick up a stripe along the side of his dick.

"i thought so."

your lips wrap around him, pushing yourself down his length before moving back up again. you're excruciatingly slow, wet lips sliding along his skin and only taking a little of him as your tongue swirls around him just once.

number two: lando hates being teased.

it's something he avoids at all costs, which you learned early in your relationship. he'll give you a stern look and push your hand away when you reach for his thigh during a company dinner; he'll grab your hips to hold you still when you intentionally grind onto him as you sit in his lap; and when you text him revealing pictures when he's away doing something important, he'll turn off his phone rather than let it get to him. it all comes back to his hatred of not being in control – he wants to be the one to tease you, not the other way around. so when you get a chance to tease him and he can't do anything about it, you take it.

speeding up your actions is not something you even consider, and now that lando's hands aren't in your hair to usher you, you take your time. you do, however, push him further into you, letting him hit the back of your throat before pulling entirely off him. when you sink down on him again, he buckles his hips: his way of trying to retake control. your hands find his sides, holding him down as you slide off him, leaning back to look at him as a grin spreads across your lips. "impatient, are we?"

his eyes are scrunched up, head thrown back to show off his thick neck. his muscular chest is heaving for air, already, and his hands are still hanging sloppily from the ropes. you love to see him like this. so weak, so helpless. it's not often that you get to take in this sight, so you savor every second of it.

when he feels the bed rock, lando's eyes shoot open. he watches you climb up from the bed, standing right next to it as you slowly let the sleeves of your dress fall down your shoulders. he does not enjoy the moment as much as he wishes he would, because all he can think of is how much he wishes he was the one sliding the dress down your body; how much he wishes he was the one unclasping your bra; how much he wishes it was his hands dragging your soaked panties to the floor.

you move to straddle his lap, your hips hovering over his as you let his tip nudge your entrance. when you finally descend on him, he bottoms you out so perfectly. you press your hands to his chest, leaning your weight on him as you feel yourself getting stretched out.

if lando thought you were done with the teasing, he was very wrong. you rise from him painfully slowly, before going down just as slowly. when your hips meet his again, you stop for yet another moment, rolling down on him.

number three: lando hates not being able to control the pace.

he's used to driving cars at 300 km/h, for god's sake, so this slow motion-pace you're going at is not ideal for him. he doesn't always need to thrust in and out of you like you only have a minute left to live but regulating the pace is, according to him, one of the perks of being the boyfriend. but not today.

you find a rhythm, bouncing on him like you are in no hurry whatsoever. your lover's moans are muffled and he's seemingly doing his best to not let anything slip out. he doesn't want you to know how much he likes this, despite not being in control.

"don't hold back, baby," you say, thumbs stroking his skin encouragingly. "you're allowed to feel good even when i'm in charge."

and when he finally lets go, the sounds he makes are like music to your ears. his hearty groans send a shiver down your spine and you can't help but pick up the pace a little, needing to hear more. you want to pull every sound and twitch out of him, and if that means going faster, it's a change you're willing to make.

you feel the shudder passing through his body when you clench around him. you know he's close when his heels dig into the mattress and he thrusts into you, trying to make up for lost time. you're almost there, too, and the way you feel all of him pump into you turns your brain into mush.

your nails dig into his chest when you reach your climax, likely leaving indents in his skin. you continue riding him, helping him chase his high, your pulsating insides helping draw it out instantly. when you feel the spurts shooting into you, you collapse against him. he's twitching inside of you, his chest jumping with his breaths, and your fingers reach to brush along the side of his neck to help him come down from his high.

"okay, i'll admit," he starts, taking deep breaths between every word. "that was so fucking hot."

a giggle escapes past your lips, and you prop your chin up on his chest to look up at his face. "i knew it would be." you brush back his curls, freeing his glossy forehead. "thank you for trusting me."

his face is adorned by a soft smile, and it replicates on yours. "are you okay?" he asks, always so caring, and he lets out a breath when you nod.

number four, the most important one: lando hates being unable to hold you.

he hates not being in control of your well-being; he hates not being able to ensure you're okay. he hates not cupping your face in his palms, stroking your cheeks, pulling his fingers through your locks. so, it would be an understatement to say that he was ecstatic when you pulled yourself off him, sat down on his side and started working on undoing the ropes.

his skin shows off a burning red color, and it hasn't occurred to you yet how much he actually must've been itching to touch you. usually, when he ties you up, your skin gets a bit irritated too, sure. but it's not often this bad. "let me get you a lotion for your wrists," you say.

you're practically off the bed already when lando grabs your hand, dragging you onto him again. "later." he pulls your back to his chest and nuzzles his face into your hair, pressing a peck to your scalp. "just wanna hold you right now."

you shake your head at his antics, but take both of his hands into yours. you hold them up to your lips, giving him a few kisses around both of his wrists. "maybe that's better?"

"perfect." his voice is low, arms snaking around your waist to tug you closer. "i think they're completely fine now."

"let me at least get you something in the morning?"

"mmm. shush and sleep now."

and there it was, an order – back in control already. just like he should be.

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