#but other than that no disasters or fires!!!

[honorhearted]

“I never claimed innocence. But it’s no secret I’m a disaster. You, on the other hand, aren’t in quite as much disarray,” Rebekah fired back, breathy as she parted her legs. 

Ben smiled. "Hmm. Well, it's good to know I have you fooled," he murmured against her neck, already distracted as she started grinding her clit into his strokes.

Her right leg lifted and hooked around his waist, edging his hips into her inner thigh until she rocked into his swelling arousal, his body half-hard and aching.

"Fuck," he hissed, laughing despite his gritted teeth. Low-lashed and breathing hard, he sank two fingers inside her wetness just as she nudged her knee up against his cock. He jerked at the contact and shuddered. While driving his digits in and out of her clenching warmth, he withdrew enough to meet her heady gaze. Rebekah, too, appeared wholly upended, and the sight was enough to make his knees wobble.

“You initiated this time,” she reminded him, “so you tell me. Wouldn’t be any less obscene than what we were about to do to that pie.” 

Ben grinned. "Did I initiate, though?" he asked. "I told you I was turned on -- it was you who made damn sure I stayed that way...though I have no real complaints. Men love being the two H's: horny and hungry."

By way of answer, he carefully edged the pizza toward the far side of the counter, keeping it safe from any potential bumping or excitable movements. "We'll save it for later," he reassured. "If you're going to keep attacking me like this, I'll need to keep up my strength."

With soft laughter, Ben resumed kissing her neck, the dip along her collarbone, the curve of her shoulder, and all the while took care to ease down her shorts and panties. The thought of, Well, that's not very sanitary crossed his mind, but he silenced his typical caution and instead, hefted Rebekah upward so that she was perched on the edge of the island.

"There's no butter, so you're safe," he breathily promised, alluding to their earlier joke. Skimming his fingers beneath her camisole top, he stripped the fabric from her lithe frame and resumed kissing along her neck and chest, his hips writhing against her inner leg with impatience while he set to work on unfastening his trousers.

"I assume you don't want foreplay," he muttered against her neck, lightly sucking at the skin. "Not to show off or anything, but you already seem plenty warmed up."

Almost smug, Ben held up his soiled fingers as evidence, then slid them into his mouth with a brief skim of his tongue. The reminder of her taste, of the way she'd sighed and arched, and yanked at his hair just an hour prior made him throb, and impatient, he kicked his pants the rest of the way off and aligned her with his cock, grinding down into her wetness.

"Foreplay or no?" he asked again, tightening his hold on her waist.

He laughed sheepishly, and even that was enough to send a shiver down her spine, "Well, at least you think I'm hot...and I'm pretty sure you can't claim innocence in this on your end, either." 

Rebekah shrugged, still pleased with her newfound bout of confidence, “I never claimed innocence. But it’s no secret I’m a disaster. You, on the other hand, aren’t in quite as much disarray.” 

Then again, would either of them be doing this if they both weren’t a little bit unhinged?

Benjamin’s thumbs caressed just below her midriff, causing a tingling heat to bloom in her lower body as she leaned into him, already aching for more of his touch. 

"Didn't you literally just shower? If I make you sweat again, I don't want to hear any complaints..." 

“You’ve yet to shower, so maybe that will be our next experiment.” she answered with a saucy flicker in her eyes, “Especially if we’re about to make a mess of your kitchen.” 

Closing her eyes, Bekah allowed herself to enjoy his teasing, the lingering of his lips tickling her neck. She gasped softly when he slipped his fingers between her thighs, breathily sighing as he toyed with her clit. Slowly rocking into his palm, she wrapped her arms around him and lifted a leg to anchor against his hip. Her backside lightly collided with the counter behind her. 

"Are we really going to enact your kitchen sex fantasy?" he asked, "And on top of a pizza?"

“You initiated this time,” she reminded with a soft laugh, edging her other leg into his groin in hopes of prompting his desire for her, “So you tell me. Wouldn’t be any less obscene than what we were about to do to that pie.”  Take me again, she inwardly begged. I need to have you.

[lemotmo]

You and she and several others are correct. Everyone needs to take a breath and relax.

Q. So you just have zero expectations for the mid season finale?

A. No, I have what I would call realistic expectations for the mid season finale given where we are storyline wise. And where we are is at the very beginning of storylines. Especially for Eddie. The reality is we are only 8 episodes in, and 3 of those episodes were used for the opening disaster which means no real storyline movement. The storyline episodes we did receive were basically used to clean up either what Tim meant to do or regretted doing last season. Getting Bobby back as captain. Breaking up Buck and Tommy and getting Maya back to Hen and Karen. I also think episode 9 was clearly supposed to be the original mid season finale episode, which is why they filmed it before wrapping for the year. So episode 8 was supposed to be a kind of penultimate episode, meaning basically a set up episode. So it's probably not going to feel like a traditional finale episode. But lots of shows on ABC will now have that problem because ABC decided to wrap up for the year 2 weeks earlier than people were expecting. Most shows expected the Thanksgiving break and then to have one more episode before wrapping for the year so lots of their shows will likely have disjointed mid season finales. This is not going to be a strictly 911 problem. Another issue, which I completely understand and agree with, is there has been entirely too much Athena focus. She was basically 85 percent of the first 3 episodes and was more than half of last week's episode and that theme sounds like it's continuing with the mid season finale. So 5 out of 8 episodes have basically been Athena centric and that is too much too close together. Especially considering how much screentime she ate up at the end of last season as well. People are Athena'd out. Angela Bassett is a total badass so I understand them wanting to utilize her but it's too much and at this point it's irritating most people because it's coming at the expense of the entire fire fam and no one wants to sacrifice their screentime for cop Athena screentime. I do think people would be slightly less annoyed if we had a bit more focus on the 118 characters as opposed to so much Athena.

The other big problem is Brad. I genuinely don't want to see him again after this coming episode. Callum seems absolutely lovely and the initial use of him prior to Bobby returning to the 118 was fun to watch, but in typical Tim fashion, it's been dragged out too long and now it's just in the way. So that's even more screentime being used on someone the audience genuinely doesn't care about. But the moment people started loving and interacting with Callum it was inevitable that Tim would change course and drag his arc out longer. Between Athena and Brad there just hasn't been enough time to give to Eddie, Hen and Chimney. Buck has had decent focus, but again that's because they initially intended to break him and Tommy up last season so they had to spend time fixing that at the beginning of this season. This is where we are storyline wise. So people going into this episode pissed off that Eddie isn't going to say he's gay, which I don't think he'll say even when they get to the sexuality arc, makes no sense to me. We are at the very beginning of Eddie's storyline. A realistic expectation for his character in the mid season finale is deciding to go get Christopher or having a nice video chat with Christopher that indicates positive movement on that part of the story. That's it. That's where we are for Eddie right now. A realistic expectation for Buck is him deciding to go out and enjoy his new found freedom in his newly expanded pond. That's it. Anything else we might get from them in the mid season finale would just be a nice surprise. And we might get something but I'm not expecting anything from a Buddie standpoint. Their storyline is going to be in 8b and I think it will be early. And once it starts I expect it to move fairly consistently because I do still think episode 12, the 118th overall, is still the plan for their first kiss. The first part of this season did not go how anyone predicted so I understand the frustration but everything indicates Buddie is a when at this point not an if. They're going to tell the story on their timeline not ours.

Thank you Nonny. 😋

Yeah, I'm just going into this one not expecting anything big for episode 8. The only thing I'm desperately hoping for is some Eddie and Chris interaction. I really think that the Brad & Eddie conversation Callum talked about will be about Chris. Nothing else would make sense at this point in Eddie's story. I'm also still hoping that we'll see Eddie leave to Texas at the end of the episode to go get Chris.🤞

After 8x06 I am now completely sure that Buddie is coming. I said that before. For me that episode showed me all I needed to see in order to fully believe. But I admit that we all miscalculated the timeline Tim would go for. He is obviously using 8a to close all the storylines he began in season 7. 8b will be treated as its own mini-season.

The only storyline that will still be unsolved will be Eddie's and I think Ali is right to think that his story (and the eventual Buddie story) will come to the forefront in 8b.

That's about all I wanted to add here. 😋

IMPORTANT! Please don't repost this ask and/or a link that leads straight to my Tumblr account on Twitter or any other social media. Thank you!

Heads up! For anyone who is giving me the shifty eyes for reposting Ali's updates instead of reblogging. Read this.

Remember, no hate in comments, reblogs or inboxes. Let's keep it civil and respectful. Thank you.

If you are interested in more of Ali’s posts, you can find all of her posts so far under the tag: anonymous blog I love.

[regular-lord-reckoner]

My mom thought we were going to wait until tomorrow to get all the decorations out of the shed and set up the tree but while she and my dad were visiting my niece today I went ahead and did it all (with a little help from Steve of course). I am….so tired but also so happy it’s finally done!!

[coquelicoq]

i can't believe there's a multi-episode arc in the middle of kill me love me where the main characters just hide out in a bucolic village playing happy families. this is not gonna end well

[jtownraindancer]

History has shown that it is not whether a disaster will strike a town, but when. If it is not a mine fire, it is living in the shadow of Three Mile Island. Or in a community with a tainted water supply. Or the ghastly horror of Bhopal.

Slow Burn: A Photodocument of Centralia, Pennsylvania by Renée Jacobs, 1986.

[letmetellyouaboutmyfeels]

Having now watched Bridgerton after resisting for years, all I can say is, if Anthony was my sibling and pulled that season two mess after all the trouble he caused me in my love life in season one...

*hands Daphne a knife and gets the hell out of her way*

[hiddenbysuccubi]

Need that convention irl proposal from a Vaggie cosplayer to a Charlie cosplayer I just saw a video of but for myself. Idc which one I cosplay as. Am also willing to be Spidey and proposed to by someone I love cosplaying Deadpool.

[souredfigs]

I will never stop bitching about how they completely underutilised House Martell in the TV show , because Dorne and House Martell are two of the coolest things about ASOIAF , it's such a shame.

[acourtofquestions]

KINGDOM OF ASH (by SJM)

Chapter 48

THE FAMILY REUINION🥹😆😭🫶& MY SOULLL

But when they reached Princess Hasar's battle tent, when they had all gathered around a map of Anielle, they had only a few minutes of discussion before they were interrupted. By the person Chaol least expected to walk through the flaps.

A moment later, Chaol was glad he was sitting down.

Nesryn breathed, "Holy gods."

Chaol was inclined to agree as Aelin Galathynius, Rowan Whitethorn, and several others entered the tent.

They were mud-splattered, the Queen of Terrasen's braided hair far longer than Chaol had last seen. And her eyes ... Not the soft, yet fiery gaze. But something older. Wearier.

Chaol shot to his feet. "I thought you were in Terrasen," he blurted. All the reports had confirmed it. Yet here she stood, no army in sight.

Three Fae males-towering warriors as broad and muscled as Rowan—had entered, along with a delicate, dark-haired human woman.

But Aelin was only staring at him. Staring and staring at him.

No one spoke as tears began sliding down her face. Not at his being here, Chaol realized as he took up his cane and limped toward Aelin.

But at him. Standing. Walking.

The young queen let out a broken laugh of joy and flung her arms around his neck. Pain lanced down his spine at the impact, but Chaol held her right back, every question fading from his tongue.

Aelin was shaking as she pulled away. "I knew you would," she breathed, gazing down his body, to his feet, then up again. "I knew you'd do it."

"Not alone," he said thickly. Chaol swallowed, releasing Aelin to extend an arm behind him. To the woman he knew stood there, a hand over the locket at her neck.

Perhaps Aelin would not remember, perhaps their encounter years ago had meant nothing to her at all, but Chaol drew Yrene forward. "Aelin, allow me to introduce"

"Yrene Towers," the queen breathed as his wife stepped to his side.

The two women stared at each other.

Yrene's mouth quivered as she opened the silver locket and pulled out a piece of paper. Hands trembling, she extended it to the queen. Aelin's own hands shook as she accepted the scrap.

"Thank you," Yrene whispered.

Chaol supposed it was all that really needed to be said.

Aelin unfolded the paper, reading the note she'd written, seeing the lines from the hundreds of foldings and rereadings these past few years.

"I went to the Torre," Yrene said, her voice cracking. "I took the money you gave me, and went to the Torre. And I became the heir apparent to the Healer on High. And now I have come back, to do what I can. I taught every healer I could the lessons you showed me that night, about self-defense. I didn't waste it-not a coin you gave me, or a moment of the time, the life you bought me." Tears were rolling and rolling down Yrene's face. "I didn't waste any of it."

Aelin closed her eyes, smiling through her own tears, and when she opened them, she took Yrene's shaking hands. "Now it is my turn to thank you." But Aelin's gaze fell upon the wedding band on Yrene's finger, and when she glanced to Chaol, he grinned.

"No longer Yrene Towers," Chaol said softly, "but Yrene Westfall."

Aelin let out one of those choked, joyous laughs, and Rowan stepped up to her side.

Yrene's head tilted back to take in the warrior's full height, her eyes widening-not only at Rowan's size, but at the pointed ears, the slightly elongated canines and tattoo. Aelin said, "Then let me introduce you, Lady Westfall, to my own husband, Prince Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius."

For that was indeed a wedding band on the queen's finger, the emerald mud-splattered but bright. On Rowan's own hand, a gold-and-ruby ring gleamed.

"My mate," Aelin added, fluttering her lashes at the Fae male. Rowan rolled his eyes, yet couldn't entirely contain his smile as he inclined his head to Yrene.

Yrene bowed, but Aelin snorted. "None of that, please. It'll go right to his immortal head." Her grin softened as Yrene blushed, and Aelin held up the scrap of paper. "May I keep this?" She eyed Yrene's locket. "Or does it go in there?"

Yrene folded the queen's fingers around the paper. "It is yours, as it always was. A piece of your bravery that helped me find my own."

Aelin shook her head, as if to dismiss the claim.

But Yrene squeezed Aelin's closed hand. "It gave me courage, the words you wrote. Every mile I traveled, every long hour I studied and worked, it gave me courage. I thank you for that, too."

Aelin swallowed hard, and Chaol took that as excuse enough to sit again, his back giving a grateful tinge. He said to the queen, "There is another person responsible for this army being here." He gestured to Nesryn, the woman already smiling at the queen. "The rukhin you see, the army gathered, is as much because of Nesryn as it is because of me."

A spark lit Aelin's eyes, and both women met halfway in a tight embrace. "I want to hear the entire story," Aelin said. "Every word of it." Nesryn's subdued smile widened. "So you shall. But later." Aelin clapped her on the shoulder and turned to the two royals still by the desk. Tall and regal, but as mud-splattered as the queen.

Chaol blurted, "Dorian?"

Rowan answered, "Not with us." He glanced to the royals.

"They know everything," Nesryn said

"He's with Manon," Aelin said simply.

Chaol wasn't entirely sure whether to be relieved. "Hunting for something important."

The keys. Holy gods.

Aelin nodded. Later. He'd think on where Dorian might now be later. Aelin nodded again. The full story would come then too.

Nesryn said, "May I present Princess Hasar and Prince Sartaq."

Aelin bowed—low. "You have my eternal gratitude," Aelin said, and the voice that came out of her was indeed that of a queen. Any shock Sartaq and Hasar had shown upon the queen bowing so low was hidden as they bowed back, the portrait of courtly grace.

"My father," Sartaq said, "remained in the khaganate to oversee our lands, along with our siblings Duva and Arghun. But my brother Kashin sails with the rest of the army. He was not two weeks behind us when we left."

Aelin glanced to Chaol, and he nodded.

Something glittered in her eyes at the confirmation, but the queen jerked her chin at Hasar. "Did you get my letter?"

The letter that Aelin had sent months ago, begging for aid and promising only a better world in return. Hasar picked at her nails. "Perhaps. I get far too many letters from fellow princesses these days to possibly remember or answer all of them."

Aelin smirked, as if the two of them spoke a language no one else could understand, a special code between two equally arrogant and proud women. But she motioned to her companions, who stepped forward. "Allow me to introduce my friends. Lord Gavriel, of Doranelle." A nod toward the tawny-eyed and golden-haired warrior who bowed.

Tattoos covered his neck, his hands, but his every motion was graceful. "My uncle, of sorts," Aelin added with a smirk at Gavriel. At Chaol's narrowed brows, she explained, "He's Aedion's father."

"Well, that explains a few things," Nesryn muttered.

The hair, the broad-planed face ... yes, it was the same. But where Aedion was fire, Gavriel seemed to be stone. Indeed, his eyes were solemn as he said, "Aedion is my pride." Emotion rippled over Aelin's face, but she gestured to the dark-haired male. Not someone Chaol ever wanted to tangle with, he decided as he surveyed the granite-hewn features, the black eyes and unsmiling mouth.

"Lorcan Salvaterre, formerly of Doranelle, and now a blood-sworn member of my court." As if that weren't a shock enough, Aelin winked at the imposing male. Lorcan scowled. "We're still in the adjustment period," she loudly whispered, and Yrene chuckled.

Lorcan Salvaterre. Chaol hadn't met the male this spring in Rifthold, but he'd heard all about him. That he'd been Maeve's most trusted commander, her most loyal and fierce warrior.

That he'd wanted to kill Aelin, hated Aelin.

How this had come about, why she was not in Terrasen with her army ... "You, too, have a tale to tell," Chaol said.

"Indeed I do." Aelin's eyes guttered, and Rowan put a hand on her lower back. Bad— something terrible had occurred. Chaol scanned Aelin for any hint of it. He stopped when he noticed the smoothness of the skin at her neck. The lack of scars. The missing scars on her hands, her palms. "Later," Aelin said softly. She straightened her shoulders, and another golden-haired male came forward. Beautiful. That was the only way to describe him. "Fenrys ... You know, I don't actually know your family name."

Fenrys threw a roguish wink at the queen.

"Moonbeam."

"It is not," Aelin hissed, choking on a laugh.

Fenrys laid a hand on his heart. "I am blood-sworn to you. Would I lie?"

Another blood-sworn Fae male in her court.

Across the tent, Sartaq cursed in his own tongue. As if he'd heard of Lorcan, and Gavriel, and Fenrys.

Aelin gave Fenrys a vulgar gesture that set Hasar chuckling, and faced the royals. "They're barely housebroken. Hardly fit for your fine company." Even Sartaq smiled at that. But it was to the small, delicate woman that Aelin now gestured. "And the only civilized member of my court, Lady Elide Lochan of Perranth." Perranth. Chaol had combed through the family trees of Terrasen just this winter, had seen the lists of so many royal households crossed out, victim to the conquest ten years ago.

Elide's name had been among them.

Another Terrasen royal who had managed to evade Adarlan's butchers.

The pretty young woman took a limping step forward, and bobbed a curtsy to the royals. Her boots concealed any sign of the source of the injury, but Yrene's attention shot right to her leg. Her ankle. "It's an honor to meet all of you," Elide said, her voice low and steady. Her dark eyes swept over them, cunning and clear. Like she could see beneath their skin and bones, to the souls beneath.

Aelin wiped her hands. "Well, that's over and done with," she announced, and strode to the desk and map. "Shall we discuss where you all plan to march once we beat the living shit out of this army?"

[zephyrchama]

Water Wrinkles

Seven demon brothers sat solemnly in a circle around you. You did your best to ignore them. It wasn't often that you got to spend time at the human world villa, and you were intent on soaking up as much sun as you could before returning to the Devildom.

You reclined your beach chair back, crossing your arms under your still-wet hair. It was a gorgeous day. Perfect for being at the pool.

Leviathan let out a muffled sob. As the demon with the highest affinity for water, he blamed himself.

"Let us take you to a hospital," Satan insisted for the tenth time.

"They're going to laugh us out of the ER," you nonchalantly repeated.

Satan lowered his eyes and muttered, "I couldn't find any traces of a curse in the water... So how...?"

Asmodeus had his head in his hands, unresponsive. Sometimes his fingers curled around the ends of his hair. You briefly glanced over to make sure he didn't pull his hair out - that would be grounds for a real emergency.

"I can't bear to watch. Lucifer, do somethin'," Mammon whined. He was fidgeting all over the place and winced whenever he looked at your feet.

The oldest glared at you. You knew it was out of concern, but his fears were unfounded. Even Lucifer refused to listen to reason when he thought you were in danger.

"Actually, yeah. Lucifer, can you pass me a towel?" you asked. It was embarrassing having seven shirtless demons intensely staring at you. If they wouldn't let you go back in the water, maybe covering up would make you feel less self-conscious.

Lucifer didn't move. It was Beelzebub who plucked a spare towel off his younger twin and handed it to you with a shaking arm. He looked like a wet puppy, having been the one who first discovered your "condition" and swept you out of the pool.

Belphegor hadn't gone in the water that day. He only hogged the plush towels because of how comfortable they were and, following Beelzebub's lead, dumped them all onto your chair. Now he sat, wide awake. He was anxiously squeezing a loose chunk of concrete but at some point, without realizing, it got crushed to powder in his hand.

You had more than enough towels now.

"In half an hour you're going to forget this all even happened," you said to reassure the worry warts.

"In half an hour, you might be gone!" Mammon snapped back.

"You're going to be a wrinkled mess of skin and bones," Asmodeus weeped quietly.

Leviathan pressed his hands over his ears. Though, with nothing to cover his eyes he was forced to look at your wrinkled hands again. Based on the noises he was making, you'd think someone was torturing him.

"As I've said!" you reiterated. "All humans get wrinkly in water. Look, now that I'm drying off it's going back to normal."

Beelzebub grabbed your ankle, raising it for the brothers to observe at eye level. "I don't see a difference."

You didn't expect the sudden manhandling and slunk several inches down the lounge chair while the demons stared at your foot. Kicking and twisting your leg was futile. You modestly crossed your free leg.

"I think it's getting worse," Satan said.

"We need to take action," Lucifer decided.

Asmodeus was actively quivering now. Belphegor and Leviathan had crept behind you and started picking at your wrinkly fingers. You tried to swat them away to no avail.

"Give me 25 minutes! Literally! Probably even less, this will go away on its own! I just need to dry off."

"We need a solution now," Mammon asserted. The cogs in his brain were turning. "We need fire."

You tried to sit up, to jump up and stop Mammon before he burned the whole villa down in an attempt to dry you off, but Beelzebub had not let go and you stumbled. You grazed your knee on the concrete and winced.

A second round of panic overcame the demon brothers. Beelzebub let go, Lucifer picked you up, and Belphegor wrapped your knee with every available towel he could lay his hands on. Asmodeus and Leviathan were crying on each other's shoulders. Mammon came running back, oblivious to the second disaster that just occurred, with a flaming stick in his hand that Satan tried to keep at bay. If you got burnt on top of everything else, they'd probably go insane and destroy the human world.

In the midst of the chaos you caught a glimpse of your hand. It was practically dry. You couldn't even see the wrinkles anymore. You angrily wiggled in Lucifer's grasp as various hands fussed over you.

"Stay!!" you shouted over the clamor.

The brothers went tumbling to the ground, save for Lucifer who fought to stay rooted in place. You could finally hear yourself think again. There was primarily one thought on your mind.

"I just want to go swimming."

[bbkoolkatz]

you're pregnant... katsuki made sure to remind you every single time you leaned/bent over to pick something up, when you attempted to cook something for him before he gets back from work, or even if you tried to make the bed in the mornings... he fussed over the littlest things, refusing to let you exert yourself in any manner, other than the exercises he planned out for you...

then front door burst open, and katsuki stomped in, arms loaded with grocery bags, as he kicked off his boots. his gaze immediately moved from the smiled you greeted him with on your face, to the vacuum cleaner, still on in your hand.

"the hell d'ya think yer doin'?" he barked, dumping the bags onto the kitchen counter. before you could even open your mouth to respond, he was already striding across the room, snatching the vacuum from your hands like it was some sort of threat. "are ya' outta yer damn mind?"

you blinked at him, caught completely off guard by his sudden outburst. "i was just cleaning, katsuki... relax."

"relax?" his voice jumped an octave, disbelief dripping from his tone. he jabbed a finger toward your growing belly, to remind you yet again, as if you weren't walking around with all day. "y' shouldn't be messin' with this crap!"

crossing your arms, you fought to keep calm. "babe i'm pregnant, not incapable... the living room was a disaster, and i wanted to do something about it."

"i don't give a damn about the livin' room!" he fired back, his hands flying as he gestured. "what if you tripped? or hurt yourself? or—"

"or what? did something to pass time until you came home?" you cut in, narrowing your eyes. "i wasn't doing anything dangerous, katsuki. it's vacuuming, not weightlifting."

his jaw tightened, the muscles visibly straining as his teeth ground together. "doesn't matter. this ain't happenin' again."

you raised a brow, letting out a disbelieving scoff. "oh, really?" you grabbed a pillow from the couch and lobbed it at him, square in the chest, and he caught it, his expression a mix of shock and annoyance. "you're being ridiculous!"

"ridiculous?" he repeated, his tone dropping into that familiar low growl that always made your heart skip. tossing the pillow aside, he pointed firmly at the couch. "sit. down. now."

you held your ground, the heat of irritation flaring up again. "katsuki—"

"don't 'katsuki' me!" he snapped, his stance shifting as his hands found his hips, and he watched you up and down, with that stubborn glint in his eyes... "you either sit, or i make you."

"you wouldn't dare," you shot back, glaring at him.

"wanna test me?" he challenged, stepping closer, daring you to defy him.

the sheer intensity of his protectiveness was as frustrating as it was endearing. with an exaggerated sigh, you flopped onto the couch. "there. happy?"

"for now," he grumbled, shooting you a final warning glance before heading toward the coffee table to start tidying up the clutter.

leaning back against the cushions, you watched him work, your earlier irritation slowly fading away, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the tight set of his jaw—he wasn't just being overbearing. he was scared, though he'd never admit it.

"you're way more stressed about this whole pregnancy thing than i am." you teased, breaking the silence.

"yeah, well," he muttered without looking at you, stacking magazines with unnecessary force, "i can't do much else, so i'm makin' sure you don' screw anythin' up."

a soft chuckle escaped your lips, "your impossible," you teased, picking up a pillow to hold it against your belly.

"yeah, yeah," he replied, his tone softer now. he glanced your way briefly, the worry in his eyes undeniable. "i just don' want anythin' happenin' t' ya' or our kid."

your heart softened at his honesty. "i get it, kats."

"good." he said, returning to his self-appointed task. "now shut up 'n let me finish this. i'll do it better anyway."

you gasped dramatically, by the jab at your cleaning skills, and threw another pillow at him, landing it against the side of his face, the shocked glare that followed was sooo worth it. and he just watched as you held his brat in your belly, laughing at him.

mlist!

[littlechivalry]

Robin had gotten a lot of things from becoming platonic soulmates with Steve Harrington. Rides to school, hair care tips, unrelenting trauma, slightly bitchy dating advice that to her eternal chagrin actually worked, and entree into a weird little family that she couldn't imagine living without.

But also... Robin had to listen to sex talk.

It wasn't bad at first, she had actually gleaned a lot of advice from his stories that stood her in good stead with a few select girls. But then on the Family Video bathroom floor Steve had asked if Robin would be okay with him talking about sex with guys.

She said yes one time and now it was her life.

Steve had spent most of their shift moving tapes around the store, shuffling them into different genres based on what he thought they might be about. It was his standard 'I have something to talk about but I don't know if I can say it' behavior.

"Look," she said flatly. "I'm stopping this now. You have five minutes to sum up the problem and then I don't want to hear it anymore."

Steve put the last tape, a copy of St Elmo's Fire, into the Action-Disaster section before coming back to the counter, sharing his head. "I appreciate the thought Robbie but I don't think you're ready for this."

Robin gasped, ready to take full and dramatic umbrage when a Tasmanian Devil made of leather jacket and cheap sterling silver jewelry banged into the store.

"Babe, did you ask her," Eddie asked, grinning madly.

"Not yet," Steve whined and before Robin could gather her thought she felt two sets of eyes settle on her, one steady and concerned and the other sparkling with glee.

Robin stepped back from the counter and held her hands out in front of her. "I don't know what's going on here but no, I will not carry a baby for you two. Get Steve knocked up the old fashioned way if you want kids."

Steve brightened for a moment before pouting, "You wouldn't want to bring a little Buckley-Harrington-Munson into the world? Wow, Robs."

Eddie lunged forward, pushing past Steve to plant his hands on the counter. "We'll come back to that Buckley, but we have a different issue. We need you to be a completely impartial party."

"We really don't," Steve said. "This is not a big deal."

"I disagree," Eddie said. "I happen to think this is a very big deal."

"Well, and--," Steve said. "Isn't 'big' the problem?"

"It's not a problem for me," Eddie said, leering at Steve.

Robin stepped forward and waved her hands between the two guys, interrupting their creepy eye contact. "Okay, fine, tell me what's going on but make it snappy."

Steve hummed but didn't say anything. Eddie grinned and looked from Robin to his boyfriend and back again. He opened his mouth but before he could say anything Steve's hand was pressed half over his face.

"Eddie wants me to try sitting on his face but I'm afraid I'll, like, suffocate him to death." Steve grimaced and pulled his hand away from Eddie before rubbing it roughly on his jeans. "Gross, Eds."

Robin shook her head while they started squabbling. Steve was her best friend and Eddie was a close second. Part of being a best friend was apparently arbitrating their weird sex arguments.

The squabbling had evolved into a slap fight so Robin took the opportunity to examine them. They were the same height but Steve probably had a few pounds on Eddie. Then again Robin knew Eddie was stronger than he looked. Given the way Eddie hadn't stooped smiling since he walked in he definitely didn't seem intimidated by the idea.

Okay.

"Okay," Robin said sharply. "Knock it off. I decided."

The two boys stopped, Steve's arm locked around Eddie's neck while it looked like Eddie was trying to either give Steve a wedgie or just straight up shove his arm down Steve's acid-washed jeans.

It took a few moments for them to separate and put themselves back to rights before they were finally standing in front of her waiting for a verdict.

Robin looked from Steve to Eddie, then back again. She nodded towards Eddie before winking at her best friend. "If he dies, he dies."

"Thank you, Buckley," Eddie crowed, before turning on his heel and heading for the door.

"Where are you going," Steve called out.

Eddie turned back. "I gotta do some stretches, baby," Eddie said, rolling his neck. "I have plans." Eddie blew Steve a kiss before rubbing his hands together and walking out the door.

Robin looked at Steve, his hand still clenched in front of him where he had 'caught' the kiss, a bright red flush on his cheeks.

"I'm gonna marry that man," Steve murmured.

[clockwayswrites]

5 Times the JL Learned Batman was Married and the 1 Time They Met the Spouse.

One. Two. Three.

“I am sure that it is clear to everyone that the mission was almost a complete disaster.”

“Almost?” Superman asked with a smidgen of a smile.

Hal thought it was brave and very, very stupid of Superman to ask that while Batman was glaring at all of them like he’d squish them if they were just small enough for him to step. And if it wouldn't get his boots too dirty.

Batman’s glare narrowed to focus on Superman alone. “We’re alive. Barely.”

“Batman—”

“No,” Batman shut down Supes’ argument with a barked word. “No. While you might be unconcerned, not all of us are indestructible, Superman.”

That finally made Superman lose any amusement that he had and he look away from Batman, properly cowled. Hal felt a little sorry for the guy, but also Supes deserved that. Not all of them were naturally bullet proof and Batman didn’t even have any powers (it seemed).

“Everyone write up a report: what went wrong, what little went right, and what we should do differently. We will discuss it next week. Expect there to be more training sessions scheduled soon,” Batman ordered.

And then he turned and left with an overly dramatic flare of his cape.

“What?” Hal asked.

“He’s just… leaving?” Superman asked. He sounded a little lost.

Batman didn’t just leave when there was work to be done.

Diana rested a hand on big blue’s shoulder. “I believe you rather overstepped, my friend.”

Oh he was more hurt than any of them knew.

Hal jogged after the retreating form. “Hey, hey Spooky, wait a sec!”

Batman’s shadowed form almost hunched forward on itself as he stopped but didn’t turn around.

“What?”

“Just…” Some of Hal’s bravado left him now that he was actually having to ask; luckily Hal had bravado in spades. “I wanted to make sure you were too badly hurt. You took some hard hits out there and like you said, not all of us are bullet proof.”

Hal wasn’t sure if Batman would answer. More, Hal wasn’t sure if Batman would answer him of all people. They had found more of an understanding with each other lately: Hal let Batman do the planning and Batman trusted Hal (a little) to break the plan in the field, but they still clashed a lot.

Then Batman let out a weary sounding huff of air. “There is nothing major. Everything will heal, though I could use plenty of ice and a good whiskey.”

Hal let himself chuckle at that. “Man, I feel that. A good whiskey, or lots of bad beer, sounds good. I just wanted to make sure. You’re rushing out of here like there’s a fire on your ass. Would hate for you to be bleeding out or something.”

Another long pause that Hal tried not to fidget through.

“It’s late. I would like to get home to enjoy my anniversary while there is still any of it left.”

“Your— oh, shit, yeah man, get out of here!” Hal said, waving Batman away.

What the hell, Hal wondered as he watched Batman sweep away for a second time, Spooky was married?

[wife-of-all-dilfs]

bad idea, right? | f. odair

masterlist

summary: after receiving a late-night call from your ex-boyfriend, finnick odair, you can’t help but agree to meet with him. what happens when you mix a sound-proof train car and an ex you haven’t seen in months?

pairing: finnick odair x reader

warnings: rough-ish smut, a teensy bit of angry sex, swearing, unprotected sex (zon’t zo that), kinda ooc finnick, choking,

notes: based on 'bad idea, right?' by olivia rodrigo. i lost the person who sent the request so sorry this took so long to come out!! i don’t know if i like how this is written, but smut is smut so… enjoy :)

word count: 4.6k

Neon beams of light pulsed in time with the heavy bass blasting throughout your unnecessarily large home in the Victor’s Village. District Two. Masonry. Big houses.

Two shots of tequila and some other very unnatural concoctions were soaking deep into your brain. Everything was swaying—the room, the people, even you. Your small group of friends danced by your side, keeping together to avoid the creeps that might have entered your home. Although, to you, entertaining a stranger that night did not sound like such a terrible idea.

You felt lonely. Undeniably and pathetically lonely. The alcohol only enhanced your emotions and libido, leading you to search the room for anyone who interested you enough to take them upstairs. But there was no one, because in reality there was only one person you really wanted, and he was no longer yours. He hadn’t been for months.

Replacements had come and gone, but they never stuck. None of them made you feel the way he did.

���Excuse me!” an exasperated voice yelled. “Would you please get out of my way?!”

To your right, your housekeeper, bless her poor deafened soul, was pushing through a crowd of intoxicated partygoers and heading straight for you.

“Claudia!” you shouted over the music, tugging down your short black slip dress out of respect for her modesty.

The elderly woman stopped in front of you, her disapproval of the vibrant scene clear as day. You always paid her double in exchange for putting up with the chaos whenever you threw a house party, which was almost every weekend.

She hovered close to your ear. “There is someone on the phone for you!”

“Did you get a name?!”

After she shook her head, you escorted her through the thick crowd of dancers, into a quieter room and thanked her before beelining for the landline.

With a heavy sigh, you brought the corded phone to your ear and said, “Whoever this is, you better make it quick. I’m not nearly as intoxicated as I need to be and in dire need of another shot.”

Over the scratchy static, you could hear a quiet chuckle—a sound you had spent months trying to forget, along with the person attached to it. How many drinks did you have again? The alcohol must have messed with your mind because this could not be real.

“Hello to you too, sweetheart,” the caller said, his voice low and amused.

Everything you had longed to forget came rushing to the surface at an overwhelming pace. Wisps of hair the colour of a dying fire. Eyes resembling the sea. Arms that once acted as a life jacket. A dangerous mouth that had explored every inch of your body.

No. It couldn’t be—

“Finnick.”

********

Stupid. This was so fucking stupid. You were attempting to sneak out of your own party. A good old Irish Goodbye in your own house. With luck, you would make it out the front door without being caught by your friends, or worse, Claudia. Now that would be scary.

Water flushed through your system, a weak attempt you made at sobering yourself up because meeting up with your ex while drunk was a recipe for disaster. Then again, so was meeting up with your ex in the first place. Nothing will happen, you thought to yourself, we are just going to talk.

A thought even more unbelievable than thinking you would be able to be able to escape the watchful eyes of your friends.

Your high-heeled foot had just crossed the front door when someone called your name. “Damn,” you muttered, turning back around.

Valeria, your closest yet heavily intoxicated friend strutted over to you, her feet wobbling every few steps. “You sneaky little minx,” she slurred. “Someone said they saw you on the phone. It was him, wasn’t it? He asked you to go see him.”

“Just as friends. No, not even. As acquaintances.”

“Oh, my sweet, sweet silly friend.” She grabbed you by the shoulders. “We both know you aren’t that foolish.”

You looked away because you knew damn well that she was right.

“Look, I get it,” she continued. “Your hot, he’s hot.” You smiled. “You both have a history. I just want to make sure you know all the outcomes of what you're about to do. I’ll be here for you if things do get messy but expect a well-versed speech of me saying ‘I told you so’ afterwards.”

“I’ll hold you to that, Val,” you laughed, prying her hands off your shoulders. “I really do appreciate your concern, but I promise all we’re going to do is talk.”

“Alright, but if things go south, call me. Immediately!” she called a little too loudly as you took subtle steps away from the front door and onto the street. “Have fun with your innocent little ‘talk’!”

“Thanks, mum!”

You waved goodbye as you walked down the street, body buzzing with exhilaration and apprehension. Finnick had told you his train stopped in the district’s station for the night. He and his new victor were travelling throughout Panem for the Victory Tour and were currently in District Two. You didn’t know much about his tribute, only that they were a she. The thought of Finnick spending all his time with another girl had that green-eyed monster inside you writhing.

Enough to make you agree to meet with him after midnight while moderately drunk and slightly horny. What a fantastic plan.

District Two’s train station was a short distance from the Victor’s Village, but it was long enough to cause you to remove your heels. You finally reached the train, barefoot and with the wind softly blowing your hair. Finnick had specified a particular door to knock on so as not to alert the peacekeepers residing within the train. So, you knocked. And then you waited.

Your heart was pounding; your hands were trembling. Not long after, a dark figure appeared behind the door’s tinted window. With a click, the door opened and revealed a shirtless smirking Finnick Odair.

Oh, fuck me.

He was even more gorgeous than the last time you saw him. His crossed arms bulged with thick muscles as he leaned against the doorframe, gaze shamelessly roaming over your scarcely dressed appearance before settling on your face. The amusement in his expression was ever-present and ever-growing.

“Finnick,” you greeted.

“Y/N.”

He extended his hand, inviting you inside the train and hesitantly, you accepted. Sparks of electricity travelled up your arm, starting from where his and your hand connected. Some things never changed.

Empty silence welcomed your presence as you entered the train car. Patterned silver vases of white roses were placed atop every available surface. Meticulously crafted chandeliers lit up the room with a golden haze. To your left was an arrangement of black leather couches surrounding a small silver table; further down the car was a rectangular mahogany dining table decorated with fruit and unlit candles.

Somehow a single train car was more luxurious than your entire house.

“Is every one asleep?” you asked, running your fingertips along the pure gold that lined the couches.

“Yeah,” he said, eyes following your movements. “Every room on this train is sound-proof, so...”

You nodded, unsure of how else to reply. Conversations usually ran smoothly between you and Finnick. They were effortless. But that was when you were together. Four months must have passed now since you last spoke.

“Are you and what’s-his-name still together?” he asked.

“No,” you said bluntly. “I broke up with him last month.”

“My sincerest condolences.” His sympathetic tone was as transparent as glass. Sarcasm always was his favourite pastime. “Guess he just couldn’t satisfy your needs.”

Turning around to face him, you leaned against the couch’s arm, jaw clenched and eyes glowering with agitation. “Is there any specific reason why you called me here?”

He raised a glass of rich amber liquid to his lips. “Can’t two old friends just reconnect?”

“Old friends,” you scoffed. “That’s what you call it. From what I remember, the last time we saw each other, we were having goodbye sex in your bed. And in the kitchen and the lounge and on the balcony.”

Something sincere overshadowed his teasing nature, revealing itself in the tension in his facial muscles and the glassy haze that clouded his eyes. Reminiscence. “It didn’t have to be goodbye,” he spoke softly whilst holding your gaze.

You blinked. There was a short pause and only the quiet hum of the lights sounded in the room. You were the one to end the relationship, not the other way around much to your friends’ disbelief. Over and over, you had been asked the same question: why on earth would you break up with Finnick Odair?

Well, behind closed doors, he was incredible. He was loving, affectionate, and thoughtful. He would collect seashells for you that he found on the beach whenever he went fishing, leave hand-written poetry and heartfelt love letters whenever he left for the Capitol, and mother of fucking Christ was the sex just downright extraordinary.

But as previously stated, it was all behind closed doors.

Finnick never wanted to be seen together in public and on the off chance you were, he would practically neglect your existence. Only your most trusted friends and Finnick’s family knew about your relationship. No one else. Eventually, the secretiveness created a deep void inside you that not even the sweetest love letters and seashells could fill. You couldn’t remain with someone who seemed ashamed to be with you in public.

So, with a heavy heart, you said goodbye.

In fear of becoming too emotional, you disregarded his weighted words and crossed your arms. “So,” you began, “how’s the Tour been so far? You must be pretty ecstatic one of your tributes actually won.”

He bounced back fairly quickly. “I suppose it’s always nice to watch someone you trained live for a change,” he said, placing his drink on a nearby table. “Plus, she’s got a lot of charisma. A natural with the speeches and interviews, so I don’t need to do too much coaching.”

And there it was again—that green-eyed monster. “Charisma, huh?” You just couldn’t help yourself. “Is she pretty too?”

Finnick tilted his head, visibly surprised by your blatant jealousy. “She just turned sixteen,” he stated with a small smirk tugging at his lips. Well, no one told you that bit of information. Awkward. “Careful, Y/N. You sounded a little jealous there.”

You pushed off the chair, heading back toward the door you entered through. Maybe this was a bad idea. “Alright, I’m leaving now.”

Just as you turned the handle, a set of rushed footsteps thudded behind you. The door opened a mere crack, sending in a cold draft that caused your body to shudder.

“Wait, just—” A swift hand came over your shoulder and pushed the door shut, eliciting a startled gasp from your lips. You could feel Finnick towering over you, the warmth of his skin spreading onto your cold back and his breaths fanning down against the bareness of your shoulder. He was so close. “I just needed to see you before I leave tomorrow morning.”

Slowly, you turned around, coming face-to-face with the man you shouldn’t have loved. His burning gaze was a stark contrast to the icy metal door your back was pressed against. Tension pulsated in the small space between you and him. The intense attraction that had first brought you two together came rushing forth; trying to fight such a magnetic force was impossible. You needed connection—touch.

This night would not end with just a simple innocent chat, you knew that now.

You swallowed hard, your heart racing. “You needed to see me?” you asked. “Finnick, if you want me to stay, don’t beat around the bush. Tell me what you really want.”

Silence. He continued staring at you and you could see a scheme forming behind his mesmerising green eyes. Then the scheme was unfolding. He leaned down to your level, to your lips, his half-lidded eyes never leaving your mouth as he just barely allowed his lips to brush yours. On instinct, you tilted your head upwards.

“I want you,” he whispered.

You didn’t waste a second to respond. “Then take me.”

He was quicker than a bullet train. Finnick’s lips caught your own and were burning with fiery desire, evident in his haste to wrap you up in his arms and practically merge your body with his. Flames licked just beneath your skin, setting your nerves alight with passion and lust. You burned together in an inferno fuelled by each other’s touch.

Logically, this was wrong. Finnick was your ex-boyfriend and for good reason. But as your hands clung to every inch of him that they possibly could, as his tongue and yours danced fluidly with one another, and as your body buzzed with pure adrenaline, you were willing to abandon all your morals in exchange for five more minutes in his embrace.

A moan travelled from your mouth to his own as you felt him bite your lower lip. You could already feel that familiar throbbing sensation between your thighs and the wetness that exposed how much you craved him. You knew he felt the same. His sweatpants left little to the imagination.

Your hand slipped between your connected bodies, travelling down Finnick’s firm stomach, gliding over his small trail of hair and finally into his pants. Your fingers curled around his cock which already leaked with precum. He was just as desperate as you.

“Fuck,” he groaned, the sound sending tingles down your spine.

You left his lips to press a wet kiss to his neck. “I wonder how many times you pretended your hand was my own,” you purred, leaving another kiss on his clavicle. “How many times you tried to recreate the warmth you only feel when you're inside me.”

His mouth hung open, letting out quiet uneven breaths as you stroked his length, your pace so quick that he already felt an overwhelming urge to release into your soft unrelenting hand. The sound of your voice, so sexy and lustful, combined with your swift pressured movements had his stomach tensing and contracting with a devastating build-up of pleasure.

“Too many times,” he admitted in a strained voice.

You sucked on the warm pulsing skin of his neck, this time receiving a groan that buzzed on your lips. His hands grabbed at your hips for support, roughly kneading the softness and satin in his large palms.

“This dress—fuck!” his voice broke as another hand slipped into his pants, cupping his balls as the other twisted with each stroke of his cock. “Sweetheart,” he chuckled breathlessly. “You look like a fucking siren.”

Your soft lips pecked at his toned chest before pulling away and looking up at him through your lashes. Euphoric delirium was prominent in his eyes. “You should’ve seen everyone staring at my party,” you said. “I wish you saw how badly the men wanted to fuck me right there on the dancefloor; how they undressed me with their eyes. Maybe then you would understand the mistake you made by never showing me off.”

Aggravation blazed in his aroused eyes which only made you so much hornier. Before you could pump another stroke, Finnick had ripped your hands from his pants and spun you around, pinning your body against the wall with his own, his hard cock pushing against the plush of your ass.

“I do understand,” he growled into your ear.

He abruptly started sucking hard kisses onto the side of your neck which had you gasping for air and tilting your head to allow him further access. One of his hands cupped your breast, massaging it with rough fingers and pinching your peaked nipples between his fingertips. His other hand travelled around your hip, wandering beneath your revealing dress and slipping into your lace panties.

You cried out when two fingers plunged into your soaking hole without warning.

“Know what I wish?” he asked, fingers curling in and out of you at such a rapid pace that the wet noises could be heard throughout the entire room. Blissful tears threatened to spill down your face. “I wish those guys could see how you looked right now with my fingers fucking you.” The hand on your breast moved to your throat, applying enough pressure on your carotid to make your head pound with dizziness. “I wish they knew you only enjoy being fucked by me.”

Your walls squeezed around his fingers, pulling him even further inside. Your untouched breasts were squashed against the train door and the fabric of your dress rubbed against your sensitive nipples. Finnick’s cock twitched against you and his hand was constricting the blood flow to your head. Yeah. Nobody else could make you feel better than this.

Finnick plunged his fingers inside again with a hard thrust which forced a broken moan from your lips. “Isn’t that right?”

The heel of his palm dug into your clit and your entire body was overcome with pins and needles; your knees buckled and hit the metal door. That would definitely bruise. You hoped it would—you wanted a reminder of this night.

“Yes!” you gasped. “Finnick, only you. Only you.”

“That’s right.”

Your moans started to rise in pitch, signalling the orgasm which was rapidly closing in. But right before you could come, Finnick’s fingers slipped out of you and out of your now-drenched panties. Your orgasm began to fade due to the lack of friction until it disappeared completely, leaving you feeling frustrated and neglected.

Turning back around with a flushed face, you witnessed Finnick sucking your juices off his fingers with a pop. His grin was conniving, self-satisfied with his actions which proved how desperately you wanted him to fuck you. That smug bastard. You would give anything to wipe the amusement off his beautiful fucking face.

And, well, you did.

“Fuck you!” you exclaimed, shoving him backwards.

“Fuck me?” He raised an eyebrow, smirk twitching at his lips. “I already know you want to.”

With a frustrated cry, you shoved him again, but this time he caught you in his arms and fervidly crushed his lips to yours. You squirmed and writhed and resisted but eventually melted into his embrace when you remembered you wanted this. You wanted this so badly.

Your arms wrapped around his neck as both your bodies continuously curved into one another, neither of you being able to remain still for more than a few seconds. The taste of brandy and you were on Finnick’s tongue as it swirled around your mouth; the flavours, which were polar opposites, sweet and savoury, mixed together to create something utterly carnal.

With the knowledge that this was probably a one-time thing, your kisses became bruising and frantic. Finnick alternated between kissing your lips, your neck, your jaw, and any place he could possibly reach. You hung onto every sound he made, every hot breath he took.

The two of you stumbled around the train car, lips never leaving one another, hands grabbing at every inch of flesh they could reach. You bumped into walls and multiple glass ornaments and laughed together when Finnick just barely caught one before it shattered on the floor.

Eventually, you ended up down the opposite end of the train car. Your back hit something hard and you gasped in surprise. The dining table. Finnick gave a quick glance at the table before pressing another kiss to your lips, this time a little more tenderly.

“Turn around,” he said, and you did.

You immediately felt him press himself against your behind. You stared ahead, chest heaving and swollen lips tingling, waiting for any more commands. His hand walked around your thigh, over the mound of your pussy, and then grazed up your stomach. He left a trail of warm tingles between your breasts before continuing upward to move your hair from your shoulder where he placed another warm gentle kiss.

Finally, he splayed his hand flat between your shoulder blades and pushed, bending you over the table until your torso lay flat on the cold wooden surface. Finnick hiked your dress up to your hips and crouched down, caressing your outer thighs before sliding your panties down to your ankles.

The air hit your bare skin and you exhaled a shaky breath as you anticipated his next movements. As he rose to his feet, he trailed kisses up your leg, ending with a soft bite to your ass which earned him a small giggle.

You could hear him tug down his sweatpants which hit the floor with a muffled thud. Your breaths continued to shake with nerves, coming out in soft pants. Finnick held onto your hip with one hand and held himself in the other. No words were spoken. Both of you wanted this—needed this.

Next thing you knew, your panting breaths had stopped altogether. Finnick’s cock had slid between your folds, filling you up in one single movement, and you both released a relieved moan in sync. Your hands pressed against the tabletop as your body began to rock with his thrusts. You weren’t going to make love or whisper sweet nothings into each other’s ears. No. This was pure unadulterated fucking.

Finnick started off fast; neither of you had the patience for a slow build-up. You didn’t even bother caring about the fact that he wasn’t wearing a condom. His hand had lowered to your mid back and the other gripped your hip as your warmth swallowed him over and over.

“Oh god,” you gasped.

The sensations that overtook your body were eagerly welcomed. You had tried to replicate the sex Finnick gave with other men after your relationship ended, but none seemed to compare even the slightest. You weren’t sure how a single human being could provide the sensations of nirvana, how one could master the skills of bringing another person to such an incredible high, but Finnick could. He always could.

It was only at this point that you realised how badly your body had been in withdrawal from his touch. The feeling of him inside you was like a drug. Addicting. Definitely not healthy.

You had tried fingering yourself to replicate his cock, but it was a pathetic attempt. Finnick could hit a deep spot inside you that no one else could like it was some secret forbidden location that only he held the key to. He made your body feel full. Stuffed. Complete. In a way that made you feel like you were going to burst into an explosion of white heavenly light.

Your nails scratched at the wood as he continued to pound into you, cock gliding against the ripples of your inner walls. There wasn’t a single inch of space left inside you. He fit like your pussy was where he belonged.

“Always feel so fucking good,” he muttered between thrusts.

His pleasure was always vocal, voiced with heavy breaths, grunts, and groans. Sometimes he even whimpered, especially when you edged him. He didn’t mind you being more dominant at times, but right now was not one of those moments. Being bent over and fucked into a table was not in any way, shape, or form you being dominant. This was Finnick being in control and it felt incredible.

“Finnick,” you said. “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop!”

In response he grabbed your other hip and pulled you back into him, burying himself even deeper inside you with each thrust which had you crying out his name again. He hunched over your body, hips still pounding behind you, and sucked harsh kisses on your shoulder. He left behind red and deep purple marks on your shoulder, moving to your neck, and then grazed your earlobe with his teeth.

He returned a hand to your throat, forcing the both of you into a standing position. His fingers squeezed, reducing the blood flow into your brain which enhanced the explosion building up inside you.

“Harder!” you cried.

Both his cock and his hand increased their vigour. Stars were sparkling in your vision. You were almost completely sober now, yet you felt entirely drunk. Drunk on Finnick. He reached his free hand between your legs and your body fell back into his, only remaining upright from his support.

His fingers rubbed side-to-side on your clit, so hard and fast that his hand almost blurred in motion. Your moans rose an octave as your stomach began to tighten. A fire burned within your muscles, so pleasurably excruciating that you thought they would liquefy inside you. Your pussy clenched around Finnick’s cock, walls fluttering with each of his pounding thrusts.

“Come, sweetheart,” he purred into your ear. You could hear how much he struggled to contain his moans as he talked. “Come on, I know you're close. I can feel you.”

You nodded mindlessly and curled your arm backwards around his neck, in need of something to cling to. As the feeling inside your stomach intensified, your eyes squeezed shut and your hold around his neck tightened until you were almost choking him. With every ounce of strength that he had inside him, Finnick increased his pace until he fit multiple mind-destroying thrusts into each second that passed.

He was almost animalistic with his pounding and unrestrained groans of pleasure. And you were so close, so, so close to falling over the edge. His hand was constricted around your throat; the other assaulted your clit, and his cock was mercilessly hitting that swollen spot inside you. Any second and—

“I’m go—I’m gonna come!”

A potent cocktail of pleasure, ecstasy, and release washed through your body, unravelling the tension inside your stomach and exiting through your stuffed hole. Your juices coated Finnick’s cock with warmth as you repeated his name over and over.

You could feel him twitching inside you, spilling himself onto your clenching walls whilst bending you over to senselessly fuck you into the table. His moans were so loud, so fucking attractive, but may God have mercy on both of you if the room wasn’t actually soundproof.

Neither of you could stop. You came an immeasurable number of times; your hands left marks on Finnick’s body as he did on yours, and every surface in the room had been tainted with your sin. You clung onto one another, desperately prolonging your night together that would most likely be the last. Ever.

*********

“Don’t leave again.”

Your fingers stilled as you strapped on your high heels. You glanced up at Finnick—who now had his sweatpants back on—from the gold-lined leather chair you sat in.

“Finnick…” you sighed.

“Please,” he said. Crouching down in front of you, he gently took your hand into his own. His face, which previously reflected nothing but pleasure, now looked at you with pained desperation. “I’ll explain everything to you. Why I was always in the Capitol. Why it was too dangerous for us to be seen together in public. All of it.”

The mention of danger took you aback. You had thought he never wanted to be seen together because he was embarrassed, not because it was… dangerous. Brows furrowed together, your eyes flickered between his, searching for any hint of deception, anything that might reveal malicious intentions. But when had Finnick ever been malicious towards you? Never. All you found in his eyes was sincerity.

“I can’t lose you again,” he whispered, lowering his head.

After a few seconds of contemplation, you realised there wasn’t a chance in hell you were going to walk out on him again. Life would mean nothing without Finnick beside you.

Your fingers sat under his chin, lifting his head to meet your gaze. The two of you exchanged a look of vulnerability, signifying an era of newfound understanding and reconnection.

You whispered in response. “You’ve got me, Finn.” 

tags: @tayrae515

[pucksandpower]

Breaking Point

Charles Leclerc x Ferrari!Reader

Summary: Charles Leclerc finally reaches his breaking point after the disaster that was the United States Grand Prix. Something needs to change … and that’s where you come in

“Again, again!” Charles’ voice rings out, echoing through the debrief room, “How can we mess this up? I was on pole!”

Fred Vasseur looks down, sighing, but trying to maintain composure. “Charles, it was a miscalculation—”

“A miscalculation?” Charles retorts, eyes blazing, “This has been a trend all season, Fred. It’s not a one-time mistake. It’s systemic.”

Carlos, looking uncomfortable, tries to chime in, “It wasn’t just about strategy, you know the car—”

“Oh, I know the car,” Charles snaps, “And it was built against my driving preference. But it’s not just that. It’s everything. The poor race strategy, the unnecessary swap, and now being disqualified as if my day has not been bad enough!”

Enrico Cardile, the team’s technical director, steps forward, “Disqualification was not anticipated. We followed the regulations to the best—”

“Enough with the excuses!” Charles’ voice cracks with emotion. The weight of the season, the betrayal he feels, finally makes him see red. “Every time there’s an excuse. We’re a team and yet somehow it feels like I’m constantly battling not just our opponents but Ferrari as well.”

A deep silence settles.

The head strategist, Ravin Jain, finally speaks up hesitantly, “We thought the one-stop made sense. The data suggested—”

“Data,” Charles interrupts bitterly, “The same data that led to a decision that every other team on the grid laughed at! Did the data also suggest swapping me with Carlos? Or was I being punished for being able to manage my tires?”

Carlos, despite himself, looks hurt. “I didn’t ask for the swap,” he mutters.

Charles takes a breath, looking at his teammate, “I know. It’s not your fault, hermano. But I need to trust the team’s decisions. And right now, I don’t.”

Sporting Director Diego Ioverno tries to mediate, “It’s been a tough season, Charles. Everyone is understandably stressed. Let’s sit down, review everything together, and find a way forward.”

Charles shakes his head, “That’s what we said last time. And the time before that. And the twenty times before that! Empty promises, meetings, discussions, and then what? Nothing gets done and there is another disaster waiting to happen.”

Fred tries one more time, “We’re as frustrated as you are. We’re a family. We’ll figure this out.”

Charles scoffs, “I can’t keep being let down and used. Not like this.”

The room falls silent once more, a heavy cloud of disappointment and tension hanging in the air.

Carlos reaches out, placing a hand on Charles’ shoulder, “Things will get better.”

Charles meets Carlos’ gaze, nodding slightly. But the fire in his eyes has not dimmed, “I need to believe in this team again. But right now ...” He pauses, “I have a call to make.”

He turns, leaving the room filled with introspective silence. The team is left behind, grappling with their own emotions, knowing that actions will always speak louder than words.

***

Charles steps out into the warm evening air, taking a moment to compose himself before dialing a number he knows by heart but hasn’t touched in months.

“Hey,” Charles’ voice is a low rasp, every ounce of weariness evident.

Then a pause, as he listens to the voice on the other end.

“Yeah, it’s me ... look, I know what I said earlier this season. About handling it myself.” He takes a deep breath, letting the weight of it all settle.

A longer pause, broken by Charles’ intermittent nods and “Uh-huhs.”

“Every race feels like it’s been one disaster after another. And it’s not just the car, it’s everything. I can’t ... I can’t keep doing this to myself.”

He listens closely.

“I told them today, laid it all out. But it’s like talking to a brick wall. They listen, they nod, and then? The same mistakes. Over and over.”

He shifts his weight, the sound of his shoes scraping on the gravel echoing softly.

“I know, I know I told you not to get involved ... but maybe ... maybe that was a mistake.” He sounds defeated, a man at the end of his rope. “I need help. Real help. Maybe it’s time you step in.”

Charles is silent, absorbing whatever the person on the other end is saying.

“No, it’s not about leaving the team,” Charles’ voice is earnest, desperate even. “It’s about respect. Trust. It’s about feeling like I’m not constantly fighting against the tide, not just against other teams but within my own garage.”

A long pause.

“What I mean is, maybe some changes within the team would be good. Fresh perspectives. New faces, perhaps. Somewhere I can trust the decisions, the strategy ...”

He sighs.

“I just want to race, you know? Without all this drama. Without constantly wondering if I’m being set up to fail no matter what I do.”

Another pause as he listens, nodding, lost in the gravity of the decision he’s about to make.

“Thank you. Really. Let’s talk tomorrow? Lay out all our options?”

There’s a moment of quiet, only the sound of his breathing, the distant hum of the circuit, the world slowly dimming around him.

“Thanks. Goodnight, Y/N.”

***

“Emilia,” you call out, and before a moment passes, your ever-efficient personal assistant is by your side.

“Yes, Y/N?” Emilia asks, perfectly poised.

“I need the jet prepared. We’re heading to Mexico City,” you say, voice steady and determined though inside, the turmoil from the phone call with Charles still lingers.

Emilia raises an eyebrow slightly, a silent question in her eyes. “Any particular reason?”

You sigh, looking away for a moment, reflecting on the weight of the legacy you carry. “Scuderia Ferrari needs my direct attention. I trusted them to handle things, but ... it’s clear that has not been happening.”

Her eyes flash with understanding. “Of course. I’ll have the jet ready. When do you wish to depart?”

“Tomorrow morning, early.”

She’s already typing into her tablet. “I’ll book you the Presidential Suite at the Four Seasons. Will you be needing a meeting space there?”

“Absolutely,” you nod. “On Wednesday, before the Grand Prix. Organize for all team personnel to meet in the hotel conference room. And Emilia ... they are not to know the reason for the meeting or that I’m the one calling it.”

Her eyes gleam with a hint of mischief, “Mystery and surprise. I love it. Consider it done.”

A small, wry smile tugs at your lips. “Thank you. And can you make sure Charles knows about my arrival? But ask him to keep it quiet.”

“Of course. Anything else?”

You pause, taking a moment to consider. “Just one more thing. Make sure we have everything we need to review the team’s decisions and strategies for this season. Every little detail.”

Emilia nods. “Absolutely. Everything will be arranged as per your instructions.”

You take a deep breath, “Thanks, Emilia. This … it’s about preserving a legacy, and right now, that legacy is on shaky ground.”

She places a reassuring hand on your shoulder, “If anyone can steer this ship right, it’s you.”

***

The door to the conference room opens with a low creak, and the room immediately falls silent. Everyone turns to see you entering, your presence commanding every ounce of attention.

“Good afternoon,” you begin with ice-cold authority. “Thank you all for meeting on such short notice.”

There are murmurs of acknowledgment but no one dares speak up.

“I’ve reviewed our performance this season,” you continue, pacing the length of the conference room, letting each word sink in. “And to say I’m disappointed would be an understatement.”

Fred shifts uncomfortably in his seat, eyes darting around the room. You lock eyes with him, “Fred, you promised change. But the only change I’ve seen is our team’s steep decline.”

“I understand your frustration,” Fred stammers, “We’ve faced challenges—”

You cut him off sharply, “Challenges? Every team faces challenges. What matters is how you overcome them.”

Several team members look down, uncomfortably shuffling papers and avoiding eye contact.

You turn to the strategists, “Your decisions have cost us dearly, time and time again. Your inability to read a race situation, to adapt, to strategize effectively ... it’s quite frankly appalling.”

One of the strategists, a middle-aged man named Roberto, speaks up defensively, “We did our best with the information we had.”

Your eyes narrow, “Your best? Tell that to Charles, who has been left out in the cold race after race.”

Moving on, you address the engineers and designers, “Our car has issues that should have been rectified at the beginning of the season. Yet here we are, still struggling.”

An aerodynamicist named Lucia, clearly agitated, stands up. “We’ve been working tirelessly, trying to find solutions.”

You level her with a gaze, “Then maybe it’s time we look for people who can find those solutions more efficiently.”

Lucia’s face reddens, “You can’t just—”

“Actually I can,” you interrupt, “And I will.”

Your attention turns to Xavi, Charles’ race engineer, who has been noticeably silent. “Xavi, your dynamic with Charles has not been the slightest bit helpful. His feedback, his needs ... they’ve fallen on deaf ears.”

Xavi, trying to defend himself, says, “It’s a two-way street. Charles can be difficult.”

You shake your head, “Charles is a world-class driver. It’s your job to bridge any gaps, not widen them. I checked and it turns out that constantly repeating we are checking like a broken record is not beneficial for race performance!”

Taking a deep breath, you make your announcement, “Effective immediately, Roberto, Lucia, and several other strategists, engineers, and aerodynamicists that a personal audit revealed as detrimental to team performance relieved of their duties. Xavi, you too are let go.”

There are gasps around the room, the weight of your words sinking in. Roberto stands, fuming in anger, “You can’t just dismantle this team!”

You lock eyes with him, “I’m not dismantling. I’m rebuilding. And if that means letting go of every one of you who can’t uphold the standards of Scuderia Ferrari then so be it.”

Fred finally speaks up, “And what about me?”

You lean in, “Consider your position on very thin ice. I expect results. And fast.”

You straighten up, the room thick with tension, “Scuderia Ferrari is not just a team, it’s a legacy. My great-grandfather would be rolling in his grave to see what has been done to his beloved team. I will not stand by and watch it crumble.”

With a final, piercing gaze around the room, you pivot on your heel and exit with a flick of your hair.

***

You lean against the cool wall, taking a moment to gather yourself after the emotional intensity of the meeting. The hallway is quiet save for the distant hum of voices but soon familiar footsteps make their way around the corner.

“Charles,” you call out softly as spot the driver.

His green eyes, clouded with a mix of emotions, meet yours. “Y/N.”

“Are you okay?”

He hesitates, “I wasn’t expecting all of that.”

You nod, “It was long overdue. I should have intervened much sooner.”

Charles runs a hand through his hair, clearly trying to process everything. “It’s ... a lot. I didn’t think you would actually step in like this.”

You sigh, “I hoped I wouldn’t have to. But my bisnonno once said that aerodynamics are for people who can’t build engines, and right now, it sure seems like Ferrari can’t do either.”

Charles chuckles dryly, “You have a point. It’s been ... frustrating.”

You gently touch his arm, trying to reassure him, “Enzo also believed that dreams become bigger, much bigger, to build a car that doesn’t slow in the curves, that flies without leaving the ground. I want that dream for you. For us.”

He looks at you, “It’s all I’ve ever wanted. A car that allows me to race to my full potential.”

You nod, thinking of the iconic red car and its tremendous legacy, “I know. And we’ll get there. Remember, racing cars are neither beautiful nor ugly. They become beautiful when they win.”

A smile tugs at Charles’ lips, “I haven’t won in too long. I almost forget what it feels like.”

You step closer, “That is going to change. I’m here for the long haul. To rebuild, restructure, and reclaim the Ferrari legacy. Glory will be dressed in red once more.”

He nods and swallows thickly. “Thank you, Y/N. It means more than you know.”

You smile softly, “We’re a team. And I promise to do whatever it takes to see us on top again.”

***

Early that Friday at Autódromo Hermanos Rodríguez, you gather the team in the garage.

“Good morning, everyone,” you begin. “I know it has been a whirlwind these past few days but I want to set the tone for this weekend.”

Fred, still adjusting to the new dynamic, nods silently from the back.

“We haven’t had the time to implement any physical changes to the car,” you continue, “But they are coming. For now, the difference will be about being smart … being strategic.”

Charles listens intently, his gaze occasionally drifting to the newcomers in front of him.

Speaking of the new additions, you gesture to the two people standing on either side of you, “I’ve brought on Marit Nilsen as our Principal Strategy Engineer and Claudio Segreti as Charles’ new race engineer. Not only are they exceptional engineers but also global chess masters.”

There are murmurs of surprise and interest among the crew. The world of Formula 1 and professional chess has rarely, if ever, intersected.

Marit, a tall woman with striking blonde hair, steps forward, “Chess is all about strategy, foreseeing the opponent’s moves and countering them. That’s what we’re here to do but on the track.”

Claudio, with his dark hair and deep-set eyes, adds, “Every move and decision we make will be precise. We’ll anticipate, adapt, and overcome.”

Carlos clears his throat, “So what’s the plan for free practice?”

You smile, “Today, we observe. We learn. We see where the car stands, where our strengths and weaknesses lie.”

As free practice commences, there’s a different energy in the garage. Marit, with her sharp analytical mind, quickly picks up on patterns, working closely with Claudio and Carlos’ engineer to ensure both drivers get feedback they need.

There’s a visible shift throughout the weekend. The team, rejuvenated by fresh perspectives, operates with a renewed vigor. And while the car may not have upgrades yet, new strategy quickly begins to make a difference like anticipated.

Qualifying sees Charles securing P3, an unexpected but welcome result. The garage is full of cautious hope but Marit and Claudio remain focused, already planning for the race to come.

Race day dawns and the tension is thick. You pull Charles aside, “Remember, things have changed. Believe in the strategy and the moves we make.”

He nods, “I trust them. And I trust you.”

As the lights go out and the cars roar to life, Charles delivers a performance that’s both calculated and aggressive. Every pit stop and every overtake is orchestrated like a chess match.

The race sees Charles finishing in P2 and Carlos in P4, a significant improvement from recent races.

The garage is a mix of tentative elation and relief.

Marit thoroughly reviews the race data, “This is just the beginning. Once the car upgrades are in place, the board will be ours.”

The sun sets on the Mexico City Grand Prix, but for Scuderia Ferrari, a new dawn is on the horizon.

***

“Fabiano Turati,” you muse, looking at the impressive portfolio before you. “Aerospace engineer, a key player in the development of hypercars for Agnellotti Motors, a professor at Politecnico di Milano. But never in F1?”

Fabiano, with salt and pepper hair and an air of quiet confidence, smiles slightly. “It’s not for lack of offers. I have just always believed in pushing boundaries outside of traditional paths.”

You lean back, intrigued, “So why Ferrari now?”

His eyes scan around the garage, “A challenge. An opportunity. A legacy to uphold. And, to put it simply, I think I can make a difference.”

You nod, appreciative of his candor. “We have three races left this season: Brazil, Las Vegas, and Abu Dhabi. Realistically, how much can we improve?”

You can practically see the gears in his brain turning, “In terms of complete redesign? Not much. But in terms of optimization and efficiency? Quite a bit.”

By the Brazilian Grand Prix, Fabiano’s influence is evident. While not a complete transformation, the SF-23 sports streamlined wings and a refined rear diffuser, maximizing what the current design allows.

“Initial feedback is good,” Charles reports after the practice session. “There’s a notable difference in the corners.”

Carlos chimes in, “The balance feels better.”

The improvements are evident, with both Ferraris finishing just off the podium. But Las Vegas poses a new challenge: a circuit unfamiliar to all teams and drivers.

“This is anyone’s game,” Marit says, examining the track layout.

Fabiano nods, “This weekend will be all about adaptation.”

The Las Vegas Grand Prix is an exhilarating rollercoaster. Charles fights for a podium finish, narrowly missing out but showcasing the SF-23’s newfound prowess, while Carlos secures a solid sixth.

As the season finale in Abu Dhabi looms, anticipation runs high. The Yas Marina Circuit will end the year with a test of Ferrari’s mettle.

Post-race, with both Ferraris finishing on the podium after avoiding a pile up that took out multiple opponents, there’s a sense of satisfaction but also of hunger.

“We’ve made progress,” Fabiano says as the garage winds down. “But next season, we’ll aim for a car that is not just evolved but fully revolutionized.”

You smile, “With you on board, I truly believe we can. The future is bright for Scuderia Ferrari.”

***

“Look at her,” Fabiano muses, admiration clear as the blueprint for the SF-24 is spread out before you both in your Maranello office.

“She’s a beauty,” you agree, tracing your fingers over the schematics. “If she performs half as well as she looks ...”

��She will,” Fabiano leaves no room for doubt. “We’ve streamlined the aerodynamics, enhanced the power unit, and made significant weight reductions.”

Carlos walks in with a grin on his face, “Is this the beast we’re taming next season?”

“That’s the plan.”

Charles catches your eye from where he lingers by the door. “It’s a fresh start,” he murmurs, approaching the table almost reverently. “I feel it.”

Over the following weeks, you rarely leave the factory other than to sleep and shower. You immerse yourself with the team, observing wind tunnel tests, joining strategy sessions, and even trying your hand with pit stop drills.

One evening, after a particularly long meeting, Charles finds you in the lounge, sipping an espresso. “Mind if I join you?”

You gesture to the seat across, “Of course not.”

He sits and just looks at you until you get the urge to fidget. “I’ve been thinking,” Charles begins, “About the changes, the car, and ... us.”

You raise an eyebrow, “Us?”

Charles smiles slightly, “You and I. We’ve spent so much time together these past weeks. I’ve gotten to know you, not just as Y/N Ferrari but as ... Y/N.”

You flush and not just from the hot coffee, “I feel the same. It’s been ... refreshing. Getting to know the man behind the helmet.”

He leans forward, elbows on the table, “There’s this great little place just outside Maranello. Quiet, hidden. I was thinking, maybe, dinner?”

Your heart skips a beat but you maintain your composure, “I’d really like that.”

The winter in Maranello unfolds, and as the SF-24 takes shape, so does the bond between you and Charles.

Between brainstorming sessions and late-night discussions about optimal setups, there are stolen moments: shared glances, lingering touches, and dinners that stretch long into the night talking about anything and everything.

Carlos teases, “Seems like the new car isn’t the only thing igniting sparks.”

You roll your eyes but there’s no hiding the smile tugging at your lips. You don’t try to deny it. Why bother when you hope it might be true one day?

***

r/formula1

Posted by RaceRundown · 6 hours ago

First look at the SF-24! Thoughts?

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RedFever · 6 hours ago

This could be the machine that keeps Ferrari at the top. Just look at those lines!

⇧ 2.5k ⇩ | Reply | Give Award | Share | Report | Save | Follow

PitStopPundit · 5 hours ago

Getting major 2004 vibes from this. Could be a dominant year for the Scuderia!

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***

You step into the air-conditioned motorhome, grateful for an escape from the Bahraini heat. Charles and Carlos, race suits unzipped around their waists, are animatedly discussing their first day of preseason testing with the SF-24.

“Last year, we didn’t have to sandbag because the car was, well … genuinely that slow,” Charles laughs. “But this time around ...”

Carlos grins, finishing his sentence. “This time, we have an ace up our sleeves.”

You nod, “Just remember, it’s only testing. We still have to see where we truly stand.”

The race weekend finally kicks off and the paddock is full of speculation. After a deliberately unimpressive showing during testing, no one expects Ferrari to be a front-runner.

Yet, when the lights go out, the SF-24 does not just impress …. it dominates. Charles takes P1 with Carlos not far behind in P3. And the world takes notice.

The next few races see a rejuvenated Ferrari. In Saudi Arabia, Charles and Carlos deliver a nail-biting duel with Red Bull, securing a double podium. Australia is a tougher battle, with Mercedes coming to form, but Charles clinches a respectable P4.

The Asian leg of the season has its highs and lows. In Japan, despite a torrential downpour, Charles masterfully handles the wet track to clinch the top step. On the podium, he points up at the sky and then shapes his fingers — first into a one and then a seven — a silent tribute to his late godfather and mentor.

However, China proves challenging and sees the SF-24 struggling unusually with tire degradation. But as Miami approaches, the team regroups and Charles takes a commanding win under the Florida sun.

Then comes Imola, the first of Ferrari’s home races.

As the sun shines brightly over the circuit named after your great-grandfather and grand uncle, you find yourself walking the track alongside Charles. The weight of racing on home soil evident in his eyes.

“Everything okay?” You check, sensing his nervous energy.

He looks at you and taking a deep breath. “Racing in front of the Tifosi at home always feel different. I want to make them proud.”

“No matter what happens today, they will be proud of you. The whole team will be proud of you. We’ve come so far.”

He smiles, visibly lighter. “Then let’s give them a race to remember.”

And it is nothing short of spectacular. Charles starts P2, but with determination and brilliant strategy, he overtakes Max in the final lap and secures a victory for Ferrari on home soil.

The roar of the crowd, the sea of red flags, the tears in Charles’ eyes as he stands atop the podium — you make a promise to never forget this moment.

As the sun sets on Imola, the Scuderia Ferrari team comes together, basking in their victory.

As Charles, champagne-soaked and beaming, pulls you in for a damp hug, it is clearer than ever that this season is only the beginning of a beautiful journey ahead.

***

“Norris is approaching on a flying lap. Make sure not to impede,” Claudio’s voice comes through crisp and clear over the radio during the dying moments of Q3 for the Monaco Grand Prix.

You can practically feel Charles’ concentration from where you’re seated on the Ferrari pit wall. The narrow streets of Monaco leave no room for error … Charles knows this better than most.

“Copy,” Charles responds, adjusting his position on the track just enough to give Lando the space he needs to pass while keeping his own momentum.

The clock is ticking and Charles needs a perfect lap if he wants to clinch pole position.

“Tires are feeling good. Pushing now,” Charles says, rounding the first corner with precision. The SF-24 dances around the iconic circuit, the roar of its engine echoing through the streets.

From Casino Square to the hairpin and through the tunnel, Charles’ driving is flawless. Every apex hit and every corner nailed.

“Final sector, Charles. Make it count,” Claudio encourages.

And he does. Crossing the line and jumping to the top of the timing board.

The garage cheers but there’s no time to waste. Tomorrow’s race is what truly matters.

***

Race day in Monaco is always special, but today, with Charles starting from pole, there’s an electric tension in the air.

“Lights out in ten,” Marit announces over the intercom.

Charles, already in the zone, simply nods.

And then he’s lined up on the front row.

The lights illuminate one by one. Then, in a heartbeat, they go out.

The race is on.

Charles gets a strong start, holding off challengers through the initial turns. The streets of Monaco are notoriously difficult for overtaking, so track position is everything.

“Maintain the pace. Tire management is key,” Claudio advises as the laps progress.

As the race unfolds, strategy becomes crucial.

“Plan to box in two laps,” Marit instructs through Claudio. With with Verstappen close on his tail, everything must be executed perfectly.

The pit stop is lightning-fast, the crew working in synchrony. Charles emerges just ahead of Max, who had followed him into the pits.

Throughout the race, Charles’ skill shines. He manages his tires, navigates the backmarkers, and keeps a razor-sharp focus.

The final laps approach. The team, the spectators, the entire Principality holds its breath.

The chequered flag waves and Charles crosses the finish line to takes his first home win. The elation, the pride, the sheer emotion of the moment is overwhelming.

“Monaco, Charles! You’ve won Monaco!”

Tears in his eyes, Charles responds, voice choked, “We did it! This is for Monaco. This is for Ferrari. Grazie mille. Merci beaucoup.”

The team gathers beneath the podium, celebrating their victory and the hometown here. Charles quickly sprays the two drivers beside him before aiming the bottle at the sea of red cheering in front of him and soaking his team in champagne.

He thinks back to how this weekend ended last season and let’s his elation wash away the years of dejected he faced before.

Things are different now.

***

“I’ve never seen Monaco come alive like this after a win,” you shout over the pulsating music in one of the city’s many upscale clubs.

Charles grins, leaning in closer so you can hear him. “It’s the magic of a home race victory!”

As the night turns to early morning, alcohol flows freer and the laughter grows louder.

The Ferrari team loves any reason to celebrate and they’re certainly making the most of the location.

Charles pulls you to a quieter corner of the VIP section. “Have you ever danced with a Monaco Grand Prix winner?”

You roll your eyes at the attempt at flirting but laugh as you accept his outstretched hand. “There’s a first time for everything.”

The two of you dance, losing track of time.

The world blurs around you. All that matters is the magnetic pull between you two which has been simmering for so long that it is threatening to overflow.

Charles pulls you closer, his lips brushing your ear. “There’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you.”

You relish in the warmth of his breath against your skin. “What’s that?”

“I’m drawn to you,” he admits, eyes searching yours. “Not just because of tonight but ... there’s something between us. I feel it. And I think you do too.”

You swallow hard. “I do.”

He hesitates before wrapping an arm around your waist, “Come with me.”

Without a word, you both exit the club, making your way to his apartment. The air between you is thick with anticipation but also vulnerability … openness.

Once inside, he gently pushes you against the wall, lips crashing onto yours. It’s passionate and intense, like a dam that has been waiting to break.

Charles pulls away slightly, “Are you sure about this?”

“I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life,” you whisper, eyes locked with his. “But ... Charles, not just for tonight. I don’t want this to be just a result of a victory high or the Monaco night air.”

He cups your face, thumb brushing your cheek. “I don’t want that either. This isn’t about the race or the party. It’s about us. I think it’s been about us for a while now.”

“Then why didn’t you say something sooner?”

He chuckles softly. “You think it’s easy, being around you every day, wanting to be close but maintaining a distance for the sake of professionalism? To spend every evening when we’re in Maranello sitting across from you at dinner and wishing that I could call it a date? But tonight,” he pauses, eyes searching yours, “Tonight felt different.”

You waste no time to draw him closer. “No more waiting then.”

***

Canada’s Circuit Gilles Villeneuve echoes with the roar of engines and the cheers of fans. Charles dominates the track, mastering the chicanes and the notorious Wall of Champions.

But the race isn’t straightforward. Mid-race, strategy suddenly changes when an unexpected rain shower soaks the track. However, the new strategy team you’ve brought in makes all the right calls and Charles takes the chequered flag.

In the Spanish sun, it’s a different story. The high-speed corners expose a slight flaw in the SF-24 which leaves Charles fighting valiantly but finishing third.

Despite the setback, you see determination in his eyes. “We’ll get them in Austria,” he promises.

True to his word, at the Red Bull Ring, he dominates. The SF-24 suits the straights and fast corners. Charles takes pole and leads every lap, building a gap that the competition can’t close. The victory feels even sweeter given the circuit’s name.

Silverstone proves challenging. There’s fierce competition, and while Charles doesn’t win, he’s involved in one of the most thrilling wheel-to-wheel battles of the season with Max Verstappen. They exchange positions multiple times, showing pure racing talent. In the end, Charles finishes a proud second after a photo finish.

The Hungarian Grand Prix tests the team. Tire strategy becomes paramount. The SF-24 shows vulnerabilities in the surprisingly sweltering conditions. Still, Charles’ impeccable driving and some cunning strategy calls earn him a place on the podium.

At the Circuit de Spa-Francorchamps, Charles shines brilliantly. He conquers Eau Rouge and Raidillon like few can, making it seem effortless. The SF-24 feels perfectly balanced and he takes another win, smiling at the Ferrari flags waving high in the crowd as the Monegasque and Italian anthems play.

Through it all, you see Charles grow not just as a driver but as a leader and beacon of hope for the team and global fanbase. He is not just driving for himself or for Ferrari, he drives for everyone who believes in him.

***

The warm Italian sun pours golden light onto the expansive villa overlooking Lake Como. The water below sparkles, mirroring the sky. For a brief moment, the hectic world of Formula 1 feels miles away.

You’re lounging under an oversized umbrella, Aperol Spritz in hand, while Charles emerges from the pool, beads of water cascading down his toned physique.

“That swim was perfect,” Charles grins as he flops down beside you.

“You were in there for ages! Trying to turn into a fish?”

He shakes his head like a wet puppy, making you squeal as you try to escape the splashes. “Just preparing for our yacht trip. Besides, I have to burn off all those pasta dinners we’ve been having or else I won’t fit in the car by the end of the month.”

“The troubles of a professional athlete,” you laugh, “I’ve been indulging and I’m not even sorry.”

That evening, the two of you share a quiet moment on the terrace. Soft jazz floats from inside and cicadas buzz rhythmically.

“Remember our first race together?” Charles starts. “It feels like a lifetime ago.”

“I never imagined we’d be here. But I am so glad that we are.”

He meets your gaze, his eyes reflecting the same heat you feel. “Me too. These moments, away from the track with you ... they’re special.”

The following week, you find yourselves on a luxurious yacht off the coast of Sardinia. Charles’ family and both of your friends are aboard. The sun decks echo with laughter, music, and the soft lapping of waves. There is never a quiet moment and you relish in the sounds of happiness.

As you stand by the railing, watching Charles and Joris race each other on jet-skis, Arthur slides up beside you. “So, how’s life with my big brother?”

You laugh, “It’s an adventure every day. But honestly, I wouldn’t change a thing. It’s wonderful. He’s wonderful.”

Arthur nods, “I’ve never seen him this happy, you know?”

You smile warmly, your gaze drifting to where Charles has somehow fallen into the water and is now splashing his friend. “He brings out the best in me, just as I hope I do for him.”

***

The gentle lapping of the Mediterranean waves seems like a distant memory as you find yourself in Zandvoort.

“Quite the change of scenery, isn’t it?” Charles chuckles, standing beside you as the sea breeze of the Dutch coast tousles his hair.

You laugh, “A bit but I’ve missed it. Nothing beats the excitement of a race weekend.”

And what a weekend it was. Charles, against all odds, comes out on top at Max Verstappen’s home race. The Dutch crowd offer begrudging respect as Charles takes the top step.

And then, Monza.

Monza is different. There’s an electricity in the air that cannot be replicated anywhere else. It’s the home race of Ferrari … the cathedral of speed.

“Do you know,” you tell Charles as you both walk through the paddock, “I used to come here with my grandfather as a child. This track ... it’s steeped in history. I’ve always loved it.”

“Winning here was like nothing else I have ever experience,” he reflects. “Let’s do it again. We’ll write our own chapter in history this weekend.”

Qualifying is a nail-biter. Charles pushes the SF-24 to its limits, dancing on the edge of control.

“How are we looking?” Charles checks in.

“You’re on provisional pole,” Claudio responds over the radio. “But push on the last sector. Max is close and getting closer.”

And push he does. Charles clinches pole with a margin that leaves no doubts about the capabilities of both the driver and the car.

Race day, the atmosphere is fever-pitched. The Tifosi, in their sea of red, wave their flags and banners, chanting Charles’ name like a prayer. As the lights go out, the battle rages. The strategy is aggressive, a one-stop that requires Charles to defend position in the latter stages of the race.

“Lap 45. Push now, we need widen this gap,” Claudio instructs.

The tires scream in protest as Charles further carves out a lead. But as the laps tick down, Verstappen and Piastri close in.

“Drive smart and hold them off. Four laps to go. You’ve got this,” Claudio urges him on.

Going wheel-to-wheel with Max through the Ascari chicane, Charles pulls ahead. The Tifosi roar, their energy and sheer will pushing him on.

“Last lap. Bring it home!”

And he does.

As Charles crosses the finish line, the crowd erupts. The track is soon packed with red as fans flood the track, surrounding the podium.

From the sea of faces, one voice stands out — yours, “You did it, Charles. Monza is yours.”

He lifts the trophy high, a tear in his eye, “We did it. This is for Ferrari … for the Tifosi … for us.”

***

The streets of Baku and the lights of Singapore both witness the magic that Charles and the SF-24 weave together. Two more wins, two more steps closer to the championship.

And then you find yourselves in Texas.

“Do you remember this time last year?” Charles asks.

“How could I forget? It was the phone call that changed everything.”

Charles laughs but there’s a weight to it, “For both of us. It was a disaster ... pole to sixth and then the disqualification. All because of...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, the mismanagement of the team a heavy shadow neither of you can forget.

“You’ve grown since then,” you point out gently, “The team has grown. Look at where we are now.”

He nods, taking a deep breath, “One year. So much has changed. From one of the worst days in my racing career to ... this.” Charles gestures around, to the revamped team, the transformed car, the very atmosphere of competence that permeates every corner of the Ferrari garage.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” he whispers, “The championship is within our grasp. Right back where it all went wrong.”

You take a moment to pull out your laptop and open a data sheet, “Here’s the breakdown. If Max gets P2 in both the sprint and the race, you need P1 in both. That’s how we seal the championship this weekend.”

Charles’ eyes scan the spreadsheet, “That’s ... a tall order.”

“But not impossible. Not for you and not for this team,” you assure him.

He chuckles again but it’s brighter now, “With you in my corner? I know anything is possible.”

***

The energy is electric when qualifying day arrives in Austin. You find Charles in his driver’s room, eyes closed in focus as he visualizes the track.

“You ready for this?”

His eyes pop open, determination burning in them. “Ready. Let’s show them what we can do.”

Qualifying unfolds in a blur of fast laps and bated breath. Charles pushes the limits, wrestling the SF-24 around the bumpy circuit.

“Time for one more lap. Give it your all here,” Claudio radioes through.

Jaw set, Charles squeezes all he can from the SF-24. Silence falls as he crosses the line … broken by cheers as his new lap time is set.

Pole position for the second season in a row.

Charles sheds his helmet and rips off his balaclava. “Yes! That’s how we start a weekend!”

The sprint shootout and race similarly see Charles launch cleanly from P1, building a gap early.

“Verstappen is matching your pace, don’t let him get within DRS range,” Claudio advises.

“Copy,” Charles responds, focused.

A late charge from Max raises tensions but Charles keeps him at bay, taking the chequered flag and the eight points.

“That’s the way to do it!” You shout as Charles enters the garage.

“Grand Slam in the sprint, now time for the main event,” he grins.

You rally the team Sunday morning. “Remember, the start is crucial. The car that lines up in P2 has led by the end of lap 1 for five years in a row. We need full focus.”

It seems like barely any time has passed before Charles takes his spot on the grid. Lights out, tires screeching, he holds the lead through the first lap madness.

“Nicely done,” Claudio praises. “Manage those tires now.”

The pit stop strategy is executed flawlessly. Charles takes his second stop, emerging ahead of a charging Verstappen.

“Ten laps remaining,” Claudio counts down.

Charles responds with measured confidence, “Let’s bring it home.”

In the closing laps, he is poetry in motion, hitting each apex and maximizing every straight. Max closes in but Charles is perfect to the millimeter.

“Charles Leclerc,” Claudio’s voice cracks with emotion, “you are the World Champion!”

Eyes wet, Charles radios in, “Yes! Yes! Yes! We did it! Thank you guys! This is unbelievable! Grazie, grazie mille, grazie a tutti! It’s been an incredible season with all of you. This is for the team, for Ferrari, for all the fans, and for everyone who has supported me. We brought it back to Maranello! I’m speechless ... grazie, thank you!”

In the garage, celebrations in full swing, you lean in with a laugh, “Don’t worry, I checked with the FIA — the plank is up to regulation this time.”

Grinning, Charles pulls you into a passionate kiss as the team hoots and hollers around you.

The World Champion smiles so bright he makes the Texan sun look dull in comparison.

You would do anything to make sure he feels like this every season. You will do anything to make sure he feels like this every season.

***

The winter sun casts a warm glow on Maranello as you walk beside Charles into the Ferrari factory. The off-season buzz of activity fills the air as the team prepares for next year’s challenges.

Charles looks at the sleek lines of the new SF-25 with anticipation. “She’s beautiful. I can’t wait to see what she can do.”

“This one’s special. She’ll be fighting for the championship again.”

“Yeah?”

“You heard me right,” you say with a smile. “I made you a promise. Last season was just the beginning.”

As Charles turns for a briefing, you spot Fred across the room. Your relationship has evolved and he now respects the authority you wield for the team’s benefit.

Approaching, you extend a hand. “I wanted to say, you’ve led the team well this past season.”

He grasps it firmly. “We share this success. Thank you for being the catalyst we needed”

You know there will still be challenges ahead. But Ferrari has been reinvigorated. Its racing spirit has been reignited.

That evening, Charles joins you on the terrace of the home you both share when in Maranello and wraps you both in a warm blanket to fight the chill. “Can you believe what a year it’s been?”

You shake your head. “It’s been a dream.”

He pulls you close. “The dream is just beginning and it’s a dream I hope we never wake up from.”

[edgeasaurus-art]

What several levels of exhaustion does to a mother fucker.

I was listening to the album grow again by Moe Reen while making this. specifically Why Deny (The Climate of Our Love).

You could admit it's all on fire And confess to loving me This world is surely ending soon, Our love is certainly something true So why deny the climate of our love?

Theres so much to say about them. The world is on the precipice of disaster and yet they found each other, the successors to the emperor and empress titans. Did the emperor and empress wonder what their successors would become? did they wonder about who their successors would be? did they hope that they would find the love they had? or did they think the story of the titans ended then?

When Fearne was alone with Nana Morri did she ever dream about the people she has around her now? about sharing a bed, with no other expectations other than waking up together?

When Ashton found themselves left behind after the nobodies left him, did he dream about a group of people who listened to what they said and respected their words? did they ever dream of someone wanting to be with them just because they liked being around him?

when they were at their loneliest, was the thought of each other a fever dream?

I still stand as a firm believer that both Ashton and Fearne have two hands, but watching them grow closer together has been amazing. And I hope their relationship continues to flourish, platonically or romantically.