#but there is not a lot to base their relationship off!

[julymusings]

you're good to me, baby

with the roar of the fire my heart rose to its feet, like the ashes of ash i saw rise in the heat. settle soft and as pure as snow, i fell in love with the fire long ago.

or; because the red hood bleeding onto your living room carpet is exactly what you need right now [3.6k]

Jason Todd x fem!reader; based on this lovely ask; ngl this turned into a personal vent jason doesn't show up until 1k words in LMAO; warning there’s blood (duh) and reader is type A and suggested to have heavy anxiety; pre-established relationship where reader doesn’t know his identity + muzzle red hood bc HOT

Compartmentalize. Create baskets in your mind. Analyze the situation, and drop the corresponding emotion in the appropriate basket.

One: You had a fight with your best friend. She called you selfish because you weren’t enthusiastic about her new relationship. She just can’t seem to understand that no matter how happy you want to be for her, it’s painful to see everyone find safety in another person when you can’t. Every attempt at romance is squashed by something or the other that you keep doing wrong. I thought you were hot, your latest dating attempt had said when you ran into him and asked why he never texted back. But you’re kind of a lot. Not something I have the space for right now, you know?

Two: There’s an important presentation today, one that could determine the fate of your position in the company. Your coworker, the one who’s convinced you stole his promotion (he just flirted with the higher-ups while you actually completed the requirements), refuses to let you forget how much is at stake. All it takes is one misstep, one stutter, one hesitation, and he will take it as an excuse to demand your demotion— or worse, termination. You’ve been preparing for this presentation for three weeks. If after all that effort it’s still not good enough, maybe you should be fired.

The emotions here? Frustration. Anger. Exhaustion. Jealousy. Just to name a few. But there’s no time to dwell on anxieties right now, so you shove those thoughts aside. Drop them in their compartments and move on because, after all, if you can strip them down to their bones and find where they stem, you can yank those anxieties from the ground before they have the chance to root. And then there’s no need for unnecessary heartache, right?

(Who cares if the baskets are overflowing, crumpled fragments spilling over the sides like garbage in a landfill? Who cares if the room of your mind is so packed that you’re pressed against the wall and breathing becomes painful.)

The digital clock beside your bed reads 6:12. The numbers blink in and out of the window, their red dots and dashes taunting your heavy eyelids. You still have forty-eight minutes of peace before it will scare you awake. Its beeping will ring so loud and angry that the adrenaline from the startle will power you through your morning routine, and your beating heart won’t dare still to entertain wishes of just five more minutes. 6:13 now. You have forty-seven more minutes of peace, minutes which should be spent sleeping, giving your poor brain a break from itself. But you can’t. Every time you close your eyes and begin to sink below the level of consciousness, your heart pumps a house-special cocktail of cortisol that laces through your bloodstream and convinces you that if you fall asleep you will miss your presentation and you will get fired. The off-grid escape plan formulating in your head switches from hypothetical to tentative when your neighbors, apparently awoken to lust as well as tired by it, start going at it again. You want nothing more than to bang on their door and scream obscenities until they hate each other enough to never touch again, but you resign yourself to consciousness, giving up on the dream of what would now be forty-four more minutes of sleep. 

It’s Friday morning; only one more day to get through before the sweet release of the weekend finds you. (The whole weekend will be spent contemplating the start of a project, feeling like two days is not nearly long enough to complete anything, and dreading Monday until it finds you with nothing done and the same, endless cycle awaiting.)

After completing your morning routine 44 minutes early, you use the spare time to go through your presentation once more, just for good luck, wrapping up the third run-through just in time to hear your alarm to leave for work.

The presentation goes decent, at least well enough to quell any doubts about your ability to do your job. Your coworker ate his words for sure, and you might have enjoyed the look on his face had you not mentally checked out as soon as you finished your closing remarks. Rush hour traffic has the ice cream tub you bought at the convenience store dripping condensation all over the passenger’s seat and your hips hurt from being in the same sitting position for most of the day, but you remind yourself that peace is only a few miles out. Stopped at yet another red light, your grip tightens on the steering wheel. Breathe in. Breathe out. The line of cars starts to move forward.

When you get home, your frustration is close to boiling over. You kick off your shoes right at the door, your keys and bag following close behind.

Far be it from you to break down on the floor in the middle of the room, the plan begins to formulate. There’s a box of tissues on your desk– that can go on the nightstand, along with two of the chilled water bottles you keep in the fridge for after you work out. And you’ll need something for the tissues, right? The small wastebasket from the bathroom should be fine. You drag it over to the side of your bed, sitting in your usual spot to make sure you placed it at a reachable distance. You won’t want to get out of bed to wash your face after this, so a washcloth should go next to the tissues. And an extra one, just to be safe. There’s a half-pint of ice cream left in the freezer, you remember, and store that information for later.

You keep a set of comfortable clothes ready, the nicest, softest pajamas you own that you only wear after an everything shower. This shower, however, is a quick one, not much more than a few minutes under scalding water to comfort you, if nothing else. The light pink pajamas are a high-quality cotton and you feel like you’re in the clouds when you slip into them. Remaining is the ice cream, which you set out on the counter right before your shower so it would thaw just enough to be soft but not melted, With everything in your room ready, you go to retrieve the ice cream but stop with a startle when you round the corner.

“Jesus,” you mumble.

He’s just sitting there, doing nothing except bleeding out on your cream-colored carpet. He’s spread out on the couch like he owns the place, head leaned back against the wall as he lets his injured arm hang over the armrest and drip blood and dirt onto your cream-colored rug. The liquid seeps into the expensive wool, staining it with reddish-brown hues and the scent of iron, and he doesn’t even notice.

“Hey.” The Red Hood lifts his head when he sees you.

On any other day, you’d be quick to action, hauling him up off the couch and sprinting for the first aid kit under the bathroom sink. Today, your arms are too heavy and your gaze remains rooted on the widening splotch of red against white. Your throat feels dry. “You’re getting blood on the carpet.”

He peers over the armrest. “Oh, shit,” he curses, lifting his arm to hover it over his lap. He sounds robotic through his muzzle mask. His hood, pulled down to reveal his thick black hair curling at the ends from humidity and sweat, rests on his back.

I don’t have time for this, is what you want to say. You want to scream it in his face and kick him out for having the audacity to think he can come and go as he pleases, that you’re nothing more than a drive-through emergency room who will drop everything if he gets so much as a paper cut. But you can’t say any of this, and you do want him to come to you whenever he needs help. God knows he won’t go anywhere else.

Holding back your heavy sigh, you wordlessly walk to the bathroom. He takes that as an invitation to follow. 

It’s clinical. Rehearsed. Neither of you speak. It’s a partnered dance long since committed to muscle memory, steps you can take in your sleep. He knows to seat himself on the step stool you got just for him, for nights like these. He knows where to find the first aid kit and which supplies to hand you first. You know the exact steps to follow. Check the palms for abrasions. Antiseptic to the lacerations. Concussion exam. 

Maybe he can sense the air of tension surrounding you, because he doesn’t say as much as he usually does (though, granted, it’s still not much). It’s a reflection of your dynamic several months earlier when this arrangement began, back before you’d managed to chip away at the surface of his rough exterior. You notice the way his fingers curl against his thighs when you, somewhat carelessly, wipe the dirt from his skin with more pressure than necessary and the way his eyebrows tilt inward when you work slower than usual. You notice, but you ignore it.

We both know you have at least a dozen people who could do this for you. The words echo in your mind. Don’t act like I owe you this. If anything, you owe me a new carpet. These are things you wish you could say, but never will. Being realistic, you’ll probably never be able to say things like this. You’ll be subjected to all the shitty coworkers and unsympathetic friends and exploitative vigilantes of the world for the rest of your life.

This isn’t his fault, you remind yourself, but still, your lips turn down and your jaw feels tight with the effort to keep your face still, to not burst into tears right on the spot. In the second it takes for you to calm yourself, your hands pause. He notices. He says nothing. 

It’s not until you’re finished with cleaning the blood from his arm wound and giving him a wad of gauze to hold against it that he tests the waters and asks, “Is it too bad?” 

He sounds automated, but over the last few months, you’ve learned a thing or two about reading even these robotic actions. There's a certain quietness to the beginning of his sentence like he’s debating if he should say it or not. 

“It’s fine,” you say, shortly. 

“Sorry about your rug,” he says. He tugs at the strap of his muzzle with one finger, rubbing at the skin underneath the leather. “I can get the stain out.”

You retrieve the needle and thread from the kit and don’t respond. You don’t even look at him.

After a moment’s hesitation, he continues. “It’s easy. You just need salt and—”

“Okay.”

He goes quiet.

You don’t mean to be so tetchy, but you don’t have the energy for anything more. Every little thing has you feeling on the edge of shattering. It’s too much. It’s all too much.

It’s when you’re kneeled at his side, staring into the gaping wound on his bicep and trying to thread the needle, fingers trembling from the chill of the tiled floor with nothing but a layer of thin cotton to keep you warm, that it happens. He shifts on the stool, a mere twitch in an attempt to get comfortable, but it brushes his bloody arm against yours. Flecks of fresh red on the light pink fabric. First your carpet, now your pajamas. Your favorite, special, extra soft matching cotton pajama set, a rare splurge after your promotion that stood out among old t-shirts and sweat shorts. Ruined. Again, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Did I say something?” Hood asks. He waits for your response, but when none comes, he adds, “I’m sorry if I did.” He speaks so quietly you may not have been able to separate his words from the whirring filter of his mask, if not for the chilling silence of the bathroom floor. The insulating brick walls of your old apartment building are something you’re usually grateful for, but tonight you find yourself wishing for the city’s commotion to seep through the walls. Something, anything to buffer his proximity to you.

You hear his inhale as he prepares to say something else.

“Can you just let me work?” You snap before he has the chance to speak again. It’s loud, louder than you’d ever dream of speaking to him, and he flinches. Your eyes shut in apology, but only for a moment before you get back to it. He looks away. His feet point towards the door.

He wants to leave, you can tell, and you don’t blame him. You just messed everything up. But you started this, so now you have to finish it.

You sit in silence for the several minutes it takes for you to clean his wound and stop the bleeding.

He’s not looking at you, gaze transfixed ahead of him on a chip in the paint. At least, you assume. It’s difficult to guess what’s going on behind the milky white covering over his eyes. His subtle body language can be read if you pay close enough attention, you’ve learned, but that’s not something you care to do right now.

(Maybe you noticed in the back of your mind that he’s not exhibiting any body language since you snapped at him, but the compartment in your head for guilt is already overflowing, so maybe you didn’t notice it, you tell yourself.)

You stare at your sleeve, at the patches of blood blooming like ink blots. The red and pink hues blend together behind your blurring vision. You sniffle.

“Are you—” Hood starts. Because now he’s looking at you.

“Excuse me,” you say, pushing yourself off the ground and stumbling out of the room without so much as a glance back at him. You stagger into your room, needle and thread still in hand, and push the door closed. The lights are off, and the darkness is calming, quieting your buzzing thoughts. You close your eyes and lean against the door. Breathe in. Breathe out. You continue this exercise, breathing in through your nose and out through your mouth to soothe your sympathetic nervous system, the same way a therapist instructed that one time you went. You wipe away the moisture that has collected in your eyes, roll out your stiff neck, dry your sweaty palms over your thighs. You toss the needle and thread aside, because they are definitely not sterile anymore, and take a few more breaths before opening the door and going back to the bathroom.

You avoid his face, following the lines of grimy grout between the tiles before resuming to your spot at his side. His inspecting eyes burn on the side of your face. You wipe down the forceps with a sterilizing wipe and rip open the plastic packaging for a new needle, holding it up to the wound, but your hand refuses to steady.

Another deep breath. Then another.

Hood sighs. It’s almost chastising. “I think I should go.”

“What?” You’re just surprised enough to be torn away from your thoughts and look him in the eye (mask) for the first time all night.

“You can’t do this,” he says, gruffly. “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ll let you figure it out.”

You scoff. “Yes, I can. I’m fine.”

Before he can argue, you grab him by the wrist to hold him in place just as he starts moving to get up. He winces, but you keep your grip tight on him. You can feel his scrutiny through the cold, expressionless barrier of his disguise, practically track his pupils as they search your face.

You both pretend he couldn’t break from your hold in an instant if he wanted to.

“You’re shaking,” Hood says. His voice is much softer now.

You follow the turn of his head to your hand where it hovers the needle right over his skin. You are shaking. Trembling, in fact.

“No, I’m not.” It comes out as an empty whisper.

You focus all your strength on steadying yourself, but the harder you try to stabilize, the harder you tremor. Your other hand releases his wrist to clamp over your dominant hand and force it to stay in place. It guides the needle closer to the skin, but now your vision is blurring. You blink rapidly, but it’s not enough. The tears start falling. You look away from him, but a warm hand settles over yours. You don’t dare look at him, unable to bear showing him your shameful face, wet and blushing and screwed up in misery. You turn your face into your sleeve. Clamp your eyes shut tight, thinking maybe if you keep them closed, this darkness will swallow you up and he won’t be here anymore.

But the warmth of his skin on yours is the first feeling of softness, of relief you’ve felt in months, and then it’s gone. Your shoulders are shaking, quaking with the effort to keep your sobs quiet.

One finger ever so gently hooks around your chin, pulling it back up to face him. You keep your eyes closed, not wanting to see him see you like this, but the tears are still streaming. He brushes them away. Whether that makes it better or worse, you can’t be sure, because you cry even harder, snatching your face away from his grasp to muffle your sobs into the back of your hand. You don’t realize he’s pushed himself off his stool to sit cross-legged on the floor until you feel his hand circling your arm and pulling you closer. The tools in your hand clatter on the floor as your palms come up to press against his chest, fighting against him with half-hearted protests murmured through your cries. But even with only one good arm he’s too strong for you, and you’re pulled into him.

He’s so gentle with you, rubbing your back and resting his chin atop your head while you cry and cry and cry into his shirt. Several minutes pass like this, with your face buried in his chest and his good arm holding you tightly against him while the other dangles lamely at his side, throbbing with an intensity he’s trying to ignore.

When your sobs die down, and you’re sure you’re all cried out, you linger against him. He smells like smoke and gasoline, and his shirt is soft and warm from his body heat seeping through. His hand continues to stroke up and down the length of your back, even after you’ve quieted. The edge of his mask digs into your scalp where his chin sits, but it feels worth it. Your hands, still pressed to his chest, slide higher, completely of their own volition, out of a newfound desire to wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t hear it, but you can feel his sharp draw of breath, his chest rising quickly under your touch. Your hands lose their nerve at his clavicle as you hold your breath for fear of the smallest movement drawing attention to your forwardness. You wait for him to rebuff you, to lean away from your touch, or grab your wrists and pry them off. He doesn’t.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. His chest finally falls.

Eyes opening, your thumb swipes over the edge of the red bat symbol just below his collarbone.

His movements pause, lightly gripping the fabric of your shirt for just a moment, before releasing it. “It’s alright,” he tells you.

You pull back from his chest to look at him, the way his cold and unfeeling expression stares back at you. You wonder from time to time what’s under the mask, but tonight the desire is overwhelming; you ache with the want to know what he looks like. The color of his eyes. What his mouth looks like when he winces over a deep cut or chuckles at one of your anecdotes. You wonder if his lips are soft or chapped. If he’d like it if you dragged your thumb across the bottom one.

The metallic odor spreading through the room brings you back to the present, and you hope the flush from your tears hides your cheeks’ growing heat when you realize where your mind had wandered. 

“Oh, fuck, your arm.” You speak in a watery voice, wiping at your face as the urgency returns to your senses. Though you try to move away, his firm hand on your back pulls you back in.

“Don’t worry about it, okay?” He says, resuming his caresses up and down your back. “I can take care of it.”

“Then why do you even need me?” You sniffle with a small smile.

He stays silent. But when you search his face, waiting for an answer, his hand moves to your side, palm sliding a fraction of an inch closer to your waist and fingers tensing, you can almost see through the mechanical muzzle to the way his lips shape the words. At least, he wishes you could.

You know why.

this was lots of fun to write and thank u for your patience ik i said i was gonna "knock this out in a day" 2 weeks ago😬😬 also we're gonna pretend they aren't just letting his open wound marinate for half an hour when it should be getting stitched up bc it's fiction ok? everyone say thank you mostly-imagines for proofreading this😚

but anyway happy new year!! it's been barely 2 months but starting this account made my year so much better🫶🫶🫶and ty for 500 followers that's crazy🫣🫢

[formula-ghost]

Read Your Diary (FC43 x fem!reader)

Chapter 5: Valentine (FINALE)

CHAPTER SUMMARY: The end of the 2024 F1 season brings regret and a newfound desire for reconciliation—but is your relationship with Franco beyond saving?

WORD COUNT: 13k

WARNINGS: Sadness. Angry Hispanic mother. Creepy men in bars (not Franco ofc). Drinking, drunk Franco is a media menace. Use of the word whore jokingly. Smut 18+ MINORS DNI. Hickeys, hair pulling. Dom Franco and sub reader, use of good girl, light choking, Oral (m receiving), p in v, protected sex (wrap it before you tap it!)

SERIES TAGLIST:  @scopeiguess @storyteller-le @xivilivix @htpssgavi @wierdflowerpower @justsisse  @uncreativetm  @ncrsbrg  @tillyt04 @amz824 @ellelabelle

A/N: My baby is now complete!! I did not plan for this to be the ending originally, but as I was writing it just kind of came about, and who am I to anger the writing Gods? Honestly, though, the beginning of this chapter destroyed me trying to find a way to redeem Franco. Fun fact, I very loosely based my depiction of Franco off of my real life ex, which explains why he is so horrible lmao (but unlike my real life ex, Franco has been redeemed!). I cannot express how grateful I am for everyone’s support throughout the writing of this story. More to come, but for now, enjoy!

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4

All this love, I'm so choked up, I can feel you in my blood

All this lust for just one touch, I'm so scared to give you up

Valentine, my decline is so much better with you

Valentine, my decline, I'm always running' to you

Valentine, Valentine

The block button did nothing to assuage Franco’s obsession with you. In fact, it only made it worse.

If he hadn’t blocked you, he would at least know that you weren’t contacting him. But since he pressed the button, there was now the ever present question of if you had reached out, and if the digital barrier he erected had led it to be lost forever. 

But why would you reach out after what he had done? 

Truthfully, it took everything in you to not call him. You had both said things you didn’t mean—at least, you prayed that Franco didn’t mean them—and you wanted nothing more than to just make up and act like it never happened. 

But the words kept echoing in your mind at night when you couldn’t sleep. You were a distraction.

All the years of supporting him, all the sacrifices you made—all for nothing. 

You couldn’t help that you loved him. And the Franco you knew and loved didn’t mean those things. He couldn’t. 

So you checked your phone’s international clock. It was still night where you were at home, but morning in Abu Dhabi, where he’d be completing his last F1 race tomorrow. 

There was still time. If you called and made up now, you could be there for the final race. You could be there at the end, just like you had been there at all of his beginnings.

So you swallowed your pride, tapped on his name in your contacts, and pressed call. But it didn’t even ring before it hung up. You knew what that meant. He had blocked you.

At first you wanted to puke. You wanted to burst down the stairs of your apartment and run into the street screaming. You wanted to throw a bottle of wine on the walls and cry in the wreckage.

But after a few hours of getting all the crying out, a strange peace fell over you.

It was just… over. That was that.

In the morning, however, the grief came back from a familiar notification. His mother.

You had been putting off her messages ever since your argument with Franco. You couldn’t bear to tell her what had happened. But she was worried about you, evident by her increasingly concerned messages.

You finally gathered the courage to type up a response.

Hi Mami, you began—she had forbidden you to call her by her name, instead telling you to call her Mom—I tried to talk to Franco like you asked. It didn’t go well, and we both said a lot of hurtful things. It ended on bad terms and he ended up canceling all my passes and flights, and I think he blocked me. I’m sorry, I tried to get through to him. Thank you for all the kindness you’ve shown me over the years <3

You read over what you’d typed. It was honest. You could have spared her more of the details, but why? Franco would have to live with the consequences of his actions. That wasn’t your problem.

It was only a few moments later that she responded. Oh dear, I am so sorry. I am ashamed of Franco—that is not the son I raised. I hope you know we all love you, and I wish you all the best.

You liked her message and left it at that. But she called you later that night.

She began, “YN, words can’t describe how sorry I am. What happened?”

“I… I don’t know,” you began, carefully choosing your words. You weren’t quite sure how much you wanted to tell her. “He was already upset when I got there. He kept accusing me of lecturing him, but I was just trying to tell him I was worried. He said… that I was a distraction.”

“I can’t believe him! You have never been a distraction. You’ve been there for him when we couldn’t, we’ve always been so grateful for you.” Her admission nearly brought tears to your eyes. “I just… Dios Mio.” 

The conversation was short, but vulnerable. 

“YN, can I ask you something?” 

“Of course.”

“You had feelings for him, didn’t you?” She asked it as if it were a statement, rather than a question.

You were silent for a beat before answering. “I did. I… I do.”

“Oh, dear, I wish I was there to give you a hug.” You could feel the care in her voice, a soothing comfort. “I want you to know you’re always welcome here, no matter what my idiot son says.”

You chuckled, thanking her for her kindness before ending the call. You were truly grateful for her invitation, but you couldn’t imagine being in Argentina without Franco. The call had felt more like a farewell. 

In Abu Dhabi, Franco was having his own farewells. It was bittersweet; he had worked so hard for so long to get here, but he couldn’t wait for it to be over. He was exhausted, mentally and physically. He just wanted to go home.

Home—the only place he felt like he had left. His Madrid apartment would feel empty without your laughter echoing in the halls. But back in Argentina, the people still loved him, and he could come back to a warm, home-cooked meal.

It was the only thing on his mind as he was forced to retire the car early, ending his last F1 race of 2024 with a DNF. But he didn’t care about that at all when he stepped off his flight from Abu Dhabi to Buenos Aires. 

Unfortunately for him, what was waiting for him at home was not peace and a warm meal. It was a very angry Hispanic mother. 

He came through the door, jet lagged, struggling with his luggage. She didn’t help him. 

When his father and sister ran up to give him a hug and help him in, she didn’t move an inch. She just stayed in the kitchen, silently chopping vegetables with her recently sharpened knife.

After putting away his bags into his room, Franco made his way to the kitchen to greet his mother, who didn’t even look up from her cutting board.

“Hi Mami, I’m home,” he said tentatively.

“Welcome home,” she replied, no warmth in her voice.

“Aren’t you excited to see me?” he joked. He knew he was dodging landmines. He knew she had every right to be angry—he had gotten caught up in everything after Singapore, and after his controversy, he had been dodging her calls and texts, other than to arrange plans to come home for the holidays. Others may have gotten over their frustration, or chose to ignore it for the sake of the holidays. She was not that kind of woman. 

“Oh, I’m thrilled,” she said, her voice flat. “Dinner is almost ready. Can you set the table for five, please?”

“Five? There’s only 4 of us.”

“Well, isn’t YN going to join us?” She already knew the answer. She just wanted to see him squirm as he answered it. He had nowhere to run anymore. 

“Uh… no. Not this year.”

“And why would that be?”

“She’s, uh, busy.” His mother didn’t respond. He had to fill the awkward silence. “And she’s probably mad at me…”

She paused, holding the knife in an iron grip. She lifted it from the cutting board to point towards him. “And why would that be, Franco?”

“Mami…”

“Do not lie to me.” Her voice was cold as ice.

“Mami, it’s complicated. I don’t want to talk about it. I just want to enjoy the holidays and forget about this whole season.”

“I’m sure you do,” she concluded, not an ounce of sympathy in her voice. Franco sighed, getting down the plates to set the table for his family. But he stopped in his tracks when he turned and felt a slipper to the back of his head. 

“Ah! What was that for?” The blow didn’t hurt anything but his ego.

“You know what you did,” his mother seethed. “You can’t run from this forever. Now get out of my kitchen.”

Franco obeyed, muttering under his breath. 

“What was that?” his mother asked.

“Nothing!” he chirped, setting the plates on the table.

During dinner, it wasn’t any better. His father and sister, oblivious to his mother’s rage, chatted as if nothing had happened. They had been angry at his…questionable dating decisions, yes, but they clearly had let it go in the meantime and decided to just enjoy the time together as a family. His mother, however, had not. 

And whenever anyone asked about it, she said she was fine. But she was clearly not fine. 

As Franco took the dishes into the kitchen to help clean up after dinner, he sighed, knowing that his mother was right. He couldn’t go the entire holiday ignoring it—she would make sure of that.

He couldn’t sleep that night. The bed of his childhood home was warm and comforting, but he couldn’t relax under the weight of it all.

Maybe some fresh air would do him good. That’s what he reasoned when he slid open the back door and inhaled the cool night air. He sat cross legged on the back terrace, just taking in the sounds of the serene night. 

That was, until he heard another person closing the door behind him. His mother. 

“Not now, Mami,” he said, not even turning to look at her.

“I’m not going to chastise you.” She handed him a mug of something warm. For a moment they just sat next to each other, sipping their drinks in silence. 

Franco began to speak unprompted. “YN has every right to be angry at me. I…ruined everything. I was so cruel to her.”

His mother just gave him a reassuring hum.

He continued, “She had feelings for me. I know I should have known it sooner, but I was in denial. But I had feelings for her too. And I got distracted. But it wasn’t her fault. I was so worried about my future that I ignored how she had always been there in my past.” 

The mug in his hands trembled and his voice wavered. “She was always there for me. Every race, every win, every failure. She was always there.”

His mother reached for him, lovingly stroking his back as he confessed.

“She probably hates me now. I don’t blame her.” A tear fell into his mug. He turned to look at his mother, her expression far more sympathetic than it was at dinner. “Can I fix it?”

“I don’t know. But first of all, you owe her an apology.”

“I know.”

“No, you don’t. Because if you did, you would have already done it.” He was silent. “It’s possible that she will forgive you. Or, she may not. You have to accept that.”

“I don’t know what I’d do without her.”

“Franco,” she began, “you did this. You have to suffer through the consequences of your actions. And if you are lucky enough that she forgives you and wants you back in your life, it’ll be a hell of a lot of work to regain her trust.” 

He nodded. “I’ll do it. I’d do anything.”

“Then why haven’t you?”

He paused. “I’m scared. Scared that it really is beyond saving.”

“The longer you wait, the more likely that is to be true.” 

This time, he actually knew what he needed to do.

Neither of you knew the parallels between you two; each of you pining for the other’s love, wanting nothing more than just to speak to the other. And when he unblocked you and called, it was like the stars aligned.

You didn’t answer. 

He didn’t panic at first. It was close to the holidays, in the middle of the day in your timezone. Maybe you were with your family. 

But as one missed call turned to two, and days of no contact turned to weeks, Franco began to know the bitter taste of his own medicine.

You had seen him call. And yes, you were with your family at the time. You told yourself that was the main reason why you hadn’t answered. As if seeing his contact on your phone didn’t shatter your heart into a million pieces. 

But later that night, when you were finally alone, you couldn’t bring yourself to call him back. He hadn’t left any voicemail or text, just his name and a missed call icon. 

What would you even say to him? He knew you were angry. And you knew you couldn’t just act as if nothing happened.

So despite your desperation to speak to him again, you just let his calls keep coming and coming over the weeks. 

A dark part of you enjoyed having his attention. You waited to see his icon pop up, just to let the call go to voicemail. It made you feel wanted again. 

And you were wanted. When he tried to sleep at night, he wanted you. When he talked with his manager about future plans for the next season—back down to F2—he wanted you. 

Both of you knew it was a delicate balance. He couldn’t keep calling forever. At some point you’d have to answer, or he’d have to stop. But you loved the dark thrill of pushing it. 

And this continued for weeks.

The calls lessened as the F2 season began. Franco was back at work. You had finally let go of the need to watch his races.

But there was another contact you hadn’t ignored: Lily. 

She called you out of the blue one day. “YN! I feel like I haven’t seen you in forever.”

The last time you saw her—it must have been Austin—felt like years ago.  

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” you replied. 

“Do you… wanna talk about how you’ve been?” It was late January now. You had spent the weeks just passing time, lost, but somehow also at peace with all of it.

“Um… not if you don’t want to ruin your day,” you joked. Humor was a good coping mechanism, you had learned. You’d grown tired of explaining to people why Franco was no longer in your life. You had once been so intertwined, and now, nothing. You were thankful that she didn’t press further. 

“Well, we should go out,” she suggested. “I know a great new club in Madrid, and Rebecca and I will be there the weekend before Valentine’s Day.”

Valentine’s Day. The bane of your fucking existence. Worst holiday ever.

But you had spent Christmas in a daze, and New Years alone. You didn’t know if you could do another holiday like that, so acutely aware of Franco’s absence. So you agreed. 

But Lily’s phone call wasn’t as out of the blue as you had thought.

One thing about Franco was that he was determined. If he wanted something, he was going to get it. So yes, he called and called and called and let all his calls be missed.

He couldn’t just text you or leave a voicemail. What he needed to say was too important. He needed to see you.  

So he called up the only other woman he knew besides you and his own mother: Lily. 

He pitched the idea simply. He just needed her to arrange something where you and him would meet. Lily was skeptical. 

“Franco, you know when a woman isn’t answering your calls, it’s usually because she doesn’t want to talk to you, right?” 

“I know,” he signed. “I know she’s pissed at me. She has every right to be. I just want to apologize to her.”

“Then why not, like, send her a letter or something? Trying to organize an event where she’s forced to see you is kind of…creepy.”

Deep down, he knew Lily was right. “It’s not like that, though. I just need to see her, say it to her face. If she gets angry and never wants to see me again, I’ll respect her wishes. But I love her too much to not try.”

Lily was a hopeless romantic if nothing else. And Franco was charismatic and too smooth to deny with his one-liners. 

So she agreed. Besides, she knew you needed a girls night.

And you realized it too when Rebecca and Lily came over to your apartment to get ready a few weeks later. 

You vented to them as they helped you apply your eyeliner and zip up your dress—yes, THAT dress—about how hard the past few weeks had been.

“And then,” you explained, as Rebecca dusted a brush along your cheekbones, “he told me that I didn’t need to be there! As if he wasn’t the one who begged me to go!”

Rebecca made a sour expression. “Girl,” she said, “Good riddance to him.”

When you looked at yourself in the mirror, you nearly gasped. You looked fucking amazing. 

Yes, you were wearing that dress that always reminded you of him—his favorite color, bought while on vacation to see his family. But if he couldn’t see your beauty, someone else would. And right now, that someone was Lily, as she snapped photos of you all before you left for the club and posted them on her story.

As you entered the club, you felt the bass in your bones. Yes, this was exactly what you needed. 

You drank. You danced. You felt the eyes of tipsy men on you.. And for a while, all your troubles faded away.

You approached the bar for your second drink of the night. A man walked next to you, presumably to order his own drink. You recognized him as someone you’d danced with earlier.

“You look great tonight,” he said, eyeing you up and down. His tone was too sleazy for your liking.

“Thanks,” you said, hoping a short response would end the exchange so you could get your drink and make your way back to Lily and Rebecca, who were waiting for you in a booth. 

“D’you always dance like that?”

“Like what?” 

He smirked. “You’re cute when you play dumb like that.”

You genuinely had no idea what the man was going on about. “Sorry, I need to get back to my friends.”

You turned to leave, but the man grabbed your arm. “Don’t you need to get your drink? Stay a minute.”

You grimaced, but a surge of anxiety kept you frozen to your spot. You turned your glaze to the floor, silently beginning for an out.

“So, what’s your name?”

“Uh…” You were unable to answer. You feigned ignorance. “Sorry, it’s loud in here, I can’t hear you.”

“Oh, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need to know your name to take you home tonight.”

“What?” You wanted to puke.

The man started to reach his arm out toward your waist. You stepped back and bumped into someone. You cursed your own awkwardness. When you turned to apologize, you saw a familiar face.

Franco. Fuck. You felt your stomach drop. 

“You know this guy?” The man behind you asked.

“She does,” Franco answered for you. You were grateful—you were unable to speak, choked with anxiety. 

“You let your girl act like that?” 

“Fuck off, mate.”

The man took the hint and shrugged, taking his drink and disappearing into the crowd. 

Your eyes were still glued to the floor. “Thank you,” you said. 

“Don’t thank me,” he said, “it’s the least I could do.”

The bartender handed you your drink. Part of you just wanted to go back to Lily and Rebecca and act like all of this never happened. But by the look of Franco’s face, one of grave seriousness, you knew it wouldn’t be that easy.

But the other part of you was thankful. Thankful that Franco had saved you from that creep, yes, but also thankful that the stars had aligned to bring you and your best friend back together. What were the odds?

Wait. Maybe the stars hadn’t aligned.

“Franco, what are you doing here?” 

Now it was him who looked to the floor in embarrassment. “Lily told me you were here. I asked her to help me talk to you.”

“So you… arranged to find me in a club, because I wasn’t answering your calls?” 

Franco may be Latino, but he sure had the audacity of a white man. 

“When you put it like that, it sounds bad…”

You rolled your eyes and walked away. He followed you through the crowd. 

“YN, wait! Why won't you answer my calls?”

“Because I have nothing to say to you.” That wasn’t true. You actually had a lot to say, you were just too afraid to say it.

“Okay, I get it. I fucked up. But will you just listen to me? Please?” 

You just kept walking. 

“YN! Please!” You had nearly reached the booths, and he was still following you. You just kept ignoring him. 

“YN—” You slammed down your drink on the table, startling Lily and Rebecca. When Franco came into view behind you, they exchanged knowing glances. 

You turned around to face him. “Are you really begging?” you whispered in a hushed tone. 

“Yes,” he said, his voice equally low. 

Lily got out of the booth, standing next to you. “What’s the harm in just hearing him out?” she said, low enough that he wouldn’t be able to hear her over the thumping bass. 

You swallowed. The harm? You would fall for him again. And he would hurt you again and again. You’d lose him again. A never ending cycle of pain. 

But his pleading expression in front of you was too much to bear. You couldn’t say no to the man you still loved.

“Let’s get some air, hm?” he said, and you nodded, silently following him back to the crowd. He led you to a staircase where a bouncer nodded and silently let the both of you pass. 

The staircase led to the roof of the club, with a beautiful view of the city. The space was clearly set up for patrons to enjoy, but there wasn’t a soul there besides you and Franco. 

The view took your breath away. You had seen so much beauty when you had traveled the world with Franco for his races, but this was home, and he was warm next to you as he snaked his arm around your waist, silently taking in the sight next to you.

You relaxed into the touch. For a moment, you just let everything fade away into the peaceful scene. 

But as you smelled Franco’s familiar cologne and relished the feeling of his touch, you couldn’t help the anxiety that rose in your throat. It felt like it was choking you. You moved forward, forcing his arm away, and leaned against the railing on the edge of the rooftop.

“Say what you have to say,” you said plainly. 

“I want to apologize.” His opening sentence was simple, yet powerful. “YN, I was horrible to you. I lied and I betrayed your trust. I blamed all my problems on you, when you were the only one who was ever there for me.”

You watched the cars on the road below, like ants in a colony.

He continued, “And you were right, about everything.” 

The silence in the air was thick.

Your voice was shaking when you began. “Franco, you made me feel like I was insane. You… you accused me of using you. You called me a distraction. You said I was disgusting. You uninvited me from the last races and you blocked me.”

“You tried to call?”

“Of course I did.” The tears in your eyes threatened to mess up your mascara that Rebecca had so carefully applied. “I tried to call you before Abu Dhabi. I wanted to forgive you and be there for your last race.”

“Shit, YN… I’m so fucking sorry.”

“I don’t know if I can forgive you now.”

It was him, now, who had eyes full of tears. “YN, I…I love you. I can’t lose you. I know I hurt you, and it kills me. But I miss my best friend. My friend who skipped prom to come to a race. My friend who helped me dry my clothes after she found me trying to use an oven to do it. My friend who is the only one that really gets my sense of humor.”

You finally broke down at his confession. He reached out to hold you.

“Don’t cry,” he whispered. “I’m here. It’s gonna be okay.”

He let you cry it out, before pulling back and looking at you. He gently used the pad of his thumb to wipe away your tears and fix your smeared makeup.

“I can’t ask for everything to go back to normal,” he said, looking you in the eyes. His eyes were teary, too. “I know I can’t. I did things that are beyond awful. But I promise you that if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I’ll do whatever I can to regain your trust. You’re too important to me.”

All you could do was bury yourself in his chest. He wasn’t expecting the sudden gesture, but he slotted his arms around you like they always belonged there. He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead. You don’t know how long you stood there, warm in his embrace. You could have stayed there for years. 

You were brought out of the perfect scene by the sound of a notification on your phone. You broke the hug after a moment to check it. A text from Lily: everything okay?

You chuckled. “I think Lily is worried about us.”

“Well,” he asked, “is everything okay?”

He wanted an answer. You didn’t know if you could say it. 

But is this not what your entire journey had been leading up to? You had begun writing in your journal to communicate what you feel. And now, you had no choice. 

You were strong. You had changed.

“I want to forgive you,” you said. “But it won’t be easy. It’ll take time.”

“I have all the time in the world.”

“And I can’t promise that I won’t be scared or insecure.”

“Whatever you need, I’ll do. I’ll listen, I’ll show you—”

“Franco.” You cut him off. “I know. I love you.”

You couldn’t name the expression on his face. Like relief. Or love.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked. 

You were scared of what door that would open, of how much you truly wanted him to. So you didn’t speak. You just reached up to caress his cheek and tell him with your actions.

Your lips met his, and all the sorrow melted away. You could feel the vibrations of the club under your feet, the gentle pumping of blood through his veins, faster now that he could touch you. He pulled you in by the waist, and you brought your other hand to the back of his neck, making the space between you infinitesimally small. 

But you pulled away before he could deepen the kiss. You couldn’t rush it, no matter how badly you wanted it. 

When you opened your eyes, he had that expression you had grown to yearn for; it gave away how badly he needed more of you. You could feel a blush rise to your cheeks at the thought of his wanting.

“We should go back down before Lily gets too worried,” you said. He smiled and nodded, but as his expression of desire faded away, you saw the familiar signs of anxiety. He didn’t know how far to push, how comfortable to act. 

You grabbed his hand. “And then, you should dance with me.”

His tentative smile grew more relaxed. “Of course.”

Turns out, there’s nothing an honest conversation and a little alcohol couldn’t fix. And in the aftermath of the former, you definitely indulged in the latter—maybe a little too much. 

You went downstairs to retrieve your drink that Lily and Rebecca had so kindly watched for you. It was a little watered down from the ice melting, but it would do the trick. 

Rebecca helped you fix your makeup as Lily glared at Franco for making you cry. He knew he’d have work to do to earn back their trust, too, but he was more than willing. 

So when you were ready, he wasted no time taking you out to the dancefloor to give you the night of your life. 

The only problem was that Franco was not a frequent club goer, and therefore unable to handle his liquor. And you all had a lot to drink that night. 

You finally cut him off when he threatened to get on the table and start stripping. 

“Oh, Lord, Franco, I’m cutting you off, you’ve had too much to drink,” you slurred. You were tipsy yourself, in no state to talk, but at least you were committed to staying clothed for the night. 

“What are you gonna do? Fuck me about it?” he joked, sticking his tongue out playfully. 

You don’t know if the blush on your face was from the drinks or his taunting. But God, even when he was wasted, he looked so good. As the night had progressed, he had become more disheveled, his shirt buttons coming undone to expose his toned chest and a sheen of sweat from all the dancing. He leaned over, running a hand along your cheek. “Bet you would want that, wouldn’t you?” 

“Okay, time to get you home!” you told him. Lily and Rebecca had left a bit earlier, satisfied that their mission was accomplished. 

You got up and tried to corral your drunk friend out of the club. He didn't want to cooperate, though. 

“No, YN, I don’t want to go home! I missed you, dance with me!” He reached out to grab your waist, his hands wandering up and down your body. 

“Franco, you’re drunk,” you said, moving out of his grip. “I’m calling an Uber and getting you home.”

It’s not like his touch was unwelcome. But you were in public and he was inebriated, unable to consent to what he was actually doing. You knew it was time to go. 

You finally dragged him outside as you waited for the Uber on the corner. You hoped the cool night air would sober him up a bit.

“Have I told you that you look fucking gorgeous tonight?” he slurred. You ignored him as you watched the little car icon drive closer and closer. 

“I always loved that dress on you,” he continued, “but it’d look better off of you.”

“Our Uber is here!” you said through your blush. 

But even in the Uber, he was relentless. 

“I missed youuuuu” he cooed in your ear.

“I missed you too, but could you not be a whore for 5 minutes?” you laughed. You hoped the humor would distract him. He lowered his voice to a husky whisper.

“But YNNNNN, I want you so fucking badly. Every part of you, even the parts that you’re ashamed of—fuck, especially those parts. I want to know the version of you that you’re scared to be. I want you to use me like a toy to get what you want. And when I read what you wrote I was… fuck, I couldn’t stop myself. Every day I’d read it and touch myself and wish it was you. God, I just need to fuck you so badly—“ he practically moaned in your ear as his hand again reached to your waist.

You grabbed him by the wrist, stopping him in his tracks. His doe eyes looked up at you, deceptively innocent, hiding behind them the true depths of his lust.

You moved his hand away and let go. He was silent and still.

“Franco, you are drunk. I am going to get you home and you are going to get some rest.”

“I know you’re mad at me. You should be, I’m a fucking idiot,” he slurred. “But you can take it out on me, on my body—“

“Franco! We are in public,” you hissed through gritted teeth.

“Is being horny a crime? You can arrest me, put me in restraints—” 

The Uber pulled up in front of your apartment and you wasted no time getting Franco out of the car and up the stairs. You made sure to tip the driver well. 

Franco didn’t even let up as he collapsed on your bed, dizzy from stumbling up the stairs and into your apartment. He grabbed you, pulling you back to the bed, burying his face in your hair.

“You smell so good,” he muttered. You wrestled free from his grip, throwing a pillow back at him playfully. 

“I am not going to fuck you when you’re this drunk. Get changed and go to sleep.” 

He pouted, but complied, undressing agonizingly slowly behind you. You had turned away to give him privacy, but your mind wandered as you heard the shuffling of his clothes. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he apologized, still behind you.

“You didn’t,” you said, and it was true; you loved that he wanted you, just…not in that setting. “Just sleep it off. I’ll take the couch.”

“No, come here,” he said, patting the side of the bed. You turned and jumped, seeing that instead of changing into the pair of old pajamas that he had left at your place many months ago that you had laid out for him, he had just stripped down to his underwear.

“Absolutely not,” you said, your face turning a bright red. “Put some clothes on.”

“But it’s hot in here!”

“Then I’ll take the couch.”

“YN just snuggle with me—”

You cut him off by closing the bedroom door. 

A few hours later, you were convinced that you had the world’s most uncomfortable couch. You couldn’t sleep a bit. 

You filled the hours by scrolling on your phone. The F1 gossip pages were calling your name. 

The reappearance of YN! The former friend (and suspected ex girlfriend) of Williams reserve driver Franco Colapinto was featured in a post from a nightclub in Madrid with current Williams wags Lily Muni He and Rebecca Donaldson. Several attendees also caught videos of her dancing with a mysterious man that is definitely not Franco. YN hasn’t been publicly seen since the 2024 Brazilian Grand Prix, which fans assume has something to do with Franco’s fling with a controversial Argentine actress.

Above the caption was a slideshow: the pictures of you, Lily, and Rebecca on the first slide, and the next being a video of you dancing with the creep. You cringed at the memory.

The top comment made you chuckle: I can’t believe Franco fumbled his 2025 seat AND a baddie. 

You scrolled to the next post. 

Former F1 driver for Williams, Franco Colapinto, spotted in a nightclub in Madrid getting very handsy with best friend YN! 

The two have not been seen together since the Brazilian Grand Prix in 2024. At the time, fans speculated that the two were dating, but sources close to the driver reported that a falling out regarding Franco’s dating controversies during the season led him to cancel her VIP pass for the last triple header.

But luckily for Franco x YN shippers, the pair seem to be quite comfortable with each other again. Do you think they’ll make it official soon? Comment your opinion below!

Fuck. Someone had gotten a video of you trying to get Franco out of the club, and without context, it looked bad.

You were pushing him off of you, yes, but not because you didn’t want his touch. You were just afraid of this exact scenario happening. You prayed a silent apology for his manager. 

Your scrolling was interrupted by the sound of Franco waking up and stumbling into your kitchen for a glass of water. Even with only a few hours of rest, he had slept off the drunkenness, but was left with a horrific hangover. 

You probably should have just pretended to be asleep until he went back to bed. But, against your better judgement, you got up to meet him at your kitchen counter.

He still hadn’t put any clothes on. Typical.

“You alive there?” you joked.

He downed his entire glass of water. “Barely,” he grimaced. “Worth it, though.”

You gave him a half smile. “You’re probably gonna have a million notifications from your manager. I tried my best.” You handed him your phone to watch the video.

“Jesus, that’s how I looked? I’m sorry.”

“I didn’t mind. But it’s a good thing that you probably don’t remember what you said.”

“Oh no, I remember.” You blushed. “And I don’t regret a word. I meant everything I said.”

“Franco, when we were in the Uber, you said I could use your body as a toy.” You cringed as you repeated his words back to him.

“I know. Offer still stands.”

“Franco…”

“YN, be honest with me. If I was sober, and we were alone, what would you have done?”

You swallowed. He was sober. You were alone.

He saw the thoughts cross your eyes. He broke the space between you walking to the other side of the counter. He pulled you in by the waist until all that separated you was the thin fabric of your pajamas and his underwear.

The breath had been taken from you. “Talk to me,” he said. You couldn’t. The anxiety choked you. “YN, I’m tired of pretending like I don’t want you.”

“Don’t do this to me, Franco,” you pleaded. “I want this but … we shouldn’t.” You looked away. You couldn’t handle the intensity of his gaze

“Why not?”

“Because… we just made up. I don’t want to lose you again.”

“You won’t. I’m here to stay. Trust me. If I promise that everything will be okay, will you trust me?”

You paused. “… I can’t. I don’t trust you. Not yet, at least.”

You had to be honest with him, but it broke your heart to say those words. You didn't know yet if he was genuine, or if his fling with the actress hadn't worked out and he was using you as a placeholder. The thought made you want to puke. 

He loosened his grip on you. Your words felt like a thousand knives going through his chest, but he knew he was going to have to face the very real consequences of his actions. 

“I understand,” he said. “Just let me hold you. I know my words don’t mean much anymore. But I promise I’ll do everything in my power to earn back your trust, and I mean it.”

He buried his face in your hair. “Come back to bed with me.” You knew the request was innocent, so you allowed it, snuggling up into his warm chest and falling asleep as the sun began to peak in the sky outside. “I’m letting go of you. Never again,” he murmured. Both of you knew that it wasn't about the sex, or about how right you felt curled up next to him. It was something deeper, more intimate, than the bare skin that he now innocently wrapped his arm around. 

When you woke up, for a moment, you thought you had dreamed the whole thing. But the soothing sound of Franco’s soft snoring proved you wrong. 

Over breakfast, you laid out boundaries. You both needed to take things slowly, build up the trust that had been lost.

But when you woke up a week later on Valentine’s Day to a bouquet of pink roses on your nightstand, you couldn’t help but blush darker than the petals, remembering the reference from your diary. 

Franco had planned to take you out, and of course, you wore his favorite dress. 

The night was perfect—a little too perfect. In the back of your mind, you couldn’t help remembering the salacious ending to that diary entry, replaying the fantasy over and over in your mind. But as he took you home for the night, Franco was ever the gentleman, perfectly keeping his hands to himself.

The longer you looked at him, the more you wanted him to touch you. 

You had only made it to your apartment for a few seconds when the sight of Franco taking off his suit jacket was too much to bear. You grabbed him by the collar, pulling him into a frantic kiss. 

He wasn’t complaining, of course.

He took your actions as a sign, gently pushing you into the wall behind you until you were pinned. His lips never left yours, instead deepening the connection, tongues exploring each other’s mouths.

When you did come up for air, there was a faint hint of your lipstick on him. He chuckled. “Mi amor, what was that?” he teased, stroking your cheek and he looked down on you. He rested his arm above your head, leaning his body into yours. You could feel both of your chests breathing heavily with a growing desire.

“I wanted you.”

“I thought you wanted to wait?” He was right. You didn’t want to rush into physical things so early. Franco had been nothing but respectful and apologetic all week, but still, only those few days had passed. 

“...Yeah,” you said. You were frustrated at him. For being so fucking attractive. For making you want him so badly.

“It’s alright, hermosa,” he teased, “I’m sorry that I’m so irresistible.” Only a week since you all had made up, and he was already back to reading your thoughts.

“Oh, hush.” 

In the following weeks, Franco’s return to racing made resisting him a lot easier. He had asked you to come to a few races, but you had declined. The memories of his time in F1 were too fresh, the wounds not quite sealed. Besides, you didn’t want to be seen in public with him just yet. You hadn’t exactly made your relationship official—though neither of you were talking to other people—and you were anxious for the public eye to be on you again. 

That was, until Franco got a very exciting phone call. 

Carlos Sainz had gotten in a minor biking accident—nothing major, just a sprained wrist, but enough that he needed to take a week off to heal—so Franco would be back in his car.

When he asked you to return to the F1 paddock with him, this time, you couldn’t refuse. 

So that’s how you found yourself in a hotel room with your best friend (and now sort-of boyfriend). 

Before bed on Wednesday night, after a long day of meetings, he wanted nothing more than to come back to the hotel and lay in your arms. And that’s exactly what he did.

You absentmindedly ran your fingers through his hair. “You nervous for tomorrow?” you asked.

“No,” he answered truthfully, “not one bit.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I mean, I have nothing to lose. Nothing could be worse than the end of last season.”

“Franco, don’t say that.”

“It’s true, though.” He chuckled. “I can’t fuck up any worse than I already did. For a while there, I lost everything.”

You stopped playing with his hair to crane your neck down and kiss the top of his head. “Well, I’m not going anywhere,” you said. 

He sat up, looking you dead in the eyes, his expression as serious as it could get.

“I love you.”

You were taken aback for a moment. You had both said it back in February when you confessed, but it was different now; more real, vulnerable. 

“I love you too.”

“I want you to be mine.” His gaze traced the line from your lips to your eyes, finally meeting you where you couldn’t look away.

“I already am.”

“Then I’m yours, too. And I want the world to know it.”

You finally broke the stare, looking down at the comforter. “I’m nervous about what people will say.”

“YN, who gives a fuck what they say? They’re not here. They don’t know us.” You knew, deep down, that he was right, but that did nothing to temper your anxiety.

Franco playfully grabbed you and pulled you to sit on his lap. You let out a yelp that dissolved into laughter as you saw the smile on his face. 

“I don’t care what anyone says. You’re my girl, yeah?” 

You smiled too. “Yeah.”

“And I'm yours. You wanna prove it?” he teased, pulling down the collar of his shirt, exposing his neck. “Show them all what’s yours, hm?”

“Franco,” you said, blushing, “everyone will see.”

“That’s the point, mi amor.”

“Your manager will kill me if you show up to media day covered in hickeys.”

“I’ll cover them up.” You knew better. He absolutely would not cover them up. He’d wear them like a badge of honor.

But Franco’s refusal to be media trained was one of the many qualities you loved about him.

“Come on, you know you want to,” he teased. He was right. Right now you wanted nothing more than to cover him in love bites, claiming him as yours. 

But you wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he could read you so well.

“Oh, hush,” you said, grabbing his chin to bring him into another drawn out kiss. 

You trailed the kiss down to his neck, finally giving in to his request. Yes, he was yours. And now the world would see it.

You relentlessly nipped at the rough skin, enjoying the soft but labored breaths that came from Franco. You kissed his earlobes, his jaw, his collarbones, until you found that perfect spot on his neck. He gasped when your teeth met his skin, softly moaning when you gently sunk your teeth in and sucked to leave a bright red mark.

You pulled away, and his expression was one of deep wanting. Sitting on his lap, you could feel him hardening under you, desperate for whatever he could get of you. 

You rested your hands on the hem of his shirt. “This is getting in my way,” you complained.

He wasted no time in taking it off. 

He slid his hands under your shirt too, drawing you closer to him, burying his face in your neck and smothering it with kisses. You gently grinded down on him, giving both of you the friction you so desperately needed.

But you didn’t want to be the focus of the night. You took back control, running your hands through his hair and roughly pulling it, forcing his head back.

His doe eyes on you were full of lust. He paused for a moment.

“Sorry, was that too much?” you whispered, embarrassment beginning to flush your face bright pink.

“Oh no, I..” he panted, “I liked that a lot.”

You smiled, and went right back to your attack on his skin. He ran his hands up and down your back underneath your shirt, teasing with the clasp of your bra.

You felt his phone buzz in his pocket. You both ignored it. 

“YN…” he exhaled, a breathy moan. You pulled back, seeing the red flush on his face. You could feel his excitement beneath you.

“Can I take this off?” he asked, his hands tugging at your top.

You weren’t quite sure what to answer. You figured that you’d sit down and talk before your first time. You all hadn’t gone beyond heavy kissing—Franco had been respectful of your desire to wait. But it had been months now, and he’d gone above and beyond to prove that you could trust him.

His phone buzzed again. And again, you both ignored it.

“You don’t have to if you’re nervous,” he said. “We only go as far as you want.”

You nodded, silently giving him permission. He leaned in to softly press one last kiss to your lips before moving to pull off your top.

Only for his phone to ring, ruining the moment.

Your shirt remained on as he fumbled to get his phone out of his pocket and turn it off. But the caller was James Vowels.

You both saw the contact info and knew that the mood had been ruined.

“I’m sorry, amor, I have to take this—” he apologized as you climbed off of his lap and he answered the call.

As he spoke, you took a deep breath, trying to process what had just happened, and what was about to happen before you had been cockblocked by the William’s team principal. 

After only a minute he hung up the call, continuing to apologize. “I’m so sorry, they need me right now.” His voice was full of urgency. 

“It’s okay, go,” you assured him, your tone genuine. He placed a chaste kiss on your cheek before grabbing a Williams quarter zip from the floor to cover up the darkening marks on his neck. 

He raced down to the hotel conference room, hoping that his…little problem would not be visible in what had sounded like a very important meeting. The tone in James’ voice had been one of immediacy, and Franco had no idea what to expect. 

And when he finally made it to the room, he was met with faces both new and familiar: James, his manager, and…Aston Martin employees?

He made a confused face and he gave the group a cursory nod and sat down in the last remaining seat, next to his manager. 

“Oh, Franco, you’re here,” James said, exhaling. “We have some exciting news.”

His manager had a smile that beamed across the room. “We’ve been talking to these lovely folks from Aston Martin,” she said, gesturing to the other side of the table. “It hasn’t been officially announced yet, but soon they’ll be putting out a statement. Fernando Alonso is retiring.”

Franco gave them a polite smile, unsure of what that information had to do with him.

“So, Aston Martin would like to offer you the seat for 2026.”

Franco felt the air leave his lungs. “I…uh…yes,” he said, too stunned to really speak. “Yes, I want it. Where do I sign?”

“Well, not so fast,” his manager responded. “We have a lot to discuss regarding the new contract, brand deals, buying you out of your Williams contract…”

But Franco was on cloud nine. His manager’s words faded into the background. He felt like heaven had opened up, and the absolute novel of a contract that now sat on the table in front of him was dropped directly there by God Himself. He could even hear the chorus of angels singing. 

His presence there was merely a formality, it seemed, as the Aston Martin officials and his manager talked back and forth on minute details for what felt like hours. Nothing would be set in stone today, of course, but she wasn’t lying when she had said that a mountain of work laid ahead of them. 

As the time droned on, the officials filtered out one by one, leaving only Franco and his manager alone in the conference room.

“I’m so proud of you, kid,” she said, patting him on the shoulder. “You really earned this.”

“Thank you,” he replied, genuine. 

“Look, go back to your room and get some rest. You’ve got a big day tomorrow. But this is strictly confidential, you hear me? You can’t tell a single soul. Not even your own mother. Not even YN.”

“I hear you.”

“And, tomorrow, maybe cover that up better, yeah?” she said, gesturing to her neck. But Franco felt no shame.

“Well, can’t help that you all called at a very inconvenient time.”

His manager grimaced. “I didn’t need to know that. Get some rest,” she laughed, shaking her head. Even she was too happy to truly scold him. 

When he finally returned to the room hours later, you had already fallen asleep waiting for him. He quietly undressed and got in bed, gently brushing your hair out of your face to gaze on your sleeping form.

You were perfect. He had gotten the seat and the girl; what else could a man ask for?

The morning was chaotic. You had both overslept. 

“I’m sorry about last night, amor,” Franco said as you applied concealer to his neck. “It was urgent, and they kept me there for hours.”

“What was it about?” You gently dabbed a makeup sponge across the reddened skin.

“I can’t say. Strictly confidential. But it’s amazing, you’ll see.” He beamed, but you made a face at him. Smiling flexed his neck muscles and made it harder to cover up the evidence of your intimacy.

At the paddock, it was chaos as usual. It was the return of the Franco Colapinto—now triumphant, having had a solid season in F2 so far—and this time, he walked in with you on his arm. 

The only problem was that Franco kept tugging at the neckline of his quarter zip, and the friction was causing the hastily applied makeup from the morning to smudge, revealing the marks beneath.

Thankfully, no reporters said anything. But the fans online certainly were.

Steamy! Franco Colapinto arrives today at the paddock with suspected girlfriend YN in tow, and the driver appears to have several red marks on his neck. YN and Franco have not confirmed any relationship other than being friends, and this is the first race she has attended since Brazil 2024.

COMMENT: Franco showing up to the paddock absolutely covered in hickeys was not on my 2025 bingo card

COMMENT: Okay but that is so on brand for him. This man simply does not give a fuck and I love it.

You chuckled to yourself as you read the comment. But you tensed up as you felt Franco’s manager walk up next to you. You were already anticipating the earful she’d give you.

“He’s a natural at this, ain’t he?” she asked, more a statement than a question. In the distance, Franco was making a reporter laugh.

“Yeah,” you said. Franco’s manager always made you nervous, for some reason. 

“I’m so proud of him.”

“Me too.” You paused, unsure of whether to broach the subject. “You’re…unusually chipper today.”

His manager laughed. “Yeah, I guess so. But even I have to relax sometimes. I mean, he’s doing a great job.”

“I heard there was some exciting news. Franco wouldn’t tell me what, though.”

His manager’s casual smile now stretched from ear to ear. “Oh yeah, big stuff. But top secret.”

“I can’t wait to hear.”

Media day went smooth as butter. Practice 1 and 2 went perfect. With the arrival of Carlos Sainz, the Williams car had vastly improved, and Franco drove like an expert.

Such was evident by his P8 finish in qualifying the next day; his highest ever qualifying in F1. 

Since your night had been interrupted the day before, your wanting of him hadn’t lessened; in fact, it had grown stronger ever since you realized how you truly were ready. But quali day had taken it out of him, and you knew he needed to rest before the Grand Prix tomorrow.

And on that next day, as you watched him climb in the car from the Williams garage, you hoped that he’d put that rest to good use. You said a prayer for his safety even more than his success.

You held your breath through each lap, silently cheering him on through the knots of nervousness in your stomach. But it seems like your prayer was working; he was gaining places, P8 to P5 only a fourth of the way into the race. 

He boxed halfway, and your eyes traced the lines of his car and helmet as he pulled into eyeshot of you and sped away in only a few seconds. He wasn’t looking at you, of course, but it didn’t matter. Your heart felt like it would burst with love.

At first, you didn’t even notice the cameras capturing your sentimental expression. That was, until you glanced away from his car in the distance and looked toward the screen. You were shocked to see your own reflection, captioned with your job title and ‘Franco Colapinto’s partner.’

He really was yours, now. You smiled at the camera and waved before it cut away to the action. Franco just kept gaining. He had dropped a few places after boxing, but made up for it in no time. P4.

You could hear the commentators through your headphones.

“And really, Franco Colapinto is stunning us all here. As we all remember, he had a rather disappointing end to the 2024 F1 season, but he seems to have come back with a vengeance. A podium is a real possibility for him today.”

Your smile couldn’t be contained. He was going to do this. You knew it. 

With only five laps left, he overtook for P3. The garage cheered. You cheered with them. But it wasn’t over yet. It was a tense, wheel to wheel battle. Your heart was beating out of your chest.

He was able to inch just slightly enough ahead to cinch the spot as he crossed the checkered flag.

The William’s garage erupted in applause.

You ran to meet him as he pulled up the car, catching him when he jumped into the arms of the crowd of William’s employees. He nearly ripped off his helmet and balaclava, grabbed your jaw and brought you into a rough kiss.

You broke with a smile. “I love you, I’m so proud of you!” you said, unsure if he could even hear you in the chaos.

“Te amo, YN,” he said, tears of happiness clouding the edges of his vision. He continued speaking in Spanish, but you couldn’t make out what he was saying over the crowd. He had to break the embrace to go to the podium.

As he stood up there, you beamed with pride below. He really had made it.  

After the podium, you hid away in his driver’s room, waiting for all his media obligations to be over so you could go back to the hotel together. To pass the time, you scrolled. The internet was losing their mind over your hard launch.

And even better, people had already uploaded videos of you and Franco exchanging words of love at the barriers. His words were difficult to make out, but a few dedicated lip readers had attempted to decipher the message. But there was no internet consensus just yet.

You made a mental note to ask Franco what he had said later, but for now, you were sure he was exhausted.  

Your assumption was proven correct as he walked into his driver’s room, rolling his shoulders and sighing. But upon seeing you, his face lit up. You greeted him with more hugs and words of praise.

As you both stood there, holding each other, it was like the world around you melted away. 

“YN, can I tell you something?” he muttered into your hair, hand snaked around your upper back.

“Anything,” you answered, your face pressed into his chest.

“I’m not supposed to tell anyone. You can’t let my manager know that I told you.”

You hummed in response, but he broke the hug to look at you, indicating the seriousness of his statement to come.

“I got a contract for 2026.”

Your eyes went as wide as dinner plates. You were speechless.

“Franco… that’s, oh my God, that’s amazing!” You thought you were going to burst with love for him.

“Nothing is set in stone yet,” he explained, “but she’s been negotiating the contract, and they’ll probably announce it in a few weeks.”

You reached your fingers up to run them through his curls. “You’re incredible.” He blushed.

“I think we should go back to the hotel and celebrate, hm?” he teased.

“You don’t want to go out?”

“We can if you want,” he mused, pressing a soft kiss to your cheek, “but I think the world has seen enough of us today, yeah?”

So you celebrated in your hotel room alone. The bottle of champagne that decorated the desk of the room was left untouched—but you sure as hell weren’t. 

The podium had emboldened him. He explored the curves of your body over your clothes with reckless abandon. You wordlessly helped him remove his shirt, trailing your eyes of the muscles that were sure to be sore in a few hours. You traced the marks you had left the other day, now beginning to fade.

“My turn,” he joked, bringing his lips to your neck to give you your fair share of love bites. He brought one hand to gently hold your neck, while the other inched further and further up your shirt, teasing the edge of your bra. You felt like you could drown in his touch. You closed your eyes and fell deep into bliss. 

“YN,” he whispered, “are you sure you want to do this? Are we ready?”

You swallowed, nervous. “Yes.”

But he could sense your anxiety, and was hesitant to continue. He pulled back, raking his eyes up and down your form. You couldn’t help your nervousness. But having read your darkest fantasies, he knew what you really wanted. 

“You know, the reason I read your diary is because I knew there was something about you that you try so desperately to hide,” he said, his voice soft and smooth as honey. “I wanted to know whatever part of you that you try to hide away from the rest of the world,” he let his hands trace down the length of your arm, and leaned in closer to whisper in your ear, “and that part of you is that you’re a needy girl who’s desperate to get fucked.” 

A shiver ran down your spine at the vulgarity of his words, a side to him you’d never seen.

He brought his hand from your arm to your neck, gently tracing the curve towards your chin. “And there’s nothing wrong with that, of course.” 

His voice was soft and tender, but when his hand grabbed your chin and forced you to face him, his expression was anything but. “You just needed a man who can fuck you like the desperate girl you are.” Your eyes widened at his words, and you could feel the warmth rush to your cheeks in a rosy blush. 

His eyes met yours. “Just say the word, mi amor. Do you trust me? Will you let me fuck you like you want… no, like you need to be fucked so badly? I can do it. I’m not afraid. I want to give you everything you’ve ever dreamed of…” His voice trailed off as he turned his head and closed the gap between you, placing his lips right below your ear. The kiss was soft and made you release your breath. “Say it, YN. Tell me you want this as bad as I do.” 

“You really want this?” you said, your voice almost trembling with anticipation.

His lips near your ear were going to be the death of you. “Of course. Can’t you feel how badly I do?” he whispered. You could feel him beneath you, hardening with every second that went past. You imagined the feeling of grinding your hips down on his length, recalling the memories of only a few days before. 

Oh God, how badly you wanted to. You wanted to give him everything. You could feel his soft breath on your neck, his hands now resting on your waist, tentatively waiting for your permission to resume roaming the curves of your body. But your breath was caught in your throat.

“Franco…” The soft exhalation of his name was all you can muster. “What, amor?” he replied. You swallowed and closed your eyes, knowing your next word would let the floodgates of your desire open.

“Please.”

His lips met your neck in a kiss that was tentative at first, like you were something fragile that could be broken by his touch. But the feeling of his soft lips finally meeting your skin caused you to draw in a breath. 

“You want to take the lead, or should I?” he asked. 

“You,” you answered simply, too distracted by the absolutely heavenly feeling of his velvet lips on your neck.

He hummed in response. “If you ever want to stop, just tell me, okay?”

“I will.”

He placed one final kiss on your neck and helped you take off your top. You felt his eyes undressing you more than his hands.

He wordlessly turned you around to sit on his lap, your back against his chest. His hands traced lower and lower down your stomach until they met the lacy waistband of your shorts.

“Are you going to be a good girl and take these off for me?” he purred. 

“Why would I do that, when I have you to do it for me?” You could tease him right back. He let out a dark laugh, kissing your neck from behind. 

“Little brat…” he cooed, but you took no offense. He slid your shorts off, and you were left with only your bra and panties. He ran his hands up and down your now exposed stomach. His touch was warm and inviting as it traced down to the now wet fabric of your panties. 

He began slowly, just tracing the skin through the fabric, inching lower and lower. He could already feel how wet you were. “Doesn’t take that much to get you going, hm? So wet just from my words.”

You blushed in embarrassment at his teasing. “Shut up…”

“Oh, amor,” he kissed your cheek, your face now turning away from him. “It’s okay. I know how badly you needed this.”

You let out a breathy moan as he began to outline your pussy with the feather-light touch of his fingers. He tentatively dipped his fingers under the fabric, spreading them around your growing wetness as he circled your clit.

Slowly and carefully, he put a finger inside you curling it up to hit that sweet spot. With his other hand, he roughly groped at your chest. He unclasped your bra with one hand, tossing it across the room, and let his free hand paw at your chest and circle your nipple.

“See, bébé, what a reward you get when you use your words and tell me what you want?”

“Yes,” you moaned, breathy and full of desire.

“And what do you want?” he asked.

“I want… you.” The words stuck in your throat, your mind too preoccupied with the pleasure of his thumb swirling softly around your clit and the two fingers now pumping in and out of you. You were vulnerable, at his mercy, but you trusted him. 

“You want me to…?”

“I want you to… to fuck me.”

“Good girls get what they want. You’ve been so good for me, haven’t you? Can you do one more thing for me?” He smirked, removing his hand from your sensitive bundle of nerves. You already missed the friction. 

“Yes, anything,” you promised. 

“Get on your knees for me.”

You obeyed. The sight of you on your knees below him, gazing at home longingly with your big doe eyes, made his cock twitch. But he saw something beyond obedience in your face.

He knelt down next to you. “Are you still nervous?” he asked.

You laughed. “I’m always nervous.” 

He brushed your hair out of your face, removing all the barriers between the two of you. “Do you want to stop?”

“No. I’m just… not as experienced as you. What if I'm not good?”

“You’ve already been so good for me,” he said, cradling your face in his hands. “I’ll guide you.”

You watched him with your innocent eyes as he stood up, unbuckled his belt, and took off his pants. You dug your knees into the pillow beneath you as he shed his last remaining layer of clothing.

He had no right to tease you for being so wet, when his own arousal coated him. His cock was dripping precum, so hard that it nearly hurt.

“Open your mouth,” he instructed, and again, you obeyed. He gently led you to him as you pressed your tongue to the bottom of his length and licked up to the sensitive head.

He moaned. “I don’t think you need any help, do you?” You just hummed as your tongue traced the lines of his veins up and down his shaft, before you took as much of him as you could, closing your mouth to trap him in the warmth.

He grabbed your hair to gently guide you to a good rhythm. You looked at him in admiration, but his head was thrown back, eyes closed in bliss. 

He moved your head faster, and you gagged a bit at his cock filling your mouth. You dug your hands into his thighs. Franco cursed in Spanish under his breath.

Soon, he pulled you away. You were embarrassed. Did you do something wrong?

“God, you feel too good. I can’t finish yet. I want to take my time with you.” He led you back to the bed, finally taking time to gaze at your form laid bare before him.

For a moment, he was silent, just taking in the sight of you. “You’re beautiful, YN.”

You blushed. “You don’t need to flatter me, you already got in my pants,” you joked.

“It’s not flattery,” he replied as he crossed the room to grab a condom from his bag and put it on, “it’s true.”

He returned to the bed, climbing on top of you. “You’re perfect. Every part of you.”

The vulnerable praise made you uncomfortable. “Franco…” 

“Touch me, amor.” You obeyed, bringing your hands to his broad shoulder, bracing for what you knew would come next.

“You may not think you’re beautiful, but I do. And I’ll make love to you as many times as I need to until you believe it.”

You blushed and brought your hands to your face. You were not immune to his Argentine charm. He gently pulled your hands away, kissing your wrists, so he could see your face. 

As he guided himself to your entrance, he slowly and carefully slid inside you with a deep groan. His eyes rolled back into his head at the heavenly feeling of your pussy, and your breath hitched.

He stopped to give you a moment to adjust to his length. You felt filled and warm; all his. 

For a moment he just stayed there, still, looking down at the sight of you stuffed with his cock, ready to be ravished.

“You alright?” he asked, softly tracing circles along your hips with his hands. You nodded through the sweet burn of being stretched on him.

But he could feel the tension in you. “Just relax, YN,” he cooed at you. “I’m going to take good care of you, hm?” 

He leaned down to place a gentle kiss on your forehead and you whined. He whispered something in Spanish, too fast and incoherent for you to understand, but with a soft enough tone to recognize the love behind the gesture.

His thrusts at first were slow and shallow, giving you time to adjust. As he gently fucked you, he leaned down to softly whisper sweet nothings into your ears. You felt safe in his arms. 

But soon the softness faded away into lust. You both wanted it, and you showing him by how you sang a chorus of noises the faster he fucked you. His rough thrusts brought forth sinful noises from the both of you, lost in your pleasure. “It’s okay, YN. I know how badly you needed this,” he cooed, his own breath strained. “And I needed it too. I needed to feel you wrapped around me. You feel so fucking good, so tight and wet.”

His words weren’t lost on you. “Fuck, Franco…” you begged between his thrusts. You dug your nails into his back as he continued his unrelenting pace.

“Talk to me, pretty girl,” he said, slowing down for a moment. “You okay? Is it good?”

“So good,” you responded. “Don’t stop.”

He wordlessly continued, pumping his full length into you with reckless abandon. You were sure that your nails in his back would draw blood with how roughly you clung to him.

All you could do was take it, all of him, and let the moans and gasps fall from your lips with every touch.

As he sped up, his tone changed, becoming something rougher. He was clearly emboldened by the noises that left your mouth with every movement.

“I love hearing your pretty little noises. I want you to scream for me. Fucking scream my name,” he commanded. You didn’t have the strength in you, too distracted by how good he felt, burying his cock in you. 

“F- Franco,” you gasped. He pulled back so you could see him and grabbed your chin, forcing you to look him directly in the eyes.

“What’s that, love? Did you say something, or am I fucking you too good that you can’t even speak properly?”

“Franco, I—” you were cut off by your own whine, “I’m gonna cum.”

“Oh, pretty girl,” he cooed at you, “let go. Cum for me.”

You wanted nothing more than to obey him, and you came closer to the edge hearing his command. 

“I want you to look at me when I make you cum,” he instructed. You nodded at him.

But he slowed his pace down to a torturously slow speed, savoring how every inch of him went in and out of your drenched pussy. 

Even with his switch, you could feel that knot in your stomach tightening, threatening to explode as you held his intense gaze. Any self consciousness you would have had was cast aside by your desperate need to obey him.

And when he moved his hand from your hips down to your sensitive clit and began to rub, you couldn’t help but follow his command, climaxing in his arms.

He held you as you let the waves of pleasure come over you, not letting up his soft assault on your bundle of nerves. Even as you began to buck your hips involuntarily from the sensitive touch, he just whispered, “It’s okay, mi amor. I’m here. I’ve got you.”

He softly shushed your whimpers of pleasure, gently running his free hand up and down your curves. “Are you okay to keep going? Because you know I’m not done with you yet.”

You didn’t know if you could handle any more, but you sure as hell weren’t going to tell him to stop. You’d waited too long for this, wanted it too badly, to go back now.

You nodded, so he kept going, hitting every spot inside you just right, causing you to throw your head back in pleasure. He was careful not to overwhelm you, taking an even and steady pace, but neither of you could help so heavenly it felt to have him inside of you.

Franco chased his own release, sitting up so he could see your whole body as he fucked you. He held onto your hips hard enough to leave marks, but you’d gladly wear them with pride. 

It didn’t take long for him to pull out and rip off the condom, pumping his hand up and down his length. 

“YN, I’m so fucking close,” he moaned. “Where—”

You didn’t answer him, just leaning down to take him in your mouth. He grabbed the back of your head, roughly pushing you closer to him.

“Don’t stop, you’re gonna make me cum, don’t—” 

He couldn’t finish his sentence before he climaxed, filling your mouth and letting out a low and low groan.

You pulled away from him and swallowed the stickiness that coated your mouth. 

He collapsed on the bed next to you. “Fuck, YN.” You laid down next to him. “That was so good.” His chest was still heaving with the intensity of his orgasm. 

But as he turned to you, the lust left him, growing into something softer as he brushed your hair out of your face. You were both covered in a thin sheen of sweat.

“You okay?” he asked.

You hummed and nodded, closing your eyes and leaning into him, taking in the smell of sex and his cologne. You couldn’t get close enough to him.

He kissed the top of your head. “I’ve got you,” he assured. You were too overwhelmed to say anything. He just held you. 

Eventually, you both got up to take a shower before you both got ready for bed. Snuggled close to him, you felt the quiet warmth of his presence protecting you, and it lulled you to sleep quicker than anything else ever could.

When you woke up in the middle of the night, you checked your phone. The internet sleuths had finally deciphered what Franco had said to you—a heartachingly sweet confession of love. He had said you were his life, his everything. He couldn’t have done it without you. 

Within the thin crack of light from blinds and the streetlights outside, you could see Franco’s backpack, with your diary still in it. If you wanted to, you could have stolen it back. But instead, you left it be, snuggling deeper into the bed to get close to the man you loved who slept peacefully beside you. 

It was true that more work needed to be done until you all could fully communicate with no difficulties—no language barriers, no journals, just heartfelt words. But you knew you both could do it. You loved each other too much to not. 

So you smiled as you felt his arm sleepily wrap around you and pull you close. You were safe. You were home. 

[ariesprincesss]

My opinion on astro placements based off of personal relationships/ people i know!

(Disclaimer, I am not an astrologer just a silly girl that knows a ton of information on astrology🤓)

-A guy i briefly dated had 1st house Saturn & was super skinny but also tall too. Think lanky. ( His Saturn was also in Leo & he also had long, thick curly hair!)

- I feel like having Chiron in the 7th house makes you have a lot of insecurities surrounding partnership, not feeling good enough for others or falling into new insecurities placed upon you by a partner. I have a friend with this placement and she has got cheated on by almost all of the guys she dated :/

- She also has 7h moon, & even though she’s been through relationship trauma she still tries to see the best in people & open up to those that she’s closest to!

- My mom has an 11h stellium in sag, and she has a very big community of friends whom she speaks on the phone to daily. If you think of 11h as technology=phone and sagittarius=across long distances, religion. A lot of her friends are also very religious and she met a lot of them earlier in her life at church before moving away.

-One of the most interesting/ eccentric/ fun guys i was ever drawn to had a 1h stellium in sag with sun, venus,pluto, and mercury there. As an aries i ♡ sags.

-One of my friends has 1st house Uranus and she’s a masc lesbian. I always hear about tumblr people trying to say lgbt+ ppl have heavy uranian energy, but I feel like this placement would exist in someone who is just unique, looks, acts, or thinks in ways that make them stand out.

-A relationship that felt very karmic/significant for me to go through was with someone who had the same rising, mercury, and jupiter , by house and sign and then mars & saturn in the same house. We also had all of the generational planets (pluto,neptune , uranus) in the same houses. It was quite literally the most insane thing to hear someone say phrases/ words i would say. Not only that but to be told “that’s literally something i would say” back to me?! So crazy.

-3h stellium to me just sounds like you do a lot of thinking or communicating. a LOT of thought processing. In the question of whether you communicate well/ have happy thoughts probably would have more to do with aspects & sign of your third house.

p.s. happy new year everyone!! :3

[shiningmystic]

Hello loves and welcome to your blessings in 2025. This year was a mess for me so I know it's been a mess for many many people. Let's look forward to the new year and see what is on its way to you! I am an energy reader and usually only base off your future from this current moment in time. let me know what you think and comeback to this reading to let me know if your blessing reached you!

*This reading is meant to be very concise and undetailed because the future is fluid. Believe in change and change will come. Always take one step forward and remind yourself there is always better things ahead; you got this. Don't be afraid to pick more than one if you feel more calling to you; love ya <3

First Snowflake: Three of wands, six of cups, the sun

I see a lot of overcoming in your future and new bonds being forged. I see the past being let go and reconciled related to relationships and love. There is a glow up of confidence in yourself and a wave of luck and clarity. I also must mention when the three of wands fell out, I saw the wheel of fortune in my mind, so I see a very lucky year for you. Goodluck and keep moving forward with trust. Right now, it may be foggy, and you may feel low but there is always another day that will bring you peace from the madness I assure you on this.

Second Snowflake: Ace of wands, Knight of pentacles, Eight of swords

I see the blessings coming to you is related to an idea, a project or even a small business/something related to work. I do feel for many that there is a lot of anxiety around work and money even in the future but there is a growth in wealth here, a change. I will not pretend that I do not see anxieties still bothering you in 2025 but I see it lifting slowly as you keep pushing and pursuing your ideas and finding your path. Feel confident in your creations and beautiful things you bring from the heavens even if it's a small practical invention or a painting. Remember, even if the first idea doesn't hit the ground running eventually one of them will.

Third Snowflake: Knight of Swords, Ace of cups (rx), Ace of swords

I see a close call, a breaking away from a bond that does not feel like closeness anymore. A call and a decision being made to break ties with the things that aren't for you anymore. I see that you will learn that making this choice will free you of these tight bonds/ weights on your shoulders. I believe you will learn how to stand tall in these moments of confusion and even if it is a hard choice, you make it for yourself and know that it is the most selfless choice for both parties if that resonates. Believe in the signs and messages, your intuition will actually align with your logic, and this will surprise you in 2025. Remember, memories of past emotions can still be lovely, but things are not the same anymore. Take pride in your power and move forward with gusto.

Fourth Snowflake: King of wands, King of coins (rx), The Magician

I see a transformation and learning of your power, seems to me we all need a little bit of confidence, and this will come for you in 2025. I see a growth in perception of yourself on a spiritual and physical level and someone supporting you on this journey. For others you are learning about yourself in the best way and bringing in wealth and trust even if it may not be enough at times, I see things working out with what you manifest into your future. Be open to learning new things even if you aren't the best at it, this will bring you more perspective and clarity on what you need. So, expect some manifestations to appear and be open to many more to come.

Fifth Snowflake: The high priestess (rx), Three of swords, The world (rx), Knight of pentacles

I got an instant message of "the revealing of what has been holding you back" this message seems to be a blessing in disguised because it is a hard truth you may come to face. Sometimes hard things in life actually lead to happier outcomes that show you your capability and strength after it is over. In 2025 there will be hard moments but let's be real, true change is painful and so the blessings for you is the "right change" that will lead you on a physical path to a better future. The change will teach you a lot about the physical world either that be about job, finances, your health or even just about the general world. Do not worry over the details just know that this change will make you so much happier for years to come. long term happiness is the goal not short-term highs.

Sixth Snowflakes: The high priestess, Two of swords, Five of wands (rx)

For you, my last snowflake, I see you making a choice to a hard situation and a peaceful outcome on a choice that has been weighing on you heavily. I see much doubt and confusion on your capability or even just not having all the facts to make a comfortable choice, but clarity will be a blessing this coming 2025. A peaceful resolution to this choice that you cannot avoid anymore. The high priestess also indicates more blessings, but I can also see that these are hidden from me because there are many and meant to be discovered by you the reader. Just keep heading forward and know there is always a way out and always another choice we may not be able to see when we are in the thick of it. Trust in yourself and your blessings will surely come.

Tarot decks used: Tarot of the divine by Yoshi Yoshitani

[pazzibueckets]

Here’s my detailed timeline theory. Paige liked Azzi from the beginning during U16. I think, during USA, the flight to minn, and that summer, Paige tried becoming friends with Azzi. The way she looked at her was giving girl crush and infatuation. I mean Paige would comment on Azzis old instagram posts, from before they met, and I feel like people use to do with their crushes. Also, I remember in an interview Azzi said that Paige just, kind of, showed up and was always there. I think, lines got blurred (one of them made a move) between 2018-2019, just based on how they looked at each other and acted in pictures and videos from that time - like giddy. Also, like the other anon said, they refused to refer to each other as sisters, which to me means they either liked each other / were pining after each other / were already fwb during that time. Idk if they were exclusive, because at that age it’s hard to be in a long distance relationship especially when you are busy and focused on your basketball career. However they did call each other their “other half” which is kind of giving “exclusive fwb” and they were always traveling to see each other. I wouldn’t be doing all that if I had other fwb / people. I think feelings developed gradually between 2019-2020 and maybe they were in denial that they were more than friends (just fwb). I think, they expressed their feelings during quarantine. It’s kind of hard to hide something like that when someone is around you 24/7. Also, during that time they were forced to be exclusive/date which probs made things feel more like a relationship. Paige also had Azzi as “💗”in her phone which is very gf coded. They called things off mid 2020. Someone said during that time Azzi seemed mad at Paige because she stopped commenting on her posts a lot and they weren’t posting each other as much. Both saw other people during that time. UConn people said paige was seen with other girls (who kind of looked like Azzi 🙊). Maybe they tried to just be friends. When Azzi came to UConn, they tried to remain just friends but couldn’t stay away and became fwb again. Got jealous of the other person w/ other people, and decided to be exclusive in mid/late 2022. I think they both were focused on basketball and being college kids that they didn’t want to label anything/add the responsibilities that comes with being in a relationship. Also, they were so young and probably didn’t want to make things too serious. Eventually realized they were acting like gfs and there was nobody else they were interested in and became official in 2023.

Okay period detailed timeline. I agree with this one and you make a lot of good points. P commenting on old pics is giving baby gay flirting lol. Also the heart for Azzi’s name is definitely more than friendly. That’s the shit I used to do when I was younger for my bfs and crushes🫣 Also the girls P was rumored to have been with looking like Azzi will always send me. Like could she not have been more obvious. If I was Azzi I would be flattered tho.

[plounce]

erenville does have a lot of trans vibes. i do believe in trans dude erenville. however i do interpret the deal with his names to be more along like... just like situational names rather than something more like a deadname. he canonically started using erenville in sharlayan to fit in better, to assimilate (speaking in a neutral sense). there are cultures in the real world where you use different names depending on the setting, the relationship, etc. i can completely understand people having discomfort with cahciua using erenville's childhood name rather than his sharlayan name - i also think it is totally possible to interpret it more as like a cross-cultural thing. erenville and elene'shpya can both be his names. one is appropriate for his mother to use, and one is appropriate for his coworkers(/friends) to use. and it's not worth nothing that his turali name is in his indigenous language (that is based off a real world indigenous language!) (and again, as i have reiterated, i am not seeking to invalidate anyone's personal interpretations. im just discussing my own.)

[genderqueerdykes]

the post you just shared about being both a trans man and a dyke reminded me of something that ive been wanting to talk about for a while now but haven't been able to so far.

im brazilian. the country with one of the biggest pride parades in the world while also being in the highest rates of violence towards lgbt people. queer culture here is weird, and maybe i missed out on it because i was able to find refuge online among the english speaking community relatively early.

ive been observing something that i wrongly assumed was our own version of the butch/femme community, and for a second i got really excited bc we all know butch loneliness, but the more i started looking into it, the more of its completely rotten entrails they showed me.

it's a disfigurement of the ideas that i have held to my heart so dearly ever since i read stone butch blues for the first time, and even more as i discovered leslie feinberg, and found out that there really were others like me. they use the term "desfem" (as in "defeminized"), and the definition explicitly states that the individual must be a cis woman, quoting some terf-tier bullshit that would make joanne proud.

hating men is their entire personality, and it's so shallow and based on cishet gender roles that there is no "femme" counterpart, because they see no way to perform femininity outside of patriarchal roles. they want the aesthetics of butchness without the hardships of living as one. the trans community carries these people on their backs and still they're more worried about how some dykes are trans too.

i don't know where im going with this, i just need to get it off my chest to someone who would at least have an idea of what im talking about. it's so disheartening to see the community head towards this direction, and i grow less and less interested in forming bridges with cis people as time goes on lol

i wanted to thank you for taking the time to send it, i really appreciate these thoughts! i get contacted by a lot of brazilian people. i think that's super cool! i've heard that despite how large your queer scene is that it's still very queerphobic and that's unfortunate, but it does happen.

"hating men is their entire personality, and it's so shallow and based on cishet gender roles that there is no "femme" counterpart, because they see no way to perform femininity outside of patriarchal roles."

i really appreciate the way you said this! i've been trying to point this out for a while now and i'm glad you've come to this realization, yourself.

for whatever reason, cis lesbian, dyke and sapphic spaces are obsessed with the butch-femme binary. it's romanced to hell and back but it's very restrictive and patriarchal. implying that romantic relationships must fall into a masculine partner + feminine partner structure is cisheteromative. there's not much representation for butch4butch, butch4all, femme4femme and femme4all people. the idea that the masculine partner must be strong and protect the weak feminine partner that can't defend themselves is a patriarchal dynamic.

all of the lesbian yearning posts are about how butches are tops and doms and how all femmes are bottoms and subs. butch becomes synonymous with penis and femme becomes synonymous with vagina. calling butches 'chivalrous knights' dehumanizes them and reduces them to being protector figures. the way cis femmes online go on and on and on about how they "need" a butch is very alarming. femmes are being framed as dependent and as though they can't function unless they have a butch in their life, which is very misogynistic.

it's just a repeat of cishet- the patriarchal relationship formatting applies here, even if the genders are slightly tweaked. it's in the coding. it's literally a copy and paste job. it's lazy and toxic as hell and it leaves out all of the diversity that comes with lesbianism and how butches and femmes can experience life and love and sexuality in a variety of ways.

the thing is, as a genderqueer person, i've never understood why people are so attached to this binary. it's so restrictive. i'm butch, but not in the way that white cis lesbians define it. the way they tlel you how to be butch is so restrictive it's not even funny. it's like you gotta pass a test. you gotta be stereotypically masculine 100% of the time or else you're not a real butch. you're expected to emulate a cishet guy, but if you identify as a guy, all hell breaks loose. if you think about it people basically force butches to identify as men and then hold it at arm's reach away. like you have to act exactly like a man but be a Woman. and it makes no fucking sense.

lesbians are some of the most gender diverse people out there. it's crazy to me that people are trying to force lesbians, people who are known for being gender weird, into a male-female cishet binary but with a lesbian Womyn coat of paint. i wish you better luck in finding community that wants to stick together instead of fight over petty bullshit that doesn't matter. take care of yourself. feel free to stop by again any time

[bokutosbabe]

જ⁀♡⊹｡° hope you think of me

( rin itoshi x fem! reader )

♡ a/n — hi all! this is part of my new series! if you know me, or my account in general lol , you'd be able to pick up on some taylor swift references in the form of titles :) i do base a lot of my writing off songs! so, i decided to rework old work and...decided to start the new discography masterlist! the masterlist will be made soon, but the basics is that i paired ( almost ) every taylor song with a bllk character! i hope you enjoy the ride ;)

♡ content — rin itoshi x fem! reader, fem! reader, set in both before rin went to blue lock and when he is a pro soccer player, the past will be in italics, the present will be normal text, established relationship, rin misses reader, kinda angst?, unrequited love, pining

♡ synopsis — It all crumbled down the day Rin Itoshi got that letter from Blue Lock. Why couldn't he easily choose one...you? or his dream? In his mind, the two couldn't exist together.

The bright lights of the stadium flicker on, casting long shadows across the pitch as the crowd roars in the background. The announcer’s voice echoes in the air, but all Rin can hear is the soft whisper of your name in the back of his mind, a constant refrain.

His eyes wander across the field, distracted by the fleeting moments that remind him of you, even though he’s supposed to be focused.

It's strange how everything about this stadium feels like a reflection of you. The banner for the jewelry sponsor—that’s the one you always liked. The colors in the ad are almost the same as the ones in your old childhood bedroom, the same shade of deep blue that you said matched the ocean.

And then there’s the scent of fresh grass, the kind that always reminded him of the times you two spent lying on the grass after school, listening to music while you tried to figure out who was more stubborn—him or you?

He should've known it would end like this.

It all crumbled down the day he got that letter from Blue Lock. Why couldn't it have been easy? Why couldn't he easily choose one...you? or his dream?

In his mind, the two couldn't exist together.

"Why do you care so much, Rin?" you’d asked after his constant nagging about what you wanted to do after high school, your voice soft but strained, like you could already feel the weight of the words before they even came.

He should’ve softened, should’ve told you everything that was happening inside him, but he didn’t. Instead, he let the silence grow thick, each word building a wall between you that no apology could ever tear down.

He pushed you away with every passing second. "It’s over," he’d said. Even as his heart ached, watching your big eyes widen and fill with tears, he couldn't risk giving up.

He had to reach him.

"You wouldn’t understand. Whatever. I have bigger things to focus on than you."

Your eyes… they were full of hurt, but you didn’t say a word. You just turned away, the soft click of your shoes leaving out his bedroom door and home sounding like the final nail in the coffin of everything you had.

The crowd's cheers feel distant now, like they belong to someone else. Rin runs a hand through his hair, trying to focus, but all he can do is look around and see you everywhere.

The water bottle with the same brand you used to buy. The locker room seats that remind him of how you’d wait for him after every match, always there, your smile the only thing that made him feel like he belonged somewhere.

He remembers the things you liked—small, silly details that seemed insignificant at the time, but now, they’re all he can hold on to.

He remembers the little things. The music you loved—the way it played softly from your car every time you'd drove to the beach, how you'd hum along with the lyrics, your fingers tapping the steering wheel.

You said the songs made you feel alive, like it was a memory of something you couldn’t quite place.

He didn’t realize until now, standing here in this stadium, that he was the one who made you feel like a memory.

He stepped onto the field, shaking off the weight of the past, but even as the game starts, the images of you flood back in—your laugh, your touch, the way you’d get embarrassed when you said something too cheesy.

The way you always made him laugh without trying to.

"You really remember everything, don’t you?" you had said once, your eyes teasing.

"Everything that matters," he replied without thinking.

Now, as he steps onto the field, the memory hit him like a punch to the gut. What really mattered? Because what he remembers isn’t just your smile or the way you made everything feel like home. What he remembers is how much you gave him, how much you loved him, and how much he didn’t deserve any of it.

The game continued on, but the colors, the lights, the little reminders—they all blur together.

Rin’s vision fades, and for a moment, it’s just him, standing still in the middle of the field, surrounded by a sea of faces, none of them yours.

And yet, every second feels like it’s laced with memories of you.

hope everyone enjoyed :)

likes, comments, and reblogs are appreciated!!

[thomaslittlegirl]

Hi! I really enjoy your writing! 🥹 I was wondering if you could consider writing about Cillian being the reader’s boyfriend/husband. He suddenly discovers the reader’s obsession with Tommy somehow, and he makes her dream come true by roleplaying as Tommy in bed. He’s rough and, of course, the complete opposite of how gentle Cillian usually is. 👀 Thank you! 🫶

im glad you like my works! if i remember correctly i have read a similar story, so i tried to make the plot as different as possible. anyway i hope you enjoy it, angel. 🩷

roleplay. cillian murphy — thomas shelby.

warnings; slaps, pussy spanking, creampie. age-gap.

𐙚

cillian was very private when it came to his work. he liked to keep things separate; work on the one hand, his family and personal stuff on the other. he didn't like the lines being blurred and the two things getting mixed up.

for this reason, he preferred his family not interacting with his work. he didn't really like close family watching his movies, it made him a little shy if he was one hundred percent honest.

that's why you kept a secret from him. when you were alone because he was going to some filming, a note or a photo shoot, you looked at the peaky blinders.

there was something that made you completely fierce... seeing your husband, your sweet and tender love being so hard, so bad. you couldn't explain it, you never really talked about it with anyone and it was something you would take to your grave.

how could you explain that it turned you on to watch the series your husband worked on? seeing cillian so out of context was just something else.

since the two became a couple, the relationship has always been based on a lot of love and mutual respect.

having a noticeable age difference, cillian saw you as someone he should protect, someone he should pamper and shower with kisses and affection.

the number of times your boyfriend had raised his voice at you could be counted on the fingers of one hand. the same when it came to getting angry. cillian didn't get angry with you, ever... and if he did, he would simply swallow his anger and solve everything with a sweet kiss on your lips.

he was not someone hard in bed either. although he fucked you like the gods, he was never mistreating you or being mean in the bedroom. he really liked the missionary when you had sex; that way he could see your face and kiss your tears of pleasure, that way he could be attentive to whatever your needs were. simple man.

he never pulled your hair, hit you nor called you degrading names... although some might escape his mouth, never too much.

that's why you felt that way when you saw thomas. the shelby man was really a threat; fucking any whore he came across, treating them as what they were, whores for his pleasure. the hard way he fucked them and how he made them scream with pleasure.

you felt like a teenage virgin, but it really made you wet. it was also weird because your boyfriend wasnt like that irl.

but your secret is revealed; one day you are too tired to notice that your eyes are closing and you simply let sleep overcome you.

the television in front of your bed continues playing the video while you sleep peacefully, hugging your boyfriend's pillow.

cillian arrives home late, a little exhausted from spending so much time outside doing the things he needed to do. the man takes off his leather shoes and begins to walk towards the bedroom, shuffling his feet.

when he opens the door to the room he gets a surprise. he recognizes his own voice, he recognizes that gangster accent that he knew how to use for a long time. his eyes go to the television and he watches as scenes from the peaky blinders play on the screen.

he feels out of place and a little confused too. you never looked at his works, you knew it made him a little shy... so why was the whole damn search based on videos of him, being thomas shelby? why were all the videos you had seen small frames of him playing the role of the gangster?

cillian laughed when he saw that the previously played videos were based on fight scenes, but his laughter was silenced when he saw all the clips of him fucking the women.

you had watched too many of those... for not saying almost all the scenes. his cheeks turned red and his gaze returned to your body; sleeping, hugging his pillow bathed in expensive perfume... as peaceful as a good girl, as if you hadn't used his hard and dirty sex scenes as white noise.

murphy suddenly understands it, or thinks he understands it.

cautiously, cillian turns off the television and walks to the bed. the light from the nightstand is not that high but it is enough to allow him to see you resting peacefully. murphy goes to the changing room and grabs a beret, a gray one. he takes a look in the mirror and smiles shyly; his heart beats desperately as if he were a child about to do some prank.

he comes back to your side.

the man positions himself on top of you, with both of his legs at your sides. murphy licks his lips and bends down to start leaving bites on your neck.

"cillian?" you ask, smiling as you smell the man's characteristic perfume.

"try again." he says, pressing his crotch against yours. you open your eyes, suddenly feeling horny.

"baby?" you insist.

"negative." he answers, his tongue running over your neck and part of your jaw. "maybe i should fuck you until all you can think about is me."

you listen to the accent which he speaks to you... and you understand it.

"tommy?"

"finally."

you blink several times trying to get used to the light on your nightstand. cillian lies on top of you, in his black pants, white shirt, and beret. a copy of him.

"am i still dreaming?" your question comes out in a whisper, confused. the man in front of you laughs.

"maybe. " his hand outlines one of your tits and then slowly lowers until it enters your underwear.

"what are you doing?" you ask, wetting your lips with your tongue.

"taking what belongs to me, playing with my favorite cunt." cillian's middle finger presses against your clit and then down to your entrance, testing with the tip of his fingers.

“cillian…” you gasp.

the man slaps your pussy. "wrong, whore. try again." you bite your lips at the burning you feel in your lower part and murmur again.

"tommy... it feels so good." thomas laughs. "it was supposed to be a punishment, but sluts like you like anything i give to them." you squeeze around nothing, dirty talk doing wonders to moisten your walls. "hands on the headboard." he orders, and you quickly obey.

thomas takes off his belt and uses it to tie your hands to the bed. the older man pulls down your underwear, delighting in having your sex naked in front of him. "now you're going to count for me." he indicates, and starts slapping your cunt. "come on, pet. count."

one.

two.

three.

four.

five.

when thomas finishes your pussy is red hot, burning and dripping, contracting in the air and begging to be filled.

"poor pussy." he laments, caressing your hip bones. "its so sore i don't know if it can handle daddy's cock." your eyes open.

"can handle it." you say quickly. "please."

shelby smiles and bends over, spitting on your pussy to make it even wetter. he smiles when he sees your face of pleasure, totally lost in the sensations, in the vulnerability.

the man spits into his hand and pumps his erection a little. his cock is about to explode, eager to paint your walls white with his warm semen.

he hits your pussy with the head of his cock a few times, teasing you until he finally sinks into your warm walls.

cillian would have waited for you to get used to it, but it's thomas who's fucking you, so he starts pounding you hard. "balls deep inside your cunnie." he says, as if you don't feel it in your gut.

he fucks you hard, hard and deep.

"god... god..." you murmur, and you feel a slap on your cheek.

"i didn't say you could talk, whore." he says, giving you another slap. "keep quiet, you're nothing but a cunt."

you clench painfully on his cock, biting your lips to try to shut up. it's useless, your moans escape alone.

"tommy..." he continues to fuck you like an animal, harshly raping your warm walls. the sound of your wetness and the slapping of the skins is driving him crazy.

thomas squeezes one of your tits and plays with your nipple.

"thomas is going to give you his hot cum in your beautiful pussy." he talks, caressing one of your cheeks.

you look at him, teary. feeling so good.

"open your mouth." he asks, giving you another slap. when you open your mouth, he spits into it. his saliva sliding down your throat feels as good as drinking water after spending days dehydrated.

thomas lets go of your tit to start rubbing your clit, making you cum around his cock. you squeeze so hard that the man is forced to cum too, filling you with his seed.

"there... there you go... daddy's hot milk for his princess."

cillian pulls out of you, watching as your abused pussy lets his cum flow from your insides.

the man caresses your cheek and unties your hands. your little pout asking for a kiss makes his heart melt and he grants it to you, kissing you sweetly.

"we have to do it again." you ask, and he laughs out loud.

"you're really crazy, my baby."

[harryspurpleloofah]

I am not sure if you have seen the performance Harry did at MSG with Kacey Musgraves ("You're Still The One" by Shania Twain), but I would love a one-shot based off of something like that. Maybe the reader is also a singer and she and Harry have been secretly dating and that song is how they announce their relationship? And, of course, I would love for it to be smutty if you feel it. I LOVED "Elevator" and I am about to go and read "A Taste of You Instead".

Hii! Thanks so much for requesting I’d love to write this for you! As a massive Shania Twain fan I loved this show too I’ve seen it and LOVED it. Thanks for reading my work let me know what you think of a taste of you instead 💜 if anyone else has any requests would love to take more

Still The One

(Picture is not mine)

Summary: Harry and Y/N have been dating for a while now but the public has never picked up on it since they e been successful at keeping it low key. One day though Harry and Y/N plan a surprise for their fans at MSG.

TW: swearing, smut, p in v sex but reader is on birth control, nipple play, tit sucking, clit stimulation

The hum of the crowd echoed from the arena beyond, a low, electric thrum that seemed to vibrate through Harry’s chest. He sat on the edge of the couch in his dressing room, pulling on his boots and adjusting his jacket, though his mind wasn’t entirely on the preparations. His thoughts kept drifting to the moment that was fast approaching—the moment everything would change.

His phone buzzed on the table in front of him. He didn’t even need to look at the screen to know who it was. A grin tugged at his lips as he reached for it, his fingers swiping to answer before it could ring again.

“Hey, you ready?”

Her voice was warm and familiar, with a hint of teasing. He could practically picture her, her smile lighting up even over the phone.

“Yeah I’m ready. But I was just making sure you are. You still in?” Harry asked, trying to mask the slight edge of nerves that had crept in.

“Of course,” she replied with that same confident ease that made his heart race every time he heard it. “I’m almost there. Five minutes tops.”

He let out a slow breath, leaning back against the couch as he ran a hand through his hair. “You sure? No backing out now.”

She laughed, the sound low and knowing. “Are you nervous, Haz?”

“Not nervous.” He paused, glancing down at his phone and the growing list of messages and show notes. “Just...figuring out how this is going to go.”

There was a soft chuckle on the other end, and then her voice softened. “You know we’ve been planning this for months, right? It’s just a song, Harry. And it’s ours.”

His heart thudded at the words. Their song. The one they’d practiced in private, their secret duet that would be unveiled for the world to see. He rubbed his thumb over the phone’s screen as if he could touch her through the distance.

“I know. I’m just...” He shook his head, a quiet laugh escaping his lips. “You’re a lot braver than I am.”

“That’s debatable,” she replied. “But don’t worry. I’ll be there in five.”

“See you then. Love you.”

“Love you more. Bye.”

With the call ending, Harry stood up and walked to the mirror, adjusting his jacket one last time. His reflection stared back at him confident and ready for the show of a lifetime. But tonight wasn’t just about the music. Tonight was about her, about them finally stepping into the spotlight, together.

He stepped away from the mirror and turned toward the door. His pulse quickened at the thought of her walking in, her face lighting up as she stepped onto the stage, and how in just a few hours, the whole world would know.

The energy in Madison Square Garden was electric. Harry’s voice still lingered in the air as the final notes of his last song faded out, the crowd still roaring from the performance. He stood center stage, bathed in the golden light of the spotlight, a grin tugging at the corners of his lips as he took a moment to collect himself. The audience's excitement was palpable, the adrenaline of the show still buzzing through him.

He wiped the back of his hand across his forehead, catching his breath, before leaning into the mic. The crowd quieted, the anticipation building in the air like static.

“Alright, alright, thank you so much,” Harry said, his voice warm and steady, yet carrying the hint of something personal, something more intimate. “It’s been an incredible tour so far, and I’ve had the pleasure of sharing the stage with some amazing people.”

He paused, glancing down at his shoes as he chose his words carefully. The crowd, sensing something was coming, leaned in a little closer. Harry smiled softly, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he looked up. “But there’s one person I’ve been lucky enough to share this whole experience with… someone who’s very special to me.”

The murmur of curiosity rippled through the crowd, but Harry wasn’t ready to give it all away just yet. His gaze flickered towards the side of the stage, where you were just about to step out, your silhouette barely visible behind the curtains.

“I’m not going to give too much away,” he continued, his tone light, teasing. “But she’s an incredible talent, someone I respect deeply. We’ve spent a lot of time together on and off the stage, and I couldn’t be more excited for you all to finally see her.”

Harry’s gaze softened, a hint of affection in his smile. He cleared his throat before continuing. “So, without further ado...please welcome someone who is incredibly important to me, and someone who I’m beyond proud to have here with me tonight. Please give it up for the very talented, Y/N!”

The lights shifted, and the crowd erupted into applause as she stepped out onto the stage. As she walked toward him, Harry couldn’t help but smile. It was more than just the crowd’s reaction that made his heart race, it was the sight of her, stepping into the light beside him. The moment they’d been waiting for, where their secret was no longer a secret, and everything they shared would be known to the world.

She took his hand as she joined him on stage, her fingers brushing against his, the familiar warmth of her touch calming the fluttering in his chest. The cheers from the audience were deafening, but Harry couldn’t hear anything over the sound of his own heartbeat thumping in his ears. He squeezed her hand, trying to steady himself.

“You ready?” he asked, his voice low, only for her to hear.

She gave him a soft smile, her eyes full of warmth and confidence. “Course I am.”

And with that, they began to sing.

The familiar chords of "You're Still the One" filled the air, and for the first time, the entire world knew what had been hidden for so long. The connection between them was undeniable. Their voices blended together effortlessly, each note coming from a place of shared history, of countless hours spent together behind the scenes, rehearsing, laughing, and just being.

As they sang the chorus, Harry’s hand found hers once more, their fingers lacing together as they shared the mic. The crowd’s applause had faded into the background, the world shrinking down to just the two of them.

Her heart raced as she looked at him, her eyes meeting his for just a moment, the weight of everything they had hidden suddenly feeling so light. This was their truth. And in that moment, everything felt perfect.

“Thanks so much for having me tonight!” She shouted in the mic over the deafening cheers of the crowd, “I’ll leave you to it.”, she said to Harry with a smile before putting the mic on the stand and waving goodbye as well as blowing kisses to the people of the arena before disappearing backstage.

"Alright, alright," he said, his voice warm and light. "I know, I know…it’s a lot to take in, huh?" His grin widened, and the audience laughed, the tension lifting just a little. "But before we go on, I just want to take a minute. I know some of you might be a little…surprised, but I need to say this."

"Y/N and I have been together for a while now," he started, his voice steady and filled with affection. "We’ve kept it private for reasons that I’m sure most of you can understand, but the thing is…she means the world to me. More than I could ever really put into words."

He let out a small breath, “I’m not here to overshare or get all mushy on you, but I do want to ask one thing, and it’s important to me..please, show her the same respect and kindness that you’ve shown me over the years.”

The audience seemed to soak in his words, the mood shifting from one of curiosity to understanding. Harry smiled, his heart swelling with the quiet, simple truth of what he was saying.

“She’s an incredible person, and I’m so lucky to have her by my side. I just want you all to know that. It’s not any of her fault that she’s dating me and I am who I am and my life comes with some amazing perks that I am so so thankful for. But I think you can all guess there’s a bit of an ugly side to it as well and I don’t want her to see any of that just for the mistake of dating me.”

The crowd had settled down slightly now and fortunately it looked like most if not all of them were understanding what Harry was saying, some nods and cheers accompanying his little speech about her. He smiled before continuing.

“I would like to again remind you all to remember that everyone is a person even celebrities, and we thank you so much for all the love that’s been given to us on your part but we also request that you please don’t make judgements about anyone before knowing hem personally. Thank you so much.”

The crowd cheered along in agreement, a few people already cooing and recording the speech he was making.

“Right enough of the sap we’ve got a show to put on people!”, he grinned widely as the crowd roared for him. He gestured to his band to start playing, “Now Madison Square Garden I’ve got a great song for you so up on your feet and sing along if you know the words it’s Kiwi!”

The thunderous applause was still echoing in Harry’s ears as he walked off the stage, his heart racing from the sheer energy of the performance. His face was flushed, his curls damp with sweat, but he couldn’t stop smiling. The show had been a success, and more importantly, the weight of their secret was finally gone.

He pulled the towel from around his neck and wiped his face as he made his way through the bustling backstage area. His mind was set on finding her, his grounding presence, his partner in everything. And then he saw her.

Y/N stood near his dressing room, her arms crossed casually, but her face lit up the moment their eyes met. She looked radiant, still riding the adrenaline of being on stage with him, and the sight of her made his chest tighten in the best way.

“There you are,” he said, his voice low and filled with warmth as he approached her. He tossed the towel onto a nearby chair and opened his arms, pulling her into a tight embrace.

She melted into him, her hands resting against his back. “You were amazing,” she murmured, her voice muffled slightly against his chest.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his hands resting on her hips. “We were amazing,” he corrected with a grin. “Couldn’t have done it without you. Seriously, I mean that.”

She shook her head with a laugh. “You’re the one who had them in the palm of your hand all night. I was just along for the ride.”

Harry tilted his head, his gaze soft but unwavering. “You’re not just along for the ride, love. You’re the best part of it.”

Her breath caught at his words, and for a moment, the noise of the world around them seemed to fade. Harry reached up, brushing a stray strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering against her cheek.

“I feel so relieved.”

Her smile softened, and she nodded. “Me too. It’s a relief, you know? Finally being able to just…be.”

He studied her face for a moment, his gaze dropping to her lips. “Feels fucking good,” he murmured. His hand slid to her hip, tugging her a little closer, and his voice dropped lower. “You know what else feels good? Watching you out there, in that dress, singing like that…”

She gave him a teasing look. “Harry, you can’t keep it in your pants for one night?”

He laughed softly, shaking his head. “Nope. Not when you look like that.” His hand wandered, brushing along the small of her back, then down to her ass. He gave it a light squeeze, his lips twitching into a smirk when she gasped. “I’ve been thinking about this since soundcheck. You know what you do to me, don’t you?”

“Harry,” she hissed “Someone could see us.”

“Let them,” he shot back, his voice low and thick. “We’re not hiding anymore, remember?”

Her breath hitched when he pressed her back against the wall, his lips ghosting over her jawline. “You’ve been driving me mad all night,” he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. “You think I’m just gonna walk away after that?”

Her fingers curled into his shirt, her resolve slipping with every word. “You’re so annoying.”

“And you love it,” he said with a grin before finally capturing her lips in a slow, filthy kiss. His hands roamed freely now, sliding over her hips, her ass, pulling her against him so she could feel exactly what she was doing to him.

She moaned softly into his mouth, her hands tangling in his sweaty curls. “We should..probably go somewhere else,” she mumbled against his lips, though her grip on him didn’t loosen.

“Mm,” he hummed, trailing kisses down her neck. “Couldn’t wait that long if I tried.”

But he pulled back to grab her hand. “C’mon. Dressing room. Now.”

Her heart raced as he led her inside, shutting the door behind them with a click. His eyes were dark when he turned back to her, and the way he walked toward her, his shirt already half-unbuttoned, sent a thrill straight through her.

“Now,” he said, his voice rough, “where were we?”

She let out a gasp when his hands slid up her sides, slipping under her dress to grip her thighs. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as he pressed her back against the wall of the dressing room.

“You looked so fucking good out there,” he continued, his lips dragging along her jaw and down to her neck. “This dress…every time you moved, I couldn’t stop thinking about what’s underneath.”

“Harry,” she breathed, her voice shaky but edged with want. Her hands moved to his chest, fingers fumbling with the buttons of his shirt. She couldn’t focus enough to undo them properly—not with the way his mouth was working on her skin, his teeth scraping lightly before soothing the sting with his tongue.

“Hmm?” he hummed, the sound vibrating against her throat. “What is it, love? Want me to stop?”

“No! Fuck-don’t,” she shot back, her words more confident than she felt

He grinned against her neck, his hands sliding higher until they were just under the curve of her ass. “Alright love.”

With a firm grip, he lifted her off the ground, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The move sent her dress riding up her thighs, and the friction of his trousers against her bare skin made her gasp. He carried her over to the couch in the corner of the room, sitting down with her straddling him.

The position gave him full access, and he wasted no time letting his hands wander, slipping under the thin straps of her dress to push them off her shoulders. She helped him along, her breathing shallow.

“Fuck,” he groaned, leaning back slightly to take her in. His hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs brushing over her nipples, and the way her back arched into his touch made his cock throb against the tight confines of his underwear.

“You’re so fucking perfect,” he muttered, his eyes dark as they flicked up to meet hers, “you’re on the pill right?”

“Yeah-yeah I am.”

She reached down, her fingers deftly working to undo his belt. He helped her along, lifting his hips just enough to shove his trousers down, his boxers quickly following.

Her eyes dropped to him, her lips parting as she took him in. Harry’s breath hitched at the look on her face, and he couldn’t stop himself from leaning up to kiss her again, rougher.

“Come here,” he whispered, his hands gripping her hips as he helped her lift herself over him. The anticipation made his head spin, and when she finally sank down onto him, both of them let out matching groans.

“Fuck, Y/N,” he muttered, his hands gripping her tighter as he tried to stay still and give her a moment to adjust. But she didn’t wait, her hands braced on his shoulders as she began to move, slow and deliberate at first.

The way she rolled her hips had him biting his lip to hold back a string of curses. “You’re gonna kill me,” he said, his voice strained.

Her response was a breathy moan, her nails digging into his shoulders as she picked up the pace. The room filled with the sound of their bodies moving together, her quiet gasps and his low groans mixing in a way that made it impossible to think about anything else.

“Good girl,” he murmured, his hands guiding her movements. “Just like that. Keep going—fuck—you feel so good.”

She leaned forward, her forehead resting against his as she moved faster, the pleasure building between them. “Harry,” she whimpered, her voice barely audible over the sound of their heavy breathing.

His mouth was on her then, hot and wet as he sucked her nipple into his mouth.

“Fuck,” she gasped, her back arching as his teeth grazed her. The other breast wasn’t neglected for long, his free hand kneaded it, his thumb circling her nipple while his tongue flicked over the other.

“Always so good for me,” he murmured against her skin, his lips moving to the curve of her breast before sucking another mark into her flesh.

His fingers found her clit. He rubbed slow, deliberate circles, watching her face closely as her head fell back and her mouth parted.

“Harry,” she whimpered, her hips bucking against his hand.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, his lips finding her neck again.

With the combination of his finger rubbing her clit and his cock sliding in and out if her again and again, she found it easy to let go for him. She came with a guttural moan and he soon followed suit.

They stayed like that for a moment, tangled together on the couch, their heavy breaths the only sound in the small room. Harry’s forehead rested against Y/N’s, his hands lazily tracing patterns on her back as they came down from the high.

“Still with me, love?” he asked softly, a teasing lilt in his voice as he brushed a damp strand of hair from her face.

She gave a breathless laugh, her lips curling into a satisfied smile. “Barely,” she admitted, her fingers sliding over his chest, tracing the faint lines of his tattoos.

“Good,” he said with a smirk, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of her mouth. “Means I’m doing my job.”

She rolled her eyes, but her smile didn’t fade. “Fuck you.”

“Love you too.”

“It feels good, doesn’t it? Finally being able to be us.”

“Better than good,” he said, tilting her chin up so she had to meet his eyes. “Having you out there with me, hearing the crowd cheer for you, knowing we don’t have to hide anymore..it’s everything I’ve ever wanted.”

Her heart swelled at his words, and she leaned in to kiss him softly, savoring the quiet intimacy of the moment. When she pulled back, she grinned, her fingers lightly tugging at his messy curls.

Y/N groaned dramatically, burying her face further into his neck. “Don’t wanna move.”

“Neither do I,” he admitted, brushing his nose against her hair. “But I reckon we’ll both feel better getting home. You good enough to slide off me, sweetheart?”

She nodded, sitting up slowly with his hands steadying her hips. He winced slightly as they parted, the loss of her warmth immediate but softened by the sight of her fixing her dress.

He adjusted himself, pulling his boxers and trousers back into place before standing to grab his shirt. As he buttoned it up, he glanced over at her, catching the soft smile she sent his way.

He grabbed his car keys from the side table, “get dressed baby honey we’ll go home.”

She stretched but soon got up and put on her clothes. That night they got home and enjoyed each other’s company to the fullest along with Legally Blonde, two cups of hot chocolate and a beautiful atmosphere of relief and warmth.

[ropebunnykant]

I've seen a lot of ppl frustrated at Kant/the Captain for meeting up outside the bar, but my take on it was that was a deliberate power play by CC (not that I don't think he's inept enough to do so out of sheer stupidity!) - Kant had clearly been ignoring his calls, as implied by his convo with Style and explictly seen in his convo with Bison (and when he says he's sick of his 'customer' flip-flopping and doesn't want to talk to him anymore, that's obviously a declaration of intent vis a vis continuing his relationship with the police), and what do cops do when their informants aren't co-operating? They pile on the pressure. And one way to do so is to turn up in front of their informants in public spaces, because they are happy to use the threat of blowing their cover as leverage - talk to us, or else we'll make sure everyone sees/knows what you are. Wouldn't surprise me if they had someone tracking Kant and CC sent him a message along the lines of 'either you come out or we come in.' Look at Kant's body language - he doesn't want to be there, he's frustrated, he's on edge, but at this point he's also visibly exhausted and probably on some level thinking slightly self-destructively - if he gets caught then at least it'll be over, at least CC can't use him anymore, at least he doesn't have to tell Bison himself and see with his own eyes what the truth does to him.

I know fandom in general is sympathetic to the ACAB sentiment, but I'm getting the feeling ppl don't fully appreciate just how fucked up the dynamic between a handler and an informant can be at the best of times, let alone when the handler is corrupt or at the very least abusing their position! I've seen (valid) accusations of grooming levelled against Lilly, but it's not something that only happens to children - all it takes is a significant power differential and someone who is at risk. And we've seen CC using the classic combo of praise and pressure - he switches from flattering Kant ('I know you can do this', 'you certainly lived up to my expectations') to threatening him (which goes beyond the initial outright blackmail - when he says stuff like 'you think they'll let you live once we arrest them?', that is a threat, that is him saying to Kant: we won't protect you - you quit now, you're on your own).

I really appreciated your tags on the height as power play thing, because that jumped out at me when I watched that scene, and it was so sad seeing Kant desperately trying to wrest back the upper hand and suddenly looking so much younger and more vulnerable as soon as CC stood up. And I admit we're veering into fanon rather than canon now, but it just makes me even more curious about his timeline - how old he was when he got caught? Did CC start off as a sort of quasi-father figure? Is that how he reeled him in? Did it begin, not with blackmail, but with manipulating Kant into wanting his approval? Perhaps my most burning question, however, is: what if this isn't even the first time he's been used as a honeytrap?? And I know it's most likely just First being incaptable of not having ridiculous chemistry with every single man who so much as breathes in his vicinity (let's face it, there's a reason the top three 'ghost ship' pairings on that poll are all First-based! But isn't it also because of the potential Kant brings as a character - the potential backstory tween him and Style/CC, the potential hate-sex with Fadel...), rather than anything deliberate but...the *vibes*! If you lean into that side of things and headcanon that yes, Kant did in fact fuck that cop, then phew, there is SO much to unpack there!

This is why I don't get viewers sleeping on Kant - imo he's the most interesting character! There are so many layers! Out of the main four, we probably know the least about him, and part of that is because we can't even trust that what we've ostensibly learned is even true! That whole riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma thing? That's him! And not even because he's that complicated a person deep down - most of the meta I've read here has, I reckon it'll turn out, already nailed it. It's just that a combo of the tricksy and subtle way he's been written/played and the narrative role he's been given requires us to do some of the legwork ourselves (by which I apparently mean, you know, actually paying attention and caring??) to determine what in his words/actions/feelings/face is authentic and what's not, and when, and why, etc (heaven forbid we have to read between the lines!). Maybe some more casual viewers aren't used to that in their bls, and I totally get that ppl go into shows for different reasons and some just want the light entertainment/aesthetic appreciation of it all and aren't interested in deep dives and 10,000 word analyses, and that's absolutely their prerogative! We've all been there! But equally, you don't then get to complain about the writing/acting/characterisation when, by choice, you've skipped/missed/misinterpreted what's being put onscreen (disclaimer: I'm not saying no criticism allowed - there's things I'd have tweaked - just not when it's unfounded cos it's based on viewer indifference/ignorance). I don't want to use the term 'spoon-feeding', it feels ungenerous, and yet...!

Eek, this got away from me. Long story short: don't underestimate the lengths CC will go to just to keep Kant dancing to his tune, including risking his cover by showing up outside his favourite bar!

first of all, thank you for such a long ask, i love getting things like this in my inbox and be prepared for an equally long essay of my own shskdhd i will put it under a cut since your ask in itself is pretty long, but i agree with everything you said basically

i feel like every complaint i hear about kant just leaves me so very baffled. like at a certain point, you’re just coming up with reasons to be mad at him. and like i really wish that people would just fess up to the fact that they just don’t like him. that fundamentally something about him annoys them and that’s okay! you don’t need to like every character, but it pisses me off when people try to justify their dislike of anything by pulling reasons out of their ass. and like, okay, i understand that i obviously over analyze the shit out media i enjoy, and there are a lot people that don’t do that and watch with their brain turned off or just don’t put all the little things together. and that’s fine, but if you’re gonna complain about things at least make sure you’re complaining accurately. like some people didn’t even realize that christ was a cop until ep6 and apparently thought kant was doing it all for money?? when in their FIRST scene together, it is made explicitly clear that not only is christ a cop, but that kant is being blackmailed into this in order to keep his brother in his custody. you may not personally agree with everything he does, you may disagree how much of a choice he has in everything he does, but that does not change his motivations or the power that christ holds over him - and if you don’t realize at least those things, it’s not even a matter of media literacy, you are just not paying attention! or you’re skipping scenes and like, im not telling you how to enjoy shows, if you wanna skip scenes go ahead! but you can’t then complain about things that aren’t actually happening just because you tried to piece together what happened in the scenes you skipped 💀

and this complaint is especially silly because not only does kant explicitly emphasize that he’s been avoiding the captain and therefore we can assume the captain showed up to put pressure on him, but i feel like it’s been made pretty obvious that he doesn’t really have a choice in the meet up spots regardless? like they either meet at the police station/christ’s office, or he shows up in places that kant already is to talk to him, like the pool or the bar. so, i feel like getting mad at kant for that is so stupid? especially considering even IF meeting at the bar had been kant’s decision… he didn’t know bison was gonna show up?? he thought bison was in hiding and it’s his friend’s bar, so it’s a perfectly reasonable place for him to be and to be willing to meet up with the captain like?? he could not have predicted bison showing up after disappearing for a week post-failed murder attempt. like be serious.

when it comes to the acab aspect, i think trying to dive into people’s actual beliefs on that is a can of worms that will not end well shskdhd but in the very least, looking at it from a media perspective, i think in general people expect us to be supposed to root for the cops. like whether or not what you personally believe, the general sentiment in most media is that the cops are the good guys - because that’s the way we’re trained to believe that in society at large, so more often than not, it’s assumed that the cops in most shows are the good guys.

however, when you walk into a show like the heart killers, where 3/4 of our main protagonists are criminals (two murders and a former car thief) and the genre is explicitly a romcom, you have to also understand that the cops in a show like that are not gonna be the good guys! and i think in general, you have to be willing to understand that your personal morals and beliefs are not going to line up with the things these characters are doing. this is a show about assassins! if you’re going to try and argue for who’s morally in the right or who’s the most fucked up one, maybe this isn’t the show for you. and that’s okay!

all that to say you SHOULD be suspicious of the captain and his intentions - you should not trust him as some morally good figure because he’s been explicitly shown to be blackmailing and manipulating kant in all of this! he is a villain, explicitly so. and while i know we don’t have an exact age for when kant’s parents died and he had to start raising babe or for when he got caught, it’s very safe to assume this has been a long time thing. kant says their dad died young, babe says that kant raised him, so kant had to have been young when he had to start taking care of babe, and i’m assuming also pretty young when he got caught for his car thefts. so, it would not at all shock me if the captain saw a young, college-aged kant, who’d just lost his father and was desperately trying to keep himself and his pre-teen brother afloat, and saw an opportunity to put on the mentor role and mold this kid into what he wanted and needed. i think the lilly comparison makes perfect sense - because we’ve already been shown time and time again the similarities between the captain and lilly and the ways they manipulate kant, bison, and fadel. this being another way theyre similar would be no shock to me.

nor would it be a shock if the captain also made the relationship sexual at some point and kant having daddy issues and therefore being into it makes perfect sense as well shskdhd like you said i think it’s a combo of first having insane chemistry with everyone but also just kant’s character making these dynamics interesting - which is why first was the perfect casting choice they could have made shskdhd kant’s character in general is exceptionally fascinating to me, but i feel like i’ve made that pretty obvious with all my kant posting, and i don’t get how anyone can just write him off or view him as being one dimensional in anyway when he has SO MANY layers to him. he’s incredibly complex and that’s what i adore about him.

[artuurle]

Begging for more bauhauzzo headcanons … or huzzle mug……. The ascension hc’s were really, really peak head in hands

what about a headcanon about both? *If * we can believe the Bizzyboys, Buzzhuzz had a lot of strict laws in the past, and while you can interpret as from being before Bauzzie ascended, I like to think it was laws that were made with good intention based off of what he's witnessed over the years to protect his people unaware he was choking them.

Huzzle mug was the person to go out and "set him straight", tired of being stifled by a god it assumed was a major ass, only to find the god's reaction being very very sorrowful he was hurting the inhabitants of Buzzhuzz.

This where the relationship between Bauzzie and Huzzle started, and how Huzzle earned the title of "the god of Innovation", Huzzle helped him make Buzzhuzz the way it was now and helped reinforce the important ties between art and history to the god. It was THE pioneer the town AND the good needed! Bonus Huzzle image cuz it deserves art on this post too.

my favorite cunty Lamp <3

[toadletthefirst]

Could you elaborate on skeptunist as a concept/relationship in general?

(thanks for the question!)

Oook, ok, I said it as a joke at first, but since I'm still allowed to talk-

It's so funny to put together "people always lie :/" and "people always lie :D" guys. In fact, they have much more in common than they would like to think. General distrust to others, love to build strategies, wanting to be in control of the situation etc. And it can be quite easy to cooperate based upon that. They both want to keep some distance, and since this wish is mutual, there would be no conflict about it.

But there's definitely distrust, and they both will try to act like they're playing chess. Some "I'm the one really in control here" situation from both sides. But it will be balanced by "well now you're stuck with me, so it's better to cooperate, isn't it"

So they will annoy the hell out of each other, but their agreement will work, if their goals, at least seemingly, the same.

Also their intellectual sides work quite well together. Opportunist is quick in decisions, while skeptic is better in slow-paced cases. This might make them checks and balances for each other. Skeptic would constantly stop opportunists from dumb decisions that seem like a fast win, because he can think of a bigger picture. And I totally can see how opportunist pushes him off the rails in front of an approaching train when he is lost in thought™. And maybe opportunist' social skills will help them a lot.

Buuut I'm kinda afraid of the moral side of them. They're both kinda "the goal is more important than the means" people, even though skeptic has some standards. So I'm not sure how it will go. Perhaps the skeptic will restrain Opportunist's impulses, as if limiting his ambitious ideas. But Oppy can definitely sway a skeptic to a more ruthless side by offering his style decisions, if skeptic finds them sufficiently reasonable. Soo they probably will end up in the morally grey spectrum.

So maybe based on the nice collaboration..... there might appear some familiarity to each other's company......I mean....they kinda can get used to shenanigans of other....... Like "still don't trust you at all, but it's easier to deal with difficulties with your company, not alone". And opportunist totally can get clingy if skeptic's presence makes his life safer/easier.

If an opportunist is the kind of person who should not be trusted by the axiom, perhaps this will somehow help to remove the tension skeptic usually has. Like, "yes, this guy is still up to something, but at least I'm ready for it cause I already saw all his tricks, so I can focus on something else."

And after some time there will be too many secrets shared to just move on......smth...smth... partners in crime..........

And it's just funny to imagine a flamboyant show-off and some serious unkempt guy who is so fed up with everything

[kquil]

hi pretty baby!! I have a very important question for you:

the year is coming to a close and it has brought us many great things (like your sweet sweet stories) and I'm simply dying to know.... if you were to do a 12 fics for 12 months sort of wrap up of your own blog, what would be your 12 most memorable fics of the year? which of your pieces really stood out to you? I'm eager to hear what my friends' proudest works are!

xx

i'm a pretty baby? my stories are sweet? ( /)///(\✿) AHHHHHHHH!

and that's such a fun thing to do as a way of rounding off the year omg! this requires some thought though, so i hope you don't mind if i take a while to answer

these fics aren't in any particular order but would say that the following are my 12 most memorable fics this year... (i will also include fics from my side blogs as those are my works too hehe~)

DIVORCING ORION BLACK CHAPTER 5

this was the fic that i first posted when i came back from my hiatus so it holds a special place in my heart~

DIVORCING ORION BLACK CHAPTER 6

DIVORCING ORION BLACK CHAPTER 7

i'm including all updates for the DOB series because i honestly think it's my magnum opus and i managed to stay consistent with updates until the end of the year ever since coming back from my hiatus

JAMES POTTER | HOW TO DRESS (nsfw)

this is from my nsfw side blog ; it took me an entire year to write this oneshot for james and it's 16k words long, which makes it the longest fic i have ever written AND it's the first ever NSFW oneshot I've ever written and posted haha! so it represents a big milestone for me

SIRIUS BLACK | BIKER BOY

this was dedicated to one of my dearest moots and close friends here @somewereinthegalaxi / @thebestofoneshots and was a fun little way of showcasing an interest we both share motorbikes, biker boy boyfriends and sirius black (づ> v <)づ♡ 

REGULUS BACK | HOLD HER PART 2

i've always loved the trope of characters being given insight into their futures somewhat, in fact, a niche of fanfiction i adore reading is based on that e.g marauders watching/reading the harry potter movies/books or harry traveling back in time and interacting with the marauders -- this is my little way of finally dabbling in the trope without writing another fix-it fic atop DOB (ᵕ—ᴗ—)

REMUS LUPIN | ONE NEGRONI

this combined a guilty pleasure of mine, mob boss aus and the marauders, mainly featuring our beloved Remus Lupin -- it just seemed natural making him the mob boss  (˵ ¬ᴗ¬˵) hehe~

JAMES POTTER | GENUINE

i literally couldn't sleep until i wrote this and i'm so happy i did too because you darlings seemed to really enjoy it too! now i have a deep love for the actor james x singer reader trope (๑>◡<๑)

JAMES POTTER | LIKE LOVERS DO

this was sooo self-indulgent ( /)///(\✿) it's a manifestation of my love for james potter and the friends to lovers trope -- this fic is secretly how i want to my relationship with james to blossom in another universe where he's no longer fictional and i have a chance at making him mine!

JAMES POTTER | BOUDOIR PHOTOSHOOT

i've been seeing tiktoks of this on my fyp for a long time and i kept thinking of james every time i saw it, my real life responsibilities kept getting in the way of me writing it until i finally committed writing it even if it meant sleeping super late again (๑˃́ꇴ˂̀๑)   

GROUP EFFORT SERIES

this imagines series is from my mcu + misc. side blog and i predict having a lot of fun with it in the future ; i'm writing it from a random thought i had during my hiatus when i got into the mcu fandom, it went along the lines of: i wonder how the avengers would handle babysitting a baby like Jack-Jack from the Incredibles -- i slapped my love for single mother reader tropes on it and this imagines series was made!

THE PRINCESS' SEVEN MERCENARIES

after getting into the mcu fandom during my hiatus, i also fell in love with many of Chris Evans' characters and started reading fics about them too, combine that with my love for fairy tale aus, drawing inspiration from a writer with a phenomenal nsfw fairy tale series and you get this snow white au series with seven of my favourite Chris Evans characters (。>\\<)♡

damn... look at this list makes me realise how much i've written this year despite my hiatus -- i need to give myself more credit since half the time i feel like i'm not writing enough omg! thank you so much for prompting me to do this, my love!

[brotherwtf]

Could you write something for canon era Clegan - [ FAMILY ]: watching the sender interacting fondly with others, the receiver (from afar) takes a moment to take a closer look at their relationship?

bringing back John's family and some hopeless pining!!! gotta love it

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"My ma wants you to come up and stay with us for a couple of days, wants to meet the legend himself," John proudly proclaimed when he had called Gale the summer after the war ended.

Gale bit his lip and peered into the kitchen where Marge was cooking dinner, ring shining cruelly on her finger. Hearing John's deep and comforting voice while smelling Marge's cheery perfume was causing his stomach to flip, his mind to go fuzzy. He shouldn't be blushing at the thought of John inviting him to his home, especially with the wedding so close.

"I'll have to ask Marge, we still have a lot of wedding planning to do," Gale mutters, wishing he had a toothpick to worry his teeth on.

Gale can hear John breathe out a laugh into the receiver, can almost see him shake his head in amusement.

"My ma's not gonna take no for an answer, I hope you know that, Gale,"

And that's how Gale found himself in the Egan dining room, cheeks hurting from how much he was smiling at John's sisters and his mother, and especially when John would include him in the jokes. He couldn't help but flush when John's twin would say something incredibly crass, or when John's older sister would compliment Gale's looks, smiling and nodding along at the kind words. He flushed harder when John joined in on the compliments, called Gale the best darn pilot in the hundredth, and probably the prettiest too. Gale knew John's tongue was loosened by drink, didn't think he meant all of that stuff, but when John's hand stays firmly on his thigh, he can't help but let his mind wander.

It was after dinner when the lamplight was low and words were slowed from good food and drink that Gale let himself take a step back. John had his arm draped on the back of Gale's chair, body heat seeping into Gale's as he lightheartedly talked to his mother. He waved his arms around animatedly, recalling some story about him and Curt doing something foolish on base, a story Gale couldn't help but smile at.

For a moment, Gale truly believed that this was his and John's home, their table and their dinner, John's mother stopping by with well wishes, his sisters staying in their guest rooms, and when Gale and John would retire for the night they would go to the same bed. It feels so real that he doesn't realize it's a fantasy he's found himself in until John's mother asks Gale about Marge.

"It's... it's good. We're still planning everything for the wedding," Gale mutters, wanting to kick himself when John looks away from him and takes another sip from his heartily poured glass of whiskey.

"That's good darling, you should convince John to settle down, can't seem to get him to be interested in finding a wife. The only person he seems to have been so interested in is you, darling," His mother muses, taking a sip from her own generous amount of whiskey.

Gale can feel John's arm tense behind him as he scolds his mother, says she doesn't know what she's talking about, but Gale pauses to chew on the words.

What would a life be like with John? Gale knew that his stomach twisting at John's words and the flush that creeped onto his face whenever John touched him so casually was not normal, especially not normal for a man to be married. His and John's friendship had always been far from normal, John was always so casual with his touches and his affection, especially when he had something to drink. The way John hung off of Gale, the way John's affection rolled so easily off of his tongue, it wasn't normal.

But when John's mother bid them a good night and left them in the dining room together, when John turned to him with deep blue eyes that reflected the low lamplight, with something Gale couldn't quite understand, something deeper than a friendly stare, maybe Gale didn't want what they had to be normal.

[m0thlegs]

Honestly, this is a really strong argument.

I think people tend to overlook this ship, for one because fandom spaces tend to centre men a LOT despite being filled with majority queer people and women (and queer women), and we have the classic case of “fans of a popular mlm ship being weird and feeling the need to dismiss or demonise female characters who feel threatening to their ship that they want to uphold above all else”, nothing new here, fork found in kitchen.

But also, I don’t even think the WRITERS cared that much about Sky, what she meant, and the impact she could’ve had beyond “girl has a crush on a man, then gets fridged twice in the same show because the writers got too scared to develop her as an interesting presence or force in the story beyond her one-sided crush on a prominent male character”, because even in season 1 we were barely shown ANY characterisation for her outside of Viktor, and a lot of observations made about her have been by dedicated fans analysing the tiny details and “blink and you miss it” Easter eggs (which is shit, quite frankly. Like what can be said for the majority of season 2’s writing, Easter eggs are meant for fun side quests, they should NOT be your main source of storytelling or characterisation. I said show don’t tell, not don’t show or tell me anything at all except for frames that show up for a nanosecond. Do better). Other than that though? We had SCRAPS of her, and have mostly only been going off of fanon characterisation since the show can’t be bothered to give it to her themselves.

It’s like to them, she only existed to further his character development, and once she started to become too prominent or interesting of a presence in the story, the writers got scared and killed her off again so she wouldn’t “threaten” the relationship between two men (at least.. that’s my theory. I don’t know their exact thought process but that’s what it feels like to me, based off of what we were shown.). Which is ridiculous, it’s not like you can’t have your cake and eat it too, they could’ve been equally important pieces for Viktor’s narrative, but the writers never gave us a real reason to care about Sky (not that you shouldn’t care anyways, even if the narrative says otherwise); we were never shown much of her motivations, her goals, or a more in-depth look of her personality beyond Viktor, so a lot of fans tend to overlook her for that reason as well, since a lot of people seem to uphold the text as gospel and either can’t or refuse to use their imagination beyond that.

I’m really upset with the treatment of Sky, by both the fans and the writers. She could’ve been such an interesting piece of the story, but nobody seemed to consider that when writing the show, so we’re forced to scrape together bits and pieces and even make up our own to do her justice.

We need to abolish the "Viktor didn't care about Sky" argument. This mandela effect started somewhere god knows where but it's gotten to a point where my eyebrows do the angry bird thing every fucking time someone says it.

1. If he did hallucinate her, that's an insane level of obsession, I'm afraid. Guilt and grief are one thing, building her dream commune is something completely different. Also I'm sorry let's not pretend that guilt and grief are not inherently romantic, they are in their case. He was ready to off himself after she died. There's nothing casual or colleague like in the way Viktor treats Sky post her death. In love with the idea of her or in love with her, it doesnt really matter

2. If he didn't hallucinate her and she was indeed real, then he let her guide him and spent months upon months doing the equivalent of giggling in flowers and holding hands. He again in that case built her project for her and cared for it for her.

3. He wore Jayce's blanket with HER pin. He kept the cog AND the notebook.

Viktor loved them both, it's quite clear when you stop quivering over one ship or the other being more canon. I genuinely dont know how we are all still arguing about it or why as a matter of fact.

Why isn't he allowed to love them both?! Some people act as if THEY are Viktor and their feelings about him are the canonical ones. The rules of fandom state we award him pin of bisexuality until a canon decision is made. That's how it works. If either side doesnt like him being with either Sky or Jayce, then that's frankly an issue that needs looking in and not project onto the others.

Jayce, sky, viktor, mel, get behind me. Baby's first fandom behaviours are ensuing.

I wholeheartedly agree. I love skyvik, I wish people weren’t so crazy over ships in this fandom