#i even have a course in university for it

[smileysuh]

no face

🌙 starring. Jeon Wonwoo x afab!Reader 

🔮 preview. Wonwoo is even more gorgeous than you’d ever imagined the anonymous No Face being, and this time, when you close your eyes to listen to the cam boy moan, you imagine your history partner above you, his hand down your pants as he rubs you closer and closer to the edge. 

tw/cw. Unprotected sex, mutual masterbation, mention of cam shows/watching cam shows, extreme dirty talk, alter ago dom cam boy Wonwoo, pussy eating oral, multiple reader orgasms, overstimulation, praise, encouragement, multiple sex scenes, fingering, body/breast worship, etc… I pet names: (hers) baby.

👹 rating.18+ explicit I wc. 7.6k 

🍭 aus. Svt cam boy au, frat au, university au, etc…

☀️ mlist + an. This is part 1 of a 3 part cam boy svt au. Each story can be read as a stand alone, but exists within the same universe :) Wonwoo is April, Seungcheol is May, and Mingyu will be in June. As soon as all 3 are up, a masterlist will be created, which will then be linked here. 

Prologue:

You never thought you’d be the type of girl to enjoy watching men get off through a computer. But then someone had recommended a cam boy to you, and one video had hooked you unlike anything else.

Being in university isn’t easy. It’s stress on stress on more stress and then a little bit extra stress just to round things out- and sometimes, a girl just has to get her rocks off without worries.

To you, cam boy No Face is the perfect distraction.

This faceless man, who usually films from the shoulders down. There’s something so specific and endearing about him. His pretty veiny hands, forearms showed off by black compression shirts with the sleeves rolled up-

His sounds are also like heaven, and sometimes you close your eyes and just listen to him, imagining he’s the one getting you off.

People talk about the dangers of porn, but fuck it, being a tad addicted to No Face is your own kind of dark chocolate and red wine, and no one is going to make you feel bad about needing an outlet for your pent up sexual energy.

He’s a gamer too, a faceless one the likes of Corpse Husband and Dream (before the face reveal of course), and you love the fact that he’s multidimensional.

When you’re studying, his gaming streams are in the background, and when you’re done studying and ready to reward yourself, it’s straight to his OnlyFans.

Recently, he’s taken to wearing a neon blue accented purge face mask, and you love the way his dark curls obscure around the plastic.

He’s a handsome man, you can just feel it in your bones, and you can feel your orgasm roll through every inch of your entire body every time you cum with the help of No Face.

One:

History classes can be a bit of a bore at times, and as someone of a recluse, you don’t get the joy of friendly chats with other girlies. No, history is your solitary work load, which is why you’re dreading the group project that’s being set up today.

The teacher gives students the benefit of choosing their own partners. This isn’t high school, and your professor knows most people already have connections that work well for this sort of thing… most people. 

You look around as people pair up, and you feel like there’s a frog in your throat. You don’t have it within you to make that leap, to ask someone to be your partner-

Which is when you notice the other antisocial person who sits at the back of the class. He’s handsome, with an angular bone structure. You’ve never once seen him smile, and that mirrored recluse nature throws you off a bit. 

To make matters worse, he has dark curly hair, just like your No Face, and everytime you look at him, your mind conjures up whispered words of encouragement to throw you over the edge, and your panties get wet in history, which is a very inopportune time to be getting horny if you’re honest with yourself.

His eyes meet yours, and you immediately look away, but you can sense him standing up to talk to you.

“Do you have a partner?” he asks.

“Uh… not really.”

“Me neither.”

There’s an xawkward silence for a moment, and then you release a sigh, looking up at him. “So… should we do the project together.”

“Guess that makes sense.” He nods.

You tell him your name, and he introduces himself as Jeon Wonwoo. You exchange details and as he speaks, there’s something even more familiar about him, but you brush it off. 

“So… when are you free?” Wonwoo asks, pulling you out of your daze.

“I could do the library after my last class ends, let’s say four oclock?”

“I’ll see you there.” 

Two:

Wonwoo is easy enough to work with. He’s not very opinionated, and he has let you choose what topic you wanted to work on for your project. Now, the two of you are getting preliminary readings out of the way, looking into the online research that would provide the backbone of your argument for the essay portion.

You find yourself looking at him very frequently, after all, he’s a striking man, and you’re a horny girl who has been so busy doing university courses that you haven’t had the time to get laid in forever.

Your gaze dips, and you stare at his hands as he toys with his pencil. It must be some sort of anxiety calming repetitive behaviour, the way he flicks it, traces his thumb and pointer down the wood, then flicks it again.

As you’re looking at him, you notice the details of his fingers.

Although No Face’s cock is significantly - significantly - bigger than this tiny pencil, the phalic shape is the same. You’ve watched so many No Face videos, and Wonwoo’s fingers are undeniably the same as your favourite cam boy’s. 

You feel like you’ve choked on air, and you look up at Wonwoo, imagining him with that neon blue purge mask.

He’s got the dark hair, the curls- he’s even wearing a black compression shirt today.

“Holy shit,” you whisper, drawing his attention immediately.

“Hmm?”

“Nothing, fuck, uh-” You look away, feeling your skin heat with embarrassment. “It’s just hot in here.”

Wonwoo simply gazes at you, and you find yourself standing up. 

“I’m just going to pop outside for some air,” you tell him, not even waiting for a response as you grab your phone and dart away.

It’s only once you’re under the blue sky, feeling the cool air against your skin, that you’re able to take a moment.

You’re in a group project with your favourite gamer boy OnlyFans model, and you’re going to have to pretend as if you haven’t cum to his videos countless times.

If this is how you’re going to react every time he’s around - skin heating, heart racing, hands getting clammy - well, you’re in deep shit. 

Three:

“No, I swear to God, Tina, my history project partner is No Face!”

Your friend is silent for a moment, simply watching you. “But like… how sure?”

“Tina!” You narrow your eyes at her with exasperation. “You know I watch him religiously!”

Tina nods. “I mean… there are rumours that some of the Sigma Veta Tau frat guys are into the whole cam thing, some of the sororities too.”

“Rumours?”

“Nothing confirmed, obviously, if any of them are in on that whole OnlyFans world, they’re smart enough to not show their faces.” Tina releases a sigh. “There’s a frat party tomorrow at SVT actually, maybe… we should go and I can see Wonwoo for myself.”

“Okay, but! Tina, I’m calling dibs.”

“You can’t call dibs! I showed him to you!” Tina argues.

“This isn’t time for girl code or anything else, I know you watch multiple streamers- No Face is the only one I watch, no one else has ever interested me. And I’m the one who made the connection! Tina, for real. Please.”

She releases a deep groan. “Fuck it. Fine. I guess. But if he hits on me, I’m going for it.”

“I guess you’re wearing a full sweater and showing no skin at the party tomorrow then.”

Four: 

Wonwoo’s shocked to see you at his frat for a party. From being in classes with you for the first part of term, he’s pegged you as a shy and quiet type, much like himself. All month, he’s never seen you speak to anyone. You show up, take your seat at the very back of the room, and don’t open your mouth for anything.

Luckily for Wonwoo, he’s into the shy and quiet type. While his best friends are loud and boisterous, he could never see himself with a party girl, which is why he doesn’t have much of a social battery for being at his frat parties for longer than absolutely necessary. 

Mingyu - the aforementioned loud and boisterous best friend - is next to Wonwoo, and Wonwoo can feel his gaze.

“Are you checking out that girl?” Mingyu asks.

“I have a class project with her,” Wonwoo responds casually, sipping his beer.

“She’s cute.”

Wonwoo simply shrugs, not wanting to divulge too deeply into his interest of you just yet. He’s a careful type, and with his scandalous online alter ego, he has to be.

“You should go get her a drink,” Mingyu continues.

“She’ll be fine.”

“If you don’t get her one, I will.”

Now Wonwoo turns to look at his friend, and the challenging gaze he receives in return makes him sigh. “Fine.”

“That’s my boy!” Mingyu grins, clapping Wonwoo on the back.

Despite Wonwoo’s confident persona online, he doesn’t have much experience with women. He’d gotten into the gaming scene first, learned how to be social and how to talk to followers of all types. Somehow that had translated to making an OnlyFans.

Choi Seungcheol, frat president, had seen his follower number on Twitch, and had suggested the creation of OnlyFans. Sex sells, and the business major had run the numbers. Cheol had broken down that if even one percent of Wonwoo’s following made the transfer to OnlyFans, Wonwoo could be making serious bank every month.

Both men were shocked to find a whopping five percent of Wonwoo’s followers had initially made the move with him to OnlyFans, and since then, that number has only grown.

Wonwoo tries to channel that confidence as he approaches you, and he kind of likes the way you jump when he gently touches your elbow to gain your attention.

“Hey.”

“Hi,” you respond, eyes wide. You look like a frozen deer, caught in headlights, and Wonwoo’s not sure if he wants to swerve, or hit this whole thing with full force.

“Want a drink?”

You nod, and Wonwoo leads you to the kitchen, where he finds you a beer.

“I’ve never seen you at one of these things,” he notes, stepping closer to you so you can hear each other over the loud music.

“I’ve never been to one,” you admit. 

“Are you enjoying yourself?” Wonwoo asks next, although, he suspects he already knows the answer.

“Uh… it’s loud.”

“Do you want to move somewhere quieter?”

He notes the way you swallow thickly, the way your pupils blow- but you nod, and Wonwoo once again grabs your arm to gently lead you to a different destination in the house.

His room is on the third floor, and he’s one of the lucky few that doesn’t have a roommate. The sound dies down significantly as soon as the door is shut behind the both of you, and Wonwoo welcomes the reprieve.

“I like your set up,” you tell him, looking around at all the neon blue and the PC set up.

“Yeah, I’m a bit of a gaming fan.”

“I can see that.” You’re quiet for a moment, and then you ask, “What are your favourite games to play?”

“Call of Duty is fun, League of Legends, Fortnite, all the usual ones,” he responds, moving toward his bed, where he takes a seat.

“Ah, right.” You nod, taking a sip of your beer.

“Do you game?”

“I watch gamers more than I play, you know, something to have on in the background while I study.” Your eyes meet, and you quickly look away.

There’s something in your body language that is throwing Wonwoo off, and the fact that you’ve just mentioned you watch streamers is a bit of an indicator that things might not be all that they seem with you.

Could you know who he is?

Was bringing you up here a mistake?

If you’ve ever seen one of his Twitch streams, will you be able to make the connection between him and the room?

It’s not like his streams show a lot of the room, but they show enough- and neon blue is a bit of a signature colour of his. 

Neither of you say anything, and then you take a quick breath. “Anyways, I’m here with my friend Tina, and she’s probably wondering where I am-”

“You should get back to it then,” Wonwoo tells you.

“Yeah. But uh… we’re still on for our library study thing on Monday, right?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.” 

Five:

When No Face puts up a new video on his OnlyFans, you take the opportunity to get a better look at his bedroom.

Two seconds into the video you’re convinced that your quiet history partner is, in fact, the notorious faceless gamer turned cam boy, and it makes your stomach turn into knots.

Is it bad to keep watching this, knowing what you now know?

Is it… disrespectful to Wonwoo to be watching him? To have your hand slowly snaking into your pants as your pussy gets wetter by the second? 

Do you have any chance with him?

Is this whole thing a dream?

You’ve been obsessed with one gamer/cam boy in your life, and suddenly he’s your history partner?

You thank whatever God is out there for this coincidental and miraculous turn of events, and you let out a breath as you begin to toy with your clit, relaxing against your pillows.

No Face has such a pretty cock. It’s the perfect size, and it looks even better with his long, slender fingers wrapped around it.

You listen to his quiet moans, and they urge you to echo them as you masturbate in your room.

Wonwoo’s only ever filmed himself. He’s a strictly solo man… there’s a possibility you have a chance with him romantically - or maybe even just sexually. If he gives you any chance at all, you’ll take it, everything else be damned.

Wonwoo is even more gorgeous than you’d ever imagined the anonymous No Face being, and this time, when you close your eyes to listen to the cam boy moan, you imagine your history partner above you, his hand down your pants as he rubs you closer and closer to the edge. 

Six:

You need at least one citation from a physical book for your report, so today, you and Wonwoo are perusing amongst the shelves, searching for a few titles you have identified for possible quotes.

Your heart is racing just from being near Wonwoo, and you sense his gaze more often than not.

“You okay?” Wonwoo asks.

“Hmm?”

“You’re quiet today.”

“I’m always quiet,” you retort… quietly. 

Wonwoo releases a chuckle, and you think it’s the first time you’ve ever seen him smile. The sight of his pretty pearly whites, the sharp canines, the way his eyes crinkle- it has your stomach erupting with butterflies.

“More quiet than usual,” Wonwoo corrects himself.

“I think you’re more talkative than usual,” you point out.

“Maybe.” 

You take a breath, wondering if you should tell him that you know who he is. 

If you tell him, it’s an admission that you’ve seen his Twitch or his OnlyFans- and you wonder if that will make him uncomfortable.

The two of you are quiet for another couple of minutes, but finally, you can’t take it anymore.

“I’m just going to say it,” you blurt out, drawing his eyes. “I know who you are.”

“Hmm?”

“You’re No Face, aren’t you?”

Wonwoo is quiet.

A groan escapes you. “Fuck, this whole thing is so uncomfortable, I shouldn’t have said anything, because now it’s going to make you uncomfortable-”

“I’m not uncomfortable,” he interjects.

“You’re not?”

Wonwoo shakes his head. “Just wondering which platform you’ve watched me on.”

Your heart lurches violently in your chest, and your throat all but closes up again. You choke a little on your response. “I, uh- I-”

“I’m guessing both,” Wonwoo concludes.

You’re gaze moves down the floor immediately, that familiar heat blooming through your skin, a sign of the embarrassment that surges through you.

“It’s kind of hot that you’ve watched me before,” Wonwoo sighs. “How could you tell it was me?”

“Your hands,” you say meekly.

“My hands?” You can hear the shock in his voice. “Wow, you must watch me a lot.”

“I do,” another half whimpered response, an embarrassed admittance of your cam boy loving ways.

“Don’t be shy about it,” Wonwoo tells you, and he steps closer. You instinctively move back, only for your shoulders to bump into the shelves behind you. It’s interesting how suddenly your history partner has changed from shy boy Wonwoo, to confident cam boy No Face, and you can feel your core getting wetter with each tension fueled moment. “I appreciate you being transparent with me.”

You finally look up at him, and you catch Wonwoo’s gaze dip to your lips.

Before you can even register what’s happening, Wonwoo is leaning in, and your body reacts on it’s own accord.

Your arms throw themselves around the back of his neck, and you press your lips to his. Your chests meet as Wonwoo wraps you in his embrace, his mouth hot as it moves on your own. He pushes you back against the shelves and you can’t even find it within yourself to care that you’re making out with him in a library.

There’s no shame as you make out with Wonwoo, accepting his tongue into your mouth with a delighted groan, there’s only intense pleasure, and an ecstasy like feeling of absolute elatedness that you’ve never experienced in your whole life.

Then- a sound in the periphery of your surroundings makes you jump, and you pull away from Wonwoo, looking around wildly.

“Shit,” you whisper, tearing yourself out of his embrace. “This was- uh, that was- um… I have to go!”

You find yourself running away, and you’re not even sure why. All you know is that you’re completely overwhelmed, and once again, being in the presence of the notorious No Face has you needing air like a fish out of water needs H2O.

Seven:

You shouldn’t be shocked when Wonwoo sits next to you in history class. He doesn’t say anything, but half way through the seminar, his hand moves to your knee.

Your heart is racing in your chest, a mix of anxiety and excitement. He hasn’t reached out to you since you ran away from him in the library, and you have no idea where you stand with him, so instead, you just stare at his hand.

There’s this general sense that you both deeply want each other, and it distracts you all the way until class is over. 

As students stand up around you, hurrying to their next engagements, you turn to look at Wonwoo.

“What are we doing?”

“A project.”

“You know what I mean,” you sigh.

“We’re doing whatever you want.”

“Okay,” you take a breath. “But I’m shy, I don’t normally do hookups, and-”

“I don’t do hookups either.” 

“You don’t?”

“There’s a reason I do solos,” Wonwoo points out.

“I guess that’s true.”

“Does the whole No Face thing bug you?” he enquires.

“Not really,” you admit. “I mean, in this day and age, most people have done it. Not me, but, you know, most people.”

Wonwoo lets out a chuckle, then it dies down. “So… do you want to be there for my next stream? You know, sitting behind the camera, watching?”

You swear it’s as if there’s a flood in your panties, and your heart leaps like a professional olympic high jumper.

“Yes,” you squeak.

Wonwoo smiles broadly. “This will be fun.”

Eight:

You’re sitting on Wonwoo’s bed, body tense with anticipation.

His camera is set up, and it’s the only thing between the two of you as he lounges in his gaming chair.

The neon blue purge mask is obscuring his features, but you can feel his eyes on you. He’s hit the record button, and you’re committed to being a silent watcher as Wonwoo visibly slips into his No Face alter ego.

There’s something about the way his shoulders drop, the way he tilts his head back, exposing his pretty throat as he gets comfortable in the chair.

Wonwoo’s hand drops down to the front of his pants, and he palms himself gently, releasing a sigh.

“Feels good,” he muses, voice deeper than it usually is in every day life. “Wish it was your hands touching me though.” 

Your body tingles with the realization he’s talking to you. Sure, he dirty talks for his shows all the time, but today, it’s different.

Today, No Face is literally talking directly to you, but all his words will be eaten up by his subscribers too. It’s your very own personal cam show, and no one else ever has to know.

“Are you going to get started too, baby?” Wonwoo asks. “I can’t be the only one getting off, and we both know you’re here watching this because you want something in return. So don’t be shy.”

You swallow thickly, heart racing in your chest.

“How about this, I strip tease for you, and in return, you get yourself ready for me?” he suggests.

It’s almost hard to breathe now, but you nod, staring directly at Wonwoo. You know his eyes are on you. At this point, it’s clear he’s ignoring the camera completely, but with his face obscured by the mask, his subscribers will be none the wiser to the true event taking place.

Wonwoo starts by gently lifting up his shirt, exposing hard abs and a lean muscled body that has your core already throbbing with need.

Compression shirts are part of his brand, so Wonwoo stops the teasing there, hands instead dropping to the belt of his black jeans. He’s slow with undoing it, slow with the way his long fingers toy with his button and zipper.

He releases a sigh as he lifts his hips, pushing his pants down to his knees. His thighs bulge where they press against the black leather of his gaming chair, but the bulge in his underwear is even bigger, and it makes you unconsciously lick your lips as your eyes stay glued to every motion.

“Come on, baby, be good for me,” Wonwoo tells you, and it snaps you out of your trance.

You realize you need to be doing something too- that’s the whole intrigue of this. Wonwoo gets off on camera, and you get off behind it. Mutual masturbation, in the sexiest possible form.

Truly no hands on, just self gratification while watching the other pleasure themself.

You remove your shirt, and Wonwoo lets out a groan. “That’s it.”

Deciding to keep your bra on for now, your hands slip to your own pants, and you carefully take them off. 

“Want to see you,” Wonwoo says, palming himself through his underwear.

Your hands are shaking as you remove your panties, body alight with energy. It’s not shyness per se- more like shock that you’re even in this situation.

You want it, so fucking bad, but it’s a truly difficult thing to wrap your head around. This situation is unlike anything you could have imagined in your wildest dreams, and you’ve never been more turned on in your entire life.

You’re now bare on your lower half, and you relax against the bed, lifting your legs so your feet are on the mattress, your pussy spread for Wonwoo.

He releases another deep groan, shifting his own underwear down.

His beautiful cock slaps up against his stomach, and he immediately wraps a hand around it. 

There’s a bottle of lube next to him, and you watch him spurt some onto his palm, when he brings it to his cock again, you begin to touch your pussy.

You start with your clit, drawing slow cirlces while Wonwoo strokes himself, matching your pace.

“Mmm, that’s good,” Wonwoo muses, relaxing back against his gaming chair. His head lolls back, but you know his eyes are still entirely focused on you. “I know you’re feeling good too, aren’t you, baby?”

Since he’s on camera, you know you can’t make a sound, but you nod aggressively, swallowing the lump in your throat as you apply more pressure to your clit.

“That’s it, rub harder,” Wonwoo encourages you. “Bet you’re all nice and wet for me already, huh?”

It’s hard to hold in the moan that threatens to escape you, but you nod again, biting your lip to force yourself not to make a sound.

“I can just imagine your mouth on my cock, sucking me so good,” Wonwoo says. “How I’d grab your hair and help you find a rhythm. Bet you’d kind of love choking on it, love the way tears roll down your cheeks as I use you.”

Your toes curl at his words, and you rub your clit even harder, the knots in your stomach tightening deliciously.

“When you got me to the edge, I’d switch things up. I’d lay you down on the bed, eating you out until you cum on my tongue, until your thighs are shaking around my head. I’d hold you down too, because I know you’d like that. Something tells me you want to be dominated, and I could show you what that’s like.”

It’s as if he’s read your mind, as if he knows you better than you know yourself.

“Once you’re good and ready, I’d finally give you my cock,” Wonwoo groans, increasing the pace of his strokes along his length. “Bet you’d love that, wouldn’t you? Love to have me spreading open your insides and fucking you stupid.”

Your breathing is shaky as you rub your clit, your heart racing in your chest. Your eyes close a little as you focus on the overwhelming sensation of pleasure that’s beginning to blossom inside of you.

“I think you should slip a finger in, baby, imagine it’s mine.”

Your eyes snap open again as you stare at him.

“Come on, do as I say.”

With a shaky hand, you bring your fingers to your core, slipping one into your obscenely wet hole.

“Hmm, that’s it,” Wonwoo groans. “Bet you wish it was bigger though, huh?”

You nod, biting your lip even harder in an effort to control yourself.

“Add another finger then. They’re still not as big as mine, but you can dream, right?”

God, you were not mentally prepared for this.

To be the sole focus of No Face is the most sinfully wonderful thing you could ever experience, and the way your body reacts to his commands- following through without your mind even registering it now-

Wonwoo has you in a daze, and you kind of love it.

“Fuck that pussy with those tiny fingers, baby,” Wonwoo encourages you. “I wanna hear it.”

You’re so wet you’re almost afraid his camera will be able to pick up the sound of your squelching pussy, but fuck it- he’s given you a command so you’ll follow through.

“That’s it, feels good, huh?”

You can see he’s stroking his cock harder, and it makes your mouth begin to salivate as you watch.

“Do you think you’re close, baby?” Wonwoo asks. 

You nod.

“I’m close too, something about this has me hornier than usual. Thinking about tasting you, about fucking you with my fingers then railing you with my cock- you’re doing something to me, baby, and I know I’m doing something to you too.”

You nod again, more enthusiastically this time.

“Rub your clit again, want to watch you cum for me.”

You do as he says, and you bite hard on your lip again, throwing your head back, eyes closing as you focus on the feeling.

Wonwoo begins to moan as he watches you, and you’ve seen enough videos of his to know that this is a sign he’s near the edge too.

You can hear the wet slapping of his lubed hand now, and you know he’s beating himself off hard and fast- you bet he wishes it was your pussy on his cock right now, and it makes your toes curl again as you get closer and closer to your own high.

“Fuck, that’s it,” Wonwoo moans. “Come on, you can cum for me.”

You nod, muscles tightening to an impossible limit-

“That’s it, that’s it-”

Wonwoo’s encouragement throws you over the edge and you fall backward onto his bed, grabbing a pillow to put over your face, muffling your moans as your orgasm washes through you.

Your whole body is throbbing with sexual energy, thighs already shaking as you continue to rub yourself through it- having not received a command that you could stop.

You pray to God that the pillow is enough to muffle your sounds, because the whimpers escaping you are no longer something you can keep in- especially when Wonwoo releases a grunt of his own, a sign that he’s cum too.

A shiver of tingles errupts through you at the notion that he’s tipped over the edge, that the two of you have cum together in a situation like this.

Your mind is practically blank except for this moment, and as your orgasm dies down, you can’t ignore the racing of your heart in your chest.

“That’s a good girl,” Wonwoo groans, voice drawing you back to reality.

You move the pillow away, pulling your hand from your core as you sit up again, blinking at Wonwoo.

He’s cum all over his chest, and it’s a big load too- fuck, part of you wants to just lick it up.

“You were a good girl for me tonight,” Wonwoo says. “Such a good girl.”

He’s gently toying with his cock still, but finally he stops, and after a deep sigh, he turns off the camera.

The two of you sit there in silence for a moment, and once Wonwoo has the cap back on his camera’s lens, he pulls off his mask.

His skin is flushed, and he looks absolutely beautiful. There’s nothing like a post orgasmic glow to bring light to someone’s eyes.

“You good?” he asks, voice returning to its normal tone.

“That was amazing,” you whisper.

“I can’t believe you’re seriously okay with all of this,” Wonwoo admits with a sigh, running a hand through his unruly curls before reaching for some tissue to begin wiping up his mess.

“I am.”

He chuckles. “I can tell you’re overwhelmed though.”

“Maybe a little,” you admit, anticipation bubbling through you.

“I think it’s best if we call it a night.” Wonwoo says, and something sinks within your chest at his words. “I want to fuck you, I do, but… I want to give you time to think about all of this.”

“I have thought about all of this,” you counter.

“You’ve thought about fucking No Face, but off camera, I’m just Wonwoo, and I don’t want you to be disappointed with… the reality of me. No Face is a persona, and I need to know you understand that.”

You consider his words, and nod. “I’ll spend some time thinking about all of this.”

“But we’re still on for studying in a couple of days, right?”

“Regardless of us, we have a project to finish,” you nod. 

Wonwoo smiles. “Thanks for coming today, it made a difference.”

Nine:

The two of you are studying in Wonwoo’s room, and as hours pass by, it’s getting harder and harder for you to focus.

There’s a tension in the space that you could cut with a knife, and your panties have been wet since you arrived.

In the past couple of days, you’ve given the whole situation a lot of thought… and you may have rewatched the camshow you did with him about a hundred times too.

“Wonwoo?” you ask, putting your laptop to the side.

“Hmm?”

“I wanted to talk to you about us.” 

He gives you space to continue and you take a breath. 

“I know that the whole No Face thing is a persona, and while he’s not you, he’s still part of you. Despite that, I like who you are too. You’re calm, and smart, and level-headed- and respectful too. Most men wouldn’t have done what we did and let me go home to process the situation. You could tell I was overwhelmed and you didn’t take advantage of me, which shows you’re respectful too. I think… you and I are kindred souls, and I’d like the opportunity to get to know you better, the real you, not No Face.” 

Wonwoo nods, and you can tell he’s thinking about what you’ve just said. “I want to know you better too. I never thought I’d find a cute, shy girl who would be okay with the whole OnlyFans thing. You’re quiet, but you’re kinky, like me, and I really like that.”

Your skin heats at his words, and a smile works its way onto your lips.

“Doing this project has been great,” Wonwoo continues. “We work well together, and yeah… I like you a lot. I want to give it a try too.”

“Good.” You take a breath, sitting up to move closer to him. “So… I think we’ve done enough studying, don’t you?”

Wonwoo chuckles. “Feeling needy, huh?”

“You’ve got a half chub already, so don’t talk to me about feeling needy,” you tease with a grin.

“Talking back, are you?”

“You said it yourself, you’re not No Face, you’re Wonwoo. No Face is a dominant, but Wonwoo… I’m getting vibes from you that you’re something else.”

He cocks his head to the side, looking at you with a smile. “I guess you know the real me better than I realized.”

“You talk a big game about being a dominant on cam, but… my guess is you’re softer in person, softer like this.” You reach out to stroke his face, and Wonwoo leans into your palm.

“Are you okay with soft?”

“I’m okay with a mixture,” you tell him. “Whatever feels right in the moment.”

“Part of me wants to fuck the shit out of you,” Wonwoo notes. “But… as a first time, another part of me wants to just be nice.”

“Then be nice, you can be rough later, I promise.”

“I’ll hold you to it.”

“You better.”

You move his laptop out of the way, swinging your leg over his hips so you can mount him where he’s seated on the bed.

His hands find your waist, and he looks up at you. God, he truly is so beautiful. 

You’ve kissed him before in the library, but that had been all fire, all passion, all pent up tension- as you lean down to press your lips to his now, you get the sense that everything about this interaction will be softer.

He’s not playing off as his alter ego, he knows you accept the real him, that you want to experience Wonwoo tonight, not No Face. 

As amazing as No Face was, you don’t want him to think that’s all you’re here for.

He kisses you gently, one hand moving up to cup your cheek. His tongue is tentative as it runs along your bottom lip, asking for entry instead of demanding it.

You tilt your head a little to make things easier as the kiss deepens, his fingers digging into your hip.

You begin to grind down against him, enjoying the pressure on your clit. He’s already hard, and you know he wants this as badly as you do, which lights a fire in the pit of your stomach.

With one movement, Wonwoo has you both rolling, and you end up with your back pressed to the bed, Wonwoo on top of you.

Now it’s his turn to grind down against you, and you kiss him harder, whimpering against his lips.

One of his hands snakes up to your breast, and he squeezes you through your shirt, groaning at the way you fit in his palm.

“Can I take care of you?” he asks.

“You can do anything you want,” you assure him, heart beating rapidly in your chest.

Wonwoo’s lips move to your throat, and then the swell of your cleavage. You throw your head back, closing your eyes and enjoying the sensation.

He’s gentle when he removes your shirt, followed quickly by your bra, and then his mouth is on your chest again. His lips are soft as they suck on your nipple, his tongue flicking the sensitive bud.

Your hands find their way to his hair, tangling in his curls as you enjoy the worship he’s providing you. Wonwoo takes his time with your breasts, and you can feel your pussy throbbing- you wonder if this is what blue balls feels like for men- this insatiable need to have attention on your core instead of the erogenous zone he’s currently enjoying.

Soon, Wonwoo’s mouth is moving down your body, and he slips onto the floor next to the bed. He takes off your pants and panties, moving slowly as if to give you time to change your mind.

But you’re not going to change your mind.

You want this more than you’ve ever wanted everything, and as he drags you to the edge of the bed, intent on eating your pussy like he’d talked about on cam, you give yourself over to him fully.

His hands massage your legs, and he peppers kisses up your calf, tickling your knee as he moves to your thighs.

Your legs adjust over his shoulders, and his hands grab at your hips as he leans in for his first lick of your pussy.

The contact of his tongue on your clit has you releasing a squeal of delight, your entire boy tingling with pleasure.

You can feel Wonwoo’s eyes on you as he begins to eat you out, his tongue pushing into your wet pussy before flicking back up to your sensitive bud again.

“Feels good!” you tell him, muscles already beginning to tighten with pleasure.

His fingers get a better grip on you, one hand moving to your thigh to hold you in place as he devours you.

He sucks your clit into his mouth and it’s a sensation that has your entire body reacting, the cord in your stomach tightening even more-

No one has eaten you out in practically forever, and to be having a man worship you like this- it’s getting you closer to the edge, faster than anyone else before.

“Shit,” you whimper, tangling your fingers in his hair again, back arching as the pleasure begins to build.

Wonwoo doesn’t relent, he eats you out like a starved man, his eagerness only growing with each second-

Your whimpers are getting louder, the sensation building more and more-

“I’m gonna cum!” you announce, eyes clenching shut as you teeter on the edge-

Suddenly two fingers are slipping into your pussy, crooking up so his digits can touch your sweet spot, at the same time, he sucks roughly on your clit and that’s all it takes to make you cum.

You gasp, your orgasm exploding inside of you unlike any other.

It’s all consuming in the best possible way, your body throbbing with unknown pleasure.

Wonwoo continues to finger fuck you, working you through it as wave after wave of ecstasy consumes you.

Your clit is almost too sensitive now, your thighs shaking, muscles beginning to hurt from the power of your high.

“Fuck, Wonwoo-” you whimper, pushing at his head.

He pulls away from your clit, his fingers slowing inside of you, and you can feel his eyes.

“You good?” he asks.

“Fuck, that was so good-” you groan, another shiver erupting through you when he strokes your inner walls again. “Need more.”

“Need what?”

“Your cock,” you tell him. “Need it so bad.”

“I’ll grab a condom,” Wonwoo muses, pulling his fingers out of your pussy only to plop them into his mouth.

As he stands, you freeze. “Wait! I’m on birth control!”

He stops, looking down at you. “Are you sure?”

“I’m sure I’m on birth control, yes.”

“No, I mean, are you sure about unprotected sex?”

“Well… I’m clean,” you point out. “I haven’t had sex in forever-”

“Me neither,” he admits. “Other than, you know, sex with my own hand.”

You stare at him for a moment, and from the way he cracks a smile, you know he’s making a joke. So you begin to laugh too.

“How have we both not gotten laid in a while?” you ask.

He shrugs. “Guess we’re both pretty shy.”

“And school is busy,” you point out.

“School, gaming and OnlyFans is definitely a lot,” he agrees, pulling off his shirt then kicking down his pants. “Move up to the pillows for me, want you to be comfortable.”

You do as he says, watching eagerly as he gets fully naked for you. 

God, his cock is even prettier up close, and you bite your tongue as he gets onto the bed with you. Your legs wrap around his hips instinctively, and you pull him in for a passionate kiss.

He begins to grind down against you, stimulating your oversensitive clit in a way that has you squealing with delight.

“I like your sounds,” Wonwoo muses, lips moving to your throat and ear, where he gently bites your lobe. “Was a shame I didn’t get to hear them during the cam show.”

“I tried to be good and quiet for you.”

“You were very good for me,” Wonwoo groans, voice dropping into the No Face cadence, which has your stomach flip flopping, pussy getting even wetter.

Wonwoo reaches between your bodies, adjusting the tip of his cock to your pussy. “You said you haven’t been fucked in a while,” he muses, “so if this hurts, or you need me to go slow, or stop-”

“I’ll be fine,” you assure him, cupping his face. “Just fuck me, please.”

Wonwoo kisses you then, slowly pushing his rock hard cock into you as you whimper and claw at his shoulders.

He fills you so well- your inner walls finally receiving attention from a real sized cock after way too long.

Your fingers - hell, even his fingers - don’t do his full length justice, and it feels like heaven once he’s fully bottomed out.

You both release a low groan, your toes curling with pleasure.

“I’m good,” you tell him, pressing kisses to his throat as your fingers explore his broad shoulders. “Feels good.” 

“You feel good,” he counters, beginning to move.

The drag of his cock along your core has you groaning, eyes closing as pleasure consumes you.

“Shit,” you whimper, holding him tighter.

“Shit,” Wonwoo echos again, picking up his pace.

You lay there, enjoying everything he’s giving you. As himself, Wonwoo’s not much of a talker, but you’re okay with that. The two of you simply gasp and moan as conversation, and you enjoy the feral aspect of sex, the part where you’re both overcome by the feeling of each other, so overcome that words aren’t even necessary.

Wonwoo presses his lips to yours again, kissing you fiercely as he fucks you harder and harder, until his bed is rocking and you’re scared people outside his door will be able to hear you moaning. 

But part of you doesn’t even care, you don’t want to hold yourself back with Wonwoo anymore, not like you did when he was on cam. No, you want him to hear every whimper, every groan, every squeal of pleasure as he fucks you better than anyone else ever has.

There’s a connection here, a spark, and it lights a fire inside you as Wonwoo fucks you for the very first time.

It’s passionate as you remain lip locked, your hands grabbing at his strong shoulders.

You don’t even care that it’s clear this will be a one position fuck session. Missionary has always been one of the more boring ways to fuck, but with Wonwoo- it’s downright magical. There’s nothing like it, being pressed chest to chest- as close as you can be as you do this.

Wonwoo’s groans are magic too, and they have your pussy throbbing depserately around him-

Then he slips his hand between your bodies, rubbing your clit-

Your pussy clamps down on him, a gasp escaping you as you break the kiss to look up at him.

“Want you to cum with me,” Wonwoo groans. “Please.”

You can’t respond, all you can do is focus on the building sensation- and in no time at all, you’re tipping over the edge with a loud moan.

Wonwoo returns your sound with a grunt, burying his face against your throat as he cums with you.

Your pussy throbs around him, milking Wonwoo of all he’s worth as he moans in your ear, fucking you through it all.

His hair is tickling your cheek, but you can’t even care as the orgasm swells through you like the waves of a warm summer ocean.

Your chests are still pressed together, and you can feel the beating of his heart. It’s almost dizzying, feeling this connected to another person, and it leaves your mind blank as you enjoy it.

Your arms are wrapped around him, cuddling Wonwoo close as his motions come to a stop, and then you just pant together, doing your best to catch your breaths.

You stroke his hair, releasing a deep sigh.

Wonwoo presses one last kiss to your throat before pulling away. “How do you feel?” he asks.

“Perfect.”

Wonwoo grins. “Me too.” 

☀️ mlist + an. thank you for reading! This was so fun to write, I can't wait to explore this au more in other chapters!

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🔮 preview. You know there will be no more rough housing, no more use of the paddle, because No Face might be somewhat of a sadist, but Wonwoo is a pussy whipped softie, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

cw/ tw. Unprotected sex, foreplay, dirty talk, blow job, pussy eating, hand job, commanding/dominant alter ago Wonwoo, use of paddle, impact play, pain kink, fingering, slight sadism Wonwoo, multiple reader orgasms, mentions of sex toys, creampie, etc…   I petnames. (hers) baby.

👹 rating. 18+ explicit I wc. 3k I teaser wc. 110

🌙 starring. Jeon Wonwoo x afab!Reader

bonus

You love Wonwoo. You love him for all that he is, No Face and all, and you also love that despite his online alter ego, he’s very soft and giving in bed. However… sometimes, you just want to be man handled and dirty talked until your head spins, and your lovely boyfriend is more than willing to provide that for you on special occasions.

Today is your birthday, and after you’re done classes, you go back to your apartment to shower and get ready.

You’ve bought a very sexy outfit. Garter connected fishnets, a black push-up bra, a corset, sexy high heels, and a thong to complete the whole look.

☀️ to read the full fic AND 3k bonus NOW, subscribe to my Patreon, then click here

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[cressidagrey]

Daylight

Pairing: Lando Norris x Emilie Abadie (Original Character)

Welcome to a short side story, featuring Emilie and Lando, set in the White Horse Universe. There are specific scenes copy and pasted from White Horse, so it’s easier to follow along timeline wise.

Summary:

Emilie Abadie hadn’t planned on caring about Formula 1. Until she saw a boy with curly hair win the Miami GP in 2024. 

Warnings and Notes: 

we have now moved on from Charles bashing to bashing his whole family, Discussions of toxic past relationships, toxic families

As always big thanks to @llirawolf , who listens to me ramble

Emilie Abadie hadn’t planned on caring about Formula 1.

In fact, she actively avoided caring about it— Mostly because of her best friend. 

Belle, with her soft green eyes and gentle heart, who had already survived too many years of being invisible in a family that only seemed to remember she existed when it was convenient. 

Belle, who was one of the best people Emilie had ever met, who had been born into a family that cared about podiums and trophies, about DRS and pit stops… and not about their daughter, their sister. 

Even Max Verstappen hadn’t changed Emilie’s dislike for everything Formula 1. 

Granted, of course, Emilie had googled him when Belle had first mentioned him to her. 

There had been some amusement somewhere in the back of her head that Belle had found a guy to date who had 2 World Championship titles and 4 dozen wins to his name, while Belle’s brother was still on his 5th career win after Austria 2022. 

Emilie didn’t care about Max’s wins. Or his podiums. Or whatever he did for a living. She’d seen enough of Belle’s face when she talked about him to know he was good—really, properly good—and that was enough.

But then came that Sunday in May, and Twitter exploded.

Emilie wasn’t even trying to pay attention. She was lounging on her balcony with an espresso, mindlessly scrolling between Vogue articles and TikToks of people organising their fridges. 

And then—suddenly—orange hats, all-caps screaming, and multiple photos of a grinning man half-drenched in champagne.

“HE FINALLY DID IT.”

“LANDO. FREAKING. NORRIS.”

Someone had posted a clip of him standing on the top step of the podium, cheeks flushed, eyes glassy, trying to keep it together while the crowd roared. And God help her, Emilie had clicked it.

He wasn’t even her type.

Too boyish. 

Too chaotic. 

Probably smelled like Monster Energy and nerves.

But he’d smiled like it meant something. Like it had taken years. Like he couldn’t quite believe the universe had finally let him have this moment.

And something in Emilie’s chest—usually locked up tight behind snark and cashmere—shifted.

She frowned.

Closed the app.

Opened it again.

Googled him.

Lando Norris. 25. British. McLaren driver. Five seasons. No wins—until now.

She even found a quote: “It’s about damn time.”

And still, Emilie was deeply annoyed to find herself staring at photos of this Lando person and wondering what his laugh sounded like in real life.

And that was exactly when she opened her texts and messaged Belle.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Isabelle Leclerc

Emilie: Okay so… Question

Isabelle: That’s always a dangerous start.

Emilie: Who is this Lando person And why is everyone crying because he won something

Isabelle: Oh my God. You really don’t know anything about F1, do you?

Emilie: Absolutely not. I know Max drives fast, and you’re too pretty to be emotionally stable, that’s it.

Isabelle: Valid.

Emilie: But seriously. My entire timeline is full of sweaty orange hats and people screaming “HE FINALLY DID IT.” What did he do? Did he climb a mountain? Invent a vaccine?

Isabelle: He won his first Formula 1 Grand Prix. He’s been in F1 for five years. Always came close. Never quite made it.Everyone’s been waiting for this.He’s a good guy. Deserved it.

Emilie: Huh. He’s the guy with the curly hair, right?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the jawbones?

Isabelle: Yes.

Emilie: And the voice that’s suspiciously hot for someone named Lando?

Isabelle: …Why do you care?

Emilie: I don’t!!

Isabelle: You do. You’ve never asked me about a single driver. Not once. And now you’re googling him like a concerned historian.

Emilie: I’m just… doing research. You know. investigating the cultural phenomenon

Isabelle: Uh-huh. Is this cultural phenomenon wearing a papaya-colored race suit and has curly hair?

Emilie: Fine. He’s cute. He looked happy. The bar is so low.

Isabelle: He is cute. And he should be happy. He’s a good guy.

Emilie: You sound like you’re trying to sell me a family dog.

Isabelle: He’s very sweet! Loyal! Thoughtful! Max calls him chaotic sunshine. I call him emotionally transparent. You’d like him.

Emilie: So a golden retriever.

Isabelle: With slightly better hair.

Emilie: Does he bite?

Isabelle: Only when provoked. Or when Max makes a joke about his height.

Emilie: Hmm.

Isabelle: Oh no.

Emilie: What?

Isabelle: You’re thinking about him.

Emilie: Absolutely not.

Emilie: This is slander.

Isabelle: This is me knowing you better than you know yourself. And I’m telling you: he’s a good one. A little chaotic. But real.

Emilie: He smiled like…like he waited years for this. I noticed that. I hate that I noticed that.

Belle: Yeah. That’s why people cried. It wasn’t just about the win—it was about him. He needed it. And he earned it.

Emilie: …Okay maybe I get the hats now.

Isabelle: Give it three days. You’ll be watching fan edits on TikTok and pretending it’s research. I have been there. 

***

Emilie tossed her phone down onto her table, flopping back into her chair with a groan.

God, what was wrong with her?

She never did this. Never caught herself noticing smiles. Never cared about people’s stories. 

She’d always been good at getting the guy.

Usually, she saw a man she liked, decided she liked him, and that was it. 

If she wanted him, she got him. 

Easy.

The harder part—the impossible part—was getting them to stay.

Not that she ever admitted that out loud.

They got infatuated with the packaging—pretty blonde, sharp tongue, quick wit—but none of them wanted to know what was underneath. Or if they did, they ran.

So she never gave them the chance.

Emilie knew what she was. What she had been taught to be: polished, pretty, disposable.

Raised by grandparents who valued appearances more than affection, she’d learned early that emotions were a liability. Her family was a cold, glittering mess of old money and colder expectations. 

Emotionally unavailable parents who vacationed in the Alps more than they parented. Her grandparents had raised her—fierce, stylish people who taught her how to dress, how to argue, how to build walls no man could climb. 

Emilie knew how to play the part—how to be charming, captivating, just unattainable enough to keep her pride intact when everything inevitably crumbled.

Old money. Cold manners. 

And Belle—sweet, gentle Belle—hadn’t been raised in a world much kinder.

Emilie still hated Belle’s family for that. For making her believe she had to earn love, that she had to be perfect to deserve being seen. Even now, even after Belle had found Max—the only man who seemed to see her fully and without condition—Emilie’s chest still burned with protective rage whenever she thought about it.

She’d watched Belle spend her whole life being overlooked. Forgotten. Ignored by people who were supposed to love her. And now she had Max, who looked at her like she was the whole damn world.

She was happy for Belle. Truly. Because Belle deserved good things—finally. Especially after growing up in a family that prioritized podiums over people. 

And Emilie, for all her sass and designer boots, had never liked the Leclercs. Not really.

Belle was happy now. Radiantly, irrevocably happy. And Max—grumpy, blunt Max—loved her like it was the only thing that had ever made sense.

Maybe that’s why Emilie couldn’t look away from a stranger’s victory lap on Twitter.

 Maybe, deep down, she still believed there were people worth betting on.

Even if she didn’t believe it for herself.

God help me, she thought grimly, dragging a hand over her face.

She was absolutely going to end up watching fan edits.

In three days. Tops.

Maybe two.

Lando Norris had looked like someone who didn’t think the world would ever give him a win.

And for some reason… she couldn’t stop thinking about that.

***

Text Messages: Isabelle Leclerc & Emilie Abadie

Isabelle: Max and I are getting married tomorrow. City hall. Just something small. Just for us. Will you come?

Emilie: EXCUSE ME???? TOMORROW??? CITY HALL??? SMALL???

Isabelle: Yes. No fuss. Just us. That’s all I want.

Emilie: Oh my GOD. You are not getting married like you’re renewing a driver’s license. You need flowers. A cake. A moment, Belle.

Isabelle: I don’t need any of that. I just want him. That’s it.

Emilie: Yes, yes, eternal love, devotion, blah blah blah. BUT. You are still getting married. You will wear a dress. You will hold a bouquet. You will eat something that tastes like joy and sugar and victory.

Isabelle: I’m not even sure what I’m wearing yet 😅 We haven’t thought that far ahead.

Emilie: THAT IS WHY YOU HAVE ME. Do you still have the white dress we got a few weeks ago? The one that made you look like a romantic novel with legs?

Isabelle: ...Yes.

Emilie: Good. Wear that. It’s perfect. Simple. Elegant. You. I’ll take care of the rest.

Isabelle: Em—no pressure, really. Please. I don’t want a production.

Emilie: This won’t be a production. It’ll be a love letter. With flowers. And maybe a three-layer cake.

Isabelle: Emilie 😭 You really don’t have to—

Emilie: Belle. You’ve planned everyone else’s birthdays, surprises, parties, and holidays since you were like what, twelve?! Let someone do it for you this once. Let me.

Isabelle: ...Okay. But just a little. No spark machines. No confetti cannons.

Emilie: Deal. But I am bringing champagne. And I will cry.

Isabelle: I wouldn’t want it any other way. 💛

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Lando Norris

Max: You have a camera, right?

Lando: …yes?? What kind of question is that?

Max: Like, a real one. Not your phone.

Lando: Yes, Max, I own a camera. Why??

Max: I need you to document something.

Lando: What kind of something?

Max: Just be at Monaco City Hall tomorrow. 10:30. Bring your camera. Wear a suit. Preferably not orange.

Lando: MAX.

Max: Yes?

Lando: ARE YOU GETTING MARRIED TOMORROW???

Max: Yes.

Lando: YOU’RE JUST DROPPING THAT ON ME AT MIDNIGHT???

Max: It’s 11:43.

Lando: Oh, my mistake. PLENTY OF TIME TO PROCESS THE FACT YOU’RE SECRETLY GETTING MARRIED.

Max: Not secretly. Just quietly.

Lando: Max.

Max: What.

Lando: I’M HONORED BUT ALSO PANICKING. Do you want, like, pictures or VIBES?? Do I need a tripod?? Am I the witness?? Do I bring champagne?? WHAT’S MY ROLE HERE.

Max: Your role is “friend with a camera who knows how to shut up.”

Lando: I can be that.

 Wait—can I still cry a little?

Max: Only if it’s behind the camera.

Lando: Deal. Lando:I don’t even know what shoes to wear for a Verstappen emergency elopement

Max: Don’t overthink it. You’re just the photographer.

Lando: You’re getting married in Monaco city hall and I’m the photographer?? What the hell kind of fairy tale speedrun is this?

Max: The efficient kind.

Lando: Who else is gonna come?

Max: Just us. People we trust. 

***

Emilie Abadie had been awake since three in the morning. .

Not because she was nervous. She wasn’t the one getting married. 

It was Belle’s wedding. And that meant it had to be perfect.

Because Belle would never ask for perfect. Belle would shrug and say “just something quiet, just us” with that soft look in her eyes like she didn’t dare hope for more. But Emilie had spent the last seven years learning the difference between what Belle asked for and what she deserved.

And today, she deserved everything.

And perfection, as it turned out, required bribing a florist with a bottle of Dom Pérignon, whispering at a baker’s front door like a criminal, and coordinating a last-minute restaurant buyout with a maître d’ who still remembered Belle and Max’s first date like it had happened yesterday.

It was still early. The sun hadn’t quite cleared the rooftops of Monaco. But Emilie was already in motion—dressed, phone in hand, espresso in the other, a determined woman on a mission.

The florist had said it couldn’t be done. Snowdrops weren’t in season. They’d laughed—laughed—when Emilie asked.

Laughed. Emilie still remembered when Belle had told her about her favourite flowers. Fragile, quiet, perfect. Blooming in the cold, when nothing else did. Just like Belle. 

Emilie Abadie didn’t take no for an answer.

She made five calls. 

Then ten. 

Then offered double the price. 

Then triple. 

Someone from a specialty hothouse near Nice came through. A courier had arrived an hour ago, carrying a chilled box like it held diplomatic secrets.

Now, the bouquet sat in a vase on Emilie’s kitchen counter. Fragile white snowdrops, soft eucalyptus, and one or two sprigs of pale forget-me-nots.

Because Emilie was dramatic, and because Belle deserved to be remembered in every way that mattered.

The cake was next.

Not a tiered monstrosity. Just something beautiful. Elegant. White chocolate and raspberry with buttercream. The baker—an angel Emilie had gone to culinary school with for exactly three weeks—had rolled her eyes at the timeline and then agreed with a huff. “Only because it’s for Belle.”

Of course it was.

Emilie knew how much Belle had given. To her family. To her brothers. To Ferrari. To everyone except herself.

She’d watched Belle quietly shrink herself for years—make room for Lorenzo, for Charles, for Arthur, for Charles’ career, for the Leclerc family myth. 

Belle never asked for much. Never expected anything back.

So today, Emilie would give her everything.

The final piece fell into place just after sunrise: lunch at the restaurant where Max had taken Belle on their first date. The cozy one tucked behind the port with the ivy-covered terrace and the little hand-painted plates. Emilie had called the manager at 6:15 a.m.

“I need the whole place,” she’d said. “15 people. Three bottles of Perrier-Jouët Belle Époque. No fuss. No press. Max and Belle Verstappen.”

The Manager had paused and looked at Emilie:. “Ah,” he’d said, eyes twinkling. “For the couple who ordered the wine, then forgot to drink it because they were too busy falling in love?”

By 6:00, the venue was booked. The menu was set. The staff had already started laying out fresh linen.

Emilie checked the list one more time—flowers, cake, lunch, Max’s boutonnière, Belle’s shoes.

Everything was ready.

Emilie slipped her phone into her bag, gave the bouquet one last fond glance, and smiled to herself.

Because today—finally—was about Belle. Not Charles. Not their mother. Not a team or a trophy or anyone else’s spotlight.

Today was hers.

And Emilie Abadie would make sure not a single petal was out of place.

***

Emilie Abadie arrived with the force of a hurricane compressed into five feet and a few inches of blonde ambition and French fire.

She stood in the doorway like she’d conquered nations before breakfast, her icy blue eyes narrowing the moment they landed on him.

Lando’s stomach immediately did that stupid swoopy thing it did when he just knew he was fucked. 

She was Belle’s best friend. He had known that in an offhand way, had seen her make appearances on Belle’s Instagram and in stories Belle told…but Lando had never met her. 

“Why,” she said, voice crisp and imperious, “are half of you not wearing ties?”

Lando glanced around as if he might be able to blend into the cabinetry.

Too late.

“You,” Emilie snapped, pointing at him with all the grace and threat of a commander selecting someone for sacrifice.

“Me?” Lando squeaked.

She stalked toward him like a missile in heels. “You call that a tie? What is that knot? A shoelace? A cry for help?”

Lando glanced down at the pale blue mess under his collar. It did, in fact, look like it had lost a bar fight. “Technically… yes?”

Emilie sighed. Dramatically. Award-winningly. “Come here.”

He obeyed, despite every instinct screaming to flee. Blushing furiously, Lando stepped toward her like a man accepting his fate.

“You’re kind of scary,” he muttered.

“I’m not scary,” she replied, already undoing his tie with practiced hands, “I’m just French and disappointed.”

He stood still, heart hammering far too fast, hyper-aware of how close she was, of the way she reached up to fix the tie like she’d done it a hundred times. She smelled like roses and battle plans. Her fingers brushed his throat, adjusting the collar with delicate but precise movements, and Lando very seriously considered the possibility that this was what dying felt like.

“Can I breathe yet?” he whispered.

“When I say you can,” she said sweetly, tilting his chin. “Fashion is pain. Suffer with dignity.”

“I’m… terrified of her,” Lando muttered under his breath once she turned her attention elsewhere.

Max, still leaning casually against the counter, didn’t even blink. “You should be.”

And Lando was, but also… he was hopelessly in love with her. 

Or at least something very inconvenient and fluttery that made it hard to breathe when she was near. 

She was absolutely stunning in her sharply tailored outfit and meticulous energy, her blonde hair swept up, and her eyes laser-focused on whipping the room into shape. She’d turned wedding planning into a military campaign—and somehow made it look elegant.

But even as she herded grown men into order with eyebrow raises and verbal artillery, Lando couldn’t stop watching Max.

Because Max—who had never seemed interested in fanfare or spectacle—was getting married today. And he looked… happy. Genuinely, deeply happy in a way that made Lando’s chest go warm.

And Belle—sweet, gentle, quietly brave Belle—was the reason.

He couldn’t be happier for them.

Even if Charles was definitely going to kill him.

Lando had been trying not to think about that bit—the Charles-is-going-to-strangle-him-when-he-finds-out bit. Because once the truth came out, once Charles realized his little sister had married Max, and Lando had known, there was going to be hell to pay.

But he couldn’t bring himself to feel too guilty about it. Not when Max looked like that. Not when Belle had finally been seen the way she deserved.

The chaos in the room only paused when Emilie cornered Tom, who was valiantly attempting to pass off a cravat as formalwear.

“This is Monaco, not Pemberley,” Emilie said, already pulling a tie from her tote like Mary Poppins preparing for war.

Even Jos wasn’t immune. When Emilie raised her brows at him with military precision, he actually reached for the tie GP handed him—without protest.

“I like her,” Jos muttered, half to himself.

Yeah, Lando thought, hopeless and dazed. Me too.

Daniel’s cartoon tie didn’t stand a chance. Neither did his excuses.

“I have a lighter in my purse,” Emilie said, entirely too calmly.

And just like that, Daniel disappeared to change.

Only Oscar and GP escaped with their dignity intact. Emilie gave them a nod that could’ve launched ships.

Then Max—cool, unbothered Max—lifted his chin with the smugness of a man who had already tied his tie correctly.

“It’s crooked,” Emilie said, pulling him forward to fix it anyway.

Max didn’t even argue. Just let her do it, then shot her a crooked grin.

“You’ll do,” Emilie declared.

“You’re marrying my best friend,” she added. “You’re lucky I didn’t make you wear the floral pocket square.”

Lando snorted. Max only grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

And then the world stopped moving.

Because the bedroom door opened.

Belle stepped out.

And everything else just… dropped away.

Lando forgot about his camera. Forgot about his tie. Forgot about the fact he was probably about to die by Leclerc rage.

Because Belle was breathtaking.

She looked like she belonged in one of those old black-and-white movies—ethereal and quiet, in a dress that shimmered like water, snowdrops tucked gently into her dark curls. Her eyes swept the room until they found Max.

And Max—his friend, the fiercest driver he’d ever known—just stood there like the ground had been ripped out from under him.

“Hi,” Belle said softly.

Max walked toward her like he couldn’t quite believe she was real. And when he told her she looked like a dream he’d never let himself have, Lando had to turn away, just for a second.

His chest hurt in a good way.

Maybe love didn’t have to be loud or dramatic or perfect. Maybe it could just be this. A quiet kitchen. A white dress. A soft “Hi.” The kind of thing that made a man forget how to breathe.

Daniel sniffled. Oscar told him to shut up.

And Lando—caught somewhere between awe and a slight panic over Charles Leclerc’s eventual reaction—just smiled.

Because one of his best friend had everything he’d ever wanted.

And Lando? Lando might be crushing on the tiny French hurricane currently terrorizing everyone with her sense of style.

But he had hope.

***

The wedding luncheon was held at a small, sun-washed restaurant tucked into one of Monaco’s corners. 

It was perfect, of course. Belle perfect.

The place where Belle and Max had had their first date. Where they had fallen in love and forgotten to drink the bottle of wine they had ordered it. 

Emilie sat at one of the long wooden tables, a glass of champagne in hand, watching Belle laugh over something Max whispered in her ear, her cheeks pink and glowing.

And for the first time in a long time, Emilie felt something unspool in her chest—something fragile and aching.

Belle was happy.

Finally.

After years of being treated like an afterthought by people who should have fought for her, she was loved by someone who saw her. It made Emilie both stupidly emotional and faintly murderous when she thought about the people who hadn't.

Her fingers curled loosely around the stem of her glass.

She didn't cry at weddings. That was not her brand.

But if she were going to cry, it would’ve been for this.

Someone bumped her elbow, breaking the spell.

She looked up—and into the bright, apologetic face of Lando Norris.

"Sorry! Sorry," he said immediately, holding up his hands like a man under arrest. "Didn’t mean to—uh, interrupt. Or spill anything. Or—"

He was wearing a navy blue suit, rumpled already, tie askew again even after her earlier threats. His curls were fighting a losing battle against whatever product he’d tried to tame them with. There was a crookedness to him—a kind of chaotic, restless energy buzzing just under his skin.

He looked like a golden retriever trying desperately not to knock over a priceless vase.

Emilie raised an eyebrow. Cool. Appraising.

She knew boys like him. Bright smiles. Quick laughs. Attention spans like sparklers: burning hot, burning out.

He should’ve been easy to dismiss.

So why wasn’t she?

"You’re safe," she said dryly, tipping her glass toward him. "For now."

Lando's grin widened, lopsided and a little breathless. "Good. I was warned you might have a taser."

Emilie allowed herself a small, sharp smile. "Only for men who deserve it."

His eyes—bright greenish blue, annoyingly nice eyes—crinkled at the corners. He shifted from foot to foot like he didn’t know whether to stay or retreat. She could practically see the gears turning in his brain, second-guessing everything.

Cute, she thought reluctantly. In that maddening, boyish way.

And real.

There was something startlingly unguarded about him. No polished script, no careful charm. Just... all messy heart.

"Can I—uh, sit?" he asked, nodding toward the empty chair beside her.

Emilie could have said no. Should have, maybe.

Instead, she tilted her head and said, "If you must."

He practically collapsed into the chair with relief, bumping the table and nearly knocking over a bread basket in the process. Emilie caught it one-handed, setting it upright with a sigh that was more amused than exasperated.

"Smooth," she said.

"I try," Lando said, flashing another grin. "But usually it goes like this."

They fell into an awkward, oddly endearing silence. The lunch buzzed around them: clinking glasses, bursts of laughter, Belle’s voice lifting and carrying across the room like music.

Lando fiddled with the edge of the napkin, sneaking glances at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.

Emilie noticed.

She noticed everything.

And it made her want to fold herself back into the armor she wore with men. The one that said: you can look, but you will never touch anything real.

But he wasn’t looking at her like she was an acquisition to win or a prize to brag about.

He was looking at her like she was a puzzle he was trying—hopelessly—to figure out.

She sipped her champagne. Let him squirm a little longer. Then, finally:

"So," Emilie said, tilting her head just enough to make him sweat, "are you going to make conversation, or are you just planning to stare at me and hope it counts?"

Lando blinked, then laughed—a quick, surprised sound that made something warm spark low in her chest.

"I was thinking... both?" he said, scratching the back of his neck. "You’re kind of intimidating."

"Good," Emilie said, leaning back in her chair with a smirk. "I work hard at it."

He shook his head, still smiling, eyes glinting with something that might have been mischief-or admiration.

Probably both.

And Emilie—who got whatever guy she wanted but never trusted any of them to stay—felt the faintest, most treacherous flicker of curiosity.

Maybe Belle wasn’t the only one who deserved good things.

Maybe.

But not yet.

For now, she just raised an eyebrow, tore a piece of bread in half, and said, "You’ve got five minutes to impress me, Norris. Don’t waste it."

Lando leaned forward like a man accepting a dare.

"Oh," he said, grinning wide and unrepentant. "I’m definitely going to waste it."

And to her absolute horror—

Emilie found herself smiling.

Real and warm and helpless against it.

Maybe chaotic sunshine wasn’t the worst thing to let into her life after all.

Emilie watched him over the rim of her glass, amused in the way one might watch a golden retriever attempt calculus. She was prepared for the usual: some half-flirty line, some brag, something easy to roll her eyes at and dismiss.

Instead, Lando immediately, and spectacularly, fumbled it.

“So, uh,” he began, sitting up straighter like he was about to give a business presentation, “I have a driver's license.”

Emilie blinked. “I should hope so,” she said dryly, “given your profession.”

“Yeah, but like,” Lando forged on, waving a hand vaguely, “I passed my first test. No minors. No majors. Totally clean sheet. Instructor said I was ‘shockingly competent.’” He smiled at her like this was an accomplishment that should win him a Nobel Prize.

Emilie couldn’t help it: she laughed.

A small one, sharp and unexpected, escaping before she could stop it.

Lando lit up like a Christmas tree. Actually lit up.

Encouraged, he kept going, words tumbling out like he couldn’t stop them if he tried.

“And—and I can cook a bit. Like, real cooking. Not just the ‘put something in the microwave and pray’ thing.”

“What’s your specialty?” Emilie asked, playing along, one eyebrow lifted.

He considered this with deep, theatrical seriousness.

“Pasta,” he said finally. “But, like, real pasta. I once made fresh tagliatelle for a girl I liked.”

Emilie smirked. “And did she survive?”

“She did,” Lando said solemnly. “She even asked for seconds. Probably because I didn’t tell her I dropped half the dough on the floor and had to start over.”

Emilie shook her head, sipping her champagne to hide the curve of her mouth.

God, he was awful at this. And somehow—somehow—it was working.

Not because he was slick.

But because he wasn’t.

He was throwing everything out there, a whole messy human open on the table, with no polish, no angles, no agenda except: please like me.

And it was dangerously, horribly endearing.

Emilie, who had been courted by men with yachts and family names older than democracy, who had been wooed with Cartier and poetry and private jets, found herself genuinely, terrifyingly charmed by a boy who thought shockingly competent driving was an acceptable conversation starter.

“You’ve got two minutes left,” she said lightly.

Lando gasped in mock horror. “Pressure’s on.”

He drummed his fingers on the table, thinking.

Then he leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was telling her a state secret."Okay. Here's the real selling point: I'm friends with Max, and you know what that means?"

She gave him a look that said choose your next words very carefully.

"It means," Lando said solemnly, "I have survived approximately fourteen near-death experiences involving go-karts, jet skis, and very questionable Red Bull stunts. So I'm basically immortal."

Emilie snorted into her glass.

"And," Lando added, beaming now, "I'm very good at getting bloodstains out of clothes. Just in case."

"You expect me to believe you're domestically capable," she said, eyeing him skeptically.

"I can use a washing machine," he said proudly. "Mostly."

"Terrifying."

Lando grinned wider, basking in the fact she hadn't told him to go away yet. His foot accidentally bumped hers under the table, and he yelped, jerking back like he'd been electrocuted.

"Sorry! Sorry—" he spluttered, flailing slightly. "Didn’t mean—"

"Relax," Emilie said, amused despite herself. "I don't bite."

She paused.

"Unless provoked," she added sweetly, echoing Belle’s earlier words.

Lando looked half in love already.

The realization hit Emilie like a cold glass of water poured down her back.

No.

No, no, no.

This wasn’t how it went. She flirted. She played. She walked away before anyone got the chance to look at her like that.

But Lando didn’t seem to be strategizing, didn’t seem to be measuring her up like some glossy prize. He just looked... happy. A little awestruck. A little proud of himself for surviving her.

It was stupid. And messy. And probably a terrible idea.

But when Belle caught her eye across the room and gave her a tiny, knowing smile—the same smile Belle had worn when Max had first reached for her hand like it was instinct—

Emilie thought, maybe, just maybe, she could let herself enjoy this. For today. For a minute.

For herself.

She set her champagne down and looked at Lando, who was still watching her like she might vanish if he blinked.

"Alright, Norris," Emilie said, sitting back with a mock-sigh. "You've survived the first round."

Lando brightened so much it was almost dangerous.

"And what’s round two?" he asked eagerly.

Emilie smirked.

"You’ll find out," she said, standing up, brushing invisible crumbs off her sleek dress. She leaned down, just enough to whisper near his ear:

"If you're lucky."

And when she sauntered off to steal a slice of cake before the toddlers got to it, she didn’t even have to look back to know Lando was grinning like he’d just won the Miami Grand Prix again.

***

It started innocently enough.

At least, that's what Lando told himself.

It was late, he was jetlagged, and he was lying in bed with one arm slung over his face, phone glowing much too brightly against the dark hotel room ceiling. He should’ve been asleep.

Instead, he was... scrolling.

Specifically, scrolling through Emilie Abadie’s Instagram.

In his defense, she’d posted a new story earlier that day—something about a bookstore in Paris—and he’d swiped up without thinking, curious. From there, well... it was a slippery slope.

He clicked on her profile. Scrolled a little. Then a little more. And a little more. Until suddenly he wasn’t just seeing today's cute coffee shop photo; he was deep in 2019 territory, where the grid looked different—less polished, more chaotic.

And there it was.

The Bikini Picture.

Emilie, standing on a beach somewhere impossibly blue, wearing sunglasses, a tiny black bikini, and a smirk that could have started wars. Hair loose, skin sun-kissed, hand holding some drink with a tiny paper umbrella in it.

She looked effortless. Untouchable. Dangerous.

Lando, because he had the survival instincts of a drunk moth around a flame, stared at it for too long.

And then, as if his thumb had a mind of its own—

He liked it.

The screen flashed red.

Hearted.

The panic hit instantly.

"NO—NO, NO, NO—" he yelped, scrambling like he'd just touched a live wire. He frantically unliked it—smashed the heart again until it turned back to grey—but it was too late.

He knew how Instagram worked.

She got the notification.

He sat there, paralyzed, mortified, vibrating with shame.

He had liked a bikini photo from five years ago.

He was that guy.

The type of guy who accidentally cyberstalked someone so hard he time-traveled.

Lando buried his face in his pillow and groaned loud enough to scare himself.

At some point, he gave up and texted Oscar.

***

Text Messages: Lando Norris & Oscar Piastri

Lando: Mate. I just liked a 2019 bikini pic on Emilie’s Instagram. Kill me.

Oscar: 😂😂😂

Lando: I’m actually dying. This is fatal. I’ve died.

Oscar: How did you even GET to 2019??

Lando: I was just looking!! And then scrolling!! And then it happened!! I didn’t MEAN TO.

Oscar: Famous last words.

Lando: I hate you.

Lando: I'm gonna throw myself into the sea.

Oscar: Before you do, serious question. You like her, don’t you?

***

Later, when Lando had the courage to crawl out from under his metaphorical rock, he found himself sitting in Oscar’s hotel room, tossing a mini water bottle up and down, trying not to look like he wanted to crawl into the mini fridge and hide.

Oscar just sat on the bed, arms folded, regarding him with the amused patience of someone who had absolutely seen this coming.

“So,” Oscar said, grinning slightly. “Emilie, huh?”

Lando groaned. “It’s not like that.”

Oscar raised a brow.

Lando dropped the water bottle onto the floor with a thunk. “Okay. Fine. Maybe it’s a little like that.”

Oscar didn’t say anything, just nodded sagely, like he was some ancient wisdom god instead of a 23-year-old who still ate cereal for dinner sometimes.

“She’s just…” Lando floundered for words, pushing a hand through his hair. “She’s scary. And beautiful. And scary.”

“You said scary twice.”

“It felt necessary.”

Oscar snorted. “Sounds like you’ve got it bad, mate.”

Lando slumped. “I don’t even know if she likes me. She could crush me like a bug if she wanted.”

“Would you be mad about it?” Oscar asked.

Lando considered it. “…No.”

Oscar laughed, then sobered slightly, watching him.

“You ever just know?” Lando asked suddenly, voice quieter. “That someone’s different? Like—you’re still kind of terrified, but you don’t want to run away?”

Oscar leaned back against the headboard, thinking for a second.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “With Lily, I knew.”

Lando glanced at him, genuinely curious.

“I mean, it wasn’t like lightning bolts or fireworks or anything,” Oscar said, shrugging. “It was quieter. Like... I realized I was happier when she was around. And when she wasn’t, it felt like something was missing. She made life easier. Not harder. You know?”

Lando nodded slowly.

“People talk about love like it’s supposed to be this huge, dramatic thing,” Oscar continued. “But honestly? The real thing’s just... peace. Trust. Someone you want to tell stupid jokes to at 2 a.m.”

Lando swallowed.

He thought about Emilie.

The way she made fun of him mercilessly, but smiled when she thought he wasn’t looking.

The way she laughed—not a polite, reserved laugh, but a real, from-the-gut laugh—when he told the world’s dumbest jokes.

The way he felt when she was near. Like maybe he could stop trying to be impressive and just... be.

Maybe it wasn’t supposed to be easy.

Maybe it was just supposed to be real.

“You think I’ve got a chance?” Lando asked, half-joking, half-serious.

Oscar smiled.

“You’ve already got one,” he said. “You’re just too scared to believe it.”

Lando sat back, heart thudding a little too fast, a little too hopeful.

Maybe he’d make an idiot of himself.

Maybe Emilie would laugh him off.

Maybe she’d crush him like a bug.

But maybe—maybe—he’d survive it.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be worth it.

***

Instagram Direct Messages: Lando Norris & Emilie Abadie

Emilie: So.

Emilie: I noticed you liked a little throwback.

Emilie: From 2019, no less. Deep cuts.  Impressive research skills.

Emilie: You know, you could’ve just asked me to dinner.  Would’ve been less creepy than liking my bikini photos at 2 a.m.

Emilie:  (But I guess this way was more entertaining.)

Emilie: You still can ask, by the way. If you’re brave enough.

Lando: Would you maybe want to have dinner with me? Without bikinis. I mean you can wear one if you want but not like a requirement— This is going badly.

Emilie: I’m free Thursday. Pick somewhere good.

Emilie: And try not to like any more photos from my past while you’re planning it.

Emilie: Or do. It’s cute. In a tragic way.

Lando: Bold of you to assume I won’t.

Emilie: Bold of you to assume I’ll say yes if you like the duck-face selfie from 2017.

Lando: Challenge accepted.

Emilie: Challenge lost.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Max Fewtrell: BRO. You saw it, right??  Charles fully crashed his soul mid-interview??

Lando: Unfortunately, yes. It was like watching someone remember they left the oven on... and also their sister.

Max Fewtrell: Iconic. Karun was like “her birthday, right?”  And Charles just downloaded a full panic attack.

Max Fewtrell: I screamed. Like—out loud. In public.

Lando Norris: It was kind of beautiful tbh. Like watching karma arrive with a mic and a production crew.

Max Fewtrell: Is his sister okay though? Do we know? Does she have a burner Twitter? I feel like she would.

Lando Norris:  She’s fine. Emilie’s with her.

Max Fewtrell: Who’s Emilie?

Lando Norris: ... She's Belle’s best friend.  Sharp. Dangerous. Possibly psychic. Says terrifyingly accurate things about my emotional state and then walks away in heels

Lando: She’s terrifying. Also brilliant.  And she’s like…scarily beautiful. 

Max Fewtrell: You have a crush on her, don’t you.

Lando: …I didn’t say that.

Max Fewtrell: YOU ABSOLUTELY DO OH MY GOD YOU DO This is the best gossip of the day and Charles had a meltdown on live TV

Lando: Shut up Also can we go back to Charles??

Max Fewtrell: No Because now I want to know why you know where Belle is And how you know Emilie’s with her And why you’re being so weirdly calm

Lando: …because I went to the wedding?

Max Fewtrell: THE WHAT

Lando: ...

Max Fewtrell: LAN THE WEDDING

Lando: Yeah. Belle and Max Verstappen. They got married. I was invited. Very small. City Hall. No media. Emilie picked the flowers

Max Fewtrell: MAX. VERSTAPPEN?!

Lando: Yes

Max Fewtrell:  YOU MEAN TO TELL ME CHARLES IS HAVING A BREAKDOWN ABOUT FORGETTING HIS SISTER’S BIRTHDAY AND DOESN’T EVEN KNOW SHE’S MARRIED TO HIS RIVAL???

Lando: Correct

Max Fewtrell: I need to lie down. And then I need popcorn And possibly therapy But also more of this

Lando: Same. Group chat is chaos Do not ask to be added It’s war in there

Max Fewtrell: This is better than Drive to Survive You’ve been sitting on this gossip for HOW LONG?

Lando: Long enough to know I value my life And Max Verstappen would kill me if I leaked it before they were ready

Max Fewtrell: Fair

Lando: You think Charles is spiraling now… Wait until he finds out Max is family now

Max Fewtrell: My god. This is better than Netflix.

***

Text Messages: Emilie Abadie & Lando Norris

Lando Norris

hey is belle okay?

Emilie: She will be. She’s hurting, but she’s strong. And she has Max. That helps. (And me, obviously. I threaten people on her behalf.)

Lando: yeah i’d be more scared of you tbh Lando:  but good Lando: she doesn’t deserve to feel that way Lando:  no one does

Emilie: this is very rude. I was not prepared for sincerity. Please warn me next time

Lando: sorry next time i’ll open with a meme but i meant it

Emilie: I know. That’s why I’m weirdly touched. Ugh. Gross. I hate this. Emotions are banned after 10pm.

Lando: it’s 9:58

Emilie: you’re on thin ice, Norris.

Lando: wouldn’t be the first time but thanks for telling me and tell her i said… i don’t know that i’m rooting for her and that she deserves  better brothers and maybe a pony idk what people say in these situations

Emilie: you’re doing fine she’ll appreciate it and so do I

Emilie: you’re a good guy, Lando.

Lando: 😳 wow ok i’m printing this and framing it

Emilie: Don’t push it. ***

The restaurant buzzed softly around them—quiet conversations, clinking silverware, candlelight glinting off glasses. It was the kind of cozy, tucked-away Monaco spot that felt private even when it was packed, the kind of place that made Lando loosen his shoulders for the first time in days.

Or, at least, it should have.

But honestly, Lando was too busy trying not to screw this up to relax.

Sitting across from Emilie Abadie—in a dim corner booth, with a bottle of wine between them and a shared plate of something fried—was more nerve-wracking than qualifying on a wet track.

She was devastating.

Not just in the obvious way, with her wild blonde hair and sharp mouth and the way she sipped wine like she was judging the entire country of France—but in the way she looked at him. Like she was trying to decide if he was worth the effort of knowing.

And God help him, he wanted to be worth it.

He was halfway through trying to come up with something clever when he saw her expression shift. Just a flicker—something hard and tight slipping across her face.

Lando followed her gaze.

Across the restaurant, standing up too fast, was Charles Leclerc.

And he was coming right for them.

"Uh," Lando said, sitting up a little straighter. "Is that...?"

"Unfortunately," Emilie said under her breath, setting her wineglass down with a soft clink.

Charles didn’t even hesitate. Just stormed across the room, panic practically pouring off him. He stopped at their table, ignoring Lando completely, and zeroed in on Emilie.

"Emilie," Charles said, voice tight, "we need to talk. About Belle."

Emilie didn’t even blink.

"I’m having dinner," she said coolly. "Sit down or leave."

Charles didn’t sit. He stood there, vibrating with panic and guilt and about four too many emotions for the room they were in.

“She posted a horse,” Charles burst out, voice climbing. “A horse! She never said anything! She’s still not answering me. You’ve seen her. You know. Why won’t you just—just tell me what’s going on?!”

Lando, still frozen in his seat, watched Emilie set her napkin down. Slowly. Precisely. Like she was a surgeon preparing for a very delicate operation.

Her smile disappeared.

And then—God help him—she destroyed Charles.

"You think you're owed answers now?" she asked, voice so sharp Lando actually felt it across the table. "After months of ignoring every warning sign? After standing in the same garage with her and looking through her like she wasn’t even real?"

Charles flinched.

Emilie leaned in slightly, not loud, but lethal.

"You want to know why she’s not answering you? Because you only want her when it’s convenient. When it fits your schedule. When it doesn’t mess up the perfect story you tell yourself about your family."

Lando sat back, eyes wide, utterly mesmerized.

He had seen Emilie be sharp before—sarcastic, teasing, merciless with Daniel’s cartoon ties—but this was something else.

This was fierce.

This was loyalty turned into a weapon.

And it was, without a doubt, the moment he realized he was completely screwed.

Because he wasn’t falling for her because she was pretty (although, let’s be honest, that wasn’t exactly hurting). He was falling because of this.

Because of the way she fought.

Because of the way she protected the people she loved like it was breathing.

Because he could see, in every word she threw like knives, how much Belle meant to her.

He had never wanted anything more in his life than to be someone Emilie Abadie fought for like that.

Charles opened his mouth, desperate, and Emilie cut him down again.

"You forgot her birthday," she said, each word a bullet. "And you think a few panicked phone calls are enough to fix that?"

Lando couldn’t even feel sorry for Charles at that point. Not really.

He was too busy being completely, absolutely undone.

"You don't love Belle the way you should," Emilie said, voice low and devastating. "You love the idea of her. The safe, quiet little sister who never asks for anything. Who never demands too much. Who lets you shine without ever threatening your light."

And there it was—the fatal blow.

Charles stood there like he had been hollowed out.

Good, Lando thought savagely.

He didn’t deserve her.

He didn’t deserve Belle’s softness—or Emilie’s fury on her behalf.

Emilie, calm as anything now, lifted her glass again like she hadn’t just torn him to pieces.

"Now," she said, "go back to your table. Apologize to Alexandra. And maybe—if you’re lucky—figure out how to be someone your sister actually wants to let back in."

Charles didn’t even argue.

He just turned and walked away, a shell of himself.

The moment he was gone, the restaurant buzzed back to life like nothing had happened.

And Lando just sat there, staring at Emilie like she’d hung the moon.

Because this was what undid him, completely and without mercy:

Not the beauty. Not the sharp tongue. Not even the way she teased him into laughing at himself.

It was this.

It was the way she loved.

Fierce. Loyal. Uncompromising.

It was the way she stood her ground, sword drawn, in defense of someone who needed it.

It was the way she made it absolutely clear that you didn’t get to hurt people she loved without consequences.

God, he was in trouble.

Emilie caught him staring and arched an eyebrow, setting her wineglass down with practiced grace. "What?"

Lando blinked, scrambled for something to say, something that didn’t sound like I might be in love with you.

"That was," he said, voice a little hoarse, "the most badass thing I’ve ever seen."

A faint, real smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "He needed to hear it."

"He did," Lando agreed. Then, quieter, "And Belle’s lucky to have you."

Something flickered across Emilie’s face at that—something small and vulnerable and quickly hidden.

She picked up her glass again, studying him over the rim. "Careful, Norris. Say too many nice things and I might start thinking you mean them."

"I do," he said simply.

And this time, she didn’t roll her eyes. Didn’t mock him.

She just held his gaze, steady and assessing, like she was weighing whether he was telling the truth.

Whatever she saw must have satisfied her, because after a long beat, she said lightly, "Good."

She took a sip of her wine. Then, smiling like she hadn't just broken and remade his entire world in under five minutes, she leaned in closer.

"Now," Emilie said, "where were we before the drama?"

Lando couldn’t even remember.

All he could think about was how wildly, desperately he wanted to kiss her.

***

Emilie sat back in her chair, wine glass light between her fingers, and tried to act like her heart wasn’t pounding against her ribs.

Like Lando’s words hadn’t just cracked something wide open inside her.

Belle’s lucky to have you. I mean it.

She didn’t know what she had expected—maybe some teasing, maybe a joke to defuse the moment—but not that.

Not sincerity.

Not him.

She should’ve brushed it off. Should’ve quipped something scathing and easy, should’ve knocked the moment off balance before it could land. But she hadn’t.

Because something about the way Lando looked at her—steady, certain, real—had made her hesitate.

Careful, Abadie, she warned herself. You know better.

Boys said things they didn’t mean. Boys fell in love with ideas, not people. Boys liked her because she was shiny and sharp, not because they saw her.

And yet... Lando hadn’t looked at her like she was shiny.

He’d looked at her like she was something solid.

Like he saw the messy, brutal, fiercely protective parts of her—and didn’t want to flinch away.

It was terrifying.

It was worse than terrifying.

It was hope.

"Now," Emilie said, forcing her voice back into familiar, teasing steadiness as she leaned across the table, "where were we before the drama?"

Lando blinked at her, like he needed a second to remember where he was. It made something traitorous and warm flicker in her chest.

"Uh," he said, a little breathless, "I think I was telling you about the time I accidentally set a microwave on fire?"

Emilie let out a real, surprised laugh. "You did what?"

He grinned—wide and messy and self-deprecating—and just like that, the intensity between them loosened into something lighter. Still charged. Still humming just under the surface. But lighter.

"I was fifteen, okay," Lando said, leaning in, elbows on the table. "And I thought you could microwave foil. Spoiler alert: you cannot."

"Oh my God," Emilie said, actually laughing now. "You’re lucky you didn’t set the whole house on fire."

"Almost did," Lando said proudly. "My mum nearly murdered me."

He told the story with his whole body—hands flying, eyes bright—and Emilie listened, smiling in spite of herself, feeling the last shards of her ice defenses start to melt.

He’s dangerous, she thought distantly. And not for the reasons you’re used to.

He was dangerous because he wasn’t pretending.

Because he didn’t want her to be less. Or smaller. Or easier to love.

He wanted this version of her—the messy, complicated, fierce version—and it felt so new and so scary she almost didn’t know how to hold it.

Halfway through his story about the microwave (and the resulting three-day grounding), Emilie caught herself staring.

Caught herself wondering what it would be like to lean across the table and kiss him.

Idiot, she thought, draining the last of her wine to kill the impulse.

But even as she set the glass down, her hand brushed against his—just lightly, just by accident—and Lando froze.

The air between them tightened again. Not heavy. Not sharp. But electric.

His hand stayed where it was.

Waiting.

Not grabbing. Not pushing. Just waiting.

An invitation.

An if you want to.

Emilie’s chest squeezed so tight she could barely breathe.

She wasn’t used to boys who waited.

She wasn’t used to being wanted without being hunted.

Slowly—so slowly she barely let herself think about it—she turned her palm up and let her fingers brush his.

His hand closed gently over hers, warm and callused and careful.

And Emilie, against every rule she had ever made for herself, didn’t pull away.

***

The night air was cooler than the restaurant had been, crisp against Emilie’s skin as they stepped out into the narrow Monaco street.

 The world felt smaller out here—quieter, sleepier. The kind of night you could almost believe was magic.

Their hands brushed once, then again. And then—without speaking—Lando laced his fingers through hers.

Just like that.

No fuss. No dramatics. No careful maneuvering.

Like he’d been waiting for permission, and now that he had it, he wasn’t letting go.

Emilie let herself be pulled along, hand in his, heart hammering an unfamiliar rhythm against her ribs.

It was terrifying.

It was wonderful.

Neither of them said much as they walked. The occasional motorbike buzzed by; laughter floated out of the bars they passed. But between them—just a quiet hum of something new.

When they reached a corner where the street narrowed and the light hit just right, Lando slowed.

Emilie slowed too, their joined hands swinging slightly between them.

Lando glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

She caught the look—shy and reckless all at once—and her heart gave a traitorous thud.

"You’re quiet," he said, voice soft, like he was afraid to scare her off.

"Maybe I’m enjoying the peace," Emilie said lightly.

He smiled at that. Real and crooked. The kind of smile that made her want to hand over every sharp piece of herself without a second thought.

"You were incredible tonight," he said, after a moment.

Emilie huffed a laugh, looking away. "I was brutal."

"You were brilliant," Lando corrected. "You were exactly what Belle needed."

The words were so unexpected, so easy and true, that Emilie almost stumbled.

God, stop, she told herself. Stop falling faster.

But it was already too late.

When she looked back at him, Lando was still watching her with that same maddening, open expression. Like he liked her exactly as she was. All fire. All teeth. All soft, bruised, careful heart underneath.

They stopped under a streetlamp without meaning to.

It pooled gold light around them, softening the edges of everything. Making the world feel like it had shrunk to just this. Just them.

Lando’s hand tightened slightly around hers.

"Emilie," he said, and the way he said it—half a question, half a prayer—made something inside her crack open.

She should have said something sharp. She should have laughed it off.

Instead, she just lifted her chin and looked at him.

"Are you going to kiss me, Norris," she asked, voice deceptively cool, "or are you going to keep holding my hand like we’re on a third-grade field trip?"

Lando made a small, strangled noise that might have been a laugh—or a whimper—and then he was stepping closer, so close she could feel the heat of him.

"I’m working up to it," he muttered.

"You’re slow," Emilie said.

"You’re terrifying," Lando shot back, grinning.

And then—finally, finally—he kissed her.

It wasn’t perfect.

It wasn’t smooth or practiced.

It was messy and a little desperate and so real it nearly brought Emilie to her knees.

Lando kissed like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to. Like he wanted to be sure she knew she could push him away at any second—and like he was praying she wouldn’t.

And Emilie—fierce, guarded Emilie—kissed him back with all the reckless, terrifying hope she hadn’t realized she’d been carrying for years.

It was a soft, stumbling collision of mouths and laughter and fingers tightening on jackets—and it was, without a doubt, the most dangerous, precious thing Emilie had ever let herself have.

When they finally pulled apart, Lando rested his forehead lightly against hers, still holding her hand.

"You scare the shit out of me," he whispered, grinning.

"Good," Emilie whispered back.

But when he kissed her again—this time slower, sweeter—she let herself believe, for just one dangerous, dazzling second, that maybe she didn't have to be scary forever.

That maybe someone had finally seen her.

And wanted her anyway.

***

Text Messages: Max Fewtrell & Lando Norris

Lando: Bro. BRO. I’m going to throw up.

Max: ok congrats on what?? nervous breakdown? race win? what are we celebrating

Lando: i kissed her

Max: who

Lando: her

Max: MATE WHO

Lando: EMILIE

Max: WAIT wait wait wait BACK UP u kissed her??? WHAT DO YOU MEAN "I KISSED HER"???

Lando: we had dinner and i didn’t die and then she LET ME HOLD HER HAND and THEN SHE LET ME KISS HER

Max: mate i need a minute

 since WHEN were you even going on dates with her??? this is like finding out ur mate moved to another country and got married without telling u what do u mean you just had dinner casually WHEN WAS THIS PLANNED

Lando: it just happened kind of after i liked her 2019 bikini pic at 2am

Max: what the fuck

Max: YOU DID WHAT

Max: YOU DUMB IDIOT LEGEND

Lando: she slid into my dms after told me i could just ask her out next time instead of stalking her like a creep

Max: i’m crying i’m so proud u’re still an idiot but like a victorious idiot

Lando: i’m literally shaking bro like i kissed her and she kissed me BACK

Max: wtf and she didn’t mace you or slap you??? mate she might actually like you

Lando: i think she might

Lando: i’m gonna marry her

Max: ok buddy let’s aim for a second date first

Lando: i’m so fucked

Max: in the best way

[imrix]

Right, but this is just factually not true. It is not using your power to force another's actions 'without regard to their will', one of the first things we learn about the mind trick (trick, mind trick, it is not control, it is a trick) is that it is an 'influence on the weak-minded', that the target's will is, in fact, an extremely relevant trait to regard when using it.

Someone who actively chooses otherwise is... the sort of person who, if you try to use a mind trick on, they shrug it off and mock you for waving your hand around like a goof. It cannot, in fact, control minds in the sense of overriding people's will and puppeting them around, making them do things they don't want to do.

Before anybody says it: Yes, that probably happened somewhere in the expanded material. If it wasn't a sith using the force to dominate and control people (because that's what the dark side does), then I'm gonna call bad writing, because the Star Wars expanded universe is so sprawling and has so many authors that you can't take it all as canon, it just isn't coherent to that degree. Like, it's bad enough that Wookiepedia has an article on what counts as canon, and even that can't agree on one answer because it's changed over the years.

If you stick to the primary sources, there is a consistent throughline that the mind trick can do... pretty much what you'd expect a reasonably skilled smooth talker to do. Distract some bored guards to look the other way for a moment, convince some dumb goons to wave you through, that kind of thing. It's not XCOM-style mental domination, it's the psychic equivalent of exclaiming, "oh my god what's that behind you!" and then running away really fast, and it's consistently used as a means of avoiding violence, in keeping with the jedi as Obi-Wan first describes them; guardians of peace.

Like, even if we get down to the level of that "you don't want to sell me death sticks" scene in AotC, it's playing a bit loosey-goosey with the rules for the sake of the gag (rule of comedy, y'all), but even there it pays to keep in mind that at that point jedi like Obi-Wan are still, y'know, storied heroes of the galaxy, famous for saving entire planets from the brink of disaster.

If somebody like that sits down at a bar with me, all hopped up on mystic understanding of the universe and, in the course of chatting, he tells me that I should rethink what I'm doing with my life, yeah, I figure he might have a point!

[jakesimfromstatefarm]

──── ONLY YOU . ↳ one shot // also part of the no doubt series !

✎ᝰ .ᐟ aka the party, the ex, and the moment you realize jake is exactly where he wants to be.

── sim jaeyun x f!reader ౨ৎ wc. 861 ⌗ angst (a lil), the ex, mentions of the ex scene (this is for all you no doubt ex scene lovers i traumatized─this is my apology to you), mentions of insecurities & doubt, but then comfort :')

↳ IMPORTANT NOTE .ᐟ ── this is part of my no doubt series ─ a sequel series of short drabbles that take place after the events of my fic no doubt, and show jake & reader's relationship throughout their first year together (& how jake wins her trust & love back hehe) ── THIS CAN BE READ AS A ONE-SHOT, however, there will be some easter eggs if you've read no doubt before!

↳ addie's ✉ .ᐟ ── sooo...so far this series has been all fluff & lighthearted & all that fun handy dandy stuff...until this one. not saying this one isn't fluff, but it's more so realistic. because of course, y/n still has her remnants of doubt & fear lingering within, especially after how hurt she was in no doubt. but all she needs is a lil reassurance from her favorite boy :') and he's more than willing to give it to her.

You’re not proud of it.

The way your heart speeds up—anxiously, irrationally, helplessly.

The way your fingers tighten around the drink in your hand.

The way your jaw clenches when your eyes lock onto her from across the crowded room.

Jenn.

Of course she’s here. Because the universe has a horrible sense of humor—and, apparently, a personal vendetta against you.

The party is alive all around you, music echoing, bodies swaying, lights flashing—but it all fades into nothingness as you watch her slip through the crowd.

And she’s smiling, laughing, existing—and, worst of all, getting closer.

Not to you, no.

To Jake.

To Jake, who told you to stay put while he grabs drinks for the both of you.

To Jake, who’s now swallowed up somewhere in the crowd, just far enough to feel out of reach.

And no matter how much you blink, no matter how hard you fight the rising heat in your chest, all you can do is watch.

You don’t even realize you’re holding your breath until you see her reach for him.

An all-too-familiar lean-in.

An all-too-familiar smile.

And suddenly, you’re back there.

Back to the last party, the last time you saw them together, the last time you let yourself believe that Jake was—

No. No, stop it.

This is different. You know it is. You know him.

But knowing doesn’t stop the sinking feeling in your chest.

You think you might be sick.

You look away, swallowing the lump forming in your throat, forcing yourself to calm down, please, calm down—

“Hey.”

Jake’s voice.

Right there.

You blink up, startled, and—wait, when did he even get here?

He’s standing right in front of you now, brows furrowed, concern bleeding into every line of his face.

“Y/N,” he says, voice quieter now. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes flicker over your face like he knows.

Like he sees it.

And you hate that. You hate that he sees you so well.

Knows you.

Hate that he’s the only one who ever has, and the only one who ever will.

You force out a shaky laugh, “Nothing, I—”

“Y/N.”

His voice says your name like a plea, and your stomach twists.

You glance past him, where Jenn is still standing—watching, waiting.

Waiting for him.

You drop your gaze, “It’s okay, really. You don’t have to—”

“I do.”

You freeze, your eyes shooting up to his. His own concerned ones, searching yours so, so desperately.

Jake exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair, then—before you can react—he grabs your free hand and pulls you through the crowd.

You don’t even get a chance to protest before you’re being led out of the party, past the music and the people and this stupid, suffocating doubt in your chest.

“Jake—”

He doesn’t stop.

Not until you’re both outside on the balcony, the crisp city air hitting you fast—cold and grounding, like a harsh wake-up call, the only sound being the muffled bass from behind the doors.

And then—Jake turns to you.

His grip on your hand tightens, like he’s making sure you don’t run.

“Look at me.”

Your heart skips a beat.

But you do. Slowly.

His other hand comes up to your jaw, his touch warm against your skin, his thumb brushing softly at your cheek and tilting your face towards his own.

He lets out an exhale.

“Y/N,” his voice is quiet—but real. “I need you to hear this, okay?”

You nod, barely breathing.

“You know it’s you. Always been you,” his voice is steady. Sure. Heartbreakingly true. “I don’t care about the past. I don’t care about anyone else. And I need you to believe that.”

Your throat tightens. Your eyes sting.

“I do, I just—”

“You don’t,” Jake’s voice wavers a little, but his grip doesn’t. “Not yet. And that’s okay. But I need you to know I’m not going anywhere. I’m not giving up when you doubt it. When you doubt me. I’ll show you, again and again, it’s only you.”

He pauses. His thumb swipes under your eye, catching the tear you didn’t even realize slipped out.

“I’ll remind you. Until you don’t need reminding anymore.”

You let out a shaky breath, but you can’t look away. From how honest he looks. From how serious he means it.

It’s too much.

It’s everything.

Jake studies you, studies the battle in your expression. Then—he softens, his mouth quirking into the smallest, gentlest smile.

“And if it helps,” he adds, leaning in like it’s a secret just for you, “I’m pretty sure she got the idea I’m actively avoiding her now.”

You choke out a laugh.

He grins, thumb swiping away another tear that escaped you instinctively, “There you are, pretty.”

And the way he says it—like he missed you, like he’s been waiting for you to come back to him—makes your heart break open in the best way.

But not in the painful way it used to.

In the way that feels like oh.

This is what love feels like.

And Jake—Jake watches you carefully, eyes flickering over your face, not saying anything else.

Just waiting.

Waiting for you.

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[mintyys-blog]

pls all i’ve been thinking about is soft!dark viltrumite mark coming to the realisation ominman did when he said “i think i miss my wife.” maybe reader leaves him after his behaviour and that’s when he realises. i just know you’ll write it so good!! :))

GONE | viltrumite mark x reader

INVINCIBLE MASTERLIST 2 | WARNINGS: implied kidnapping

Do not repost, translate, or rewrite my work (AI generated or otherwise) without my permission. @mintyys-blog

At first, Mark thought he was doing the right thing.

He didn’t ask you to stay by his side after the war, after Earth’s submission. He allowed it. He permitted you to live, to love him, to have a place in his new world. You didn’t need to understand his choices. You just needed to accept them — the way he accepted your fear, your silence, your trembling hands when you thought he wasn’t looking.

It was for the best, he told himself. You were fragile, like all humans. You needed to be protected, controlled, managed. You were his.

And for a long time, he lived in the delusion that that was enough.

Until one morning, you were gone. Not stolen. Not taken by force. Not dead. Gone.

He found your favorite mug still drying on the counter. Your scent lingered on the pillow. A single sweater draped over the back of the couch like you’d almost forgotten it.

You had packed lightly. Carefully. You had planned it.

When he realized that — that you had been quietly, painstakingly plotting your escape right under his nose — something inside him cracked.

He searched for you, of course. Days, then weeks, raging across continents and skies, shaking down entire cities, worlds, civilizations. If he had to crack the planet open to find you, he would.

But somehow, no matter how strong he was, you always stayed just out of reach. Like smoke slipping through his fingers.

And that’s when it happened. He stood alone in the empty ruin of what used to be your shared home.

The front door hung crooked on its hinges, swinging slightly every time the cold wind pushed through. The floors, once warm beneath your bare feet, were warped and cracked now, groaning under his heavy steps. Paint peeled from the walls in long, sickly strips, curling like dead leaves. Dust floated in the air, catching in the late afternoon light — thick enough that every breath tasted like ash and regret.

The kitchen was the worst.

The place where you used to dance barefoot while cooking, laughing at your own terrible jokes — now nothing more than broken glass and sagging cabinets. Your favorite mug, the one he had secretly glued back together a dozen times because you refused to throw it away, lay shattered in the sink.

He reached out, almost without thinking, and brushed his fingers against the edge of the counter where you used to sit in the mornings, swinging your legs and humming under your breath.

Your warmth wasn’t here anymore. Not even the ghost of it.

Only the heavy, rotting scent of time passing without you.

Mark’s hands curled into fists at his sides, the old floorboards creaking under the pressure of his restraint. His chest ached in a way he didn’t recognize — deep, hollow, desperate.

He had faced wars, rebellions, betrayals. He had broken civilizations that dared to defy him. He was supposed to be stronger than this.

But here, in the ruin of the life he had destroyed with his own hands, there was no enemy left to fight. Only himself.

The words slipped out before he even realized he was speaking: “I think… I miss my wife.” The words tasted foreign in his mouth. They shouldn’t have been possible — he was Viltrumite. He didn’t need anyone.

But the truth was cruel and heavy: You weren’t an accessory. You weren’t an obligation. You weren’t a pet he could keep in a gilded cage.

You were everything. And without you, the universe he conquered tasted like ash.

He realized then, with a kind of hollow horror, that in trying to possess you, he had driven you away.

And worse — that you might never forgive him enough to come back.

He could raze cities, topple worlds, break every bone in his body fighting for your return. But none of it could force you to love him again. Mark — for the first time in his life — understood what it meant to lose.

[occamstfs]

Evo Bio 101

Annoyed at the prospect of wasting time during his simple lectures, Craig's misplaced ambitions lead to a first hand lesson in (d)evolutionary biology.

Was possessed by the idea and couldn't not write it haha! Here's a story taking hair growth and brutification to the extreme ! Hope you enjoy! -Occam

It’s not that Craig didn’t want to teach the class, he was grateful to have a chance to instruct on anything even remotely close to his research area. Intro to Evolutionary Biology was directly in his wheelhouse and given how cutthroat his department was he was more than happy to jump at the chance.

It’s just- the class was so introductory it’s insulting. The course is required for all students in the university’s tiny biological anthropology program and judging by the recommended syllabus given to him by the department head, there’s not a day where Craig is going to teach his students anything they don’t already know.

Complaining under his breath as he makes his way to the classroom across campus, the doctoral candidate wonders if any of his undergraduates are even going to show up given how remedial the material seems. Kicking the air he wishes to himself that he’ll get the chance to teach them something novel. To show them what their field is all about, how man became man rather than droll lectures on Darwin’s finches and Mendel’s peas.

As soon as he utters the words to no one he shivers and his skin prickles with goosebumps before he fully stumbles over himself just outside the classroom door. There’s a quiet buzzing in the air and he looks around to find its source before noticing the time on an overhead clock and realizing he’s already late. Bumbling into the classroom he adjusts his tie and apologizes as he rushes to get his laptop set up.

“Sorry guys! Always forget these dinky 101 courses are relegated to the middle of nowhere,” there are a few quiet laughs but the lecturer is sure they’re just trying to appease him. He knows because he’s laughed at countless half-jokes from professors over the years. Craig continues to awkwardly mumble to the class as he waits for his equipment to bootup. After getting his introductory powerpoint running he wipes his brow and for the first time turns to look at his small class.

It’s then that he notices how warm it is in the room. Wiping his forehead, his stuffy sleeve wicks sweat from his brow and he assumes it’s just from nerves at standing in front of the bored faces of students who have done nothing today but go over reading lists and play icebreakers. Might as well get this over with. “Welcome all to the intro course on Evolutionary Biology! I’ll be your instructor, Craig Stoll. See a few familiar faces around here from courses I’ve TAed, you guys can just call me Craig. I assume this is no one’s first rodeo-” 

Craig opens his mouth to slyly complain about how basic the material is, to mock the university requiring people well on their way to becoming experts in the field to waste time going over the most absolute basics. But before he can speak, it’s like his throat has been zapped free of moisture. He tries to clear his throat a couple times, stretching open his mouth in between doing so as he struggles in front of his few students. 

Smiling awkwardly as his forehead sweats even heavier under the bright lights above the lectern he turns and digs through his bag for the water bottle that scarcely leaves his side. Still turned away from the class he forces it to his lips and guzzles for a few seconds straight. After a moment he pauses and breathes heavily for a few seconds, gasping for air just as hungrily as he was gulping for water, and then he gets right back to it. Lifting the bottle perpendicular to the Earth as he drinks like he’s dying of thirst.

All students present eye him apprehensively, most of them had seen him countless times over the years sitting performatively uptight as he graded assignments and aided professors as needed. Never could they imagine him doing something so uncouth. One sophomore whispers to her neighbor, Dawson, concerned at how nervous the researcher seems. He replies mocking Craig, excited to see the meek man who gave him a 79 on a final last semester crash and burn.

Letting his bottle fall away once more there isn’t a thought in his mind questioning how peculiar what just happened was. He was thirsty, and now he no longer is. Simple. Craig turns back with a wide smile at his classroom clearing his throat once more this time successfully. He doesn’t notice how his voice echoes through the lecture hall, decidedly deeper than it should be, “Ahh, that’s better! Sorry again y’all!” 

In the front row a student motions for him to wipe his face as water is clearly dripping down his ever-so-slightly shadowed jaw. Craig’s face burns red as he does so, for the first time realizing himself that he’s acting a tad strange. This is only more apparent as he feels a burp begin to rise. He did drink that water awfully fast. Before the thought even occurs to him to silence it he lets it loose, producing the loudest burp he’s ever heard. Stunning the classroom to silence.

Even the student eager to watch Craig fail was shocked enough to grimace in second hand embarrassment as he sees the man’s eyes dull while burping like an animal in front of his class before scrambling back to his senses. “Oh jeez, I don’t know what’s gotten into me today- Let’s just, uhm, get to it.”

Directing his class’ attention to the slides he squirms and adjusts his tie with sweaty palms as he realizes how uncomfortable his clothes feel all of a sudden. Struggling to get the thing loose he grunts and flexes his feet as he suddenly feels confined. Trapped in his shoes. Shaking his head to stay focused he pointedly ignores the feeling of his toes poking the front of his dress shoes and starts lecturing.

Clicking past the introduction his brow furrows as he sees the title of the first slide of substance, ‘What is Evolutionary Biology?’ Grunting once more, Craig scratches his chest as he can’t help but address what he thinks to be the elephant in the room, unaware of the eyes staring at him as his arms seem to be stretching out from their sleeves. Not noticing as his perpetually clean shaven face suddenly begins to sprout stubbly sideburns and a scratchy neckbeard.

No, suddenly the rising anger in his mind can’t help but address how stupid it is that his boss is making him explain to these people essentially majoring in evolutionary biology what those words mean. Clenching his jaw as he yanks the tie from his neck and tosses it to the floor he speaks up, his voice clearly rougher than it was even seconds ago, “This is- You all know what evolutionary biology is, obviously,” his voice cracks deeper as he tries to remove his jacket, ignoring how it gets stuck on arms that have impossibly begun to lengthen. Hanging lower and heavier as he struggles against clothes that suddenly feel like they’re holding him captive. “You all know already!”

He hammers a fist down onto his lectern and hears the sound of his shirt tearing from the back. Students flinch in shock and a few begin to gather their things as Craig stares at his arm. His hand shouldn't be that big. Isn’t that big. Seeing the few thick hairs starting to pepper his bulkier wrists, Craig turns to look down at his chest as it begins to grow, grunting ever deeper he stares as two meaty pecs begin to strain the button-up. 

Hairs poke through the straining placket as they start to spread above the neckline. Every movement sends further sounds of tearing garment through the classroom as Craig tries to understand what he’s seeing. His voice sounds even duller, brutish even as he cries out,  “What goin- What’s, grgh, happening to me-” Thicker fingers yank off his shirt sending sweat and buttons flying into the classroom, freeing pecs that were not there even a minute ago.

Many students begin to flee the classroom as their instructor begins feeling up his chest with hands growing hairier. The student who was initially concerned dials emergency services as she ditches her laptop and begins to race out the door, terrified as Craig’s thickening brows start to just out further from his forehead. The man who was waiting to watch him awkwardly stumble over his words rather than join his fleeing cohort just watches enthralled. Staring at his widening jaw as it is promptly covered with a thick beard. 

Unaware of the small horde of students in flight from his lecture as his newly fat palms cup itching pecs as they grow meatier, Craig groans and apologizes to whoever remains as he leans underneath the small podium to deal with the sharp pain in his shoes. His ass bursts free from his pants, exposing briefs barely holding up and cheeks that are rapidly being decorated by a forest of fur. His wider back bumps into the lectern as he struggles to free his thick feet from shoes that were already a tad too snug. 

Speaking accompanied by the sound of his tearing at leather shoes, Craig tries to continue the lecture in between increasingly common grunts, “So me, unh- I think you uhhh- you know this evo- uhh” The one remaining student, Dawson, begins creeping closer, deadset to see this through to the end. Slowly pulling out his phone and setting it to record what is clearly some impossible miracle of science. Some reversion towards a more primal state, a devolution. Dawson smirks as he imagines how far this will set him ahead in the field.

Craig finds himself suddenly much less preoccupied with said science as he frees his newly hairy feet from their binds, leaving sweat steaming off of their wider soles as they continue to crack larger. Instead, mind leaking intelligence, he begins to drool and quietly grunt to himself as his cock begins to throb. Buried in a bush of thick and curled pubes which are themselves haloed by massive burly thighs, his rougher hands easily claw off his briefs to free his bobbing cock. Dripping with pre he sees veins visibly pulsing as what must be a foreskin begins to encroach towards a head almost purple and pre-covered. 

Dawson sneaks onward, zooming in to capture how Craig’s beard raises higher on his face to meet with the hair on his head growing wild. His eyes flicker across strange bulging muscles on his instructor’s shoulders as they’re rapidly blanketed by a forest of curls thicker than his own pubes. The student's mouth slightly waters as he adjusts the frame to capture the man’s massive hands as he begins to masturbate in the classroom. And then he drops his phone. 

On high alert, the man-no-longer jumps with a start and hits his head on the lectern, guffawing as he rubs the spot he foolishly bumped. Falling to the floor himself, Dawson is torn between fleeing like the rest of his wiser cohort and staring at a living breathing caveman. He can’t resist simply being the first man to witness prehistory. 

Beyond that, Dawson can’t help but stare at the exposed pits of a man he assumed was as smooth as marble. He’s almost possessed, staring at the wild jungle of pit hair that flies free from the brute’s raised arm, dripping with sweat. There are almost visible stink lines as body odor that hasn’t been found on the earth for thousands of millenia begins to fill the room. And the longer he stares, the longer he smells, he begins to lose any will to do anything but submit.

Perhaps it’s simply a biological reaction that Dawson finds himself rooted to the spot, taking in heady breaths of the fetid scent. Why else would his mouth fall open as his cock starts to rise at the sight, Craig speaks up seeing his own remaining pupil sitting there in some state between primal lust and fear. Feeling his cock bob against the podium and seeing himself nude in this clinical classroom, some semblance of self returns to the once-doctoral candidate.

“Dawsugh- Need help. Cra-ug ugh- Crag need help, nowugh” His jaw stings with pain as it widens more, his lips struggling to create sounds he knows he should be able to. As he stares down on the male planted on the ground he feels those bizarre instincts begin to return once more. His skin prickles, back cracking as it compacts while his chest grows wider with every heaving breath. Putting on mass as his mind begins to grow foggy once more.

Crag struggles to stay focused, struggles to remember who he is, what he’s doing. What that strange rectangle is at this lesser man’s feet. But with every precious second his twenty-first century concerns begin to evaporate. Worries about the grind of academia, disdain at being shoehorned into reading powerpoints no one cares to hear, the monotony of driving home in rush hour traffic. Everything begins to fade. Everything that is, besides the need to dominate the hairless, beta man staring at him.

Dawson can scarcely make heads or tails of what happens next as he sees the brute pounce on him. He feels the man’s calloused hands tear at his clothes and lies in repose, waiting for whatever Crag, apparently, is to do next. Desperately wanting fulfillment no man has experienced before. His hands clutch the caveman-apparent’s back, feeling the scratch of hair thicker than man can grow and the bulging sticky muscle beneath. 

Feeling the man’s river of precum dripping down his abs, Dawson begins to feel the prickle of his treasure trail regrowing as his feverish mind realizes his future far too late. Every inch of skin touching the man begins to change likewise. Arms he was never shy of lengthen just as he saw his least favorite TA’s did minutes ago, decorated with hair and bulging larger with thick muscle. 

Even quicker than he witnessed happening to Craig er, Crag, hair begins to engulf him. The concerted efforts towards maintaining his clean-cut appearance is absolutely erased as every inch of his form prickles with thick, dark hair growth. Crag sloppily kisses him and leaves a growing beard in the wake of his tongue. Forearms that have had the lightest coat of blonde peach fuzz erupt with fark jungles of hair before launching even further, coating his increasingly clumsy fingers and biceps twitching stronger with every haphazard movement.

Dawson’s hips reflexively hump into the man dominating him. His changing cock scratches against the man’s essentially fur covered torso which only heightens the student’s rapturous delight and accelerates his transformation. In no time at all the complexities and desires of the life he lived are wiped and replaced by a need to do nothing more than seek sustenance and pleasure. To serve and be served by the Crag who begins to hoist him against a wall and hump.

His handsome face changes, bones restructuring as hands he doesn’t recognize as he clings to Crag who is more monster than man. Feeling his rising cock rubbing against his new alpha’s as it begins to change he knows he is on the fast track to join him. He feels his vocal chords thickening as he cries out in ecstasy, Crag finally claiming what is his. Longer toes burst through tennis shoes, curling on the floor as nails yellow and thicken. 

Dawson’s sharper and larger teeth bite Crag’s shoulder as they continue to frot and fuck. They continue until their sweat and ancient semen coats much of the room, their new balls having apparently quite the short refractory period. When they finally tire or get bored their snores sound loud enough to break glass as they curl up together somewhere behind the podium. Bonded mates of a world that hasn’t existed for hundreds of thousands of years.

Well before the pair were done with consummating their new forms, the whole building was placed on lockdown. Quarantine crews working hastily to contain whatever impossible pathogen has apparently begun to infect the campus. Scientists across the world wait with bated breath from some update on whatever impossible goings on are hidden behind that yellow quarantine tape. Hearing the horrified testimonies of those students that escape does little to sate their curiosities, though it does invite them to be lab rats as scientists watch each and every one of them hoping to observe their own prehistoric changes.

It’s only a matter of time before some foolhardy explorer or researcher desperate for a discovery breaks the seal and finds something they could never be prepared for. Sooner rather than later the mounting need to know will be insurmountable. Sooner rather than later whatever this plague of the past they tried to keep behind lock and key will spread. And then those foolish enough to remain nearby will get a first hand experience on the nature of evolutionary biology. And to think, Craig Stoll was so concerned that nothing of note would come of the course.

[whatsupsonnyboy]

the first time || Joseph Quinn

PAIRING: Joseph Quinn x fem!Reader

SUMMARY: The first time you and Joe meet, something clicks—quiet but unmistakable. Like the start of something that doesn’t need to be explained. And really, who were you trying to fool?

wc: 7.3K

warning: smut (mdni!!), p in v sex, protected and unprotected sex, fluff, midly slow burn (but not really lol), there's just lots of sweet boy joe and amazing sex

a/n: hey, so as i've already post about, i've been writing a bunch of one shots of how it might feel (in my mind ofc) to be in a relationship with this golden boy... so here it is, the first one. I'll post more eventually, it’s not really a story with parts but more like a collection of scenes that pop into my head. They’re not directly connected, but they all belong in the same universe. Hope you enjoy it! 🫶🏾

Feedback is welcomed <3

request are open  | masterlist

You hadn’t planned to stay long.

Just a drink or two. Say hi to Wes. Smile politely, maybe sneak out before midnight with the excuse of a fake early morning.

But then he was there.

You didn’t even notice him at first—just another face in the mix, half-shadowed by the glow of string lights and the low thrum of music. But then he laughed. God, that laugh. Low and rough and golden around the edges. And when you turned to look, really look, he was already looking at you.

That was the first hit. The first crackle of something electric and new.

Wes introduced you. Casual. Effortless. And suddenly you were standing closer than necessary, drinks in hand, eyes locked, trading names like they meant something more.

He was funny. Way funnier than he had any right to be. And warm. Charming in a way that wasn’t performative, but lived-in. Like he didn’t need to impress anyone but couldn’t help doing it anyway.

You asked about his work—half curious, half testing. He didn’t dodge, didn’t show off. Just smiled, scratched the back of his neck, and said, “I love it. Even when it’s a mess. Maybe especially then.”

You nodded, because you got it. Because you were already thinking the same thing about him.

Time blurred after that. Drinks refilled. Conversations spiraled—music, books, worst dates ever, the best breakfast food after 2 a.m. You laughed so hard at one of his stories you had to cover your mouth with your hand, and he just grinned at you like you were his new favorite thing.

When people started leaving, neither of you moved. You were leaned into each other now, shoulders brushing. His fingers drummed absently on his glass. Yours curled around the edge of the sofa like they wanted to close the space.

So when he offered to walk you home, it didn’t feel like a decision.

It felt like the natural next breath.

You walked through the quiet streets, city humming softly around you, your conversation dipping into silences that weren’t awkward, just charged. Your arms bumped once. Then again. And neither of you apologized.

By the time you reached your building, the air felt thicker somehow. Like it knew.

You paused outside the door, keys in hand, heartbeat tapping like a warning or a dare.

“Do you wanna come up?” you asked.

And he—of course he did.

The elevator was quiet, slow, and small enough that your shoulder brushed his again. This time, he didn’t pretend it was an accident.

He looked at you—really looked at you—and that was it.

You kissed him.

There was no hesitation. No awkward pause. Just the sharp inhale before your mouths collided, hot and eager, like you’d both been waiting for permission all night.

His hand cupped the back of your neck. Yours slid into his hair. You kissed like the elevator could betray you at any moment, like you only had seconds, and every one of them mattered.

When the doors slid open on your floor, your lips were still touching, your breath caught between kisses.

And you have no idea what you were doing, but it felt so right that questioning yourself about it wasn’t even an option. 

-

The door clicked shut behind him, but he barely registered the sound. Your hand was still in his, and your smile—soft, a little crooked—was the only thing anchoring him.

You tugged him gently into the apartment, fingers laced with his like it had been that way for years.

No small talk. No tour. No hesitation.

Just the unspoken hum that had been building all night, finally breaking the surface.

When you turned to face him, your lips already parted, he didn’t wait. He kissed you like he needed to. Like the moment he’d felt your mouth in the elevator hadn’t been nearly enough.

You tasted like wine and something sweeter he couldn’t name. Your arms circled his neck, pulling him closer, and he groaned into your mouth when your hips pressed into his.

It hit him all at once—how good this felt. How easy. The way your bodies seemed to move in sync, like instinct, like muscle memory from a dream he hadn’t realized he’d been having.

You gasped into his mouth, and that sound—sharp and breathless—lit him up like a live wire.

His hands found your waist, then your back, then slid lower, gripping your ass as he pulled you closer. He was hard already, pressed up against you through his jeans, and when you shifted just right, grinding into him with a little roll of your hips, he swore under his breath.

“Fuck, okay,” he muttered, eyes half-lidded, mouth dragging down to your neck. “You—god, you feel insane.”

You laughed, but it caught in your throat when he bit gently just beneath your ear.

Then everything sped up.

Your jacket hit the floor. Then his. His fingers were under your shirt, warm and demanding, tracing up your spine as if memorizing you. You didn’t hesitate—you lifted your arms, let him peel the fabric off you like a second skin.

He stared.

Because shit.

You stood there in a bra that barely held you in, chest rising fast, eyes blown wide. You looked wrecked already—and he hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

“You’re...” He exhaled hard. “Jesus, you’re unreal.”

And when he kissed you this time, it wasn’t sweet. It was starving.

He backed you into the couch, hands everywhere—pushing, pulling, gripping, needing. You tugged at his shirt until it was gone too, and your hands ran across his chest like you couldn’t decide where to touch first. He loved that. The urgency. The want in you.

When your mouth landed on his jaw, then slid lower, biting down on the edge of his collarbone, he groaned—loud, filthy.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he panted, rutting against your thigh without even meaning to.

Your hand dropped to his waistband, teasing. “Yeah?” you whispered, voice wrecked and dangerous.

He nodded, helpless.

“Then let me.”

The way you said it—it wasn’t a question.

You palmed him through his jeans, slow and confident, watching the way his breath hitched, the way his eyelids fluttered. He wasn’t used to being this undone this fast. But you had him—already.

His hands slid behind your back, unclasped your bra with practiced fingers, and when the straps slipped off your shoulders, he barely gave you time to react before his mouth was on you. Tongue and teeth and lips, worshipping, making you moan—fuck, that sound, he’d chase it forever.

The way you arched under him, like every touch was too much and not enough.

The way you gasped his name like it was the only word you remembered.

It was pure heat. Messy and fast and real.

And when you whispered, breathless, “Come to bed,” your lips swollen, pupils blown wide, he didn’t even hesitate.

He didn’t care about tomorrow. Or what this was. Or where it might lead.

All he knew was that he needed to feel your body under his. Needed to hear you fall apart.

And if he was lucky, he’d get to wake up beside you.

You led him by the hand, your steps quick, your breath even quicker. The apartment wasn’t big, but every second it took to reach the bedroom felt like an eternity stretched tight with want.

The moment you were through the door, you turned to face him, pulling him in again like you couldn’t stand the distance. Your back hit the edge of the bed and you kissed him like you meant to steal the air from his lungs.

He smiled against your lips when you fumbled with the button of his jeans, your fingers slightly clumsy in your rush. You cursed softly, laughed under your breath.

“Sorry,” you murmured.

“Don’t be.” His voice was low, rough. “It’s perfect.”

And it was.

Every little misstep, every shaky inhale, every wide-eyed second of wonder—it was perfect.

His jeans hit the floor. Then yours. You tugged at each other’s underwear with a mix of eagerness and surprise, and when he finally kicked his off and you stood in front of him completely bare, his breath caught in his throat.

You were stunning. Not just beautiful—though, fuck, you were—but alive. Lit up from within. Chest rising fast, lips parted, looking at him like he was something you couldn’t wait to taste.

And god, he wanted to be tasted.

You lay back on the bed, pulling him with you, and he followed without hesitation, settling between your legs, both of you skin-to-skin for the first time. It was overwhelming. It was right.

Your hands roamed his back, his shoulders, your mouth brushing along his jaw, and he felt everything. Every inch of contact. Every trembling breath.

And when he dipped his head to kiss your chest again, slower this time, your fingers tangled in his hair, your hips lifted into his without thinking.

“I don’t have—” he began, breath hitching.

“In the drawer,” you whispered.

He reached blindly, found the condom, tore the wrapper with shaking fingers. You helped him roll it on, your touch so tender it nearly broke him.

He looked at you once more, one hand cupping your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone.

“You good?” he asked, voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded. “Yeah. I want this.”

Fuck. So did he. More than he could admit out loud.

The second he pushed into you, slow and deep, your mouth fell open with a gasp that echoed straight through his chest.

“Fuck—” he groaned, breath catching, head dropping against your neck. You were tight, so wet around him it was almost unbearable. His fingers dug into your hips, like anchoring himself was the only way not to lose it too fast.

And you—you arched into him, legs curling higher around his waist, nails dragging down his back.

“You feel so good,” you whispered, voice already wrecked. “So fucking good.”

Joe swore under his breath. He could barely think. Could barely hold back. The heat between you was blinding, raw, something feral clawing at his insides.

He pulled back, thrust in again, and your body met his with such perfect rhythm that his control slipped a little—hips snapping harder, breath rough in your ear.

Your hands roamed down his back, fingers brushing the dip of his spine, then slipping between your bodies until they were there—on your clit, teasing yourself as he fucked into you.

“Oh fuck, yes,” you moaned, back arching, head thrown back. “Right there, just like that—”

Joe looked down at you, eyes dark and hungry, and the sight of your hand moving against yourself while he was buried deep inside you… it undid him.

“Jesus, you’re gonna kill me,” he growled, grabbing your wrist, replacing your fingers with his own. “Let me.”

You whimpered, hips jerking as he rubbed slow circles, watching you unravel for him. Your face. Your breath. The way you bit your lip to muffle the sounds that wanted to break free.

“Let them hear you,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “Don’t hold it in. I want every fucking sound.”

You obeyed.

You moaned like the world was ending. Like no one had ever touched you right until now. His name on your tongue, over and over, like a spell that made you shake.

He was losing it.

You clenched around him, again and again, dragging him deeper, and he couldn’t stop the filth that poured out of him.

“You’re so fucking wet for me,” he muttered, voice shaking. “So perfect. Taking me like you were made for it.”

You whimpered beneath him, hips rolling in rhythm with his, and then your hand was on him, cupping the back of his neck, pulling him down to kiss you like it was the only way to stay grounded.

You kissed him open-mouthed, messy, tongues sliding together, both of you panting, slick with sweat, chasing something neither of you could name.

When you broke away, your voice was hoarse, breathless.

“Harder, Joe. Please—fuck, don’t stop.”

He didn’t. He couldn’t.

He grabbed your thigh, lifted your leg higher over his hip and started thrusting harder, deeper, until the sound of skin against skin filled the room.

You cried out, high-pitched and desperate, and your walls tightened so suddenly around him he swore.

“Oh my god—” you gasped, and then you were falling apart, shaking, clenching around him so tight it pulled a raw, broken moan from his chest.

Your orgasm hit you like a wave, and he felt it—watched it—his fingers still working your clit through it all, not letting up.

“Fuck, you’re so—so fucking perfect—” he stuttered, barely holding on. “I’m gonna—fuck, I’m gonna come—”

Your mouth brushed his ear, breath hot. “Come inside me, baby. Come for me.”

And that was it.

He came with a groan, hips stuttering, pulse racing, holding you so close he thought he might crush you. You took every second of it—his shaking, his panting, the broken way he whispered your name like it was salvation.

Then silence.

Then breath. Tangled limbs. Sweat. Skin against skin.

And the most beautiful fucking quiet.

He stayed inside you, forehead resting against yours, both of you trembling.

You exhaled a shaky laugh. “Holy shit.”

He smiled, dizzy and wrecked. “Yeah. Holy fucking shit.”

-

Your breathing was still uneven when he collapsed beside you, chest rising and falling in erratic waves. His skin was warm and damp, and yours probably wasn’t any better. But when his arm instinctively reached for your waist and pulled you closer, it didn’t matter. Nothing did.

There were no words. Just the soft rustle of sheets and your fingertips drawing lazy, invisible patterns over the curve of his bicep. He pressed a kiss to the top of your head—gentle, almost reverent—and you let out a quiet sigh, one of those that come not from tiredness, but from fullness. Overwhelmed in the best possible way.

And you stayed like that. Breathing together. Letting your bodies cool down but your connection settle in deeper. There was nothing awkward. No pressure. Just warmth. Familiarity. His thumb brushing your side. Your knee nudging his softly under the sheets.

You didn't mean to fall asleep. But you did.

And somehow, when your eyes blinked open hours later, he was still there.

The light was pale and golden, sneaking in through your curtains. Your bedroom looked dreamlike, still hazy with sleep and the remnants of the night before. You turned slightly and found him already looking at you, face resting on the pillow, eyes still heavy-lidded, hair a mess of curls flattened on one side.

And it didn’t feel weird. Not at all.

“Hi,” you whispered, voice still raw from sleep.

He smiled, lazy and crooked, and it made your stomach do something ridiculous.

“Hi,” he echoed, voice low and warm and sleepy. “You drool a little, you know.”

You gasped, pushing at his chest with the back of your hand, laughing despite yourself. “You liar.”

“Swear on my life.” He grinned. “Just a little. Cute though.”

You groaned and buried your face in the pillow, but he only laughed, that soft, raspy morning laugh that already felt too intimate. Too familiar.

Like you’d heard it a hundred times before.

When you peeked out again, he was still watching you, eyes scanning your face like he was trying to memorize something.

“I usually hate sleeping next to someone,” he murmured.

Your heart skipped.

“But with you…” He shrugged slightly. “Didn’t even notice. Slept like a baby.”

You smiled then—slow, genuine, a little unsure. Because what were you supposed to say to that?

He shifted closer, his forehead gently bumping yours, and you felt his hand stroke slowly up and down your arm. His thumb brushed over a spot on your shoulder, then traced lazy circles on your skin.

Neither of you said anything else. There was no need. 

Eventually, you turned, slow and careful, until your back was pressed to his chest and his arm slipped around you without hesitation. His hand settled on your stomach, warm and still.

You let out a soft sigh and nestled into him, your legs tangling under the covers. For a moment, everything was quiet—breath and body, shared warmth, the steady thud of his heart against your spine. Then his fingers shifted, just slightly. Slid lower.

The first thing you felt was heat—his chest pressed against your back, the slow roll of his hips, still half-asleep but already there, already hard. Your breath caught as his hand skimmed your stomach, fingers brushing lower, exploring like he hadn’t had his fill last night. Like he’d only just begun.

“Fuck,” he murmured, voice thick, scratchy with sleep. “You’re already—”

“Yeah,” you whispered, shifting your hips back against him, shameless.

He groaned, the sound low and desperate, and you could feel it vibrate through your spine. His lips found the spot behind your ear, open-mouthed, warm, lazy like everything about that morning, but hungry in a way that made your pulse spike.

“You sure?” he murmured, fingers sliding between your thighs now, stroking through the wetness he found there, drawing a sound out of you that was all need. 

You turned your head just enough to meet his eyes, and he looked wrecked already—his curls a mess, his gaze still soft with sleep but blown wide with want.

“Yeah,” you breathed, not hesitating. “Just finish outside.”

He stilled for a moment. Just a beat. Long enough for the gravity of it to flicker in his eyes. But then you reached back, guided him to you, and that flicker turned to fire.

“Fuck—okay. Okay.”

The first push inside was slow, careful, but deep—achingly so. You both gasped, your body stretching to take him, his hand gripping your hip like it was the only thing anchoring him to the planet.

“Jesus… you feel amazing” he whispered, half in awe, half in disbelief. 

“Don’t stop,” you whispered, forehead dropping to the pillow as he began to move, drawing back, then pressing in again with that maddening control. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

And he didn’t. He couldn’t have even if he tried.

It wasn’t frantic—this wasn’t a race. But it wasn’t slow either. It was deep. Focused. Like he was trying to memorize every inch of you from the inside. His hand slid under you, fingers finding your clit, stroking in tight circles as he thrust, eyes fixed on the spot where your bodies met like it might disappear if he blinked.

“You take me so fucking well,” he muttered, voice shaking. “So good like this. So—shit—warm. Wet. Fuck.”

Your mouth dropped open, hands gripping the sheets as the pressure built, deep and consuming. Every snap of his hips sent sparks up your spine, every stroke of his fingers wound you tighter.

“Joe—”

“Say it again.”

“Joe—oh my God—”

He bent over you, his chest flush to your back, lips brushing your shoulder, your neck, your ear.

“Feel how deep I am?” he murmured, cock pulsing inside you. “I can feel you gripping me, baby, fuck—don’t stop, don’t you dare stop.”

You came with a strangled cry, your body locking around his, muscles fluttering, your whole self unraveling in waves. He thrust once, twice more, desperate now, but then pulled out with a groan—messy, hot, and helpless as he came on your lower back, one hand braced on the mattress, the other gripping your hip like it might keep him from flying apart.

His breath was ragged, your name half-formed on his tongue, and for a second, all you could hear was the rush of blood in your ears and the high-pitched whine of satisfaction in your bones.

You lay there, both of you trembling, panting, your bodies still joined, sweat cooling between your skins.

There were no words. Just the beat of your hearts, too fast and completely in sync.

He kissed your shoulder, once, twice. You reached back to touch his thigh, his hip—anything to anchor him to you. To keep him right there.

And for a moment, neither of you moved. No guilt. No fear. 

Just skin. Breath. Fire. Somehow, trust.

You lay there, breathing together, warm and safe beneath the quiet weight of morning. Your legs tangled again. His hand resting on your hip. His thumb started drawing circles along your arm as he could memorize you by touch.

And when you finally started drifting off again, lulled by the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, he pressed one last kiss to your temple.

Soft. Unthinking. Like second nature.

You smiled against his chest.

Neither of you meant to fall asleep again. But you did.

And somehow, that felt like the most intimate part of all.

- 

The second time you woke up, it was to the scent of coffee and the quiet sound of someone humming off-key in your kitchen.

For a moment, you thought you’d dreamt the whole thing—until you stretched, and the ache between your thighs reminded you vividly that you hadn’t.

You reached for a hoodie, padded barefoot into the living room, and there he was—standing by the stove in nothing but his boxers and one of your oversized mugs in hand. His curls were still a mess. His back was turned, but when he heard your footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder and grinned.

“Morning, again,” he said, handing you the mug without missing a beat.

You took it, fingers brushing his for a second too long. “You made coffee?”

He shrugged, modest and smug all at once. “Well, I didn’t burn anything, so technically I made magic.”

You laughed, shaking your head, and sat on the edge of the couch as he poured his own cup.

It was easy. Too easy.

The kind of morning where you both felt like you’d skipped a few steps. Like you were already past the awkward stage. You talked about nothing in particular—your mutual distaste for early mornings, how Wes never mentioned either of you to the other (the bastard), the fact that you both hated people who didn’t rinse their dishes before putting them in the sink.

He made you laugh. A lot.

And at some point, still barefoot, hair wild and shirtless, he leaned against the counter and said, “Last night was… not what I expected.”

You looked up from your coffee, raising an eyebrow. “Disappointed?”

“God, no,” he said immediately, then softened. “It was just—better. More. You know?”

You nodded. Because you did know.

There was something about it. About him. About this. And you could both feel it pulsing under the skin, but neither of you tried to name it.

Eventually, the time came. He went to grab his things—shoes, phone, jacket—and you trailed after him, not quite ready to say goodbye, but not wanting to be that person either.

He stood by the door, pulling his jacket on, one arm still half out of the sleeve, when he turned to you with a smirk.

“So… am I allowed to ask for your number, or is this one of those magical one-night-stand rules where I disappear like a gentleman and we pretend we don’t exist?”

You blinked, then laughed, genuinely caught off guard. “You’re such an idiot.”

“Flattering,” he replied. “But I’ll take it as a yes?”

You rolled your eyes, grabbing your phone. “Give me yours. I’ll text you.”

He rattled off the digits, and you sent a simple “Hi” before he even finished spelling out his last name.

He looked at his screen, smiled, then looked back at you like he was about to say something else—but didn’t.

Instead, he leaned in and kissed your cheek. Soft. Warm. Familiar, again. Like he’d done it a hundred times before.

“See you around,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over the edge of your jaw.

And then he was gone.

The door clicked shut, and the silence he left behind was anything but empty.

It was full.

Full of something unnamed but very, very real.

-

You never had the talk.

No labels, no declarations, no drawn-out conversations about what this was or where it was going. It just was.

He texted you that same afternoon. Something dumb and funny. A meme you still had saved in your camera roll. You answered. And he answered back. And suddenly, you were talking every day. Not constantly, but consistently. Steadily. Like the kind of tide that always comes back to shore.

The first time you met up again, it was spontaneous. He was nearby. You had an hour to kill. You grabbed coffee and sat in the park. He stole your cookie. You punched his arm. He kissed you mid-laughter, with your cup still in hand, and just like that—there it was again.

That thing.

And then came the nights. The way his hand would slide against the small of your back as you opened the door. The way he’d kiss you like he’d been waiting for days, even if it’d only been hours.

You’d fuck on the couch. In your kitchen. Sometimes barely making it to the bedroom.

It was intense. Messy. Addictive.

But never rushed.

He made you laugh mid-moan. You pulled his curls just to hear the sound he made when you did. He always made sure you came first—sometimes second—and then held you like he couldn’t stand the idea of leaving. Sometimes he stayed. Sometimes you did.

You shared breakfast. Showers. Bad TV. Inside jokes. His hoodie. Your leftovers.

Somehow, he learned how you liked your tea. You learned what cologne he wore. He kept a spare toothbrush in your bathroom. You found one of your scrunchies on his nightstand once.

And none of it felt like a big deal.

It was just natural.

You’d text him something random at 1AM. He’d reply with a voice note that made you laugh out loud in bed. You'd call him when your day sucked. He'd show up at your door with snacks and that face that made everything easier.

You never talked about exclusivity. You never needed to.

Because even if no one had said it aloud, you both already knew.

It wasn’t casual. Not really.

And still, neither of you used the word "relationship."

But it didn’t matter.

Because every time he kissed your forehead before leaving, every time he whispered “sleep tight” like a secret, every time you caught him staring like he was still surprised you were real—something in your chest softened.

Something in you knew.

And maybe you weren’t officially together.

But your hearts hadn’t gotten the memo.

-

He didn’t really notice when it started to change. Maybe that was the point.

There was no sudden shift, no dramatic realisation. Just a quiet accumulation of small things that began to matter more than he expected.

Like the way his phone would light up and he already knew it was you. The way your name on the screen felt like a hit of dopamine—something in his chest unclenching without him even realizing it. The way the days stretched a little too long when he didn’t hear from you.

He started keeping snacks you liked in his apartment without thinking. He started recognizing your routines—how you stole his hoodie when it got cold, how you took your coffee with oat milk and exactly one sugar, how you always asked if he’d eaten after a long shoot. He noticed the way you hummed softly when brushing your hair, and how your laughter lingered in his apartment long after you'd gone.

He hadn’t planned to stop seeing other people. It just happened. Not out of obligation. Out of instinct.

You stopped replying to those flirty messages. He stopped swiping right out of boredom.

It wasn’t something you ever discussed. There was no awkward conversation, no labels. Just a quiet understanding—like turning down the volume on a song that didn’t hit the same anymore.

One night, Wes texted him asking if he was going out to their usual bar, and Joe found himself replying, “With her tonight.” He didn’t even think twice.

“You seeing her now?” Wes asked.

He stared at the screen for a while. Not officially. Not technically. But yeah. Yeah, he was.

And maybe the most surprising part was that none of it scared him. Not like it used to.

There was this night—you were curled up on his couch in his shirt, eating cereal at midnight, laughing at something stupid he’d said. And he watched you, spoon halfway to his mouth, thinking, Fuck. I really like her.

He didn’t say it. Of course not. But it was there. In the way he touched your back without thinking, or the way he waited for your laugh to fade before kissing you.

He got used to you without realizing.To the way your shoes sat by the door when you stayed over. To the way you wrapped yourself around him in your sleep, like his body was where yours belonged. To the way the silence between you didn’t press down—it settled around you both, warm and easy, like a shared blanket.

He hadn’t realised how much space you'd taken up in his life until he was scrolling through his photos one night and found more of you than anything else. Pictures you didn’t even know he’d taken—your head thrown back in laughter, curled up with a book, sleeping against his chest.

He remembered waking up before you one morning, the light slipping through the blinds, your arm thrown across his stomach, your hair a mess, your face half-buried in the pillow. He just laid there, watching. Not because he was having some big epiphany. Just because it felt nice.

Then came that Tuesday. You were in the bathroom, hair up in a messy knot, brushing your teeth with one hand and scrolling on your phone with the other, wrapped in his old t-shirt like it belonged more to you than him. Joe sat on the edge of the bed and watched.

Not in a creepy way. In a shit, this feels good kind of way. In a please don’t let this go anywhere kind of way.

You caught him staring—of course you did. You always did. Mouth full of toothpaste, you raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He just grinned. “Nothing.”

But he meant everything.

Because it wasn’t just the way you looked in the morning, or how you always denied stealing the blanket.It was the way you’d become his soft place to land. It was the cardigan draped over his chair. The mugs in the sink with your lipstick on the rim. The playlist on his Spotify titled hers.

The lines between you and him had blurred so gently, it didn’t even feel like change.

It just felt right.

And no, he hadn’t said it out loud yet. But when you fell asleep with your head on his chest and his arm pulled you closer like instinct, he didn’t need to.

You probably already knew.

-

He’d been pacing around the apartment for most of the afternoon, fingers stained with ink from scribbled notes, corners of scripts folded and dog-eared, empty mugs lining the coffee table like some modern art installation of a man losing his grip. The flat smelled faintly of coffee, highlighters, and the Thai food box he had grabbed in that small local in front of his gym and barely touched.

His phone buzzed earlier—your name lighting up the screen like a small calm in the storm.

“hey, out for a bit but I’ll swing by around eight?”

He’d smiled when he read it. A quiet kind of smile, the kind that tugged at the corners of his mouth even as his eyes were half-glued to a page of dialogue he couldn’t get right.

“Perfect. I’ll order pizza.”

And then he forgot about it. Not you, exactly. Just the time. The waiting. The worrying about whether you’d show or not. You’d said you’d come, and that was enough. You’d always done what you said so far. He trusted that. Trusted you. It was himself he didn’t quite trust lately.

The new script was a minefield. The director intimidating. The pressure building behind his temples like a storm he couldn’t quite outrun. Somewhere between scene fourteen and seventeen, he pulled his hair back into a tie and rubbed his face with both hands, muttering something half-human under his breath.

He hadn’t even realized the sun was already setting when Wes’s name lit up on his screen.

“you bailing on us tonight?”

He blinked, thumb hovering over the keyboard. “Had plans. Next time i swear”

A beat. Then another buzz. Wes had sent a photo.

Dim pub lighting. Clinking glasses. And you—laughing. Head tilted toward someone familiar. Keith. A friend of a friend. All easy charm and textbook good looks. The kind of guy who always had too much confidence and not enough shame. His arm wasn’t touching you, not exactly. But it was close.

“well… maybe you should reconsider”

And that—that—was when it hit.

A flash of something ugly and electric shot straight through his gut. Not quite anger. Not quite panic. Just that instinctive, animal sting of I don’t want anyone else that close to her.

He tossed the phone onto the couch, harder than necessary.

Fuck. He didn’t want to care. Hadn’t planned on caring. You weren’t his girlfriend. You hadn’t talked about exclusivity, or commitment, or any of that. You were just… seeing each other. Spending time together. Sleeping together.

But still.

He ran a hand over his mouth and stared at the photo again.

Just a few hours ago, he hadn’t had a single thought like this about you. You were the one thing not stressing him out.

Now, you were burning a hole in his brain.

He flipped his phone face down. Then face up. Then picked it up again. He’d stared at the photo so long it had burned itself into his vision. The way you were laughing, the exact curve of your shoulder leaning toward Keith. The lighting didn’t help. It could’ve been a casual moment, an ordinary conversation. But in his head, it had already become something else. A whole story.

Keith. That charming asshole with an ego bigger than his biceps. The kind of guy who calls waitresses “princess” and still manages to get dates. It wasn’t jealousy—at least, not exactly. It was a sharp, nagging sting of insecurity. Of fear. Fear that you were out there realizing you could be with someone easier. Less complicated. Someone who didn’t have their brain split between you and a script that read like ancient code.

He stared at a fixed point on the floor, leaning back on the couch, arms crossed, legs tense. The script beside him felt more like a threat than an opportunity. The notes he’d taken—now scattered across the table—looked like pieces of a mind that didn’t know where to begin.

He went to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, stared at himself in the mirror. Didn’t like what he saw. Came back to the living room. Sat down. Stood up. Turned on the TV. Turned it off. Checked the time: 8:04 p.m.

Not late. Not really. Four minutes was nothing. But to Joe, it felt like a century.

He walked to the kitchen, opened the fridge without knowing what he was looking for, then closed it again. The pizza he’d ordered—maybe a little too early—was already getting cold. Like him. Like everything.

He forced himself to sit back on the couch. Put on an old record—one of those he used when he needed to focus. But the needle barely hit the first chords before he got up again, restless. He went to the window. Pulled back the curtain. You weren’t there. Closed it. Opened it again. Closed it once more.

8:11.

“Fuck,” he muttered, dragging his hands down his face. He didn’t want to be that guy. The one spinning drama in his own head. The one building stories before the movie even started.

But there he was.

And the knot in his chest was pulling tighter by the minute.

Everything about the new film was overwhelming him. He wanted to scream at the ceiling. Throw the script against the wall. Nothing made sense. And the only thing that did—was you. It was you, goddammit. The one thing that didn’t need decoding. That felt simple, and somehow, impossibly huge at the same time.

That’s why it hurt. Because exactly for that reason, the idea of losing you—or worse, realizing you weren’t as in it as he was—felt unbearable.

And then, at 8:16, the doorbell rang.

His heart did this stupid little jump. He got up too fast. Felt that ridiculous urge to pull himself together, to act normal, to pretend he hadn’t been falling apart on the inside.

He wanted the sound of your arrival to reset everything.

But it wasn’t enough to quiet the noise. Not when the doubt was already echoing in his throat.

And when he opened the door… he didn’t know if he wanted to pull you into his arms or put you on the spot. If he wanted to kiss you or yell.

And that—exactly that—was what pissed him off the most.

-

You knew something was wrong the moment you saw his face. 

It wasn't the kind of wrong you could smooth over with a kiss or a joke about the pizza going cold.  It was the kind of wrong that sat heavy in the air, thick in your throat.

"Hey," you said, stepping inside. Smiling, out of instinct, even when your gut already knew better. "Sorry I’m late. I stopped by the pub for a bit, lost track—"

"Yeah," Joe said. Short. Sharp. Already turning away.

You shut the door behind you, heart picking up speed. The living room was a mess hunched over, papers scattered around him like a small, personal storm. 

He laughed, low and humorless. "I didn’t know if you were still coming."

You blinked. "I told you I was."

"Right," he muttered. "But maybe you were grabbing pizza with Keith instead"

You stared at him. "What?"

He grabbed his phone from the couch, tossed it onto the table. The screen still lit up with the photo: you, standing close to Keith, laughing over something stupid, a drink in your hand. Frozen mid-smile.

"Are you checking up on me now?" you said, a little sharper than you meant.

"Wes sent it." He raked a hand through his hair. "He was concerned."

Your stomach twisted. "No. You were concerned."

He laughed, but it was hollow. Bitter. "Yeah, well maybe I was, especially when I saw you smiling at him like that."

You stared at him, anger flickering up, hot and defensive. "You don't get to say that. You don't get to throw that at me when we never—"

"I know!" he cut you off, standing up suddenly, voice breaking. "I know we never said anything, okay? I know we were both just... assuming things and pretending it was all casual and cool and whatever the fuck, but it's not. Not for me."

The words hung there, raw and electric.

You stepped back, heart hammering, because it was true for you too. You just hadn’t said it. Hadn't dared.

"I’m not seeing anyone else," you said, almost without thinking. "I haven’t even thought about it since you."

He stared at you like you’d just said something unbelievable. Like maybe he didn’t deserve to hear it.

You swallowed hard. "And yeah, I was talking to Keith. Didn’t realize that’d be a fucking crime”. 

Joe closed his eyes for a second, like the weight of it physically hit him. When he opened them, he looked wrecked. And beautiful.

"I’m sorry," he said, hoarse. "I’m fucking scared, alright? I’ve got this project that’s swallowing me whole and half the time I think I’m gonna fail, and you’re the only thing that makes me feel like maybe I won't. Like maybe I’m not a complete fuck-up."

You felt your chest tighten, emotions crashing all over you.

"Then don't push me away," you said, stepping closer. "Don’t look for reasons to doubt this when I’m standing right in front of you."

He shook his head, almost helpless. "I don't want anyone else," he said, voice rough. "I don't even see anyone else anymore. It's just you."

You could feel your throat tightening, that sting behind your eyes, but you forced yourself to stay steady.

"It's you for me too," you whispered.

The silence felt thick and heavy and full of everything you hadn't said before tonight.

Then Joe moved — fast, almost clumsy — closing the space between you, pulling you into him like he couldn't bear the distance for a second longer. His mouth found yours in a kiss that wasn’t soft or careful — it was desperate, claiming, full of everything that had been burning between you for weeks.

And you let him. You let yourself fall into it, finally, completely. Because you knew. He knew. It was real.

You didn’t make it to the bedroom. You barely made it past the couch.

Joe kissed you like he meant it now. Like every inch of his mouth on yours came with a promise. No more holding back, no more ifs. Just you and him, here and now, and whatever the hell this was that had already swallowed you whole.

He pressed you against the wall, hands threading into your hair, breath hot and ragged against your cheek. "Fuck, I missed you," he groaned, like the hours apart had been unbearable.

"You had me yesterday," you gasped, tugging at the hem of his shirt, needing him bare, needing him now.

"Not like this." He pulled it over his head and dropped it to the floor, eyes hungry and tender all at once. "Not after hearing you say it."

You stilled for a second, chest rising too fast. "Say what?"

He leaned in, mouth brushing your jaw, your cheek, your ear. "That you wanted me. That you weren’t going anywhere."

You cupped his face in your hands, staring into those stupidly beautiful, frantic eyes. “I didn’t say it tonight, Joe.”

He blinked.

“I’ve been saying it every time I’ve come back.”

And then he lost it.

He picked you up, hands under your thighs, your legs wrapped tight around him, and carried you blindly through the apartment until you crashed into the edge of the bed. He didn’t even bother pulling the covers down.

Clothes disappeared like they were on fire.

His mouth was on your neck, then your chest, then lower—devouring, tasting, worshipping. You were already shaking by the time he slid inside you, both of you gasping like it hurt, like it healed.

“Jesus—fuck—you feel like home,” he choked out, burying his face in the crook of your neck, thrusting deep, slow, relentless.

You grabbed at his back, his hair, anything to ground yourself. “Don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop.”

He didn’t.

He moved like you were the only thing keeping him together. Like if he stopped touching you, he’d fall apart entirely. The rhythm grew rougher, faster, but still so full. Not desperate. Claiming.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, forehead pressed to yours, sweat dripping down his temple. “Tell me you’re mine.”

You gasped, eyes wide and wild. “I’m yours, Joe—fuck—I’ve been yours.”

He groaned into your mouth and slammed into you harder, and it wasn’t careful. It wasn’t sweet. It was real. It was raw and feral and exactly what both of you needed.

Your orgasm hit like a wave you didn’t see coming—hot and electric and blinding. And he followed almost instantly, moaning your name like it was a sacred word, collapsing on top of you, chest heaving, heart pounding against yours.

Silence.

Just the sound of breath and skin and the world finally slowing down.

You felt him shift, just enough to look at you. His eyes—open, vulnerable, like he’d just been cracked wide.

And then, softly, so softly—

“I love you.”

You blinked, breath still uneven.

And smiled.

“Yeah,” you whispered. “I love you too.”

And just like that, there were no more questions.

Only answers written on skin, on sighs, on mouths still swollen from too much kissing.

[pukefactory]

•☽────✧˖°˖ COCONUT LOUNGE ˖°˖✧────☾•

★ Summary: A Compilation Of Headcanons Featuring Salesperson ENA X Reader Where ENA Takes You On A Chaotic Date To The Purge Event

★ Character(s): Salesperson ENA (ENA: Dream BBQ)

★ Genre: Headcanons, SFW

★ Warning(s): None - Completely Safe!

★ Image Credits: @JoelG

☆ It’s her idea, of course. ENA shows up at your door looking like she’s already been through three existential crises and one team-building exercise — suspenders askew, one sock pulled up to her thigh, the other missing entirely. “Let’s invest in an evening of cathartic destruction!” she announces, slapping a folded, bloody-looking Purge Event pamphlet into your hand like it’s a business proposal. “This date will be categorically unforgettable.” You blink twice, and somehow, you’re already in the back of a clown-driven taxi with her.

☆ As soon as you step into the Purge Event, ENA instantly splits into her two modes: Salesperson cheerily narrating like a demented tour guide, and Meanie yelling at random strangers. “Witness the primal urge for chaos!” she beams, then immediately turns and screams, “MOVE YOUR FACE, JACKBUTT!!” at a confused pedestrian. You cling to her arm through it all, half-horrified, half-enamored.

☆ She buys you a souvenir — a cracked megaphone labeled “SCREAM FREE ZONE” — by bartering with a vendor using an imaginary currency she calls soul stocks. “Inflation is a mind-killer,” ENA solemnly tells you, stuffing a bag of coal in your hands. “H-hold onto this. It’s, uh, sentimental.” You don’t have the heart to point out it’s probably cursed.

☆ At one point, she tries to romantically throw you into a mosh pit of screaming unintelligible beings while shouting, “LONG-TERM RELATIONSHIP BUILDING!!” and it ends with her getting elbowed in the forehead. She stands up looking cross-eyed, then grins a little too wide. “That’s what I call a headfirst investment opportunity,” she says, before dramatically fainting into your arms.

☆ Halfway through, ENA spots the rotating megaphones underneath the flashing floor tiles and becomes philosophical. She holds your hand tightly, eyes reflecting the rotating lights. “Y-you know,” she stammers, her Meanie side briefly showing cracks, “we’re all just megaphones…screaming into the dark…hoping someone will echo back.” You squeeze her mitten-hand, and she gives you a broken smile like you’ve just signed a lifetime contract with her heart.

☆ She insists you both join a ‘Destruction Booth,’ where you can smash porcelain vases labeled Bad Memories. ENA throws herself into the task with such terrifying enthusiasm that you end up half-heartedly breaking plates just to keep up. “DESTROY YOUR INNER LIMITATIONS! BUST OPEN YOUR DESPAIR!!” she bellows, shattering five at once with her claw-hand. You accidentally break a teacup and she immediately cheers like you saved the universe.

☆ You lose her for a few minutes in the crowd — panic sets in — until you hear her loudly pitching a “limited-time emotional warranty” to a cluster of crying party-goers. She sees you running toward her and immediately brightens, arms flailing. “Oh, thank GØD, you’re back! I was about to offer a two-for-one tragedy discount!” she beams, slamming her whole body against yours in a messy hug.

☆ While navigating the maze of debris, ENA’s Meanie side suddenly snaps at you, voice cracking: “I-I’M NOT GOOD AT THIS! I DON’T KNOW HOW TO DO THIS STUPID ‘DATE’ THING!!” Her mitten-hand trembles at her side. She looks so ashamed that you quickly take her hand and tell her it’s the best date you’ve ever been on. Her cheeks flush patchy red and yellow, and she mutters, “Y-you’re lying…but I’ll accept your deception.”

☆ She finds a broken-down stage and insists on giving you a “performance.” Standing under the blood-raining megaphones, ENA sings an off-key ballad about “divesting pain and achieving optimum love synergy,” twirling dramatically until she trips over her own foot. She lies there, covered in coal dust, arms flopped wide, grinning up at you like you’re the whole sun.

☆ At the end of the night, after escaping a firework stampede and narrowly avoiding getting flattened by a “Purge Parade Float,” ENA drags you to a crumbling overlook where the whole Purge Event sprawls below. She leans against you, messy, cracked, and still smiling. “This was the best catastrophic investment I’ve ever made,” she says quietly. You kiss her hair and watch the neon-lit ruins burn together.

[sunarryn]

DP X Marvel #26

Danny didn’t really think it through. In his defense, there weren’t a lot of guidebooks titled “How to Deal with the Psychotic Future Version of Yourself You Accidentally Redeemed But Are Still Terrified Of.” Jazz suggested therapy. Sam suggested containment. Tucker suggested launching him into deep space. Danny, brilliant and seventeen and sleep-deprived after three days of babysitting a now mostly-reformed Dan Phantom, decided, “Screw it,” ripped open a portal to another dimension, and told him to “go make friends.” Dan grinned, sharp-toothed and wicked, and without hesitation dove through the swirling green and blue mass of unstable ectoplasmic energy.

Thus began the Marvel Universe’s greatest headache.

The first incident happened barely four hours after Dan’s arrival. New York woke up to a brand new urban legend: a demon with burning blue eyes and silver-streaked black hair beating the living shit out of Shocker in the middle of Times Square. People recorded it, of course. Viral videos showed Shocker screaming, running, trying desperately to aim his gauntlets while Dan literally phased through every attack like he was swatting a mosquito. Somewhere in the footage, Dan shouted, “C’MON, MAN! HIT HARDER, YOU’RE EMBARRASSING YOURSELF!” before drop-kicking Shocker into a halal cart.

The Avengers noticed. Specifically, Spider-Man noticed, because Peter Parker had never been so personally offended by something in his life.

“He’s stealing my bit,” Peter whined to MJ later, scrolling through TikTok and watching the mysterious “Blue Devil” bodyslam the Rhino into a GAP storefront. “That’s MY thing. Wisecracking and beating up guys in animal costumes.”

MJ, deadpan as ever, didn’t even look up from her book. “Maybe if you hit the gym once in a while, you could still compete.”

Elsewhere, S.H.I.E.L.D. was losing their collective shit.

Nick Fury reviewed the footage with the grim severity of a man preparing for war. “I want every available agent tailing him. Find out what he is, what he wants, and for God’s sake, do not engage.”

Unfortunately, Dan had other plans. He wanted engagement. Constant, chaotic, no-holds-barred engagement.

When the X-Men tried to approach him peacefully—because, to be fair, a floating, smirking, six-foot-seven superpowered anomaly screamed “mutant”—Dan responded by challenging Wolverine to a fistfight in the middle of Central Park.

“You smell angry,” Dan said, cracking his knuckles and grinning wide. “I like that. C’mon, Knives. Show me what those claws can do.”

Wolverine, never one to back down from a challenge, growled and immediately lunged. It took six X-Men to pull them apart. Logan was half in love and half homicidal.

Jean Grey, massaging her temples afterward, sighed, “He’s not a mutant. He’s something else. Something… worse.”

Meanwhile, Dan wasn’t picky about his opponents. Hero? Villain? Civilian? If you looked at him wrong, he was ready to throw hands. He got into a screaming match with Daredevil over a parking spot. He suplexed Deadpool into a dumpster for calling him “Discount Nightcrawler.” He made Venom cry after a fifteen-minute insult match that Eddie Brock would never fully recover from.

The Fantastic Four tried to reason with him.

“We can help you,” Reed Richards said, voice patient like he was talking to a rabid cat. “We have resources—”

Dan blew up the top three floors of the Baxter Building and left a sticky note on the ruins that said, “UR WELCOME - D.”

The thing was, Dan wasn’t evil anymore. Not really. He wasn’t trying to take over the world. He wasn’t murdering anyone. He just had a lifetime’s worth of rage, grief, and unresolved abandonment issues—and no idea what to do with them except get into constant, escalating, deeply unnecessary fights.

It got to a point where the heroes started treating Dan like a natural disaster.

“Code Blue,” a harried S.H.I.E.L.D. agent barked over comms one afternoon. “I repeat, Code Blue! The entity is currently body-slamming Juggernaut through Grand Central!”

Cap sighed, already pulling on his shield. “Alright, team. Let’s move out.”

Black Widow holstered her guns. “At least it’s not another alien invasion.”

Thor, cheerful as ever, grinned. “I relish a good battle!”

Hawkeye muttered, “You relish being concussed.”

Dan, for his part, loved the attention. He loved the chaos. He loved the feeling of letting loose in a world that could actually handle him, where nobody flinched when he punched through a concrete wall or melted a tank with a blast of pure ectoplasmic fire.

He was happy, in his deeply deranged, borderline-psychotic way.

That didn’t mean he was easy to deal with.

After Dan singlehandedly wrecked a Hydra base (“I was bored, okay?” he said when the Avengers confronted him), Tony Stark decided to try a different tactic.

“Look, Big and Blue,” Tony said, lounging on the ruined remains of what was once a cutting-edge jet. “Ever think about channeling that rage into something… productive? Like, say, joining the Avengers?”

Dan blinked, actually considering it for a full five seconds.

Then he laughed so hard he almost dropped a car on Tony’s head.

“Me? Work with you guys? Under orders? Are you high, Tin Man?”

Steve Rogers, exhausted and already developing a migraine, tried. “You could do a lot of good—”

“I am doing good,” Dan said brightly. “I’m keeping you on your toes. No need to thank me.”

“You broke Clint’s arm last week,” Natasha reminded him.

“He’ll live.”

“He was trying to give you a granola bar.”

Dan shrugged, utterly unbothered. “He looked suspicious.”

The closest thing Dan had to a friend was Deadpool. Not because they got along—they didn’t, not even a little—but because Deadpool was the only one insane enough to keep up.

They had a rivalry. A bloody, chaotic, absolutely incomprehensible rivalry that involved prank wars, bar fights, and one extremely regrettable karaoke contest that left three bars in ruins and a citywide ban on musical gatherings involving either party.

“I hate you,” Dan snarled once, pinning Deadpool to a wall after a four-hour chase across Manhattan.

“I hate you more!” Wade screeched back, thrilled beyond belief.

“Great! Friends forever!” Wade cackled.

Dan screamed into the void.

Meanwhile, Danny Fenton was back in his own dimension, blissfully unaware, telling Jazz, “See? Everything’s fine.”

Jazz, reading a news article titled “Unknown Supernatural Entity Causes $3 Billion in Property Damage, Punches Doctor Doom in the Face” quietly considered strangling him.

Eventually, the heroes adapted. Dan was like bad weather. You prepared for him. You kept an eye out for ominous blue clouds and spontaneous outbreaks of screaming. Sometimes he helped. Sometimes he made things worse. Mostly, he made things interesting.

There were even betting pools.

“Fifty bucks says he crashes this gala,” Sam Wilson said, tightening his bowtie before a high-profile Avengers event.

“Hundred says he wears a suit to crash it,” Bucky Barnes added, deadpan.

“Two hundred he punches Tony before dessert,” Carol Danvers said, sipping champagne.

Dan did crash the gala. In a tuxedo.

He punched Tony before the entrees even made it out.

By then, nobody was even surprised.

The turning point came when Galactus tried to devour Earth (again). The heroes mobilized. Big stakes. High drama. Apocalyptic dread.

Dan showed up in the middle of the chaos, lazily floating beside Captain Marvel.

“Hey,” he said, tilting his head at the giant cosmic entity looming in the sky. “I’m gonna punch that.”

Carol, blinking, said, “You can’t just punch Galactus.”

Dan, already cracking his knuckles, grinned. “Watch me.”

And then he did.

Nobody knew how. It defied physics, logic, and every law of reality. But somehow, Dan punched Galactus so hard the giant stumbled, clutched his jaw, and left.

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Deadpool clapped. “THAT’S MY BEST ENEMY!”

Thor dropped his hammer.

Tony sat down on the ground and decided to reconsider all his life choices.

Steve very seriously said, “We are never letting him leave.”

Thus, against all odds, Dan Phantom—the violent, chaotic, semi-redeemed ghost of a now-erased dystopian future—became an honorary Avenger much to his own dismay.

He didn’t exactly follow rules. He certainly didn’t behave. But when Thanos invaded three months later and Dan showed up by suplexing a Leviathan out of the sky and riding it into battle like a demented cowboy, nobody complained.

Well. Except the Leviathan.

In the end, Danny was right.

Everything was fine.

If your definition of “fine” included a psychotic ghost terrorizing both heroes and villains equally, destabilizing multiple governments, and becoming a beloved menace.

But hey. Could be worse.

At least he wasn’t totally evil anymore.

[sevgilimsatoru]

Error: 410 (Self Aware!AU Caleb Edition) Part 14

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13

Summary: A self aware!AU with Caleb and NonMC! reader.

Tags: Caleb x reader, Caleb x NonMC! reader, Caleb x fem!reader, fluff, Stressedout!reader, Hypersexual!reader.

Word count: 910

Inspired by: @ittybittyfanblog

A/N: Short chapter, it's not that good I think. Have a nice day!

"You bloomed from the abyss Climbing walls to reach the sky See the universe shine And the starlight in your eyes

When the darkness blinds my sight I will find you by your scent If I slumber forevermore Tell me you won’t leave my world"

You have a new message from Caleb!

"Returning to this world with you by my side is the greatest miracle... that fate has given me"

“No, I get it. I’m just glad you are here.” Your fingers caressed Caleb's cheek as you spoke. You were both lying in your bed, just talking about whatever came to mind.

You still couldn’t believe he was here... It had been a few hours since he picked you up from work. From the moment he brought you home, you were trying to soak up his presence as much as you could.

“So… what did you do in these past four years?” You said, poking his cheek. Looking at the soft smile on his face. He just shrugged in return.

“Well, when I first came to this world, it was very different from what I’m used to. I knew I had to find you, of course, but I had to learn how to live here first.” Caleb said, squishing your cheek as he chuckled, “I wanted to get a job that was at least familiar to me. Get myself through flight school to get the job I wanted.”

“How did you even get the money to get yourself into flight school? Isn’t it expensive?”

“Yeah, it is. Well, I did a lot of odd jobs. For loans I needed to have an identity, but I wasn’t exactly a real person until a few years ago. So, I had to get myself registered on documents. I was working while getting’ myself through flight school.”

“When my studying was finally complete, I spent the better part of last year getting’ a job, repaying my loans, and trying to find you.” Caleb said, his shoulders sagging, he pulled you closer, wrapping his arms around you. “It was hard, but I could endure that and more since it meant being beside you.”

“You can stay with me for a while. I can help you out with… whatever you want.” You said, your fingers curling around his shirt. Rubbing the fabric between your fingers.

“I can stay with you forever, but I’d rather not burden you.”

“It’s not a burden. You’ve got to stop trying to act so tough all the time.” You said, watching as he shifted in your arms. Resting his face in the crook of your neck, your fingers brushing his hair aside.

“I’ll be fine, sunshine. I promise, and I’m not going anywhere. Alright?”

“Alright.” You said with a sigh, it was no use trying to fight him about it, he wouldn't budge.

Caleb did start staying with you, and it was comforting having him there. Your schedules didn’t quite match, but he was here now; that should be more than enough for you.

You sighed, opening the door to your apartment. Kicking off your heels, you walked inside. Your feet were starting to hurt so bad. “I’m home,” you said, putting your bag on the couch and taking your phone out.

“Welcome back.” Caleb said, his words coming from the bedroom. You followed his voice, walking inside the bedroom to see Caleb standing in front of the mirror. He was in his uniform, getting ready. You walked up to him, wrapping your arms around him from the back.

“You have a night shift?” You asked, pressing a kiss on his arm. Watching him nod, you pulled away, walking beside him. Your hands found his tie, fixing it slightly. “Stay safe…”

Caleb chuckled in return, patting your head. “I’ll be fine, sunshine. You worry too much.” He said, waiting until you were done.

His hand wrapping around your arm, pulling you closer. His other hand held your chin, leaning his head down inches away from your face. An easy smile on his face. He saw your breath hitch, his eyes flickering down to your lips. Just waiting for a moment.

“May I?” He asked, his warm brown eyes looking into your eyes, waiting patiently for your agreement.

You let out a breath, nodding. You could feel your throat drying up. His eyes softened as his finger tapped your cheek. “Words, sunshine. I need a yes or no.”

“Yeah… yeah—you may.” You squeaked out, swallowing back the dryness in your throat.

Caleb leaned in, pressing his lips against your own. His lips felt soft, the warm breath he let out against your lips. It was slow, hesitant even, as if he was nervous about it. Caleb leaned away slightly, licking his lips before kissing you again and again. Both of his hands gently holding your face. Kissing you until you could feel air leaving your lungs.

He leaned away; the tips of his ears were flushed a pretty shade of pink. Pressing small kisses all over your face. You let out a giggle, making him smile when your hands covered his own.

When Caleb stopped, his eyes stayed glued on your face, taking you in for a few moments. He stepped back, picking up his suitcase. “I’ll get going now, otherwise I’ll be very late,” he said, walking out of the room, while you followed him behind.

You stepped in front of him, wrapping your arms around him, hugging him tightly, and he reciprocated the gesture. Squeezing you tight and then letting you go. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

“I will. Stay safe.” You replied, watching as he put on his shoes.

“Mhm… I’ll be back in a while.” He said, standing up straight, his hand resting softly on your head, patting it.

He sighed, walking over to the door and opening it. He looked over his shoulder, smiling at you.

“Don’t miss me too much.” Caleb said, walking out of the door and closing it behind him.

Tag list: @beewilko @browneyedgirl22 @aneertawrites @etsuniiru @demon-master-zero @angstylittleb1tch @mcdepressed290 @ittybittyfanblog @winwinwrites @alifyairl @huhleighna @calebsbeanpeeler @bookworrm1999 @mentaltrouble2201 @noxus123 @babyx91 @multisstuff @beomluvrr @sunnylittleapple @lunia-likes-pomegranet @imhere2dosomething @lostpsycho13 @april-likes-smut @calebsbabyapple @mephisto-with-a-knife @wooasecret @anatherone @asgardiancoffemaker @sadsaidthesadthing

[milkmily]

Invitation [Zayne]

Zayne x non mc! reader

Sum. You and Zayne got an invitation to a wedding, but it was to attend the wedding of the people you two love, both heartbroken. (Angst(?), a bit of Sylus x reader, nothing romantic happens in this chapters yet, There is comfort in a way ig idk guys I suck at this lol enjoy)

Layla is MC (my oc) to clear things up :) Also sorry if there are typos I did re read but at times I sometimes miss some even if I do re read it lol. Also me posting this after we got a new 5 star card released!? Craazzyyy lol I am definitely getting Zayne and Caleb on everyone's soul.

Zayne is in love with Layla, his soulmate. The one who he is distant To be, the one who he loves and cherishes. She was his destiny. But when he had gotten the letter to her wedding, he was just devastated. This wasn't supposed to go like this. This was one of the universes that he'd get to change the fate of it all, to finally be with her.

And here he stands at the wedding, both Sylus and Layla dancing together slowly. She married a man named Sylus. He's heard of him from times that Layla would go to his office to spend time with him. He didn't think much of it really. He thought that they were just friends. She always meets someone new with how kind she is. But never did he think that this would happen. He was happy, well, not truly happy.

He looks down at the glass of champagne he had at his hand. He sighs and sits down, no longer standing the sight of seeing the love of his life dance with someone else. He should be happy for God's sake! If he loves her he should. But…he just simply couldn't. The soft slow music still played as there was a small crowd watching them dance. “You came here for the bride Or the groom?” He heard someone say. He turned to his right and saw you. He's seen you before. You are one of Layla's friends. He just never knew your name or talked to you. “The bride…” he said as he fixed his glasses. You hummed and sat next to him. “You don't seem to enjoy the celebration.” Was it that obvious?

“No, I am. I've been told I just look cold.” He says back to you as his eyes move to look at Layla and Sylus. Your eyes moved too to look at the two newlyweds. “I'm here for the groom.” You say. “He's my boss.” You chuckled. “Layla has told me about you. She says you're her doctor.” So she does talk about him. He looked at you and nodded. But Your eyes were still glued to the happy couple that danced. Your eyes, they showed pain and hurt, maybe even betrayal? The same exact feelings he himself feels. They also were a bit puffy, had you cried for them because you were happy for them? “You also look like you aren't enjoying the celebration.” He says. You snapped and looked at him. “It's that obvious? Jeez…” you sighed. “Not really a big fan of crowds.” He wasn't sure but it seemed like a lie to him.

“I am Zayne.” He says. You smiled at him and said your name. Ah, that's your name. It suits you.

It was 4 am when you woke up. You took a shower, got ready, made breakfast and got ready for work. You sat down on your desk and saw A small white envelope. You smiled, already knowing who it was.

You flipped it and it had his name on it. Sylus. You hummed, wondering what it might have been and opened it. You take out the letter and read it. Your eyes went wide as you saw the two names next to each other and the big words that said, You're invited to our wedding.

You see the names again and your stomach starts to hurt. Married? Sylus and Layla?

You re Read it to be right and even check the date to see if it was some stupid prank that Layla had pulled. But no, it wasn't April 1 and it definitely was real as it had below Sylus signature you knew so well.

This hurt, seeing the letter at hand. “So, will you be coming, dear?” You looked up to see Sylus leaning on the desk. You looked down at the letter. Seeing him hurt even more now. “Yes, of course. How could I miss it?” You say yet, your tone cracked a bit. you Were trying so hard to hold in your tears. You start to cough In hopes that Sylus thought you'd simply gotten a cold. “That's good to know.” He Smiled. “You don't need to worry about the dress or anything, I'll have it ready. They just need to measure you and that's all.” You looked up at him, his red eyes Looking right back at you. Of course he'd do that, he always does. And that's what you loved about him, one of the many things you loved about him.

“Okay…thank you.” You smiled. “Um, I'll be right back.” You say and excuse yourself. You go into the restroom, lock the door and sit down on the floor as you hold on to the letter. You just start to sob uncontrollably as you hold the letter and reread it every single time. It waa true. It was real. And it hurt so much.

You have loved Sylus for so long. His gestures, the way he talked, walks, the way he is is what made you fall in love. His touch is so soft that you'd Wish for more from just his single shoulder squeeze Or the hold he had on you as you two had danced together that one night having to pretend to be a couple on a mission. The night you two stared into each other's eyes, your heart beating quick and fast as he had that smile On his face that made you melt. Or the times he'd invite you out to eat dinner, showed you his vinyl collections and heard his horrible singing That made you laugh and made him chuckle. Everything of him you loved and had wished it would have been your name on the card.

The dress was beautiful, it truly was. Sylus knew what would look good on you, always. The wedding was beautiful and welcoming. Everything was beautiful. Even Layla. Her gorgeous wedding dress and the huge Smile in her face as she walked down the aisle. The tears she shed as she heard Sylus vows was even beautiful. And how Sylus looked at her with such loving eyes as she read her vows. But it hurt. You don't know how many times you had to excuse yourself just to cry alone in the bathroom.

You had just gotten done crying, walking back to the party to see the groom and bride dancing together To a slow and soft song. You watched them and just smiled at them. No matter how much you wished and vision it was you, the reality never changes and it will stay like this. You saw someone sitting alone and approached them. Might as well make new friends, no? As you got closer you noticed, this was Dr. Zayne. The Doctor that Layla talked About a lot, her childhood friend and primary doctor. You sat down next to him and ask, “You came here for the bride Or the groom?” You already knew the answer but it's the best way to start a conversation no? You saw he wasn't enjoying the celebration much but maybe that's just how he Looks? So you ask and he explains that it's just how he looks. But to you, it felt like a lie.

You looked back at the dancing married couple, but more at Sylus. His arm wrapped around her waist, exactly how he had held you that night as you two danced, his other Hand holding her hand, fingers intertwined, exactly How you gwo held hands as well and-

“You also look like you aren't enjoying the celebration.” You snapped out of your thoughts and looked at him, smiling nervously. You were caught so off guard. “It's that obvious? Jeez…” you sighed. You Just came up with some stupid excuse. “Not really a big fan of crowds.

“I am Zayne.” He says. You smiled at him and said your name back to him. Zayne nods. And You two just talk, as if the crowd was never there, as if you two were never at a wedding. As if you were never heart broken.

You two ended up talking the whole wedding party. You'd laugh at his stupid and horrible jokes because come on, they were actually funny. And he'd Laugh at your horrible jokes as well. You told him about Sylus and how he was as a boss and he told you about Layla and how it was growing up with her.

“You two are here to talk or for the celebration?” You two looked at who talked and it was Layla. She was smiling at you two and you awkwardly looked away. “Both…?” You say and she laughed. “Come on! You two have to dance or something! You two are boring.”

“Now Kitten, you already know how [Name] is, she doesn't like dancing.” He says as he had two glasses of champagne at hand. You embarrassingly looked away as he said that. Well, now Zayne knows too. “Zayne here is the same.” Layla says and now Zayne looks away as well. You two looked at each other and chuckled. Layla holds her hand out towards Zayne and he takes it. Suddenly he's pulled away and you laugh at how wide His eyes got. Suddenly a big hand is Held at front of you. “Care for a dance?” He asks and you look up at him. Your heart beats fast And place your hand on top of his.

The song was slow like last Time. Some guests were dancing as well. Sylus wrapped his arms around your waist and you placed your hands on his shoulders to keep a distance. You two slowly dance and you just stare at his chest. “You're hiding something from me.” He says. You say nothing because It's true. You're hiding so much from him right now. “You Can tell me.” He says. You close your eyes as you hold back the tears. “Look up at me.” He says and you do, you open your eyes and they slowly adjust Themselves. You saw Sylus Smiling down at you as he slowly moves along with you.

“Tell me.” He whispers. He truly does care about you.

“I can't right now.” You say. It would be horrible To confess your feelings on his wedding day. What type of person does that? “When will you?” he asks. “When it's the right Time.” You say and continue to dance with him. He brought you closer, your head in his chest now, hearing the soft heart beats and you closed your eyes. You simply let the moment happen.

Zayne looked over at you and Sylus and as Sylus Slowly turns, he saw a tear slide down your cheek as your ear was pressed against his ches. He looked away and looks down at Layla as she danced along with him.

She was gorgeous, really. She looked so beautiful with the white dress she had on, how she had her hair up in a big bun with some curls out and her bands To the side. She is So gorgeous. Is this how she Would of looked if They got married? Would she hold him exactly how she held Sylus when they danced? Kissed him the same way? This was wrong, truly wrong. But he cannot stop how he feels, he's human after all. Layla looked up at him and smiled, “You're thinking right now Zayne, what is it?”

“Nothing.” He says as he smiles softly down at her. “Hmmm, it better not be work related. At my wedding, work is not welcomed.” She said and giggled. Zayne Chuckles and shakes his head. “No, it's not work. Don't worry.” He says. “I'll try to visit you as much as I can, Dr. Zayne. And I won't miss any appointments either.” She says, reassuring him. He nods and says, “Good to hear.”

“Thank you for coming.” She says as she looks at him. “Really, it means a lot that you're here.” But if only she knew that he felt like a damn storm right now. He nodded at her and they continued to dance. That's when Sylus Tapped his shoulder and said, “I'll have to steal her from you now.” Layla let's go of Zayne and he watched her leave with Sylus so they'd dance together. That's when he saw you standing as well. You looked hurt too. The same pain as his. And right then and there, he knew you were Also in love.

He walks up To you and asks, “you really don't like to dance?” You looked at him and shrugged. “It really depends..” He held his hand out and asked, “do you want to dance?” you looked at his hand and held it. He slowly brings you closer to him and holds you. You closed your eyes as you Pressed your ear against his chest and danced with him. He looked down at you and saw you shaking. “It's okay.” He whispers. And it breaks you. You let out soft and quiet Sobs as you danced with him. He holds you a bit more tighter, reassuring you. You held on to him as you two danced and felt him let out a shaky sigh.

Well, now he knows it wasn't because you didn't like big crowds. And you now knew that it wasn't because of his expression.

You two were truly broken.

There will be a part two :)

[yunaboveclouds]

cafeworker!gojo x universitystudent!reader

synopsis: you are a frequent customer at a humble, comfy, and local cafe. you've befriended one of the workers, satoru gojo. he's a nice guy, very sweet to you. on this particular day, someone disturbed your usual peace and satoru is having none of it.

You open the door to the cafe you've been going to ever since you discovered it's existence. The bell rings like wind chimes in Spring air as the door opens. You inhale, allowing the smell of coffee grinds and warm aroma enter your nose. As you exhale, you spot an all too familiar white haired man. He, of course, spots you from the entrance. He waves at you with a hot cup of coffee in hand.

"Well if it isn’t my favorite customer!” He hands the coffee to another guest.

You sit down at your usual seat in front of him, placing your bag down. You take out a journal and pen, something you’ve gotten used to doing ever since you came here.

“Hi Satoru, it’s nice to see you again. How has work been?” You ask.

“Slow. Probably because of that new coffee place that opened across the street. Had some dumb name. Something Whip…”

“Mocha Whip?”

Satoru dryly laughs, “That’s the one… You gonna order your usual?”

You nod, “Mmhmm! Large hot chocolate with extra whip cream.”

“I’ll get that started for you.”

You fumble your bag for your wallet until Satoru stops you.

“It’s on the house.”

“Aw Satoru, you don’t have to-.”

“Please. You always give me big tips. The least I can do is cover a four dollar drink, pretty lady,” He smiles gently at you as he goes to grab the ingredients he needs. You smile back at him, blushing. That’s one of the reasons you tipped big, Satoru was a flirt. Well being a pretty boy helped too.

You begin writing in your journal, some boring stuff for university. The chatter of people in the background has become white noise to you. You occasionally look up to see Satoru working on your order. That’s when someone’s voice snaps you out of focus.

“Hey beautiful. You come here often?” A man’s voice. You turn to your right and see a man, probably in his early 30s, smiling at you. He looked unsightly. Uneven stubble, torn up jeans that’s falling apart at the seams, and that is most definitely a mustard stain on his shirt.

You look around to make sure he was talking to you. He was, “Um… yes?”

“I’ve never seen you before. I come here all the time. Name’s Ryan. What’s yours?”

“Uh huh… it’s Y/n”

“That’s a pretty name. Tell me about yourself,” You stay silent. Instead of responding you go back to writing in your journal. Ryan leans in closer to you, closer than you’d like. He reads what you’re writing, “You a student or something?”

“Sure.” You feel your blood boiling. You could smack this man.

“C’mon, don’t gotta give me the cold shoulder. What? You got a boyfriend or something?”

You open your mouth to respond, too shocked to even process what he just asked. Before you could say anything else, another man’s voice spoke up.

“She does,” Satoru says with your drink in hand. His bright blue eyes looked as dark as the sea as he glared daggers into this man.

“And who are you?” Ryan raised a brow.

Satoru huffs, “Her boyfriend.”

Your eyes widen, yet you sigh in relief. Ryan slouches awkwardly.

“Oh.” Is all he could muster, like his confidence was stripped away.

Satoru places your drink in front of you, “Your hot chocolate. Just the way you like it, my love.”

Your heart skips a beat at the pet name. Satoru doesn’t stop there. He leans across the counter and kisses your forehead. Your face instantly heats up. You look at Ryan and see he’s already gotten up and left. You look back at Satoru and he’s about to go back to work.

“What was that all about!?” You nearly shouted.

He turns back to look at you, “I saw you were being harassed and I stepped in.”

“You… You kissed me!”

“Was that too much?" Satoru innocently chuckled, "Did you not like it?"

You look to the side, "It was nice... Thanks for having my back."

"Anything for my favorite customer." Satoru pauses, like he wants to say something more. He scratches the back of his head, "...Do you wanna go out some time?"

"I thought you'd never ask."

[captivating-flavors]

sober | caleb

pairing: college au caleb x mc/non mc reader

prompt: -

summary: he wished you'd been sober when you'd done it.

words: 1,425

warning(s): slight angst? but not really?

a/n: i was relistening to this and got inspired so here it is. and slight fluff bc i need to reset before finishing the sylus angst ive been working on lol reblogs, comments and feedbacks are much appreciated <3

masterlist

“Can you come pick me up?”

The moment those words left your mouth; Caleb was already rushing towards the door despite still being in his sweater and sweats. He took his jacket off the coat hanger and shrugged it on before walking out the door.

You told him a few hours ago that you were going out with a few of your college friends and that you had planned on going to dinner and having a few drinks after. Caleb had already expected that you would be inebriated by the end of the night and that he would have to pick you up.

It was mid-spring so it wasn't that cold anymore, and he figured that dashing over by foot would be faster than taking his car. So, that's what he did. He may or may not have chosen the former so he could have you closer to him, but you probably shouldn’t know that. He eventually got there in a few minutes since it wasn't far from the apartment two of you shared, somewhere off-campus but close enough.

He eventually got to you and saw that you were sitting on a bench in front of the restaurant, alone. You had your hands outstretched upwards. You had one eye closed and the other squinting at the streetlight peeking through between your fingers. He swore you’d never looked so endearing.

He saw you turn your head at the sound of his footsteps and flashed a wide grin at him.

“Oh? It’s Caleb!” Your cheeks were flushed and words slightly slurred.

Caleb stood in front of your sitting form, “Yes, it’s me.”

“You came.”

“Of course. You called.” Caleb shrugged off his jacket and draped it over your shoulders then proceeded to crouch in front of you.

“Thanks. How did you know I was cold?” You had your forehead scrunched in confusion.

How cute.

“You’re always cold, Pip-squeak.”

You laughed, “I guess I am. But I’m glad I have you to always warm me up. You’re the bestest friend anyone could ever ask for.”

Ah.

Caleb would be lying if he said it didn’t sting every time he was reminded of where he stood in your life. As your friend. Your best friend.

He used to be so proud of that title. Being your best friend meant the world to him. After all, you had been the center of his world ever since you grew up together. But at a certain point, the title he once was so proud of having felt like a stab in the chest.

He knew he had feelings for you. He didn’t know when it started, but it was pretty much a given since you had always been the center of his world, the only one who kept him going.

There had been a few times where Caleb almost acted on his feelings. Keyword being almost. He wanted there to be something more between the two of you, but he couldn’t even fathom the thought of losing you if things went sour. So, he didn’t want to risk it, which led him to make a promise to himself that he would never be the one to make the first move. You had to be the one to make the first move.

So, for now, all he could do was stay by your side, trying to be content with the title he’d always held.

The cold hands cupping his cheeks brought him back to the present.

You brought your face closer to his, which prompted his eyes to widen and his cheeks to heat up, “I love your eyes. They look like…” You paused as if to think of the right comparison, “A universe.”

Caleb opened his mouth to say something but you continued, “But you’re my universe, Caleb.”

You then proceeded to lean forward to press a gentle kiss on his lips and lingered for a while. Caleb’s brain immediately short-circuited and the heat that rushed up his cheeks were now also felt on his ears, along with the sound of his pounding heart. He was over the moon, but it would be a lie to say that it your actions did not catch him off guard.

He felt you pull away too soon, before he manages to deepen the kiss. You were smiling as you were looking at him whilst also still keeping your palms against his cheek, “I’ve always wanted to do that.”

Me too.

The words were about to roll off his tongue, but he stopped himself as he noticed the slightly hazy look in your eyes. You were sobering up, but you still probably won’t remember this in the morning. He could’ve taken advantage of the moment, but he didn’t. No, he opted to slip into the role of the kindhearted boy from your childhood instead.

The words that actually came out of him next were soft and slightly murmured, “I wished you’d been sober when you’d done that, Pip-squeak.”

When you didn’t respond–as you didn’t actually hear what he said–he took your hands off his cheeks and held on to them for a moment, “C’mon, let’s get you home.” Caleb tugged the hood of his jacket over your head and turned around, motioning for you to get on his back.

You stood and wrapped your arms around his neck, resting your head on his shoulders, your hair spilling out of the hood of his jacket and brushing over his shoulders. He stood, placed his hands on the back of your thighs for support and started walking.

The night was relatively quiet, aside from a few cars passing by every few minutes or so. It was peaceful and it felt like it was just the two of you under the streetlights as he carried you on his back. He could feel your heartbeat against his back, and he could only wish that you couldn’t hear or feel the pounding in his chest, which eventually made its way to his ears too.

At some point, Caleb felt you shift and nuzzle your head on the crook of his neck.

“You good?”

You hummed in response before mumbling, “My nose is cold.”

“Hang on. We’ll be there soon.”

You proceeded to murmur something, which he couldn’t really decipher.

“What was that, Pip-squeak?”

“You smell like soap.”

“Yeah? Well, I got your call not long after I just got out of the shower.”

Your response came a bit later, sleepiness evident in your voice, “Thanks for coming to get me.”

“You know you’ll always have me.”

He felt your breath evening against his neck and figured you fell asleep. He eventually reached the apartment building and carried you into the elevator. After struggling for quite a bit, Caleb managed to punch in the code to the apartment whilst still carrying you, but his struggle had awaken you from your short nap. He walked over to your bedroom and laid you down gently on your bed. You kicked your shoes off and tossed them on the floor before pulling the covers over yourself.

He walked over to the cabinet by the window and grabbed an aspirin, along with a glass of water before handing it to you.

He sat on the edge of your bed, “Here. So, you won’t come complainin’ tomorrow about how your head hurts.”

You groaned and turned away from him, shutting your eyes, “I don’t want it.”

He sighed and opted on putting them on the bedside table instead, “Alright. I’ll just put them here in case you change your mind.”

“I don’t want it. I have you to take care of me if it does hurt.”

“That you do, Pip-squeak.” He chuckled as he brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face, “Sleep tight, Y/N.” He added as he headed towards the door.

“Caleb?”

He stopped in his tracks and turned to look at you, “Yes?”

“Can you stay with me tonight? I’m still cold.”

Caleb walked back over to the side of your bed to have you gazing up at him and saying, “Please?”

He sighed, not because he doesn’t want to do it, but because the fact that what happened earlier probably didn’t mean as much to you as it did to him was already too much for him to handle. But he was never strong enough to go against you, wasn’t he? So, he relented.

“Alright, scoot over.”

You buried your head against his chest as he wrapped his arms around you, “Better?”

“Much. Good night, Caleb.”

“Good night, Y/N.”

-

taglist: @mayooness

[dont-lick-my-foot]

yay fun! thanks for the tag!

if you could be any animal which one would you choose to be? (can be fictional) (and you can explain why if you want to)

cat because they're the best animal! i'd also love to sleep all day and run around the house all night >:)

what would you choose when you're in a hurry and have nothing to wear?

my wardrobe is almost exclusively t-shirts and jeans, so probably that? if i literally had zero things to wear i'd just stay home tho? maybe i'm kind of taking this question too literally idk lol

are you a witch, vampire, fairy, dryad, siren or a mermaid and why do you think so?

maybe a witch? i have no reason, i just think they're neat -insert marge simpson meme- (plus there's the whole black cat thing so of course!)

what is your style?

"i dress for comfort, not for fashion" - me

very casual: t-shirt (plain or anime/musical artist i like/my university related usually) & jeans/sweat pants. hoodie. i tend to buy my clothes at least one size up because i can't stand them feeling even a little tight (unsure if it's a neurodivergent thing or gender dysphoria thing for me. maybe both?). in my heart i wear converse but my feet are assholes so i have to wear athletic shoes with good arch support >:(

color palette is usually blacks/grays/blues/greens/purples. no jewelry except for earrings once in a great great while to make sure the holes haven't closed up

regular milk or plant based milk?

regular

which one do you put first milk or cereal?

cereal because i'm not a weirdo

fav way to kill someone? (idgaf if you never thought of it now you have to think of something and make it at least a bit cool I'm begging)

violence is rarely the answer (i have no good answer for this i'm so sorry 😭)

tagging you back of course! @lichenbu

thankyou for the tag @preposterousray 🖤

get to know your mutuals♡

if you could be any animal which one would you choose to be? (can be fictional) (and you can explain why if you want to) I think I would choose to be a bengal tiger because I have always resonated with them 🐅 <3

what would you choose when you're in a hurry and have nothing to wear?

hm, a black singlet top, fishnet tights and black denim shorts with lace, hair in two spiky buns, eyeshadow and lipgloss, some bracelets and obviously my scoliosis brace but that is a mobility aid lol

are you a witch, vampire, fairy, dryad, siren or a mermaid and why do you think so?

I think either a witch (darkness, chaos, magic, freedom, and power, and animals, besides I’m already into witchery) and a vampire (turning into a bat, flying, supernatural powers, macabre)

what is your style?

idk man I love and admire both gothic fashion and punk-rock fashion. diy, scraps, lace, patches, studs, spikes, fishnets, jewellery, mesh, paint, safety pins, stockings, short skirts and shorts, crop tops, weird hairstyles and makeup, expressing individuality and rebellion and the macabre and unusual — and if I’m being formal then thrifted suit jackets and vampy curly updos ✨

regular milk or plant based milk?

regular milk 🥛

which one do you put first milk or cereal?

milk because I am a psychopath

nah I’m actually kidding I obviously put cereal first I just wanted to annoy whoever was reading this

fav way to kill someone? (idgaf if you never thought of it now you have to think of something and make it at least a bit cool I'm begging)

pull one of their eyes out with my fingers, shove a handkerchief into their eye socket, and then throw them the fuck overboard a ship to drown in the unforgiving sea kaz brekker style

tagging @vilecemetery @rottingangel9 @mossterious @urlocalbone @butterflypython @ball-of-insecurities @sandmoondooh @calder-a @sparklykat-hideoutenthusiast and anyone else who wants to join

[baigepueckers]

Paige Bueckers X Olympic Skateboard Reader

Drop In

The sun in Dallas didn’t just shine…it pressed. Heavy and relentless, it clung to your skin like static electricity, forcing sweat to gather beneath your Team USA cap as you surveyed the edges of the temporary street course carved into a parking lot downtown.

You were here for the X Games Summer Showcase, technically. It wasn’t a competition…more of a media circus, with energy drink tents and influencer drones buzzing overhead. You’d done your interviews. Your demo run. Smiled for photos even when you were sore and didn’t feel like talking.

You should’ve left by now. Your manager had already texted twice. But something about the golden light, the smell of tacos from the truck across the lot, and the hum of conversation in the background kept you still. That and the lingering buzz of adrenaline under your skin. Skating…even on a non competition day…never left your system right away.

You pulled your board into your lap and sat on the edge of the cement bowl, wiping sweat from your brow with your sleeve, letting your heartbeat slow. That’s when you felt it a gaze. Not creepy. Not desperate. Just… focused.

You turned your head and spotted her leaning quietly against the chain link fence, arms folded, sunglasses half down her nose. She looked so casually unbothered it took you a second to clock the fact that she wasn’t just another fan.

Tall. Athletic. Blonde. The kind of face that had been everywhere on sports media last year.

“Paige Bueckers” you muttered under your breath, piecing it together slowly.

UConn’s golden girl. The highlight reel darling. And if the rumors were right, the Wings’ latest rookie.

What was she doing here?

You stood, brushing off your shorts, and casually pushed your board under one arm before walking toward her. You weren’t sure if she’d notice…but of course she did. Her gaze flicked up as you approached, and a slow, easy smile curved across her face. Calm. Unreadable.

“You a scout or just here to vibe?” you asked with a lopsided grin.

Her smile widened, amused. “Neither. Just watching.”

Her voice was smooth and slightly raspy. It had weight. Like she wasn’t used to saying more than she needed to. She slipped her sunglasses off completely then and you finally got a proper look at her. Blue eyes, sharp and soft all at once. Her skin glowed from the sun, freckles just barely visible across her nose.

You swallowed before answering. “You a fan?”

“Maybe,” she said, and there was a teasing lilt in her voice. “I’ve seen your Olympic runs. My cousin’s obsessed with you.”

You blinked. “Your cousin?”

“She skates. Sort of. Well, she tries,” Paige added with a slight laugh. “She sent me your entire street final from Tokyo and said, and I quote, ‘This is the most powerful woman alive.’”

You laughed. “High praise. I should hire her as my agent.”

Paige smiled again, this time smaller, more personal. “I thought I’d come see you in person. Didn’t expect to run into you after your run, though.”

“Yeah? Why not?”

“You looked… in the zone. Like your own universe.” Her eyes flicked to your board, then back to you. “Didn’t want to interrupt.”

No one ever said that to you. People interrupted all the time…managers, brands, fans, influencers desperate for a collab. But not her. She waited.

You leaned a little against the fence, letting the silence stretch. “Well, now that you’ve made contact,” you said playfully, “what’s the plan? You gonna ask me to sign your basketball?”

Paige rolled her eyes, just barely. “Only if you teach me how to stay on a board longer than ten seconds.”

You raised an eyebrow. “You skate?”

“I tried once,” she admitted. “Fell harder than I’ve ever hit the court.”

Your lips twitched. “Okay, now I have to see that.”

Her eyes sparkled just a little. “Maybe later. If I survive practice tomorrow.”

“You’re in town already?”

She nodded. “Just moved last week. Figuring it out as I go.”

That tugged something in your chest. The vulnerability in that sentence. You knew what it felt like to be in a new city, chasing a dream, unsure of whether the ground beneath you would hold. You’d lived that feeling…skating through Tokyo half on adrenaline, half on fear. You’d never had time to stop and look around.

“Adjustment’s weird,” you offered quietly.

Paige tilted her head. “You get used to it?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes it just becomes part of you.”

For a moment, neither of you said anything. There was no pressure to. You watched a little kid roll past on a plastic scooter, one foot dragging behind him. Paige kicked a loose pebble with the toe of her sneaker.

Then suddenly, she looked up. “You free tonight?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “Depends.”

“There’s a taco truck a few blocks from here. I haven’t eaten real food since I got off the plane.” She offered a small, almost shy smile. “You want to come with me?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t want to but because it felt… delicate. Like the beginning of something you didn’t quite understand yet.

“I like tacos,” you said eventually. “But only if you let me buy you a drink after, too. For surviving the first week.”

Paige grinned, her cheeks tinged with sun and something warmer. “Deal.”

[everythingisamazing]

Hot Take: If Jayvik survive the finale, whatever their sexuality or romantic orientation was before, does not really matter. Why? Well, maybe I am too pan- and demisexual to fully grasp the concept of normative sexuality, but I personally believe, that it would be way more logical for them to be beyond any of those concepts (as Viktors VA perfectly said), simply because of what they have gone through. I mean, Viktor basically became a god. If you look at gods in myth, they are usually open to pretty much any gender and any type of love because...well they are a god. As a god, you are not limited by what limits humans. I also think that being part of a hive mind would erase a lot of the boundaries you felt were there before - if anything Viktor would probably struggle with knowing what his own identity actually is post finale. I am not saying that the first thing they do after waking up (in a beautiful field of flowers of course) is have sex - I actually picture it more as something that happens eventually and gradually? Like, I know it's impossible to really imagine being soulbonded with someone across different universes, but as far as you can, do you believe it's logical that, if you were, you would be bothered by something as trivial as what we percieve to be different levels of physical intimacy or someones gender? That you would care about platonic VS romantic after what they have been through? After what not only Viktor and Jayce in their timeline have gone through, but all the different iterations of them, literally containing ALL possibilities? I mean, Jayce is already touchy with Viktor to begin with and they die embracing eachother, with their lips like...5 centimeters apart. Is it really more likely, that this kind of physicality would just NEVER naturally evolve into holdings hands, a kiss and whatever more, given their situation? Do you think Jayce would be like: "You know what? Throwing my arms around you naked in the astral plane is as far as I go!" Be serious please. I also think, from a character growth standpoint, it would be really neat if Viktor would confront his past relationship with his body and learn to embrace the physical again, by experiencing the opposite of the pain of his past life - so a lot of pleasure essentially. Idk, man. Maybe I am projecting here - I just really think, even though I am not very touchy irl myself, that after going through something like that with another person, sacrificing EVERYTHING to be with them, even if it is just for a few more seconds ... you can bet your ass, that when I am getting them back, I am holding on to them with everything I've got - especially even my thighs.