#i feel zero sympathy for this man

[iguessitsjustme]

Then you don't get to date her what in the absolute fuck

[glitchfang]

actually if i may linger on keaton and mateo for a bit. kinda insane how obt commenters were calling woo an abuse apologist for having keaton be a victim too and try to make up for what he did (and even then not be forgiven immediately, like its pretty obvious that the narrative isnt condoning his actions based on that) and then wank about how mateo did nothing wrong actually and he was just a stressed parent so he HAD to neglect, hit, and abandon dielle, and argued that he’s purely a victim. and then insinuate that dielle is also horrible because she didnt want to kill julius or keaton. woo is a better person than me for being reasonable and firm through it all because id be on that like white on rice

[pinkcasket]

watching house is a trip but hearing the writers early opinions is so funny "he's not autistic he's just an eccentric jerk" "house isn't in love with wilson they're both straight" not only did you write an autistic bisexual you also gave him adhd and complex ptsd.

[inthestripclubstraightupjorkinit]

Flashback to the time my mother found this rare beauty in the depths of facebook

[julietsf1]

Strawberry Season - Lando Norris x Reader

summary: she was his plus-one, his accessory, his afterthought. but Lando Norris? he made her laugh before her boyfriend even noticed she’d stopped smiling (6.7k words)

content: sad/comfort, slow burn, he falls first, stuck in bad relationship (non-graphic), mutual pining, mention of fish!

AN: I was having a nostalgic day and suddenly I remembered Shawn Mendes exists. listened to Treat You Better and now boom this was made. big kiss to you all!! don't forget you deserve someone who makes you smile <3

--------------------------------------------------

The Hôtel Hermitage had a way of dressing the evening in silk and scent—amber light dancing off champagne flutes, velvet murmurs weaving between notes of string quartets, the faint hush of the sea just beyond the terrace.

You arrived on your boyfriend's arm, perfectly polished, smelling faintly of oud and confidence. Your gown—a midnight blue silk with delicate beading at the shoulders—glistened like the reflection of stars on still water. He, in a tuxedo he hadn’t even ironed himself, gave you a cursory once-over, the kind usually reserved for window displays or weather forecasts.

"You clean up well. When you try," he remarked, the words soaked in backhanded charm and just enough volume to make the sommelier glance over with subtle disapproval. "Didn’t expect that dress to actually work on you."

Then he kissed your temple like one might stamp a document—detached, obligatory—and peeled off toward a group of men with hedge funds and zero personalities, tossing the comment like a grenade dipped in cologne. He chuckled at his own wit before they even reacted, already anticipating the hollow laughter of men who mistook cruelty for charisma.

You blinked once, twice, then turned on your heel and made for the bar.

"One strawberry martini, please," you said to the bartender, your voice calm and glossy, though your chest felt like it was holding its breath. The bartender gave a subtle nod and began working in quiet sympathy.

You leaned your elbow on the marble and exhaled. Your reflection in the mirrored back wall looked elegant and mildly amused. That, at least, you could live with.

"Your boyfriend’s tux looks like it’s been through customs, dry-cleaned with a rock, and ironed with a shoe."

You turned. The man beside you held a glass of something expensive and looked far too pleased with himself. He was, annoyingly, the kind of handsome that didn’t need to try. Hair—perfectly careless. Smile—dangerously self-aware. The overall vibe? Trouble, tailored in what I assume is Tom Ford.

You laughed, sharp and immediate. "Do you know I spent half the afternoon trying to convince him to iron that shirt? Offered him a steamer. He looked personally victimized by the concept of chores. Hopeless."

He looked delighted. "So this was a collaborative failure. Now I feel bad for mocking it. Sort of."

"Don’t. I made one polite suggestion and he acted like I’d insulted his entire lineage. I refuse to be held responsible for his fashion choices," you said, the corners of your mouth finally giving in to a smile. The knot in your chest loosened just a little—this was the most fun you’d had all evening.

"I can’t tie my own ties," he offered casually. "So really, who am I to talk?"

"What do you do, then? Just let your girlfriend do it for you?"

"No girlfriend, just clip-ons. Or my mate George. He’s so posh he probably learned to tie a bow tie before he could tie his own shoes."

You laughed again, lighter this time. The sound surprised you with how easy it felt.

"Well," you said, "I can't even walk in my So Kates for an hour, so I’m in no position to judge anyone tonight."

His eyebrows lifted like you'd said you walked here barefoot. "That’s borderline inhumane. Those are incredibly uncomfortable, right?"

"Horrible," you admitted, sipping your drink. "But the real perk is that I now have a perfectly valid excuse to leave this party in about thirty minutes."

He tapped his glass against yours. "To noble suffering."

"And men who can’t tie ties."

"Ouch. That was personal."

You grinned, the martini smoothing out something tight in your chest. The conversation rolled along like it had always been waiting for an excuse to begin.

"Lando," he said suddenly, extending a hand.

"Nice to meet you, Lando," you replied, taking it, your grip easy, your smile laced with light amusement.

You tilted your head slightly. "I think I recognise you—from the racing, right?"

His brow quirked, caught somewhere between pleased and intrigued. "Guilty."

You sipped your drink, eyes glinting. "Well, it’s easy to remember a face like that."

"In the positive way?"

You rolled your eyes at him. "Please."

His posture straightened just a touch. The smirk didn’t leave his face, but something about it softened at the edges.

"I’ll try not to let that go to my head," he said, a beat late, his voice just a little warmer, his eyes twinkling amused. 

"You already did."

"Unfair. That was disarming. You’re very good at this."

"At what?" you said, feigning innocence.

"Catching me off guard in a way that’s... annoyingly effective."

"I have a talent," you said, sipping your drink.

"You do," he replied, gaze lingering just a second too long before he added, "and you’re very distracting."

You arched a brow. "Good distracting or 'tripped-over-my-own-feet' distracting?"

"Bit of both. Still deciding."

You laughed, shaking your head, the edge of your smile refusing to leave.

And just like that, the night took on a different hue. The room still sparkled, but its edges softened. You talked about Monaco in winter, about awful hotel carpets, about how Lando once tried to cook pasta in a kettle. There were no pauses, no polite silences. It was ridiculous and lovely and utterly unserious.

At some point, your boyfriend reappeared in the distance, laughing too loudly with someone whose blazer had dragons embroidered on the sleeves.

Lando clocked it instantly. "Should I spill something on him? Not on purpose, obviously. But also maybe very much on purpose."

"Tempting," you said.

He set his glass down. "But we’re too elegant for that."

"Allegedly."

The music swelled, a slow turn from something glittering into something that signaled the end of the night.

You sighed and glanced at the crowd. "I should go find him."

Lando leaned against the bar with a smirk. "Are you sure? He gives off strong 'brings up his net worth in casual conversation' energy."

You smirked. "You’re terrible."

"But right."

"No comment."

As you walked away, he called after you, "Next time, I’m bringing backup shoes for you."

You didn’t turn. But your smile stayed with you, long after the violins began their last swell.

…

The paddock terrace buzzed with the sort of energy only Monaco could host—where money didn’t whisper, it practically shouted through linen suits and Hermès bags, and everything smelled faintly of jet fuel and overpriced champagne.

You arrived on your boyfriend’s arm, your heels clicking softly on the polished concrete, your dress catching the breeze in a way that had drawn more than a few glances already. The adrenaline in the air was contagious. You couldn’t help it—you were excited. This was your home turf, after all. Monaco at its absolute peak.

You leaned over slightly, catching your first glimpse of the pit lane just below the terrace’s glass railing. The sound, the scent, the movement—it all made your heart flicker.

“This is amazing,” you said, more to yourself than to him. “I can actually feel the vibration of the engines from here.”

Your boyfriend barely glanced up from his phone. “Yeah it’s whatever,” he muttered. “Look—those guys in the corner, that’s who I need to speak to. Go entertain yourself, will you?”

You opened your mouth, but he was already off, striding toward a group of Loro Piana-clad finance types who looked like they’d never broken a sweat in their lives. One of them gave you a cursory glance before turning his attention back to whatever new tax loophole they were dissecting.

Left alone, you drifted toward the edge of the terrace, your fingers lightly brushing the glass. You looked in the distance, taking in the beautiful track. The air that smelled like tyre smoke. Somewhere, a commentator’s voice crackled through loudspeakers.

Then you heard it—cutting through the din like it was aimed just for you.

“Hey, Strawberry!”

You blinked, turned your head.

Down in the pit lane, Lando was looking directly at you, leaning casually against the garage barrier with his helmet tucked under one arm and a grin that bordered on criminal. “Good to see you again!” he called up, already looking far too pleased with himself.

Your smile widened despite yourself.

He pointed upward, voice still carrying. “What? You thought I’d forget your cocktail of choice? Strawberry martini, wasn’t it?”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled out of you. A few heads turned to see who he was yelling at. You gave a little wave, pretending not to enjoy the attention.

"Fancy seeing you here."

“You look bored up there!” he shouted, cupping a hand around his mouth for dramatic flair. “Wanna come down and see where the fun actually happens?”

You raised an eyebrow, half amused, half intrigued.

He motioned toward the stairs behind you. “Come on, Strawberry. I’ll even let you wear the team radio.”

You glanced back toward the terrace. Your boyfriend was still deep in conversation, probably pitching himself like a startup, laughing with one hand in his pocket and the other balancing a drink he hadn’t even offered you.

So, you turned back to Lando—who was now dramatically miming putting on headphones like he was in a music video—and tilted your head like you were still considering it.

"Alright then," you called down. "But if I trip in these heels, I’m blaming you."

"I'll catch you," he yelled back, utterly unfazed. “Or I’ll sue the FIA for putting stairs in a paddock. Either way—worth it.”

You made your way down the metal staircase, the heels clicking like castanets, and by the time you reached the bottom, Lando was already holding out a pair of headphones and an access bracelet with a kind of smug reverence.

“For you, madame,” he said, bowing slightly. “Your official ticket to the chaos.”

You put on the bracelet with a smile, already feeling a little lighter.

“For the record,” he said, holding out the headset, “I don’t offer these to just anyone.”

You took them. “Oh, so I’m special.”

“Undoubtedly.”

You slipped the headphones on as he stepped back, hands in the pockets of his race suit, clearly satisfied.

“Let me guess,” you said, voice a little louder now with the headset in place, “you do this for all the guests who look mildly unimpressed by the view upstairs?”

“No,” he said, eyes twinkling. “Just the ones I secretly hope stick around.”

You gave him a look—curious, not skeptical—and he added quickly, “Because you’ve got good race-watching energy. Very calm. Slightly elegant. Makes the garage look better.”

“Right,” you said, clearly amused. “You just want me to make you look cool.”

“Impossible task,” he admitted with a grin. “But I admire your optimism.”

The garage buzzed around you—technicians moving with purpose, radios crackling, tyres getting shuffled like oversized poker chips. And yet, somehow, everything in your little corner felt... light.

“Not gonna lie,” he murmured, lowering his voice, “I like stealing a few quiet minutes when I can.”

You nodded. “Yeah. It’s a lot during weekends like this I can imagine.”

He glanced at you, thoughtful for a moment, like he wanted to ask something but decided against it. Then his expression shifted back to its usual mischief.

“Want to see something fun?”

You blinked. “Fun in a normal person way, or in a ‘you drive 300km/h for fun’ way?”

“Both,” he said, tilting his head toward the car in the middle of the garage—sleek, low, and absolutely radiating menace. “Come on. Get in. You’ve earned it.”

You blinked. “Earned it how?”

“For surviving the upstairs crowd without launching yourself off the terrace,” he said, already grinning. “Also, I feel like you'd suit it.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You just want to see me try to climb into that thing in a dress.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, unapologetic. “But I’ll make it look like I’m being a gentleman helping you in. Good for my PR.”

You laughed but still let him offer his hand. His grip was steady, warm, guiding you in with an ease that made the whole moment feel weirdly... natural.

Inside, the cockpit felt surreal—like slipping into another universe. Tight, sharp, oddly comfortable in a way that made you sit up straighter.

You looked up at him. “I feel like I need clearance from air traffic control.”

Lando smirked. “You look good in it.”

You raised a brow. “Is this part of your usual garage tour?” He grinned. “Only the deluxe version. Very limited availability.” 

“Mm-hmm.”

He crouched beside the car, arms resting on the edge, expression suddenly playful. “Alright—race start. Lights out. Whole world watching. What’s your move?”

You pretended to think. “Adjust my lip gloss. Then floor it.”

He burst out laughing. “Unreal. No notes.”

You smiled, settling back slightly in the seat, the hum of the garage around you fading into a softer kind of focus. His eyes lingered on you just a second longer than necessary, making you feel a bit warmer than you would’ve liked to admit. 

“Okay,” you said eventually. “I like your version of fun.”

“Told you.”

Just then, you heard your name.

Lando glanced up behind you, his smile dimming just slightly.

You followed his gaze.

There, at the top of the stairs, your boyfriend had finally noticed. Arms folded. Sunglasses pushed down just enough to show a flicker of something more than irritation. 

You shifted slightly in the seat, your back instinctively straightening, your smile thinning.

“I should probably head back,” you murmured, glancing up again. “Before that turns into a thing.”

Lando’s eyes were still on you.

“I don’t know,” he said, voice low and smooth. “I kind of like that I get under his skin.”

You gave him a warning look, but your smile gave you away.

“He’s... not great with this sort of thing.”

Lando leaned one arm casually against the car, just close enough that his shoulder brushed the edge of yours. “What sort of thing? Someone actually talking to you? Enjoying you?”

You swallowed. “He’s just protective.”

“He didn’t look all that interested twenty minutes ago.”

You didn’t respond.

Lando straightened up slightly, his grin flickering into something more assured, less teasing. “You don’t have to explain it. But I’m not sorry for this.”

You looked at him—really looked at him—and for a second, you forgot the tension humming above the pit lane.

You laughed softly. “You’re dangerous.”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said, grinning.

You climbed out carefully—again with his help, though he tried very hard not to smirk when your heel caught slightly on the floor.

“Thanks for inviting me down,” you said, adjusting your dress.

He nodded. “Anytime. Next time you should stay for the race.”

You paused at that, surprised, amused, and... something else. Then you turned, stepping away, the noise of the pit building back around you.

“Bye, Strawberry!” he called after you, voice light and full of sunshine. “Try not to break hearts on your way up!”

…

The lunch reservation was for 13:00. The cancellation came at 12:52.

“Something came up. Just a quick game at the club. Have to raincheck.”

You stared at the message like it might change if you blinked hard enough. It didn’t. The text sat there on your screen, casual and infuriating, like a shrug in Helvetica.

The maître d’ at the café had already asked if you’d like to be seated twice. You smiled politely, murmured a no thank you, and slipped out before you started feeling more humiliated than hungry.

The sky was unfairly pretty for a bad day—clear and soft, with sunbeams brushing the cobblestones as if Monaco itself had no idea someone had just bailed on you for nine holes and overpriced cigars.

You didn’t want to go home. You weren’t angry, not quite. Just tired in a way that lingered behind your ribs. So, instead, you wandered a few streets over—past a bookstore, a gelato stand, and finally, a small flower shop with wide windows and hydrangeas stacked like frosting.

You paused. Then pushed the door open.

The scent hit you first—green, sweet, almost cold from the water buckets lining the floor. Peonies, roses, lavender, tulips. All in quiet conversation. The florist gave you a gentle bonjour from behind a counter cluttered with ribbon and stems.

You wandered aimlessly. No plan. No occasion. You just needed to feel like something soft could still be held in your hands.

You reached toward a bouquet of pale pink peonies—petals feathered and ruffled, like they were mid-sigh.

“I was hoping you’d go for those.”

You turned—half startled, half already smiling.

Lando was standing in the doorway, sunglasses pushed up into his curls, a grin threatening the corner of his mouth. He was wearing a zip-up and trainers, casually gorgeous in the way some people just are when they’re not trying.

“I was going to say,” he added, stepping further inside, “you look like someone who could use a bouquet.”

“You following me now?”

He shrugged. “Just happened to be across the street. Monaco’s small and you have a way of catching my eye.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corners of your mouth betrayed you.

Lando stepped past you and plucked the peonies from the bucket like he’d been sent here by divine instruction.

“Don’t,” you started, watching as he pulled out his card.

“I insist,” he said smoothly, not even looking back. “They look like you.”

That made you pause. “Soft and overpriced?”

He smirked. “Chic, delicate, vaguely intimidating… but in a very classy way.”

You huffed a laugh and shook your head as he paid, thanked the florist with a grin that probably earned him three free carnations, and handed the bouquet to you like it was an Olympic medal.

“You really didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to.”

You looked down at the flowers, then back at him. “I was just trying to walk off a lunch that didn’t happen.”

“Rough day?”

You nodded once.

He hesitated. Then: “Come on. Let me walk you home. Or somewhere. I’m excellent at distracting people.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you busy?”

“Not even a little.”

You stepped outside together, the late sun catching the edge of your bouquet. He fell into step beside you like it was instinct.

“So,” he said, as you turned the corner, “what car would you never be caught dead in?”

You squinted. “Like… ever?”

“Yes. Immediate judgment. Go.”

You thought. “Anything that looks like it was designed by someone who hates joy. Or a Fiat Multipla.”

“Very specific. I respect it.” He nodded solemnly. “For me, it’s the ones with faces. Like, cartoon villain faces. Headlights that judge you.”

You burst out laughing. “What kind of car trauma are you working through?”

“Deep and unresolved,” he said gravely. “I once had a rental that made me feel like it wanted to eat me. Never again.”

The conversation spiraled from there—into ugly rims, hideous spoilers, the tragedy of beige leather interiors. Every few steps, Lando pointed out a car and gave it a nickname. 

"That one’s definitely a Greg. Greg works in insurance and never tips."

You laughed. Actually laughed. The kind that catches you off guard and warms your ribs a little.

And then—your phone buzzed in your bag.

You glanced down. His name lit up the screen.

Lando noticed the pause.

You looked at the call. Then pressed the side button, letting it disappear. You didn’t say anything about it, and he didn’t ask.

But he smiled. Just slightly.

It was the quietest rebellion you’d made in a while. And it felt... right.

A few minutes later, as you reached your street, you slowed.

“This is me.”

He nodded, eyes flicking up toward the front of your building like he was memorising it for later. Or just being nosy. Hard to say.

“Thanks for—well, for all of that,” you said, lifting the peonies slightly.

“Anytime,” he replied, and you believed him.

You turned to go.

“Oh, and hey,” he called, stepping backwards down the street, that familiar grin slipping into place. “If you ever need help judging more terrible cars…”

You raised an eyebrow, amused.

He pulled something from his pocket and tossed it lightly in your direction. You caught it—his number, scribbled on a business card with Lando (flower expert) scrawled beneath in messy handwriting.

“…now you know where to find me,” he finished.

You looked down at the card, then back up.

“I do now,” you said, smiling—soft, amused, and something else you didn’t want to name yet.

And you didn’t look back until your door had closed behind you—and the peonies were already in water. 

…

Your birthday started with a buzz—literally, from your phone. Noon. A text.

Happy bday x

No call. No emoji. No punctuation enthusiasm. Just lowercase indifference and a kiss like a formality. Like he'd done his civic duty and could now go about his day in peace.

By the time your boyfriend actually arrived at the party—a whopping two hours late, no explanation—you were already knee-deep in hugs, flowers, Aperol spritzes, and the cake was nearly finished.

The rooftop was busy. Sun-drenched. Monaco glittered in the background like it knew it was part of the aesthetic. Friends mingled, music hummed, someone had started making mimosas in a blender for reasons no one could quite explain.

And then there was Lando.

He’d arrived on time, casually cool in a linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of sunglasses perched in his curls.

You hadn’t expected him to come, not really. But you’d invited him anyway—half as a joke, half because he was one of the only people lately who made things feel lighter. Since the flower shop, you’d been texting—mostly memes, random complaints about ugly cars, and his very intense opinions on croissants. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you’d started looking forward to his name lighting up your screen more than you should’ve.

So when he appeared with a cheeky smile and a gift bag in tow, you nearly forgot to keep pretending you weren’t waiting for him.

“Hey, birthday girl,” he said, putting the bag on the gift table. “No refunds or returns.”

You grinned. “Perfect. I was just saying how I wanted to make my own life harder today.”

“Glad to contribute.”

Your boyfriend showed up five minutes later.

No apology, no excuse. Just sunglasses, a glance around, and a distracted kiss on the cheek before he handed you an envelope.

Inside was a gift card. For skincare.

“I figured you’d appreciate this,” he said, loud enough for the people around you to hear. “Don’t want an old lady by my side, yeah?”

Someone laughed awkwardly. You didn’t.

You smiled. Thinly. The kind that feels more like a paper cut than anything resembling joy.

“Thanks,” you said quietly, folding the card and tucking it into your bag.

Lando had seen it. The whole thing. He didn’t say anything at first—just sipped his drink, eyes glinting behind his sunglasses.

A few minutes later, he drifted close, nudged your elbow lightly, and said, “Mind if I borrow the birthday girl for a sec?”

You blinked. “Sure?”

He led you away from the crowd and toward the quieter corner of the terrace, near the railing. The music faded behind you. The breeze picked up, cool against your neck.

“I really wanted to personally give this before I have to leave.”

He pulled something small from his little gift bag.

A Cartier box.

You looked at him, suddenly cautious. “Lando, what—”

“Relax,” he said, grinning. “I didn’t mortgage a yacht or anything.”

He flipped the box open with a little dramatic flair.

Inside: a sleek, elegant watch—timeless and perfectly understated, the metal catching the sunlight just enough to glow. When you looked closer, you spotted it—on the back of the face, engraved in the corner, a tiny strawberry.

You looked back up at him.

He shrugged, hands in his pockets now. “So you know when it’s time to leave,” he said lightly, then winked. “Or when it’s time to stay.”

You laughed, a real one this time, head tipped back just slightly. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I should be offended,” he murmured, carefully fastening the clasp around your wrist. “But you are right.”

“Don’t say anything yet,” he said quickly, holding up a hand. “I have a speech.”

“Oh no.”

“Oh yes,” He stepped a little closer, enough that you had to tilt your chin just slightly to keep looking at him. “Won’t say it’s well prepared, though.”

You glanced up. “No?”

He shrugged, then looked at you—not performative, just sincere with a glint of trouble behind it. “I figured you already knew. That you’re kind. And bright. And that you maybe make half of Monaco feel slightly boring in comparison.”

Your eyes caught his, something warm pooling between the humour and whatever was quietly rising beneath it.

“But also,” he added, tone shifting back to the familiar grin, “you’ve tolerated me for weeks, so I figured you deserved a prize.”

“Ah,” you said. “So it’s a pity watch.”

“It’s a prestigious pity watch,” he corrected. “There’s a difference.”

“It’s perfect,” you said, fingers brushing over the charm. “Truly.”

A few friends called your name in the distance, but you didn’t move yet.

When you finally hugged him goodbye, it lingered. A second too long. Not enough to make it obvious—but enough that you both noticed.

Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, his hand pressed lightly against your back, and neither of you made a joke this time.

And that’s when it hit you. That soft, uncomfortable, quiet truth slowly creeping up on you.

You didn’t want to go back to the party.

You didn’t want to go back to him.

You just wanted to stay in that warm, safe, ridiculous moment a little longer.

…

It had been one of those dinners where the wine flowed more freely than the conversation, where the seating was all wrong, and the playlist too curated to feel spontaneous. You’d arrived on time, makeup set, dress clinging just right, genuinely hoping the night might turn things around.

He had promised he’d come.

You’d waited. You made polite conversation with strangers. You checked your phone under the table every ten minutes. At 10:14pm, a message finally came.

Running late. Take a cab? x

You stared at it. The ‘x’ annoyed you most—like it could soften the blow. Like it meant anything at this point.

You slipped out quietly, offering the host a graceful excuse. No one really noticed. You walked down the hill alone, heels clicking against wet stone. The rain started halfway to the road—first soft, then persistent, warm but unrelenting.

By the time you reached the corner, you were soaked. Your jacket was thin and decorative. Your hair clung to your cheeks. A cab passed. You raised your hand too late. Another didn’t even slow.

Then headlights curved around the bend.

A sleek black car eased up to the curb, quiet and smug.

The window rolled down.

“Need a ride, Cinderella?”

Lando.

You blinked at him through the rain.

He was in a hoodie, hair damp, wearing Nike slides like he’d rolled straight out of a student flat. His smile was all teeth and trouble, curls damp at the edges, and yet he looked exactly like what you didn’t know you needed.

You exhaled through a laugh. “What are you even doing here?”

“Padel,” he said simply, “with the boys. Charles insisted we needed some cardio. Alex brought protein shakes. It was big.”

You didn’t move.

He nudged the door open from the inside. “Get in. You look like a drenched sad poodle.”

You slid into the passenger seat, wet fabric against warm leather. The door thunked shut, muting the storm instantly.

The cabin smelled faintly of eucalyptus and sweat and jasmine air freshener. It was... comforting.

Lando glanced over. “You alright?”

You nodded, even though the answer was somewhere closer to no.

“Why were you walking?” he asked.

You stared out the window. “My ride bailed on me.”

He didn’t reply right away. Just gripped the wheel a little tighter.

Then, quieter: “Right.”

You could feel the temperature drop half a degree in the silence that followed.

He turned onto a quieter road, headlights sweeping over puddles, rain tapping steadily on the roof.

Then he cleared his throat. “Padel really roughed us all up today.”

You blinked. “Aren’t you professional athletes?”

“Oh, yeah. You’d think we’re all coordinated and elite and whatever,” he waved vaguely with one hand, “but I’ve never seen grown men lose their dignity faster than when we play anything outside of racing.”

You laughed softly. “You’re telling me Charles Leclerc isn’t good at everything?”

“God, no,” Lando said, perking up. “Charles is awful at most sports. He insists though he could’ve been a pro footballer. Brings it up every time he can.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Wait, seriously?”

“Dead serious,” Lando grinned. “He once missed three serves in a row at padel, slammed the racket down, and said, ‘It’s because my reflexes are trained for football.’”

You snorted. “He did not.”

“And then there’s George,” Lando said. “Who, by the way, calls padel ‘cheap tennis for the common folks’ but still never declines an invitation.”

You laughed. “I assume this is the same George that helps you tie your bows?”

“Absolutely.” Lando continued, “And then there is Alex who has the coordination of a baby giraffe. He runs like he’s buffering.”

You were laughing now, fully, warmth curling in your chest.

“So what about you?” you asked, glancing sideways. “How much do you suck?”

“I’d like to think I’m one of the better ones in the group,” he said confidently.

You narrowed your eyes. “That’s definitely not true.”

“I’m amazing at everything, especially other sports.”

“Oh?”

“I’m a god at golf,” he added, eyes twinkling. “Elite. Practically unbeatable. Some say Tiger Woods retired just to avoid me.”

“Some say?”

“Me. Just me. But I say it with conviction.”

You grinned, resting your head against the seat, the storm outside softening under the steady purr of the engine.

“You’re good at this,” you said after a pause.

“At what?”

“Distractions.”

He smiled, but didn’t answer.

A few minutes passed like that—quiet, easy, the kind of silence that felt earned. The kind you didn’t want to break.

Then Lando turned off the main road.

You lifted your head. “Where are we going?”

“You’ll see,” he said, flashing you a quick glance. “Don’t worry, I’m not kidnapping you. Yet.”

“That’s reassuring.”

Two turns later, he parked in front of a small café tucked between shuttered boutiques. Soft orange light glowed from the windows. The sign above the door read Clémentine in fading script.

“I need hot chocolate,” he said. “And you, tragically, look like you do too.”

You laughed. “This your secret spot?”

He grinned. “Sort of. George’s girlfriend loves this place. Alex’s girl says it feels like a Wes Anderson film. Charles’s thinks they do the best croissants in Europe—which is wrong, but she’s charming so we let it slide.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Ah. So this is… an exclusive tier”

He gave a small, lopsided grin. “Yeah. You’d fit right in.”

You blinked, heat creeping up the back of your neck.

He looked over the roof of the car and winked. “Let’s go, Strawberry.”

…

Inside, the café was quiet and warm, the kind of place that smells like something’s always in the oven. The barista gave Lando a knowing nod.

“Deux chocolats chauds, extra cream, and an extra cookie, please,” he said as you slid into a corner table.

Your dress was still damp at the edges, and your heels had started to pinch, but the chair was soft and the lighting was kind. 

You watched him as he pulled off his hoodie—without a word—he held it out to you across the table.

“You’re shivering,” he said simply.

You hesitated, then slipped it on. It was warm, oversized, and smelled faintly like him—cologne, laundry detergent, and something like orange peel. It pooled around your wrists like it belonged there.

He dropped into the seat across from you, in a plain white t-shirt slightly creased and still damp at the collar. He looked maddeningly effortless. 

When the drinks arrived, he handed yours over carefully, fingers brushing yours as he passed the mug.

“I think you forget how extraordinary you are sometimes,” he said.

No grin. No teasing glint in his eye. Just sincerity, like it had been sitting quietly on his tongue for a while, waiting for the right moment.

You looked at him.

And for a heartbeat too long, the world went still.

Then, gently, you lowered your gaze, your hands tightening around the warmth of the mug. You didn’t reply. You didn’t need to.

Something softened in your chest. Something that hadn’t for weeks.

…

The invitation had come via text, in true Lando fashion.

Hiya there’s this art auction Friday. Charles’s girlfriend’s hosting. Could be fun. Come with? Low pressure, high snacks.

You hadn’t even known Lando liked art, let alone attended charity auctions hosted by the Monaco elite, but the message made you smile. You’d read it twice. Maybe three times.

He followed up, minutes later:

Bring your boyfriend, if he won’t spontaneously combust in a room without talking about stocks.

That was how you ended up on the guest list for a night you weren’t supposed to remember as the one where everything finally snapped.

You didn’t know Alexandra—not really. You’d seen her tagged in posts with Charles, always in Dior or vintage Alaïa, always looking like she’d been drawn rather than born. But the invite felt personal in a way you couldn’t explain. Like Lando had meant for you to have something nice.

You showed up with your boyfriend.

He was already half-distracted before you arrived, scrolling his phone as the car pulled up outside the villa, barely glancing at the curated sculpture garden or the warm lighting glowing out from the glass facade.

“Art shows, what a waste of time and money,” he said, adjusting his watch, not even pretending to be excited about going with you. “Hope I can do some decent networking, make something of my night at least.”

As expected, he made a beeline for the restroom the moment you stepped inside. You hated how much relief washed over you—but deep down, you just didn’t want his sulking to cloud your first impression.

But then—you spotted Lando.

He was standing near the champagne tower, wearing a charcoal jacket with the sleeves half-rolled and a grin like he’d been waiting for you.

He caught your eye and made a show of pretending to squint. “Strawberry?” he said dramatically as you approached. “Wow. Look at you, pretending not to know me in front of the important people.”

You rolled your eyes. “I was hoping you’d stay over there a little longer.”

“That’s fair,” he nodded solemnly. “But then I wouldn’t get to tell you how unreasonably hot you look.”

You gave him a dry smile. “You’re terrible at compliments.”

“And yet, somehow, you keep showing up.”

Just then, a lilting voice cut in—velvety, amused.

“Is this the infamous Strawberry?”

You turned.

She was every bit the Monaco fantasy: Alexandra, in vintage Saint Laurent, hair pinned like a Vogue spread, a glass of champagne in one hand and the quiet confidence of someone who knew every art dealer in the room—and their secrets. And yet, the way she looked at you felt nothing but warm.

“I’ve heard things,” she said, leaning in for a kiss on each cheek. “Mostly from this one, who dramatically insists he doesn’t talk about you, and then does. A lot.”

You laughed, surprised. “Doesn’t sound like him at all.”

Lando raised his eyebrows in mock betrayal. “Unbelievable slander in my own presence.”

Alexandra gave you an approving once-over, eyes twinkling. “You look incredible, by the way. Please tell me you’re staying for the cocktails after. We have a pianist who’ll play Taylor Swift if you bribe him with compliments or €20.”

“That might be the most compelling reason I’ve ever been given to stay at a party,” you said, grinning.

Alexandra gave you a grin from ear to ear, amused. “I’m really so happy to finally meet you! I can already tell we are going to be great friends! You should meet my dog.”

You smiled. “Oh my god! I would love to!”

“Already regretting introducing you two,” Lando said. “Feels like I’m third wheeling.”

“That’s your own fault, Norris,” Alexandra said, sipping her champagne. “You have been hyping her up for weeks, of course I’m excited.”

You looked at him. “Oh really?”

Lando didn’t even blink. “All good things. Mostly.”

Alexandra raised her eyebrows at you. “He actually tried to be subtle about it. It was cute.”

You bit back a smile. “I can imagine.”

“I’ll come find you later,” Alexandra added, brushing your arm. “Got to make sure Charles hasn’t lost Leo yet. So nice to meet you, lovely!”

She slipped off into the crowd with the grace of someone born to host art auctions and mild chaos.

“She’s my new favourite person,” you said.

“I’m going to pretend that doesn’t hurt,” Lando said. “But only because you look stupidly good tonight.”

He sipped his champagne, eyes back on the crowd like he hadn’t just said something that made your pulse tick strangely in your wrist.

You didn’t respond. You couldn’t think of anything clever fast enough.

But the flush in your cheeks said enough.

You gave him a side glance.

…

Laughter drifted lightly through the space, more polite than genuine, the kind of sound bred in auction houses and villas with good acoustics. You let yourself drift for a while, away from the main crush of guests and the low buzz of clinking flutes and unsolicited business pitches.

Lando had disappeared into a conversation across the room—arms folded, half-listening, already looking for an escape route. You wandered along the perimeter, letting your eyes pass over sculpture and canvas, nothing really sticking—until something did.

A Monet.

Not loud. Not the centrepiece of the evening. Just tucked off to the side, quietly luminous. The colour was soft, the light dreamlike, and it hit you all at once—how rare it was to stand still in front of something that didn’t need to impress anyone to be worth something.

You didn’t smile, but you didn’t move either.

And then, out of nowhere, a voice landed at your side.

“You’re not seriously getting emotional over that, are you?”

You blinked once.

Your boyfriend had materialised beside you, the corner of his mouth turned up in that smug, half-bored way he always wore at events that weren’t about him.

“It’s just some smudged garden scene,” he added, barely sparing it a glance. “Looks like the guy couldn’t be bothered to finish it.”

You said nothing.

He chuckled, nudging your elbow like he was letting you in on a joke. “Honestly, my niece brought home something just like this last week—finger paints, but same idea.”

You turned toward him.

And for once, your voice didn’t waiver. “Do you ever get tired?”

He raised a brow. “Of what?”

“Of being so obnoxious.”

He blinked, caught off guard. “I was joking—”

“I know you were not. You just have to be an asshole all the time,” you said, stepping back. “I’m so done with this.”

You handed him your untouched champagne without looking at him again.

And then you walked.

Not fast. Not dramatic. Just… forward. Certain.

Across the room, Lando caught sight of you. He paused mid-sentence, head tilting ever so slightly, eyes following the clean line of your exit. He didn’t know what had happened. But he knew enough.

And he didn’t see the man behind you calling your name, confusion creeping into frustration, his voice rising in your wake.

…

The days following the gala blurred into a haze of solitude. You hadn't anticipated the weight of ending a relationship that had, for too long, been a source of discomfort rather than joy. Even though it felt like a relief to be free, the fresh perspective you had now gained made looking back on the relationship seemingly harder, being disappointed in yourself for sticking around so long.The walls of your apartment seemed to close in, each corner echoing with memories you'd rather forget.

Then, an unexpected message illuminated your phone screen. It was from Alexandra.

Hii! I know we've only met once, Charles is hosting a yacht party this weekend. I'd love for you to come. It'll be fun, and I think you could use a night out. What do you say?

A smile tugged at the corners of your lips. Alexandra's warmth was palpable, even through text. The idea of attending a lavish yacht party was daunting, especially solo, but the prospect of genuine company was tempting. Before you could overthink it, you quickly responded you’d be there.

…

The evening of the party arrived with a golden sunset casting its glow over Monaco's harbor. As you approached the yacht, its grandeur was undeniable. Laughter and the clinking of glasses floated through the air, mingling with the soft strains of music. Taking a deep breath, you stepped aboard, the gentle sway beneath your feet reminding you of the fluidity of the moment.

You hadn’t arrived with a dramatic entrance, but you may as well have. There was something in the way you carried yourself—unhurried, unbothered, glowing without trying—that turned heads. The white sundress moved like water around your legs. Your hair was soft, undone. You looked like summer had chosen you personally.

"Hey! You made it!" Alexandra's voice rang out, genuine delight evident as she approached, her embrace warm and reassuring.

She beamed the moment she saw you. “You look like revenge dressed in satin. Come ruin someone's night—in a good way.”

"Thank you! I’m so excited!" you replied, grateful for her presence.

She linked her arm with yours, guiding you through the throng. "Come on, let's get you a drink and introduce you to some people."

So you mingled.

You laughed. You listened. You accepted compliments with a smile that didn’t flicker with doubt this time. The isolation of the past few days had left you sharper, oddly steadier. You hadn’t expected to feel so… grounded. You were alone, technically. But not lonely.

And then—across the deck—you felt it.

Someone watching.

You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

But you did anyway.

Lando stood near the upper rail, half-leaning into conversation with Charles and George, drink in hand, curls damp like he’d only recently dried off. His shirt was unbuttoned just enough to be suggestive without meaning to be, and he was laughing at something George was saying—until he saw you.

Then he stopped laughing.

His eyes softened. Lit up. Like you’d just stepped out of a dream he wasn’t finished having.

He didn't move immediately. Just watched. And when you finally gave him a smile—small, knowing—he excused himself, barely disguising it.

You turned back to your conversation, heart thudding quietly.

When he reached you, it was casual. Or it would’ve been, if not for the very specific way he looked at you. As if seeing you tonight had knocked the wind out of him slightly.

“Enjoying yourself?” he asked, voice easy, but with that familiar edge of amusement.

You tilted your head. “Trying my best. Alexandra told me to come ruin someone’s night tonight.”

Lando’s gaze swept over you, amused. “I’ve got a pretty good candidate.”

You met his look head-on. “You volunteering?”

“I’m begging.”

You took a step closer, just enough. “Careful. I take those kinds of requests seriously.”

His voice dipped. “I was hoping you would.”

You laughed.

He smiled, pleased.

“I was wondering if you’d come,” he said, a little quieter now. “I didn’t want to push.”

“I needed a few days,” you replied honestly. “To unpick a few things.”

Lando nodded, the corners of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something more, something gentler, but didn’t want to risk it here.

“Want to see the good part of the boat?” he offered instead, gesturing subtly toward the back. “It’s less busy, better view of the sea.”

“Are you offering a tour or an escape plan?”

“Both,” he said. “But this is not my boat so don’t blame me if we get lost mid-tour.”

You smiled, setting your glass down. “Alright. Lead the way.”

He offered his hand this time. Not his arm. His hand. Like it was only natural you’d take it.

And you did.

…

The further you got from the music and noise, the more the sea became the soundtrack. The laughter and clinking glasses behind you faded into something muted and unimportant. Lando walked beside you—not rushing, not talking. His thumb brushed against yours every few steps, like a quiet question he didn’t need answered yet.

At the stern, it opened up—a wide, quiet deck, low to the water, with just enough light to see but not enough to distract from the stars. The sea lapped gently around the hull. It smelled like salt and sun.

You leaned against the railing, feeling the breeze touch your skin. Lando stood beside you, but not too close.

“Nice out here,” you murmured, looking up.

He glanced over at you. “You suit starlight. That’s unfair.”

You gave him a look. “You’re laying it on thick.”

“Absolutely,” he said, eyes warm. “I’ve been holding back for weeks.”

You laughed, quiet and real. He grinned, pleased.

But then, after a second, he sobered. His gaze drifted down, toward the water, and when he spoke again, his voice had shifted.

“You look happy,” Lando said lightly, almost teasing. “I almost didn’t recognise you without the polite ‘I’m-fine’ smile.”

You huffed a quiet laugh. “Wow. Go ahead and expose me.”

“I’m serious,” he said, this time softer. “It’s good to see you like this.”

You glanced at him, and for a moment, he didn’t try to dodge the feeling in the air. He looked out at the sea and back again.

“I hated seeing you pretend,” he said finally. “These past few months… at the garage, the brunch, the auction—you were always there, but it felt like part of you was somewhere else. You still smiled, still made jokes, still looked beautiful, but…”

He trailed off. Not because he didn’t know what to say. Just because he meant all of it.

You didn’t speak right away.

“You wanted to throw him in the harbour, didn’t you.”

A beat.

“Every single time,” Lando said, with no apology.

That made you laugh again, but quieter this time. Almost sad.

You looked down at the rail, fingers brushing the edge. “I wasn’t really fooling anyone, was I.”

“You fooled plenty,” he said. “Just not me.”

You looked away for a beat. Then quietly, “I haven’t been unhappy around you, though.”

Lando froze.

When you turned your head back, he was watching you like he couldn’t quite believe what he’d heard.

“Say that again,” he said, almost joking. Almost.

You smiled, small and real. “You’ve been the exception, Lando. You’ve always felt like... a relief. Like I could let out a breath I never knew I was holding.”

His expression cracked open at the edges—something flickering across it, equal parts surprise and affection.

“I’ve been trying not to say something,” he said eventually, his voice lower now. “But it’s getting... impossible.”

You arched a brow. “To me or to you?”

He looked at you deeply, green eyes soft but with a sparkle. “Me. Definitely me.”

There was a beat of silence, hanging between you like a held breath.

“You just keep making it harder,” he added, almost laughing at himself. “Showing up looking like this. Laughing at my stupid jokes.”

You stared at him. He raised his hands, just slightly.

“I know I joke around a lot,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It’s easy to hide behind that. But I’m not playing with this. I’m not here to push or expect anything you’re not ready for.” He paused, letting the words settle. “I just… I need you to know. I’ve been falling for you since the gala.”

The words didn’t feel rehearsed or dramatic—just honest. And they landed like something you’d been waiting to hear without realising.

You stayed still, listening.

“Since the dress,” he went on, his smile tugging softly at the corner of his mouth. “Since the strawberry drink. Since you made fun of my bow tie.”

You laughed—quiet and barely there. But it was real.

“Since you made me want to stick around,” he added, “even when you were barely looking at me.”

His eyes met yours fully now. “You’re magnetic,” he said, simple as anything. “Warm. Sharp. And really hot even when you look like a drenched puppy.” He exhaled lightly. “And I just… I didn’t want summer to end without you knowing.”

You stepped closer.

Close enough to feel the change in the air, the shift in his breathing.

You placed your hand on his chest, light but certain.

“Lando.”

He didn’t move.

“If I kiss you, is it going to be a problem?”

His answer was immediate, and sure. “No.”

Then, softer. “But only if you want to.”

You looked at him for a long, quiet second.

“I do.”

He exhaled like he’d been holding it since May. Maybe longer.

And then you kissed him.

Slow, at first. Curious. The kind of kiss that asks before it takes. His hand hovered near your waist, the other brushing your jaw with the gentlest touch—as if he still couldn’t believe he was allowed.

But the second your fingers curled into his shirt and your lips parted slightly, that control cracked.

His arm wrapped fully around you then, the kiss deepening with a sudden warmth that made your stomach twist. He kissed you like he’d wanted to for weeks. Like he'd held every grin, every brush of your arm, every stolen look in his chest—and finally let them out all at once.

You felt it in the way his hand slid up your back, in the way his mouth moved with yours like he already knew the rhythm.

When you finally pulled apart, your breath hitched.

His forehead leaned against yours. Neither of you spoke for a moment.

Then you smiled, just a little. “So… did I ruin your night after all?”

Lando let out a low, breathless laugh. “You can ruin my life, for all I care.”

He leaned in again, this time without hesitation.

And then he kissed you—like he had nothing left to hold back. Like the wait had been worth it. Like it had always been leading to this.

…

It was the kind of Sunday that felt like a soft breeze. The kind where you woke up to Lando already beside you, hair a mess, voice rough with sleep as he offered to make pancakes—and then promptly convinced you to go out for groceries instead. A domestic detour. A small adventure disguised as an errand. Like you had so many of these past weeks with him.

You hadn’t argued. Not really.

Now, somewhere between the mangoes and the melons in your favourite Carrefour, you were watching Lando shake a pineapple like it had personally offended him.

“That’s not how you check if it’s ripe,” you said, barely holding in a laugh.

He looked genuinely betrayed. “It’s not? Then why did that woman on YouTube tell me to do it?”

“You watched a pineapple tutorial?”

“Research is key,” he said, placing it carefully into the cart. “Anyway, I came prepared.”

“You’re such a dork.” You rolled your eyes, smiling. “You pick the snacks, I’ll handle dinner?”

He winked. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Then promptly wandered off to the crisps aisle like a man on a mission.

You lingered in the herb section, still debating parsley versus basil, when a voice behind you slid into your spine like cold water.

“Well. You look good.”

You turned.

He looked the same—your ex. A little too polished, sunglasses indoors, holding a bottle of overpriced green juice that screamed aesthetic punishment.

“Thanks,” you said simply. “I’ve been feeling better.”

It wasn’t petty. Just honest.

He blinked, clearly not expecting honesty.

You were just about to step away when—

“Oh, no. No no no,” Lando groaned from the next aisle, appearing with a look of theatrical dismay. “There’s a full seafood crime scene back there. Half the ocean’s laid out. I’ve never seen so much salmon.”

He stopped short when he saw you. And him.

His entire posture shifted.

He stepped up beside you, one hand sliding effortlessly around your waist, grounding and easy. He didn’t force it. Just filled the space.

“Hi,” Lando said, his tone calm, eyes flicking to the man in front of you. “I’m Lando.”

Your ex gave a tight nod, straightening slightly. “We’ve met.”

Lando’s gaze dipped to the man’s basket—almond milk, snack bars, and two tubs of something suspiciously protein-packed and aggressively vanilla.

“Solid haul,” Lando said, casual. Then, after the smallest pause, “Though I’d go easy on the sugar. Causes hair loss, you know. Wouldn’t want to risk it, considering your current situation.”

He didn’t smile. Just winked. Cheeky enough to pass for humour. Sharp enough to land exactly where it needed to.

Your ex blinked again. Offered no reply. Just turned back toward the juice aisle with the grace of someone trying not to trip over his own ego.

“Lovely to see you,” Lando called politely, already nudging the cart forward—his hand still warm around your waist.

You let him guide you down the aisle, heart flickering with quiet satisfaction.

“Hair loss?” you asked, giggling, once you were out of earshot.

He shrugged, eyes forward, lips twitching. “What? It was observational science.”

“You’re awful.”

“Mm,” he hummed, pressing a kiss to your cheek, then your temple. “But I’m yours.”

You laughed, soft and real, tucking into his side like it was the most natural thing in the world.

[rawrfrferrari]

The One Who Left | CL16

Plot: Y/n is Charles' ex but their families have been friends since even before they were born. Arthur is attached to Y/n like a brother and is not happy with his brother and his new girlfriend. After a few family events Y/n couldn't bear the uneasy atmosphere with the new couple and the hate by Charles fans, so she distances herself from them and finds herself a new man who treats her right.

Pairing: Charles Leclerc x ex!reader

Type: Angst, SMAU.

*will have a part 2

[Request and Taglist] [Masterlist]

BACKSTORY

Y/N lives in London, working as a Brand Consultant. Y/N and Charles dated for nearly 6 years. They broke up 5 months ago for vague, “mutual but painful” reasons, mostly due to them not being able to handle long distance and Charles feeling emotionally unavailable. Charles started dating Alexandra a month later. Pascale and Y/N’s mom were also childhood bestfriends. Which is why the three brothers grew up with Y/N. Arthur has always seen her as his elder sister, was devastated after the breakup. He never really forgave Charles for “letting her go.”

Arthur’s birthday dinner was held at a private cliffside restaurant just off the port of Monaco.

Y/N arrived with her parents, her mother’s arm looped through hers and her father trailing slightly behind, greeting the host like an old friend.

“Ah, finally!” Pascale stood up the moment she saw them, her eyes lighting up like the birthday candles yet to be lit. She enveloped Y/N’s mom in a hug before pulling Y/N into a familiar embrace. “Tu es magnifique, ma chérie,” she whispered warmly, the scent of her signature perfume clinging to the air.

Charlotte , Lorenzo's girlfriend kissed Y/N’s cheek and took a glass of wine from the server for her. “You look so thin. London hasn't been treating you well, mon ami,” she said softly, though her eyes flickered with something that looked a lot like sympathy.

But it was Arthur who broke into a full grin, rising from his chair before anyone else had even registered their arrival properly. “Took you long enough!” he said, weaving past waiters and the elegantly dressed diners to get to her.

Y/N laughed as he pulled her into a quick, tight hug. “You said seven-thirty. We’re here at seven-twenty.”

“Exactly,” he said, pulling back and nudging her playfully toward the family table. “Still late by my standards.”

He was beaming, the way only someone young enough to still love birthdays could beam. And she, despite every buried emotion twisting in her stomach, smiled right back.

He led her to the long, white-clothed table where everyone was already seated. Lorenzo gave her a polite nod; Charlotte smiled again. Pascale reached for her hand as she passed.

And then her gaze fell on him. Charles sat at the far end, dressed in a navy-blue velvet jacket with the first few buttons undone. He was mid-sentence, saying something to Lorenzo, but his words faltered as their eyes met.

Y/N blinked. He looked away.His new girlfriend, sitting beside him in a cream halter dress, leaned toward him and said something low. He nodded, too quickly, reaching for the wine glass in front of him without meeting anyone's eyes.

Arthur pulled out the seat beside his, gesturing for Y/N to sit. “The favourite should always be next to the birthday boy”

“I feel honored,” she replied, taking her place. Her mother slid into the seat next to Pascale, already lost in conversation.

Dinner began with toasts and laughter. The servers moved smoothly, bringing out course after course. Arthur, though, barely touched his food.

When it came time for presents, he turned to Y/N with the excitement of someone who already knew she’d outdone everyone else.

“Okay. Yours first,” he said, eyes gleaming.

Y/N hesitated only a second before reaching into her bag and pulling out a slim, matte black, box tied with a dark silver ribbon. She slid it across the table to him, silently.

He tore the ribbon off with zero elegance. The lid lifted, and there it was.

A Patek Philippe watch. Limited edition. Midnight blue dial. Platinum finish. Behind it was engraved; 'Je resterai à tes côtés, mon petit frère'

“Holy sh—” he blinked hard, shaking his head. “You’re insane.”

Arthur laughed, slipping the watch onto his wrist. It gleamed under the soft golden lights.

Charles looked over then, his gaze lingering on the timepiece. He said nothing.

“There’s something else,” Y/N added, lifting a second, heavier box.

Arthur looked confused until he opened it. Inside was a large, leather-bound photo album, its cover engraved with A.L. in silver.

The room quieted as he began to flip through the pages. Childhood photos. Karting trophies. Stick-figure drawings titled "Me, Char, Y/N." Birthday cakes. Family holidays. Y/N’s school graduation with him photobombing in a suit two sizes too big. Hervé and toddler Arthur and Charles in the garage, grinning with grease-stained fingers. Handwritten notes from when Arthur had panic attacks before races. Doodles, ticket stubs, and years of layered, intertwined lives.

One photo of Arthur sitting cross-legged on the floor beside Herve, with Y/N squished between them made him pause. His fingers trembled slightly.

He didn’t say anything. He just shut the book, stood up, and pulled Y/N to her feet with him.

“This is the best gift I’ve ever gotten,” he said quietly, arms wrapping around her. “Ever.”

Pascale dabbed her eyes with a linen napkin, as she observed each photo with him. Even Lorenzo looked down at the table, hiding a soft smile.

From across the table, Charles watched. His jaw ticked. He hadn’t touched his dessert.

When Arthur sat down, he immediately turned to show the watch to Lorenzo. Charles leaned back in his chair slightly, forcing a small, tight smile.

Alexandra touched his hand under the table and whispered something, trying to pull him back into her orbit. He nodded once, distracted.

Dinner went on. And still, Y/N and Charles didn’t speak.

At one point, Y/N's father was telling Charlotte a story about an old vineyard trip they all took together years ago. Pascale was laughing so hard she leaned into Y/N’s mother’s shoulder. The adults looked like they belonged to a time before this fracture.

Arthur remained glued to Y/N’s side. He nudged her plate closer when she left it half-finished. Poured her more water.

At one point, he leaned in and murmured, “Don’t let the them bother you. You’re family. No one can change that.”

Y/N smiled faintly. “You’re too sentimental for your own good, Art." He rolled his eyes, bumping her shoulder with his.

Meanwhile, Charles sipped his wine, responding with tight nods when Alexandra spoke. He laughed at Lorenzo’s jokes, a half-beat too late.

He didn’t look at Y/N directly. But he felt a familiar ache he couldn’t remove, no matter how well he masked it.

And she smiled when spoken to. She laughed when she needed to. But she never looked toward the end of the table again.

Lorenzo leaned slightly over the table to speak to Y/N, “So,” he said, gesturing with his glass, “how long are you in Monaco this time?”

Y/N looked up from her plate, her fork paused mid-air. “Just three more days,” she said, setting it down gently. “I have to fly to Budapest for a client meeting on Friday.”

“Work?” Pascale asked, leaning in with interest.

Y/N nodded. “Yeah, a brand alignment workshop with a biotech company expanding into Central Europe. It’s part of a longer campaign we’ve been working on since spring.”

Lorenzo raised his brows. “Consulting must keep you on the move.”

“It does,” Y/N said with a soft chuckle. “I’ve gotten really good at packing light and sprinting through security.”

Before anyone else could speak, her mother chimed in fondly, “But she’ll be back for Christmas.”

“Of course,” Y/N added with a small smile toward Pascale. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

Pascale’s expression softened. “Good. I would've been really upset with you if you worked on holidays. We don't get to see you much anyways.”

They all laughed, but across the table, Charles had gone still again.

His hand curled loosely around his wine glass, and though he didn’t say anything, there was something cold behind his eyes which made Y/n shift in her place uncomfortably.

arthur_leclerc

Liked by lorenzotl, yourusername and others

arthur_leclerc 23 with the bests

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charles_leclerc Happy birthday, petit frère 🎂 (Even if you’ve started dressing better than me now)

lorenzotl Happy birthday, champ 🖤

charlottedepietro You’ll always be my favorite Leclerc (don’t tell the others). Happy birthday!!

yourusername Happy birthday, mon cherie. Love you, Artie 🤍

alexandrasaintmleux Happy birthday Arthur! Such a lovely evening 😊

pascale_leclerc Mon trésor. Papa would’ve been so proud today. Joyeux anniversaire 💫

leclerc.moments Why is Y/N still there? Alex must've got so uncomfortable. SMH.

→leclercupdates The Leclerc brothers and Y/n grew up together so its valid for Arthur to invite her. So happy that the breakup and Charles' actions doesnt affect her relationship with the rest of them ❤️

juliaaa_16 Y/N still looks like family idc 🥹

camiferrari The Leclerc genes 🤌🏽

monacogossipblog Where is Alexandra?? He posted Charlotte but not her. On top he also posted Y/N.

Y/N walked out of the arrival gates at Nice Côte d’Azur airport, dragging her suitcase behind her and tugging her scarf a little tighter. Her flight had landed a bit early, which was a miracle in itself. She scanned the small crowd of drivers and family members waiting outside the barrier.

And then she saw A hand-written sign in thick black marker on torn cardboard:

“CEO of Emotional Damage — Miss Y/N”

She couldn’t help the laugh that escaped. Arthur stood behind it, with a massive grin on his face.

She raised a brow. “You’re actually the worst.”

“Bonjour to you too,” he said, tucking the sign under one arm and opening his arms. “Now give me a hug, woman. I drove thirty minutes for this.”

She let him pull her into a strong hug. “I was going to take a cab,” she said when they broke apart.

“Yeah, and pay triple for a silent driver when you could get my award-winning company for free?” Arthur grabbed her suitcase and started walking toward the parking lot without waiting for an answer. “Let’s go. You’ve been missed.”

“So,” he said once they hit the highway, “I waited exactly seven minutes to give you the gossip. You should be proud.”

“Wow. Personal growth,” she deadpanned. “Go on.”

“Camille broke up with Tim. Again.” They were Y/n school friends who were together since grade ninth.

Y/N raised a brow. “I thought they were engaged?”

“Yeah.Not anymore. He’s already back on Raya.”

She snorted. “Typical.”

“Also Camille and Adrian were seen at that hotel in Verbier.” Adrien was an acquaintance through Tim.

“How do you know all of this?”

“I’m chronically online. It’s a disease.” They both laughed. The wind through the half-cracked window lifted a bit of her hair as the coastline blurred by.

“Oh,” he added, throwing a quick glance her way. “And I have decided to make it official with Jade."

"That's great Arthur, but I feel it's too early since you and Carla broke up a few months ago. It wouldn't look good on you in public perspective. Maybe wait till the next season starts?"

Arthur nodded and said he'll discuss it with Jade. He knew he should take her advice since she went through worse because of her brother and probably had also thought about Clara but didn't mention.

By the time they reached the outskirts of Monaco, dusk had settled. Streetlights flickered on, casting golden glows over stone buildings and quiet sidewalks.

Arthur turned down the familiar road to Y/N’s house. “You sure you don’t wanna come up to our house first?”

“Tempting,” she said dryly. “But I need a shower, and a solid hour of silence before I enter that arena.”

He pulled up outside her place, engine humming low. “Fair. I’ll pick you up tomorrow for brunch.”

She leaned over and squeezed his hand once. “Thanks for the ride, Artie.”

“Anytime. I’ll have new tea by morning.” She kissed him on his cheek and went in her house with her luggage.

yourusername

Y/N’s parents’ place had always been the Christmas house. While the two families spent their summers at Pascal's pool, This house brought the warmth during the winter holidays.

Y/N was pouring herself a glass of mulled wine Pascale made when Lorenzo and her dad walked in from the garage, lugging in the bare tree.

“Try not to break your back before dinner,” Your mother called from the kitchen, wiping her hands on a checked apron.

Y/N laughed, stepping aside to give them room. The same corner by the window had held every tree since she was a kid.

Minutes later, the front door opened again, Arthur and Charles came in, cardboard boxes in their arms, bits of tinsel already clinging to their sleeves.

“Where do you want to dump these?” Arthur asked.

Y/N raised her eyebrows. “Is that the box with our old ornaments? Where was it, we lost it years ago.”

“It was in the wooden cabinet with our mamas old vinyls,” Charles said, his tone dry. He didn’t meet her eyes. She didn’t look for them.

They placed the boxes on the floor. Moments later, Jade and Charlotte arrived, both carrying platters of casseroles from their place as Y/n's kitchen was preoccupied with the mothers baking cookies. Alexandra trailed in behind them, with a few gift bags in hand.

The living room filled quickly with chatter, the occasional squeal from Jade when Arthur teased her with a furry ornaments.

Charlotte and Lorenzo untangled lights near the window.

Arthur knelt by the tree, unwrapping the handmade decorations like they were museum pieces.

Y/N stuck close to Jade not hovering, just casually steering conversations her way, checking if she needed help with the drink setup, looping her in when family stories got too deep too fast. It wasn’t awkward. Jade was kind and easy to be around.

At the same time, Y/N kept herself moving, rearranging the pile of gifts, going back and forth from the kitchen to bring out bowls of icing for the cookie decorating.

Charles drifted in and out of her periphery. He stayed mostly beside Alexandra, who smiled and complimented every cookie shape like she was on a first date with the entire household.

Still, every so often, Y/N would feel a glance across the table, a pause when they both reached for the same red sprinkle tub, a beat too long when her laugh cut across the room.

Later, around the dining table-turned-cookie-lab, Y/N’s mom handed her a tray of sugar cookies shaped like stars and trees.

Arthur was beside Jade, pressing too much icing on a snowman and laughing like a five-year-old. Y/N leaned over to pass her a piping bag.

Charles, quiet at the other end of the table, was outlining a tree in neat green lines. Alexandra was scrolling through her phone beside him, scrolling absently.

Y/N looked up from her own cookie, their eyes meeting for a second. He gave a small smile.

She didn’t return it. Not out of coldness but because it didn’t feel necessary.

When the cookies were laid out, a chaotic masterpiece of colours and bad proportions, Charlotte laughed. “It looks like Santa threw up.”

“Hey, Don't be mean on Christmas!” Arthur declared.

“Wait,” Pascale said suddenly, wiping her hands. “Did anyone hang the tiny car from Herve’s keychain?”

Everyone paused. Y/N turned to the tree and found it still nestled at the bottom of the ornament box.

“I’ll do it,” she said quietly. No one objected. She walked over, picked it up, and found a place on a lower branch not too hidden.

Alexandra shifted closer to Jade seeming to pick the red piping bag from that side of the table but stayed next to her in Y/n's seat.

She had watched how Jade gravitated toward Y/N in conversations, how Charlotte laughed at something Y/N said and touched her arm like they’d been friends for years. And she, who was the actual girlfriend of The Charles Leclerc felt peripheral.

“Hey,” she said lightly, brushing invisible lint from her sleeve. “You okay? You’ve been stuck to Y/N all evening.”

Jade gave a quick smile. “Yeah, she’s cool. Easy to talk to.”

Alexandra nodded slowly, like agreeing with a lie. “Sure. I mean, I get it, she has history here. But sometimes… it’s a little much, right? Like, she makes herself the main character everywhere?.”

Jade’s hand froze mid-reach for the paper towel. “Um… I didn��t get that vibe.”

“She can be a bit performative,” Alex continued, sipping her wine. “Don’t let it get to you. Arthur has this saviour complex when it comes to her, always puts her first. It used to be endearing. Now it’s just exhausting.”

Jade’s eyebrows knit together. She offered a polite nod and muttered, “Thanks for the heads up,” before heading back into the living room where Arthur was placing the gifts from the trunk of his car.

“Alex just cornered me when Y/n was busy,” she said under her breath.

Arthur blinked. “Seriously?”

“She implied you’re overly attached to Y/N and said she’s always making herself the centre of attention.”

Arthur’s jaw clenched. Arthur didn’t respond right away. Instead, he stood up, casually looped an arm around Jade’s shoulders, and walked them both back into the centre of the room.

Everyone had already cleaned up the mess from the dining table and were settled in the living room.

“Jade, did I show you the cursed Christmas photo from 2008?” Arthur asked loudly.

Lorenzo grinned. “Oh God, the one where the three of you wore same ugly sweater?”

“Exactly.” Jade laughed and leaned in.

Alexandra, still at the edge of the room with Charles, caught the exchange. Arthur hadn’t even looked her way.

And for the rest of the evening, Alexandra was present, but not included.

Every time she tried to interject into a conversation, it shifted away. Every story was a callback she wasn’t a part of. Every inside joke was a thread she couldn’t follow.

“Alright, alright, before anyone falls asleep,” Arthur said, clapping once, “present time. And no fake enthusiasm this year, please. I’m looking at you, Enzo.”

“You got me socks last year,” Lorenzo deadpanned.

“You wear them all the time,” Charlotte shot back.

Y/N laughed, reaching under the tree to start handing gifts out. She had wrapped them herself, brown kraft paper with twine, little handwritten name tags and wax seals. The kind of aesthetic Pinterest would be proud of.

"Mon Cherie, When did you get the time to do all this." Y/n shrugged as she waited for Pascale to open her gift. It was a cashmere shawl in mint green with her initials in the corner.

She got Lorenzo & Charlotte a limited edition bottle of red wine from a small French vineyard where they’d vacationed the year before.

Arthur tore apart the gift paper to find a personalised perfume from Saudi.” Jade got the same but one with floral notes.

Y/n was also considerate of Alex and got her a box of chocolates from her latest trip to Switzerland. Alexandra smiled and said “Thanks,” before moving on to clinging her boyfriend even more tight.

Y/N handed out the last box, turning to Charles. “And for you.”

He looked surprised. It was a rectangular box, neatly wrapped, subtle, quiet. He opened it slowly.

Inside was a team signed as monaco jersey. Charles ran a thumb over the cover. He didn’t say anything at first. Just nodded. “Thanks.”

Alexandra passed Y/N a small envelope then. “From both of us,” she added. Her voice was light, like this was a business handoff.

Y/N opened it to find a gift card, an expensive one, but generic. Multi-brand. All luxury stores. She smiled politely. “Appreciate it.”

Arthur, standing behind the couch with a mug in hand, rolled his eyes at Alexandra and moved on to snatching it and replacing with his gift.

Him and jade had custom bracelets made for her, Y/n and Charlotte. Jade had given a separate gift to Alexandra, a boxed pair of gold stud earrings. She disappointed took it eyeing the new bracelet adoring Y/n's wrist.

But she smiled anyway and said, “That’s thoughtful,” before folding the wrapping neatly.

Y/n's dad had got each of them a Christmas themed ceramic mug and her mother had scarves custom made for each.

Later, as the wrapping paper lay crumpled on the floor and wine was being refilled, Arthur passed by Y/N with a satisfied look. “You crushed it,” he whispered.

Y/N shrugged. “I like giving presents.”

“No. I mean… the whole night.”

She nudged his shoulder. “Couldn’t have done it without you guys.”

yourusername

yourusername

Liked by jade_distinguinn, carlossainz55 and others

yourusername joyeux noël🎄❤️

tagged: @/yourmomofficial, @/arthur_leclerc, @/pascale_leclerc, @/lorenzotl, @/charlottedepietro, @/jade_distinguinn

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pascale_leclerc Toujours la lumière de la maison ❤️ joyeux Noël, ma chérie! [Always the light of the house ❤️ Merry Christmas, my dear!]

→yourusername Joyeux Noël, maman Leclerc ❤️

carlossainz55 Feliz Navidad Cariño!

→yourusername Merry Christamas Carlitos 🫶🏽

softf1girlie Merry Christmas y/n❤️

arthur_leclerc Best day 💕

y/nangelarchive Not her posting and tagging everyone but Cheater and ad queen 😌

landonorris Do those cookies ship to the UK asking for a friend

→yourusername Nori I can bake you cookies when I get back 😭

yourmomofficial Belle soirée en famille. Que Dieu bénisse mes enfants et leur accorde tout le bonheur possible. [Beautiful evening with the family. May god bless my kids with all the happiness.]

→ yourusername Je t'aime maman❤️

→ charles_leclerc: Merci beaucoup ❤️ toujours reconnaissant d’avoir grandi entouré de tant d’amour. [Thank you so much ❤️ always grateful to have grown up surrounded by so much love.]

→ arthur_leclerc  Love you mama 2 🫶

→ pascale_leclerc Toujours un bonheur de voir nos familles réunies 🤍 [Always a joy to see our families together 🤍]

→ leclercfamupdates Y/n's mother is the sweetest. Even after what Charles did to her daughter, she wishes him the best because he's her son too 😭. Charles you seriously fucked up bad...

mluexupdates not her pretending like she still belongs lol

→ username1 THEYRE LITERALLY AT HER HOME!

softf1girlie lol Alex and Charles should be grateful she even invited them...

lewishamilton Merry Christmas ✨ I hope you're back in London for New Year!

→ yourusername Merry Christmas, Lew. I'll be home for the holidays. We can catch up when I'm back 🫶🏽

jade_distinguinn Thanks for making me feel so at home 🥹❤️

yourbestie Merry Christmas, Y/n/n 🫶🏽 Miss you 💗

→ yourusername Merry Christmas! Miss you too ❤️

alexstmbestie Homewrecking Slut!

leclercsdaily For the newbies and Alexandra fans who call Y/n names, They should know Charles has most probably cheated on Y/n with Alex, even if not jeopardised 24 years of friendship and 6 years of relationship for her. And Y/n is inviting them for christmas at HER HOME after all this only for the love she has for all the other Leclercs and Charlotte, She even made Jade feel at home. This explains a lot about her being a kind soul and Charles took advantage of this kindness and so does Alex now. Expecting her to separate from her family just because this guy fucked up is utter bullshit. Leave her alone goddamnit!!

ynarchive

Liked by leclercupdates, y/nangelmine and others

ynarchive Y/N was spotted at Ibiza Airport earlier today, sources confirm she flew out of Nice early this morning after spending Christmas with the Leclercs & her family in Monaco.

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ynangelclub honestly? protect your peace queen 🧘‍♀️

alexmlxupdates good. she doesn’t belong in Monaco anymore

→ leclercfamupdates dude stop she's literally born there.

leclercfamilyupdates Pascale already missing her we just know it

username1 This is what emotional maturity and boundaries look like

yln.ynlover she’s so real for escaping the drama!

username2 “she’s still close to the family” ok then why leave? 🙃

[error: happy new year in advance, Artie. Kiss both mamas for me? - y/n]

yourusername

Liked by lando.jpg, yourbestie and others

yourusername Happy 2024 and Happy Y/n 🪩🌊

tagged: @/carlossainz55, @/landonorris, @/yourbestie

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yourbestie You're the only one who upgraded. tbh

pascale_leclerc  joyeux nouvel an, mon étoile 💫

→ yourusername joyeux nouvel an, mon luna 🌕

carlossainz55 You are an alcohol menace...

→ yourusername Got reasons, mon cherie

→ carlossainz55 still?

→ yourusername Nah. Over it 😏

jade_distinguinn you are LITERALLY the moment

→ yourusername 💕

charleswife16 real homie hopper. ugly whore

lilymhe literal goddess vibes

→ yourusername Lilyyyy! Love u 🫶🏽

friend1 You dropped this 👑

→ yourusername oops 🤭

f1teaonline this squad > Y/n and Charles

username1 this is her I could’ve ruined you, but I chose peace post

landonorris  How did I end up being the least chaotic one on this yacht

teamalexmlx she really can’t sit still for a second huh. Attention seeking bitch.

sainz55fp Carlos stop looking at her like that... She's mine!

danielricciardo Ibiza huh? very proud!

→ yourusername Thank you Thank you

arthur_leclerc Take me with you next time...

→ yourusername Shore 👍🏻

friend2 I approve this version of you. She’s glowing.

→ yourusername 🫶🏽

y/nsupremacy the “Happy Y/N” era is going to heal me

charlexnation meanwhile Charles living his best life with Alexandra 🫶

yourusername

Liked by carlossainz55, landonorris and others

yourusername 🪷🩷

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yourmomofficial Ma belle fille 🌷

alex_albon @/yourbestie do you know what I know.

→ yourbestie I know what you know, but I won’t say it unless you say it first 😇

→ yourusername Snitches ends up in ditches!

leclercxangel I think she’s with Arthur?? It makes sense.

→ f1gridgossip No one else is in Melbourne yet except Carlos, Oscar, Lando and Alex Albon.

charlexchild funny how she’s always “working” when he’s racing

pascale_leclerc 🌸❤️

ynupdatesdaily She didn’t even need a face pic and still ate

arthur_leclerc stay for the race?

→ yourusername Can't. I have work on Monday 😭

charlesluvclub Someone’s trying really hard to be relevant this season 💅

alexandrasaintmleux So aesthetic!✨

→ username1 eww go away

lilymhe Date tomorrow?

→ yourusername Sorry Lils, I have a flight early tomorrow ☹️

f1wagsgossip Charles in the likes and Alexandra commenting 💀

alexusuals OMG Alex commented. She's such a girl's girl 😍

→ ynupdatesdaily 😂 She's anything but that. haha

username2 melbourne museums never looked this cute.

f1

Liked by yourusername, scuderiaferrari and others

f1 🏆 AUSTRALIAN GRAND PRIX PODIUM 🏆 1️⃣ 🇪🇸 Carlos Sainz 2️⃣ 🇲🇨 Charles Leclerc 3️⃣ 🇬🇧 Lando Norris

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scuderialover Ferrari on top and my serotonin is back

gridenergy That post-race smile from Sainz >>>

mclarencryingclub Honestly thought Lando had it… sigh

taglist: @sarcastic-ravenpuff, @cryinghotmess, @dreaming-starlet, @agustdpeach, @yeslybanevi, @lovestruck-sky, @yara011, @nafisalove, @agustdpeach, @deleataecount, @janeh22, @mel164, @destinyg237, @esmeect, @saythename-sm, @ajordan2020, @ceekokocee15, @vinylphwoar, @paucubarsisimp, @flowersandalll, @mbioooo0000, @zoeyjadetice2010, @angstynasty, @sinfully-yoursss, @chlmtfilms, @san4117, @sachaa-ff, @kenkozkmg, @sagestach, @rawr-123s-stuff, @lemon-stvrrr, @whitlocklibrary, @nina481, , @angstynasty, @gigicisneros, @anunstablefangirl, @hawkins-2000, @jaydensluv, 

message/comment/ask

[mylovesstuffs]

OT13 reaction to you being sore the morning after they went hard

Request: Can you pleaseeeee do like Ot13 s/o being sore all of their body after sex? Or like their body being sore the morning after. Like what are their reaction to their s/o being sore after being fucked harddd lmaoooo

A/N: Minghao.

Seungcheol: You're walking funny and he just smirks, “Can’t handle your man?” he teases while already scooping you up bridal style. Kisses your temple, massages your thighs later, but doesn’t promise to go easier next time. In fact, he’s kinda proud.

Jeonghan: He's a devilish little shit, “aww, baby~ did I break you?” Fake sympathy and coo-ing while dragging you onto his lap. Whispers “You were begging for more last night” in your ear with a sly grin. He'll then run a bath for you and act like a saint. Manipulative menace.

Joshua: As we know, he can be an angel turned demon. At first, he’s all, “Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, right?” But when you admit you’re sore, his ears go red, but he smiles a bit cockily. “Guess I got carried away, huh?” Helps you stretch… but starts teasing and touching you again. Trouble in disguise.

Jun: This man is blunt and cocky. “You’re sore?” Grins. “I warned you.” Slaps your butt playfully as you wince, but then offers a massage and actually follows through with warm oil and expert hands. Still whispers, “Want me to make you sore again tonight?” You might actually throw soap at him and die.

Hoshi: Oh, he's a tease too, “babe… are you limping?” starts laugh-laughing, but when you glare, he panics, “Wait wait wait—are you okay?!” Gives you one of his precious tiger plushies from his sacred collection as an apology. But he's high-key proud. Very proud.

Wonwoo: He watches you struggle to sit and just lifts an eyebrow over his pc. “So you’re feeling it.” Says it so casually like it’s a weather update. He’ll tug you into his lap and rub your back gently, murmuring, “You’ll get used to it.” NO YOU WON'T!!!

Woozi: “...You’re sore? Huh. That’s… that’s not my fault. You told me not to stop.” Cue him looking away, ears turning pink. Makes you coffee while avoiding eye contact. He’s embarrassed but lowkey flattered, but planning to do it again tonight. There's no stopping him.

Dokyeom: “OH NO DID I BREAK YOU?!” He’s so apologetic even though he was the one destroying you six hours ago 😭 Will carry you around, feed you snacks, kiss your forehead 50 times. Cries a little inside, but if you say you liked it—he lights up. And this will repeat all over again...

Mingyu: Golden retriever smug. “Can’t move?” He’s grinning so wide while helping you get out of bed. Literally acts like you just won a championship. “That’s my girl.” He’ll cook you breakfast and wink every five seconds. Zero shame. Very shameless. Very, very shameless.

Minghao: I think he's very chill but lethal about it; notices the way you’re stretching weird and just goes, “Hmm.” Nothing else. Then comes over and whispers, “But, you were so loud last night.” Kisses your neck while handing you tea and I don't really know what the fuck that means but he's very into how ruined you look. Might go again just because.

Seungkwan: “You’re SORE?? I—did I go too hard?!” Full-on pacing in his pajamas, hand over heart, but when you admit you liked it, he blushes like hell. “Well, of course you did.” Helps you change and wraps you in a blanket. King of extra aftercare. He's the softest among all these 12 shits.

Vernon: Idk if it's surprising but he's lowkey a menace. “Damn. Wasn’t even trying that hard.” Says it all deadpan while watching you limp to the bathroom. Doesn’t tease too much but will absolutely throw in a You look hot, though while sipping water like nothing happened. Might poke your thigh just to see you flinch.

Dino: It's probably an overachiever moment. “You're sore?” Confused. “I didn’t think I went that hard… unless—” Pauses. Slowly starts smirking. “Well, guess someone couldn’t keep up.” He tries to act cool but fails when you start whining and hitting him. Still massages you. “Next time, stretch first.”

[sabrina-senpai]

Saja boys w/ fem manager reader who explains periods to them;

Character/s: Jinu, Romance, Abby, Baby & Mystery

Character pairings: Jinu/you, Romance/you, Abby/you, Baby/you & Mystery/you

A/N: Characters may be ooc, writing style might be messy and just me rambling really

Find pt 2 here:P

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Jinu:

• “So the uterus just... peels??”

• simply short circuits, he's kinda loser coded from how flustered he gets tbh-

• has to sit down and process what you just said

• will try to act nonchalant and tease you but when you glare at him he's sat there like- 🫥

• he's not sure how to react, bc on one hand he's absolutely baffled by how the female human body works but pretty impressed at how you're not dying on the spot

• (spoiler alert- you are)

• does not know what to do or how to help

• will try to lower your work load just a little by keeping the boys in check and not disturbing you

• for the sake of your sanity and their safety and world domination he will try to help you the best he can

• when you snap at him he just rolls his eyes at you, but hands you a heat compress when he passes by you again.

• you eventually snap at someone else and threaten to throw their stuff out the window

• he walks on eggshells around you from then on

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Romance:

• “Wait… you bleed every month and don’t die?”

• "that's kinda hot"

• the man who looks like he's Wattpad cringey men incarnate find out what happens during your period? ('m kidding he's one of my faves)

• cue the disbelief.

• he thought bleeding meant fatal injury — now you’re telling him it happens on purpose?

• "you are one strong woman manager-nim.."

• wait till he finds out about your hormonal spikes..😟

• he's genuinely confused and lowk worried at how you endure cramps based on your description of them

• a little sht through and through tho, will not stop teasing and flirting with you either way

• "Would you like me to kiss it better-" *smack* "-worth it"

• you snap at him? He's quiet for a second but smirks and says

• "that's kinky.. scream at me more-"

• but when you physically have to lean on something bc your cramps are that bad, he will show a lil bit of empathy and rub your back for comfort

• and holds back on teasing until you feel better (almost fails like separate 3 times)

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Abby:

• “You okay? Need me to fight your uterus?”

• no bc he would if he could

• actually tries- until you smack him upside the head

• does zero damage to him but stops trying for now

• curious as to how painful cramps actually are

• still thinks you're over exaggerating abt the pain but won't push you (you threaten him with smth. what you ask? no clue either.. but he stops so a win is a win ig)

• respects u a little more bc of it

• honestly..lemme get a nibble of those shoulders and then we'll talk-

• for real tho- with enough pain induced persuasion (from you obv) he will reluctantly happily let you bite him if the cramps get too bad

• again no damage done to him whatsoever;-;

• "Is this an excuse to get a taste of my beautiful muscles? If so.. manager-nim there's no need for one"

• offers you his abs to use as a pillow

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Baby:

• “I’m just gonna... not think about that.”

• does not wanna think about it

• fails

• will plug his ears and just la-la-la his way out

• definitely judges you and your cravings

• side eyes you when they're particularly weird

• he's not necessarily cruel abt it but is either immature or embarrassed.. or both

• does slowly evolve into sympathy with the right education (manager-nim? More like seonsaengnim teacher)

• eventually gets curious at how you function normally

• “manager-nim can't you just plug it? Like a cork? Using those tampoon thingies?"

• "how bout I put a cork in your mouth instead-"

• cue you mid-breakdown trying to explain how tampons work and how they can't just be shoved inside forever

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Mystery:

• “How do you not get mad at your own uterus..?”

• will stare at you with the most bewildered frown you can imagine from just seeing his mouth bro is almost impossible to read..💔

• immediately goes into a spiral of mental questions and stands there like 🧍

• frown deepens as he thinks about how much energy you have to use to do day to day activities while in constant pain..

• most likely imagining how painful it feels and his hair physically deflates at the thought..

• pokes at your lower abdomen like he's trying to decipher ancient text

• will growl at you if you try to sass him bro literally barked at a fan wdym he doesn't have undiscovered anger issues??

• he apologizes by massaging your hand later on

• will lay on your lap if you ask beg and become your personal heating pad

• the listener to your yapper frfr

• probably falls asleep mid yap but you wouldn't know, his eyes are literally nonexistent to you..

─ ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──── ♡ ─── ⋅ ⋅ ⋅ ──

Sorry if it's not that good it's my first time writing headcannons for these gremlins so m sorry if they're pretty ooc, specially since we (I) don't know much in general abt them at all.

But I'm tryna improve with every fic:^

Constructive criticism is appreciated.

And asks/requests are open:)

Thanks for reading!!!

(credits for the original divider post bc idk if it's F2U)

[xazse]

Warnings. CurseSpirt!Satoru x Female!Reader + submissive!reader + smut + long tongue + makeout session + mentions of injuries + I’m just giving you guys new content that you’ll become obsessed with constantly ask for more of 😈 + This is based off Beautiful art I had seen by owwllly on twitter

Erm Curse!Satoru who ur able to wield in the heat of a fight, getting something as old and ancient as him to listen is probably the hardest thing, he stays slumped in the little pocket world you keep him in, he’s able to come out and help but only when he feels your life is in danger.

He’s lazy in short, you have no clue why thousands of sorcerers would want their hands on him, yes he’s extremely powerful, and his power is one of a kind but you can only take so much of his rancid attitude and actions. He was forced upon you when you stumbled across a shiny blue rock, it seemed to hauntingly pull you in with zero effort, that’s how you got stuck with him.

Curse!Satoru is a creepy man ghost thing, his six blue eyes that sit on his face never leaves yours when you’re in his presence, his long unkempt hair making him look even more unnerving. You think it’s so frightening how someone as big as him could easily kill you if he wanted but in return he’d die as well, so he needs you. You have no reason to fear him right?

You’ll exclaim how much you hate his guts to your sorcerer friends and how he’s such a burden on you, Satoru knows to keep quiet in those moments, he can only laugh and stare at the heartbroken expressions of sympathy they give you.

Satoru knows it’s you who’s begging for a simple little kiss after you manage to kill powerful spirt without relying on him, it’s you who’s laying on the ground bruised and bloodied calling out to him in that soft sweet tone. He graces you with his appearance fairing that ugly smirk like he thinks he’s better than you.

He grants you that small little peck on the lip and it’s not long before that whine bubbles within your throat just how he likes it, he decides to stop teasing you and embrace you with his nasty long tongue that slips around your small one.

Satoru is gross with the way he shoves it down your throat and practically fucks it there, the amount of spit that collects and drips down is absurd, he also can’t help but laugh inbetween baited breaths. He loves how needy you get in this moment, and with how heady your head is from your injuries you don’t realize you’re rubbing your little clit through your underwear so brazenly.

He’s definitely going to bring this up later but for now he watches, watches as you get yourself off with a mere make out session, watches as your underwear darkens from the lewd amount of cum.

He places his sharp inhumanly fingers ontop of yours and puts pressure on your clit, you beg for him to actually put his fingers inside but he insists that you clearly know what you’re doing so just keep going. He glances at your face to see the cutest pout ever, that’s why he hasn’t killed you just yet.

Only after a few hours of playing with you does Satoru drop you off at Shokos Clinic.

[gf2bellamy]

Hey, can I please request some jealous! Spencer, who is experiencing extreme jealousy over the reader let's say she gets hit on by an officer or something, and Spencer obvious as ever gets super confused on why he's feeling like this, and Morgan or Emily had to spell it out for him

jealousy — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: officer flirting with reader , mentioned that reader is not flirting back / uncomfortable , lots of teasing from morgan and emily a/n: hiii !! hope you like this <3

Spencer narrowed his eyes. 

He didn’t even realize he was doing it at first, not until his grip on the file in his hands tightened, the papers inside bending under the pressure of his fingers. His focus was locked on the scene just outside the conference room—on you. 

More specifically, on you and the police officer standing a little too close, talking to you with a cocky smile that made Spencer’s blood heat in a way he didn’t quite understand.

He barely noticed Derek and Emily sitting at the table, as he zeroed in on the way the officer leaned toward you, the way you gave a small, awkward smile in return. 

That smile. Spencer knew that smile. It was the one you used when you didn’t know how to get out of a conversation. 

So why wasn’t this guy picking up on it? 

Spencer’s jaw clenched. His fingers dug into the file again, creasing the edges. 

“Uh-oh,” Derek muttered, his voice laced with amusement as he leaned back in his chair, watching Spencer with knowing eyes. “Pretty Boy’s got that look.” 

Emily smirked, following Derek’s gaze to where Spencer sat, practically glaring a hole through the glass wall. “Reid, you okay?” she asked, raising a brow. 

Spencer blinked as if snapping out of a trance, forcing himself to look away and meet Emily’s gaze. “What—? Oh, yeah. I’m fine.” He nodded too quickly.

Derek’s grin widened as he pointed to the crumpled papers in Spencer’s hands. “You sure? ‘Cause those files say otherwise.” 

Spencer’s eyes darted down, realizing how badly he had crumpled them, and immediately began smoothing them out, his ears burning. “I just—” He hesitated, clearing his throat before trying again. “I just don’t think he should be talking to her that much.” 

Emily and Derek exchanged a glance, their smirks growing. 

Spencer didn’t notice. He was still rambling, eyes flickering back toward the glass as the officer laughed at something you said. 

“I mean, she clearly doesn’t want to be talking to him,” he continued, gesturing slightly. “She keeps shifting her weight from one foot to the other—classic sign of discomfort. And see how she keeps tucking her hair behind her ear? That’s not flirting, that’s self-soothing behavior.” 

Derek snorted. “So what you’re saying is, this guy should take a hint?” 

“Exactly!” Spencer exclaimed, throwing a hand in the air before realizing how worked up he sounded. He cleared his throat, lowering his voice. “And besides, she has work to do. He’s just distracting her, and he—” 

He stopped abruptly, biting his lip. 

Emily tilted her head, crossing her arms over her chest. “And he…?” 

Spencer’s mouth opened and closed. “And he… should just go away,” he finished lamely, shifting uncomfortably. 

Derek let out a low whistle, shaking his head in mock sympathy. “Damn, kid. That’s rough.” 

Spencer frowned. “What’s rough?” 

Emily leaned in, her grin sharp. “That is some textbook jealousy, Reid.” 

Spencer’s eyes widened slightly. “What? No, that’s not—” 

“You are so jealous,” Derek cut in, laughing. “Man, I’ve never seen you look that mad before.” 

“I'm not mad,” Spencer argued, though the way his voice rose slightly didn’t help his case. “I'm just… concerned.” 

Emily chuckled. “Concerned about what? That he'll ask her out and that she'll go out with him?” 

Spencer hesitated. Too long. 

Derek and Emily exchanged a glance, their smirks deepening as they watched realization flicker across his face—like a puzzle piece slotting into place, but one he didn’t want to acknowledge. 

“Just accept it, genius. You’re jealous,” Derek said, amusement laced through every word. 

Spencer barely looked up from his crumpled file, his ears burning. “No, I’m not,” he muttered, but the words lacked conviction. 

Emily leaned forward, resting her elbows on the desk. “Spencer.” 

That got his attention. He finally glanced up, still slightly red, eyes darting between them like he was searching for an escape route. 

Emily didn’t let up. “You like her.” 

Spencer opened his mouth, then closed it again. His silence spoke louder than words. 

Derek let out a low whistle, shaking his head with a grin. “Wow. You really do like her.” 

Spencer huffed, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

Emily smirked. “Oh, come on. Don’t try to outsmart us, Reid. You might have the IQ, but we’ve got the experience.” 

Derek nodded in agreement. “And the eyes. And the ears. And the ability to read social cues—which, by the way, you suck at when it comes to your own feelings.” 

Spencer scowled. “I am perfectly capable of understanding my own emotions.” 

Emily raised an eyebrow. “Uh-huh. So if I asked you for the real reason as to why you’ve been glaring at that officer like that, what would you say?” 

Spencer stiffened. “I wasn’t glaring.” 

Derek chuckled. “My guy, you were about two seconds away from burning a hole through the glass.” 

Emily leaned closer. “Face it, Reid. You like her. And you don’t like that she’s talking to another guy.” 

Spencer groaned, running a hand through his hair. “This is ridiculous.” 

“Oh, is it?” Derek shot back. “Then say it.” 

Spencer blinked. “Say what?” 

Derek gestured toward him. “Say you don’t like her. Say you don’t care if that dude asks her out.” 

Spencer opened his mouth—ready to argue, ready to say whatever he needed to just to shut them up. But the words wouldn’t come out. 

Emily grinned, victorious. “That’s what I thought.” 

Spencer exhaled sharply, looking down at the file in his hands as if it could save him. 

Derek clapped a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay, kid. Admitting it is the first step.” 

Spencer shook his head, grumbling under his breath before finally muttering, “Fine. Maybe I do.” 

Emily gasped dramatically. “Sorry, what was that?” 

Spencer muttered a small. “You heard me.” 

Derek cupped a hand around his ear. “Nah, I don’t think I did. Sounded like you said something, but it was real quiet—” 

Spencer let out an exasperated sigh. “I like her, okay?” 

Derek leaned back with a satisfied nod. “There it is.” Emily beamed. “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?” 

Spencer buried his face in his hands. “This is a nightmare.” 

Derek just laughed. “Buddy, your nightmare is just beginning. Now you actually have to do something about it.” 

[wynnyfryd]

push me, sugar

written for @switcheddieweek day 5: 'non-verbal negotiation' + 'dancing' | 4.7k | M | modern college AU, musician eddie, swing dancer steve | ao3

---------------------

“GodDAMMIT!!!!” Frankie smacks the outside of his fist against the exposed brick wall leading to the green room, chest heaving.

Eddie catches him by the shoulders; scans his furious red face. “Whoa, whoa, hey. Hey! What happened?”

Frankie growls. Gareth and Jeff appear in the hallway behind him—Gareth close to pissed-off tears, Jeff translating their collective anger into English with a sigh like a buzz saw. “The scout hated us, man.”

What the fuck?

How??

“Is he fucking deaf?!” Eddie screeches. Gareth makes a strangled noise. Frankie knocks his forehead against the wall with a dull, metronomic thud. Son of a bitch. These kinds of hallways are meant for eyeing up the potential groupies at the end of a killer set, not for fucking…group lamentations for the dead, or whatever the hell’s happening here.

Beside him, Jeff leans against the brick, rubbing a knot in his neck. “He said we sounded great, but apparently we look like shit. ‘Zero fuckin’ stage presence’—his words; not mine.”

Gareth’s little sniffles promote themselves to an outright sob, and Frankie shoulders past them and slams the dressing room door behind him, the hollow-core panel doing nothing to muffle his scream.

---------------------

“Brutal,” Steve sucks his teeth in sympathy as Eddie shares the highlight reel during his shift the next morning. ‘Bruuuuutal,’ Robin mouths behind his back.

Eddie hides a smile in a sip of latte foam. “Delicious as always, my good man.”

Steve glows under the praise and steps out from behind the espresso machine to rest his elbows on the bar, the tanned, olive skin of his forearms in stark contrast with the white counters. Eddie’s not sure if he wants to pin those arms down or be pinned…

Jesus.

Best not to board either of those thought trains when it’s 9 A.M. and he’s wearing his tightest jeans in public.

He sends them both off from the station with an imagined choo chooooo!, retreating to the safety of his sulking. “Just sucks,” he sighs, resting his cheek against his hand. “Like—I mean, shit, man, I just want to play music!” He throws his other hand up and lets it land with a dull smack. “You know music? The reason people go to shows? To listen to music??”

Robin snorts at him in passing as she goes to grab a broom.

Unhelpfully, Steve says, “Sure, I guess, but. They do also go to watch it.”

Betrayal. Complete and utter betrayer-ing. Betrayance!!!

Eddie glares.

Steve laughs, “Sorry.”

“Whatever. I just don’t want to have to worry about my goddamn hips or whatever when I’m communing with my Sweetheart.”

Robin’s on his side of the bar now, sweeping around the self-serve station, and her eyes are twinkling with—well, Eddie doesn’t know what, exactly, but it feels like it’s about to be some seriously impish bullshit at his expense. “Steve,” she says meaningfully, and Steve answers, “Robin,” and there’s a whole ping pong match of microexpressions that Eddie tries and fails to interpret before he swivels toward Robin and goes, “Okay, turn the fucking subtitles on.”

Robin horse-laughs. “Steve can help you!”

Eddie turns back toward him. His cheekbones are starting to turn a real pretty shade of pink, like an oil canvas sunset, and Eddie can’t help but want to add a dot of red into the paint mix. “You some kinda hula hoop champ or somethin’?” he teases.

Steve’s blush deepens.

Success.

Beside him, Robin pipsqueaks, “Even better!!” She’s dancing some kind of goofy waltz with her broomstick, walking forwards and backwards in long strides, twirling it around and swinging her hips in an exaggerated awkward swivel.

Steve’s forehead hits the counter with a thud. “Rob-innnnnn,” he groans, straightening up and frowning flatly at her. He yanks the dish towel from his shoulder and whips it at her in disapproval.

Robin giggles.

Steve sighs so hard Eddie can smell the morning mocha on his breath. “It’s not funny!”

“Oh,” she counters with a long, snorting pfffft—lips clamped, face puffed like she’s about to shoot milk out of her nose. “I hate to tell you this, but it actually so totally is.”

“I’ll laser off my Scoops tat,” he threatens with a finger wag and a hand on his hip.

Robin gasps, “You wouldn’t dare!”

“I would.”

Eddie can’t even focus on the revelation that Steve has a tattoo somewhere(???!) because he’s too busy having a really, just—goddamn horrific moment of self-discovery over Steve’s pissed off gym coach vibes. Is he about to blow a whistle and start barking orders over here? Jesus Christ.

Behind him, Robin concedes, “Okay, I’m sorry! You know I love you, please don’t hurt my boy Butterscotch with lasers.”

“Be nice to me,” Steve squints in warning before he holsters the pointer finger.

Eddie reaches for his drink; mutters over the lip of his cup, “What the fuck is happening?”

The shop’s dead right now, so Robin swings up onto the bar chair beside Eddie and leans in all conspiratorially to inform him that Steve—yes, that Steve, Steve Harrington, the hot guy barista who’s maybe sort of Eddie’s friend in a regular customer kind of way, the dude currently blushing his ass off across the counter—is a regional champion fucking West Coast swing dancer.

---------------------

Half an hour later, leaning against the brick side of the building and sharing a post-shift cigarette with Steve, Eddie says, “I mean, it is kind of funny.”

“Oh, cool, so all my friends are assholes. Love that.”

Eddie huffs a laugh. Tries really hard to tune out the voice in his brain going friendsfriendsfriendsohmygod. “Only because I didn’t expect it. Not that it’s surprising, though. I mean, it goes with your whole…” He waves the hand holding the cigarette in Steve’s direction.

“My what?” He looks vaguely concerned.

Eddie shakes his head with a soft grin. “Just suits you, is all.”

---------------------

Steve’s fucking… so good at this. Holy shit. The way he glides across the dance floor, the way he perfectly directs his partner exactly where he wants her, makes her look weightless under his big hands, it’s uh—

It’s got Eddie’s internal narrator all glitched out, splicing Ye Olde English with braindead horndog internet shit until he actually hears himself think the words ‘prithee, good sir, what them hips do?’ and has to sit on both hands to keep from slapping himself in public.

He kind of can’t even believe what’s happening right now to be honest—he’s sitting on a thin vinyl cushion of a folding black plastic chair in what he thinks is a conference center but could be a non-denominational church? Maybe? Whatever, he wasn’t really paying attention when he drove in. He was a little preoccupied thinking about goddamn Steve Harrington, yeah, that Steve, Swing Dance Champion; didn’t even notice his favorite song playing over the van’s speakers until the riff at the six minute twenty-eight second mark.

And now somehow he’s watching the guy he’d been—Jesus, he’d basically been mentally doodling the guy’s name in hearts in the margins of his notebook with a pink feather pen and stars in his eyes—and now that guy is wrapping his huge hands around his dance partner’s slim waist and throwing her down between his open legs, feet planted firmly on either side of her as she goes down and around his thigh like a firepole. Her french-manicured hand trails over his inseam, and Eddie can see the direction Steve’s dick hangs, holy shit. Somebody set up a single tripod of DJ party booth lights at the dance floor’s edge, and it should be tacky as hell, but it’s painting Steve in all these gorgeous pinks and purples, the light shifting like a stormy sunset reflecting off a wave, Steve’s so handsome, and he’s rolling his hips like he’s—and Eddie can see his dickprint through his skin-tight jeans, and—

“Excuse me,” Eddie blurts to the three people seated to his left as he lurches from his seat and crouch-walks down the tightly packed row to the aisle as quick as he can.

*

Eddie splashes cold sink water on his face. Juts his chin at his scarlet-flushed reflection. He’s not gonna jizz his pants in public.

*

Eddie splashes cold sink water on his face.

*

Eddie splashes—

“Ah, shit.”

His shirt’s getting wet.

“Shit.”

His bangs are soaked now, clumping into heavy spirals that splash fat drops all down his neckline. He reaches over and yanks a wad of paper towels out of the dispenser, squishing at his bangs and hoping he doesn’t dry out looking like a poodle. (Never fucking remembers to bring more hair product, never mind the fact that he’s apparently doing this so often that ‘never’ is applicable.)

There’s a hand dryer mounted on the wall, but it’s one of the older models; doesn’t have the little metal flippy thing to point the air up at your face—which has gotta be, uh. Unhygienic, right? Shit. Goddamn convenient at a highway rest stop, though, especially when you just finished a show at some middle-of-nowhere hick venue and you’re sweating your balls off and you don’t even care that you’re blowing hot air directly into your face because you’re too in shock from, like, getting away from that gig without getting hate-crimed and getting paid for it. So yeah. One of those would be awesome.

He doesn’t have one of those. What he does have is weird blotches of hair gel water drying all over his shirt, so he crouches down into a half-squat that feels like he’s making fun of a flamingo and holds his shirt under the downward-pointing hot air stream.

And of course that’s how Steve finds him.

Of course this convention-center-slash-maybe-church doesn’t have a separate bathroom backstage for the performers.

And of course Steve looks…

Goddamn.

He’s all sweaty, but in a glistening magazine cover sort of way—sort of aspirational, you know? Like, you could have this too if you were athletic and hot and tan. His hair is ever so slightly damp at the roots and temples, but not enough to make it limp, if anything it’s just enhancing the sheen, and—

And Eddie’s just staring up at his breathless, sweaty, sort-of-friend-in-a-regular-customer-way like he’s—

“Did you spill something?”

Steve’s got a confused but kind almost-smile on his face as he gestures across his own shirt collar, a scoop from right to left like he’s fingerpainting on a necklace. At least Eddie can blame the hot air from the dryer for how flaming red his cheeks feel.

“Yeah, uh,” he stutters as he straightens up; underhands the wad of damp paper towels into the narrow hoop of the trash can. Half the napkins botch the landing and go sliding over the beveled hump down to the floor. “Shit.”

Steve laughs a little, but he bends down and grabs the small stack before Eddie can get there, rising gracefully and tipping them into the trash can without even looking. “You good?”

“Huh? Uh- yeah.” Jesus. “Yeah, man, I’m, uh. I’m,” he gives up and just starts nodding like a dashboard bobblehead, hoping Steve will get the message.

Steve grins wide, excitement taking over. He’s biting his lower lip, buzzing around the edges. “Sooooo? What’d you think?”

“You’re amazing.” It’s automatic, basically under his breath; maybe Steve didn’t even hear it. “I mean, uh-”

Well, hell.

There’s just nothing else to call it, is there?

“Yeah,” he laughs, owning it. “No, yeah, you were amazing. Holy shit, dude!”

Steve’s face does something incredible. Like, movie-magic compelling. Eddie doesn’t even know how to describe the shift; it’s just soft, and pleased, and endearing, and for a second he gets why so many poets describe their lovers like the sun.

“Really?” Steve asks. His voice… “Thank you. I’m really glad you liked it.”

*

Eddie splashes cold sink water on his face.

---------------------

Five days after Eddie made a goddamn fool of himself at Steve’s dance night, they agreed to meet up for Eddie’s first official swing dance lesson, because Steve’s chem lab lets out early on Fridays and Eddie’s math class is over on that side of campus and Steve’s dorm building has a ground floor gym that “basically no one ever goes into, dude, don’t even worry about.”

“Are you sure about that?” “Yeah. Seriously, if anyone says anything, just say we’re doing shit for musical theater class or whatever.” “Musical th— are you in a musical theater class?” “No. I mean, I was in freshman year for my fine art credit, but—” “WHAT?” “What?” “Is there footage of this anywhere?” “Yeah, but everyone who watches it dies in seven days. It’s like The Grudge.” “I thought that was The Ring?” “....Okay, I was, like, pretty sure I knew the right answer before you just said that.” “Sorry.” “No, you’re good. Want to watch one of those after our lesson?”

That phone conversation’s been playing on repeat like a Sabbath record in his head for the last three days. He has no idea what he even learned today in math class. (Not that he necessarily has any idea on any other day. Fuck. He should probably take that Barb girl up on her weekly study group.) And now Steve’s building is coming into view across the quad, and anticipation moves like ants under Eddie’s skin, and he really just wants to run away screaming or at least hide around a corner and hit his vape until he calms down, but he refuses to be all loopy and uncoordinated in front the smoothest fucking dancer he’s ever seen, so—

So—

He squares up to the building like a gunslinger preparing to duel. Ever the wordsmith, his mind supplies: UGH!!!!!

---------------------

The lessons are going horribly.

The first time Eddie stepped on Steve’s feet, he was cool about it (relatively, anyway), because Steve had just served him a gracious ‘that’s okay’ on the silver platter of his soft grin and encouraged him to keep going, and it was fine; it was only the first night; Eddie would get there with more practice.

But now he’s had practice. Now he’s been doing stupid little six-count steps in his living room for weeks, and tonight marks the sixth time that Steve has agreed to meet up with him for private lessons—and sure, Steve’s been kind of throwing him for a loop tonight by having him switch between dancing lead and following, but he thought he was starting to get it! At least a little bit! So when he somehow screws it up again and steps down right on Steve’s toes, he can’t stop the frustrated string of curse words that falls out of his mouth.

“Sorry,” he huffs, stepping back from Steve, rubbing his fists against his stinging eyes. Oh, god. Please don’t start anger-crying right now.

“Hey, it’s—”

“Don’t tell me it’s okay,” he snaps; instantly feels bad about his tone and the way Steve winces and flinches back the slightest bit. “Sorry,” he says again. “Sorry, just… Jesus. I fucking suck at this. Is your foot okay?”

“Mmhm.” He lifts his stomped foot off the ground, makes a show of flexing his toes inside his soft-top sneakers, rolling his ankle in a circle. As he steps back in to continue the lesson, his hands find Eddie’s waist, his elbows, gliding down his forearms to his wrists, holding both hands between their bodies.

Horrifically, Eddie sniffles. “Christ,” he laughs under his breath, keeping his head bowed, hiding behind his hair. Steve smells like cedar and citrus, and he’s probably making an unbearably kind expression right now, something tender and guiding and ‘you’re safe with me,’ and Eddie can’t bring himself to look.

“Hey.” Steve’s fingers find the underside of his jaw and press up until Eddie’s head lifts—gentle but insistent, just like all his moves when he’s in the lead. Jesus. Eddie was right about the face he pictured Steve making. “It really is fine, I promise. You think I’ve never thrown a temper tantrum in a dance class before?”

“Can’t really picture that.”

“Yeah, well. That’s because you never saw me in the god-awful costume I had to wear for my 7th grade tap dance recital.”

“Oh, my god.”

“There were coattails involved.”

Eddie snorts, and it’s a gross sound because his nose is still half-full of the tears he didn’t let fall, but whatever. He lifts his hands to Steve’s shoulders with a sigh.

“You want to go again?” Steve asks. “We can start that section from the top.”

“Honestly?” His thumb taps nervously at the shoulder seam of Steve’s t-shirt. “Look, I really appreciate what you’re doing for me here, man, I don’t want— shit, I don’t know how to say this without sounding like a dickhead, I just— I guess I’m, uh, feeling a little defeated here, Steve. And I’m also not sure what all of this has to do with the type of stuff I play on stage, anyway, you know? Like how does knowing how to do a sugar hop help me?”

“Sugar push.”

“Right, yeah, sugar push. But still, how is this—” He steps out wide from Steve, doing a sarcastic one-armed jazz hand before he reels himself back in. “ —applicable to doom metal? Do you even know what our stuff sounds like?”

Steve doesn’t answer, but his cheeks tint pink.

Eddie looks away; scrubs at the back of his neck. Goddamn, Steve’s one patient saint of a man. He can see their reflection in the full-length mirror spanning the wall to his left, and Eddie looks like a total asshole, his mouth twisted in a weird defensive grimace-smirk, his posture all slumped like a sulking teen goth who just heard they’re going on a family beach trip for spring break. And Steve’s just smiling away! Just as unbothered as can be, a radiant little cherub with his olive skin and blushing cheeks and chestnut waves, a Roman demigod of the harvest or some shit, the sunshiney little—

“Okay,” Steve laughs, snapping his fingers in Eddie’s face. “I have a new plan.”

---------------------

Steve slots in close to Eddie as the song starts—one thigh between his, belt loops almost catching. He plucks Eddie’s right hand up and starts to rock them gently, just getting a feel for it. “Oh, yeah,” Steve says when the first real riff kicks in, like he’s talking to himself, except his breath is hot in Eddie’s hair. “Yeah, this is a good tempo. Jesus.”

Eddie swallows. The hand at his hip pushes with more pressure until he takes a step back, and then another, and usually this is the part where they’d swing away from each other, but Steve stays pressed close, chasing Eddie’s thighs with his own, and he’s practically grinding against him to the music he wrote; that’s Eddie’s voice and Eddie’s guitar making Steve roll his hips like that, all slow and controlled, his breath speeding up a little.

“Switch me,” Steve says.

Eddie’s ears ring. “Huh?”

“Yeah.” It’s raspy. Out of breath. He does something with his hips that sends a tremor from Eddie’s shoulder to the pulsing vein in his groin. “Yeah, switch me.” He guides Eddie’s hand down to his hip. “Take the lead.”

“Steve, c’mon.”

“You come on,” he teases, drawing back to meet his eye. “It’s your song, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” He’s already nodding along to the drone of the bass; metronomic compulsion; goddamn, they crushed it on this part.

Steve must be feeling it, too—eyes closed, head bowed, a little smile at the edge of his lips. Their bodies roll in tandem still. “Okay, so perform it then,” Steve dares him, looking from under his lashes. “Pretend I’m the mic stand.”

Fuck.

Over the speaker, Eddie’s voice growls about wanting everything, and Eddie does; wants it so badly, whatever Steve’s offering. His hand drags from Steve’s hip bone to the trim dip of his waist, taking the thin t-shirt with him, exposing a slice of tan skin. Eddie doesn’t think he can get away with pantomiming licking the mic stand, but maybe…

“You chose every word,” Eddie sings along quietly, pushing his weight into Steve, leading him back across the floor, “that I’ve said…”

Steve shivers against him, and Eddie wants more of that; wants to make Steve take what he gives him, watch him go starry-eyed and moldable like clay—Christ, the art Eddie could sculpt at the altar of Steve’s body; the music he could make from all his soft, pretty sounds. Harsh, fluttering breath, the hitch of a syllable caught in his throat, the tacky click of a dry swallow when Eddie’s hand skims his rib cage to tease the outer swell of his chest. Eddie could brush a thumb over his nipple. Make it so casual it could be called an accident.

“Yeah, that’s good,” Steve pants, still coaching. “Flirt with me a little.” He works his hips against Eddie’s in a slow, filthy circle, one foot lifting to climb the curve of Eddie’s calf as he twists his fingers in Eddie’s belt loops, then arches his back and dips himself toward the floor with a gorgeous tumble of brown hair, damp at the hairline, the veins in his neck all exposed, swollen blue and bulging with the rush of his thudding heartbeat; his cheeks flushed cherry red.

Eddie bows over him. Holds him like he’s tipping the mic stand toward a crowd, one hand cupping Steve’s neck while the other wraps around his back to steady him, palm splayed wide over warm muscle. He drags his lips from the base of Steve’s collarbones to the bony jut of his throat, and the answering moan rattles his teeth. Jesus. He’s half-hard against Steve’s thigh, uncomfortably bent in his tight jeans, and his mouth is just— just open against Steve’s slightly sweaty skin, tongue tasting the salt there when he mumbles along with his own lyrics. “I’ll fuck up again.”

“Fuck.”

Eddie doesn’t know who moves first—couldn’t tell you much other than Steve’s moan was probably a G flat and was definitely going to haunt his wet dreams for the rest of his goddamn life. One moment his tongue’s catching on the stubble beneath Steve’s jaw; the next it’s tangled with Steve’s, squirming past wet, wide open lips to get behind his teeth, their faces tilted for a deeper angle, Steve’s sharp breaths hot against his cheek and upper lip. Steve tastes so fucking good, sweat and spit and citrus, and Eddie wants to swallow him whole.

When they break away, they’re both shaking, anticipatory tremor of a good, hard fuck that Eddie can feel all the way down to the arches of his feet. His ears are buzzing. He straightens up and brings Steve with him, and Steve laughs softly in the humid space between them, his forehead pressed to Eddie’s, their mouths still wet with spit.

“Damn,” Eddie smiles.

Steve’s lashes flutter. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm.” He tucks a strand of hair back into place behind Steve’s ear. “My regular mic stand’s really gonna have to up her game.”

Steve’s pleased, preening chuckles carry them all the way back to Steve’s dorm.

---------------------

So they fucked.

Sort of.

Mutual mouth stuff that kind of drove him crazy, made him hump his pillow like a wild animal just thinking about it later—the way Steve so easily flip-flopped between control and submission, seemed to like both just as much as Eddie does, kept throwing him the lead and then taking it back like it was just another dance lesson, smiley and flushed and so, so handsome…

But so what, right?

It doesn’t mean Steve owes him anything.

And yeah, he was really… Actually, he was almost disturbingly sweet about the direct aftermath. Eddie doesn’t think he’s ever blown a guy in broad daylight without immediately being shame-shoved out the door as soon as they got the money shot, but Steve had asked him to stick around. Steve had made eye contact, had lazily cleaned them both up and taken his time getting redressed, his chest hair all puffed up, the dark brown curls turning gold in the shafts of sunlight through the blinds when he asked Eddie to text him details for his next show and promised he’d be there.

Whatever.

Everyone says shit they don’t really mean in the afterglow.

He fidgets with the loose threads at the hem of his shirt, shoulders bunched up to his ears, sweat beading in his peach-fuzz mustache. God, his hands are freezing. And also clammy. This was a mistake, right? He should just— fuck that scout, anyway! Eddie doesn’t have to do some literal song and dance to get peoples’ attention, he’s a goddamn musician, he could just—

“Hey!”

Steve comes jogging around the corner to the end of the grimy hallway, years of overlapped flyers pinned to the walls fluttering in his wake. The can lights overhead make him look like a runway model, and it’s kind of fucking unreal that Eddie got to put this guy’s dick in his mouth.

“Sorry I’m late, parking was a whole—whatever.” There’s definitely a weird story behind that pause that Eddie’s got to ask about later. “You ready? Feeling good?”

“Feeling like I might upchuck Cheetos on the stage carpet.”

“Yeah, don’t do that,” Steve jokes back, easy. His hands land on Eddie’s shoulders and gently push them down, fingers curling around the knots in the tense muscle, and Eddie deflates with a long groan; leans his weight into Steve; rests his chin on his shoulder.

“Forget the show,” he mumbles, nuzzling the crook of Steve’s neck. “Let’s just stay here and do this for an hour.”

Steve’s laugh sounds even prettier when it’s right in Eddie’s ear. “Nah, I paid a cover fee to be here. I want to get my money’s worth.”

Flat palms slide from Eddie’s shoulders down his chest then swing out to cup his waist, his hips. Steve tugs him in more firmly, lets Eddie feel the heat of him through his jeans. He’s wearing a great pair tonight—light wash, faded, tight at the hips and thighs; Eddie bets his ass looks incredible. “Ready to show me what you learned?”

His voice sounds like sin. Eddie doesn’t have to look at him to know he’s making fuck me eyes. He plants a wet kiss below Steve’s ear; slides both hands into Steve’s back pockets. “Sure am, big boy.”

The shuddering, drawn out fuuuck Steve whispers makes his head spin. God, he wants to fuck him. Or be fucked? No, definitely the first option—he wants to spin Steve around and shove him against the wall of flyers, make his breath hitch and his hair catch on the plastic ends of stray thumb tacks, make him moan so loud even the rustle of papers behind his back won’t cover the sound. He wants to suck hickeys over all his pretty moles and ruck his shirt up so anyone who walks past to get to the bathrooms will see him shaking under Eddie’s hands, the heaving quake of muscle under soft, thick body hair, flattening with sweat as he rocks helplessly on Eddie’s thigh. Fuck. Fuck. Eddie squeezes Steve’s ass through his back pocket, his other hand moving up to press into the small of Steve’s back, trapping him in place, grinding his hips just like Steve taught him.

“You’re perfect,” Steve praises.

“I had a great tutor.”

“Hey, asshole!!” They both jump at the noise; whip their heads toward it like spooked prey animals. Gareth’s stomping down the hallway looking like a pissed off kitten in his green flannel and leather cuffs. “Quit screwing around! Everyone’s waiting on you for sound check.”

Eddie steps back with a laugh, color flooding his face, but Steve looks so smitten that Eddie can’t bring himself to care; would happily make a fool of himself every day to see that expression.

The crowd’s loud now—rising sounds of a room filling up, the air getting humid with the buzz of shared anticipation. Eddie’s got this. Never mind the scouts, or the labels, or the world; he’s gonna put on the most metal concert in the history of Steve’s life.

He sneaks in one more kiss and dances them backwards down the hall, Steve’s laugh as he twirls like sugar crystals in a snow globe, falling around them forever, a magic spell for perfect luck.

---------------------

ty for reading <3

[barcapix]

not sure if you write for ferran torres but can i request ferran torres headcannons ? 💞

✮ Ferran Torres Boyfriend Headcanons!

ferran torres x gf!fem!reader

sy: boyfriend headcanons for ferran.

a/n: of course i write for ferran and thank u for the req! yes this also may be a little more wordy than others (idk why)

warnings: nah.

-> Bf!Ferran�� who’s always quick to share his achievements with you. for example, invites you first onto the pitch, and drapes his medal around your neck as if it were your own.

-> Bf!Ferran… lives for playful banter. cannot go a day without it.

-> Bf!Ferran… his goals, no doubt are dedicated to you.

-> Bf!Ferran… although it may be deemed as a red flag, he is such an asshole to other women purely because he’s dating you. for example, he’d gladly let the door slam into their faces because he sees no reason to hold it open for them.

-> Bf!Ferran… takes pictures with you in literally every centimetre of place.

-> Bf!Ferran… sucker for kissing your neck, shoulders and collarbones. loves the way you feel squeamish when he does it

-> Bf!Ferran… who has a habit of tripping you up whenever he can. public? private? anywhere, anytime.

-> Bf!Ferran… such a thoughtful guy. he’s not somebody that would buy you meaningless gifts, so every gift you receive from him would be carefully considered/personalised.

-> Bf!Ferran… who asks you to educate him on recent trends/memes and abbreviations.

-> Bf!Ferran… 110% big spoon, refuses to do otherwise.

-> Bf!Ferran… shamelessly stares at you no matter who’s around or where he is.

-> Bf!Ferran… has numerous tattoos along his body drawn about you. he also happily accepts your ideas for future tattoos as he’ll proudly mark your presence on his skin.

-> Bf!Ferran… you’re a calming pill for him. anytime he sees you, his anger just completely drowns away.

-> Bf!Ferran… gym freak. (u can use ur imagination)

-> Bf!Ferran… at each goal he does score, he jumps over the barrier to rush to ur seat and scornfully expresses his adoration for you (he knows it gets both of you on the big screen).

↳ picks u up, twirls u around, showers you with kisses/cuddles—everything he can possibly do.

-> Bf!Ferran… not huge on talking so his main source of communication would be body language.

-> Bf!Ferran… will dramatically chase you down the house so he can lecture about his healthy lifestyle guides (🙂‍↕️)

-> Bf!Ferran… may be blatantly obvious, but has a tolerance for hate of zero. he can take criticism for himself, but when it comes to you? absolutely no—channels out any frustration.

↳ will gladly go out of his way to confront/address the hate you receive publicly (may include slight threats)

-> Bf!Ferran… love language is physical affection.

-> Bf!Ferran… quick to hold ur hand if he’s upset/stressed/vexed; stays that way until he’s calmed down.

-> Bf!Ferran… you’re symbolic like a drug to him. highly drugged of love after seeing you which makes him infinitely affectionate and giddy around his other teammates.

-> Bf!Ferran… yeah sure he’s as tough as an oyster on the outside, but inside, really he’s just a man who craves validation and wishes for the care he gives.

-> Bf!Ferran… has matching rings with you.

-> Bf!Ferran… such an early bird, and has no sympathy for waking you up just as early. although, he’ll wake you up nicely, by usually connecting your moles/freckles with his fingertips and gently running his fingers through your hair.

-> Bf!Ferran… loves to ruin your makeup in every single way (ikyk)

-> Bf!Ferran… his hands are always feeling for your inner thighs, sometimes innocent, sometimes not.

-> Bf!Ferran… roma (🐕) loves you more than he loves fer, which makes him overwhelmingly jealous and will fight his own dog for your attention.

-> Bf!Ferran… again, he is so incredibly shameless, so will trace your body curves, pull you in front of his body, peppers kisses along every inch of your skin in public.

[arceus-insanity]

Endeavor Deserves No Sympathy!

I don't understand how anyone can think Endeavor was ever a good dad. It also always comes off as incredibly victim blamie, especially towards Touya, and often Shoto too.

He literally only got married and had kids to use them. He never gave a shit about their well being, never even thought about it until he had the one thing he cared about and was still miserable. I've already gone over the math proving he gave up on achieving his dream himself at 21 at the absolute latest. (https://www.tumblr.com/arceus-insanity/763259515356512256/i-liked-endeavors-character-when-he-was?source=share)

And basic math will once again be used to prove just how little this waste of flesh actually tries.

This time the focus is on how quickly he abandoned Touya and immediately went to emotional abuse via neglect & literally replacing him, and once again risking that more children be born with self-destructive quirks.

For context we only see Endeavor doing anything with his kids that's not him literally walking through and ignoring them in two circumstances. Once when Fuyumi's a newborn and Touya is attempting to crawl (not walk) over to her. And training. Those are the only times he tries to spend with any of them, even after he starts his 'atonement'

Now comparing Touya in the scene of them training and himself as a toddler and all the child imagery this series loves to use instead of actually saving imperfect victims, Touya is at least 3 (probably closer to 4) when he's taken to the doctor and they are informed of his condition

Natsuo is 4 and a half years younger than him.

We know for a fact Natsuo (& Shoto) was conceived after they got the news, not willingly either. Pregnancy takes 40 weeks average, so Touya would still be 3 when Natsuo was conceived. So once again it took this 'man' less than a year to give up and have another child he hoped to use as a tool, and was explicitly making to hurt his existing son. And as I have said plenty of times before, risking that the new kids could be born with the same disorder, I hate how convenient it is that Shoto gets near zero negative quirk side effects.

Want to know what we never see, Endeavor doing something else with Touya and Touya demanding training, it's always him walking past/ away from Touya. Considering all of the shit they've pulled to soften Endeavor's abuse both in the manga and even more so in the anime, they wouldn't skip something like this. It's not hard to tell that Touya's 'obsession with training' is really about spending time with his dad, you know like a human child that literally needs love, proven by numerous studies and research in the real world.

He throws all parenting responsibilities onto Rei, adds more children to that load, and when Touya suffers for it (like everyone else) he does nothing, doesn't even hire a nanny

Another are you kidding me take I've seen is that somehow Touya's quirk issues are worse than Midoriya's and Yuga's. Touya managed to train his quirk to produce blue fire at 13 with zero equipment and less than no help, and only lost control of it, because of the mental abuse Endeavor had inflicted on him leading him to a mental breakdown. And/ or the theory I've only seen once of AFO using his ability to force quirk activation (seen with a passed out chapter 90 during his first confrontation with All Might)

Midoriya was breaking his bones all the way into the Shie Hassaikai arc and was only able to fight because Eri and was breaking support equipment in the following arc as well. Yuga had a support belt all the way back in the entrance exam and was still struggling with that.

Speaking of Yuga let's compare parental effort here, because as much as it backfired Yuga's parents tried a whole lot more. For starters they nearly bankrupted themselves to get him a quirk, so he could feel equal. All For One is a mythic man prior to his arrest, and those who knew of him were shown to be serious long-term villain groups, so they had gone to quite a bit of effort to find that he existed to begin with. They also got him support gear (the navel belt thing) as a kid to help him with said quirk, he literally had it in the entrance exam. Endeavor never looked into that, Endeavor is not only rich too but he's a top hero he would have direct access to support equipment companies that would jump at the opportunity and it never even occurred to him.

Endeavor's name is an irony as endeavour means to try hard to do or achieve something. He never tries hard he gives up incredibly quickly the second there's any road block, but instead of moving on he makes everyone suffer for it. He's a toxic pageant mom who'd rather force their child into a toxic world and a role they don't want than work on himself

And what finally makes him change? Getting exactly what he wanted and still being miserable, and he still expects through his actions his family to cater to him.

Not his son getting a major disability due to his actions, no, he decided to double down, mentally abusing and neglecting the son he supposedly loves, raping his wife who didn't want more kids or participate in this abuse, and again risking that Natsuo & later Shoto might have that same issue. Not when his wife breaks down and permanently scars his precious masterpiece, who proceeds to rightfully blame him, and he just thinks of it as a tantrum despite it lasting a fucking decade. Not when his eldest literally dies as the result of his selfishness. Not literally during any part of this entire process!

Dabi is 23 when Endeavor finally starts to 'try' to be better, that means that for at least 24 years he has only been caring about his fucking precious number one spot in a popularity contest that he couldn't even bother to try to be likeable for, this wasn't one bad decision, this was him constantly choosing to be so insanely selfish that he found ways that shouldn't even be possible for over two decades. And it was all him.

[yatori-morgana]

————————————

Such a tease~

————————————

(Mature, 18+)

In which Jade delights in your "suffering."

Contents & Warnings: biting, Jade is a bully (but you like it), no actual seggs cuz I didn't feel like writing it

»Jade Leech x AFAB!Reader

————————————

His tongue glides over your throat. There's a pause, and his gaze flicks up to meet yours, eyes so intense under those lashes. He pulls back to watch you pant and tremble, and he doesn't bother hiding the glimmer of self-satisfaction. The corner of his mouth quirks up just so when he notices the hint of disappointment in your unsteady stare.

He hadn't bitten you.

"No need for that," he purrs in faux sympathy. For maybe a mere second or three, he pouts, the expression lending a delicate tenderness to his features. It's not real. In fact, it's a taunt. He's mocking you.

And yet, you like it. You always do.

He trails a finger from the dip in your collarbone to between your breasts then down your body. Just before he reaches where you desire most, he lifts his hand and leaves you wanting. A smarmy grin. The enjoyment he's deriving from your struggles is evident in his every move — but most importantly, those glittering eyes. In the low light of your room, that golden iris eerily glows like a distant lantern. He doesn't blink.

This test is almost too much. You need fiber of your being to keep yourself from pouncing — if you do, you lose. Simple as that.

While you lament this, his hand is already in your hair and tugging your head back to once more expose your neck to him. You don't dare get your hopes up. He always dangles your desires just out of reach, letting that slim possibility tantalize you, before oh so begrudgingly denying you.

Begrudgingly, he says, yet he always wears such a wide smile.

His long tongue swipes over your skin again. You feel a hand squeeze your thigh, and your leg involuntarily twitches. That earns you the briefest of chuckles and several well-placed kisses to your neck. His lips are soft, but his grip is anything but, a juxtaposition you've since grown to adore. Jade Leech is, after all, a man of two minds.

Again, a duality as his thumb rubs soothing circles over your skin…

Just as he sinks his teeth into the crook of your neck. He isn't gentle, nor is he sweet. His teeth are unforgiving in his marking, leaving behind his unique imprint dotted with red rivulets, of which he greedily laps up with a near inaudible moan. Your whimper only serves to further feed his sadistic nature, and you're not sure how much more you can take.

Zero proper stimulation, yet the tension is enough to keep you craving.

Too much, not enough, too much of not enough. It's torturous, but it's delicious, especially as he continues to kiss and suck at your neck. You want to reach out, to touch or hold him, but you can't. You won't. He never said you could.

"Jade…"

His gaze snaps to you, intense and predatory, and you realize your mistake much too late. A smirk slithers onto his features, twisting his expression into something more perverse. His free hand reaches up to drag a finger down your lips and tug the bottom one lower for a fleeting moment. The urge to bite or suck it is strong, but you know better.

There's feigned disappointment in his voice when he sighs, "You know I never permitted you to speak, pearl." His finger pushes past your lips to press down on your tongue. The predatory nature of his stare remains, and you know he's likely beyond thrilled that you've given him a reason to punish you. You make it all too easy, he's said once before. Perhaps it's a subconscious choice, perhaps it's luck of the draw. Who's to say?

The real question is this: will he draw it out in a deliberately agonizing affair, or will it come all at once?

…Or will he surprise you once again?

————————————

I'll eventually post something more long form, I prommy

Taglist:

@kimdourden

[tricksh0t]

★ cassie

☾ cassian andor x top m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ written for andor but not much star wars connection, so you can read it for diego luna (movie in the pic is dirty dancing havana nights)

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 1.61k

cw: dom reader, sub cassian, overstim, spit as lube, feminization, from behind, mentions of spanking (none), groping, lots of swearing, arguments, improper resolution of arguments

"Why are you so concerned with being pictured as "the girl"?" Cassian crossed his arms. He looked amused more than anything, right in front of your face.

"I'm not concerned with being the girl." You say pointedly, making him actually pay attention. "I'm concerned that this community thinks this way at all."

"Nurchi and Timm are not the community." Cassian waves it off, literally and figuratively, except the grand swipe of his hand only manages to annoy you in this situation. "Besides, they were only joking!"

"You can only excuse Nurchi so many times for only joking. How many times has he threatened you over your debts?" You've never liked the guy. He has zero sympathy in a community where everybody knows each other and their circumstances. "And before you get started on how it's technically valid, that guy is an asshole."

"Rightfully so–"

"Being a hater is one thing. Being bigoted is another."

"Fine, I'll be the girl." Cassian says, and he's already jerking around wildly, fixing his hair crudely with some spit, wearing his jacket hung just past his shoulders and pushing his pants down into low-rise. His collar and shoulder bones are exposed skinny and rightfully bony, and when your eyes trail down, his hips are exposed too, alongside a bit of the skin right above his dick, just enough to make it look like he isn't sporting a good length, as if he had nothing going down there except an enticing cunt. You'll be dammed if the subtle shift of everything doesn't make him look feminine and hot.

"What?"

"I'll be the girl." He repeats, shooting you a wide smile. It quickly turns into a fake innocent look, complete with doe eyes and a slightly parted mouth.

Despite the situation, your anger burns. He's making light of a serious situation. "What do you think you're doing, Cassian?"

"Cassie, now." He says, batting his eyelashes. "It's a lot more fitting, isn't it?"

"Fine, you want to be the girl?" At that, Cassian's mouth lifts into a shit-eating grin. It persists as you grab him by the hips and walk him backwards into the wall. "You'll be the fucking girl."

His grin just turns more and more satisfied the more you lean into him. You let him think he's won the argument just to see confidence inflate his ego. Sure hands grab at your hair as you press your nose against his. His eyes are already half-lidded.

"Then again, it doesn't matter what you are behind closed doors. No one will see it anyway." You grasp his wrists in one hand and he gasps. His eyes widen, but he do nothing but watch as you push them against the wall, then up and up until his body stretches just far enough out of comfort. "Is this what you expected?"

Cassian chokes out a pathetic, "N-No."

His doe eyes are real now, except striken with visible shock and... arousal. Ha.

"You have two options." When you press your lips against his ear, he moans purely at the feeling. You've mercy enough not to mention it. "Either you back down and we can go back to arguing without poking fun at each other, or you can be the fucking girl and I fuck you right against this wall."

"Yes." Cassian agrees, but like the infuriating man that he can be sometimes, he doesn't make it clear.

You grab hold of his chin, making him yelp. You ignore that too. "What's your name?"

"Ca-Cassie!" He cries, wrists struggling in your hold, but when you let them go, they fall lax at his sides without strength.

"Good. Turn around. Hands on the wall."

He obeys your words in a flash, no tripping or getting them wrong, only his back greets you when it's all said and done.

You press yourself against him, hand groping his ass in his pants. Cassian pushes himself into your hand, arching his back to do so. Whether instinct or not, it's dirty either way, seeking either way, and yearning for your touch.

"You're a dirty girl, aren't you, Cassie?" Your playing around with his ass makes him whimper. He avoids answering, to which you squeeze his asscheek. "I asked you something."

"Yes." He spares a look back, bites his lip. Oh, that was totally on purpose.

You press yourself fully against him when you take your hand away, and he certainly enjoys it, moaning at the feeling of your bulge against him; and he's got zero shame about it, eyes locked onto yours.

"Cassie, Cassie." You repeat with the disappointed click of your tongue. You take his bottom lip between your thumb and forefinger. Cassian's tongue darts out to lick at your thumb. "Whatever will I do with you, girl?"

It's more of a rhetorical question if anything, as you twist his tongue between your fingers the next moment. As you undo his pants and begin pushing them down, Cassian licks around your thumb and other fingers like a lollipop, leaving you only to wonder what that might look like around your cock. You've had it in real life of course, but not from Cassie.

With his pants down, you fight the urge to press yourself between the flesh of his cheeks and instead to press your thoroughly wet fingers into his hole. In goes one, then two, then another; taken not with protest, but with content sighs or bold, enticing moans. Cassian's pressed his forehead against the wall now, and you take the moment to appreciate his nape, so fragile and vulnerable.

It's almost romantic, the kisses and nips you press to the back of his neck, the slow press and scissor and circle of your fingers inside of him. It's entirely not as you'd meant it to be, but this is girl, and for preparation, you have to treat her nicely.

Whatever comes after that, though—it's a free game.

At the loss of your fingers and the clink of your buckle, Cassian looks back. You click your tongue, "Ah, ah, eyes forward. You'll take it like a good girl, no complaints, you understand?"

His mouth opens for an easy answer, but the feel of the tip of your cock catching against his rim, he gasps, "Fuck yeah."

You press your cock in one swift go, it's easy. He's all loose for you with dirty spit but also he really wants it.

There's no wait, no build up. You won't grant him the gentleness of that. He pissed you off and you're about to show it. Each thrust into him slaps your skin against his, loud, but you won't care, and you won't give him any rest either. It's hard and fast, mind numbing.

Trapped against the wall, one hand beside his head and another holding his hip in a bruising grip, he's completely at your mercy with nowhere to go. No forward or side to side, just backwards, pressing right up against your body and taking your cock, and that's exactly what he does.

He pushes back against you with each thrust, meeting you half-way. He's needy, can't even wait to get it, can't even sit still and be a pillow princess. Even as your hips pounding into him slaps his ass, that pain is nothing compared to the pleasure of your cock.

But it is, still, a lot more than he bargained for.

"Shit! Slower–wait, don't! Don't." His mind's a mess. He doesn't even know what he wants, and like the greedy girl he is, he still wants for something.

"Which one is it?" You huff into his ear, "Slow down, speed up? Don't stop?"

Instead of an answer, you punch out a moan out of it instead. It's girlish and has shame burning in his cheeks, but he won't do anything about it at all because this is what he gets.

He feels crowded against the wall, trapped; sweaty and warm and actually, all too hot against your body, and his hand grips at the wall and slips because of the paint, because if he touches you he's sure he'll get a spanking. It's so feverishly good but also so damn overstimulating. Pleasure, heat, pain, overextersion, goosebumps, stings, and pleasure light up his veins.

He needs to finish right now or else you'll keep abusing his hole, fucking it open and open 'till he's kept gaping around nothing; then he'll surely miss the feeling. It's the only thought in his head.

"Please." Cassian moans, sure of what he wants now, "Please, I wanna cum."

Cassie doesn't know he doesn't have to beg for it, because you'd have gone ahead either way. Pleasure will keep coming and coming and coming without a break no matter what he does, drilling him into the wall. His body, weakened by your endless pleasure, gives way to your will and your harsh thrusts.

His cock presses into the wall, as with the rest of his body, and crudely, the constant movement and rocking of his body caused by your cock makes his dick slide along the wall. It's enough pathetic friction to have him gushing.

"Oh," Cassian moans as he finishes in white, streaky persistent ropes, "oh! Oh fuck."

For a moment, a content, toothy smile adorns his face. He's high off his peak, momentarily gone into the clouds and so lost from reality.

Except, then, as the high slips from his reach, you don't stop, and he was a fool to think you would. You haven't finished yet, and you'll chase your high and use his body for it.

The only way Cassian can respond is with a wagging tongue and another high-pitched moan. He dug himself this grave.

[angelbby555]

ᡣ𐭩 •｡ꪆৎ ˚⋅ Jake's girl

Summary: Bradley "accidentally" slept with Jake's girlfriend and feels zero sympathy for it.

Word count: 2k

⋆. ୨୧˚⋆

Bradley was not a cheater. He was a faithful man, and always been loyal to his partners. Cheaters truly made himself sick to his stomach. Never was he able to comprehend why somebody would lead their partner on when they wanted to explore other options.

Except when it came to Jake's girlfriend, that was a whole other ball park. It's not like he was throwing himself at you the moment he laid eyes on you. There were no intentions on his end for you to cheat on Jake or was deliberately trying to demolish your relationship with him either. But Bradley was attracted to you the instant he noticed you under Jake's arm.

Fuck you were gorgeous. You were one of those types of girls that had Bradley wondering if you were even real. A face that could not be forgotten and easily found in a crowd. An angelic beauty that had him nervous to be around.

You got along with everybody. Laid back, spoke nicely to everybody, never raised your voice and looked too cool for your own good. He wondered what a guy like Jake Seresin did to deserve a girl like you.

Jake introduced you to the group everyone offering polite smiles, and a few compliments. Due to Jake rivalry with Bradley he was the last to be introduced. Your eyes swept over the daggers before it feel onto him. Bradley noticed your eyebrows quirk up a bit, like you were surprised to him.

"I hope, I don't look as awful Hangman had described me to be." Bradley chuckled extending his hand forward for you to shake. Bradley had expertly read your expression, making you smile as your hand touched his.

"No nothing but flowers and butterflies about you." Your tone dripped in sarcasm making Bradley grin like an idiot.

You weren't slick. Bradley had caught you staring at him multiple times that night at the bar. Each time you looked away putting your attention on something else. Bradley was not delusional he could see it all over your face you wanted him, like he wanted you.

You were hungry for him, and he was thirsty for you.

A week goes by after Bradley had his first encounter with you. You were still stuck in his mind like honey. No matter what he couldn't shake the way you had gazed at him when you thought he wasn't looking.

Jake had called him once he had got out of work on a Friday afternoon.

"Listen, I got to ask for a huge favor from you." Jake said with a sigh like he didn't want to have to utter these words out loud. "My girlfriend got a flat tire and is pulled up on the side of the road 5 minutes away from base."

Bradley tried not to scoff. Out of everybody Jake knew, why would he trust Bradley to do something like this for him? Did he seriously not think of the possibility that Bradley could snatching his girl up if he wasn't looking. Which he certainly wasn't watching, since he was deployed in Wisconsin for the new mission.

"Can't you get somebody else to help her?" Bradley held phone to his ear as he walked towards his bronco. He was looking out for Jake, because you were staring at Bradley like he a a forbidden fruit at the Hard Deck.

"Please you're the last person I thought of. Everybody else can't and Nat won't pick up her phone." Brad wondered if he was the last option due to Jake's dislike towards him, or because he knew that his girlfriend had wandering eyes. "You know I never ask you for anything. I'll owe you if you do this one thing for me."

Bradley raised his brows while pining his phone against his ear and shoulder while he dug his keys out of his pocket. Jake must really have it bad for you, to be in another state trying to rescue his girlfriend from car trouble.

"Alright." Bradley agreed unlocking his car.

⊹☆~⟡⋆

The passenger side door was wide open, as you casually sat on the seat swinging your legs. It seemed and though Jake was more worried about you then you were of yourself. You didn't seem stress as music played out of your white convertible Volkswagen.

"Do you wanna learn how to do this? Just in case it happens to you again?" Bradley asked once he had gotten the jack placed under the car. You looked at him like he had asked such an obscure question. He was sure you hadn't thrown out your own trash once in your life.

"Why would I need to learn when a kind guy like yourself, can do it for me?" Your smart ass reply made you smile. Either Jake kept you a well kept princess or you were just born spoil from the get go.

"Because one day a kind guy like myself won't be there, and you'll be alone in the real world." Bradley spoke slow so you could understand. Every word coming out in a condescending manner.

You got up from the car seat and popped your hip out and placed a hand on your waist. Bradley felt this pang of longing from your sassy stance. He bet you wanted to have the last word of each conversation. Bradley bet Jake let you have the last laugh each time.

"I guess your right Bradley. Teach me then." A tight lips smile pulled at your lips. You had Jake wrapped around your fingers, and could have him do anything for you. Meanwhile Bradley was sure he could boss you around and you would politely agree since you didn't know him too well.

Bradley was walking you through this whole how to process. Giving you in depth instructions on how replace a flat tire. You were nodding along to what he was saying while he did all the work. Bradley was starting to sweat and mid tire change had tied his flight suit sleeves around his waist. The sun was hitting his back and he felt like he was getting cooked alive.

"And then with the lug wrench you're gonna wanna tighten the lug nuts in a star formation and make sure the tire-" Bradley caught you staring at his bicep instead of the tire tutorial at hand. "What are you looking at?" Bradley boldly asked snapping you back to the present.

Both of you knew damn well you were staring at his muscle while he worked on your car. A sheepish smile took over your beautiful face, making Bradley smile a little himself.

"Uh just the way you tighten those... uh bolts in a star pattern." You nodded stupidly not remembering a word he had spoken. His mouth was moving but you didn't understand anything except for how perfectly sculpted his hands were for this. Bradley was trying hard not to smile. Jake girlfriend, Jake's girlfriend, Jake's girlfriend.

"Uh huh." He mocked. Bradley passed you the lug wrench. "Now you try." It looked like the tool was heavy for you, watching your hand drop down a bit when he thrusted it into your hand.

You furrowed your brows looking at the tool like you were waiting for it to start doing the work for you. Both your hands examined the cross wrench before you placed the socket end to tighten the other lug nut. You bite your bottom lip, struggling to tighten the lug nut. He let you struggle for a bit till he gave you some advice.

"It's clockwise." You still didn't listen still attempting to twist the cross wrench in the wrong direction. Your manicured hands definitely were just for display, instead of working. Bradley grabbed your wrist, your skin soft and delicate under his hand, stopping you from your fight with the lug wrench. "Honey it's the other way. Your twisting left, your supposed to be twisting right."

"Ohhhh!" The lovely sound of realization was like music to Bradley ears.

"Ohhhh." Bradley mocked with a grin.

You started tightening the lug nuts clockwise and were able to do it just fine. "Why didn't you tell me I was doing it wrong before!?" You shrieked excitedly.

"Wanted to see a princess struggle a bit." Bradley shrugged. He didn't mind the heat to much now, since he was kneeling on the pavements inches away from you. If he really wanted to he could give you a fat good job kiss. But of course he wouldn't.

"Maybe you should give me your number just in case this happens to me again." You nonchalantly stated while going to tighten another lug nut. Were you flirting with him? No way we're you trying to make a move on him when you were dating his colleague.

"I don't think you need it now since you learned how to change a tire."

"I suppose your right, but maybe I start twisting the lug nut counterclockwise instead of clockwise. I need somebody to tell me the difference." Your eyes meet his. There it was. That same playful innocent look that had Bradley thinking he should take you home.

"Alright." Bradley stupidly agreed taking his phone out his pocket.

⊹☆~⟡⋆

It was Bradley's biggest fear. To be deployed and have his girlfriend cheat on him, or find a different guy while he wad gone. Now here was leaving your house being the guy he feared.

He kept telling himself it wasn't his fault. It was his daily mantra ever since he started visiting you when you called him late at night. It wasn't his fault that Jake girl had a thing for him. It wasn't his fault that you called him each night wanting somebody in your bed. Matter of fact Jake should be thanking him for keeping his side of the bed warm. He would shake that thought out his head each time it popped up, but it always left him feeling amused.

It's not like Bradley was planning on taking his girl, she stumbled right to him. Plus Jake wasn't here he didn't have to know about this little affair. Bradley was sure if he was Jake and some other guy was hanging around his girlfriend he would have killed him. But good thing Jake wasn't gonna find out.

"You can't be calling me after this." Bradley grunted as he put his jeans back on. You sat up your elbows, you hair a wonderful mess after all the pulling he did with it.

"Don't worry I wasn't playing on it." You muttered, watching him with that lustful gaze that made him want to go another round with you. Your words did kinda rub salt in his wounds. The moment Jake was back you would completely forget about him, and carry on with your life. It hurt but, Bradley was just gonna have to move on too since he would have to face Jake every day on base.

"Not even if you get another flat tire?" Bradley asked his voice sounding a bit to hopefully for his liking. He grabbed your red panties off the floor and flung them in your direction landing right on your cover chest. You let out an adorable giggle, that was probably his new favorite sound.

"I'll see if we can accommodate anything for you Mr mechanic." You gave him a sly wink while he put his white shirt back on. Bradley would probably still see you around but this certainly did feel like a break up. He went around the bed, placing his palms on the mattress leaning down and kissing you one last time.

"Bye baby." He said over your lips.

"Bye bye." You repeated throwing your arms over his neck.

⊹☆~⟡⋆

The next Friday. He saw you at the Hard deck while everybody was celebrating Jake was back home. To Bradley it seemed like a funeral since the best sex of his life was gone. He was pretty sure the celebration was in your bedroom when Jake wasn't here.

"Hey, it's nice seeing back." Bradley pulled Jake in a bro hug knowing that he didn't mean a word of that, and slept with his girlfriend.

"Hey I appreciate you helping my girlfriend with the flat tire." Jake said into Bradley ear making sure nobody heard him since he wasn't Bradley biggest fan.

"My pleasure." And trust me Jake it certainly was.

Bradley was avoiding you at all costs. The only time he had spoken to you was when he was forced to greet you in front of Jake and Bradley had almost slipped out a baby with your boyfriend standing right next to you.

You were really good at this. Because you didn't spare Bradley a glance cling on to Jake's arm as If you weren't crying out daddy to him a few nights ago. It's like Jake was the only guy to exist to you. Your wandering eyes had been trained and now Bradley was a complete ghost.

He was the one looking now. The one staring at you like he wanted to rip your clothes off. Calculating in his head the possibilities of slashing your tires so you had an excuse to call him up. Bradley didn't think he was that obvious with his glances but of course Natasha noticed.

"Why are you looking at her like that?" His best friend's voice was knowing. Like right on his forehead he had I slept with Jake's girlfriend written there.

"What? No, nothing." Bradley put his hands out in defense. Natasha crossed her arms and raised her brows. A knowing smile spread on her face. He could never lie to his best friend when she looked at him so expectedly.

"Okay I slept with her." Bradley quickly admitted making Phoenix dramatically gasped for air. "Shut up!" He grunted through his teeth not needing anybody else to know.

The truth wasn't eating him alive, he could care less that he slept with Jake's girlfriend. It was the want that was killing him mixed with the fact she didn't even spare him a second glance.

You were a splendid actor, because the next day you were over at Bradley apartment. Turns out he did exist since you drove all the way to Coronado at night. Bradley wonders if Jake was asleep right now in your shared bed. That maybe you lied telling him, that you were at a friend's house when you came over to his house instead.

"Hey." You nervously swallowed. It hadn't even been a week, and now you were already desperate for him again. "Need a mechanic." You awkwardly said looking like a kid who reached into the cookie jar.

"Right at your service." Bradley didn't spare Jake a second thought pulling you closer to him.

Testing toxic Bradley out, and I love it. Check out She's a little runaway if you want more a silly Jake and Bradley story.