#for both like crazy and set me free

[myobsessionsspace]

a little of why it's bitter sweet (a companion post)

https://x.com/btstrendsongs/status/1642420084923674625?s=46&t=7ng2XFk3W9p7wFec_bkdoQ

[syn0vial]

why did no one tell me that the last unicorn is metal af.

like,

[thekidsarentalright]

will never not make me insane how mania broke the mold for fob albums in so many ways but most prominently perhaps is how it broke the mold color wise, and the symbolism of that. it took the red/blue alternating color palette and combined it to make purple, it took everything fob was and in doing so went in a full different direction- something that was so clearly fob and so clearly new all at once, at least to those that were truly listening. and then, so much (for) stardust is just black and white. devoid of all true color- the light/dark dichotomy of the album is obvious from that alone. its take what every fob album did before color-wise but stripping it down- wholly new again, nowhere near the red/blue from before, but purely fob, not dressed up, its all out there in your face, black and white. the symbolism of colors here feels so so intentional and important and is forever so insanely clever of them

[moodlesmain]

What I'm Made Of (Sonic Heroes OST) 🤝 With Me (Sonic and the Black Knight OST): Final boss songs who's lyrics apply almost just as much to Sonic as they do to the villain he's facing

[pearlessance]

Cupid's Chokehold — part one!

FEEL SO CLOSE

[next chapter]

summary: Tommy meets Joel's new girlfriend and takes a twisted liking to her live-in daughter.

pairing: step uncle!Tommy Miller x f!Reader

warnings: explicit sexual content MDNI. step-cest, age gap (unspecified, but reader is 19/20, Tommy in his early-mid 30s), unprotected piv, oral sex (both f! and m! receiving), attempted seduction (from reader), pussy pronouns, praise, dirty talk, creampie, begging, dacryphilia, alcohol consumption, no outbreak AU, Tommy POV

note: genuinely this is the filthiest most diabolic thing I've ever written and I'm absolutely terrified to post it!!! if it's not your cup of tea pls keep scrolling, and if you do read it, let me know what you think!! also, I wrote the nightclub scene with the song Feel So Close by Calvin Harris in mind (iykyk), but feel free to imagine whatever you like!

wc: 12.1k

[series masterlist]

[main masterlist] [AO3]

You’ve always been close.

Since that first night you’d met in Joel’s kitchen, Tommy has always felt drawn to you. Like you were one and the same. Two peas in a fucking pod, despite how…indecent it sometimes felt.

It was late summer. Hot. Your mother and Joel had arranged a dinner. They’d wanted everyone to ‘get to know each other.’ Grilled burgers and made pasta salad and poured glasses of cheap champagne. The whole nine yards. 

Joel had warned Tommy about you ahead of time. Talked about his new girlfriend’s daughter, about how you were a bit…wild. Impulsive. Too pretty and too smart for your own good.

You’re a couple of years older than Sarah, freshly out of high school with a devil-may-care attitude. The two of you get along well—Sarah thinks the whispered comments you pour in her ear all night are just hilarious. The two of you spend most of the afternoon on the side of the pool chattering while Tommy…well, Tommy certainly feels a bit like a third wheel. 

He knows it’s not intentional. Joel isn’t like that, he’s just…excited. He loves your mom and is eager to start this new chapter of his life, to expand his family the way he’s always wanted to. And your mom is nice enough. Sweet and easy going, a good match for his brother. But she’s a mom. And Joel’s Joel. 

It’s Saturday night, and Tommy Miller is bored half to death sipping champagne and watching two teenage girls giggle over something on their cell phones. 

And it’s not like he can leave right away. At least, not until after his desert has settled. But he knows where Joel keeps the good liquor, and dismisses himself in search of it.

He’s pouring two shots of whiskey into a glass tumbler when he hears the back door open. Tommy expects it to be Joel, coming to offer a penny for his thoughts. He opens his mouth to soothe his brother's nerves, to reassure him that his other half does fit him as perfectly as it seems. To tell him that he’s crazy for letting another little girl live under his roof, to warn him it’ll be double the hormones and double the attitude, but if it makes him happy…

“Hey.”

It’s not Joel who speaks at all. It’s your voice, soft but sultry. Tommy smiles at you over his shoulder. “Hey, kiddo.”

You saddle up to his side, so close your elbow brushes his as you lean on the counter, eyes focused on his hands as he pours. “This is the most boring party I’ve ever been to,” you say with a dispirited sigh.

It makes Tommy laugh. He sets the bottle down and lifts the tumbler to his mouth, grinning all the while. “Can’t say this little soirée is particularly, uh…exhilarating,” he says, sipping from his glass.

He can feel your attention on him, hotter even than the burn of the whiskey. Your eyes slide down the column of his throat, over his chest, stopping at his waist. You turn your head the smallest bit, not dissimilar to that of a curious little puppy. Crude and shameless in your examination. You look back up to find him staring at you, unable and unwilling to fight his knowing smirk. “Can I have some of that?”

“You old enough?” Tommy doesn’t even know why he asks, because he already knows the answer.

With a shrug of your shoulders and a sweet little smile, you say, “No. But it’s not like it would be my first time. No cherry to pop here.”

Filthy mouth for a girl your age. Funny, though. It’s kind of endearing. He was an awful lot younger than you are now when he started drinking. The first time he’d blacked out had been his sophomore year of high school—barely sixteen, woke up in the middle of a field two hours away from home. He’d had to use a pay phone to get ahold of Joel to come pick him up. 

And it’s better this way, isn’t it? To do it at home, surrounded by people who care about you. Who will keep you safe. It’s not like one drink’s going to put you on your ass, anyway.

He nods slowly. “Alright,” he says, opening the cupboard to find another tumbler. 

You stop him, delicate hand around his wrist. “Are you crazy? That’s evidence.”

Tommy furrows his brows. “What, the cup? I’ll wash it when you’re done. S’alright.”

“Waste of time.” You take the whiskey and twist off the cap, pushing the smooth glass bottle into his hands. “You know how to waterfall without drowning me?”

He likes you, Tommy thinks. Probably more than he should. He gets that familiar tug in his lower abdomen, the one that urges him to move closer, to speak slower. 

It’s a little fucked up, he knows. You’re so young, and odds are your mom will marry into the family, and then you’d be…well, you’d be his niece. Kind of. 

His heart races a little faster at the thought. 

“Well?”

“Yeah,” Tommy promises. “Yeah, I got you. Tilt your head back.”

You step further in front of him, spine pressed against the edge of the countertop. He can feel the heat of your skin against his, and it makes Tommy feel dizzy. You tilt your head back, just as he said, but it’s not quite enough. 

He reaches up, cradling your jaw in his hand, thumb pressed against the underside of your chin. He knows he could just tell you, could just use the words ‘a little more’ and you’d do as he asks. But the heated look in your eyes as he touches you so gently…it’s worth it. “Like this,” he tells you, pushing your chin back. “There you go. Now open your mouth.”

It sounds so vulgar in his ears. And Tommy doesn’t mean it that way, but you smile up at him and say, “You’re supposed to take me out on a date first, I think.”

“You think?” He scoffs. “You ever let another man in your mouth and he doesn’t wine an’ dine you first, you let me know so I can take care of him.” Tommy’s only sort of kidding. If you ever asked, he’d do it in a heartbeat. 

“Alright,” you say. “No other man, then. Just you.”

He has to look away, unable to contain his amusement. “Christ, girl.” Tommy shakes his head, delighting in the sound of your giggling. He can feel the vibration of it in his hand, still pressed against the side of your neck. “Ridiculous.”

Joel’s voice cuts through the kitchen, calling Tommy’s name. 

He tries to take a step back, get some distance, but you hook your leg around his to keep him close, bare and exposed to him from the hem of your denim shorts down. Tommy grips your thigh tightly but doesn’t quite push you away. “Yeah, Joel?”

You tilt your head back, perfect this time, just like he showed you.

Tommy shakes his head again, surprised by your brazenness, but he just can’t seem to stop smiling. He lifts the glass bottle and pours the whiskey slowly, holding in his laughter all the while.

“Bring out another slice of that pie,” Joel says from the back door. “The key lime one. Sarah wants some more.”

“Yeah, sure. One slice of key lime,” Tommy calls back, watching with rapt attention as the amber liquid pools in your pretty mouth. And then, more to you than to Joel, he says, “You got it.”

He stops just before your mouth is too full and sets the bottle back on the counter as the back door closes. You tilt your head back down, grimacing as you swallow. You have to do it twice, and Tommy knows that shit burns.

He’d feel bad if it weren’t for the drop of liquid that spills from the corner of your pursed lips, leaving a trail of whiskey as it drips down your chin. It’s such a sight to behold that his mouth waters. It takes every last ounce of his common sense to keep from leaning forward and licking it up.

Instead, he runs his thumb across the seam of your lips, collecting every last drop, and proceeds to suck it clean. “No man left behind,” he says playfully, painfully aware of the slight lift of your hips and the almost unnoticeable arch of your back.

“Right, no. Of course,” you say, words just a little breathless. “It would be, like, alcohol abuse.”

Tommy chuckles as he finally steps away, surprised by the complete lack of guilt he feels. He pulls a plate from the cupboard and finds the remainder of the key lime pie in the fridge.

Your steps echo in the kitchen when you leave, the screen door creaking as you push it open. He catches the words as you speak them under your breath just before disappearing from view. “Certainly not boring anymore.”

Tommy returns to the backyard with Sarah’s key lime pie in one hand and his refilled glass tumbler in the other, a newfound spring in his step.

It doesn’t take long for family dinners to become a tradition. They’re moved to Sunday nights, though, which works a hell of a lot better for Tommy. He usually shows up hungover, sporting a headache and a bad mood.

You’re real good at pulling him out of it, though. Always making those dirty jokes, uncaring of who hears, often earning a scolding from your mother when your humor graces the dinner table. 

Eventually, it takes nothing but a shared glance before you slink off to the kitchen, one at a time, to steal more of Joel’s whiskey. Like a secret, shared language that only the two of you understand. As if the moment the thought crosses his mind, it crosses yours, too. Almost like you’re connected, somehow. 

Sometimes Sunday dinners will be paired with a movie. Often, it’s a film Joel rented for the weekend that he claims has ‘good reviews,’ but never has a satisfying ending.

Tommy doesn’t stay for the popcorn or the candy, though. He doesn’t even stay for the movie, in truth. 

He stays because you always sit beside him on the loveseat.

It always starts innocently enough. You pull the scratchy, old blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over you both. And then you’re poking his thigh while murmuring comments in his ear.

You’ll say, “God, that guy has the worst fake crying face I’ve ever seen. Looks like he’s constipated.”

And Tommy will laugh, and Sarah will scowl and shush him, and your hand will linger on his knee. 

Halfway through, you’ll shift in your seat, trying to get comfortable. You’ll lean back against the armrest and lay your legs across his lap. And Tommy, impulsive man that he is, will slide his hands between your thighs and rub circles into your soft skin, careful not to move too fast, to be too obvious. 

Once you reach this point of the night, Tommy doesn’t pay attention to the movie at all. He focuses on you instead, on the way your breath catches in your throat when he squeezes hard, on the way your knees slowly drift further and further apart, on the flush that crawls up your cheeks each time he catches your eye.

It never feels quite so innocent when the movie ends and Tommy has to sit on the couch with that blanket over his lap just a little longer than everyone else.

In September, Joel tells him you and your mom are moving in permanently. No more weekend sleepovers. You’re taking the spare room across the hall from Sarah, the one Tommy knows like the back of his hand after crashing in it countless times.

He’s not sure why, but there’s something satisfying about knowing you’ll be there, sleeping in the bed he’s slept in hundreds of times.

Joel asks him to help move some of the furniture, and Tommy doesn’t hesitate to agree. They move the larger things, while you and Sarah excitedly unpack cardboard boxes and talk about sharing clothes and shoes.

Tommy remembers the times Sarah would beg Joel for a sibling when she was younger, and it warms his heart to see she’s finally gotten the sister she’s always wanted.

He sees you a whole lot more often after that. Tommy picks Joel and Sarah up every morning and drops Joel off after work every day.

Most of the time, you’re still sleeping when he shows up at seven. But the evidence of you is littered all over the house; your shoes by the front door, your jacket slung over the dining room chair, your denim shorts on the floor beside the laundry basket in the bathroom. 

And after work, he always comes inside to visit you. Just to see how you’re doing, to see if you’ve had a good day, often making some silly joke just so he gets to hear your sweet laughter. Sometimes he finds you watching one of those teen dramas in the living room, and he loves to poke fun at you for it. “These weird ass vampires again? What, now there’s werewolves, too? How original.”

“Shut up,” you’ll say, tossing a throw pillow at his head. 

“I’m just fuckin’ with you, darlin.’ I know how you love that freaky shit.” The embarrassment will show on your face, and Tommy will laugh but his shoulders will drop as all the stress from the day melts away.

Some nights, he’ll find you in the backyard by the pool with that tiny lime colored bikini on, lying on your belly, soaking up the sun. He’ll try to scare you, try to get close with soundless movements. 

But you always catch him. Can always sense he’s there. “Now, what if I suddenly decided I didn’t want tan lines and took off my top while you tried sneaking up on me? Tits out. Then what?”

Tommy stops just a few paces away from the spot in the grass where you’ve thrown out your beach towel. He towers over you, casting shadows across your spine. “Wouldn’t be nothin’ I haven’t seen before,” he says.

“You peeping on me, Tommy? Is that where you got your name?”

He snorts, but the idea isn’t half bad. “You fuckin’ wish.”

“Yeah, maybe I do.” The comment gives him pause, but he doesn’t have time to think too hard about it because you’re turning on your back and reaching for the string tied loosely around your neck.

You stare up at him, eyes all glittering and mischievous, hair splayed out in a perfect halo around your head. Tommy knows that he should stop you. Should laugh it off and walk away.

He doesn’t, though. His feet stay firmly planted, pressure building in his lower abdomen, cock pulsing behind the chrome zipper of his jeans.

You tug at the strings until the fabric falls slack. Still covering your chest, but only just barely. 

Tommy thinks green might be his new favorite color.

You hook your thumb around the thin string across your ribcage, the only resistance left between this moment and the next, a lone scrap of polyester that stands between Tommy being the fun uncle and the weird one.

He doesn’t say it out loud, doesn’t say anything at all. But he admits to himself only that he does want it. That he wants you. To see you, to touch you, to feel you. It’s wrong and perverted and maybe even a little gross, but you’re just so fucking pretty. 

Slowly, those loose-fitting triangles drift lower and lower, almost there. His breath comes fast and labored. The seconds tick by, feeling much longer than they truly are. 

 And then—

“Dinner!” Your mom’s voice carries through the backyard, kind and airy. “Are you staying, Tommy? We’re having pasta tonight.”

Tommy clears his throat and looks over his shoulder at your mom, who stands on the back deck completely oblivious. “Uh, no,” he says. “Not tonight. Thanks, though.”

“Suit yourself,” she says before disappearing back into the kitchen.

You extend your hand to him, the other held tightly over the fabric of your top to keep it in place. “Help me up,” you say, and he does. 

He watches as you turn your back to him, straining to memorize every last second of this moment because he never, ever wants to forget it. The smoothness of your skin, the shallow slope at the small of your back, the delicious curve of your ass—if this is all he ever gets to see, Tommy wants it stuck in his brain like glue. Permanent.

You move the arm that’s held to your chest, and the green fabric finally drops, exposing you completely. With your back still to him, all Tommy can see is the subtle curves of the sides of your breasts, but it’s enough to make his heart race. You gather your hair at the nape of your neck and ask, “Can you tie it for me?”

Tommy knows you’re doing this on purpose. Trying to get a rise out of him, and it’s working. “Course,” he says, stepping forward, placing his rough, calloused hands on your delicate shoulders. He reaches down your body and gathers the nylon strands between his fingers, careful not to touch you more than what’s necessary.

He wants to, though. Christ, does he. His lungs stutter at the thought alone. It takes everything in him to resist lowering himself to his knees and giving you the tender, loving care you deserve. He’d worship you, Tommy decides. He’d demonstrate how a girl like you is supposed to be treated. Touched slowly, gently—until you beg him for more, until you whimper and cry and remember no words but his fucking name. 

Until his touch is so deeply embedded in your skin that you’d never be able to root him out. 

But he doesn’t give you so much as a clue to what he’s thinking. Instead, he exhales a shaky breath, fanning across the back of your neck, and ties the lime colored strands into a perfect bow. He presses a chaste kiss to the crown of your head and says, “Be good, now. Alright?”

You turn to face him, that familiar, provocative smirk on your sweet mouth. “Never,” you promise, and he knows you mean it.

Tommy doesn’t even notice he’s speeding the entire way back to his shitty apartment. What’s worse is that he doesn’t even make it inside. He sits behind the wheel of his truck, right in the open, empty parking lot, squeezing his aching cock in his hand, head filled with thoughts of you.

The next time he stays for dinner, your mom makes fajitas. You sit beside him on the steps of the back porch and pick red peppers off his plate.

You and Sarah belly-laugh about some YouTube video you watched together late last night, mimicking impressions of an animatronic voice. And it’s at this very moment that Tommy realizes he might be in real trouble.

Because he wants to fuck you. Thinks about it almost every goddamn night. Can’t even get off with the women he meets at the bars anymore without closing his eyes and recalling that lime bikini or the arch of your back or the way your thighs fit so perfectly in his big hands. It’s a carnal desire. Uncontrollable.

But this? Feeling a sense of elation provoked only by knowing you're here beside him, safe, happy, and fed? It’s something else. Something heavy. Something he can’t quite put a name to because he doesn’t have any experience with it, despite his age.

All Tommy Miller knows is that he smiles just at the sound of your name.

The thought crosses his mind that he should try to keep his distance, and he tells himself he will. He lies in bed thinking about it, conducting a plan in his head while staring at the ceiling at two in the morning. He can’t not see you. But maybe he doesn’t have to be so inviting. Maybe he doesn’t have to seek you out every afternoon, doesn’t have to check in and make sure you’ve had a good day. 

Maybe he sits on the opposite end of the table during Sunday dinner. Maybe when you give him that look and head to the kitchen in search of whiskey, Tommy keeps his ass on the couch.

But then the next morning rolls around, and he’s picking Sarah and Joel up with dark circles under his eyes and a cigarette hanging from the corner of his lips. He sits on the front steps and glances over his shoulder when the door creaks open and is only a little surprised when you step outside with bare feet, wearing nothing but a thin tank top and a pair of sleep shorts.

Your hair’s messy, and there’s an imprint from your pillow on your cheek. Still half asleep, you let out the cutest whimper he’s ever heard and crawl right into his lap like it’s where you belong. 

Tommy spreads his knees apart to make room for you, stubbing his cigarette out on the concrete and tossing it in the grass. He brackets his arms around your waist and interlocks his fingers at your hip while you curl up against him, stealing his warmth. 

It feels so easy, so natural that he doesn’t fight it for a second. Doesn’t even realize he should. All those big plans he made six hours ago to right this wrong dissolve as easily as sugar in water. He kisses your forehead and holds you close and says, “Hey, sweetheart. You alright? Somethin’ wrong?”

You nuzzle your nose against the crook of his neck and murmur sleepily, “Missed you.”

Just two words, but that’s all it takes. He decides that the heavy feeling inside his chest is his to cope with. He won’t make you suffer for it. Can’t imagine ever pushing you away or sitting across from you instead of at your side.

There’s only one word for this, he knows. Only one explanation for why he continuously fights for your laughter, your comfort. Only one reason he’s memorized the pattern of your breathing and would know the touch of your hands with his eyes closed.

It’s not right. 

It’s not, and Tommy knows it, but he doesn’t have the strength to fight it. So, he cradles this feeling in his hands. Holds it gently. Sees it for what it is. 

And then he tucks it away. Locks it up tight and promises never to speak of it. 

Joel takes your mom to Galveston for the weekend on their anniversary. He asks Tommy to keep an eye on you and Sarah, to keep his phone on in case the two of you need anything.

He brings takeout over after work on Friday night, but leaves the two of you to your own devices after that. Tommy remembers being your age and doesn’t want to hover, doesn’t want anyone involved to consider him a fucking babysitter. So he gives you the space he wanted when he was young. Figures if you need him, you’ll call him, and he’ll come running.

The phone doesn’t ring until late Sunday afternoon. 

Joel and your mom are due home in the next few hours, and your voice is panicky on the other end of the line. “Hey. Can you—can you come over? We sort of broke something, and I tried to fix it but I think I only made it worse.”

Tommy’s in his truck before the call even ends. He asks a hundred questions, tries to get some sort of clarification on the way over. But you don’t give much in the way of answers, and his confusion only increases when he pulls into Joel’s driveway and sees you standing on the porch with a trash bag in hand. “Okay, before you come inside, you have to swear to secrecy,” you say.

Tommy’s brows furrow.  “Christ, kid. What the hell’d you do? There a fuckin’ dead body in there?”

You roll your eyes. “Just promise you won’t tell Joel or my mom.”

“Can’t promise nothin’ if I don’t know—”

“Just promise me, Tommy,” you say, frustration building. He’s never seen you this serious, he realizes.

Even if there was a dead body behind the front door, Tommy knows he’d do nothing but protect you from the fallout. And he hates how nervous you look, so the decision comes easily. “Hey.” He reaches out and takes your hand in his, running his thumb across your knuckles. “I promise, alright?”

You let out a sigh of relief. “Good. Cause Sarah’s in there freaking the fuck out cause I called you.”

Tommy follows you inside, mouth open with the intent to ask more questions. But they’re all answered rather quickly when he sees the state of Joel’s living room.

There are half-empty beer cans and red solo cups littered all over every viable surface. Pink and green and orange streamers hang from the ceiling fan and over the stair bannister. Confetti covers the floor and there’s a shattered glass bottle in the kitchen sink, but the most obvious stressor is the six-inch hole in the wall beside the fridge.

Sarah’s footsteps rush down the hall, finger pointed at Tommy. Her eyes are wide, and there’s genuine tension on her face. “Did you swear?”

Tommy raises both hands in surrender. “Cross my heart,” he says, and means it. “Let me take care of the wall first. I’ll get the broken glass after. Don’t wanna see either one of you near it. The last thing we need right now is a trip to the emergency room for stitches.”

Between the three of you, it doesn’t take long. Tommy finds a mesh patch, spackle, and a half-empty gallon of paint in Joel’s garage that matches the kitchen walls. He fills the cavity as quickly as he can, using the box fan from Joel’s bedroom window to speed up the drying process.

You make quick progress, and yet still, he feels his heart sink to his feet at the sound of tires in the driveway.

Both you and Sarah freeze in place, staring at each other with expressions that are somehow both horrified and amused. “We’re so fucked, dude,” you whisper.

But when it comes to hiding things like this, Tommy Miller might just consider himself an expert. “Not just yet,” he swears. “Throw it all out back. I’ll keep them outside for a minute, and then when I leave, I’ll take care of it, alright? Be quick.”

He tries not to laugh as you and Sarah launch into action, running around the room and filling your hands with what remains.

Tommy meets Joel at his truck and asks him how their vacation was, making comments and drawing the discussion out as your mom talks about the aquarium and the restaurants on the pier and how the hotel staff folded your towels into the shape of little swans. 

Joel asks how you and Sarah behaved, asks if there had been any trouble. Tommy shakes his head, leaning against the side of the truck. “Nah,” he lies easily. “They were perfect angels as usual.”

When he can no longer make viable conversation points, he very nosily helps them bring their luggage and souvenirs inside. He finds you and Sarah cuddled up on the couch, both reading books that Tommy knows you’ve never cracked open a day in your life.

You both look so out of place that it almost gives you away. He tries not to laugh, but it doesn’t quite work. Joel stares at him in confusion while you and Sarah glare at him from across the room, and so Tommy dismisses himself quickly. “Gonna head home,” he says. “Have to, uh…check on the neighbor's cat. Watching it for the weekend, too.”

He leaves through the front door, but sneaks around through the gate and quietly grabs the trash from the backyard just as he promised. It takes two trips to get it all, and he throws everything into the back of his truck on the off chance that Joel checks the bin before trash day.

Tommy’s tossing the last one when he sees you come sprinting off the front porch. He thinks maybe he’s forgotten something, or maybe Joel and your mom had seen right through the lie and all that acting was for nothing.

But then you’re throwing your arms around his neck and wrapping your legs around his waist, face buried in his shoulder. 

Holding you is as easy as breathing. He keeps you upright, keeps you close, with his big hands spread wide over your back.

You say, “Thank you, Uncle Tommy,” and the air is punched from his fucking lungs. 

It’s the first time you've said it. The very first time, and he feels giddy and nervous, and his stomach gets all tied in knots like he’s some teenage boy. He squeezes you tighter, and his laughter slips out unrestrained this time. 

It’s filthy and dirty and disgusting, but he loves it. “I’ve always got you, darlin',” he says. “You know that.”

You lift your head to look at him, and your pretty mouth is suddenly so close to his that you share the same breath. “Yeah,” you giggle. “I know you do.”

It warms him from the inside out to hear it. He loves being this for you. A holder of secrets, a shoulder to lean on, a solver of problems. He loves that you make him feel needed—wanted in a way he’s never been before.

He loves being your Uncle Tommy. 

You press your forehead to his, and desire creeps up his spine, hot and thick and asphyxiating. His limbs feel heavy, and his breath gets caught in his lungs. It’s painful how badly he wants you. Like a peak he can’t quite reach, an itch he can’t quite scratch. You thread your hands in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling gently, and his eyelids flutter closed. 

Nothing has ever felt as good as it feels to be touched by you, Tommy realizes. And he knows nothing will ever compare. 

“Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, sweetheart, I…”

There are no words to say. They get all jumbled in his head, and the only thing he can make out in the chaos is his yearning.

“I know,” you say. Because of course you do. You’ve always known him, have always understood him in a way no one else has. Have always been able to see the look on his face and read the thoughts in his head. “I know.”

Slowly, carefully, you untangle your legs from around his waist. You slide down his body and he knows you can feel it. Knows there’s no way in hell the throbbing of his cock could ever be mistaken as just his belt buckle. 

But you say nothing. Just smile up at him with those hungry eyes and press a sweet, soft kiss to his cheek.

He drives home in silence.

No music, no news station. Even the windows he leaves up. Tommy can’t think beyond the taste of your oxygen, can’t see past the absolute fucking shit show he’s gotten himself into. He sits in his truck outside his apartment for twenty minutes before he moves again, scratching the stubble along his jaw.

And then, as if he hadn’t almost kissed you in broad daylight, the world keeps turning.

He cleans out the bed of his truck, showers the smell of paint and cheap beer from his skin, and then he goes to work the next morning. He teases Joel about the swan-shaped towels, but there’s no salt to it. Truly, he’s happy for his brother. 

Joel’s been so selfless his whole life. Has given the first half of it up to raise Tommy and the second half to raise Sarah and never complained, not even once.

If anyone in the world deserves that gooey, cliche kind of love that’s just good and uncomplicated and easy, it’s Joel. They really are perfect for each other, he and your mother.

Tommy tries not to think about how his happiness for his brother is paired with a simmering jealousy underneath. Decides to take that green-eyed confession to his grave.

Friday afternoon, one of the electricians Joel hired a few months ago invites Tommy out to a nightclub. “The whole team’s going tomorrow,” he says. “Booze, girls, drugs if you’re into that kinda thing. One of those pop-up ones. It’s in that old warehouse on the other side of town.”

Sounds tempting, he’ll admit. Right up his alley. But Tommy knows himself, and knows that in a place like that he’s likely to go a little overboard. Spend too much money, have too many drinks, wake up the next morning with a girl in his bed he doesn’t remember talking to. And if he does that, he likely won’t make it to Sunday dinner at Joel’s. 

Which means no time with you. 

No stolen, longing glances across the room. No heat of your thigh pressed against his. No thieving fingers on his plate.

Tommy shakes his head. “Thanks, Mike. But, uh…I’m—I’m good.”

He thinks that’s the end of it. But then Joel asks, real gently, “You got a girl or somethin’ I don’t know about?”

“What? Nah, man. No. Definitely not.” Tommy knows his answer comes too quickly, too dismissive for it to be even remotely believable. But it’s true, isn’t it? You’re not his girl. You just…well, you’re his niece. Sort of.

Joel eyes him suspiciously. All he says is, “Never would’ve imagined you’d skip out on that.” But it’s enough to convince Tommy that his brother doesn’t believe him for even a second.

He lay awake that night, head filled with thoughts of you. Because Tommy knows Joel’s right. Before you’d waltzed into his life and altered its course, he would’ve been all over that. Would’ve jumped at the opportunity for an exclusive warehouse party, even knowing what would likely happen. He’d take the migraine and the dehydration and the overdrafted checking account at just the plausible idea of a good time.

And he’d declined so quickly. That’s the part that gets him. The thing that gives him perspective. He hadn’t even debated it for a single second because the things that once brought him joy pale in comparison to simply being at your side. 

Saturday morning, Tommy makes a phone call. Says he changed his mind and gets the address of the warehouse.

He spends his afternoon running errands, doing everything he knows he won’t have the energy for tomorrow. And then he showers and puts gel in his hair and picks out a nice outfit. Starched blue jeans that fit him nicely and an expensive leather belt and a white t-shirt. He puts on a simple gold chain and sprays his favorite cologne (trying not to think about the fact that it’s only his favorite because one afternoon you’d said he smelled so good he was ‘edible’). 

On the drive over, he has to hype himself up. Has to try and convince himself that this is a good thing. It’s what he needs. To get out there again, to find someone who makes him feel the way you do. Someone nice and age-appropriate and not loosely familial. Someone who doesn’t know Joel or your mother or Sarah or you in any fucking capactiy whatsoever. 

Tommy doesn’t think it’s likely that he’ll find that person here, of course. But there’s a possibility, right? To meet someone who could be the love of his life. A slim chance, but a chance nonetheless.

There are more people than he expects. The warehouse looks almost dark on the outside. Quiet and empty. But once the bouncer checks his ID and lets him through the double doors, the inside is a different world entirely. 

There are three different bars. One on the left wall, one on the right, and one in the very center of the room in the shape of an oval. There’s a big stage with a live DJ and house music playing loud over the speakers. The dance floor is lively and drenched in neon lights and the air is thick with humidity and the smell of liquor.

Excitement trickles into his bloodstream. It’s been a long while since he’s been in a place like this, but Tommy thinks it might just cure him.

All it takes is a quick text before he finds Mike and the rest of the guys from the work site that decided to show up. There’s only a handful of them, but they all split the bill for a round of shots, and Tommy orders a whiskey and coke. 

They’re here for one reason, of course—and Tommy’s no different. They chat for a while, but eventually the guys all peel off from the group one by one after buying a girl a drink and then proceeding to disappear into the crowd of dancing bodies. 

Mike has a wife, but even he finds someone to dance with, and eventually Tommy sits at the bar alone. 

He pulls out his phone. Opens your thread of messages and smiles to himself as he scrolls through them. It’s filled with silly photos and dirty jokes and the occasional text from you that reads, ‘miss you today<3’ and his perpetual response, ‘I always miss you more. Be good, sweetheart.’ 

Tommy’s so deeply focused on his phone that he nearly jumps out of his skin when his drink is pulled right out of his hands.

He looks up with a scowl on his face, not anticipating a fight but preparing for one, and then—

“Can I have some of that?” You don’t wait for his answer before sipping from his glass, leaving lip gloss stains in the same place his mouth was moments ago.

“What in the fuck?” A crease forms between his brows as he takes in your familiar face, backlit by green and yellow lights. “They’re checking IDs at the door,” he says. “How did you even get in here?”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, come on, Uncle Tommy. You’re telling me you never had a fake when you were my age?”

Tommy knows he probably should say something…responsible right now. Should probably warn you of the dangers in a place like this, especially for a girl like you. Should be taught about covetous men with wandering hands and powders dropped in drinks and cigarettes laced with God knows what.

But he did have a fake ID at your age and could be found at places a whole lot like this one. Two peas in a fucking pod, he thinks. 

So, instead, he asks, “Did you, uh…come here with someone? Friends or…I don’t know. A boyfriend, maybe?”

He steels himself in preparation for your answer. You’ve never mentioned a boyfriend before, but you’re at that age. Probably experimenting a little, sifting through the options to find which one suits you best.

But you’re standing at a bar, all alone, buying your own drink. Shitty fucking option, Tommy thinks.

“Why? You jealous or something?” There’s a teasing lilt to your voice, and Tommy knows you’re just trying to get a rise out of him. But the sad part is that you’re not too far off, and that’s what has him turning to the bartender and ordering another.

“Got no reason to be jealous,” Tommy answers with a shrug. “Ain’t exactly like I’ve got a spot on the roster, darlin’.”

Your smile falls. Just barely, almost undetectable. But Tommy notices. Would notice it even if you were across the room. “Is that what you think?”

“It’s what I know.”

“Well, then you’re a fucking idiot, Tommy Miller.” You laugh, but there’s no humor in it. The words are sharp, icy. You take a long drink from his stolen glass. “What stops you?”

His brows furrow. “Stops me…?”

“From doing what you want to me.” It gives him pause, laying it out so boldly like that. The truth he’s never spoken aloud falls so easily from your tongue. “We get so close,” you elaborate. “Just one moment, one choice away…but you never do it. You always hesitate, and then the moment’s gone. So what stops you?”

His morals, your age, your vibrance. You’re so good, so lively and carefree and happy. How does he explain that he doesn’t want to ruin this? Ruin you? How does he explain that taking that next step with you would tarnish both of you forever? Red to blue, green to yellow. It would never be the same. 

He’s supposed to protect you. Supposed to give you a shoulder to cry on and a soft landing in your time of need and spot you a twenty when you’re short on cash. Supposed to be a guiding hand as an uncle should. He’s not supposed to be…whatever this is.

Tommy’s relieved when the bartender hands him his drink. “You know what stops me,” he says as if it’s obvious, throwing back half the glass in one long drink. The whiskey burns.

“Would it be different if you didn’t know me?”

“Very,” he answers honestly, his mind filling so easily with those obscene possibilities. “But I do know you, so it doesn’t matter.”

That familiar, troublesome smirk finds its way to your glossy lips. You toss back what remains in your glass, set it on the bar, and say, “I’m going to walk away. Okay? And you’re going to have one of those cases of temporary amnesia.”

Tommy laughs and shakes his head. “You’re crazy,” he says.

But you don’t pay him any mind. “You’re going to forget everything you know about me. Every last detail. I’m just some girl at a club, and you’re just some guy at the bar.” You put your hands on his shoulders, shaking lightly, staring up at him with starry eyes. Tommy’s heart races behind his sternum, but he can’t stop grinning. “I’m not me, and you’re not you. And tomorrow, you’ll be cured. Everything will go back to normal, just like it was. Okay?”

“S’a real bad idea, darlin’,” he warns.

“So don’t make me do it alone.”

Tommy swallows hard. He’s never said no to you in all his life, and it’s just…it’s just one night, right? Maybe it’s what he needs. A slow release of pressure, a controlled indulgence to prevent an explosion.

You see the decision as he makes it. Know what he’s thinking without him speaking a single word. Tommy covers his mouth to stifle his rugged amusement as he watches you take five steps away from him, turn in a complete circle, and then make your way back to the bar.

In a dramatic show of film-esque seduction, you lean against the bar and say, “Well, aren’t you a tall glass of water?”

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Tommy mutters to himself, smiling so hard the apples of his cheeks hurt.

You playfully slap his bicep with the back of your hand. “Aren’t you going to ask if you can buy me a drink? Wine and dine me?”

He recalls your very first conversation, that one in Joel’s kitchen when you’d promised not to let any man inside your mouth without properly romancing you first. “Alright, then,” he resigns. “What’re you havin,’ sweetheart?”

“Whiskey,” you say, and he’s not the least bit surprised.

Tommy buys your drink and says, “You look…really beautiful.” You’re wearing a silvery satin dress, sinfully short, tight in all the right places. The straps are thin against your otherwise bare shoulders, and he reaches out and gently runs his knuckles down the curve of your collarbone. He thinks it might be the very first time he’s ever touched you here, and it’s not inherently a sexual caress, but it feels so… intimate. Heavy.

You glance down at yourself, at the strappy black heels on your feet. “Thank you,” you say. “But I think it’d look even better on your bedroom floor.”

“Fuck yeah it would,” he agrees, chuckling.

“Do you wanna dance?”

Tommy’s never abandoned a drink so fast in his life. He takes your hand in his and says, “I thought you’d never ask.”

He leads you through the crowd while the DJ plays some bass-heavy pop song he’s heard on the radio a hundred times. He finds a reasonable space and raises your hand above your head, turning you so he can properly appreciate the sight of that dress.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says. “Do you know that?”

You roll your eyes like it’s a joke, but Tommy’s being dead serious. You say, “Shut up.” But he sees the way your cheeks heat, even beneath the flashing lights.

You sway your hips in time to the beat, body moving in sync with the music. There’s nothing shy or timid about it; that allure of yours comes so easily, glowing from the inside out.

Tommy’s never been a good dancer, and he knows it, but it doesn’t feel that way at all. You seem to find such amusement in his nonsensical movements, not a drop of apprehension trickles into his psyche. 

When you grab his hands and place them on your hips, he lets his instinct take over. Pulls you in close, chests pressed together, his thigh between your legs. You sing the lyrics as if every song is your favorite with a face-splitting grin and those sweet giggles falling from your lips. He pushes you away and spins you around, only to pull you right back. Right into his waiting embrace, right where you belong. Your breath comes fast, but you don’t slow down, and neither does he.

He’s not sure he’s ever felt like this in his entire life. This open, this full. A strange sort of nostalgia passes through him, a homesickness, missing the moment before it’s even passed, knowing he’ll eventually look back on this night as the best he’s ever had.

The air is hot and stiff, but he breathes in your oxygen, and it gives him life. You move together so seamlessly, and Tommy thinks about how he’d come here seeking the possible love of his life and wonders if it’s fate that you were here.

Fate that you had a fake ID, that you somehow knew about the same exclusive pop-up party he’d declined and then came to anyway. Fate that you’d be here alone, that you’d choose one bar out of three others, and that he just happened to be standing there at the very same time. In a warehouse filled with a thousand strangers, you’d somehow found him.

The songs flow and fade, bleeding from one to the next. You dance and dance, and Tommy watches you—enthralled, obsessed, in love.

He loses track of the time, thinks hours could have passed without his notice, and he wouldn’t have even cared. But when he sees a bead of sweat trickle down your neck, he asks, “Wanna step out for a minute?”

You nod once, and Tommy grabs your hand again and pulls you out of the crowd. He gives the bouncer a tight-lipped smile as you slip out of the wide doors. There’s a designated smoking area near the entrance, and that’s where Tommy leads you. 

The music can still be heard outside, muffled and low. He pulls the pack of Marlboros out of his back pocket, lights one, and inhales deeply. When he looks up, he finds you watching him, leaning back against the concrete wall of the warehouse, the blue light of the moon reflected in your eyes. 

You outstretch your hand and take the cigarette from between his fingers, taking a slow drag. “Do you bring girls you don’t know home often?”

Tommy can see right through you. Sees that unease beneath your smile, sees the way you feel the need to ask but don’t want the answer, and relates to it. It makes his stomach turn, though. Because he doesn’t ever want you to think of yourself that way, doesn’t want you to think for a single second that this is anything like that.

Because you’re not a girl he doesn’t know. Not just a means to an end. You’re you.

You’re everything.

“I don’t like this,” he admits quietly. “The pretending.”

You pass the cigarette back to him, and when he puts it to his mouth, he can taste the cherry flavor of your lip gloss on the orange filter. “Would you have as much fun, though? With all that added weight.”

Tommy doesn’t know. Has never had a fucking clue about anything in all his life, really. Never knew what he wanted to do or who he wanted to be.

The only thing that has ever been clear to him is you.

“If we stopped pretending,” you say. “What would you do?”

He hesitates.

And then decides not to let this moment pass him.

He places both hands on either side of your face and kisses you hard, hungry. Tasting you feels like a breath of fresh air, like relief. Your bottom lip slots between his so perfectly that he thinks you must have been made for him, that there could never be anyone else. When you let out the most delicious whimper he’s ever heard, Tommy slides his tongue into your mouth and moans.

It feels like time wasted, like this is what he’s been meant to do his whole life, and now he has to make up for the opportunity lost.

When he pulls away, it’s reluctant, still cradling your pretty face in his hands. Your eyes are wide, and your breath is labored. 

“That’s what I would do,” he says.

A minute passes, and you just stare at him, searching his eyes for something. Doubt, maybe. But you won’t find any, because Tommy Miller has never been more sure of anything in his entire life.

And then, finally—

“Uncle Tommy?”

No more pretending. “Yeah, sweetheart?”

“I want you to take me home. Right now,” you say.

“Now?”

“Yes. Right the fuck now. Please.”

He smiles widely. “C’mon, baby.”

Tommy takes you to his truck and buckles you in. The ride back to his apartment feels like a blur. He’s barely had two drinks, but you make him feel drunk.

You can’t keep your hands off him. It only takes three seconds once he pulls onto the road before you’re unbuckling your seatbelt and sliding across the cab. You press wet, open-mouthed kisses to the side of his neck and run your hands over his strong thighs, giggling all the while.

He has to reel you in a little after almost running a red light. “Careful, now,” he says, taking your hand in his free one and pressing a kiss to the back of it. “If I die before I get to eat your pussy I’ll come back and haunt the fuck out of you.”

You throw your head back and laugh, but Tommy means it.

It’s a relief when he pulls in the parking lot in one piece, but before he even cuts the ignition, you’re crawling into his lap.

His pretty, desperate girl. 

You kiss him deep, tongue sliding against his, hips tilting over the already hard cock in his jeans. He could cum just like this, Tommy knows, with you on top of him and your hands tangled in the curls at the nape of his neck. You smell sweet and seductive, and he can think of nothing beyond this singular moment.

“Let’s just do it right here,” you say, panting, hands sliding beneath his t-shirt. “I want you so bad. I’ve wanted it for so long, please.”

There are no words to describe how much it satisfies him to hear it, to hear you beg for him. But you deserve better than this. Deserve so much more than a back seat fuck. He wants to give you everything, wants to give you all of him. “I know, sweetheart, I know,” he says. Because he does. “Wanna see you in my bed, though.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, and Tommy uses it to his advantage, holding you close as he quickly gets out of the truck and locks it behind him. You’re a giggling mess, pressing kisses to his face as he makes his way inside and up the stairs to his apartment. “You’re so handsome,” you say. “Have I ever told you that?” 

“A hundred times,” he says, kicking the door closed behind him. “But one more won’t hurt.”

His apartment is a mess. There are dishes in the sink and clothes on the floor and an empty plate on the coffee table, but just seeing you here makes his heart swell in his chest. 

He begins to wonder if this is where you’re meant to be; taking up room in his space, kicking off your shoes at the front door.

Tommy’s cock pulses in the confines of his jeans.

“Kiss me again,” you say. “Kiss me like you mean it.”

He does. His mouth clashes against yours, tongue licking into your sweet mouth, savoring the taste of what remains of your shimmery lip gloss.

Tommy’s hands drift lower, squeezing at the round globes of your ass, pulling you impossibly closer. One of his hands dips between your thighs, feeling the soft lace you wear beneath that sinful dress. “Fuck,” he hisses. “Fuck, I need to taste you. Been dreamin’ about it.”

“You dream about me?”

He wraps his big arms around your waist and lifts you. “Every fuckin’ night,” he admits, turning towards his bedroom. 

Doesn’t make it very far, though. Because when you wrap your legs around his waist and rut against him, Tommy lets out a low sound from somewhere deep inside his chest before laying you back against the kitchen island. 

“Fuck it,” he murmurs to himself. Close enough, he thinks.

You look so fucking pretty like this. All sprawled out for him, flushed with your swollen lips parted and your pupils blown wide. He’d always known it would be a sight to behold, but this…it’s something else entirely. 

Cataclysmic. Divine sacrilege.

He leans over you and kisses your chest softly. “Tell me you want this,” he says. “That you want me.”

Your answer comes fast. “I want you, Uncle Tommy.” 

And he feels a deep-seated desire swirl low in his abdomen. Because it’s fucked up. He knows it is. Is completely, lucidly aware that this is all wrong. Filthy and twisted.

Yet he wants it anyway. Maybe not despite it, but because of it. Pleasure heightened with this sick perversion.

He slides his hands under your dress and hooks his fingers around the lace, pulling it down your legs. You’re so wet for him he can see it stick, webs of slick snapping as he groans at the sight. “Goddamn, sweetheart,” he whispers. “Didn’t tell me it was like this.”

“I need you so bad it hurts,” you tell him. “Get so wet just thinking about it.” Your voice is low and desperate, almost a cry. 

“Don’t worry, baby,” he says. “Uncle Tommy’s going to take care of you, okay? Gonna make that ache go away.”

He kisses you slowly. Starts at your ankle and slowly works his way up. He kisses and bites the insides of your thighs, savoring the moment not for you but for him, leaving indentations of his teeth in your flesh. A memory, he thinks. A promise that you’ll think of this tomorrow and the next day. That you’ll remember the way he made you feel.

Then he’s rolling your dress up your hips, delighting in the way you get all shy and squirmy as he takes you in, unashamed in his study. “Such a pretty little pussy,” he says. “Gonna make her feel real good, sweetheart. Don’t you worry.”

He surges forward, licking through your folds. memorizing the way your slit feels beneath his tongue because he never wants to forget this. Never wants to forget the way you gasp beneath him or the way your hands pull at his hair. “Oh my god.”

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I’ve got you, pretty girl.” he kisses your clit. Once, twice, before sucking it between his lips. He spreads your legs wide and presses his mouth to you, nose crinkling against your pubic bone. 

He could die here a happy man. You taste divine, better than anything his mind could have ever conjured up. He licks and sucks until you’re writhing, and when he presses two fingers gently into your opening, your back arches off the counter top. 

Tommy hooks two fingers inside you, hitting that sweet spot, your perfect moans echoing through his kitchen. He wraps an arm around your thigh and pulls you roughly to the edge of the counter. His tongue is warm and wet as he uses it to circle your clit, groaning against you, sending vibrations through your body.

His name falls from your mouth between gasping breaths. You grind yourself against him, making a delicious mess of his face and pulling at the roots of his hair.

He can feel you clenching around his fingers, chasing that high, chasing release. Tommy decides to give you a little encouragement. “Go on, now,” he mutters against your spit-soaked clit. “Take it, baby. You deserve it. Been so fuckin’ good for so long. Deserve a reward.”

Your breath halts, just for a second. And then you let out a long, salacious moan and your legs tremble around his head. Tommy feels your walls pulse around his two fingers, squeezing them hard. “Fuck, fuck—”

“That’s it,” he praises, flicking his soft tongue gently over your clit, fingers working you through it, pressing in deep. “There you go, shhh. Just like that.”

He looks up at you, branding this image in his brain. The arch of your back, the strain in your throat as you desperately take in oxygen, the way the shimmery, silver sequins on your dress cast little rainbows across his apartment. He’ll never forget it for as long as he lives.

“You look so beautiful, darlin’,” he says. “So pretty when you cum for your Uncle Tommy.”

Only when your writhing stops and your breath evens out does he slow the rhythm of his fingers, caressing your insides slowly, gently, making sure he coaxes it all out of you and delighting in the little whimpers you make in response. And then he carefully slides them out of you, digits slick and glossy with your release. Your eyes are glued to his as he brings them to his mouth and licks them clean, not wasting a single drop. That smirk of yours forms as you say, breathless, “Kiss me.”

Tommy grips the back of your neck and pulls you forward, grinning as he gives you what you need. He kisses you eagerly, tongue finding yours, licking into your mouth.

“Can taste it,” you mutter, giggling against his lips. “I made a real mess of you.”

In more ways than one, Tommy thinks. “Tastes fuckin’ good, though,” he says. “Just gettin’ started, anyway.”

He lifts you off the counter, laughing as you squeal in surprise when he tosses you over his shoulder so easily. You fist your hands in the bottom of his wrinkled t-shirt, seeking stability. “I bet you have blue sheets,” you say.

Tommy snorts. “You’ve thought about the color of my sheets?” Such a simple thing, an irrelevant part of his life that has never mattered to him in any capacity.

“Duh,” you say as if it’s obvious, and Tommy’s suddenly overwhelmed with warmth. He likes that you think about it—his sheets, his bedroom, him. Likes knowing he’s not been alone in his mania. “Always knew I’d end up in them.”

He laughs darkly as he pushes open the door and shoulders you onto his bed, right in the center of his navy blue sheets.

You smile up at him, beaming with pride, and he shakes his head as you say, “Told ya.”

It doesn’t surprise him that you’d guessed correctly because you know him. Better than anyone else ever has. Because you and Tommy are one and the same, two sides to the same twisted coin. “Yeah, yeah, alright,” he teases, crawling over you, knees braced on either side of your thighs. “S’enough outta you, know it all.”

You open your mouth, probably to make some filthy joke, but whatever it is never sees the light of day because Tommy hooks his fingers around the thin straps of your dress and pulls them down your shoulders. He tugs at the fabric until your breasts are bared to him, pretty and soft and perfect.

He cups them tenderly in his hands, thumbs grazing the hardened peaks of your nipples. He watches goosebumps rise across your chest, and it brings a sick smile to his face. “S’that feel good, sweetheart?”

“Yes,” you breathe, eyes heavy. “Touch me more. Wanna feel you.”

Tommy’s never heard a more tempting request in his life. He leans over and presses his mouth to your chest, hands roaming over your skin. He takes your nipple in his mouth and flicks his tongue over the sensitive flesh, sighing against you at the sound of your moan.

He pushes your dress down to your hips and lets you shimmy the rest of the way out of it, kicking the shiny fabric onto the floor. You lift your hips to meet his, and his cock is so hard and needy that the smallest bit of friction nearly knocks him on his ass. “Shit,” he hisses, trailing kisses across your chest, spreading his worship. He plans to take his time, wants to see just how close he can get you with just his mouth on your tits.

But then your voice breaks through your breathy whimpers. “Uncle Tommy,” you say. “Wait. Wait, I—”

He stops, pulling back, giving you room to breathe. The coldness of fear begins to trickle in as he anticipates your next words. Has he gone too far? Said too much, moved too fast?

“I want you in my mouth,” you say with those pretty eyes, and he convinces himself he’s dreaming. “Please.”

Because this can’t be real. There’s no way in hell he’s looking at you, naked in his bed, begging to suck his cock. His pretty, perfect girl. Tommy runs his hands down his face, and a sound of utter disbelief escapes him. But then he’s nodding, just as eager. “Yeah, baby,” he says. “Course you can.”

Your responding smile sends a shiver down his spine. Carefully, you move from beneath him, hands tugging at the buckle of his leather belt. He can do nothing but watch with reverence as you unbutton his jeans and pull at his zipper, tongue wetting your lips. 

The air gets stuck in his lungs as you reach into his boxers and pull him out with gentle fingers. It’s hypnotic, the way you touch him. You press a sweet, chaste kiss to his tip and with that one touch alone he’s already fighting for his fucking life.

But he lets you do what you want to him. Lets you move at your own pace. Tommy’s grateful you’re slow in your pursuit, though. Tasting him, tongue gliding down the underside of his shaft, savoring.

When you finally take him fully in your mouth, his head falls back and he sighs deeply. It’s almost too much to feel you and look at you, but Tommy doesn’t want to miss it. He strokes your hair as you hollow out your cheeks and greedily swallow him down. “Fuck,” he groans. “Look so good with my dick in your mouth. Yeah, there you go. Just like that.”

You suck harder, take him in deeper. His vision blurs, and pleasure builds and builds and builds, rushing to the surface of his skin. 

“Easy,” he warns. You look at him through your lashes, lips parted around his heavy cock. It’s the most pornographic image he’s ever fucking seen and it’s going to have him cumming down your throat. “Easy, easy, easy—” Tommy takes a handful of your hair and pulls you back, dick pulsing as he watches strands of your spit stick to him. “Jesus Christ, sweetheart.”

Pure, sprightly giggles bubble from your glossy lips. So beautiful it hurts him. “Can I tell you what I want?”

“Always,” he promises, and means it.

You move across his bed, crawling back towards the headboard. Your voice is low, a seductive whisper as you tell him, “I want you to take off your clothes.”

He does. Starts by pulling his t-shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor. Then he takes off his boots and shoves his jeans and boxers down, discarding them beside your pretty little dress.

“I want you to come over here and kiss me,” you say. Tommy moves on instinct, crawling towards you. He’s nearly there when you speak again, mouth hovering over yours. “And then I want you inside me, Uncle Tommy.”

He shivers as you spread your legs slowly, putting on a sweet little show. All for him. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm,” you murmur. You slide your hands down your body, that troublesome look on your face, teasing. As you glide your fingers through your pussy, slick and glossy, you continue. “Wanna watch it go in. Wanna see it here,” you say, pressing hard against your lower abdomen.

Tommy’s always given you everything you’ve ever wanted. Has never had any problem satisfying all your needs. And that doesn’t change now, either.

He kisses you slowly. Meaningfully. There’s intent behind it. Love. Adoration. He hopes you can feel it. Hope you can sense it.

With his forehead against yours, he lines himself up at your entrance. He cradles your face with his hand. Says, “Tell me if it hurts.”

And then he’s pushing inside you, and his hands shake. You watch it, just as you wanted. Watch his cock split you open, watch your pretty pussy make room for him. And Tommy watches you, delighting in the way your eyes go wide and watery, in the way your lips part in a gasp.

He sinks into you all the way, hips pressed tight against yours. And when he pulls back out his cock is covered in your slick. “How’s it feel, baby?”

You nod frantically, chest heaving. “S’good,” you answer. “So fucking…God. You’re so big.”

Tommy tilts his hips, quickly finding a cadence that makes you cry out his name. You feel like heaven. Warm and wet, soaked. The sounds echo in his bedroom, obscene and filthy. He kisses your forehead, your nose, your temple. Every part of you he can reach. “This what you wanted? Hm?”

“Yes, yes, please—”

“Shh, s’alright, darlin’. Ain’t gotta beg me. Uncle Tommy’s got you.” Your silky walls grip his cock tighter as he says it, and he knows then and there that you’re the same in this, too. Knows that you like the perversion, the corruption, the filth. 

He thrusts harder, deeper. Your back arches, and your hand reaches for his. Tommy laces his fingers through yours and has never felt closer to anyone in his life. You say, “I needed you,” and he agrees.

“I know, baby. Me too. I’m here now. Gonna make you cum for me.” He uses his free hand and presses it to your lips. “Open your mouth.”

You do. His perfect girl. He presses his fingers past your lips, into your mouth. Your tongue swirls around them, coating them in your spit. And then he snakes his arm between you and circles your clit, tortorously gentle. “Oh my fucking God,” you cry, squeezing your eyes shut.

But Tommy won’t have it. “Nuh-uh. Look at me, baby,” he says. “C’mon. Wanna see the way you look cumming on Uncle Tommy’s cock, huh?” You do as he says, and a tear rolls down your cheek. “There you go. Just like that. Good job.”

“Tommy,” you whimper, pussy fluttering around him. He’s not going to last long, not like this. Not when you cry for him so beautifully. 

He circles your clit faster, fighting off the bliss that creeps up his spine. “Right here,” he says, kissing your tears away, salt clinging to his lips. “Stay right here with me, sweet girl. Takin’ it so fuckin’ well for me.”

Your fingernails dig into the back of his hand and he knows you’re there, can feel your pussy sucking him in deeper. “Cum with me,” you say, breath ragged. “Cum with me, please.”

“Fuck, fuck…baby, I don’t know if—”

“It’s okay, I promise,” you tell him, voice pleading. “I’m on birth control, I swear. Just…I want to feel it, Uncle Tommy. Want you to fill me up.”

This will damn him, he knows.

“Please, please, please. I’m gonna—I’m gonna cum, oh my God—”

He’d do anything for you.

“Always gonna give you what you want,” he says. “My favorite girl.”

Your eyes are starry as you crest that high, somehow even more exquisite than the first time. Sweet moans fill the room, and your thighs shake as your release rocks through you, spine bending off his blue sheets. You cry out his name, and that’s what sets him over the edge.

His cock pulses inside of you, painting your insides with thick, sticky ropes of cum. It’s the most intense orgasm he’s ever had, and he knows he’ll chase this high for the rest of his fucking life. “That’s it,” he whispers, his breath hot against the shell of your ear. “Such a filthy little thing, beggin’ for your Uncle Tommy to fill you up with his cum. You’re so perfect for me.”

He gives you every last drop, thrusting in deep until his cock is so overstimulated it almost hurts. But he circles your clit with his spit-soaked fingers until you come down, walls spasming uncontrollably around him.

When he finally pulls out of you, he does it gently. And then he collapses on the bed beside you, panting to try and slow the racing of his heart. He turns his head to look at you and catches your eye, and he’s not quite sure why, but you both grin and just laugh.

There’s no dirty joke or any sort of amusement. Nothing’s funny, but Tommy supposes he’s just…well, he’s happy. Seeing you on the right side of his mattress, all naked and fucked out and satisfied, it just feels so right.

And he knows it’s not. Knows it’s so far removed from the idea of right that it’s absurd, but you’re stifling your laughter behind your hands and turning away from him to try and find some sort of composure, and Tommy thinks maybe he just doesn’t fucking care.

Doesn’t care about right or wrong, doesn’t care about what anyone would think or say. Because how could he when you’re at his side? How could anything else on God’s green earth ever matter to him as much as you?

It can’t happen again. He knows that.

But this is enough, Tommy thinks. This one night. A stolen moment in time that will forever belong only to the two of you, where nothing and no one matters beyond his apartment. The life here, the love between you, encased so perfectly in these four walls…it’s a gift. One he doesn’t deserve. Sweet as maple syrup and warm as the hot summer sun.

And yet it’s been given to him anyway, and Tommy Miller’s going to cherish it for the rest of his life.

When you finally turn back to him, you lie on your side with a face-splitting grin. “We’re so fucked,” you say.

Tommy laughs. “Oh, absolutely,” he agrees, pulling you close. He wraps his arms around your waist and treasures the weight of your head on his chest. “Totally, completely fucked.”

“Well, at least we’re together.”

He smiles. Presses a soft kiss to the top of your head. “Yeah,” he whispers. “At least there’s that.”

Two peas in a fucking pod.

(ermmmm ik i said i wanted to write more single part fics this year but if literally just one person asks for a part two I'll cave)

[divider by @bernardsbendystraws]

[cantpickyourgenre]

I've seen a lot of "first date gone wrong shenanigans" but what about a "friend hang where everything goes so right, they're forced to call it a date" for them? Eddie buys Dodgers tickets for him and Chris. Chris says, "Dad, are you crazy?!?!?! I have three tests and two essays ALL due Friday. I do NOT have time for this" because Mr. I Puke Over the Stress and Pressure of Chess definitely cares about his grades. So, Eddie texts Buck and says, "I have an extra ticket, you in?" and Buck responds, "A night with the Diazes? Wouldn't miss it for the world" and Eddie says, "well. Actually. Just me. :(" and Buck goes, "I'll pencil you in then, if I must :)" But then Buck is driving to Eddie's because Eddie is going to drive them to the game, and he stops at the store first. To get Chris study snacks because he's trying to suck up to him post-Texas. The cashier is like, "here. Someone paid for these roses but then dramatically took a phone call with their girlfriend and said they no longer needed them. I think they broke up. They're yours now." So, Buck brings roses to Eddie who is like, "uhhhh, wow" all rosy (pun moderately intended) cheeked and Buck is like "yeah haha I got them for free, BUT they'll look so much better here!!!!!!!!" (they both miss him living there, but couldn't think of a logical reason for him to actually stay) And they go to a restaurant first, and the couple next to them gets engaged. Turns out to be like some rich LA couple, so they buy everyone in the restaurant a bottle of wine to celebrate. So, Buck and Eddie are just like chilling, sharing this bottle of wine, and the couple next to them is talking about their plans for the future and Buck and Eddie are eavesdropping and smiling at each other and feeling light and happy. Then they get to the game finally, and a couple asks them to take their photo, because tourists, and then they offer to return the favor and Buck and Eddie now have a picture of them in front of Dodger Stadium and Buck "jokingly" sets it as his phone background, which makes Eddie take a picture of Buck but super zoomed in on one of his eyes, and he "jokingly" makes that his phone wallpaper because they're being giddy and stupid and maybe a little 30-something men flirty. And the Dodgers win and neither of them care or notice. They decide to take a walk after, maybe at the beach, maybe in the neighborhood of South Bedford because Buck "misses the area". And when they're walking it just feels right to hold hands, and then maybe when they go to say goodnight it just feels right to share a first date sort of kiss. And they don't really talk about it, they just go on dates and start treating each other like boyfriends and all of this is fine with them until Maddie is like, "okay, wait, when did you guys actually start dating? Like when is the anniversary? Also how did this happen?" and Buck and Eddie are like shrugging, Buck is saying, "maybe that dodger game? maybe non-exclusively years ago? I guess I don't really know, just sort of happened." And Eddie is just like grinning, "See Buck, the universe doesn't scream, sometimes it just whispers."

[starsofang]

Single Dad!Simon who vowed to never trust another woman again after his failed past. He was locked up with the key thrown away, permanently off of the market.

At least that’s what he’d told himself for years. Now, he was beginning to have cold feet.

Simon needed a nanny, one that he could trust completely. He didn’t play about his child, and he’d be damned if he got set up with someone of ill intentions.

But, he was desperate.

Price needed him back periodically, even after his retirement, and he agreed. After all, money was tight when he parented on his own with a growing child.

That was when you came in. Soap had been a pal and recommended an old family friend, somebody he knew Simon could trust with his kid. Simon was skeptical, of course, but Soap had never done him wrong. Reluctantly, he agreed.

Simon wanted to have a trial period to see if you were truly built for the task. He wouldn’t let you off easily. His child was his world, and women weren’t exactly in his deck of cards when it came to trust.

You were as sweet as honey upon the first meeting with a smile that could outdo the sun. Your voice was soft as rain, flowing out of you like a summer song. You spoke to him with the upmost respect, and even more so with his child.

Simon knew he could trust Soap in guaranteeing somebody safe. You were the perfect candidate. He just didn’t know it would lead into him feeling emotions he’d buried a long, long time ago.

Attraction. Interest. A crush, dare he say, like he was a stupid high school kid that just saw the prettiest girl in class and fell head over heels.

He had a silly crush on his child’s nanny when he fully intended to keep it short and professional. That was the way he operated. He was like a working machine, and you had undone his mechanics so easily to the point he struggled to function.

Seeing you with his child only caused his attraction to fester deeper. His child became attached to your hip, smiling more than they had ever done, rambling nonsense to him every time he returned home and you left to go to yours.

It was becoming hard to deny it. You opened an old wound of Simon’s, awakening that deep and dreadful loneliness he felt every passing day. Every smile, every laugh, every Mr. Riley even though you were close in age, all of it had him on the edge of his seat.

He wanted more. He was tired of denying himself happiness. The idea of pushing away every woman was still very vivid in his mind, but denying you just seemed criminal the more time passed.

“I never got to thank you for allowing me in to your home, Mr. Riley,” you told him one day, ever so sweet.

“Thought I told you to call me Simon,” he grunted, avoiding your eyes as the two of you stood in the doorway.

“Right. Simon,” you corrected with a radiant smile. “You have quite the kid, I’ll tell you that. I always look forward to coming over. It makes my day seeing the two of you.”

Simon could feel his heart pattering against his ribcage. His hands were sweaty, and he prayed you didn’t notice him swipe them along his jeans.

“Both of us?” he hummed.

“Of course. You’re just as exciting to see, too, Mr. Ri- Simon.”

Simon’s lips quirked up the slightest bit, but his heart was in his ass. For the first time in a long time, a woman was making him shy and nervous, and it didn’t feel as bad as it did before.

“You’re always free to come over for dinner,” he offered.

“That sounds great, I’d love to have dinner with the two of you!” you exclaimed, beaming.

He didn’t understand how you could be so bright yet so oblivious at the same time.

Simon cleared his throat, shifting uncomfortably on the balls of his feet. “I meant, the two of us.”

You stared at him like he’d grown two heads, and he nearly slammed the door in your face from the sheer anxiety that spiked in him. He couldn’t read your mind or what you were feeling, and Simon wished he had never said anything to begin with.

“That sounds wonderful,” you said instead. Now it was Simon’s turn to stare at you crazy. “I’d love that.”

Simon realized he was staring too long, so he cleared his throat once again, giving you a brief nod and looking away. “Alright. I’ll text you a day and have Soap pick up the little monster for the night.”

When you agreed and left with the smile that made his heart ache, he didn’t waste a second in texting Soap, telling him he’d be on nanny duty for one night that week.

Soap was quick to agree, but not without a little “You’re welcome ;)” text back.

[undisclosedproxy]

Possessive, obsessive, aggressive T.R T.N M.R

Summary: A movie night where secrets get revealed with Y/N and the boys.

Popcorn flying through the air, laughter filling the homely manor and the television playing a long forgotten movie. This is how good life ha been living with the boys. Y/N was currently sitting on the warm carpeted floor in between Theodores legs, Tom was sitting to the right of them, comfortable on his own seperate arm chair and Mattheo to the left of them, taking up most of the couch sitting in the most annoying way so that he was touching both Theodore and Y/N.

”You should have heard her screaming Y/N” Mattheo laughed loudly basically wheezing at this point, ready to pee himself from laughter.

”Okay it’s not that funny. All we did was hook up and then she woke me up screaming, she was supposed to leave already.” Theodore said shooting a fake glare in Mattheos direction with his icy blue eyes. He continued to sloppily try to braid Y/Ns piece of long brown silky hair.

”You’re right. It wasn’t funny it was obnoxious. Actually it was downright absurd, only the lowest of the low human beings with that level of IQ-“ Tom started going on a very angry rant, most of the time everyone doesn’t know what he’s talking about when he has these moments of his temper betraying him.

”Come on tom, calm down a little bit?” Y/N asked with furrowed brows and a slight pout. She didn’t mind when Mattheo and Theodore start their friendly banter but sometimes Tom just doesn’t get the hint, or pick up on social settings vibes.

Tom huffed and looked away, he didn’t want to admit it but he cares about what she thinks. They all know it too.

”You pricks are both so fucking in love with Y/N, at this point it’s disgusting.” Mattheo chuckled loudly as he continued to throw popcorn at Tom. Mattheo draped a foot over Y/Ns head. She shot him a glare and smacked his foot with her free hand, the other trying to help Theodore braid her hair.

”Do not start.” Tom warned him with a harsh look as Tom continued to put the popcorn Mattheo keeps throwing at him in a trash bag.

”Oh, do not act like you weren’t going absolute crazy when she brought a guy home.” Theodore yelled extremely loudly for no reason which was so random. Y/N looked up at Mattheo with a confused look, then back up at Theodore who was fiddling with her hair trying to detangle the matt he had made.

”No i didn’t!” Mattheo screamed back obviously lying. He was trying to cover for himself in front of Y/N.

”You dickheads did too!” Mattheo yelled pointing at Tom and Theo. As he jumped up, the popcorn falling onto the floor, the popcorn kennels already in the expensive carpet. Tom groaned loudly obviously already knowing he is going to be the one cleaning that up.

“Well. We did not hex him.” Theodore said sassily as he crossed his arms with a huff, giving up on trying to untangle the braid.

”Yes.” Tom said dryly agreeing with Theodore.

”IT WAS LITERALLY YOU WHO HEXED HIM!” Mattheo screamed at Tom, Mattheo was met with Tom staring at him blankly.

”oh.” Tom said nonchalantly,

Everyone stared at him with a concerned look on their faces.

”Is this why no boys ever come back over after the first date?” Y/N asked with a dumb founded look on her face.

”Yes.” The boys all answered in the same nonchalant tone and all at the same time.

”You guys sound like a cult, i’m leaving.” Y/N said as she gets up off the carpeted floor from in between Theodores legs. She walks up the stairs while flipping them off as they stared at her blankly.

”Her ass is so fat.” Mattheo said while so obviously staring. He was met with eye rolling from Theodore, but obviously he was staring too because he had to re arrange his pants, and Tom just looking at him with a disgusted look as he grabbed a pillow and put it over his crotch as he huffed once again.

[suliigwp]

Helloooooooo, how are you?? Love your work!!

So I got this idea for Oscar, where they have been dating for years now and everyone always teased him about when he’s popping the question. The fans pick up to it and reader finds it super funny so she posts a video with Oscar like full on sleeping on her chest with the song paper rings but like the soft part at the end. Fans go crazy and his mum Nicole actually urges him to pop the question. What do you think?? You can always change the plot a bit, it’s just an idea, hope you have a great week!!

-(cal me) rudolf or 🐢 anon (if it’s free)

Paper Rings

Oscar Piastri x Reader

SULI:Hii thank you so much for the request! Yes 🐢 anon is free— welcome to the family! I loved writing this, so sweet and ugh I just love this man— hope you enjoy! This ended up wayyyyy longer than what I imagined I would write (this is my fav gif of Oscar I had to use it)

Also this is not proofread so forgive any mistakes lmao

Warnings: talk of dangers of f1

Oscar and Y/N had been together since high school. Their story wasn’t one of wild romance or instant fireworks, but a slow-burning, steady kind of love that grew from shy smiles in crowded hallways and whispered secrets beneath the bleachers. They had been the kind of couple everyone expected to last forever — the golden pair who fit so perfectly it was like they’d been made for each other from the start. And for years, they had been inseparable.

Despite the many years and countless memories they shared, there was one thing everyone around them kept teasing Oscar about — when was he finally going to pop the question?

It started with their close friends and family. At the racing team’s gatherings, Oscar’s teammates couldn’t help but poke fun. Lando would smirk and nudge him during strategy talks, “Mate, been years. When’s the ring going on her finger?” Carlos, never one to miss a chance to tease, joked about how Oscar’s mum was already asking if he needed help picking out the perfect ring. Even Y/N’s best friends would text him with sly messages about the “big question” everyone was waiting for.

Oscar laughed along with it, but deep down, the teasing pressed on him in ways no one could see.

The fans were no different. Social media buzzed with excitement and speculation, creating a frenzy over the couple that had grown up before their eyes. Screenshots of their old photos surfaced alongside edits set to romantic songs, and forums debated which race weekend would finally see Oscar get down on one knee. The pressure wasn’t just from the people closest to him — it was everywhere, loud and relentless.

But what no one really understood was what was holding Oscar back.

It wasn’t a lack of love. Oscar loved Y/N with every fiber of his being. He’d dreamed of forever with her since they were teenagers, and his heart raced faster than any car on the track every time he thought about their future. But there was something else — a weight he carried quietly.

Since those early days, his life had been a constant race, both on and off the track. The world of Formula 1 was unforgiving, full of unpredictability and risks that could change everything in an instant. He wanted more than anything to be the man she deserved — stable, strong, able to give her a future without fear or doubt. But how do you promise forever when tomorrow is so uncertain? When every race could bring glory or heartbreak?

The truth was, Oscar was terrified of failing her. Of not being enough.

Late at night, he would lie awake, clutching the small ring box hidden beneath his pillow — polished and perfect, a silent promise waiting to be made. But every time he imagined getting down on one knee, doubt crept in, filling his chest with cold hesitation.

His mum, Nicole, saw through the cracks, even when he tried to hide them. On video calls, her voice was gentle but firm, “Oscar, darling, you’ve been dating Y/N since you were kids. Isn’t it time you made it official?” She teased and encouraged, reminding him how much they all loved Y/N and wanted to see them take the next step. Oscar would laugh nervously, promising he was thinking about it. But he wasn’t ready to say more.

Y/N, too, sensed the tension beneath his smiles. She wasn’t in a rush, never had been. Their love wasn’t about grand gestures or deadlines. It lived in quiet moments — Oscar’s hand slipping into hers during long waits at airports, her sketching his tired face after races, the way they’d curl up together on their couch, wrapped in blankets and the comfort of simply being with each other.

But she knew. She knew he was scared. Not of her, but of the weight of forever.

It was late — the kind of still night when the rest of the world felt like it had slowed down just for them. Oscar was completely exhausted, his body finally surrendering after a long day of training and travel. He’d collapsed onto the couch beside her, and before she could even say a word, he had rested his head gently on her chest, eyes closing as his breathing deepened into slow, even rhythms.

Y/N sat perfectly still, careful not to disturb him. She looked down at him with a tenderness that made her chest ache in the best way. His hair was soft and messy from the day, falling loosely over his forehead and around his ears, and she couldn’t resist the impulse to reach out.

Her fingers moved slowly, as if not wanting to break the spell, threading gently through the dark curls above his temple. The warmth of his skin beneath her palm made her heart flutter — quiet and steady, like the steady beat beneath it.

Oscar shifted just slightly, his breath hitching for a moment before he relaxed again. Encouraged by the calmness of the moment, Y/N let her hand trace a gentle path from his hair down to the curve of his cheek, brushing softly against the smooth skin there.

Almost immediately, Oscar nuzzled closer, pressing his face deeper into her palm and the warmth of her touch. It was such a small gesture, but it spoke volumes — a silent conversation of comfort and trust that had grown between them over the years.

She smiled softly, the kind of smile that didn’t need words, just the pure knowing that this moment — this quiet, unguarded closeness — was everything.

She took out her phone and started recording.

The soft, fading notes of Paper Rings drifted in the background, delicate and warm, wrapping around them like a gentle promise.

Y/N shifted slightly, careful not to wake him, and continued to stroke his hair, her heart full in a way she couldn’t quite explain.

There was no rush, no grand declaration needed right then. Just this — Oscar asleep in her arms, safe and at peace, and the world reduced to the simple rhythm of their shared breath.

Morning light filtered gently through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. The world outside was waking up slowly, but inside, time seemed to have paused just a little longer.

Y/N lay still, feeling the steady rise and fall of Oscar’s chest against her side. His head was still resting on her, the faint warmth of his skin seeping into hers. For a moment, she just let herself soak in the quiet — the kind of quiet that feels like home.

Her fingers were still tangled in his hair, now softer in the early light, and when he shifted just enough to nuzzle into her again, a sleepy smile tugged at her lips. He wasn’t fully awake yet — just caught in that beautiful space between dreams and reality.

Careful not to disturb him, Y/N reached for her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen as she scrolled through the overnight notifications. The video from last night had exploded in views — thousands upon thousands of hearts, comments filled with love and excitement, and ring emojis flooding the feed.

Her phone buzzed relentlessly, texts lighting up the screen. Friends teasing, fans gushing, and then — a message from Nicole, Oscar’s mum, flashing bright and urgent: “When’s my boy gonna put that ring on your finger?!”

Y/N laughed quietly to herself, the sound soft but filled with warmth. She brushed a stray lock of hair from Oscar’s forehead.

Oscar’s eyes fluttered open slowly, the morning light warm and soft against his face. For a moment, he didn’t move — just took in the weight of Y/N’s body beneath his head, the steady rhythm of her heartbeat grounding him in a way nothing else could.

His fingers twitched, still tangled lightly in her hair as he blinked up at the ceiling, feeling the peaceful calm of the moment wrap around him like a blanket.

Then, ever so gently, he shifted—nuzzling deeper into her, burying his face just a little more against her skin, as if trying to hold onto that feeling of safety and quiet a little longer.

A soft smile pulled at the corner of his lips as he whispered, barely louder than a breath, “Morning.”

He opened his eyes fully then and glanced down, catching sight of Y/N’s smile. His heart swelled — that little smile she wore, the way her eyes lit up even first thing in the morning, it made everything feel like home.

Oscar let his hand cup her cheek softly, thumb brushing over her skin in the gentlest of touches, before he spoke again, voice still thick with sleep, “I’m never waking up from this.”

The moment Oscar and Y/N’s little video went viral, it was like a switch flipped. Suddenly, no one—friends, family, even fans—could stop teasing him about the one thing everyone had been quietly (or not so quietly) waiting for: when was he finally going to propose?

It started small. At training sessions, his teammates would nudge him with raised eyebrows. Lando, always the cheeky one, smirked and said, “Mate, it’s been years. You planning on popping the question before you retire, or should we start a countdown clock?”

Oscar just laughed, brushing it off, but the grin never quite reached his eyes. Y/N caught it too—the way he’d glance at her sometimes when the teasing started, half-amused, half-worried.

At the paddock, journalists began picking up on the hints, asking the question slyly during interviews. “So, Oscar, fans are dying to know—when’s the big moment?” they’d press, flashing that knowing smile.

And then came the texts and calls from family. His mum, Nicole, was the worst. She didn’t hold back. “Honestly, Oscar, what are you waiting for? You have a beautiful girlfriend, you love her—do the right thing, darling.”

Oscar would groan every time. “Mum, I’m not ignoring you, I just want it to be perfect.”

“But you’ve been saying that for three years!” she shot back, totally unfazed.

Y/N watched it all from the sidelines, amused and affectionate. The whole world seemed to be in on this joke except Oscar himself.

One night, at a small gathering with their closest friends, the teasing hit peak levels.

“Come on, Oscar,” Hattie teased, eyes twinkling mischievously. “You’re not getting any younger, and neither are we. You planning on letting Y/N keep stealing your hoodies forever or are you gonna make it official?”

Lando chimed in, “Yeah, I’m starting to think you’re scared of the big question. What’s holding you back?”

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, trying to laugh it off. “I’m just making sure it’s the right moment, alright?”

Y/N leaned over and whispered, “Or maybe you’re just nervous.”

That made the room burst into laughter, and Oscar’s cheeks flushed.

Despite the teasing, Y/N knew what was really going on. It wasn’t fear or doubt holding him back—it was the weight of the promise he wanted to make. The years they’d spent together, the ups and downs, the quiet moments and the big ones.

Still, every joke, every question, every nudge only made the anticipation grow, and somewhere deep inside, Y/N knew their perfect moment was coming—she just didn’t know when.

...

The house was quiet that afternoon, sunlight slanting through the curtains in golden strips. The buzz of the earlier crowd—friends coming and going, family lingering over coffee and conversation—had finally faded, leaving just Oscar and his mum in the kitchen.

He was standing by the sink, rolling a glass of water between his palms, while Nicole sat at the kitchen table, watching him with that look only a mother could give. Patient. Knowing. Unapologetically nosy.

“I’m surprised you stayed behind,” Oscar said, glancing at her. “Thought you’d be the first to head back to the hotel.”

Nicole shrugged, sipping from her cup. “Wanted to see you. Just you. Just my son.”

He gave her a small smile, one she didn’t miss was a little tight around the edges. She set her cup down.

“Oscar.”

“Hmm?”

“You’ve been quiet.”

He exhaled through his nose. “Just tired.”

She let that settle for a moment before asking, gently, “Is it about the proposal?”

Oscar didn’t answer right away. He didn’t have to—his silence said enough.

Nicole stood and crossed the kitchen, resting a hand lightly on his back. “Can we sit for a minute?”

They moved to the small couch in the sunroom, where the late afternoon light painted everything in a soft, fading warmth. Oscar leaned forward, elbows on his knees, glass still in his hands.

“I know everyone’s been teasing you,” she said carefully. “I’ve done it too.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah. You and literally everyone I know.”

Nicole tilted her head. “And I know you, sweetheart. When something means a lot to you, you overthink it.”

Oscar was quiet, his thumb moving over the rim of his glass.

“I want to do it right,” he said softly. “Y/N... she’s everything. We’ve been together since we were kids. She knows me better than anyone. She’s been patient through it all—through the races, the travel, the constant being away. I come home exhausted, sometimes barely there at all, and she never makes me feel guilty for it.”

Nicole listened, eyes soft, waiting.

He sighed, deeper this time. “And I think that’s part of what scares me.”

She tilted her head slightly.

“I’m always gone,” he continued, his voice low. “Race to race, country to country, time zones and airports and hotel rooms. And when I’m not away, I’m still not really... here. My head’s always somewhere else—on the next turn, the next performance, the next interview.”

His throat tightened. “It’s not fair to her. It hasn’t been for years. I’m in this career that asks for everything—my time, my focus, even my body. It’s dangerous, Mum. I know I don’t talk about it, but it is. One crash, one wrong move, and everything could change. Or end.”

Nicole reached for his hand, wrapping hers around his.

“She never complains,” he said, a little brokenly. “She just waits. Supports. Smiles and makes it easier. And I just keep taking and taking, and what if marrying her—what if making her my wife—means she gives up even more of herself?”

Nicole’s heart ached at the way he said it, like he was carrying guilt for simply being loved too well.

“Oscar,” she said gently, “you don’t protect someone by keeping them at arm’s length.”

He looked at her, eyes glinting with emotion.

“She already chose you,” Nicole continued. “Every day. Every race. Every long-distance call, every night she watched you on a screen instead of next to her. That’s not changing if she’s your girlfriend or your wife. She knows what she signed up for—and she signed up for you.”

“But what if something happens?”

“Then she’ll grieve with your name on her heart,” Nicole said, voice strong despite the crack in it. “Just like you would for her. That’s what love is. Not running from the risk—choosing each other anyway.”

Oscar swallowed hard.

“You don’t have to be perfect,” she added, “or wait for the perfect moment. You just have to be honest. And if what’s holding you back is fear—then let her be the one to hold you through it. Like she always has.”

Silence stretched for a beat.

And then Oscar leaned back on the couch, eyes burning, head gently tilted toward his mum’s shoulder.

“I’m just scared.”

“I know,” she whispered, resting her cheek against his hair. “That means you care.”

...

Oscar hadn’t told anyone about the ring.

Not at first. Not even when he bought it two years ago, alone in Monaco during a break between back-to-back races, standing in a quiet little boutique with too much white and too many mirrors. He remembered the way the glass counter reflected the tiny gold band, delicate and simple, with a solitaire diamond — exactly how you would’ve wanted it. He remembered the way his thumb had hovered just slightly before he nodded at the jeweler, heart racing harder than it ever did in a car going 300km/h.

He hadn’t told anyone because the moment had been his. Just his.

Because even though the teasing had started back then — from his mum, from his friends, from half the bloody paddock — something in him wasn’t ready yet. Not because of you. Never because of you.

Because of his job. His life. The travel, the danger, the days he spent exhausted and strung out from back-to-back flights. Because being a racing driver meant sometimes being absent, and you had never asked for anything more than his presence, even when he could barely give you that.

And part of him — some quiet, scared part of him — had convinced himself that maybe you deserved better than a boy who left more often than he came home.

So the ring stayed in a drawer. Wrapped in its velvet box, tucked away in a zippered pouch behind spare cables and old credentials. He’d check on it sometimes — carefully, reverently — opening the lid and staring at the soft glint in the light. Sometimes, after particularly long races or lonely nights, he’d whisper things to it.

“She’s still it. Still everything.”

But he never moved.

Not until a month ago.

It started with that video — the one you posted without thinking. Oscar dead asleep, face smooshed against your chest, hand curled around your wrist like he’d found the only thing worth holding in the world.

He’d woken up to chaos.

Hundreds of thousands of likes. Comments. Reposts. TikToks dissecting the lighting. Tweets demanding a proposal. Memes of him asleep with “husband material” scrawled over his forehead.

You were so sweet about it, always scrolling past quickly when you were scrolling on your phone together about him proposing, to not give him any pressure.

And that was what made it impossible to wait anymore.

So, for the first time in two years, he pulled the ring out — hands slightly trembling, breath caught in his throat.

And then he did something he never thought he’d do.

He showed your best friend.

You weren’t home — you were out running errands, and he’d texted her on a whim, asking if she could stop by, not giving any context. She arrived with suspicious eyes and a grin, teasing him instantly.

“She’s not pregnant, is she?”

“What—no! Jesus—just come in.”

She barely had time to take her shoes off before he was pulling the little velvet box from behind the fruit bowl, practically hiding it in his palm like it was some illicit secret.

And when he opened it —

She gasped.

Hand to her mouth, eyes already shining.

“Oh my god.”

Oscar’s jaw tensed, nerves kicking in hard and fast. “Do you think she’ll like it?”

“She’s going to sob,” she whispered, voice thick. “Are you kidding me? You’ve had this for how long?”

“A while.”

Then, softer: “I just didn’t know if I deserved her yet.”

That was all it took.

Suddenly, your best friend was crying. Not loud, but that quiet, overwhelmed kind — blinking fast and biting back a full sob. Oscar froze, unsure.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“No,” she said quickly, stepping forward and pulling him into a hug. “No. You idiot. She’s going to marry you in ten seconds if you ask.”

He held onto her, feeling something heavy shake loose in his chest.

“She waited for you,” she murmured into his shoulder. “She always would have.”

Oscar didn’t cry. Not then. But something welled in his throat as he looked down at the little box in his hand — the one that had sat in the dark for too long.

Now it was time to let it see light.

He was ready. Finally.

To ask.

To hope.

To begin.

...

Oscar sat on the couch with his laptop open, not racing footage or telemetry data for once, but a blank Notes page titled in all caps:

THE PLAN.

It felt so serious typed out like that. He almost laughed — almost. But his heart was beating a bit too fast for that.

Because it was real now. He was going to ask you to marry him.

And if there was one thing he wasn’t going to do, it was wing it.

He rubbed at his jaw, glanced at the velvet box beside him, and typed the first bullet.

1. Location.

He wanted it to be somewhere meaningful. Not over-the-top. Not something grand or wildly public. It had to feel like you. Like the two of you, in your quiet little world where love lived in the silences and shared glances.

Your high school back garden where you had your first kiss? No, too far.

The rooftop where you watched fireworks two years ago on New Year’s Eve? Maybe.

But then he paused. Thought harder.

He ended up circling back to the simplest answer.

Home.

Your shared apartment. The one filled with plants you insisted weren’t dying (even when they definitely were), the kitchen that still had “his and hers” mugs from high school, the faint dent in the hallway wall from when he crashed into it during a Mario Kart race.

Home, where he had found the softest version of himself because you’d made space for it.

He typed:

→ Living room. Candles. Dim lighting. Quiet. Just us.

2. Time.

She’s always busiest on Thursdays. I’ll do it on a Sunday evening, when she’s sleepy and soft and doesn’t expect anything. Maybe after a movie, or her favourite dinner.

His fingers hesitated before typing:

→ Sunday. 8PM. Movie first — something she loves. Then dinner. Then quiet.

3. Distraction plan.

He needed help setting up. Someone to make sure the candles weren’t setting off the smoke alarm, that the lights were dimmed, the playlist queued.

He’d already talked to your best friend. After the ring reveal, she’d sworn a blood oath of secrecy and offered to help with anything. He sent her a text while typing the next point:

→ Best friend will take her out earlier in the day. Mani-pedi + coffee excuse. Gives me time to set up.

4. Ring placement.

Not in his pocket. Too risky. He had a history of losing things in couch cushions.

He considered the idea of hiding it in something — a dessert, a coffee cup — but then physically recoiled.

No.

You’d murder him if he accidentally made you swallow the engagement ring. Rightfully.

Instead, he decided:

→ Box in drawer by the record player. I’ll go get it when it’s time.

5. Speech.

He hadn’t written it yet. But he knew the beats.

Talk about the first time he saw her — not the version everyone knew, not the cutesy “we were high school sweethearts” part — but the real moment.

The time she stayed after his karting practice with a juice box in her hand and said, “You looked miserable. Thought you might need sugar.”

The moment he knew: this girl was going to wreck him.

How she’d been the only thing constant, solid, and warm through years of jetlag, failure, podiums, and pressure.

How scared he’d been to ask — not because of her, but because of everything he wasn’t sure he could promise.

And how now… he was finally ready.

→ Just speak from the heart. Don’t fumble. Unless she laughs — then laugh too.

6. Playlist.

Because he knew her. Because he loved her.

Because if he didn’t pick the right songs, she’d tease him forever.

He opened Spotify and started a new list: “for us.”

First on the queue? “Paper Rings (Acoustic),” because she still hadn’t realized how much that one post meant to him.

Then a few of the songs they’d fallen asleep to on long flights. A bit of Hozier. A soft Japanese track she’d taught him how to pronounce.

→ “for us” playlist. Final check. No ads. No shuffle. Don’t mess this up.

7. Contingency plan.

Because Oscar Piastri was nothing if not prepared.

What if she cried too hard to answer?

What if he dropped the ring?

What if she thought it was a prank?

He typed quickly:

→ Hug her. Don’t rush. Let her answer on her own time. Don’t panic.

And then, finally:

8. The after.

He wasn’t going to post right away. He wanted it just for them — just for one night. Maybe they’d tell your best friend first. His mum next. Then the rest could come.

But he did have a folder of photos ready. All of them candid. All of them glowing. Like the one where she kissed his cheek while he was still brushing his teeth. Or the blurry one of her asleep on his chest with the sunlight painting her face gold.

→ Just us, first. Always.

Oscar leaned back.

Looked at the list.

And exhaled.

He was going to ask you to be his forever.

And for the first time in years, there wasn’t a single doubt in his heart.

But there had always been one thing lingering at the edge of it all — one thing he couldn’t skip, couldn’t avoid.

Asking your dad.

You and Oscar had been together since you were sixteen — practically grew up alongside each other. Your parents had seen every version of him: the awkward teenage boy with racing posters in his backpack, the one who nervously shook your dad’s hand at the front door in a too-big suit on your Year 12 formal night. The kid who once broke your mum’s favourite vase and nearly passed out apologizing.

They’d watched him grow.

Which somehow made this even more terrifying.

So when he texted your dad and asked if they could get coffee — “just the two of us, if that’s alright?” — Oscar already felt his palms getting clammy. Your dad replied almost instantly: “Of course. I’ve been waiting.”

That didn’t help.

The café was quiet, tucked into a leafy corner of your neighbourhood. A place your dad liked — Oscar knew because he’d driven past it on slow Sunday mornings with you in the passenger seat, talking about nothing.

He got there early. Sat at a corner table and fiddled with the coffee cup sleeve until it nearly tore.

And then your dad walked in, wearing the same calm, unreadable expression he always had. Friendly, but firm. Warm, but never too easy to crack. The kind of man who didn’t say much unless it meant something. Just like you.

“Hey, Oscar,” he said with a nod, sitting down across from him.

“Hi, sir,” Oscar replied, voice a little tight.

Your dad looked at him for a long second, then smiled, just a little. “Relax. You’re not here for a job interview.”

Oscar laughed — nervously — but still.

They chatted first. About racing. About travel. About the state of his car lately and how your dad had been watching from the sidelines and still yelling at the screen when strategy made no sense. It was easy. Familiar.

Until the conversation lulled.

And Oscar knew.

This was it.

He sat up a little straighter, clearing his throat.

“I… I wanted to ask you something,” he started, rubbing his palms against his jeans beneath the table. “Something important.”

Your dad leaned back slightly. Watching. Listening.

“I’ve loved Y/n since we were kids. And I know that sounds too young to be sure, but I’ve known every version of her — every birthday, every laugh, every bad day where she still managed to smile — and I’ve never once doubted her. Not once.”

He swallowed.

“And I know this job… it’s a lot. It takes me away. It’s dangerous. It’s unpredictable. But she’s never made me feel like it was too much. She’s stayed. She’s supported me. She’s been my home through all of it.”

Oscar paused. His voice softened.

“And I want to marry her. If… if you’re okay with that.”

The words hung in the air. He could hear the tiny café speaker humming something low and jazzy in the background. He hated how loud his heartbeat sounded in his own ears.

Your dad didn’t speak right away.

He looked down at his coffee. Then back at Oscar.

Then he nodded.

And said, “I’d be honoured to call you my son.”

Oscar blinked. “Really?”

“I’ve watched you love her for years,” he said, his voice steady but warm. “And I’ve never worried. Not once. That means something.”

And for the first time since Oscar sat down, he breathed — really breathed.

Your dad smiled and added, “Now, if you hurt her, I will kill you.”

Oscar’s laugh cracked through the nerves, shaky and full of affection. “That’s… fair.”

They clinked their coffee cups like glasses. Two men who had never needed many words — only trust. And now, they had it.

Later that night, Oscar drove home with both hands on the wheel and that velvet box sitting in the glove compartment like it had been waiting too.

He was ready now.

Really ready.

And you had no idea what was coming.

Say the word, bestie, and I’ll write your best friend seeing the ring again, and the moment Oscar stands in the living room, hand shaking, heart thundering, ready to ask.

...

The sun poured in soft and gold through the windows, spilling across your sheets like something out of a dream. You were still curled beneath the duvet, face warm against your pillow, when a knock came at your bedroom door — three soft taps and then a cheeky voice you knew too well.

“Get up, princess. We’ve got a date with some hair masks and overpriced lattes.”

You groaned, smiling into the pillow. “Do I have to?”

Your best friend poked her head in, already dressed in a flowy linen dress, sunnies on her head, and a grin that looked suspiciously like she was up to something.

“Yes, you have to,” she said. “I booked us the works — nails, hair, brows. I’m talking pampered-to-the-heavens kind of day.”

You blinked sleepily, pushing your hair out of your face. “Why?”

“Because,” she said, sauntering in and yanking your blanket off dramatically, “you’ve been an exhausted little marshmallow lately, and I need my best girl back. This is long overdue.”

You laughed, kicking your legs in protest before finally sitting up, stretching your arms over your head. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I’m lucky you haven’t figured out this is all an elaborate ploy to get you glowing for a very specific reason.”

“What?”

“Nothing.” She smiled too hard and practically dragged you into the bathroom.

The salon smelled like citrus and jasmine and felt like stepping into heaven. Everything was light and airy and crisp — soft music playing, staff already greeting you with cucumber water and complimenting your skin.

Your best friend leaned into the receptionist’s desk and said, “She’s the bride.”

You blinked. “The what?”

“I said ‘divine.’ She’s divine,” she corrected smoothly, elbowing you with a wink.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re acting so weird today.”

“I’m acting fabulous, babe. Relax and let me spoil you.”

And you did. The two of you sat side by side, heads tipped back over sinks as warm water ran through your hair and a stylist massaged your scalp with something that smelled like vanilla and orange blossoms. Your eyes fluttered shut. You let yourself drift.

Your best friend took secret photos of you with a soft smile on her face, heart clenching just a little because you have no idea. You have no idea that the love of your life has been texting her every twenty minutes asking “is she happy? is she relaxing? does she suspect anything?”

You were glowing.

After your nails were done (a pale blush pink she subtly nudged you into choosing), and your hair was blown out in soft waves, you sat in front of the mirror, blinking at your reflection.

“God,” you said, softly. “I feel like… I don’t know. Like I’m floating.”

Your best friend came up behind you, resting her hands on your shoulders.

“You look like magic.”

You turned to look at her, eyes soft. “Thanks for today.”

She swallowed, heart skipping. “You deserve the world.”

And when you leaned in to hug her, warm and sleepy and full of love, she had to blink away tears.

Because you still had no idea.

And Oscar Piastri was about to give you everything.

...

Oscar had been pacing.

Not nervously — not exactly. Just that kind of buzzed, excited pacing that meant his heart wouldn’t quite stay calm. His socks were half sliding on the wooden floors as he moved around the flat, adjusting and readjusting the little details.

The living room looked like a scene out of a love song.

Candles — the expensive kind he knew you liked, the ones that smelled like fig and honey — were flickering gently across every surface. Your favorite flowers — not red roses, but the weird little white ones you always called “the ugly pretty ones” — were everywhere, tucked into vases and glasses and little jars like a secret garden had exploded in their apartment. The playlist had been curated to within an inch of its life, starting with the soft stuff you always hummed to in the car and slowly building toward the songs that felt like him and you — lazy days and road trips and the night you moved in together.

In the middle of the drawer beneath the record player. Waiting for the right time.

He hadn’t even opened it today — he didn’t need to. He knew exactly what it looked like. Simple, clean. The band was warm gold, nothing flashy, but the diamond was clear and bright. The kind of ring that didn’t try too hard. The kind that felt like you.

It sat there quietly, like it knew its moment was coming.

Oscar stepped back, hands on his hips, staring at the table like it might suddenly ask for his blessing.

“You ready, mate?” he muttered to himself, voice soft and full of something breathless.

Then came the knock on the door.

His breath caught.

He checked the time. Perfect. You were early.

He made it halfway down the hall before stopping, raking a hand through his hair. He turned around, sprinted back, and grabbed the tiny bouquet of baby’s breath he’d forgotten to put by the door — the one he wanted to give you the moment you walked in, for no reason at all. Just because.

Another knock. This one softer. Familiar.

His heart was pounding.

He opened the door.

And there you were.

Hair done, face glowing, a soft pink gloss on your lips and that look in your eyes — the one that always landed right in his chest. Your tote bag hung off one shoulder. You still had the little paper wristband from the salon tucked on your wrist like you forgot it was there. You were a little windblown from the walk up the stairs.

He couldn’t breathe.

You blinked at him. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he said, voice cracking a little.

Your eyes narrowed. “Why are you being weird?”

“I’m not—” He cleared his throat. “I just missed you.”

You softened. “It’s only been a few hours.”

He stepped aside, holding out the little bouquet.

“For you.”

You blinked, smiling at the crinkled paper wrapping. “What’s this for?”

“Nothing. You just look really beautiful.”

You raised a brow. “Oscar Piastri, are you trying to distract me?”

He laughed, nervous and giddy and warm all over. “A little bit.”

You leaned in to kiss his cheek — something so casual and familiar it made his chest ache — and stepped inside.

You didn’t notice the candles at first.

Didn’t notice the playlist, or the flowers.

But he watched as it all slowly hit you.

Your steps slowed. Your eyes flicked around. Your mouth opened slightly.

“…What is this?”

He closed the door behind you and didn’t answer yet. He gave you time to take it in — to see the apartment the way he saw you. Soft and glowing and full of meaning.

He stepped up beside you, heart wild in his chest.

Your fingers tightened around the bouquet.

“Oscar?” you said again, barely above a whisper.

The air felt too heavy. Like your lungs had forgotten how to stretch all the way. Like the walls had inched closer without warning.

He looked at you gently, but you couldn’t hold his gaze for more than a second. Your eyes flitted around the room — the golden light, the candles, the record spinning something soft and slow in the corner, the colors that didn’t belong to an ordinary night.

You took one step inside, then stopped. The silence stretched too far.

“Oscar,” you said again, quieter this time, “what is this?”

You weren’t angry. You weren’t even crying yet. You were just still. Too still. Like your body was trying not to feel it.

Oscar’s voice came soft. “It’s okay.”

You shook your head, almost imperceptibly. “I wasn’t— I didn’t know—”

He stepped closer, slowly, carefully, like he didn’t want to startle you. His hand reached for yours, fingers warm and familiar. “Hey. You’re okay. I promise. Just breathe, sweetheart.”

You tried. You really did. But your chest barely moved.

You blinked again, fast. “Why does it feel like this?”

“Like what?”

“Like something’s… about to change.”

His smile was soft, almost sad. “Because it is.”

You finally looked at him. Really looked. Your eyes were wide, your lips slightly parted, your hands shaking around the stems of the flowers.

He laughed quietly, brushing his thumb over the back of your hand. “God, you’re so quiet right now. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

You didn’t answer. Just stared.

He took a breath.

And then, still holding your hand, he began.

“There’s a ring in the drawer — wrapped up, hidden, waiting for the perfect day. But then last weekyou walked through the door in that new green dress and I saw you, so happy, and something inside me just said, Why are you waiting?”

You made a small sound, like a breath that didn’t land all the way.

He kept going.

“I’ve watched you walk into so many rooms, and every single time, I’ve fallen in love with you all over again. And I think—” his voice caught a little, “—I think part of me’s been falling since the first time you looked at me like I wasn’t something to be afraid of.”

Your other hand had risen to your chest now, fingers pressed lightly against your collarbone.

Oscar stepped closer, his words steady even as his eyes grew glassy.

“You always say you’re too much. Too sharp, too complicated, too careful. But do you want to know what I see?”

You nodded, barely.

“I see a girl who laughs with her whole chest when she forgets to be scared. Who stays up late sending pictures of weird clouds. Who holds my hand like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered and still pretends she’s not the softest person in the room.”

A quiet laugh escaped you — wet, stunned — and you shook your head slightly, as if trying to keep yourself upright.

Oscar held your hand a little tighter, his thumb tracing small circles over your skin.

He exhaled slowly, voice a little steadier now. “You know, my job… it’s not easy. It’s demanding in ways I can’t always explain — the travel, the pressure, the constant chase for perfection. Some days I feel like I’m barely holding myself together, and other days I blink and another month’s passed.”

He paused, his voice going quiet again.

“But even in all of that — even when I’m jet-lagged or exhausted or reading strategy notes at 2 a.m. — I still find myself thinking about you. Wondering if you slept okay. If you ate. If something made you laugh.”

You looked down, your breath catching.

“I know I’m not always going to be around in the way you deserve. And I hate that. But I promise you… I’ll try. I’ll try with everything I have to be present, to be there in the moments that matter. I’ll call. I’ll write. I’ll show up — even if it’s in the smallest ways. Because loving you isn't something I want to fit in between races. It's something I want to build everything else around.”

He smiled, soft and sure.

“You’re not a break from my world. You are my world.”

He took a breath.

And that’s when he broke.

Not panicked. Not messy. But decisive.

Like he’d just made a choice in real time.

He turned.

Walked straight down the hallway.

Your heart tripped into your throat. “Oscar—wait, where are you going? What are you—”

But your voice died as soon as you saw it.

The little velvet box in his hand.

He returned slowly, chest rising and falling like he’d been holding this moment in for too long — too many days, too many almosts.

And when he met your eyes again, everything inside you lit up and collapsed at the same time.

“No,” you breathed. “No, you’re not—you’re not doing this—”

“I am,” he said, voice soft but steady. “I really am.”

Your hands were trembling now, bouquet forgotten and held too loosely, fingers clenched and released over and over again like your body was trying to keep pace with your heart.

“But—but you said not yet,” you whispered.

He looked down at the box in his hands. Then back up at you.

He opened it.

And your knees almost buckled.

The ring caught the candlelight in a quiet shimmer — not flashy, not huge, but perfect. Intimate. Him.

You couldn’t move.

You couldn’t breathe.

“I don’t want to wait anymore,” Oscar said, eyes never leaving yours. “I’ve been holding onto this ring for three years. Always thinking there’d be a better time, a better way. But nothing feels more right than right now. You, standing here, losing your mind because I lit a candle and played our song.”

He laughed, but it was breathless. Full of adrenaline. Full of you.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you so much it hurts. And I want to spend the rest of my life proving it to you.”

You blinked rapidly, tears clinging to your lashes, one already streaking down your cheek.

“Oscar,” you whispered, but it came out like a plea.

He stepped forward. Got down on one knee.

Your breath caught, completely and entirely gone.

“Will you marry me?”

There were no theatrics.

No grand speeches.

Just him — knees to the floor, hands shaking, heart in his throat, ring in a box that had been waiting far too long.

You didn’t even realize you were crying until your hands covered your mouth and a little laugh bubbled out through the shock.

He smiled up at you — really smiled — like every part of him was in this.

“Yes,” you choked out. “Oh my god, yes.”

The moment hit like a wave.

You dropped to your knees in front of him, hands on his face, kissing him before he could even slide the ring onto your finger. You were crying and laughing and holding onto him like gravity stopped working.

“I thought I was going to pass out,” you whispered against his mouth, shaking.

He laughed into the kiss, forehead resting against yours. “Same.”

And when he finally did slide the ring on — slow, reverent, like it meant everything (because it did) — your hand trembled in his.

“Perfect,” he murmured, kissing your knuckles. “Finally.”

The music kept playing in the background.

But the room had never been so quiet.

Because nothing needed to be said.

Not anymore.

...

Liked by hattiepiastri, lando, f1, mclaren and 7.7M others.

oscarpiastri: perfect.

lando: HOLY SHIT CONGRATS

danielricciardoso: THIS is what all those mysterious “plans” were?? crying, shaking, throwing champagne 🥂

yourbestfriend: IM SORRY YOU DIDN’T EVEN TELL ME FIRST?? I FIND OUT WITH THE REST OF THE WORLD?? 😭😭😭 I HATE YOU (I LOVE YOU CONGRATS)

mclaren: Our team’s real winning moment 🧡

oscarpiastriupdates: I KNEW IT I KNEW IT I KNEW IT 😭 the candles, the playlist, the strawberries... WE CLOCKED IT MONTHS AGO

username1: not him captioning it like that and making me cry on a THURSDAY

username2: this is why I can’t have nice things. men like him are taken.

username3: the softest launch. the deadliest impact. RIP me.

username4: no press release, no video, just “perfect” and a RING??? be serious oscar we’re fragile

username5: tell me she said yes and then immediately started crying and making it his problem

username6: the “perfect” wasn’t about the photo. it was about her 😭😭😭

Taglist, comment to be added; @angstynasty @cryinghotmess @mits-vi @dramaticpiratellamas @mimisweetz @mrssaturday @chiara8104 @moonlight-girls-posts @linnygirl09 @rue-t @danielricroll @the-vex-archives @trees-are-books @blodwyn4u @yoruse @ccrickett-t @l-a-u-r-aaa @multifans-things @woderfulkawaii @azrinableuet @mayax2o07 @everyday-is-sunday365 @devilacot @faithxyu

[redeemingvillains]

closed & locked - lorenzo berkshire

summary: fact: you are overwhelming smitten with lorenzo berkshire. fact: you think he's smitten with you too. but when you and pansy hear something you shouldn't have, it has you questioning everything you thought you knew about hogwarts' biggest flirt.

words: 3.5k

warnings: v suggestive, probably a bit 18+

author's note: i apparently write for enzo now? who knew. we only have @pizzaapeteer & @prythiansprincess to blame as they have been fueling my obsession completely. i loved this! it was so fun to write! mwahhh!

soundtrack: where i wanna be - arizona

_______when she speaks, it's a dangerous fantasy ________that sets me free, to where i wanna be

Your fingers curled into Pansy's as she tugged you along beside her in the dark corridors of the common room until you reached an alcove along a small landing that provided you both with a glimpse of the boys below. Your heart was thrumming in your chest as you tried to quiet your breathing and she waved the extendible ear excitedly in front of you; you shook your head thinking, again, how crazy this was.

"Don't you want to know what they talk about?" she'd asked you twenty minutes ago as she attempted to pry you away from studying for your potions exam in the library.

"Not particularly, no" you argued as you laughed.

"Really?" she drawled as she tilted her head and put her hand on her hip. "Not even what a certain boy has to say about when he might finally sack up and make things official with you?"

Your cheeks flushed a deep crimson.

"That's-that's not what they sit around and talk about, surely..."

"Well, we can't know for certain unless we try, can we?" she pushed.

She knows me too well you thought now as you watched her lower the extendible ear down just out of sight of the group below. Whether she was excited for juicy gossip or was simply sick of listening to you go on and on about him, Pansy knew that hinting at anything to do with Lorenzo Berkshire was the secret to getting you to do pretty much anything, because gods you couldn't get enough of him.

Even now, you were teetering on your tiptoes trying to catch a glimpse of his lithe figure, the way you knew he'd be sprawled with his legs spread wide on the couch with his cocky smile and his long fingers that he liked to rustle through his thick hair... you felt noticeably hotter under his oversized sweatshirt as you grasped it away from your heated skin. Gods I need to get a hold of myself.

He was the flirt of your year, so you hadn't taken his attention seriously at first, but then banter became flirting became innuendos became his warm palm pressed against yours as he pulled you into him at a Slytherin house party, his plush lips finding yours as his hand cupped your face and you swore you felt fireworks in your rib cage.

You'd been kissed plenty of times before, but after that first kiss with Lorenzo, you weren't actually sure anymore.

He kissed you in a way that no one else ever had; he kissed with his entire body, his hands grasping your face or tangling his fingers in your hair, his lips soft and demanding, his tongue doing ungodly things to yours that had you grabbing for him as he undid you one seam at a time, his hips pressing into yours in a way that you felt in every fiber of your being, and when he let out a low groan against your mouth? You were fairly certain you departed from earth completely before floating back down in a haze.

Simply put, you were instantly and irrevocably addicted to him.

And the better part of you believed he felt the same way.

At first everything between you was purely physical, how often and how fast you could tear each other's clothes off, but then he'd started to slow down, to take his time with you, to pull back and lock his eyes with yours in way that felt incredibly intimate; he'd kiss you lavishly, fully, just exactly the way you loved and he'd hold you long afterward, adamant every time that you stay the night, pulling you into his arms so your head rested on his bare chest where you could hear his heartbeat and the rumble of his voice.

And you'd talk for hours, sometimes even until the grey of dawn snuck beneath the curtain of his window; he'd trail his fingers down your bare back or play with your fingers, tangling them with his own until he rested them over his heart.

He told you what scared him, what excited him, he talked about his future and, more often than not, your place in it. Surely, you thought, as you frequently did, it'll only be a matter of time until he makes things official.

But the topic always seemed to evade your conversations, and a growing part of you consistently wondered why, your insecurities popping up every time you heard another girl talk about him or another rumor circulated about who he might have hooked up with despite his adamant denial...

Pansy motioned you closer to her and the ear in her hand and you could just make out the recognizable timbres of your friends voices through the tinny line.

You both leaned in eagerly for several minutes, until you came to the realization that the boys were just as talkative and exciting together as they were with you... which was not. at. all.

After an enthralling forty-minute discussion about quidditch you were both sprawled on the floor, struggling to keep your eyes open.

"Paaannnns" you whined in a whisper.

"You don't even have to say it. Terrible idea" she acknowledged. "Why are they soooo boring?"

You were about to answer her when you recognized the sound of your name and sat up quickly, eyes meeting hers.

"Where is she tonight?" you heard Mattheo ask.

"Studying, s'got a potions exam tomorrow" Lorenzo said casually.

"Hmpf" Mattheo laughed, and then, "Does that mean Aurora's coming by then?"

Several of the boys laughed.

And your heart plummeted so fast into your stomach you grasped the wall next to you to steady yourself.

"AURORA!?" Pansy whispered ferociously, looking just about as panicked as you felt. "Aurora Bellhaven!?"

You shook your head in disbelief, in shock, as you felt the stinging pressure of tears behind your eyes. There was another girl?

"Fuck off" you heard Lorenzo say.

"Whaaaat? I think it's sweet" Mattheo answered.

You were going to kill him.

You were going to kill all of them.

They knew, they fucking knew Lorenzo was hooking up with someone else and didn't tell you, not even Theo who you'd been friends with longer than Pansy. They all let you walk around like an utter fucking fool. You covered your face with your hands in embarrassment as the tears fell hot against your cheeks and you felt Pansy's arms around you.

"You could just cut that bullshit and lock things down with YN bro" you heard Theo say, but it felt like far too little too late for the sentiment even as you peeked through your fingers as Pansy.

"Seriously, what is the plan there?" Mattheo asked.

"Ehh, you know how it is" Lorenzo drawled.

And you held your breath, because you were quickly learning that you certainly did not know how it was.

"We're a thing, but the door's never completely closed."

Someone let out a low whistle.

And you heard a deep exhale like one of the guys blew out a breath in surprise.

"Cut throat, mate" Blaise muttered.

"Fucking stupid" Theo said and you could picture him shaking his head, his eyes glacial; he'd never approved of the two of you together and you were slowly realizing this may be exactly why.

"And how does she feel about that?" Mattheo asked.

"It's pretty clear she doesn't know, you ass" Theo snapped as you heard the thud of what sounded like a pillow being thrown.

There was the sound of scuffle, then a moment of silence, and then the topic of conversation changed, simple as that, leaving Pansy staring at you in open-mouthed shock before you slid your hands over your face again to muffle your own sobs.

What. The. Fuck.

The next morning Pansy marched down the stairs that led to the common room from the girls' dormitory to find Enzo in his normal spot, leaned against the wall, waiting for you.

"She's not coming" she said sharply as she walked past him.

"Well good morning to you too" he said, sitting up straighter before glancing at the empty stairwell and then back to her. "What do you mean she's not coming?"

Pansy spun to face him.

"I mean she doesn't want to have breakfast with you, and she doesn't want to see you today."

He reared back and his face broke into a smirk like she'd told a ridiculous joke.

"One, of course she wants to see me, don't be fucking daft. And two, what are you? Her guard dog? Mind your business, Parkinson, meddling doesn't suit you."

Pansy could tell he was trying to play it cool, but the way his eyes were narrowed and the way he had snapped at her at the slightest notion that he wouldn't get what he wanted, wouldn't have you, meant her words had had the desired effect; she'd listened to you actually cry yourself to sleep the night before, and she was more than ready to lay into him.

"She doesn't. want. to. see. you" she retorted, enunciating every word. "And I'm not her guard dog, I'm her friend, who happens to love her and care for her, two emotions you seem utterly incapable of. I'm not going to sit back and watch you take advantage of her anymore."

His eyebrow cocked at that.

"Babe, I promise you she would not call what I do to her taking advantage" he said as he smirked again. "If anything, she's taking advantage of me, but it's okay, I like it that way."

"You're disgusting" she said, rolling her eyes as she walked away from him.

He and Pansy had never been close, but she'd also never come at him like that. His hand flexed in and out of a fist in frustration and confusion as he watched a few other girls come down the stairs, none of whom were you.

Had he woken up in an alternate reality, because what the fuck was going on?

Breakfast was...weird.

Enzo had walked to the Great Hall alone, in silence. He was normally content to listen to you talk, to feed off of your morning energy, the way you seemed excited about every new day; he didn't realize how much he relied on that, he felt groggy and moody and instantly reached for the coffee.

Everyone had left your spot open on the bench next to him like you might appear out of thin air, slip in beside him, slide your hand onto his thigh or snuggle your head into his shoulder. But you never did. And he could definitely do without the third-degree he was getting from Theo who stared angrily at him all morning. But he brushed last night's conversation off, it wasn't his fault he didn't want to sit around and talk about his feelings.

For the rest of the morning his eyes searched the corridors for you like a lost puppy, your extended absence and Pansy's comments starting to properly bother him now as he cursed the fact that you didn't have any classes together today.

So when he laid eyes on you that afternoon in the courtyard, he felt a physical weight leave him. Fucking finally he thought, walking towards you, eager to talk to you, to touch you, to confirm for himself he hadn't dreamt the last four months you'd spent together. He was genuinely thrilled to see you... until he wasn't.

You were talking to the guys on the starting line of Hufflepuff's quidditch team, and his feet slowed as he watched you smile shyly and tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear in the very way you used to with him in the earliest days of him trying so damn hard to flirt with you.

He felt something distinctly primal shift in his chest. He swallowed deeply and a thought fluttered through his head that sounded an awful lot like 'Mine'.

He steadied his stride, walking right up to you as he wound an arm around your shoulder.

"Boys" he said dismissively.

"Babe" he shined, looking down to see your wide eyes looking up at him.

He smiled and breathed a sigh of relief; he could read you like a book he'd written himself and he knew you were looking at him in a way you'd never looked at anyone else, starry-eyed, glazed over with affection, full of adoration. Got her he thought.

But then your eyes shifted. In an instant, he watched them change in front of him like a wall coming down as you stepped out of his grasp.

"Good luck at practice" you waved to Cedric Diggory, who might as well have had hearts in his eyes as he watched you go and his teammates laughed and patted him on the back.

Enzo's attention snapped back and forth between your complete dismissal of him and the obvious way Cedric was checking you out.

"Hey - Hey! Eyes right here you fucking prick" he said, shoving Cedric's shoulder in an effort to get him to stop looking at you.

"I'm sorry?" Cedric scoffed.

"Don't fucking look at her like that."

"Like what, Berkshire? And what difference does it make to you anyway?"

Enzo could feel his blood running hot in his veins.

"I know you two had something going on" Cedric continued, "But, what is it she said, boys? Something about the door never being completely closed? Sounds like an open invitation to me."

Enzo's heart dropped into his stomach.

And for the first time in his life, he didn't have a snide remark or a quick comeback at the ready. The bell rung for class and the Hufflepuffs turned to leave, laughing as they left him there staring after them.

He carded his hands roughly through his hair and then over his face. The door's never completely closed? Hadn't he said that exact thing the night before? So why did hearing it now make him feel physically sick.

Enzo’s head was fucking scrambled, and by the time dinner came around, he couldn't tell if he wanted to scream, punch someone or to light something on fire.

Everyone at the table could sense his mood and gave him a wide berth. You weren't there, because of course you weren't and he sat in furious silence, shoveling food in his mouth.

And then, through the muffled noise of 1,000 people eating together in one room, he heard the distinct sound of your voice, your laugh and it was like his body was attuned to recognize it as his eyes shifted despite himself to see you standing with Dean Thomas in the doorway. In reality it wasn't a big deal, plenty of people were milling around or coming and going, but to him it felt like there was a spotlight on the two of you.

Dean was standing far too close to you and looked far too comfortable and happy about it, like he was flaunting it as you laughed again. Enzo wanted to steal the sound right from your lips, to put it in a jar and stash it somewhere only he could listen to it, because it was the same sound you made when he kissed the sensitive spot where the base of your neck met your collarbone and no one had the right to hear how fucking perfect that was besides him.

"Bro" he heard Blaise say, trying to get his attention.

But he couldn't look away.

The same fire that burned in his veins before had reignited now as he watched the two of you leave together. Why the fuck were you ignoring him and brushing him off all day? And when did every guy in the four fucking houses decide they had a chance with you when he'd spent the last four months making it abundantly clear that they didn't.

"BRO!" he heard Blaise say again, and his eyes snapped to him to see him gesturing at the table just in time for every goblet within arms-length shatter, spraying glass, water, and pumpkin juice all over the table. His anger had radiated strongly enough to shatter glass. Fucking perfect.

Someone cast a quick spell to clean it up, but the group was now staring between him, your departing figure and back again.

"Bet you'd like to close that door now, wouldn't you?" Theo muttered under his breath.

And everything clicked into place.

"You told her..." Enzo sneered as his eyes narrowed at him.

"What?"

"You told her I said that!" he said, his voice rising accusatorily as he pointed at Theo.

"I think you're a right idiot when it comes to her, that's no secret Enz, she could do a hell of a lot better–"

"–Oh, fuck off!–" Enzo said, getting to his feet.

"–But, I didn't say anything to her. You're both my friends. Bro code and whatever."

"No, she knew, she said it to Diggory."

"What?"

"He asked her about us and she said 'the door's never completely closed'!"

Fury was radiating off of him in waves, and several heads from other tables began to turn at the outburst.

"And that bothered you?" Theo clarified.

"Of course it fucking did!!" Enzo said, nearly shouting now. How fucking stupid could Theo be?

Theo gestured to him as if to say "See?! If it bothers you, how do you think it makes her feel?" Gods. How fucking stupid could Enzo be?

"Fuck!" Enzo said, exasperated as he tried to gather himself before he moved to run after you.

You were bone tired.

You had been sleepwalking through the day on less than an hour's night sleep, simultaneously fighting the urge to stay strong and to give up completely, to shuffle into Lorenzo's room, to curl into his soft, rumpled sheets that smelled like him, to curl into his arms, to let him help you forget everything you'd heard the night before.

But even thinking about what he'd said had the dam of pressure building behind your eyes even though it felt impossible to produce any more tears.

You turned down the last corridor before the dungeons which was empty and quiet with nearly everyone at dinner, when you heard quickening footsteps and turned to see Lorenzo's tall figure behind you.

"Salazar fucking Slytherin" he cursed, nearly out of breath. "You have been impossible today."

You opened and closed your mouth, your body attempting to process being alone with him and being this close to him; you could smell his cologne, could see the faint freckles on his nose, the hair falling over his face, the perfect curve of his lips and eventually the feel of his warm skin against yours as he grabbed your hand.

"Come onnn—" he said, teasingly, pulling you into him despite the resistance you showed.

Fuck he knew exactly how weak you were.

"—I don't know what you've been playing at, but I'm exhausted and I'd love nothing more than to peel every piece of clothing off of you and—"

"–Shame. Aurora just isn't doing it for you?" you quipped.

You had envisioned so many other more clever ways to confront him, but being this close to him, this tempted by him left you no choice. You had to say it as much to hear it yourself as to confront him.

Regardless your words had the intended effect as you saw his eyes widen, his mouth fall open slightly and his grasp on your hand loosened enough for you to pull away and wrap your arms around yourself.

"Merlin" he said as he ran his hands over his face and groaned as anger and pain welled up inside you.

"Fine" he said flatly, a little angrily, in a way you hadn't heard him speak to you before. "You want to know about Aurora?—" he asked, letting his cold gaze fall on you.

You tried to stand a little straighter. No. Yes? No? You opened your mouth but couldn't form a coherent reply.

"—Cause I am more than happy to fill you in on exactly how she and I spend our nights together" he said, taking a step towards you.

You took a step backwards and your face fell, as you bit your bottom lip to keep from crying.

"Lorenzo" you said quietly, begging him to stop whatever torture this was.

You saw his jaw tick at your plea.

"Aurora makes the best sleeping draught of our year."

Confusion and panic were written on your face as you tried to figure out what he was saying as his eyes met yours, unwavering.

"I don't..." you started.

He moved to close the space between you and cupped your face in his hands, holding your gaze to his own.

"I'm so fucking pathetic for you that I can't sleep when you're not with me. So I have to pay that girl an ungodly amount of money to make something to help."

Your eyes searched his, seeking even a hint of untruth and finding none. You opened your mouth and closed it again for the thousandth time as you brought your hands to rest on top of his.

"But I thought..."

"Yeah it's very clear what you thought based on the way Pansy nearly hexed me this morning."

You swallowed and closed your eyes, shaking your head to try to sort out this information.

"But you said despite what we have the door's never completely closed, I thought that meant—"

"—I knew it! I fucking knew Nott told you, I'm going to kill him!" he said, letting you go and stepping away as his hands curled into fists.

You bit your lip guiltily but didn't feel like giving him an ounce of your truth until you were sure you had all of his.

"Lorenzo" you said quietly, your voice wavering slightly, pulling his attention back to you. "Why did you say it?"

He sighed deeply as he turned back to you, letting out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

"You're the only one that does that" he said.

"Does what?" you asked, confused.

"Use my full name. And it fucking kills me every time, to hear how perfect it sounds on your lips—“

"—D-Don't change the subject."

"I'm not."

You frowned at him.

"Look���the boys hound me relentlessly about you. It's constant. All the fucking time, especially Theo" he said, getting worked up.

"And I wanted to bring us—this up—" he gestured between you "—But they started making it seem like such a big deal, like it needed to be a fucking marriage proposal; how was I going to do it? When was I going to do it? What was taking me so long? And at a certain point I didn't even know how to go about it anymore and started psyching myself out..." His face scrunched in a way you hadn't seen before as he looked down at his feet.

Was he... nervous?

"...Like, maybe you didn't even want that with me, or didn't even see me like that because why the fuck would you, you know? I don't have the most...stellar reputation, and clearly you have no shortage of fucking options... And the idea of asking you and you saying no?!?" he scoffed and grimaced, shaking his head. "Not an option, not a chance I was willing to take."

He shrugged.

"So I thought it was better to just let it play out, to stop wishing for shit that's probably too good to be true anyway and just try to enjoy what I could... I don't know… But I do know that today absolutely blew without you. Turns out I really really don't want that door to be open, YN, not even a little bit."

A sweet, slow smile spread across your face.

"But seriously Diggory's fucking dead next match, and I look forward to a long chat with your boy Dean Thomas as well."

You smiled wider and rolled your eyes, reaching to tangle your fingers into his.

"So, just to clarify" you said as you stepped towards him, "The door is closed? We're...?" you let the question hang as you gestured between the two of you. A thing?

"The door is very closed. Locked. With a fucking armoire in front of it, love, has been. There's no one else, there's not going to be anyone else."

For a brief moment, you felt overwhelmingly foolish at what you'd accused him of as you blushed deeply and averted your eyes. But reading you like he always did, Lorenzo moved to kiss you, not wasting another minute of this godsforsaken day to get his lips on yours, to hear your soft sigh of relief against him and the way you melted into him, slowly winding your arms around his neck, your hands tangling into his hair as his tongue tangled with yours.

He picked you up, pulling your legs around his waist as he began to walk you the rest of the way to the common room, never breaking contact even as you laughed and squeezed him tighter.

"Mmpf-wait-wait! It wasn't Theo" you said, pulling back briefly.

"What?" he asked, breaking your kiss only long enough to press you against the wall and begin kissing his way down your neck.

You lost your train of thought as your mind went hazy at the feeling of his wet, warm lips against your pulse.

"T-Theo didn't tell me anything, so don't be mad at him."

"So, what, you reading minds all of a sudden?" he joked. "What am I thinking right now?" he asked as he ran his hand up your thigh, under your skirt.

"I don't need to read minds to know that, because I'm thinking the same thing, Lorenzo" you whispered, drawing out the length of his name and feeling his grasp on you tighten in response.

"Fuck, I literally don't care how you knew, love. We're here now and you're fucking mine and I intend to spend the rest of the night showing you exactly what that entails" he said, kissing you again before carrying you off to his room.

taglist: @kenjikishimotoswifey, @mattiesgf, @sleepiibunniiii, @darlingshecried, @girllblogging777, @foivetimesacharm, @clar2aa, @broadwaybaby123, @slytherinscreamqueen, @chelawrites, @loverliner, @smut-anarchy, @locknco

[wanders-in-wonderland]

Smile for the Camera

It’s 10pm sharp when I start my stream. I’ve always been on time, always with my makeup on flawlessly, hair styled perfectly, and bedroom set curated just right to show my pretty pink sheets and collection of toys.

I smile and wave at the camera, tossing my hair back to reveal the pink lingerie set I’ve chosen for tonight.

“Good evening everyone! I’m sooo glad to see so many of you tuning in!”

The chat inbox floods with greetings from my audience and there’s an influx of money that comes from my particularly generous viewers. I giggle and flirt with my viewers, many of whom who have become regulars in my viewership population.

Someone in the audience asks for a strip tease and I feel my pussy pulse in response, looking forward to a night of performing for my devoted viewers.

I start slow, running my fingers up and down my body, brushing gently over my lingerie-clad nipples and whimpering loudly for the microphone to pick up. My eyes stare into the camera, all of my thoughts melting away as I fall into my role of entertainer.

Teasingly, I pull along the shoulder straps of my top, letting the fabric fall away from my chest to show off my perky tits and hardened nipples that are always a fan favorite. My hands dance over my chest, pulling gently at my nipples in a way that makes my moans completely genuine. My eyes glance to the screen and I see the excitement building in my chat box, and my account balance steadily rising.

Suddenly, I hear the lock on my door click and my body goes cold. The door to my room is out of the video shot, behind my camera setup and before I can even react, the door slams open.

I let out a startled yelp as my arms instinctively cover my chest. In the corner of my eye, I see the chat go crazy as my audience tries to figure out what it is they’re hearing but not seeing off screen. My attention is wholly focused on the man whose frame fills my doorway.

I scramble off my bed. “What the fuck? Why are you in my house?” My voice is shaking with fear and shrill with panic. I’m far too preoccupied to even think about the livestream anymore.

My fear deepens when I see him leer at me and stalk through my door and towards me without any hesitation.

“A fucking whore like you should be more gracious to me,” he says, his eyes taking on a dangerous glint. He and I are both in the camera’s view now and the viewers on my stream are firing off more messages than before, speculating over who he is and what is going on.

Without saying anything else, he moves to me faster than I can evade and grabs my hair. My mouth opens to scream but before sound can escape, he throws me chest down onto my bed. The air is forced out of my lungs and for a moment, I’m still and stunned. The next moment, he’s on me.

His hand is buried in my hair, keeping my face pressed down against the bed while he forces my ass up into the air. I struggle uselessly against him, unable to push up off the bed or move myself away from his ironclad grip. My cries are muffled against my bed and I want to scream and yell for help but there’s not enough air in my lungs.

His free hand lands a sharp slap against my ass that make me jolt forwards and arch my back further in pain. He doesn’t give me time to adjust as he begins to land blow after blow. My arms begin to flail, fingers scrambling for something to hold onto as I struggle.

“Stop fucking moving, whore,” he growls at me. I feel the spanks subside for a moment and I can feel my ass burning red and throbbing from the pain. My head spins from the abuse and the lack of oxygen. I feel his large hand find my wrist, his fingers locking around me in a bruising hold as he yanks my arm behind my back, straining my shoulder.

The hand on my head finally comes away and I raise my head just enough to gasp in much-needed oxygen. In that split second, he’d grabbed and secured my other arm behind my back as well, his one hand effortless holding my arms crossed behind my back. My body is still bent over, knees on the bed and ass up in the air. My only saving grace is that I can raise my head enough to breathe and glance at my laptop, showing the livestream still ongoing.

My eyes dart across the screen, reading messages as fast as I can. None of them show any concern for me, in fact, a vast majority are discussing how much they wished they were the ones holding my body down in this moment.

“Fuck yes, show that whore her place.”

“God, what would I do to be there to punish her for always teasing us.”

“I bet her cunt is dripping wet right now.”

I whine softly when I see that message because it’s right. “Please, let me go!” I turn my head to look at the menace of a man behind me. He flashes a dark grin at me, “Not until I fuck you out of your whore mind.”

His words echo in my head and panic rises within me. “Please! No! Stop! Someone help me!” I make eye contact with the camera, begging at its cold, dark lens.

He laughs behind me. “There’s no one here to help you, whore. You and I both know that every single person watching behind their computer screen is more than eager to see your whore body get ruined.”

As he speaks, his free hand pulls his belt and pants undone enough for him to pull his massive cock out. I let out a choked gasp when I see it.

“Wait, no, please, you’re too big, it’s not going to fit! Please!” My voice shakes and I start to struggle harder against him. His body dwarfs mine and I watch through the camera as he rips my panties off, the sound of tearing fabric filling the room.

“Shut the fuck up and take it, whore.” I feel the head of his cock brush against my dripping slit and my eyes widen.

“Wait, please-” My begging ends in a wail as he slams himself into me to the hilt. The painful stretch makes tears spring into my eyes but unimaginable pleasure quickly follows as his cock nudges into every sensitive spot inside of me. He doesn’t give me time to adjust as he begins to rut into me mercilessly.

Every thrust makes my body shake with pain-tinged pleasure and pathetic moans are spilling out of my mouth as my eyes roll upwards. My hazy vision catches a glimpse of us on the camera. I look like a rag doll, back arched, ass in the air, and shuddering as he towers over me, his cock sinking into my cunt.

Every thrust is accompanied by the squelch of my wetness and the sound of our bodies slamming into each other. The bed creaks under us as his body moves like a machine, drilling into me. “Fuck, you tight fucking whore, your pussy was made for me huh?”

His voice is guttural. Suddenly, he grips my upper arms and yanks me upwards. His other hand comes around to grip my throat as he traps me against his front. The new angle makes his cock stab even deeper into me, forcing a cry from my lips.

“Look at the fucking camera, whore. Show them what a fucked out little slut you are. Go ahead, smile for the camera.” His thrusts seem to come even faster now.

I have tears falling from my eyes as my face reddens from his constricting grip around my neck.

“Smile or I choke you out on my cock like this,” he snarls, hips never stuttering in their punishing pace. I let out a muffled groan and try my best to focus myself enough to obey.

I stare through half-lidded eyes at the camera, barely coherent. My lips pull up in a small, desperate smile as I feel myself gradually running out of air.

“Good fucking whore. Now tell them how much you like having your whore cunt fucked.” His hand leaves my throat and goes to pinch my clit harshly, making me squeal.

“Ah- I like having, ah-, my whore cunt fucked!” My voice is hoarse, my orgasm fast approaching as he starts to roughly roll my clit between his fingers.

“That’s right, and you’re going to cum like this aren’t you, whore? Come on, cum all over me, show them how much you love this.” His words combined with the brutal assault on my body push me over the edge and with a desperate wail, I fall apart.

I hear him groan lowly behind me as my pussy clenches around him, my orgasm ripping through my senses. He uses my body harder than ever, treating me like a sex toy as he chases his own release. He slams himself into me one final time as he erupts, his grip bruising my arms as he keeps me in place.

I collapse against him, a boneless, overstimulated mess. He lets me down gently onto the bed, pulling out of me. The sound of his cock squelching out of my pussy makes my viewers more than aware of how well-fucked I am. He steps away from the bed and towards my filming setup. He leans into the camera and smirks.

“Let me know how else you want to see this whore fucked. If your idea is good, maybe I’ll let you come and enjoy her too.” With that, he shuts the camera off and closes out of the streaming site.

My body is still limp on the bed. I feel him settle next to me and pull me close before brushing my hair away from my forehead and kissing my nose.

“Do you think they liked me?” His murmurs.

“They loved you,” I say, breathless and drowsy from what we just did.

“I hope so, I wouldn’t want my debut on your stream to make a bad first impression,” he says, frowning down at me a little. It makes me let out a soft laugh.

I tilt my head up to kiss his jawline, “Only you would fuck the life out of me on livestream and then worry that you did a bad job.”

I giggle again and he grumbles back at me, “Shut up and sleep, I’ll clean up.” His kiss on my forehead is the last thing I remember before drifting off to sleep.

[totalswag]

Hii I have reques if you feel comfortable with it!

I read your drew fic with the arrest and I loved it!! I was wondering if reader was preforming bed chem outro instead of the back up singer it’s Drew and they get a little to carried away in front of the crowd. If That makes sense💕

bed chem ⎯ DREW STARKEY

authors note thank you for sending this request and it makes glad you liked my arrested for being too hot fic. my requests are still open and i'm gonna be working on the requests that are in my inbox right now from recent requests. also, you can picture singer!reader picture any way you want <3 i’m using sabrina carpenter as inspo for singer!reader.

taglist ⤕ if you would like to be notified every time i post you will type in your username then be all set.

summary drew coming on stage at the very end of your song and you both get lost in the moment for a second in front of fans.

warning(s) mentions of intimate positions, kissing, touching.

Earlier in the show, you arrested Drew, your boyfriend, for being too hot— everyone in the arena went crazy seeing him. What they aren't expecting to Drew making a second appearance.

At the very end of bed chem one of your backup dancers will come into frame holding a camera on his shoulder, and when the curtain closes you pretend to do intimate things then the stage lights go off.

Prior to the show you asked Drew if he would be okay to go this— he agreed. Making sure he's comfortable was your first priority. He talked about different ways coming on stage that were so funny.

You start singing the final chorus of bed chem on your knees, legs wide out and free hand in front of you as you lean forward. The curtain signal is about to close. From the corner of your vision, you can see Drew approaching with the camera on his shoulder, dressed in dark pants and a white tank top—fans immediately began to cheer as he entered the frame.

He looked so good you couldn't control the redness of your cheeks spreading like a teenager seeing their crush.

To make the moment better, you sway your body around on the bed, allowing yourself to relax. Drew is looking at you with a smile on his face as he gets closer to the edge of the bed.

Motioning him to get closer— he lifts one leg on the bed as the curtain makes its way around the bed. Slowly setting down the camera on the edge of the bed.

You moved closer to Drew, pressing your bodies together in a false display of intimacy. Drew played along well, massaging your sides as he drew you closer. The crowd's cheers intensified, and the excitement in the arena reached a fever pitch.

You leaned in and kissed Drew deeply, as the curtain began to close behind you. The kiss was supposed to be a tease, a staged performance for the spectators, but you found yourself becoming lost in it.

Drew's hands crept up to cradle your face, his touch soft yet forceful. You forgot about the crowd, the cameras, and everything. It was just you and Drew, completely lost in each other.

Your hands drag down his bare chest, and he leaps forward into you at the gentleness of your touch, sending lightning down your body. 

Once the lights turn off you both pull away from each other. Everything in your body right now is all over the place you think you are gonna explode. You are breathing heavily.

"You always know how to put on a show," he said quietly, his voice hoarse.

You giggled softly, your fingertips tracing the contour of his jawline. "And you always know how to make it unforgettable."

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[luviestarz]

park sunghoon fic recs! part 2 ✮

✮ YOU(R SHOELACES) ARE PRETTY. - @hannie-dul-set (secondhand embarrassment because sunghoon doesn't know how to to talk to cute people.)

✮ IRRESISTIBLE ⌇ PSH - @boyfhee

✮ ❛BIRTHDAY BOY!❜ ( p. sunghoon ) - @luvyeni (giving the birthday boy a few birthday wishes)

✮ Park Sunghoon || in which he’s desperate… - @lololololchips (in which he’s desperate and does everything his dream girl tweets about)

✮ 박성훈 、SECRET NEVER KEPT - @boyfhee (sunghoon likes getting detentions.)

✮ ━━━ 𑁤 close to you thought … - @uolarieclosed

✮ シ ───── 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧 ! - @naomiarai (in which you get high with your boyfriend.)

✮ perv!sunghoon - @urlovebot (sunghoon does your laundry so: panty sniffing.. and licking, possessiveness, exhibitionism, praise, overstim, hands free orgasm again (?), dry humping but solo (???), sunghoon creams his pants twice lmfaoooo what a loser.)

✮ fatal trouble - @gyuuberryy (your roommate is hot. really really hot. and odd too. really really odd. after a strange experience with him, you slowly start distancing yourself from him. but, it becomes exceptionally hard with your feelings coming in the way. how are you supposed to protect yourself if you can’t resist him? the answer is you don’t need to. your fates are intertwined and there's no letting go.)

✮ 𝜗𝜚   ॱ˖ 𝐴 𝐵𝑜𝑦 𝑊ℎ𝑜’𝑠 𝐽𝑎𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐾𝑖𝑛𝑑 - @lovhrin (sunghoon being your jacked and kind bf based on the tiktok trend)

✮ attention, please ! - @fqirysim (𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐮𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧. 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐠𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐤𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲, 𝐡𝐞 𝐧𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫 𝐡𝐚𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 𝐚𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐧𝐨 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐢𝐧 𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐨 𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐡𝐢𝐦, 𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐛𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐦-- 𝐡𝐞 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐞𝐭 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞'𝐬 𝐧𝐨 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞 𝐟𝐫𝐚𝐦𝐞, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐝𝐢𝐝𝐧'𝐭 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝 𝐨𝐧𝐞; 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐟𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐨�� 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐢𝐧 𝐧𝐨 𝐭𝐢𝐦𝐞. 𝐨𝐫 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐮𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐥 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐡𝐢𝐦. 𝐛𝐚𝐟𝐟𝐥𝐞𝐝, 𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐨𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐣𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐦, 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐞𝐫 𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐜𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧, 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐳𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐤 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞.)

✮ Moonstruck — P.SH ✧.* - @cyberpunkgyu (when your boyfriend won’t stop staring at you or sunghoon falling deeply in love)

✮ professor!sunghoon - @pompvdding

✮ ( 성훈 ) — 11:59pm - @neos127

✮ （ 标题 ） BILLIARD LESSON. - @okwonyo (he is willing to do anything as long as you ask.)

✮ STRAWBERRY LOLLY - @vampjaeyun (However, one aspect that stands out on this particular day is the sugary rock between the lips he loves so much. God, Sunghoon practically busts at the sight.)

✮ lemonade - @heehoonies (sunghoon is absolutely infatuated by his step sister, and he knows his best friends, jay and jake, both want a taste. sunghoon shows them they can touch, but only with his permission.)

✮ MOONSTRUCK , ⋆｡°✩ 𓈒𓈒 crazy over you - @xoamiiren (In which, sunghoon’s feelings for you start to feel like more than he can handle…)

✮ JEALOUSY - @hoonigiris

✮ traditionally nontraditional | park sunghoon - @jayparked (newly married, you and your husband love creating your own...unique traditions)

✮ ❝ DON’T WAKE DAD ❞ — ✿ 𝐏.𝐒𝐇 ׅ ㅤ֢ ㅤׄㅤ . - @chlorinecake (Sunghoon was your stepbrother, and ever since your two fractured families merged into one, he’s had feelings for you. Deep down, he knows the attraction is wrong, but the taboo of it all only made it more addicting to him…)

✮ got me looking for attention - @i2ycat (actor sunghoon who is completely and utterly infatuated with you — his celebrity crush)

✮ THE LOOK IN HIS EYES ─── P.SUNGHOON - @miumura (sunghoon is assigned with the task to accompany you at a party — however, one slight problem, you’re barely enjoying your time around him. so, as his job, he feels the need to fix that.)

✮ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎੭ ATTENTiON ! ───── ❨성훈❩ - @yeokii (sunghoon is desperate to get your attention and he'd apparently go to some lengths to get it !)

✮ grocery store receipts (sunghoon) - @paarksunghoon (your hot neighbor seems to have everything you don’t: charm, confidence, and a sense of direction in life. you’ve managed to keep to yourself in the time you’ve lived across from his apartment but the holiday season brings brings out unresolved feelings, and you find that the best present of all has always been standing right in front of you.)

✮ LITTLE BIT OF AFFECTION 박성훈 ᥫ᭡ - @pshaven (as your manager, sunghoon has to ensure all your needs are met and that you’re performing at your absolute best. but when your ex turns out to be the director of your newest project, you’re not doing your best. it’s his job to guarantee that this never happens again. (ib the manhwa, muse on fame!))

[rafesteddy]

𝓢𝓷𝓮𝓪𝓴𝔂 𝓛𝓲𝓷𝓴𝓼 𝖎𝖗𝖑/𝖘𝖒𝖆𝖚

𝓶𝓵𝓫!𝓻𝓪𝓯𝓮 𝔁 𝓸𝓯!𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

+18 -> smut | You didn’t expect much from tonight’s date—and got even less. But one message from Rafe changes the whole rhythm of the night. What starts casual might be getting dangerously close to something neither of you can ignore.

c/w: swearing, casual sex, jealousy, possessiveness, blurred boundaries, light humiliation, dirty talk, unprotected p in v, cum play, oral (female receiving after orgasms; both), spanking, slight choking, multiple positions, multiple orgasms, rafe says “I’ll kms” jokingly + banter during sex

𝓨𝓸𝓾 - 𝓓𝓮𝓾𝔁𝓪𝓿𝓮, 𝓑𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓷 𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓾𝓼𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓼…

You wore the dress because it made you feel good. Simple, black. A little backless. Not too much. It made you feel like you still knew how to show up—how to try, even when you weren’t sure why you were bothering.

You met him on Raya. His profile was filled with sunset gym selfies, gold chains, and at least one yacht that didn’t belong to him. But your friends insisted. ‘He’s hot. Give him a chance.’

You gave him a chance and now here you are, staring at a half-full glass of sparkling water while he tells a story about benching three plates and putting a coach ‘in his place’.

“Like, bro. Don’t test me,” he says, laughing and pointing at his own chest. “I’m not that guy. I don’t play submissive.” You nod in agreement, trying your hardest not to look at the clock. He smirks. “You get it. You’re chill. That’s hot.”

Holy shit… This is dating now? Endless one-way talking. Endless egos. And you’re starting to think being “chill” just means letting men be mediocre without calling them out for it.

𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮 - 𝓒𝓸𝓷𝓽𝓮𝓼𝓼𝓪, 𝓑𝓸𝓼𝓽𝓸𝓷 𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓼𝓪𝓬𝓱𝓾𝓼𝓮𝓽𝓽𝓼…

He met her at the gym. She stopped him mid-set to ask about his program; hair slicked into a perfect ponytail, lashes too long to be natural. She smelled like vanilla and spray tan. He didn’t even think. Just said ‘yes’.

Now he’s here, picking at an overpriced plate trying not to wonder how fast he could get out of this without looking like an asshole.

“So you get paid to throw balls?” She teases, one manicured finger tracing the rim of her wine glass. “Kinda iconic.”

Rafe nods, smiling without teeth. She’s been talking about brand deals and algorithm slumps for twenty minutes straight. She hasn’t asked him a single question that didn’t have a “likes” count attached.

“Honestly,” she says, “I feel like people don’t understand how hard it is to stay relevant in this industry. 400 thousand likes and you’re a flop. You miss one trend and you’re done. Poof. Digital death.”

He coughs, trying to cover up a laugh, raising his beer to hers. “To survival.”

She rolls her eyes and giggles, lifting her glass as well. “You’re funny. You should be on TikTok more.”

𝓨𝓸𝓾 જ⁀➴

The food isn’t bad. It’s actually good. Which almost pisses you off more—because it means you can’t even use that as an excuse.

You were hopeful, foolishly so. You gave your hair the extra ten minutes, exfoliated, rehearsed your little “in your free time” spiel in case he didn’t respect your actual job. You wanted this to go well.

But now, with each story he tells—about how “soft” the world’s gotten, how “crazy” his ex was, how “girls just don’t know how to take a joke anymore”—you feel yourself slipping into that quiet, numb space in your mind. The one where you just let the man talk while you think about how cozy your sheets are going to be when you slide into them alone and what movie you're gonna put on instead.

“This was fun,” he says as he signals the waiter for the check, smiling like it’s a done deal. “We should grab a drink after this. My place is, like what, five minutes away. Killer view. Hot tub. You’ll love it, babe.”

You smile, but it’s thin. Doesn’t reach your eyes as you meet his across the table. “I think I’m gonna head home.”

He blinks, surprised. Taken aback. An answer this man surely isn’t used to hearing when he extends the offer. “C’mon. Just one drink.”

“I don’t really drink,” you murmur, fingers curling around the handle of your purse, two seconds away from bolting out the door honestly. He laughs, the sound loud in the quiet between you.

“Everyone drinks.”

“Not me.” A lie.

𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮 જ⁀➴

The walk outside is short and silent until she brushes her shoulder against his, fingers grazing, desperately hoping to intertwine but they don’t. She looks up at Rafe, with a look on her beautiful face that usually pulls praise easily from men, but his mind is somewhere else.

“You should come over. Just for a little bit. I’ve got this sauna that would be so good for recovery. And a bottle of wine that’s basically a religious experience—”

“—Appreciate it,” he says, stopping her before she can even finish. “But I’ve got training early.”

She pouts her pillowy lips, batting her lashes which has almost the opposite effect on him. “You’re no fun.”

He pauses; lips tugging to the side as he weighs his options. Could say ‘yes’. Could let it play out. But everything about this feels empty. Another night of people pretending that this could go anywhere.

“Not tonight. But thanks—really. This was nice—” He closes the door of her Uber before she can reply, pocketing his keys, with someone better on his mind.

𝓑𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓪𝓽 𝓗𝓸𝓶𝓮…

You shut the door, the quiet click too loud in the empty room. Your heels go first. Then your purse hits the floor with a heavy drop. The house is quiet in the way that always makes you feel a little lonelier after a night like this.

You move through the motions: wine, music, robe, lights dimmed low. You could call it self-care, but really, it’s just a ritual for disappointment.

You curl up on the couch with your legs tucked under you and sip slow, mumbling against the rim of your glass in his deep, stupid voice, “c’mon just one drink.” You laugh weakly as you toss some back, feeling the burn in your throat, and the sting of the night. Tonight, you just wanted something. And you got nothing.

You pull your phone into your lap; not even sure what you’re looking for, just running on autopilot, going through the motions, looking for a reason not to delete every dating app you’ve ever downloaded.

That’s when the notification lights up your screen.

It’s a gym selfie. No caption. Just sweat, muscle, and that familiar smirk. You bite your lip, swiping the screen to your text messages—and just as you do, the little text bubbles appear. Someone has the same idea…

Rafe: hey pretty. you free?

You don’t answer right away. But your fingers are already hovering.

He doesn’t follow up with a question mark or a ??? or where you at? Rafe never does. That’s part of the deal. You keep it easy. No pressure. No expectations. Just a simple rhythm you’ve both fallen into. The man shows just enough effort that he’ll drive by at night, looking up into your room. Curtains open, Spotify glowing through the glass, bedside light on. An unspoken, I’m home and ready, Rafe. The rest is up to you.

You set your phone down without replying, take one last sip of wine, and head to your bedroom. You already know he’s on his way.

You change into the cotton Calvin Klein set he always notices—the powdery white bralette, matching thong that isn’t meant to be sexy, but somehow always is. Comfortable. Soft. Barely a statement, which is exactly why he likes it.

You’re lying on your stomach, book open in front of you, toes grazing the edge of the comforter, when you hear his keys drop on the counter. A muffled “hey baby” to no one.

The door shuts; shoes hitting the floor with the same tired thud as your purse. You don’t look up when you hear the zipper. Don’t say a word when his shirt and jeans thump lightly onto the hallway floor; big feet pound against the hardwood with each swaggered shuffle, walking in like he lives here.

He doesn’t. But sometimes it feels like he could.

You feel the mattress shift beneath you before you see him. A familiar weight dips near your thighs. Then his hands plant on either side of your hips and he crawls up the bed in just his boxers, heavy and warm.

You gasp when he presses against you, his broad chest brushing your back, his mouth near your ear.

Your giggle slips out before you can stop it.

“Book club tonight?” He mutters, voice low and amused as he kisses your neck.

You roll your eyes, but before you can fire back, he grabs your hips and flips you onto your back. Rafe’s big body presses down into yours, your wrists pinned to either side of your head.

“Shit, look at you,” he hums.

His eyes roam your face, then drop to your lips. And for a moment neither of you says a thing.

You shift slightly beneath him, the cotton of your bralette stretching as you breathe in.

Rafe’s palms still frame your wrists, warm and rough, but he isn’t holding you down anymore. Not really. Just resting there, like he likes the excuse to touch you, taking this mental picture of you below him.

You tilt your chin up, your voice soft and sweet, making the corners of his lips curl into a smile.

“What’d you do tonight?” You whisper, cheeks heating up under the weight of his gaze.

“Went on a date.”

You quirk an eyebrow, saying so much with a single look. “And it went well?”

He lets out a frustrated groan, burning himself in your neck, saying even more with his tight embrace. Your words make him laugh, the warmth of his breath fanning across your throat. “Fuckin’ sucked,” he says, dipping his head until his nose brushes the curve of your jaw. “She thinks I could be TikTok famous. What do you think, baby? Think I should hang up the cleats?”

You stifle a giggle and fail. “The world will be a dark place without Rafe Cameron in baseball pants—”

“That’s what I said,” he mumbles as he nuzzles in closer. “Food was cold before she even ate it. She needed to get the perfect picture for her story or some shit.”

“Did you check her TikTok page?” You ask as you trace lazy circles on his back. “She might have called herself a WAG in the caption—”

“Please,” he chides, his eyes practically rolling out of his head, “Didn’t even make it to dessert.”

“That’s your favorite part,” you shoot back, tone light, as your fingers toy at the back of his hair. You feel him tense a little under your touch, breath hitching against your throat.

He lets out a half-growl, a sound that almost makes you smile. “Well shit,” he mutters, voice dropping a shade. “Maybe that’s why I’m so goddamn pissy, huh? Couldn’t take anymore. Made me wanna knock over the candle and light the table on fire—”

“Jesus fuck, Rafe,” you cut in with a laugh. “Why are you bein’ so hard on her I’m sure she was stunning—”

“—Hey,” he interjects playfully, giving you a little more of his body weight, making your breathing a little tighter. You grip his shoulders pushing him back slightly. Rafe pulls back with a boyish smile, looking down at you. “Didn’t say the view wasn’t nice. But that’s not what it’s all about, you know that.”

“Mhmm… Wise words.”

You stretch your arms above your head, twisting slightly underneath him. His hands slide down with you, skimming your ribs, your sides, the soft dip of your waist, tongue tracing along his bottom lip as your nipples turn hard below the thin fabric.

“You wore this for me, did you?” He asks.

“I wore this for me,” you respond as his hungry eyes flick up to yours, calling you bluff instantly.

“Whatever you say, princess,” he smiles. Rafe’s rough fingers glide up your inner thigh making goosebumps rise on your soft skin. “What about you?” He asks after a pause as the tips of his fingers hook under your panties. “What’d you do?”

You hesitate for half a second. Not because you’re nervous—because you want him to react. So you say it lightly, flicking your gaze up at him too. “Went on a date.”

Rafe pauses, his hands still, just a little. “With who?” He asks, quieter now.

“Mason Williams. He played for the Lightning and now he plays for—”

“The Bruins. Yeah, I know the guy,” Rafe mumbles. The flicker. That little twist in Rafe’s face. His jaw clenches, mouth parting like he’s about to say something smart and cocky—then thinks better of it. But you see it.

You run your fingers down his strong arms as a taunting smile plays on your lips. Rafe rolls his eyes, laughing at himself, completely caught in the act. “Is someone jealous?”

He scoffs, shaking his head. “I’m not—” He cuts himself off, sucking his teeth, trying his best not to show all his cards. “Not jealous. You’ve never hooked up with another athlete before.”

“I’m on Raya now.”

His hand squeezes your thigh like he can’t help it. “No shit…”

“I didn’t know you liked hockey.” He adds, voice amused but slightly tight, thumb flexing against your thigh.

You arch your back slightly, head falling a little deeper into the pillow. “I still don’t.”

“She was trying to get me to go back with her,” he says after a moment, his voice quieter, more serious.

You nod once. “He asked me to go home with him too.”

There’s another pause, heavier this time. He doesn’t move; just watches your face.

“Why’d you say ‘no’?” He asks. You push his hair back, fingers grazing his temple.

“He was kind of an ass.”

His mouth twitches, like he already knows there’s more. “Yeah? And?”

You let out this small breath, tracing down the side of his face, thumb brushing his jaw. “And I was really hoping to cum tonight.”

His breath catches and then his smile deepens, slow and knowing. “Well, shit,” he mutters, leaning in until your noses brush. “I think I can help with that.” You can feel the air change the second he settles above you.

Rafe’s forearms bracket your head, his chest brushing yours, bare skin on cotton as he gazes down. You can feel the flex of muscle under his skin, the slow drag of his breath as he looks between your eyes and mouth like he’s choosing which part of you to taste first.

“So, I’m the lucky guy tonight?” He hums as he kisses lower, between your breasts. “Not gonna have to worry about Williams tryin’ to do what I can—”

You giggle, threading your fingers through the back of his hair. “You act like I have a roster, Cameron.”

“Please tell me you don’t,” he says dryly. “I’ll kill myself I swear.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you chuckle, still smiling when he glances back up, blue eyes sharp and warm and a little bit smug. “Just you—”

“You need to stop dating men who hate women.”

“You need to stop dating women who hate women.”

“Touché,” he mutters, against your clothed pussy, running his tongue along the wet patch that formed, moaning at the subtle taste of you on his tongue before yanking them off.

Rafe nudges your thighs further apart with his knee, dragging his palm over the inside of your leg like he’s not even thinking about it—like his body’s already memorized every inch of you as he crawls back up your body. His thumb grazes where your underwear used to be, gliding through the slick mess between your thighs.

“Not sure if you care, but I only do this with you,” he adds under his breath. You try not to show it. Not to let him see how that lands. You nod, heat pooling low in your stomach.

Your breath hitches as he grinds against you, slow and deliberate—not inside, just enough to tease, to make you squirm and ache for more.

His lips find your throat, kissing down, then back up again, and he doesn’t stop until your breath goes ragged. When he finally sinks into you, it’s slow, all the way, one fluid, deep thrust that makes you gasp and cling to his shoulders. He’s so thick it burns in the best way, and you feel your hips tilt instinctively, seeking more.

“Fuck,” he whispers against your jaw. “Always so tight. You miss me?”

You nod fast, whispering, “Yes, yes—Rafe.”

His hand clamps around the back of your thigh, hauling your leg up high around his waist. The next thrust shoves a gasp out of you. He kisses you through it—messy and hungry—his hips grinding harder, deeper, like he’s got something to prove. Like he’s trying to tell you that you made the right choice tonight.

“Say it,” he growls softly, lips brushing yours.

“I missed you.”

“Yeah?” He grunts, fucking into you just a little harder, wet skin clapping against his. “Tell me. What’d you think about when he was askin’ you to come over, pretty?”

“You,” you breathe, honest and raw.

He smirks, sweat forming at his temples. “You were wet for me, weren’t you?” You can barely manage a nod. “Thinkin’ about me at dinner? Already thinking about me fucking this perfect pussy,” he whispers, brushing his lips against yours with every word. “Should’ve worn this set to dinner,” he says, fingers tugging gently at the band of your bralette. “Show him what he couldn’t touch.”

You grab your bra, lifting it to your collarbone, boobs bouncing with each thrust; Rafe’s eyes rolling back in his head. “Think anyone’s gonna fuck you like me?”

“Don’t be a dick,” you laugh breathily.

He bites down a groan, snapping his hips, making you cry out his name. “You fucking love it—” He kisses the words off your lips, deeper now, hands bracketing your jaw as he grinds into you just right—over and over. “You wanna know what I was thinkin’ about during dinner?” He murmurs, voice dark and thick with want.

You gasp, fingers tugging in his hair. “What?”

“You. Ridin’ me. Couldn’t get it outta my fuckin’ head.”

You bite your lip, heart racing, thighs clenching around his waist. “Let me,” you whisper, eyes sparking. With a rough groan, he grabs your hips and flips the two of you—flat on his back now, hands pulling you up to straddle him.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he rasps, eyes dark as sin. You sink down on him slow—one teasing grind, then taking him deep as a moan spills from your lips. “Fuck,” he breathes out, head falling back for a second, his grip bruising on your hips.

His gaze doesn’t move, locked on you—his touch is everywhere—grabbing, too hard, not careful at all. Like he can’t stand the space between you.

But he doesn’t guide you. Not once. Just watches—lets you fuck him exactly how you want, the man losing more control with every roll of your hips.

“Look at you,” he pants, voice rough. “A fuckin’ dream. That’s it, baby.”

You ride him harder now, bracing your hands on his chest, moving faster, chasing your climax.

“Rafe—”

“I got you,” he growls, one hand sliding between your thighs, fingers finding your clit. “Cum for me,” he pants. “Fuck—Wanna feel it.” And you do—shaking, gasping, crying out his name as your body locks down on him, vision hazy. “So fuckin’ perfect,” he grits out.

With a wicked grin, he reaches up, hand wrapping his hand around your throat, sending your pulse racing all over again. “My turn,” he rasps, flipping you to your back in one breathless move.

Rafe drives into you hard and deep; hips cracking against you, dragging desperate sounds from your throat as the room starts to spin.

“You feel that?” He murmurs into your skin, voice gritty and low. “How fuckin’ wet you are for me?” You nod, breathing too labored to answer. Rafe groans, smirking even as his hips jolt. “Mmm, greedy little thing. Squeezin’ me so fuckin’ tight. You gonna cum?”

He slows down, grinds instead, dragging the thick length of him against that spot inside you that makes you shiver. His thumb slips between you, brushing over your clit in tight, practiced circles as your mouth falls open with a helpless sound.

“Cum for me,” he whispers, forehead resting against yours. “Right now—” It crashes over you so hard you sob his name. He groans when you squeeze around him, thrusting a few more times before he follows. His whole body shudders against yours, muscles trembling with the force of it, the sound he makes so raw it leaves your heart stuttering in your chest as he spills inside you.

And then the room stills.

Only your breathing, tangled and soft, fills the space between your bodies. Rafe doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t roll off. He just stays there, forehead pressed to yours, fingers stroking your jaw.

“You ruin me,” he says.

You smile, eyes fluttering open to find him already looking at you. “I could say the same,” you whisper, and brush your lips against his, sweet and slow.

And even though no one’s said the words, even though this is still nothing on paper, you both know better.

He pulls out, slow enough to make you gasp, and spreads you wide beneath him again. You’re still pulsing around nothing, body buzzing and undone, your thighs sticky and spread, the sheets bunched beneath your hips. And then he touches you again; fingers slow, spreading you open just to look. One palm cupping your thigh, the other thumb grazing over your slick folds like he’s deciding what to do next.

“Wanna take a video so fuckin’ bad,” he mutters under his breath, still completely out of breath. “Couldn’t tell you how many times I’d watch this shit, sweetheart. It’s probably for the best,” the warmth of his words hits hot against your skin. You smile, lip caught between your teeth.

Rafe drags two fingers through the mix of you and him, pushing his release back inside you, rubbing it in slow, ghosting lazy circles over your clit.

Rafe dips down and presses his mouth against your center, licking soft and slow—torturous tongue flicks, the kind that make you squirm but he grabs for you, curling his biceps around your thighs to hold you in place.

His nose brushes your skin, stubble scraping gently along the inside of your legs as he moans into you. He hums low against your clit, the vibration making you grip the sheets—Ding.

Your phone lights up beside the bed. The air still thick with sex, heat clinging to your body like a second skin, and you almost don’t hear it over the sound of your own breathing but Rafe does.

He reaches for it without asking, still between your thighs, and lifts it toward him.

“New message on Raya,” he says, snorting under his breath. “Damn, baby. You think I should tell him how good this pussy feels? Bet he’d love to know what he missed tonight.”

You laugh, but the sound catches when you see his face shift. The amusement drains slowly. His mouth tightens; brows twitch just slightly—not enough for most people to notice, but you’re not most people.

He hands you the phone without another word and moves off the bed like the sex just cracked something open in him and now he’s trying to patch it up.

“Thank you, sweetheart.”

You glance toward his phone as he picks it up, already tapping on the screen, swiping like he needs to be doing something—anything. Like looking busy might keep you from noticing the ache behind his silence but it’s too late for that.

You look down at the message… A teammate of Rafe’s. Someone you’ve met before. Someone who’s looked at you too long when Rafe wasn’t paying attention.

You try to play it off, you both do. This was never supposed to be more than a warm body. A reliable rhythm. Mutual trust. Late nights and early mornings with no promises in between.

“Rafe…”

He doesn’t look up right away. When he finally does, his eyes are unreadable.

“I know we’re nothing serious,” you say carefully. “But I wouldn’t do that to you. Okay?” His eyes fall to your screen as you delete the message.

His gaze flickers over your face, so many unsaid words locked behind his lips. Instead, he dips closer, skimming a knuckle beneath your chin before pulling you in, mouth finding yours with a quiet sigh and a tender kiss.

You watch from the bed, sheet barely covering your hips, heart still hammering too loud for no reason. He throws his hoodie over his head, jeans riding low on his hips, the muscles in his back shifting with every movement.

He flashes you a crooked little smile as he walks to the door. The same one he always gives you when he’s pretending to be fine.

And then he’s gone.

You sit up slowly, sheet pooling at your waist; bed still smelling like him.

Stepping off the bed you pad over to the window, drawing back the blinds, watching from behind the curtain as Rafe steps out into the street, phone glowing in his hand, thumb swiping.

Tinder.

Your lashes flutter, stomach sinking in an instant, and it stings. More than it should. More than you’ll ever let him know because there’s a chance he doesn’t feel the same, and then what? You’re done? That can’t happen.

You slip back into your sheets, body still tingling from everything he gave you. But something feels hollow now—Ding.

Sarahhhh: Tell my brother I said hi 🖕

Your Name: Haha he just left babe. You’re ridiculous.

Sarahhhh: So what’s with you two?

Your Name: Just casual. You know us.

Sarahhhh: Do us all a favor and find someone worth your time already.

Your Name: Bold of you to assume I’m not perfectly happy with my bad decisions rn Sarah 😛

Sarahhhh: STOPPPP 😂

Sarahhhh: Ok but seriously…

𝓑𝓪𝓬𝓴 𝓪𝓽 𝓡𝓪𝓯𝓮’𝓼…

He rolls his eyes and kicks off his shoes, feeling the weight of the silence in his house, wishing desperately that he didn’t ruin it by looking at your phone and he would have gotten to stay longer but he knows better. Knows the rules. You’ve never been anything but clear—no promises, no labels, no strings. So why the fuck does his chest feel tight?

Ding.

Zander Jones: You done with her yet? Tryin to shoot my shot.

The blood drains from Rafe’s face before he can stop it. For a second, he just stares at the screen, frozen even though he knew this was coming.

He taps out of the message and sinks down on his leather couch, kicking back his feet as he swipes open a dating app for the nth time. Like muscle memory at this point. Like a balm that will ease the ache in his heart.

And across town, in your bed that’s still warm with his heat and rich with his smell you feel your frustrations swell. If he can swipe, so can you.

You draw a deep breath as your stomach twists in knots because deep down, you already know you’d never stay away from him.

You’re never going to get over this. You’re just trying to forget.

But you know damn well—you won’t.

No one forgets about Rafe Cameron and he feels the exact same way about you.

New tag list 🏷️

@rafesthroatbaby | @ietss | @lilithblackkk | @rafecameronsfavourite | @my-name-is-baby | @urmotherlvr | @forgiveliv | @barnesboo1967 | @wtfisastiles | @k4yr14 | @taliescapes | @rafesbuzzcutseason | @sky-44 | @biascriptum | @vanessa-rafesgirl | @lolasangelz | @st8rkey | @lhhlver | @slut-4-rafey | @gri959 | @prettybabyyyy | @sabrina-carpenter-stan-account | @maybankslover | @littlelamy | @buckybarnessweetheart | @angelicameron | @lover-girlyy | @rcameronlova1 | @rafesbabygirlx | @mayanqueenxx | @bimbob1tch | @dylsdaily | @blair-bears-blog | @akobx | @countryclubwhore | @esmerai-artemis | @jkmylove97 | @wtfdudesblog | @livie4lifestarkeyblyth | @yasmin-oviedo | @queen-cs | @floredaqueen | @alexxavicry | @aerie717 | @cokewithcameron | @premiumshitt | @rcameronlova1

[oscpstri]

love to hate | verstappen

verstappen x fem albon!reader, 6.9k

max verstappen was a menace to formula 1 and an even bigger menace when it came to you. he didn't like you, you didn't like him either. he glares at you, you glare back. he kisses you, you kiss back.

INCLUDES: use of y/n, rivals to lovers, many crashes, slow burn gone wrong (its fast), set in 2025 but not accurate timeline, profanity, max and george beef, so much tension that even i'm scared, lotta f1 jargon, max and george beef, reader is george's damage control, reader is also a russell apologist (she gets schooled obv), THIS IS A MAX FIC I SWEAR, YOU GET MORE OF JUST HIM BY THE END BELIEVE ME PLEASE

NOTE: inspired by NA NA NA minus the toxic relationship aspect of it. max is soooo rivals to lovers man im gonna puke

( moments series | more MV1 )

Being Alex Albon's sister was probably the easiest thing in the world. No PR nightmare, no huge scandals, no overall gossip— Alex was a saint. Being George Russell's non-biological sister, on the other hand, was a major headache. Especially when your personal goliath was a fiery Red Bull driver who always had it out for the Brit.

Max Verstappen was a force to be reckoned with, but you loved a challenge. Every scratch, every bump, every hit that Max and George have on track somehow always leads to you.

Alex thought bringing you with him everywhere would mean him protecting you. So when did it switch to you defending George? You went from being Alex Albon's sister to George Russell's PR manager (unofficially)— a permanent figure in the paddock who always manages to get tangled up in Max and George's headlines. Some even wonder if its George beefing with Max or you.

You hate Max. He's arrogant, unapologetic, and always has something to say. Max hates you. You're loud, opinionated, and always ready to catch him on his bullshit whenever he tiffs it out with George on track.

You both had been going at each other ever since you stepped foot into your first race weekend. And what went from rants to Alex about the sheer stupidity of Max Verstappen was now glaring at each other from across the room, targeted subtweets after a race, and insults thrown via other drivers. It had even come to a point where you would deliberately walk past his motorhome when he had a bad race just to shove it in his face. Of course, he did the same back to you.

Had it all gotten out of hand? Maybe. Did anyone care? No. Did everyone else on the grid enjoy the free entertainment? Absolutely. Was Alex constantly developing a headache? Chronic.

Sure, maybe this wasn't your fight to fight, but you were defensive over the people you loved and that included unofficial brother figures.

Which is exactly why Alex was stood in front of you, Carlos holding you back. You're sure your face was probably red, fists clenched by your sides, jaw tense, and eyes looking everywhere but towards your brother.

"Calm down," Alex urges, holding you by the shoulders. "You're more worked up than George."

Your head snaps to look at Alex, eyes carrying a fire that was far too large to be burned out. "Calm down? Golden boy was all up in his face!"

During the race, Max and George were side by side. A miscalculation in distance by Turn 5 left the Red Bull with a damaged sidepod and the Mercedes a broken rear wing. This all could have glazed over if it weren't for Max beefing it out with George in parc fermé.

Alex was telling the truth, you were more worked up over this than George was. Hell, George was probably in the Mercedes motorhome continuing on like nothing happened. Yet here you were, about to throw hands over something that happened all the time.

"You're too close to George to be able to look at this objectively," Alex points out, running a hand through his hair. You could only look at him like he was a crazy person. Objectively?

"I agree, Y/N," Carlos perks up from behind you, letting go of your wrists.

You huff at this, annoyed that both drivers were on a different page than you were. "Whatever. I'm going."

Alex and Carlos turn to each other. The older quirked an eyebrow, indirectly asking if you were okay. Your brother merely sighed loudly, nodding once in reply. It's not like you would run off, it wasn't like you to run from what you were scared of. Usually when this happened, you would go to George to talk to him about it. It would only infuriate you more to hear from a first person perspective, but it's a bonding experience.

As you make your way towards the Mercedes motorhome, you spot a hoard of people in navy blue walking towards your direction. You wouldn't have thought much of it, until you notice who was in the middle of their flock.

You roll your eyes at the sight, speeding up the pace of your walk to refrain from a blood-bath erupting in the middle of the motorhomes. But of course, the devil talked— "Albon!"

You stop dead in your tracks, huffing once before slowly turning around. There, in all his glory, was the one driver you would pay to see not stand on the podium for once. The usual glint was in his eyes, blonde hair a mess. One hand was holding his helmet and the other was holding the water bottle whose straw was still in his mouth. He smirked at your rough appearance, quickly catching the way your nostrils flared and the fists you held by your sides.

"Gonna visit George?" He asks. No reply from you. This only stirs him even more.

"Nonverbal today? Interesting," he clicks his tongue, a grin appearing on his face. "See you next week then, Albon. Hope you find the courage to talk by then. Kinda missed it."

He turns on his heel, continuing his trek towards god knows where.

"What an ass," you mutter under your breath, walking away from the scene of the crime and heading into the Mercedes motorhome.

"What an ass!"

You were stood up from your seat, headphones still in as everyone around you gasps and groans at the screens. Max and George had just crashed into each other and it wasn't a cute scene. Both leading cars were now in the wall and neither drivers were happy.

George was ahead when it happened, Max right behind him. The Brit had gained a place while the Dutch was sent to pit— an effective undercut on Red Bull's part. What wasn't effective was the crazy lunge Max did when they both rounded turn 1. It was a ballsy move but there was no intention of making that corner. Next thing they know, they're both nose first into the wall.

The two drivers were furious and everyone could tell. They didn't even look at each other as they got out from their cars. Hell, they even went the opposite directions in heading back to the pit lane.

You were even more furious. You knew Max was stupid but to try and pull a move like that? He knew he couldn't make it.

So here you were, barging into navy blue and energy drinks territory with a crazed look on your face. You don't know if people didn't notice you or they did but just didn't care. All you know is that now you were in a room with a red-faced Dutch who had a ticking time bomb strapped to his body.

"You bitch! You knew you couldn't make that corner!" You stop in front of him. Max was sitting on the makeshift bed in his driver room, a towel around his neck. His hair was disheveled, suit pulled down revealing the navy blue fireproofs he wore underneath. His eyes carried a tidal wave in them— dark blue, cold, looming over like you would drown once it snapped and came down.

He placed his water bottle down, eyes narrowing ever-so-slightly before standing up. He didn't tower over you, god bless the Albon genes, but he was tall enough that you had to look up. And for some reason, you felt small.

"Did you even see what happened?" His voice mirrored his gaze— cold, quick, deep. "Or are you too high up the Russell praise train to not notice that he fucked up first."

The fire in you burned brighter, the fire in your eyes matching the ice in his. "Don't you dare put this on him. You were the stupid one."

Max could only scoff at this, a smirk on his face. "Y/N, I was stupid. But he was reckless."

He could tell from the look on your face that you wouldn't back down— wouldn't even blink at the raging possibility that maybe George was at fault too. So he grabbed you by the wrist and dragged you outside to where the screens were. You were too shocked at his quick movements to realize the contact, eyes growing wide when you notice the Red Bull mechanics who definitely saw you now.

"Watch." Max's voice brings you back to reality, your eyes going to the screen in front of you that showed the replay of what had happened before their crash. You scoff at this, arms crossing over your chest.

"Are you about to mansplain Formula 1 to me, Verstappen?" You look over at him with a smug expression on your face, eyebrow quirked in question. His face remains stoic, eyes still on the screen.

"You know this stuff as well as I do. You tell me."

You look back at the footage, shaking your head in disbelief. You were about to yawn from what you thought you had already seen, until the camera pans to another angle that shows the crash up close.

What you thought was Max being idiotic was actually Max merely responding to what George had left on the table. The Mercedes driver defends for the position like crazy, so much so that he brakes late into turn 1— illegal and egoistic. Max simply takes the move and lunges from where he is at. It was a race of egos— no one lifted.

You could only blink at the screen as it continues to replay the moment like a ghost who's mission is to torment your life. What was even worse was that you were wrong and Max Verstappen was right beside you with a stupid smirk on his face that you wish had left with the car he broke.

"Moving under braking, Y/N. Real smooth that one," he shakes his head as he chuckles sarcastically, tilting his head to look at you. "Cat got your tongue?"

You turn to look at him, sending him a hard glare before stomping your way out of there. Admitting to Max that he was right was one thing. In front of his own team? Even worse.

"That's even worse!"

You were sitting in the McLaren hospitality, wanting nothing to do with any team that would remind you of the embarrassing encounter you had with Max last week. Until of course, you decided to tell Lando about what happened. Safe to say you wouldn't be back at the papaya home anytime soon either.

While Alex was your real older brother and you regarded George as one as well, Lando was more of your annoying twin brother who you couldn't get rid of no matter how hard you tried. Because the both of you were the same age, you would always find yourself talking to him whenever the trio would get together. You had your fair share of inside jokes with the man, and this was an added one.

"God, please don't remind me," you groan, head falling to your hands. You could hear Lando's giggles echo throughout the empty driver room, his TV playing a random race replay in the background.

"Mate, George has been doing all this illegal shit," he starts. "It's about time someone bursts your bubble."

You look up at this, eyes narrowing at the curly-headed driver. "Are you saying I shouldn't defend George?"

Lando puts his hands up in mock surrender, eyebrows raised. "Hey, I didn't say that. I just meant... maybe you should start looking at this stuff from a bigger picture."

You hate to admit it, but Lando was right. Ever since the interaction with Max, you couldn't help but go to bed every night wondering if you were jumping the gun. If George isn't mad then maybe you shouldn't be pumped up as much either.

Lando left to get ready for the sprint race ahead and you followed suit. As you walk past all the bustling hospitalities, you rub shoulders with the man of your nightmares. A small smirk appears on his face again, stupid eyes lighting up with a glint. "You still on the Russell parade, mini?"

Your eyes twitch at the nickname, holding your chin up. "Why do you ask? Want me to switch to yours?"

He chuckles at this, adjusting the hat on his head. "Cute. Don't cause a fuss after the sprint, now. Wouldn't wanna prove you wrong again."

You roll your eyes at this, walking away. You promised yourself you'd lie low, stay quiet, especially after last week. And that's exactly what you did. Until shit hit the fan again.

The sky was already gloomy to begin with, dark clouds casting over the circuit despite it still being early in the afternoon. The sprint started like it usually would, engines roaring, fans shouting, engineers yelling. But by Lap 4, the rain poured like a madman.

Cars started swerving, people started retiring— it wasn't worth it to hold out this long, not when qualifying and the actual race were on the line.

The FIA being the FIA kept the race going, deeming the thunder above a sign that it was still "raceable" despite the track being halfway turned into a swimming pool. Of course, the top teams being who they were raced like pride and ego was on the line.

And that's when it happens. Red flag and the same damn Red Bull and Mercedes stuck in the gravel just like how it was last week.

It wasn't until Charles almost spun on debris when race control finally called the whole race off early. You were a thunderstorm— furious, raging, quick. Because just as soon as it had happened, you found yourself back at the garage of navy blue again.

"This was your fault," you barge into his driver's room again, eyes narrow and ablaze. The Dutchman turns to look at you, eyes the same icy cold blue that it normally was, and scoffs. "Word moves fast."

"Don't fuck with me, golden boy. This one was on you." You point a finger at him, stable, angry, confident. You were right this time, you know it.

Max puts his hands up in mock surrender, eyes carrying a certain glint you had never seen before. "Fine. Caught me. I squeezed him off the track. I admit it."

You were almost taken aback at the confession, lowering your accusatory finger. "What?"

"But," Max starts, taking a step closer towards you. "He kept his foot on the pedal. Mate thought that wet grass was the perfect time to go full Senna."

You step back, mouth slightly agape. He was right. You saw it happen. You scolded George in your head when it did— he tried to overtake Max on the outside where there was barely any grip. And on a track that was practically a puddle? He had to have known it wouldn't work.

Suddenly the air around you felt hot and you felt your knees about to give out. No way was this happening. No way were you admitting that Max Verstappen was right.

Your eyebrows were still furrowed, eyes narrowed, and jaw clenched. You leaned forward, practically inches away from his face.

"I hate you," you spat, turning on your heel.

"You only hate me 'cause I'm right. You know I'm right." You couldn't see him, but you could hear the smile on his face. Envision the way his lips were upturned into that stupid smirk you so badly wanted to slap off.

But as you walked back toward the Williams motorhome, your couldn't wipe off the burning feeling in your chest. It was rage alright, but something else was lingering— waiting to be let out. The feeling went away though as you spot the other half of the problem outside his own motorhome, talking with his Team Principal about what had happened.

You sigh in relief as you get closer, noticing that he wasn't injured.

"That was stupid, George."

"He didn't leave a space! I did what I could."

Toto sighed at this, a hand going up to rub the bridge of his nose. "Fine. But don't do this again. It cost you the race. You were in good pace."

George nods at this, earning a fatherly pat on the shoulder from the team principal. As Toto walks away, the Brit notices you standing off to the side. A soft smile appears on his face, urging you to sit next to him. "Twice in a row I haven't finished a race. I'm a clean guy but I might start raising my voice if this happens next week."

You chuckle at his posh violence. George wasn't the type to get physical, he would hash it out verbally and fire deep cuts that run through your soul— complete opposite of the raging lion back at Red Bull.

He runs a hand through his hair, sighing in exhaustion. "He could've just let me through. I can't believe that is our four-time world champ."

Normally you would back George up, mumble an 'amen' and add more whispered insults to drag Max's name, but for some reason you held back this time. You don't know if George noticed, but you felt your eye twitch slightly at his words.

Silence falls between the two of you. It was deafening. The usual banter you would have engaged in by now was nowhere to be found. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out— not an insult, not a funny metaphor, not a useless threat.

The older Brit looks up at you, a hint of worry in his face. "You okay, mini? You haven't said much."

You take a deep breath, opening your mouth to say some snarky comment so your misery would be over. Instead you say, "You never should've been there."

George twitches at this, eyebrows slightly furrowing. He sits up, blue eyes piercing into your. "What?"

You mirror his stance, gaze wandering elsewhere as you explain your point. "Sure, Max squeezed you too wide but... you tried to do the impossible in the wet."

George pauses at this, face stoic and eyes narrow. "Are you defending him?"

Your eyes grow wide at the accusation, snapping to look at the Mercedes driver who sat in front of you. You start shaking your head frantically. "No! What? Absolutely not."

George continues to look at you with the same expression. Unconvinced.

"I'm just saying... maybe don't go full Senna next time."

And that was when you knew you fucked up.

You were an F1 fan sure, but you didn't start getting into the sport once your brother was placed in it in 2019. Your knowledge of the motorsport only dated back to when Lewis Hamilton won his first championship in 2008, any hall-of-famers prior to that era you knew but weren't the most knowledgeable on. So an Ayrton Senna reference, especially when the oldest lore you knew was Crashgate, was a head-turner. And George— sweet, older brother George— definitely wouldn't be fooled.

"Full Senna?" He was intrigued, perking up at the name. "Where'd you get that from?"

Your eyes feel like they're about to pop out of their sockets. You start fiddling with your hands, not being able to maintain eye contact with George. "Just... heard it somewhere. No big deal."

He was still unconvinced but slowly nodded his head. You, on the other hand, were short-circuiting internally. You excused yourself from George, hastily walking towards the Williams motorhome so you could hide in Alex's driver room until you had to leave.

"Fuck this. What am I doing?"

"Fuck that! What's he doing?!"

That was the first thing you heard when you stepped out from Alex's driver room. George's voice echoed through the televisions that showcased the live broadcast. You hurry over to get a view as to what the fuss could be and lo and behold, the two paddock idiots had done it again.

After the back-to-back DNF's, both drivers actually stayed out of each other's hair for an entire month of races. Four weeks, not too bad. This gave you enough time to cool off and rethink the defenses you had made for George. At least, that's what you thought.

Those four weeks were the most draining weeks of your life. You were up every night rethinking every single crash, every single DNF, every single fight that you had stood first line of defense for for driver 63. You wondered if your anger was unnecessary, if you were acting out of pure emotion, if you were merely going with it because you hated being wrong.

And then when you consulted Lando about it, the only thing he gathered after an hour of ranting about how you felt, was: "Maybe it's because he's the only person who looks at you differently in the paddock."

You had frozen over the phone, eyebrows furrowing. "What?"

"He's the only one who doesn't call you 'mini', right? Despite being each other's arch-nemesis."

For the first time in a long time, Lando Norris was right.

Mini was a nickname that the grid gave to you when you first entered the paddock with Alex. The nickname simply meant a mini Albon, and unfortunately that's what everyone saw you as— just Alex's little sister. When you started defending George like a madman, the title changed to George's fiery non-biological younger sister.

You were always babied growing up, especially with Alex and George watching out for you. Hell, even when you and Lando were the same age, you were the one with the paddock princess title. You hated it.

Max only referred to your nickname twice. The second time he did, you called him out for it and he immediately backed off— hasn't said it ever since.

You thought he was just being an ass. Had worse things to call you or even deemed it insulting to Alex that you were related. It took you until now to realize that he never overstepped that boundary, even if it was a clear shot to the heart.

Then you remember the first time you stomped into the Red Bull garage— the day your perspective on George changed. When he dragged you to the replay, he didn't explain it for you, in fact he knew that you would get it with your own knowledge. He respected you, even when you were at each other's throats.

"You know this stuff as much as I do. You tell me."

You thought he was being condescending, talking down on you. But no, he was challenging you— respecting your brain, your take, your insight.

It all comes crashing down like a cold tide— Max Verstappen saw you for you, and that scared the living hell out of you.

So when Max and George had another tiff during qualifying, you stayed in your seat. You kept your focus on your brother, not bothering to get the details as to how they could have possibly fucked each other up during a pre-race.

You hear the familiar echo of footsteps walk through the motorhomes, not having to look up to know that Max was walking by. But when he looks at you, you don't look back. You could feel eyes digging into your side and it took everything in you not to look, not to spark another flame, not to glare at him as if your insides weren't turning to mush just at the thought of him.

Unbeknownst to you, the smirk on Max's face faltered. He blinked comically, mouth slightly agape, eyebrows furrowing. Where was the snarky comeback? The glare you normally shared even between five motorhomes?

When Alex walks back into the garage, you go up to him and give him a big hug. "P10! That's amazing, Alex."

He stammers slightly, arms slowly going to wrap around you. When you both pull back you notice a confused look on his face. You mimic his expression, "What?"

"You're not gonna do anything about what happened out there?" Your face falls into a deadpan expression.

"Do you want me to?"

Alex immediately straightens up at this, furiously shaking his head. "Please no."

You shake your head in disbelief, patting your brother on the shoulder one last time before making your way out of the Williams hospitality. As you do so, you come across Carlos and also give him a hug, congratulating him for the P6 he garnered right behind Alex.

You were all smiles and hugs, making your way down the motorhomes and congratulating anyone you came across regardless if they had scored points or not. And then Max is beside you. You don't know where he came from, just appeared like a gust of wind.

You turn to look at him, a blank expression on your face. "Not interested in your bullshit, Max."

You didn't fail to notice how his eyebrows were slightly furrowed, how his usual smirk didn't rest on his lips. Instead, he slightly tilts his head. "You okay?"

This makes you stop in your tracks, "What?"

Max looks around as if you weren't talking to him, closing the gap between the both of you with one step. "Are you okay?"

Your eyes bore into his. And for the first time, the looming tidal wave you usually saw was still. His eyes were like the soft waves by the seashore, warm and gentle. You look between them, blinking at his question.

"I'm fine." You swiftly move out of the way, walking as fast as you could towards the Mercedes motorhome. Max just stands there, watching your retreating figure walk into silver territory.

When you reach the George's driver room, you see him sat on the floor, head in his hands. You smile gently, an empathetic look on your face.

"Saw your laps. Unfortunate you got P8." You close the door behind you, sitting on the makeshift bed. George scoffed in reply.

"Yeah well, my prep lap was fucked 'cause Max backed up on me. I mean, what the hell was he thinking?!"

You nod at his outburst, remembering the terrible qualifying session for both drivers. "Max was petty."

"Thank you! He was!"

"But," you start. "That was crazy that you didn't get out of the way."

George snaps his head to look at you, towel dropping from his hand. "He wrecked my lap on purpose. How was I supposed to know?"

"He was on a flying lap, George. Plus, there's a reason you have side-mirrors on the car."

It was silent for a beat. You were nervous as hell. You were sure that George was already suspicious from that Senna reference you made a while back, then this? Even Alex called you up afterwards to question it.

"Who's side are you on?" George breaks the quiet. The fire inside of you started burning. You continued to stare at the ground, afraid that one look at the Brit would only add fuel.

"There are no sides here, George. I know what I saw. You fucked his lap, he fucks yours. Don't you think that makes a little sense?"

The silence was deafening but made you mad. Was he always like this? Did he always assume you'd die on this hill?

"You got that Senna reference from him, didn't you? He told you that?"

You look at George, fists clenched by your lap. "Does it matter?"

You stood up and turn on your heel. You walk out of that room before George could even get up himself and walk as fast as you can back to safety. You couldn't breathe in there, it felt like you would suffocate from the silence, the rage, the emotions.

As you reach the Williams hospitality, you fall straight into the arms of your older brother, the one person you knew could somehow immaculately fix all your wounds even if they were phantom. Alex embraces you with open arms, worried of course, but not probing. And you talk when you're ready. Talk about how heavy your mind was from babysitting an idiot. Talk about how Max left an impression on your being.

And it was in that moment, with you crying to your older brother, that you realized that you probably liked Max Verstappen. And that shattered your whole world.

Alex didn't bring it up. Didn't bring up your deep-rooted attachment to Max Verstappen. Didn't bring up your exhaustion caused by George Russell. Didn't bring up that you were cornered off in the Williams garage post-race instead of out and about. And you liked your brother because of that.

You were already suffocating, you didn't want your head to be held underwater as well.

You had already talked to George about it. You weren't going to fight his battles anymore, you weren't going to take the hit for something you didn't do, and you definitely weren't going to defend him for every stupid mistake he starts anymore.

You think it's stupid that it took you this long to realize that this was what Alex had been talking about all along— objectivity. Now you realize why Alex never jumped on the Russell train as quickly as you would even if they were both close as brothers.

A whole two months had passed. Two months of being there for Alex, two months of staying put, two months of sheer bliss. The first crashed that happened within those months, everyone turned to you— the media, the fans, the team. It sparked a flame but it never lit.

Then it happened again.

Big race, big crash. It was stupid, bad, unnecessary. Max and George walked out of it fine, but their cars and their leads were wrecked. One thing led to another and now the two were getting into it post-race— heated words, passive-aggressive jabs, snarky remarks. It carried on for a month. An entire month of endless banter, useless threats, snide comments. An entire month of everyone looking at you, expecting you to make a move. And that struck the match.

You hated it. Hated how everyone would look at you when you passed the paddock. Hated how everyone asked you what you had to say about it. Hated how the first thing you find online about yourself is the crash. You were still in the middle of it.

They both had a moment in the sprint race again. Touching tires like their life would end if a race finished clean. And once again, the paddock was buzzing and the world looked at you.

You had had enough. If George wasn't gonna say anything to make people shut up, you would.

You stormed off from your spot in the Williams motorhome, and you found yourself busting through the doors of Mercedes. You find George surrounded by the PR team, calmly spinning a narrative while the fuse inside of you only burns shorter.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Everyone looks up. Poor Kimi goes still. George blinks like he wasn't expecting you.

"I'm doing media, we can talk la—"

"No, we're talking now."

You were a rage of fury. "I told you I wasn't going to defend you anymore. I told you to sort your shit out with Max yourself. And here we are again. A mess of pride and ego."

George frowns, "Why are you coming at me? He's the one that turned into me. He's the one that doesn't give space—"

"You know exactly how he drives and you still divebombed him like you're in a videogame!"

George opens his mouth to speak, but you don't let him.

"You don't even have the decency to tell people to stay out of my business. Everyone is still waiting for me to clean up your mess! To play peacemaker! To babysit the two idiots who would rather die than have a clean race!"

Your breathing starts getting shaky, head burning from all the eyes that were staring at you. "You treat me like I'm your little sister, like I need to be protected, but all I've ever done is protect you."

George's expression falters. "I'm exhausted, George. Please. The least you could do is tell everyone to fuck off."

You step back, catching your breath, before turning on your heel and storming out before anyone could say anything.

You find yourself behind the paddock. Sitting on a curb, head in your hands, sobbing with a rage you couldn't even describe. Your mind swarmed with a million things and your chest felt like it was split open. And of course—

"Are you okay?"

You look up. Eyes red, emotions raw, heart spilled on the floor. The Dutch makes the move to sit beside you, a worried expression cast on his face.

You scoff shakily, "Don't pretend like you care."

"I'm not pretending."

You laugh once. Dry.

He asks again, "Are you okay?"

You sigh at his question, wiping your eyes. You stand up slowly. Too tired to yell. Too tired to fake it.

"Why are you the one who gets it? Why are you always the first one to ask if I'm okay?" You start, turning to look at him. "I was supposed to hate you, Max."

He doesn't smile, doesn't smirk. Just stands up right in front of you.

"Then hate me. But stop lying to yourself— stop hurting yourself. Not anymore."

Beat. The weight between them shifts.

"Why do you make it sound so easy?" Your voice cracks, eyes darting back and forth between his.

"Because when I look at you, I don't see Alex's sister or George's damage control, I see a fire."

She blinks. And all of a sudden, he put her heart back where it belonged. And this time, it wasn't shattered.

"And I'd rather burn in it than hide from it."

You don’t breathe. Not for a second. Not when the words settle over you, not when his eyes don’t flinch. The wind picks up behind you, but you don’t feel it. All you feel is the heat in your chest, the ache behind your ribs, and the way he’s looking at you like you’re real. Like you’re more than a title, more than what everyone decided you’d be.

You take one step forward.

He doesn’t move.

"Then don't hide."

Max’s jaw tenses, like he’s restraining himself. Like he’s waiting for permission. "You're killing me."

You smirk at this, the light coming back from beneath your eyes. The banter coming back to you like it never left. Your hand delicately lands on the back of his neck and you pull him forward, just inches away from your mouth. "Good. Maybe you'll finally shut up."

He surges forward, mouth finding yours. It’s not delicate. It’s not patient. It’s desperate, starved, all teeth and fury and years of swallowed words. You kiss him like you’re trying to erase every fight, every snide comment, every time you said you hated him but didn’t mean it.

And he kisses you like he knew. Like he always knew.

His hands come up fast—one to your cheek, the other gripping your waist like he needs to anchor himself—and he kisses you back just as hard. No hesitation. No second-guessing.

For once, you’re not thinking. Not about George. Not about Alex. Not about the paddock or the cameras or the fact that this is so, so messy.

You’re thinking about how he’s the only one who’s ever met the real you. And for the first time in a long time—you let yourself feel it.

When you finally break apart, gasping, he rests his forehead on yours.

"You have no idea how long I've been wanting to do that." His voice was low, deep, a wreck. And you could only smile in return.

"Neither did I."

Max exhales a stunned, breathless laugh— because of course this is how it happens. Of course the kiss feels like war and peace all at once.

"Guess this means you're not the enemy anymore."

Max pulls away to look at your face, a big smile still etched in it.

"I never was."

It happens almost too casually for something this monumental.

Alex is leaning against the motorhome wall, sipping a water bottle and scrolling through his phone, when he hears familiar voices rounding the corner. He doesn’t think much of it, until he catches a low laugh that definitely doesn't belong to George or Lando.

That laugh is Max's. And you're answering it with something soft, something warm. Not your usual exasperated sigh, not the sharp defense of George— this is different.

Curious, Alex glances up just in time to see Max walking beside you, a hand brushing yours before you swat it away playfully. But it’s the look on your face that stops him cold: you're beaming. Not performing, not posturing— just effortlessly, unconsciously happy.

And then Max glances your way like you're the only person in the world worth looking at. Alex has seen that look before— in movies, in stories. Never aimed at his sister— never like this.

You notice him before Max does. Your eyes widen, cheeks flush, and your step falters just slightly. Max, ever oblivious, keeps talking until you mutters his name in warning and nudge him. He follows your gaze, and Alex watches as it dawns on him: you've been caught.

Alex just raises a brow. "So... is this where I give the protective older brother speech?"

Max pales a little. You just groan in response.

But Alex just laughs— warm and full, not a hint of menace behind it. He walks over, pulling you into a one-armed hug and presses a kiss to the side of your head.

“About damn time,” he says quietly, so only you could hear it. “I was starting to think no one would ever get you out of your own head.”

Then, to Max, with a wry grin, “Don’t make me regret this, yeah?”

Max nods, the tension in his shoulders finally easing.

Alex gives you one last look— not questioning, not protective— just proud.

“You look happy,” he says simply. “That’s all I care about.”

And you are. For the first time in a long time, you really, truly are.

The paddock was unusually quiet that afternoon, the kind of quiet that made George uneasy. No on-track chaos, no media blow-ups, and—most suspicious of all—no fiery rants from you. That alone should’ve tipped him off.

He pushed open the Williams motorhome door, expecting to find you with Alex or Lando, maybe ranting about tire strategy or laughing over some old karting story. Instead, the air shifted the second he walked in.

You were on Max Verstappen’s lap. Laughing.

Max had one arm lazily slung around your waist, and you looked at ease in a way George had never seen before. Not in the paddock. Not with anyone.

The silence cracked like thunder.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” George said, his voice low but sharp, slicing through the air like a whip.

You jolt upright, guilt flashing across your face. Max didn’t flinch, only tightened his hold slightly, like he had no intention of pretending this was something it wasn’t.

George’s gaze darted between you two, disbelieving. “This has to be a joke. You’re messing with me, right?”

“It’s not a joke, George,” you said quietly, stepping away from Max but not by much.

His jaw tightened. “So what, you’re with him now? The guy who’s made my life hell for years? The guy you swore you’d never defend?”

Max tilted his head, calm and irritating. “That was your doing, Russell.”

“Shut it.”

“Make me.”

“Max.” Your voice snapped and he stopped instantly. You turned back to George, heart thudding. “Look, I didn’t plan this, okay? It just happened. And for once, I’m not apologizing for something that makes me happy.”

George laughed bitterly. “Right. So you’re just tossing away everything for him? Years of loyalty—for what?”

Your fists clenched.

“Loyalty?” you echoed, voice rising. “You mean babysitting you every time you lost a race? Picking up the pieces after every feud you had with Max? It was fine the first time, but you got used to it. Used to lying back and watching me handle your shit."

His mouth parted slightly. You didn’t stop.

“I’ve been your therapist, your attack dog, your emotional crutch. I’ve been the girl no one takes seriously because I’ve always just belonged to someone else.”

You stepped forward, eyes burning.

“Max sees me. Not as your apologist. Not as Alex’s sister. He sees me. And deep down?” Your voice softened, trembling now. “I needed that more than I realized.”

Silence swallowed the room. For the first time in a long time, George had no comeback.

He looked at you, really looked at you, and saw it. The quiet strength in your shoulders, the steadiness in you eyes. And Max— damn him—hadn’t let go of your hand once.

George swallowed thickly. “You really like him?”

You nod.

He looked away, then back at Max. Their eyes locked. It was tense, taut, but something unspoken passed between them. A truce. Maybe not friendship— but something.

“If he hurts you,” George muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’ll drive my front wing through his car.”

Max, to his credit, just smirked. “Fair. But I won’t.”

George exhaled, already regretting every part of this moment. “Fine,” he muttered, turning toward the door. “But I’m never talking to either of you about feelings. Ever.”

You laughed, soft and teary. “Deal.”

He paused in the doorway. “Does Alex know?”

“Everyone knows.”

George groaned. “I hate this paddock.”

And with that, he left— slamming the door a little too hard on his way out.

[moonstruckme]

request: was thinking about that one video that’s like “my wife, she’ll get upset if she sees you touching me like that on my chest” “i am your wife” and then the heart monitor starts going crazy and that put a doctor remus idea in my head after r gets out of surgery/is on anesthesia for something or other

Thanks for requesting!

cw: hospital, mention of surgery

doctor!Remus x fem!reader ♡ 855 words

Lots of people would probably be happy to have their significant other visit them at work, but as it turns out, Remus really doesn’t like it. He’s used to seeing patients post-op, and yet somehow when it’s you it feels sad, all those tubes and wires connected to his girl. The fluorescent lighting turns your complexion wan and the wary frown on your lips as a nurse checks your vitals makes Remus’ heart feel like a bruise. 

It helps some when you notice his entry and they stretch into a dopey smile instead. 

“Hi, dove.” His voice is soft and smitten, an automatic reaction to seeing you that he’s already heard the new residents commenting on in the break room. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’m okay.” You tug at the sheets on your bed. Ball them in your fists like you might be nervous. “My stomach hurts a little.” 

“That’s normal,” Remus assures you, even as his stomach dips in sympathy. He sits on the edge of your bed, taking your hand and beginning to draw tight circles into the inside of your wrist. “If it starts to hurt worse, or badly at all, you should let me know, alright?” 

“Okay.” Your voice has quieted slightly, your eyes following the motion of his thumb on your skin. You glance at the nurse as though checking if she sees. Remus feels his lips tip up bemusedly. 

“Everything alright?” he asks the nurse.

She smiles at the both of you, passing him a clipboard. “She’s stable, ready to move when you’d like.” 

“Thanks,” he says, reading over your vitals quickly after she leaves. He sets the clipboard down and gives your hand a squeeze. If your heart monitor gives a quick beep, he pretends not to notice. “You’re all set, lovely girl. We’ll get you to your own room in just a bit.” 

You nod, not seeming to hear him. You look to be gnawing on the inside of your lip. 

“Hey, don’t do that,” Remus says gently, thumbing it free. Your eyes widen, and he drops his thumb to your chin, looking you in the eyes. “Is something the matter?”

You rub your lips together hesitantly. It’s normal to have a small fever after surgery, but your face feels suspiciously warm. “I just, um, I have a boyfriend.” 

Remus feels his face split into an irrepressible grin. He’d been wondering how the anesthesia would affect you. “Yeah, dove,” he agrees, delighted, “I know you do.” 

“I don’t…” Your eyes dart to where his thumb still rests on your chin, your shoulders gravitating towards your ears. “I think it would upset him if he knew you were touching me like this.” 

Truly, this could not be any better. Remus wishes he’d brought a video camera like James wanted him to. “I am your boyfriend, sweetheart.” 

Your expression freezes in place, but your heart monitor starts beeping loudly. Your eyes dart to it, alarm and embarrassment worsening, and Remus laughs, dropping his hand from your chin in favor of rubbing your shoulder until both you and the machine calm down. 

“You?” you ask. You appear nothing short of flabbergasted. 

“Yes.” He brings your hand to his smiling lips, kissing your knuckles as if to prove it. “Why, are you surprised?” 

“You’re serious,” you check. Remus has the opportunity to make a joke here, but he worries it’d only confuse you more. 

“I am,” he says. 

“But you’re so handsome.”

Another laugh startles out of him. “And what do you think you are? Of course,” he gives your knuckles another brief peck just to see your eyes flare again, “I would love you no matter how you looked, but you’re a far cry from hideous yourself.” 

You look taken aback by this news as well. Remus is half tempted to find you a mirror. 

Then you ask, voice soft as down feathers, “You love me?” 

Something in Remus’ chest goes all warm and mushy. “I do,” he says sincerely. “I love you so much, sweetheart, sometimes I don’t know what to do with it all.” 

You smile until your eyelashes kiss, and he can’t resist cupping your face again, smoothing his thumb along the skin of your cheek. 

“So that’s why you’re here?” you ask. 

“Well,” he hesitates, “yes, but I’m also here because I work here.” 

Your eyebrows raise. Your gaze dips to his white coat as if remembering it for the first time in a while. “Oh. You’re a doctor and my boyfriend?” 

“That’s right.” He squints at you amusedly. “Did you think I just snuck in here in a white coat so I could see you?” 

“My boyfriend is a doctor.” You don’t seem to be talking to anyone in particular, perhaps just asking the universe for confirmation. 

Remus decides to get back to business. “Right again, dove. I think it’s about time we get you to your room, yeah? Anything else I can do for you, anything you need?” 

“Nope.” You lay your head back on the pillow, looking somehow more dazed than when he’d come in. “I think I’m set. Like, probably for life.”