#i’ll never recover from this scene

[lambmotifz]

something something violence can feel like love…something something if you need to be mean, be mean to me. i can take it and put it inside of me

[balfeys]

#my shaylas🥺

[tulikettuun]

A loose collection of frames (WIPs) from an animatic I’m working on :P

[luthiest]

i was showing off my new pen (kaweko sport brass, for those curious) and talking about my favorite mechanical pencils to a classmate and he was like, “you talk about pencils like a gun enthusiast talks about guns”

[icedteainthatbag]

the x-files “ice” season one episode eight

[lpn3rd]

You know where you'd be if I didn't negotiate for you to be in my custody....? I love you.

[reidmotif]

Hands-On Learning

Summary: Reader is deep in preparation for her finals, much to Spencer’s frustration. When she creatively incorporates him into her anatomy review, it turns into a pleasurable experience for them both.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Smut

Content Warning: f!receiving oral, face sitting, face riding, f!masturbation, softdom!spencer, but he's needy and desperate, anatomy terms that may have been used incorrectly (sorry), slight dry humping, overstimulation, yearning.

Word Count: 3.3k

Masterlist

Finals season. 

The ever-dreaded, ever-disliked period between the end of April to June where every student you know is scrambling to absorb roughly four months of material in a matter of weeks.

All bets are off in this lawless space of time. Coffee at 2 AM? Completely advised, go right ahead. Hundreds of dollars spent in food delivery? Sure. Anything to keep the grind going, right? Major papers that should’ve taken weeks to write being done in a frantic three hours? It’s a rite of passage, really. And luckily, you get to spend a much-needed summer break afterwards, recovering from all these horrific decisions you’ve put yourself through. 

Needless to say, your current setup involved many textbooks, flashcards scattered about, and highlighters in the most random of places, all in the name of preparation for this beast of a week. 

And of course, it was all set to the sounds of a very needy Spencer Reid, who’d been begging for your attention since he’d gotten here.

“You’ve studied so much already, I swear. Can’t you take a break?”Spencer questions petulantly, sitting on the bed adjacent to your desk, where you were currently hard at work memorizing the thirty-one pairs of nerves that made up the spine. 

You’d been studying intensely for this semester's finals. By making a couple of well-informed choices beforehand, you were actually quite on track when it came to your learning and retention of material.

For the most part, it seemed like you were on track to sail through all your classes without a hitch. That held true, until you brought up Introduction to Anatomy. 

Anatomy was fun, by all means. Interesting labs, interesting people, interesting content. However, what daunted you more than anything in pertinence to the material was the enormity of the terms and vocabulary you were expected to know in time for the exam.

“I haven’t studied enough.” Is your quick response, a small smirk finding its way to your lips. Despite loving your boyfriend, there was a certain pleasure in seeing him so desperate for you, a power-rush that felt unbelievably good.

And to your credit, you really were hard at work memorizing these terms. As much as you enjoyed his company (and the sex he wanted to engage in), it simply could not take precedence over the task at hand. 

“You know, multiple studies recommend at least twenty minutes of a break for every hour you study, for peak brain efficiency, and you-” He checks his watch, mentally calculating how long you’d been at that desk. “You’re due for at least an hour’s worth of break at this point.” 

You finally look up, your finger halting on the paper it’d been tracing over. “Spencer, you know I’d love to take a break but-” 

He sighs heavily. “I’m aware. This is important. I get it.” He grumbles, flopping onto the bed in a slightly dramatic fashion. 

You giggle at the scene. For all his propriety, there was never a more amusing sight than your boyfriend reduced to base desire and instinct. You take pity on him though, and smile gently at him. 

“Look, why don’t you get out? Go have lunch, do whatever, and come back. Hopefully I’ll be closer to finishing then, and we can hang out then?” You offer, hope in your voice. 

He sighs and nods, lifting himself off your bed. “Yeah, sounds good.” He murmurs, coming over to the desk to place an affectionate, chaste kiss upon the top of your head. “Good luck.” He says, cracking a half smile as he leaves, which you return with a smile of your own. 

The door closes, and you’re left with nothing but silence, and the lateral cutaneous branches looking up at you from their place on the page. Time to work at it, you suppose. 

It’s about two hours later, when you hear the tell-tale knock of your boyfriend at your door, presumably back from his excursion away from you. Your place at your desk is momentarily abandoned in favor of letting him in, and there’s instant delight in your eyes, considering the two cups of coffee he presents to you. One is iced, one is not. Without any words exchanged between either party, the iced coffee is grabbed and you grin. 

“Thank you.” You say, taking a sip. Of course he’d remember your order perfectly. 

“You know, that could’ve been my coffee, for all you know.” He teases, striding into the room. 

You roll your eyes fondly whilst you close the door. “Spencer Reid drinking iced coffee? I’ll believe it when I see it.” 

“Coffee is supposed to be hot!” He protests, immediately, this being an obvious subject of passion for him. “Hot brewed coffee contains far more antioxidants, and doesn’t risk being watered down by ice- oh, and another thing-” 

You stifle a chuckle whilst watching him. This had been an ongoing debate for you two, essentially since the day you met. Your first date had been at a coffee shop. When he'd asked for your order, he looked almost appalled at the prefix of “iced” you’d tacked onto your statement.

Nevertheless, he still ordered it, and did his best to educate you on why hot coffee was “clearly” superior.

Somewhere between lecturing you on caffeine effectivity and nutritional information, you were head over heels. 

“Anyway.” He says, breaking your thoughts, and seemingly done with his argument. “How far are you into studying?” 

You make your way back to your desk, biting your lip as you stand over the material.  “Pretty far.” You murmur, reluctantly. “I dunno. I know I know this material, but I feel like it hasn’t solidified in my brain, you know? Like I need to keep hammering it in until it’s basically muscle memory for me.” 

He moves slowly to be behind you, his hands coming to rub your shoulders gently, soothing the worn out muscles on your back. His touch is warm and reassuring, a quiet way of saying, “You can rest.”

“You know.” He murmurs, softly. “You’d probably do better with a break. Take a breather, let your brain relax for a second.” 

There’s a pause, before he adds in a quiet voice, “Maybe spend some time with me?” His hand comes to move some hair away from your neck, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to the side of it. 

You melt into the movement. He always knew exactly where your weak spots were, where you’d falter and give right into his ministries.

But you know you can’t. You force yourself to breathe and look away, as though that simple act might help you forget how his hands had lingered on you just a moment ago.

“I want to, I swear. But I won’t feel good about taking downtime until I’m absolutely sure I’ve got this.” You say, firmly extricating yourself from his grasp.

He gives another one of his heavy sighs, accepting his fate quietly, knowing he won’t be able to convince you outside of your own accord. 

“Alright then. I’ll just hang out here then.. For however long that might take.” 

You give a small, pained smile. “Thank you. I know I’m being difficult.” 

“You’re not. You could never be difficult.” He responds, immediately, returning your smile with one of his own. “It’s just finals season. I know your  performance will be wonderful, and we’ll have all the time in the world afterwards to spend time together.” 

Your heart melts. You were beyond lucky to have him, and that adoration and knowledge is displayed plainly through your expression. “Thank you.” You repeat, unable to verbalize just how much his support meant to you. “I hate finals.” 

“You and I both.” He shoots back, cracking a grin. “You’re going to do great.” 

There’s no trace of doubt in his tone at all. 

For the next hour or so, you both quietly coexist in the same space, the names of musculature and types of fibers muttered under your breath. After a while, the terms click into place, and with a quiet breath, you let the tension go. The final step in your preparation involved practicing the newly learned terms on a human model. Ideally, it would be one of the fake skeletons in the anatomy lab. Your gaze, however, drifted to your boyfriend on your bed, sprawled out, reading your physics textbook for fun. 

Nerd. 

An almost evil plan enters your brain, and your voice goes sickly sweet as you call out his name. 

“Spence?” “Mm?” He murmurs, looking over the book. 

“Can you strip down to your underwear, please?” A harmless smile plays on your lips as you ask.

Spencer’s all ears as he hears that, and in record time his clothes are shed. “Are you-” “Lie back on the bed.” You order. 

He’s so obedient and eager, immediately complying with what you’ve asked of him without question. You smile, and discreetly grab a washable marker before making your way to where he was laid out. 

“God. I’ve been so insanely needy for you all day. I’m so glad you’re done.” He says, his expression reeking of starvation as you straddle him. You can feel him harden under your touch, and choose to ignore that. 

You lean down, your head at about his chest. His breathing quickens in anticipation, already so turned on from the minimal contact between you two.

Before he can make a move of his own, you pull out your marker and mark the space between his clavicle and shoulder.

“Brachial plexus.” You murmur, much to his utter confusion and dismay. 

“You have to be kidding me.” He says, his look of confusion quickly morphing into one of realization. “I thought you were done-” 

“I’m not.” You say, with a small smirk on your lips. “But I will be, if you’re quiet and let me work on you.” 

He groans. “You’re evil, this is evil. I won’t-” 

“The faster we get through this, the faster I’m all yours.” You interrupt, mostly ignoring him, because you know he’ll do anything if it means touching you by the end of it. 

He takes a pained breath and tries to relax while you work on top of him,  his obvious erection straining against the fabric of his briefs.

The pen drags down his chest, as you move down on him to better position yourself in accordance to the medial pectoral nerve you were marking.

“Baby, please.” He groans out, his hands fisting in the sheets below him in an attempt to not grab you and take you right then and there.

The slightest bit of friction seems to set him off, and you can tell he isn’t playing it up in the slightest. He truly was, well and gone for you within this moment.

“Sorry.” You murmur. “Just marking your.. anterior cutaneous branches.. of the thoracic nerves.” The pen drags against a spot on his chest, and he shudders. 

“Won’t this stain my skin?” He says, a slight whine in his tone, doing absolutely anything to free himself from the absolute torture of this predicament he’d found himself in. 

“Nah. It’s one of those pens they use for surgery.” You respond, dragging it along his sternum to mark a few more necessary terms. “It’ll come right off in the shower.” 

You know exactly how to push his buttons. You lean in closer and whisper against his ear enticingly, “We can get clean together.” 

He squeezes his eyes at that, the feeling of your lips brushing against his earlobe triggering an involuntary response, a low moan escaping him. “This is.. so unfair. I just want to touch you. Please.” 

“Not until I’m done.” You fire back. “C'mon. You can be good and wait, right?” 

“Easy for you to say.” He grits out. “You’re not the one, half naked and hard and having to watch you be..” He trails off.

“Be what?” You ask, a bit distracted as you mark another nerve of importance.

“Be.. sexy.” He mumbles out, clearly embarrassed by his own musings. 

A small, wry smile comes upon your mouth. You lean back, a breath of laughter slipping free. “You think I look sexy?” You say, a teasing lilt in your tone.

He rubs a hand over his face, clearly mortified. “Yes. Yes, okay!” He grumbles out, clearly self-conscious by just how much he’s managed to be affected by you. “You’re on top of me, drawing on me, and I’m aware they’re just anatomical terms, but God the way you say them.” 

His voice devolves into a near whimper, pitiful and aching. “It’s killing me.” 

You hum, pleased with yourself. “Killing you, huh?”

“Yes.” He mewls. “Killing me. I want you so much, please. You’re so smart. Please. I know you’re going to do so good on this final. Just please, please, let me touch you.”

He collapses into his words, into you. No pride left, just need.

“Yeah? You think I’m smart?” You murmur teasingly, tracing the plastic of your marker along the side of his neck. 

“Yes.” He moans, lowly. “So smart. You’re so hot when you’re working so hard. Makes me want you so bad.” 

Your head turns back, and you can see the wetness of precum leaking from his cock on his briefs. He wasn’t faking it to get your attention. He yearned for you, plain and simple.

Your eyes find his, and they’re full of need, his expression absolutely shameless and desperate. “Please.” He repeats. “Please let me touch you. I don’t care how. Just- god. I can't do this. Please.” 

It’s enough to make you yield. You slide off of him, and he lets out a soft, needy sound, already missing the press of you, until his breath catches at the sight of you stripping, your clothes landing somewhere off the edge of the bed without a second thought.

“You wanna touch me?” You murmur, crawling up the bed a little. 

“Yes.” He whispers, nodding.

The way he looks at your naked body, eyes fixed, hungry, reverent.. it’s almost too much. You feel dizzy from the weight of it.

You straddle his face, a thigh on either side of him whilst you hover over his face, and then you look down. “Touch me then.” You murmur.

He practically growls as his hands wrap around your thighs. “With pleasure.” 

He pulls you down entirely, effectively forcing your core against his mouth, his tongue lapping against every inch of your wet folds.

You moan, your hands coming to grasp the headboard in front of you. There’s absolutely nothing he could be thinking about, besides the taste and smell of you flooding and overwhelming his senses. 

He devours you with a single-minded focus, his tongue expertly alternating between flattening  and lapping you in slow, deliberate strokes, and quick flicks against your clit. It’s all done in service to you, Spencer thinking of the fastest way to unravel you, desperate to taste your release against his tongue– to hear you moan his name and shake above him. 

He gets his wish when another stroke of his tongue finally causes you to come, your sweet release flooding his face, and him eagerly drinking it in. He moans as he attempts to pull you even closer to his mouth (if that was even possible). 

You let out a breathy laugh as he seems to slow down, indicating the end of your session. “Spence.. Oh god. That was so good.” You try to get off him, but his grip on your thighs is iron-clad. 

“Again.” He moans. 

“What?” You ask, not sure if you heard him right. 

“Again, please.” He begs, voice broken. “I need you.” 

The absolute depravity and torment in his voice lulls you into complacency, as you assume your previous position above him. 

“Okay. Okay, baby. We can go again.” You murmur, soothingly.

He wastes no time going right back in, his tongue albeit, a little slower now, keeping in mind that you’d just orgasmed, and that you were probably still sensitive. 

He’s right to do so, little high-pitched moans and drawn out of you as you get comfortable again, despite the overstimulation.

His tongue circles your clit slowly, never properly touching it, delaying your next release. After a while of this teasing, you finally moan out his name, your hips shamelessly rocking against him. 

“Spencer, god. Please. Need to come.” You beg, feeling yourself at the edge of a small death. 

Spencer responds in kind, rapidly flicking his tongue against your swollen bud, and in record time, you’re coming again, much to his delight.  He doesn't let up until he's absolutely sure he's lapped up every single drop, not letting any of it go to waste.

“Okay, baby. I gotta get off. Gotta breathe. So do you.” You pant out, as you get off from your seat on his face.

He shakes his head, tugging you closer. 

“Please, wanna keep touching you.” He pleads, eyes teary, your release practically dripping off his chin. His hand digs into your arm with a lustful urgency.  “Please. We can go again. I know we can.” 

You yield to his request, because honestly, who could deny him right now? His hair messy, lips shiny and his voice, fractured and full of ache, barely held together. 

You nod, lying down, on the bed, motioning for him to roll on top of you. 

He rolls over and kisses you, and it’s absolutely sinful. You can taste yourself on him, moaning as your lips easily part and make way for him, the wet warmth of his tongue sliding against yours. There’s nothing held back between the two of you as your lips connect and reconnect, as his hand slowly slides down the expanse of your skin, finding your clit and beginning to rub slow circles against it. 

“Oh god, Spencer.” You moan bonelessly, feeling the effects of your previous two orgasms and the one you were hurtling towards currently taking over you. 

“Yeah?” He mumbles. “That feel good?” 

“God, yes.” You moan. “You always know how to touch me, always know how to make me feel good- oh-” 

He groans in delight as he dives in for another kiss, his fingers sliding across the slick bud even faster now, determined to make you fall off the edge for him one last time. He humps your thigh, practically desperate for some relief for his aching cock as well.

“Say my name.” He murmurs against your lips. 

“Spencer.” You wail out, in response. 

“Louder.” 

“Oh god, Spencer, please!” You groan, your body beginning to tense up with the tell-tale signs of an orgasm, your body taut like a bowstring. 

“That’s right, come for me.” He whispers, placing a sweet kiss against your collarbone, his hips continuing their rut in an attempt to chase his release as well.

And with a shout, you come, your body seizing up and succumbing to his touch, your hands wrapping around his neck in an attempt to ground yourself as you experienced the intense pleasure that could only result from being with him.

He seems to follow shortly after to the sound of your moans, a wet patch appearing on the front of his briefs.

You whimper as you come down for your orgasm, Spencer stroking your skin soothingly, peppering little kisses wherever he could reach. 

“You doing okay?” He pants out.

“Better than okay.” You murmur, folding into his embrace, feeling as if you were floating on clouds, or some other poetic description of just how light you felt in this moment. 

“I pushed you pretty hard, huh?” He mumbles, his voice tinged with a slight bit of concern. 

“Don’t worry. I deserve it for teasing you so hard." You mumble.

"Thanks for helping me study, by the way." You tack on, already feeling yourself drift off into a quiet, peaceful slumber in his arms. 

He chuckles a bit, and places a kiss against your forehead. “Glad I could make the lesson... hands-on.”

woah!!! hello!! so unfortunately, much like reader, i have also been swamped by finals :( but, this idea came to me and i decided to write it and try to make my way back to writing even a little bit more regularly. as usual, please like, reblog and comment if you enjoyed this fic. reblogs are basically the lifeline of tumblr, and if you'd like my work to reach more people, i would 10000% appreciate it so much. thank you so much for reading regardless, and i hope it was enjoyable. thank you thank thank you for all your support!!!! <333

[kyri45]

A final letter

Hello Everyone!

The queue is paused and everything is scheduled, which means we are ready for the finale!

I know that, in the end, this was just a silly side project for me, with everything else going on in my life. But for this occasion, I wanted to drop some words here and hope they make sense.

I started watching LMK only because a friend told me there was a "Sonadow-coded" ship. I ended up consuming the entire thing in one sitting on July 10th, 2024. At the time, I was still recovering from a bike accident that had left me with a broken right forearm—unable to draw for a little over a month. (I did try drawing with my left finger, but it wasn't exactly fun.)

Not only that, but it was summer, and I couldn’t enjoy the season or practice my main sport, windsurfing. To say I was feeling the blues is an understatement. I remember being in physical pain just from not being able to draw my sillies. But then, watching LMK did something to my brain chemistry that my little undiagnosed autistic self had never experienced before. It hit so hard that I’ve been physically unable to rewatch the show SINCE that very first day. (And y’all still call me the CEO of this fandom. Bro, I just work here.)

A lot of you have asked what inspired me to start this comic or to draw LMK fan art in the first place. While my usual answer is, "I saw Shadowpeach and thought MK could be their lovechild, given his appearance," the moment that actually started it all was THIS ONE—

(I HAD TO REWATCH THIS SCENE TO MAKE THE GIF AND IT HURT ME ON A MOLECOLAR LEVEL)

I have… a thing for characters who discover their entire identity was something else all along. It consumes my thoughts, my dreams, my every waking moment. I live for identity crises, for characters who thought they knew who they were, only to be forced to rediscover themselves, their existence, and their place in the world. If you give me a story where a character has to go through that, I will like it—regardless of how bad the rest of the story is.

Pair that with loads of trauma, daddy issues, the pressure of a legacy, and world-ending stakes, and congrats! Now I’m obsessed, and I will not stop thinking about it for the rest of my days!

At first, my brain just wanted to release some of that energy with a small, four-panel post about the monkeys discovering that MK was technically their kid.

That was supposed to be it.

But since I never seem to learn my lesson, it didn’t stay like that. Because once I started drawing, I just... continued.

And

I

never

stopped.

A lot of you have also asked how I found the motivation to draw so much, to never take a break. Well, I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it one last time: I am my number one fan. No matter how much you laughed, cried, screamed, or went feral over this story, I did all of that and more. Because I got to think about the chapters months before they released. I got to daydream about them. I got to watch them come to life—first through sketches, then line art, then dialogue. And finally, I got to witness your reactions and see the incredible creations you made, inspired by my story.

So yeah, in a way, it was almost an addiction. A good addiction. Because, for the first time in my life, I actually understood what loving art means.

I’ve been drawing for ten years, working professionally for five, but I never loved art before. I just liked it because I happened to be good at it. But creating this comic made me understand why artists say, "Oh, I’ve loved drawing since I was a child!" This was the first time I allowed myself to create purely for my own enjoyment. Something I hadn’t had the privilege to do for a long time.

Other than making me feel even more single than I already was, this story somehow also helped me a little with my own family relationships. So yeah. Crazy how the gay monkeys changed my life.

Of course, I never could have predicted how much traction my AU would gain. Man, y’all were really starving to latch onto something this silly. /j

But yeah—thank you. Thank you for sticking around until the end, for having the patience and trust to follow the story even when I made you rage with angst and cliffhangers. (The statement in my bio still stands: I am not responsible for any physical or emotional damage my art has caused.)

I’m absolutely shit at thanking people, or at writing, or at talking in general, honestly. I’m the furthest thing from being good with words, so I hope the final chapter will be enough to show you my gratitude.

Through this story, I met so many wonderful, talented people. I watched as fans across different platforms found each other through memes and fanart of the AU. I saw artists start their own AUs inspired by mine, growing their own communities. I witnessed an explosion of creativity and collaboration through our takeovers. And I laughed along with you all.

And yeah—at its core, this story has always been about love. Whether it’s platonic, sibling, parental, romantic, or whatever the hell Mac and Wukong had going on for millennia.

At its heart, it’s a story about family.

And maybe, in the end… the real family wasn’t just the one in the comic, but the one we’ve found together along the way. 💛

See you all at the finale.

Love you all, freaks /affectionate

Jade

[solxamber]

How Not to Court Your Crush: A Disaster in Six Acts - Malleus Draconia x reader

You're trying to court Malleus so why is he acting so weird? Malleus is trying to court you, so why are you acting so weird.

aka you try fae courtship and malleus tries human courtship, you both fail spectacularly.

Scene 1: The Offering of... Chaos?

You were determined. Absolutely, one hundred percent determined to win over Malleus Draconia’s heart the fae way. You’d done your research—well, half-researched. You might’ve skimmed some books. Okay, maybe you watched some video where a guy talked about it for 10 minutes. But still! You were ready to tackle fae courting, head-on.

Which is why you were standing in the middle of the campus courtyard holding a potted mandrake. Because, according to some source (you couldn’t quite remember which), gifting rare plants was a surefire way to court a fae prince.

Unfortunately, no one told you that the mandrake in question would scream like a banshee as soon as you yanked it out of the dirt.

"Behold!" You shouted, thrusting the potted terror toward Malleus, who had appeared in his usual fashion—stealthy and majestic, like a dragon perching on a mountain. "A rare gift for the noble Prince of Briar Valley!"

The mandrake, in all its wailing glory, let out a soul-piercing shriek. Nearby students flung themselves behind trees and bushes. Sebek fainted. Silver, as usual, napped through the chaos.

Malleus blinked at you. Once. Twice. His face was a mixture of confusion and slight amusement. "Are you... trying to summon something?"

You frowned. "Summon? No! This is for you!" You held the screaming mandrake higher, like an offering to some ancient god. "As a... token of my appreciation! You like plants, right?"

The mandrake let out a final, particularly blood-curdling scream before going silent, wilting slightly in the pot. Malleus blinked once. Twice. “I... do like plants, yes. But usually... not ones that wish to harm me.”

You grinned, proud of your extremely thoughtful choice. “Well, this one just has personality!”

Malleus cautiously took the pot from you, staring down at the now exhausted mandrake. “Thank you,” he said, sounding unsure if you were joking or being sincere. “I’ll... treasure it.”

Somewhere in the distance, Ace and Deuce exchanged pitying looks. “Man,” Ace muttered, “he doesn’t deserve this.”

Scene 2: The Worst Poem Ever Written

Malleus had been doing his own research—much more thorough than yours, of course. He’d read books. Lots of them. Mostly ancient tomes from his castle library that were centuries old. After all, human courting customs couldn’t have changed that much, right?

His plan was foolproof: Humans enjoyed poetry. Therefore, he would craft you the most beautiful, heart-stopping poem ever written, and your affection for him would blossom like the midnight roses of Briar Valley.

He found you sitting under a tree near the school, probably recovering from your last spectacular fae courting attempt (the less said about the mandrake incident, the better). Malleus approached with all the grace of a dark prince, his black cloak billowing in the wind, carrying a scroll in his hand.

"Dearest," he began, as you looked up from your phone. "I have composed a poem for you. An ode to your beauty and grace."

Your eyebrows shot up. "Really?"

"Yes. Please, allow me." He unfurled the scroll dramatically.

You sat back, intrigued. This was either going to be a disaster or absolute gold. Either way, you were ready.

Malleus cleared his throat, then began to read with all the gravitas of a Shakespearean actor:

"Your hair, like the moss that grows on the oldest tombstones,

Your eyes, like the deepest, darkest, creepiest of wells,

Your voice, as soothing as the distant scream of a lost soul..."

You snorted. "What?"

"Your beauty is like the moon, that I can never reach, because it is in the sky... far away... and also made of rock." He paused, glancing at you hopefully. “Do you like it so far?”

You bit your lip, desperately trying not to laugh. "Um... It's... something. Keep going."

Malleus beamed. "There’s more!"

"Your hands, soft like the belly of a small woodland creature..." He continued, and you finally lost it, howling with laughter. “Is it not... moving?”

You waved your hands, barely able to breathe through your giggles. "Malleus! Are you... Are you serious?!"

“I thought humans liked dark poetry,” he said, looking genuinely concerned.

“Well, some do, but—” You stopped yourself, trying not to laugh. “No, wait, keep going. I want to hear more.”

Malleus, relieved, continued. “Your beauty is like the full moon—cold, distant, and surrounded by darkness.”

Somewhere behind a nearby tree, Lilia was biting his lip to stop from laughing, while Ace and Deuce shared looks of absolute pity for their friend and Malleus.

Ace shook his head. “Poor guy. He’s trying so hard.”

Scene 3: The... Ambush?

Since the plant-gifting thing didn’t go quite as planned, you decided that maybe a more public display of affection would be the ticket. According to something you half-remembered (and maybe misunderstood), fae really appreciated grand gestures of intent. So, naturally, you chose the school cafeteria at lunchtime as your stage.

As you climbed on top of a table, all eyes turned toward you. Malleus sat at a corner table, watching you with his usual calm, collected demeanor, but you could see the confusion in his eyes.

"Prince Malleus!" you shouted dramatically, lifting your arms in the air. “I declare before all of these witnesses that I shall offer this to you!”

The cafeteria fell into dead silence. Well, except for Lilia, who was quietly choking on his laughter in the background.

Malleus blinked, his expression unreadable. “You... what?”

"Yes! I offer you—" you pulled out the cabbage you’d swiped from the kitchen earlier—"this symbol of my devotion!"

Malleus stared at the cabbage in your hands. "Is that... a vegetable?"

“Yes! It’s a sign of fertility or... something.” You weren’t entirely sure, but it sounded right. “I picked it myself!”

Malleus blinked again, clearly trying to process this information. “I... appreciate the gesture."

Lilia butts in. "Beastie, I’m afraid cabbages aren’t typically used in fae courting rituals.”

You pouted, hopping off the table. “What? But I read that—"

“Perhaps... next time, try flowers?”

Behind you, Ace facepalmed. “Oh, man. They're hopeless.”

Scene 4: The Gift of... Dirt?

Malleus was now absolutely convinced that something was seriously wrong with you. You seemed... more chaotic than usual, and while he enjoyed your enthusiasm, he had no idea why you were suddenly thrusting vegetables at him.

In his effort to reciprocate (and maybe figure out what was going on), he decided to give you a gift of his own. A very special one. From his homeland.

After all, humans liked sentimental gifts, right?

That’s why, one morning, he approached you with a small velvet pouch in his hand, his face filled with sincerity. “Child of Man, I have something for you.”

“Oh?” You tilted your head, curious. “What’s that?”

He handed you the pouch, and you opened it, only to find... dirt. Black, slightly glittery dirt.

You stared at it. Then at him. Then back at the dirt. “Is this... dirt?”

“Yes,” Malleus said proudly. “From Briar Valley. It’s a very special soil, infused with the magic of my homeland.”

You blinked. “You got me dirt.”

“Very magical dirt,” he corrected, as if that made it better.

You bit back a laugh, trying to keep a straight face. “Um... thanks?”

Ace, watching from a distance, nudged Deuce. “Man, They're gonna end up with a garden at this rate.”

Scene 5: The Unnecessary Duel

Clearly, you had been doing something wrong, because your attempts at fae courtship had been met with nothing but polite confusion. But you were nothing if not determined. The next step in your (completely misguided) strategy? Prove your strength in battle. Duh.

You marched up to Malleus one afternoon, sword in hand, and pointed it at his chest. "Malleus Draconia! I challenge you to a duel!"

Malleus blinked at you, clearly baffled. “A duel? With... me?”

“Yes!” you declared, brandishing the sword with a flourish. “I shall prove myself worthy of your admiration through combat!”

Malleus tilted his head. “You... wish to fight me?”

You nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! To the death! Or until someone taps out. Whatever works.”

Malleus looked utterly bewildered but amused. “I... see. But are you sure this is necessary?”

"Absolutely. I need to show you my strength." You tried to strike a dramatic pose, but the sword was way heavier than it looked.

Lilia, perched nearby, was barely containing his laughter. “Oh, this is too good.”

Malleus raised his hand. “Perhaps another time. I would not want to harm you.”

You frowned. “Harm me? Pfft. I’m tougher than I look, dragon boy.”

Scene 6: The Romantic Walk—Through a Thunderstorm

Malleus had one last idea. Humans, he’d read, liked romantic walks. That was simple, right? No vegetables. No poetry. Just a quiet stroll. What could possibly go wrong?

Unfortunately, he decided to take you for a walk through the forest on a day when the sky decided to unleash the full wrath of a thunderstorm. And because he was a fae, storms didn’t bother him.

You, on the other hand, were not a fan of being drenched to the bone.

The rain came down in sheets, lightning crackling overhead as you both trudged through the mud. You tried to keep your umbrella steady, but the wind whipped it inside out almost immediately.

“Malleus,” you called over the storm, shouting to be heard. “Why are we walking in this? Are you trying to drown me?”

Malleus, entirely unfazed by the downpour, turned to you, his face serious. “I thought a walk through nature would be a calming experience for you.”

You stared at him, your hair sticking to your face, clothes soaked through, and boots filled with mud. “Calming?! I’m about to be struck by lightning!”

He blinked, as if only now realizing the storm might be an issue for you. “Ah, I see. Humans are... more susceptible to storms. My apologies.”

“Ya think?” You huffed, clutching your now-ruined umbrella. “A ‘romantic stroll’ usually involves good weather.”

Malleus frowned, looking genuinely troubled. “I thought the power of the storm would inspire awe.”

“Yeah, it’s inspiring me to run back inside.” You sighed, shivering. “This is... sweet, I guess. But, uh, maybe next time we check the weather before planning any ‘romantic’ activities?”

As you struggled to wipe rain from your face, you caught a glimpse of Lilia again—he was standing under a tree, dry as could be, watching the scene unfold with glee. His mischievous grin practically radiated from the shadows.

“You’re having fun with this, aren’t you?” you shouted toward him, but Lilia just waved, clearly loving the chaos.

Malleus, still deep in thought about his failed attempt at human courtship, suddenly looked serious. “Perhaps a different form of human bonding is needed next time.”

Behind you, Ace and Deuce were trailing a safe distance away, both dripping wet but trying to keep from laughing too loudly.

“Man,” Ace muttered, shaking his head. “They're gonna give the poor guy a heart attack one day.”

Deuce nodded solemnly. “Or he’ll get us all killed.”

After days of mutual confusion and failed courtship rituals, you found yourself, once again, sitting with Malleus in one of the school’s many quiet courtyards.

“Y’know,” you began, squinting at him. “I feel like you’ve been acting weird lately.”

Malleus gave you a similar look. “I’ve been thinking the same about you.”

You blinked. “Wait, me? What do you mean?”

“Well,” Malleus said, his brow furrowed, “you’ve been offering me... odd gifts. Vegetables. Challenging me to duels. Declaring intentions in public spaces. It’s... unusual.”

You froze. “That’s... fae courtship. I’ve been trying to... y’know...”

Malleus’ eyes widened. “You’ve been attempting to court me?”

Your face flushed. “Well, yeah! I thought you were acting strange, so I figured you were waiting for someone to, I don’t know, woo you.”

Malleus’ confusion quickly shifted to amusement. “I’ve been trying to court you this whole time.”

Your jaw dropped. “You’re what?!”

“I believed you were in distress, so I attempted human courting rituals. Clearly, they didn’t go as planned.”

You both stared at each other for a long moment, the realization of mutual failure sinking in. Then, unexpectedly, you burst out laughing, and Malleus, after a moment, chuckled too.

“Well,” you managed between laughs, “we really suck at this.”

“Indeed,” Malleus agreed, his eyes warm with amusement. “Perhaps next time, we should... communicate better.”

“Yeah,” you said, wiping a tear from your eye. “That might help.”

From a safe distance, Lilia watched, his face beaming with pride. “Ah, young love,” he sighed dramatically. “How wonderfully chaotic.”

Ace shook his head, utterly done with the entire situation. “They’re hopeless.”

Deuce nodded in agreement. “At least it’s finally over... right?”

They're so stupid (affectionate)

Masterlist

[wistyxx]

HAD HIS MOUTH ALL OVER THAT BOY IM SCREEEAAAAMING

I was rewatching episode 11 and noticed something:

So in this scene we see that when Akutagawa bit Atsushi, Atsushi has blood rolling down his neck…

But then the next time we see Atsushi, there’s no longer blood on his neck, nor is there a stain on his shirt from where the blood was rolling down.

So does this mean that Akutagawa not only bit Atsushi’s neck but then licked the rest of the blood off???

[livixbobbiex]

Truster - English translation of one of the short stories in the Ace Attorney Fanbook

I uncovered THE most insane pieces of 'official content' I have ever seen, and I needed to translate the whole short story because more people need to know it exists. It is legitimately more charged than most fanfiction portrayals.

The scene is primarily the hospital sequence from Bridge to the Turnabout (3-5).

As it is quite long, I had to upload it directly to AO3, so you can read it here

No word of a lie, this OFFICIAL CONTENT includes, as a TLDR:

Miles Edgeworth thirst trap.

The fact that apparently 'unnecessary feelings' have upgraded to 'deep feelings'

The line "If you’re within my reach, I’ll do everything within the power of my body and soul to save you" - which is also thought about whilst naked.

Miles Edgeworth jumping a queue, slamming down his government ID card, and absolutely pulling rank on a receptionist by threatening to mobilise the entire police force unless she tells him where Phoenix is.

Miles Edgeworth being willing to use an elevator in order to see Phoenix quicker.

Miles Edgeworth running around a hospital like an absolute lunatic.

Miles Edgeworth intently watching Phoenix as he sleeps.

Both of them described as gazing into each other's eyes nearly every other sentence.

THIS SEQUENCE???

Wright smiled and extended his hand towards Miles, who he thought hadn’t changed at all since he was last in Japan.  “Welcome home… I’ve missed you.”  Miles clasped his hand and pulled Wright’s upper body upright. Both parties were now in a sitting position on the bed. Their gazes were at a level height.  “What an incredibly sappy thing to say…

An Aristotle quote describing them as soulmates.

Miles Edgeworth chewing Phoenix the hell out for his lack of self preservation.

Miles Edgeworth stroking Phoenix's back to comfort him during a coughing fit.

Phoenix Wright, through tears, clasping Miles Edgeworth's hands and begging him to take his badge because "you're all I have."

I will never recover from this.

[leftoverpages]

Loyalty’s embrace

Pairing 𓅪 Benjicot "Davos" Blackwood x betrothed!reader

Tags 𓅪 jealous and protective Benjicot, small fight scene (no gore), fluff at the end, romance, reader uses she/her but no physical description

Notes: i have been writing for a while without posting anything so this is making me nervous lmaooo

Wordcount 𓅪 1.3k

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

The grand ballroom of Blackwood Manor was awash with warm candlelight and the soft hum of conversation. The air was filled with the scent of roses and the clinking of crystal glasses. Lady Y/N stood at the edge of the room, a vision in her resplendent gown. Her dress, a masterpiece of crimson silk and midnight velvet, flowed around her like a river of fire and shadow. The bodice, embroidered with intricate patterns of gold thread, clung to her form, highlighting her grace and strength. Across her chest and shoulders, the Blackwood sigil was proudly displayed, a symbol of her new allegiance and her own fierce spirit.

The fabric shimmered in the candlelight, every movement sending ripples of light and shadow cascading over her. The skirt, full and layered, swirled around her feet like a tempest, the deep red contrasting beautifully with the inky black. A delicate gold chain rested at her throat, drawing attention to the elegant curve of her neck.

She stood there as her betrothed, Benjicot Blackwood, engaged in conversation with several lords and ladies. She found herself alone for the moment, sipping a glass of champagne and watching the festivities from afar.

Despite the grandeur, there was a nervous flutter in her stomach. Being betrothed to Benjicot, the fierce and enigmatic heir of House Blackwood, was both an honor and a daunting reality. Their engagement was more strategic than romantic, a union meant to strengthen alliances and secure power. Still, she had hoped to find some genuine connection with him, something to hold onto amidst the political machinations.

"Lady Y/N, you look ravishing tonight," a voice interrupted her thoughts. She turned to see Lord Cedric, a notorious flirt and known for his less-than-honorable intentions, standing far too close for comfort.

"Thank you, Lord Cedric," she replied, forcing a polite smile and taking a small step back.

He didn’t seem to notice—or care. "It's a shame you're tied down to Blackwood. A beauty like you deserves better," he said, his eyes raking all over her in a way that made her skin crawl.

"I am perfectly content with my betrothal, Lord Cedric," she replied firmly, trying to edge away. But Cedric persisted, moving closer, his hand reaching to touch her arm.

"Come now, Y/N, you can’t tell me you’ve never wondered what it would be like to be with someone else," he murmured, his breath hot against her ear.

Before she could respond, a strong hand gripped Cedric's wrist, pulling him away from her. "I believe the lady has made herself clear," Benjicot’s voice was low and dangerous, his dark eyes blazing with anger.

Cedric paled but tried to maintain his bravado. "I meant no harm, Blackwood. Just a bit of fun," he stammered, taking a step back.

Benjicot stepped between Cedric and Y/N, his posture tense and protective. "Your idea of fun is clearly misguided," he said coldly. "If I ever see you bothering her again, I will not be so forgiving."

Cedric sneered, his fear giving way to indignation. "And what will you do, Blackwood, uh? Throw me out of your pretty little ball?"

A dangerous glint appeared in Benjicot’s eyes. "No, Cedric. I’ll do much worse."

Before Cedric could react, Benjicot’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him staggering backward. The ballroom fell silent, guests suddenly turning to witness the confrontation. Cedric, recovering from the initial shock, lunged at Benjicot with a roar, swinging wildly.

Benjicot dodged, his movements controlled and precise. He landed another punch to Cedric's midsection, doubling him over. "You don’t know to quit, do you?" Benjicot muttered, grabbing Cedric by the collar and lifting him to his feet.

"Enough!" Cedric spat, struggling against Benjicot’s grip. "You think you can control everything? Even her?"

Benjicot’s eyes darkened further. "I don’t need to control her, Cedric. I trust her. Something you clearly don’t understand."

With that, Benjicot shoved Cedric away, causing him to stumble and fall to the ground. Cedric, breathing heavily and bruised, glared up at him. "This isn’t over, Blackwood."

"It is," Benjicot replied coldly. "And if you value your life, you’ll stay away from her."

Guards approached then, at Benjicot’s silent command, hauling Cedric to his feet and escorting him out of the ballroom. The guests slowly resumed their conversations, the tension dissipating, but whispers of the altercation lingered.

Benjicot turned to Y/N, his expression softening as he reached out to her. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice gentle.

She nodded, but her composure faltered, and tears welled up in her eyes. "Thank you, Ben. I didn’t know what to do..."

He stepped closer, his hand tenderly cupping her cheek. "You never have to face such things alone. Not while I'm here."

Y/N looked up at him, searching his eyes for any hint of insincerity. Instead, she found a depth of concern and protectiveness that took her by surprise. She had always seen him as distant, a warrior hardened by duty, but now she glimpsed the man beneath the armor.

"Why do you care?" she asked softly, her voice trembling.

Benjicot sighed, running a hand through his dark hair. "I know our betrothal was arranged, but that doesn't mean I don't care for your well-being. I've come to admire your strength and grace, Y/N. I want us to be more than just a political alliance."

Her heart skipped a beat at his words. She had longed for some indication that he felt more than obligation towards her. "I want that too, Ben," she whispered.

He smiled then, a rare, genuine smile that made her heart flutter. "Then let's make it so," he said, taking her hand in his. "Together."

As they stood there, hand in hand amidst the glittering ballroom, Y/N felt a warmth spread through her.

Benjicot glanced around the room, the tension in his shoulders easing. He looked back at Y/N, his eyes filled with a tender resolve. "May I have this dance?" he asked, his voice soft and inviting.

Y/N felt her breath catch. She nodded, unable to speak, and he led her to the center of the ballroom. The musicians, sensing the moment, began to play a slow, melodic waltz.

As they took their positions, Benjicot's arm encircled her waist, his hand warm and steady. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and he guided her with a grace that belied his warrior's demeanor. They began to move, their steps perfectly in sync, the world around them fading into a blur of light and sound.

The music swirled around them, a symphony of emotions. They glided across the floor, each step a silent conversation. Y/N felt as if they were floating, the dance a magical respite from the political intrigue and uncertainty that had shadowed their engagement.

Benjicot's eyes never left hers, their dark depths reflecting a myriad of emotions. In that moment, she felt a warmth spread through her chest, a burgeoning hope that perhaps their union could be more than just a strategic alliance.

The music swelled, and Benjicot spun her gracefully, her dress flaring out like a crimson and black flower. When they came back together, he held her a little closer, his gaze softening even further.

"I meant what I said," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "I want us to be more than a political alliance. I want to know you, Y/N. To truly understand you."

She smiled, her heart fluttering with a mixture of nerves and excitement. "And I want to know you, Ben."

As the final notes of the waltz echoed through the ballroom, they came to a gentle stop. The guests around them erupted into applause, but Y/N and Benjicot remained in their own world, their gazes locked.

"Thank you for the dance," Y/N said softly.

Benjicot brought her hand to his lips, pressing a tender kiss to her knuckles. "The pleasure was mine," he replied.

In that moment, surrounded by the approving smiles of their peers, Y/N felt something shift. The alliance they had been forced into was beginning to transform into something real, something hopeful.

The future was uncertain, but for the first time, she felt truly seen and protected. And perhaps, just perhaps, they could find love in each other’s arms.

[hazymoonlinh]

🤔 phainon x astral express member fem reader

Like he is fall in love with her in first sight when he first meeting with the other astral express member. In that scene when he suddenly appear and then he cut dan heng's weapon into two, thats where they first meet.

👀 Imagine how he try to impress fem reader by showing of his skill and flirt with her

Ahaha I have a lot of draft I write for him and my OC just like this. So this kinda base on those draft.

Really really love this! I hope you like it!

Our first meeting.

(Fluff, Phainon is head over heels with reader.)

Fem!reader.

“You’ve got something interesting,” Phainon drawled, his icy blue eyes scanning the group.

The clash of steel rang out sharply, echoing through the quiet ground of the abyss of fate. Phainon, with his usual flamboyant flair, emerged like a thunderbolt, took the trailblazer’s bat as he sliced Dan Heng’s spear clean in two. He landed with a smirk that could rival the sun, looking every bit the arrogant warrior he was known to be.

But then he saw her.

Among the stalwart crew of the Astral Express, she stood out—not because of her combat stance or any defiant glare, but simply because she existed. Her eyes, her presence, the way she carried herself—it hit him like a strike to the chest. For the first time in what felt like centuries, Phainon faltered.

“Oh,” he said under his breath, his smirk slipping for the briefest of moments.

“Who are you?” she demanded, stepping forward, her gaze sharp.

Phainon recovered quickly, his trademark grin returning. “Who am I? Why, I’m the one who’s just stolen your heart, darling.”

The group collectively groaned, except for her. She blinked, clearly taken aback. “Excuse me?”

“Forgive me,” Phainon said, his tone deliberately melodramatic as he placed a hand over his chest. “I wasn’t expecting to meet someone so radiant today. I’m Phainon, by the way. Remember the name—I’ll make sure it’s worth your while.”

“Is he serious?” The Trailblazer whispered to Dan Heng, who was still glaring at his broken weapon.

“Unfortunately,” Dan Heng muttered.

From that moment on, Phainon became a constant presence, much to the frustration of the rest of the two Astral Express crew. Wherever she went, he wasn’t far behind, finding every excuse to be close to her.

“Need help?” he asked one day, leaning casually against a wall as she searched through the streets of the Okhema for treasures.

“I’m fine,” she said without looking at him, crouched over a map.

“Come on,” he said, stepping closer. “A treasure hunt’s no fun without a partner. Besides,” he added, flashing a dazzling smile, “I’m quite good at finding hidden things. Like your heart, for example.”

She rolled her eyes, but there was the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “You’re unbelievable.”

“I try,” he said with a wink, pulling out his weapon and twirling it effortlessly. “But in all seriousness, two sets of eyes are better than one. I’ll even let you keep all the treasure we find—consider it my gift to you.”

“Fine,” she relented, standing up and brushing off her hands. “But no more flirting.”

“Deal,” Phainon said, though his grin made it clear he had no intention of keeping that promise.

It didn’t take long for his antics to become a regular occurrence. Whether it was showing off his combat skills by slicing through imaginary enemies with theatrical flourishes or insisting on calling her nicknames like “starlight” and “darling,” Phainon seemed determined to leave an impression.

“Why do you keep doing this?” she asked one day as they walked through the streets, the sun casting a warm glow over the city.

“Doing what?” he asked innocently, though his eyes sparkled with mischief.

“Following me. Flirting with me. Trying so hard to impress me.”

He stopped walking, his expression softening. “Because I’ve never met anyone like you before,” he said, his voice sincere. “And I don’t want to miss my chance.”

For a moment, the playful mask slipped, revealing a glimpse of the man behind it. And though she wasn’t quite ready to admit it, something about him was beginning to grow on her.

___

Few days later.

By now, Phainon had become a fixture in her daily life. His teasing had shifted into something more gentle, his playful remarks often followed by acts of genuine kindness. She’d catch him looking at her when he thought she wasn’t paying attention, his gaze softening in a way that felt different than before.

One evening, after a particularly difficult mission, Phainon appeared outside her quarters, holding something behind his back.

“Phainon, what now?” she asked, her tone flat but not unkind.

He grinned, stepping closer. “I’ve got a surprise for you, darling. Close your eyes.”

She raised an eyebrow, wary but intrigued. “A surprise? I’m not going to like this, am I?”

“Just trust me,” he said, his voice dropping lower, playful but gentle.

Reluctantly, she closed her eyes. When she opened them again, he was holding out a small, delicate flower—an exotic bloom with silver petals that shimmered faintly under the light.

“It’s a flower from a faraway land,” he said. “One that only blooms for those who capture my heart. Consider it a token of my affection.”

She stared at the flower for a long moment, the sincerity in his voice settling over her like a gentle warmth. “Phainon…”

“Don’t say a word,” he murmured, leaning a little closer. “I know I’m not easy to deal with. But I’m persistent. And for some reason, I can’t seem to stay away from you.”

She smiled softly, unable to hold it back. “You’re impossible, you know that?”

He chuckled, handing her the flower. “Impossible… or irresistible? I’ll let you decide, starlight.”

In the days that followed, Phainon continued to find ways to be near her, whether it was sharing his battle strategies, teasing her during downtime, or offering to help with anything she needed—just so he could be close. There was no escaping him, but somewhere along the way, it began to feel less like an annoyance and more like a comforting constant.

Phainon, with all his pride, flirtation, and ever-present smirk, had carved a place in her life—and maybe, just maybe, she was starting to see him in a different light.

[dcxdpdabbles]

Hi Drabbles,

I wanted to ask if you still do prompts and if you do can you do the one below?

So Danny is the Ghost King and was friends with Bruce’s parents so he felt when they died. They could become ghosts but I’ll leave that up to you. But either way, Danny feels their death and assists Alfred when he can to raise Bruce. Due Danny’s visits and Bruce’s holidays in the infinite realms they (Bruce and Alfred) became very Liminal. So they have slight powers. One day, Danny comes over with Ellie and Dan (who are like siblings to Bruce as both we deaged/destabilised and Danny raised them) but Bruce forgets he never told the newer kids about them as Danny hasn’t come over in a while. Dick has meet them, Jason has heard about of them but the rest don’t know about them.

There were three strangers in their house. Usually, that would be okay, as multiple people came and went through Wayne Manor. It was customary to hire random crews to help set up for a Gala, or maybe some representatives from the various charities they helped would come over for dinner or a meeting.

Sometimes, a few of Bruce's old party buddies would pop up to get him to stop being a dad and return to his party boy days. They've all learned how to dance around visitors and hide their identities.

The thing was, these strangers were kept from the main parts of the manor. Their rooms, the sitting lounge, Bruce's Office, Damian's art studio, Jason's library, Tim's game room, Cass' dance studio, and Duke's music record room were all inaccessible.

Bruce would always ask if someone attempted to sneak away and stop them. There was a time when paparazzi disguised themselves as crew members—the three idiots even got jobs at the cleaning company—and tried to see if they could find a scandal on the children.

Brucie Wayne was seen crying hysterically on the news that night for accidentally pushing down a piano on them. He was trying to take it up to the Music Room as a surprise for Duke and wanted to avoid bothering the cleaners to have them help him. He had no idea the rope he was using to drag the grand piano up the stairs would have snapped and rolled backward onto the paparazzi, who had previously been taking pictures of Cass practicing without her knowledge.

People told him not to feel bad, as Bruce had cameras in the hallways of his home due to the last time someone broke in, and it was obviously not his fault. Some people said they deserved it, but Bruce wouldn't hear it. He paid for all their medical bills and gave them enough funds to tie them over for three weeks while they recovered.

Everyone shook their heads at poor Bruce. After all, the piano had fallen so far that the only real harm was that each of them got a few bruises and a broken arm, but that was all.

The point was that no one went up there that shouldn't be.

Yet here, standing in the middle of the Gaming room, were three strangers who were all aggressively battling it out on an old remaster shooting game.

"This is way harder than I remember," said the oldest one, who seemed to be Alfred's age.

"That's cause you always sucked at games," The woman taunted, but her words were countered by the other man shooting her down. "Hey!"

"Ha!" Barked the last man from where he was twisting his elbows, moving alongside his running character. "I'm unstoppable!"

Tim turns to his siblings, about to ask them how they want to play the dramatic scene where they would throw these people out, but his words catch in his mouth upon spotting Cass' expression.

Her narrowed, guarded eyes watched the three with the same amount of steel she had reserved for only the worst of their enemies. Whoever they are, they set off so many alarms in her. She knows they're dangerous.

At once, this minor inconvenience turned into a severe risk to his health. He snaps back towards the strangers, tense and ready for battle. Around him, the rest of his siblings are in similar stances, quickly signing how they would attack.

What kind of message were they sending if someone on Cass's danger scale was able to break in undetected and choose to play with their things? Was it a show of what they could do? Claim that they could beat the Bats without really trying?

The woman's eyes snap towards them so fast she could have been a speedster. He had even noticed her turning around; one second, she was back to them. The next, she was half-turned, staring at them. It looked like a poorly edited video. Everyone jumps, but all she does is smile. "Hey, it's Bruce's kids! Anyone want to call the winner?"

The older gentleman drops his control, turns around to fully face them, and gasps. He puts one hand on his chest and the other right above his mouth. "Look at them! There are so many! Alfred must be so excited to be a grandfather. Why aren't you two giving me grandbabies?"

"Ugh, not this again." The man sighs, continuing to play despite the fact that the other two are no longer paying attention.

"It's fine time you find someone nice." The other protested.

"I'm not nice," Countered the player. "I highly doubt someone would want to find me."

"That's not true, Dan. Most of my co-workers want your number, " the woman chirps. "Also, stay away from my office. It's gross."

"Aren't half of your office married?"

"That's why I said most, you idiot."

"Just for that, I'm going to your office dressed like a romance novel protagonist. The modern professor who goes home for the holidays and finds his humanity again. I'll have a trench coat and everything."

"How dare you. Then I'll strut by your friends in a bikini."

"That's mean. It's not Halloween; there is no need to scare them."

"I'll kill you-"

"Enough! Honestly, you two, you're in your late thirties. Stop bickering."

"No matter how old we are, Dani will always be my little sister."

"Aw. " Dani poses the same as the older man—hand on chest, hand over mouth—and looks close to tears. "I love you too, you big waste of space."

Cass creeps into the room, somehow vanishing from view as the three strangers chat. Tim is still determining where she is, but he figures she'll strike when she has the opening. He feels Duke palm the knife in his pocket, and Damian lowers himself in preparation to throw a ninja star.

Dan snaps his head up with a laugh. "Wow, you're fast. A little too loud, though. Make sure to flatline your heartbeat when sneaking up on people."

Cass drops down over him, but Dan only laughs. Her blade goes right through him, and her fast place kicks do nothing. She accidentally cuts the controller in half, stopping the man's laughter.

"No! I was winning!"

"Ha!" Dani barks, uncaring the ninja star that goes through her right shoulder and flies through her body to exit on the other side. "Dan forfeits!"

"How does this count as forfeiting-"

"Guys, the children are trying to kill us." The older man cuts in. He levels the Waynes with large, grandfatherly eyes. "Children, why are you trying to kill us?"

He says it the same way someone would as a child why they were putting things in their mouths.

"Not kill. Just harm," Duke responds, voice low and dangerous. " Why don't you answer our questions. How did you get in here?"

"Alfred, let us in. He said we could make ourselves at home while he stepped out." The old man frowned. "He went to get Bruce from his office."

"Who are you?" Tim demands next, filing away the claim that Alfred let them. The butler would have told them days in advance if someone would have access to the game room.

"I'm Danny Fenton. These are my children, Dani and Dan." Danny introduces, eyeing the crowd. "We're close friends of Alfred and Bruce."

"How-"

"It's so good to see you all again!" Dick cheers, running down the hallway and still in uniform. He jumps over his siblings in an impressive flip, not breaking stride to race into Danny's arms.

The older man holds them open seconds before they crash together. "Dick! Look how big you've gotten. Oh, it seems like only yesterday you were waist-high!"

"Ha ha ha, it has been a few years, Granpa Danny. Hi Auntie, Uncle! How are you?"

"Dickie, my sweet pea, look at you!" Dani squeals, leaning in for her own hug. She passes through a confused Cass like a ghost. "So handsome! And Tall! Who told you that you were allowed to grow taller than me?"

"Seeing that you are barely over five' six, everyone," Dan laughs, clapping Dick on the shoulder. "It's a shame we're twins, so I'm no taller."

"Um, Dick?" Tim calls as his brother breaks in fast-paced, reassurances that no matter how tall he is, he will always be open for hugs from the shorter adults. "Who are they?"

"Oh these are Fentons. Danny helped Alfred raise Bruce, so their like our extended family."

Tim blinks, wondering if this feeling of confusion is what his classmates mean whenever they joke about being at family functions and people who last saw them as babies walk up to them like they should know them. It's an odd feeling.

"Oh, them?" Jason says from behind the hallway. He peeks in casually, lowering his gun and raising the soda can in the other hand. "I heard about them but never met them. They have level purple clearance."

"Of course we do! We build that stupid cave for Bruce." Dan scoffs. "He got stuck down there as a kid and thought it was safe just to make an entire headquarters in a hole. Honestly."

"At least Bruce has a career and children," Danny says pointingly.

"Please don't compare me to my cousin." Dani groans. "It's exhausting."

Yeah, this is definitely extended family.

[aleksatia]

🍎Caleb – The Tea, the Rice, and Everything Between (NSFW)

🍎 Thank you so much for 100+ reblogs!

As promised — the cut scene is here, and it’s hot. Like multiple-times hot. No angst this time. No tears. Just heat, tension, and everything you’ve been waiting for.

Enjoy, sinners 💋

Original Story: Blind date with your ex-husband. You never expected it to be… Caleb.

CW/TW: explicit sexual content, unprotected sex, oral (f receiving), overstimulation, squirting, emotionally charged sex, mild dom/sub dynamics, hair pulling, praise, kitchen setting, bath/shower intimacy, established relationship, break-up/reunion themes, references to past emotional conflict

Pairing: Caleb x ex-wife!you Genre: Second-chance romance with heat and history. Exes-to-lovers (again), soft smut built on old ache. Domestic intimacy, emotional vulnerability, tenderness with teeth. Kitchen floor confessions, and sex like remembering. Summary: A blind date gone wrong — or exactly right. What begins as awkward reconnection turns into something slower, deeper: a return not just to each other, but to a shared language of touch, trust, and home. Where sex isn’t just sex — it’s communication. And staying. Word Count: 6.3K AN: This was a cut scene, and honestly, I’m terrified to post something this explicit in English — it’s not my first language. I’ve written smut before, but this time I was genuinely afraid it might ruin the tone of the main story. That’s why I’m relying on your feedback and comments more than ever — to understand how I can make intimate scenes better, and whether you’d want to see this kind of content in future stories, where the sex truly means something.

The kitchen was unfamiliar.

Not because it wasn’t yours — it was. Technically. Legally. But the way he moved in it, casual and precise, made you feel like the guest.

He stood barefoot on the cold tile, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, forearms dusted with fine scars and memory. He opened cabinets like he still remembered where everything was. Like no time had passed. Like his hands hadn’t once learned to forget the shape of your cupboard handles.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” he said, voice low, too steady.

“You make it sound like a peace offering.”

“It’s not,” he replied, not missing a beat. “It’s a ritual. And we need a buffer.”

You didn’t argue.

The kettle clicked into place with a hiss and a red glow. The same model you’d bought when you still lived together. Sleek. Quiet. Fast. He filled it, turned it on, leaned back against the counter like the space belonged to him — or like he’d decided not to care whether it did.

You watched him like you were learning a new species.

There was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there before. Or maybe it had, and now it simply had nowhere to hide. His jaw worked — subtle, steady — as if every moment in this room was a negotiation. With himself. With you.

“You still drink green?” he asked.

“Only if it’s the thyme kind.”

He nodded. Moved to the cabinet.

You saw it before he touched it: the tin. Still there.

Still labeled in your handwriting. Still slightly dented from the time it fell when you were arguing about your night shifts — how he said he missed you, and you said he loved control more than company. You remembered the crash. The silence after. The tea everywhere. You had cried then — not because of the fight, but because the scent reminded you of a week in Kyoto, of a night in a ryokan, of him.

Now, he held it like something sacred. Not romantic — sacred. Like an object recovered from the ruins of something holy.

He didn’t speak as he measured the leaves. The kettle began its low boil, and your breath caught as the room filled with steam and tension and scent.

Caleb glanced at you then — just once. Just enough.

“You always said tea was foreplay for the soul,” he murmured. “Slow. Precise. Intimate.”

You swallowed. The air was too warm. Too full of unsaid things. “And you always made it like you were loading a gun.”

He smiled. Barely. “Still am.”

He poured. No splash. No hesitation. Just a perfect arc of water over leaves, a ritual in slow motion. You watched the steam rise. It curled between you like a phantom limb — reaching, touching, remembering.

Two cups. No sugar. No honey. Just heat and bitterness and memory.

He handed you yours without a word. Your fingers brushed.

Electric.

Your spine straightened like it had heard a command. Your lips parted, but nothing came out. The words you wanted weren’t words at all.

He leaned in, just enough to murmur against the shell of your ear:

“Tell me to stop.”

But you didn’t.

The space between you went taut — a livewire stretched thin.

He didn’t move closer. Not physically. But the way he looked at you — steady, slow, eyes dark and locked — made it feel like the room tilted toward him. Like your body might step forward without your consent.

Your breath shallowed.

He lifted a hand — not reaching, just hovering at his side, like a promise left hanging. The kind you could lean into. Or break.

You didn’t touch it. But your fingers curled.

The distance between you hummed. Your chest rose once — deep, instinctual — and you swore he noticed. Like he felt it.

A beat passed. Then another.

And then — as if some invisible string snapped — you turned away. Not retreating. Just breathing. Moving. Giving yourself an anchor.

You crossed the room, slow and careful, and sat across from him.

Now the table was between you. But it felt like nothing at all.

The sun was low, casting long golden lines across the floor, slicing through the room like truth. You didn’t turn on the lights. Neither of you said it aloud, but it was mutual. Sacred.

Shadows suited you both.

The tea was hot. Thyme, heady and clean. You lifted the cup to your lips, slowly, deliberately — not for the ritual, but for the pause it allowed. A shield. A stall. The steam curled upward, catching the light in fleeting halos.

He mirrored you, his fingers curled around the ceramic just a breath tighter than necessary. You noticed that — the way he always held things as if they might vanish. Or combust.

You took a sip.

Too hot. But you didn’t flinch. You swallowed, slow, and he noticed. You felt it — in the brief silence after, in the way his eyes flicked down to your throat and then back up. It wasn’t a leer. It was worse. It was reverence, edged with hunger.

You felt your breath catch.

He watched you like he was cataloguing reactions. Heat. Shiver. Pulse. The involuntary things. The things you didn’t mean to offer, but did.

“Still drink too fast,” he said softly, voice just this side of amused.

“And you still watch like it’s a crime,” you countered, setting your cup down with a sound softer than your own heartbeat.

That earned a ghost of a smile. The dangerous kind. The one he used when he was testing how far he could push before you snapped.

The room smelled like tea and him.

You hated that you could still pick out his scent from the air. Not cologne — that had faded. But the skin-memory of him. Leather and salt. The way a shirt held heat. The phantom weight of him in a hallway, a room, a bed.

He shifted.

Just enough for his knee to brush yours under the table. Not hard. Not even purposeful. But your breath hitched anyway, and the contact lingered a second too long to be nothing.

Your fingers tightened around the cup.

Caleb didn’t comment. He just leaned back slightly, stretching — a move that pulled his shirt across his chest, arms flexed, body all muscle memory and controlled casualness.

You knew better.

This was performance. Precision. The way predators move when they’re circling.

You exhaled through your nose, slow. Collected.

“Still stretch like you want people to notice.”

He raised a brow. “And yet only you ever did.”

There it was. The shift.

You let it land. Let it sit between you like the steam from the cups, slow and rising.

His eyes caught yours — not sharp, not heated, but slow-burning. The kind of look that traced rather than pierced. Like he was remembering you with his pupils. Carving new versions of you in real time.

“You’re doing it again,” you said, your voice quieter now.

“What?”

“Looking at me like you’re starving.”

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t deny it.

“I’ve been starving,” he said, simply.

It wasn’t a line. It wasn’t a plea. It was a biological fact, laid bare like bone.

The sun moved lower.

Light sliced across the floor, catching the dust in the air — or maybe ash. Maybe some part of you had already started to burn.

You shifted slightly, and your leg brushed his again — this time unmistakable. This time yours. His jaw twitched.

Outside, a bird cried. Distant. The world, somehow, was still turning.

“You haven’t asked if I want this,” you said, not blinking.

“I don’t have to,” he said, just as soft. “You breathe differently when you do.”

You blinked once. That was all.

Then you picked up your cup again. Sipped. Let the thyme scald your mouth like penance.

The silence swelled. And it was good.

It was weighted and ripe and full of things with teeth. Things that growled low in the chest. Things that waited to be touched.

He reached out — not to you. To your cup. A finger trailing the rim after you set it down, brushing a spot still warm from your lips.

The motion was casual. The meaning wasn’t.

Your mouth went dry.

And still — still — you didn’t move. Didn’t speak. You weren’t ready to break the spell. Not yet.

The air had teeth now. And it was breathing with you.

“Want more tea?” you asked.

You didn’t mean for your voice to sound like that. Too soft. Too deliberate.

But the words were already out, and your body was already halfway to the cabinet, like something inside you had already voted yes.

He didn’t answer.

You moved.

The cabinet clicked open with a familiar sound — that slight hitch in the hinge from years of use. Your fingers weren’t steady. You tried to hide it, but they trembled — just slightly — as you reached inside.

You moved a jar. Then another. Something metal clinked softly. Your hand brushed a tin of loose thyme, nudged a spice grinder. You weren’t really looking — not at first. Just buying yourself seconds. Trying to breathe through the static building under your skin.

Finally, your fingertips found the edge of the tea tin — cool metal, familiar weight — and curled around it.

The weight of the moment settled lightly across your shoulders. But it was growing. And you hadn’t even turned around yet.

Then — you felt him. Behind you.

No sound. No warning. Just the heat of him. The presence.

His chest hovered a breath away from your spine. Not touching — not yet — but so close you could feel the current of his breath ripple the fine hairs at your nape. And then — he moved.

A single hand slid around your waist, gliding low and sure — not possessive, not greedy.

Just anchoring.

His other hand came up beside yours, fingers brushing over yours as they both closed around the tea tin — steady, intentional.

You both held it for a moment. His thumb grazed the side of your hand, and the touch was light, but it hit like a jolt.

Then, without a word, he guided your movements — the rhythm slow, precise, like teaching a forgotten dance.

You opened the lid together. The scent of thyme rose instantly — earthy, dry, sharp in the back of your throat.

His fingers dipped in first, then yours. He didn’t let go — only moved with you, hand over hand, warm against your skin. 

Together, you scooped the leaves. Together, you dropped them into the teapot — soft rustle, metal click, heat behind your sternum.

He reached for the kettle, still standing behind you, close. Too close.

He leaned in, his mouth dangerously close to your ear.

“If your hands keep shaking like that,” he murmured, voice like heat sliding down your spine, “you’re gonna drop the whole damn thing.”

His breath skimmed your skin.

“You always did fall apart in the quiet moments.”

You tried to respond. A sound caught in your throat — something between a breath and a whimper — and it stuttered out, betraying you.

That was when his second hand moved.

Up your spine. Slow.

Palm flat, gliding with unbearable care, tracing every vertebra like reading braille — and then curling gently around the back of your neck. Not squeezing. Not yet. Just claiming.

Your body tightened in response. Knees locked. Fingertips trembled.

He pressed in, finally — chest to back, hips aligned, his breath warm at your temple as his hand guided yours to tilt the kettle.

Water flowed. The hiss of the pour filled the room like breath. Steam rose between you

Steady. 

But your body — it wasn’t. Your shoulders jerked slightly with each breath, each phantom trail of his mouth near your skin. Your hand twitched, betraying you again. A spasm of want.

A soft clatter overhead.

And then —

crash.

The jar of rice tipped from the top shelf, hit the counter with a sickening grace, and burst — a spray of white scattering across the floor like bones or snow or silence breaking.

You gasped, instinctively.

And that’s when his hand — the one at your nape — clenched.

Not hard. But firm.

The kind of grip that made your lungs freeze mid-inhale. That made your throat work around the air like it was thick with heat. His fingers laced into your hair — not rough, not cruel — just decisive. Unmistakable.

He tilted your head back. Slow. Unrelenting.

And then—

His mouth found your skin.

Not lips. Not a kiss.

Mouth. Open. Hungry.

Along the curve of your cheek. Down to your jaw.

Your pulse jumped beneath his tongue when it hit the hollow of your neck. His breath was wet and warm and anchored, like he was planting a flag with every inch of contact. Claiming space that once was his and never stopped being.

Your hands had no grace left. One flew to the edge of the counter — the other clawed back, found his wrist, fingers digging into his skin. Hard.

Not to stop him.

To feel him. To mark him.

His other hand shifted — lower now — palm pressing flat to your belly, then clenching, dragging you into him, spine to chest, making it absolutely, unforgivably clear just how gone he already was.

You whimpered. This time you didn’t hide it.

It slipped out, molten and trembling, and you felt his grip tighten in response — not enough to bruise, but just enough to make you feel kept.

The room pulsed.

Your breath broke.

And still, he didn’t speak. Because he didn’t have to.

The rice lay scattered on the floor like shattered promises. Your breath fogged the inside of your chest like a storm you’d stopped outrunning. And his mouth — god, his mouth — was still at your throat.

Poised. Lingering. Like he hadn’t even started yet.

He only let go of your neck to turn you around — swift, certain, hands gripping your hips as he pulled you flush against him. You barely had time to gasp before his mouth was on yours, open, hot, demanding.

No teasing now.

His tongue pushed past your lips like he owned the space, like he’d been dying to taste you for years, and you let him — moaning into the kiss, your fingers tangling in his shirt, pulling, clutching, needing.

You wanted him close enough to hurt.

He lifted you, didn’t ask, didn’t warn. Just picked you up by the thighs and laid you down onto the kitchen floor — right where the rice had scattered. Cold tile met your back, shocking at first, but it didn’t matter — not with him above you, between your legs, kneeling, eyes so dark they barely looked human.

He tore your shirt open — buttons flying. No ceremony. Just raw, frantic need.

The leather corset underneath was still on — tight, structured, hugging every breath out of you.

His eyes dragged over it like it was the only thing keeping him sane. And maybe it was.

“No bra?” he rasped, voice wrecked.

You grinned, breathless. “Didn’t expect to come home with company.”

His mouth found your nipple instantly — no hesitation, no teasing prelude, just need.

But once there, he slowed.

His tongue drew slow, deliberate circles around the stiffened peak — not touching it directly at first, just building heat, pressure, anticipation. His breath ghosted over the damp skin between passes, and your back arched, seeking more.

Then he closed his lips around you — warm, wet, and steady — sucking just hard enough to make your breath hitch. Your fingers tangled in his hair, anchoring him there, gasping as his tongue flicked rapidly, then flattened, then flicked again.

You moaned when his teeth grazed you — just a scrape, a warning. Enough to make your hips jerk up against him involuntarily.

And he felt it.

He grunted low in his throat, hand sliding up to cup your other breast, thumb brushing the second nipple with maddening gentleness — then a sudden pinch. Sharp, quick, perfect.

You cried out, biting your lip hard to catch the sound.

He switched sides without a word, mouth latching onto the other nipple like he owned it. This time he bit first — just a nip, followed by a sweep of tongue, a kiss, a suck that made your thighs clench and your breath break into fragments.

You were grinding against him now, fully clothed from the waist down, but soaking through. Desperate.

“Caleb,” you breathed, voice barely holding together. 

His mouth didn’t stop. His hands didn’t stop.

He was unraveling you one nipple at a time, with patience, with precision, with a hunger that had waited too long.

“Fuck,” he groaned against your skin, “you still make the same sound when you’re about to come.”

“Keep going,” you panted, “and you’ll hear it again.”

He undid your leather pants with one hand — rough, practiced, fingers tugging at the tight laces, then the zipper. You lifted your hips without being asked, breath catching as the cool air met your skin.

The leather peeled off your thighs slowly, sticking where your sweat had slicked the inside, and he paused, looking down — drinking you in.

Lacy black panties. Damp. Barely holding on.

He let out a low, almost reverent whistle.

“Well, fuck me,” he murmured, voice thick. “Even your underwear wants an audience.”

You laughed, breathless. “You’re one to talk. You look like you just walked off the set of Colonel Kink.”

He smirked. “I was gonna say we looked like a porn parody of Mr. & Mrs. Smith, but hey, I’ll take it.”

Then — the mood shifted. The heat didn’t go anywhere, but it sharpened.

His hands slid up your thighs again — palms flat, slow, thumbs stroking the insides where the skin was most sensitive. He sank to his knees without breaking eye contact, and you felt your breath stall completely.

“Caleb…”

“I’ve missed this,” he said, voice low, honest, almost reverent. “The way you smell when you want me. The way you taste when you’re soaked through your pretty little lace.”

You moaned, hips twitching as his breath hit your core through the damp fabric. He leaned in — pressed his face right against you — and inhaled.

Long. Deep. Like it centered him.

You gasped, one hand flying back to brace on the counter behind you. The other slid into his hair, tight.

Then —

His teeth caught the edge of your panties. He didn’t use his hands. Just his mouth. Slow, deliberate tugs — the lace catching on your hips, your thighs, your knees, until it fell away entirely.

You were shaking.

He didn’t speak.

He kissed the inside of your thigh — once, twice — then let his lips trail up, open, soft, worshipful.

Then his fingers joined in.

Two, sliding through your folds, slow and steady, spreading your slick as his mouth hovered just above you.

You whimpered, hips rolling into his touch.

“Still so responsive,” he murmured, thumb circling your clit with maddening patience. “You always were. Every twitch. Every breath. I could map you blind.”

And then his mouth was on you.

Lips sealing around your clit. Tongue flicking, then flattening, then dragging up through your folds with obscene precision. He moaned against you, the sound vibrating into your skin, and your knees nearly gave out.

His fingers slid inside — two at once — curling just right.

You cried out, legs trembling, gripping his hair like a lifeline as he devoured you with slow, skilled, devastating intent.

Not rushing. Not teasing. Just giving.

Giving you everything.

His tongue moved in rhythm with his fingers — curling inside you, pressing into that spot that made you whimper every time he found it. And he kept finding it. Over and over.

Your thighs started to shake. Your breath turned ragged. Every muscle in your abdomen coiled tighter, tighter, tighter—

“Caleb,” you gasped, voice high and wrecked. “Caleb, I—”

“I know,” he murmured against you. “Don’t fight it.”

And then he flattened his tongue, sucked your clit into his mouth at the exact moment he thrust his fingers deeper — curling, pressing, relentless.

You broke.

Your whole body seized. A strangled cry ripped from your throat as the orgasm tore through you like a wave too big to ride.

And then — you gushed.

Hot, sudden, uncontrollable.

Your release poured over his hand, his wrist, his mouth — and he didn’t flinch. Didn’t stop. He kept licking. Kept sucking. His fingers didn’t let up, coaxing you through every spasm, every twitch, every drop.

You tried to pull away — overwhelmed, oversensitive — but he gripped your hips, holding you there as he swallowed everything you gave him.

When you finally collapsed back against the floor, boneless and shaking, he pulled back just enough to breathe.

His mouth glistened. So did his chin.

And his eyes — fuck, his eyes — were dark. Wild. Unhinged.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then looked up at you.

“You squirted for me,” he rasped, voice wrecked. “You never used to—”

“I couldn’t,” you whispered, chest heaving. “Not like this. Not until now.”

That broke something in him.

He growled — actually growled — and shoved his own pants down, just enough, cock springing free.

Thick. Hard. Already leaking.

You stared — couldn’t help it — and bit your lip.

He didn’t waste time.

He surged up, caught your mouth in a desperate, wet kiss, and growled into it like he’d explode if he didn’t get inside you right fucking now.

One hand on your thigh, the other lining himself up, he ran the head of his cock along your folds — slow, deliberate, reverent — letting the slick heat of your release coat him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re still dripping for me.” His voice was raw, full of awe and hunger all at once. “You don’t even know what that does to me.”

You moaned, desperate. “Please.”

He didn’t ask again.

He pushed in with one brutal, beautiful thrust — thick stretch, sudden fullness, and your head slammed back against the tile with a moan that echoed off the cabinets.

You were so ready for him — still pulsing from release, still wet and open — and he filled you perfectly. Like he’d been made for this. For you.

“God—” he hissed. “You’re so tight. So fucking tight.”

He pulled out halfway, then slammed in again, harder — and this time, you cried out again. Not from pain. Not from relief.

From the shockwave of it.

From the way his cock hit deeper than his fingers ever could. From the sudden ache of fullness that wasn’t too much — just perfect. Every thrust dragged against oversensitive nerves, still trembling from the last orgasm, and sparked new heat — sharper, lower, hungrier.

Your body clenched around him like it didn’t want to let go. Like it knew this shape. Like it had missed the stretch, the press, the claim of him moving inside.

He felt it.

And you felt him feel it — in the way his hands gripped harder, in the way his breath stuttered, in the way he buried himself deeper, groaning your name like a man being remade from the inside out.

His pace quickened, relentless — no buildup, no mercy — just a driving, desperate rhythm that spoke every word his mouth couldn’t.

He fucked you like he was trying to erase every other man, every ghost, every moment you’d spent apart.

Your back arched. Your heels dug into his ass. Nails raked down his back as he pistoned into you, his dog tags swinging between you with every thrust — cold metal brushing your chest.

You caught them between your lips, sucked them in with a soft moan — and he growled at the sight.

Every thrust slammed your hips into the floor, scattering grains of rice that stuck to your skin like sparks from the fire you’d started.

You were panting, gasping, clawing — but you still wanted more.

“Harder,” you begged. “Fuck — Caleb, harder.”

He snarled, grabbed both your thighs, and bent them up toward your chest, folding you open.

And then he really fucked you. Deep. Rough. Unrelenting.

You felt every inch. Every pulse. His pelvis slammed into your clit with each thrust, sending lightning through your body.

You were close again. So close it hurt.

“I can feel you clenching,” he groaned, eyes locked on yours. “You gonna come on my cock? Right here, on the fucking kitchen floor?”

You nodded — couldn’t speak — hands scrabbling at his shoulders, nails biting deep.

“Say it,” he demanded, breath ragged. “Say who’s fucking you like this.”

“You,” you choked. “You are.”

“Louder.”

“You are! Caleb — fuck, I’m—”

Your orgasm hit like a detonation — white-hot, blinding, body convulsing beneath him as your scream tore from your throat. He didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just fucked you through it, driving deeper, chasing his own end.

And then — with a low, vicious growl — he spilled into you, hips jerking, cock twitching deep inside as he came with a force that made your thighs shake.

He collapsed over you, panting, body heavy and warm.

The only sound in the room was your breathing. Intertwined. Labored. Wild.

The floor was a mess — scattered rice, your clothes, his pants around his thighs.

But neither of you moved.

His forehead pressed to yours. His hand found your chest — palm over your racing heart — and just stayed there.

You didn’t say a word. There was nothing left to say.

Only this. Only you, full of him, aching and open and alive.

Still drunk on the wreckage of it all.

His breath was still uneven when he moved — slow, deliberate, like your body was made of something breakable. He slipped his arms beneath you, palms warm under your thighs and back, and lifted you off the tile with a quiet grunt.

You didn’t protest.

You curled into him like muscle memory, like gravity, arms looping around his shoulders, forehead pressed to his temple. He was still inside you — thick, warm, softening but not gone — and you gasped as the movement made everything inside shift.

“Jesus,” you muttered, breath catching. “There’s so much... I can’t hold it all.”

He laughed against your cheek — low, hoarse, completely wrecked.

“Well,” he murmured, lips brushing your skin, “you did say you were ready to be filled.”

You groaned, but couldn’t stop smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”

“And yet you’re clinging to me like I’m the last piece of furniture on a sinking ship.”

“Shut up,” you breathed, nuzzling into his neck. “You feel like home.”

He eased himself back against the cabinets, still holding you, your legs wrapped around his waist, bodies impossibly close. One of his hands came up to cradle your face — fingers tracing your cheekbone, your temple, your jaw — as if checking that you were real. That this was real.

You kissed him softly. Not with urgency this time. Just presence.

It tasted like salt and breath and belonging.

His thumb swept across your bottom lip. Yours followed the line of his collarbone, the dip of his throat, the stubble on his jaw. You both moved like you had all the time in the world — like the world outside didn’t exist.

Only the kitchen. Only the smell of tea. Only the aftershock still pulsing between your thighs.

“You still shake a little after,” he whispered against your lips. “Always loved that.”

You huffed a breath. “I’m trying to have a moment here, not give you a performance review.”

He grinned, forehead pressed to yours. “You passed.”

Then his hips shifted slightly, just enough for his cock to nudge deeper again — still thick, still present — and you shivered.

“…Are you—?”

You leaned back, just enough to glance between your bodies. Then raised a brow.

“Seriously?” you asked. “Already?”

He gave a slow, sheepish smile. “I mean… you’re still wrapped around me. What’d you expect?”

You tilted your head, faux innocent. “Self-control?”

He scoffed. “We’re past that.”

And god — he was right.

Because even now, you could feel him swelling again, twitching back to life inside you, warmth pooling low in your belly as your body responded without permission. You clenched around him — slowly, deliberately — and watched his jaw tighten.

“Don’t start what you can’t finish,” he warned, voice already lower, darker.

You smirked. “I’m not the one starting anything. You’re the one growing like a goddamn resurrection spell.”

He laughed — breathless, wrecked — and kissed you again. Deeper this time. Tongue slow and hungry, hands sliding over your back, your ass, your thighs, like he couldn’t decide what to hold onto first.

You felt the shift again. The air. The way everything started to crackle. Like the storm had only paused. Like it was about to break again — and you were both ready.

You shifted your hips, still seated on him, and he let out a low, strangled breath — head falling back against the cabinet with a quiet thud.

“Fuck, baby…” he groaned. “You’re still so tight.”

You placed your palms on his chest, steadying yourself, and rolled your hips once — slow, languid, letting his cock slide deeper inside you inch by inch. You felt every ridge, every twitch, every pulse.

And he felt everything.

His hands gripped your waist — not rough, but grounding. His eyes locked to yours, pupils blown wide, reverent.

This wasn’t desperation anymore. It was worship.

You started to move. Hips swaying in slow, controlled circles, grinding down on him, letting the heat build again — not like fire this time, but like lava. Deep. Slow. Irresistible.

His hands traveled up your sides, over your ribs, to your breasts — thumbs brushing your nipples with just enough pressure to make your head tilt back, lips part.

“You ride me like you own me,” he murmured.

“I do,” you whispered, breath hitching. “You let me.”

“I’d let you do anything.”

He shifted under you, pulling you closer, burying his face in your neck. His lips grazed your collarbone, your jaw, your throat — slow, tasting, not rushing. His cock throbbed inside you every time you clenched, and you could feel how hard he was trying to hold on.

But you didn’t want him to.

You rolled your hips forward — grinding down just right, pressing your clit against the base of him — and both of you gasped.

“You feel so good,” you moaned, forehead pressing to his. “I missed this. I missed you.”

His hands moved to your ass, squeezing, guiding your rhythm — not controlling it, just keeping pace with your body, your want.

Your mouths met again. Open. Deep. Wet. Tongues sliding, lips sucking, breathing into each other like there wasn’t enough oxygen in the room unless you shared it.

“I’m close,” you whispered. “But I don’t want to stop. I want to feel this.”

“Then don’t stop,” he said, voice shaking. “Come on me. Stay on me.”

You did.

You kept moving — long, grinding thrusts, pressure building until it was everywhere — your spine, your chest, your teeth.

Your orgasm came slower this time, but deeper — wave after wave rolling through you as your body shook around him, clenching, holding, welcoming.

You cried out his name, over and over, lips pressed to his mouth, hips jerking with each aftershock.

And he was right there with you.

He gripped your hips hard, fucked up into you twice — deep, sharp thrusts — then groaned deep in his chest as he spilled inside you again, heat blooming between your thighs as his body locked and trembled beneath yours.

But you didn’t let go. Neither of you did.

You stayed wrapped around him — arms tight around his neck, forehead to forehead, bodies still joined, breathing in sync, like something sacred had just been rebuilt between your ribs.

His hands stroked your back. Yours rested over his heart.

No words. Just warmth. Just home.

Then —

A soft crinkle beneath your ankle. Another near your knee. Something tiny, hard.

You both froze.

“…is that rice?” you murmured.

He huffed out a breath, low and amused. “We really fucked right on top of dinner.”

You laughed into his shoulder. “I swear to god, if I find a grain inside me—”

“I’m already praying to Saint Basmati,” he grinned. “Patron of questionable kitchen choices.”

You smacked his arm, still laughing. “Okay, okay. Up. Before the floor gets any ideas.”

He eased you off his lap carefully, his hands lingering as you slid away — and even though he was softening inside you, he groaned like letting go physically cost him something.

You stood, legs a little shaky, wincing as you looked around. The scene was chaos: clothes scattered, skin marked, rice everywhere.

And between your thighs, a slow, unmistakable trickle of cum slid down your inner thigh — warm, sticky, impossible to ignore.

You pressed your legs together out of instinct, but it didn’t help. He’d filled you too much. You were still leaking.

He whistled under his breath. “We might need a priest.”

“We need a vacuum,” you muttered, glancing at the rice field around you.

He chuckled, about to respond — and then his eyes drifted downward.

Paused.

Saw the mess between your thighs. The way it glistened. Trailed down your leg. His expression changed — sharp and slow, heat blooming under the amusement.

He met your eyes again — darker now.

“No,” he said, voice lower. “We need a shower.”

You didn’t argue. Not this time.

He picked you up again — less out of need, more out of want. Because he could. Because you let him. Because, despite everything, it felt good to be carried by someone who knew the shape of you from memory.

The bathroom was warm. Quiet. Your reflection in the mirror looked like another version of you — hair wild, skin flushed, lips kiss-swollen, eyes too full to lie.

The water came first — steam curling like new breath around you both. He reached for the soap, worked it into his hands, and began with your shoulders.

No rush.

His palms slid over your skin slowly — lathering, rinsing, touching. Not to arouse. Not this time.

Just to care.

You returned the favor — ran your hands over his chest, his arms, his back, fingers smoothing over scars you hadn’t seen in months. He watched you. Like he needed to memorize your hands again.

And then —

You felt him.

Hard again. Pressing against your thigh as his hands moved over your stomach.

You looked down. Then back up.

He raised a brow, unashamed.

“You’re ridiculous,” you whispered, biting your lip.

He smirked. “You’re the one rubbing soap all over me. Don’t blame me for biology.”

You chuckled — heart full, body warm — and stepped closer, resting your hand over his chest, right above the beat you trusted more than your own.

“If you’re really ready,” you said quietly, “we can move to the bedroom.”

The implication was clear. And not just about sex.

He saw it. Heard it. Understood.

And didn’t hesitate.

Later —

It was dark. But you didn’t sleep.

You lay tangled together beneath clean sheets, his chest your pillow, his heartbeat your lullaby. One of your hands rested on his stomach, fingers absently playing with his. His other hand threaded through your hair slowly, rhythmically, like he was still washing the day out of it.

The room smelled like skin and steam and thyme. And maybe something new. Or maybe something very, very old.

You didn’t look at him when you asked.

“What does this mean?” your voice was small. Honest. “Are we… together?”

He was silent for a moment. But not because he didn’t have the words.

“I don’t know if we ever weren’t,” he said softly. “Not in my heart. Even when I hated you. Even when I thought I should walk away forever… there was still a thread. Still you.”

You nodded. Bit your lip.

“I get that now,” you whispered. “But I didn’t back then.”

He waited.

You took a breath.

“I think I resented you for how natural it all was. We never really dated. Never had that honeymoon phase. No first kiss under streetlamps or awkward movie nights. No butterflies before a date. Just… us. We grew up together. Shared everything. You saw me cry over my math test, puke with the flu, and have a full-blown breakdown when I didn’t get cast as Juliet in sophomore year.”

You paused, voice thickening.

“I never had to impress you. Never had to put on makeup or play a part. And for a long time, I thought I missed something important. Like I skipped some great adventure.”

He stayed quiet. Let you speak.

“But after you left,” you whispered, “and I tried the whole thing — dating, new people, new experiences — I realized something. None of it mattered. Not without this. Not without you.”

Your fingers tightened slightly in his.

“I don’t need butterflies. I don’t need fireworks. I just need someone who sees me. All of me. And still stays. And god, Caleb, you’re the only man who’s ever done that.”

You finally looked up. Met his eyes in the dark.

“I’m sure now,” you said. “I’m not scared. I don’t need anyone else. You’re it. You’ve always been it.”

He looked at you like you’d just spoken the one truth he’d been waiting his whole life to hear. Then he cupped your face, leaned in, and kissed you — slow, deep, burning.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

“I always knew,” he said. “And if all the pain, all the time apart — if all of that was the cost for you to know it too… then it was worth every second.”

You kissed him again, and it wasn’t soft this time. It was full of every promise you hadn’t dared make before.

He rolled you beneath him, slowly, tenderly, and your legs opened for him like instinct. Like welcome. Like forever.

And when he slid into you again — this time in the dark, in the warmth, in the quiet — it didn’t feel like fucking.

It felt like staying. Like choosing.

And when you came, clinging to him, whispering his name into his skin like a prayer — you knew this wasn’t a return.

It was a beginning. And god, it was home.

[neferaskingdom]

♡ Love in the Times of Charles | MV1

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Leclerc!Reader [Face Claim: None]

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Summary: Y/N and Max are on a stealth mission to keep their relationship under wraps. But with rumors swirling faster than a car at Monza, Charles's overprotective instincts kick in—cue the concerned brother alarms! Meanwhile, the boys offer about as much help as a flat tire, with plans so ridiculous they might just need a pit crew. Will Y/N and Max dodge Charles’s protective wrath, or will this love story end up in the wall? Strap in; it’s gonna be a bumpy ride!

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

A/N: just wanted to ask if anyone feels annoyed or don't like it when smau fics have story parts? like I don't want to do the confessions and some of the things on text and I wanna write about some of the behind the scenes too and the only way to do that is to write it in a story format but apparently some people don't like that? like what is you guy's consensus on this?

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Part 5 of my wheel-to-wheel but still in denial series: Masterlist

y/n_leclerc posted a photo:

Caption: Thought coffee was gonna be the most stable thing in my life but even that got replaced by matcha ☕️💔

Liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, landonorris, and 420,876 others.

Comments:

maxverstappen1:

Did the coffee leave you for someone else too?

      ↪ y/n_leclerc :

At least coffee doesn’t need a grid penalty to get close to me.

      ↪ danielricciardo:

This roast is hotter than the coffee 👀

      ↪ charles_leclerc:

Don't make me call FIA on both of you.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc :

Charles, pls, I’m still recovering from your last safety briefing.

      ↪ landonorris:

Max back to roasting? Is this the plot twist we’ve been waiting for?

user1:

Why are they roasting each other again? What happened to 'Max is definitely into her'?!

user2:

THE FLIRTING ERA IS OVER?? MAX AND Y/N ROAST ERA INCOMING 🚨

user3:

WE NEED ANSWERS. WHY ISN’T MAX FLIRTING ANYMORE??

DMs between Max and Y/N:

maxverstappen1:

Still thinking about our coffee date this morning. You looked way too good for just a casual date. 😏

y/n_leclerc:

Lol please, I literally rolled out of bed and threw on a hoodie. But I’m glad my ‘effortless chic’ fooled you. 😉

maxverstappen1:

Fooled me? No chance. I knew exactly what you were doing. Strategic as always. 😌

y/n_leclerc:

Strategic? I just wanted caffeine, Max. But if you’re calling my bedhead a ‘strategy’... sure, I’ll take it.

maxverstappen1:

Whatever you call it, it worked. Couldn’t stop staring at you.

y/n_leclerc:

Max. You’re so sappy today, what happened to your 'too cool' attitude?

maxverstappen1:

That went out the window the moment you started dating me. Now, I’m just soft. For you. 🥲

y/n_leclerc:

Soft Verstappen? I never thought I'd live to see the day.

maxverstappen1:

Only for you. Don’t tell the others, though. I have a reputation to uphold.

y/n_leclerc:

Your secret’s safe with me. But honestly, I’m loving whatever this is. Us, I mean.

maxverstappen1:

Same. This whole 'flirting in public and pretending everything’s normal' thing? Chef’s kiss. Watching people lose their minds over it is the best part.

y/n_leclerc:

It’s like we’re living rent-free in their heads. The comments are gold. Especially the ones trying to figure out what the hell is going on with us.

maxverstappen1:

Like the one saying we’re secretly married already? That one almost made me spit out my coffee. 😂

y/n_leclerc:

I saw that! They’ve got theories for days. The one where we’re 'just friends' but you’ve been flirting for a whole week straight? Love that for us.

maxverstappen1:

Right? Like, I was literally flirting non-stop, and now they think we’re back to picking fights with each other like nothing happened. 😂

y/n_leclerc:

We're driving them crazy and honestly, I’m having the time of my life watching it.

maxverstappen1:

Same. But I kinda miss not having to hold back on the flirting. 😏

y/n_leclerc:

Oh yeah? How would you even flirt if you didn’t have to hold back, Verstappen?

maxverstappen1:

I’d take you somewhere nice. Like, I don’t know, a fancy restaurant maybe? 😎

y/n_leclerc:

Smooth. Are you asking me out again?

maxverstappen1:

Depends. Are you saying yes?

y/n_leclerc:

Let’s say I’m free… where are you taking me?

maxverstappen1:

Somewhere where you won’t be able to just wear a hoodie. Gotta dress up for this one. 😉

y/n_leclerc:

A challenge. I accept.

maxverstappen1:

Perfect. Friday night. I’ll pick you up.

y/n_leclerc:

Can’t wait. 😘

y/n_leclerc posted a photo:

Caption: Dinner for one but looking like a 10 ✨

Liked by charles_leclerc, danielricciardo, landonorris, and 420,876 others.

Comments:

carmenmmundt:

You’re killing it! 💅 When’s our next girls' dinner??

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

Whenever you’re ready to throw George’s credit card on the line again. 💳😉

      ↪ georgerussell63:

Excuse me, why is my financial ruin the theme of your dinners?

lilymhe:

Okay but where’s MY invite?? You look too good to be dining alone.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

Lily, your absence was felt, the waiter asked where my better half was. 🥲

      ↪ alex_albon:

Pretty sure he asked that because you flirted for a free dessert.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

And it WORKED, Albono. That’s called strategy.

      ↪ maxverstappen1:

Dinner for one? Weird, thought you’d be out there terrorizing other diners.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

Terrorizing diners? Max, I’m not the one who scarfs food down like I’ve been starved for days.

      ↪ maxverstappen1:

That’s called efficiency. You wouldn’t know, with how long you take to pick an outfit.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

Efficiency? More like desperation. And excuse you, I picked this outfit in five minutes

      ↪ danielricciardo:

Efficiency is just code for ‘I’m hungry and scared of forks.’

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

Daniel gets it. Max probably uses chopsticks like they’re drumsticks.

      ↪ maxverstappen1:

Bold of you to assume I even use utensils.

      ↪ landonorris:

He just drinks soup straight from the bowl. Classy.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

Honestly, that explains a lot.

      ↪ charles_leclerc:

What is happening in these comments?? Also, Y/N, you look great but maybe stop tormenting Max in public?

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

He does that all by himself, Charles. I’m just here for moral support.

      ↪ maxverstappen1:

Your moral support feels more like public humiliation.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

You’d miss it if I stopped, Verstappen.

user4:

Y/N and Max fighting in the comments AGAIN, this is the content I live for.

user5:

Max is trying to pretend like he’s not impressed but we all know the truth.

user6:

Plot twist: Max was the one taking the picture at the restaurant.

alex_albon:

maxverstappen1 Why are you pretending you're not paying for that wine?

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

EWW who’d go to dinner with him??

      ↪ maxverstappen1:

And yet, here you are, missing me at dinner.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

Not as much as you miss your table manners.

user7:

"Max & Y/N: Endless banter, zero chill."

user8:

Y/N is out here eating fine dining alone while dragging Max in the comments, living the DREAM.

user9:

At this point, they should just get married and keep roasting each other forever.

user10:

Wasn’t Max all flirty in the last chapter? WHAT HAPPENED?!

user11:

Max flirting era is over 😭

user12:

Plot twist: Max and Y/N are in a secret relationship where they flirt by insulting each other.

y/n_leclerc posted a photo:

Caption: Monza weekend!! Supporting my favorite Ferrari boy, Charles! ❤️ Let’s get this Win!!

Liked by charles_leclerc, danielricciardo, landonorris, and 320,456 others.

Comments:

charles_leclerc:

Let’s do this!

user13:

President of the Charles Leclerc fan club, reporting for duty.

user14:

As always, our queen is a Ferrari stan first.

user15:

She’s so loyal to Charles, I love it.

user16:

Imagine supporting a guy and then getting spotted at Red Bull later. Sis, pick a side!

user17:

Did anyone else see Y/N on the Red Bull side?? 👀 I smell drama.

landonorris:

Are you hyping Charles because you have to, or because you want to? Asking for Max.

user18:

Girl, why are there rumors you were seen near Red Bull? 👀

user19:

If I see Y/N at Red Bull again, I’m going full detective mode. Like, pick a lane!

user20:

MONZA DRAMA INCOMING 🚨 Did she swap allegiances?!

pierregasly:

Bet Max is gonna ‘conveniently’ miss this post.

      ↪ y/n_leclerc:

He’s too busy finishing ahead of you to notice.

      ↪ pierregasly:

Unnecessary.

maxverstappen1 posted a photo:

Caption: Calm before the storm. Let’s get it. 💪

Liked by charles_leclerc, y/n_leclerc, landonorris, and 420,876 others.

Comments:

y/n_leclerc:

Storm? More like a light drizzle with a 10% chance of embarrassment.

      ↪ maxverstappen1:

Says the girl who can’t walk in heels without tripping over nothing.

      ↪ georgerussell63:

This is the weirdest foreplay I’ve ever seen.

      ↪ alex_albon:

George said what we’re all thinking.

user21:

They fight like an old married couple but without the actual marriage.

f1_gossips tweeted:

SPOTTED: Y/N Leclerc cheering for Charles at Monza, but sources claim she was ALSO seen at the Red Bull garage earlier. Trouble in Ferrari paradise? Or is Y/N just mixing allegiances? Stay tuned for more.

Comments:

user22:

This girl is living her best double agent life.

user23:

Y/N is just here for the drama and we love it.

user24:

I’m convinced she’s trolling us all. A queen of chaos.

user25:

She’s doing what we all want to do—have a Ferrari brother and a Red Bull ‘friend’ 😂.

user26:

Ferrari fans about to lose it 😂

user27:

Plot twist: she’s there for the energy drinks.

user28:

She’s definitely with Max. No other explanation.

user29:

Charles is gonna crash into Max out of pure sibling rage, I can feel it.

user30:

Y/N in the Red Bull garage?! Someone call Charles, this is a scandal!

user31:

This is the chaos I signed up for. I NEED MORE TEA.

user32:

Not Y/N being Ferrari’s biggest fan and then sneaking over to Red Bull. Iconic.

user33:

Ferrari by day, Red Bull by night?

user34:

She’s playing both teams and we stan.

user45:

Charles has no idea his sister is secretly living a double life.

user36:

How long before Charles throws Max into a wall, tho?

y/n_leclerc posted a photo:

Caption: CHARLES WINS AT MONZA! I TOLD Y’ALL 🔥 FORZA FERRARI, FORZA LECLERC 🚀❤️

Liked by charles_leclerc, maxverstappen1, landonorris, and 520,439 others.

Comments:

charles_leclerc:

Best fan out there ❤️ Grazie mille!

user37:

She’s literally the president of the Leclerc fan club.

user38:

Low-key love how Max isn’t even on her radar right now.

user39:

I give it 10 minutes before someone spots her with Max and the chaos starts.

user40:

This is why Y/N is the ultimate sister.

user41:

She’s living her best life as Ferrari royalty, honestly.

user42:

I’d celebrate Charles winning too, if I didn’t also think she was spotted on the Red Bull side.

user43:

Wait, no, seriously, can someone confirm if she was actually with Max at Red Bull today?

f1_gossips tweeted:

BREAKING: Charles Leclerc wins the Italian Grand Prix in stunning fashion! Meanwhile, sources at the post-race afterparty spotted Y/N Leclerc getting cozy with none other than Max Verstappen. Are the rumors true? Check out this pic below!

Comments:

user44:

Bigfoot and UFOs have more clarity than this pic, but I can still see Max.

user45:

Y/N said Ferrari win, but Max is the prize.

user46:

She went from Ferrari girl to Red Bull real quick after that win, huh?

user47:

Charles won the race, but Max won Y/N.

user48:

Y/N’s living her best ‘support Ferrari but flirt with Red Bull’ life.

user49:

Blurry or not, I KNOW that’s Max. The man’s silhouette is unmistakable.

user50:

Y/N and Max cuddling up after Charles' win?? Ferrari fans, we okay??

user51:

Monza afterparty tea is always the spiciest.

user52:

I can’t believe she’s out here celebrating with Max after her brother won.

user53:

Y/N’s like, ‘Congrats, Charles, but I gotta go check on my Red Bull guy real quick.’

user54:

This girl’s got her Ferrari heart and Red Bull eyes 👀.

user55:

Plot twist: Max and Y/N are secretly dating and just troll us all online for fun.

f1_gossips tweeted:

MORE DRAMA: After celebrating Charles’ win, Y/N Leclerc was allegedly spotted again at the Red Bull garage. The blurred lines between Ferrari and Red Bull have fans in a frenzy. Is Y/N really just here this weekend to ‘support her brother,’ or is something else brewing between her and Max Verstappen?

Comments:

user56:

I’m convinced she’s playing us all for fun.

user57:

Y/N’s trolling everyone, and honestly, I’m here for it.

user58:

I don’t care who she’s with, I just need answers!!

user59:

I swear Y/N’s gonna give me a heart attack with these mixed signals.

user60:

Charles winning, Y/N maybe dating Max, and blurry gossip pics—F1 drama is at an all-time high.

user61:

I’m starting to think Y/N is the real mastermind of the entire F1 circus.

user62:

Next race, Charles is taking Max out for ‘unrelated’ reasons. Bet.

DMs between Charles and Y/N:

charles_leclerc:

Y/N. WHAT IS THIS I’M SEEING ABOUT YOU AND MAX AT THE MONZA AFTERPARTY?!

y/n_leclerc:

Charles, relax. What are you even talking about?

charles_leclerc:

RELAX? I’ve seen the pictures! Cozying up with Max? The one guy you literally fight with all the time? What the hell is going on?!

y/n_leclerc:

Oh my god. First of all, I would rather fight a swarm of bees than 'cozy up' with Max. You really think I’d be into that? Insufferable, annoying, always-has-something-to-say Max?

charles_leclerc:

The pictures don’t lie, Y/N. You were standing way too close. What were you doing with him?!

y/n_leclerc:

We were arguing, obviously. You know that’s like our thing. Five minutes in the same room, and he’s already saying something dumb. I’m just trying to live my life, and he’s there, being all Max-y.

charles_leclerc:

Arguing? That’s it? You swear?!

y/n_leclerc:

Yes! We were literally just arguing. You know, me calling him a pain in the ass, him being all smug. Classic Max-and-Y/N content.

charles_leclerc:

Mon dieu, Y/N. You scared the hell out of me! The way these gossip pages were talking, I thought you two were about to get married or something. 😤

y/n_leclerc:

Married to Max? I’d rather shove my head in a tire wall. Relax, Charlie. Nothing is happening. It’s just Max being his annoying self, like usual.

charles_leclerc:

Okay, good. I don’t need that headache in my life. Gossip pages making a big deal out of nothing as always.

y/n_leclerc:

Yeah, chill out. Like I said, I’d rather throw myself into a DRS zone than let that happen. 😂

charles_leclerc:

Good. I thought I was going to have to block you from every race event if something was going on. Max Verstappen... ugh.

Groupchat: “The Snafu Society”

y/n_leclerc:

GUYS. WE HAVE A MASSIVE PROBLEM.

(sends screenshot of her convo with Charles)

What the hell am I supposed to do?? Charles is going to KILL me when he finds out I’m actually with Max and I lied about it!

lando.jpg:

Ohhhh, you are so screwed. 😂 Like, RIP Y/N. 💀 It was nice knowing you.

georgerussell63:

Big yikes. I’m sending flowers to your funeral. What’s your favorite color?

alex_albon:

Maybe you can tell him Max saved a kitten from a burning building? Or like… became a monk? You gotta soften the blow somehow. 🐱🔥

danielricciardo:

Tell him Max is actually a long-lost Leclerc cousin. Boom. Problem solved.

maxverstappen1:

EXCUSE ME?! A Leclerc cousin? Why am I suddenly part of the family? also that's incest?? 😂

y/n_leclerc:

I’m SERIOUS! He’s going to legit lose it! I’ve been stalling but… there’s no way out of this. What if he literally crashes into you on track, Max?? 😳

maxverstappen1:

Okay, calm down. He won’t crash into me… I hope. Maybe. Probably.

lando.jpg:

Definitely gonna crash into you. Like, 100%. F in the chat for Max.

danielricciardo:

New idea! Fake your own disappearance! Hide in a bunker until the season’s over. It’s flawless.

alex_albon:

Or just make Max wear a disguise next time you two are together. Like, put him in a Ferrari hat, maybe Charles won’t notice.

georgerussell63:

Ferrari hat? Genius. Max, you good with that? 

maxverstappen1:

NO. I’m not wearing a Ferrari hat. 😤

y/n_leclerc:

This is NOT helping, you guys! Max, are you just sitting there being all calm about this?

maxverstappen1:

Look, we’ll figure it out. Worst case, I’ll just charm him with my winning personality.

lando.jpg:

Winning personality, Max? The only thing Charles is winning is the fistfight with you when he finds out. 😂

danielricciardo:

Tell him you’re pregnant. Just drop it like a bomb. He’ll be too shocked to kill Max.

y/n_leclerc:

EXCUSE ME? Daniel, you’re banned from giving advice.

alex_albon:

Seconded.

georgerussell63:

Honestly, Charles is probably already suspicious. But Max, maybe send him a fruit basket to soften him up? 'Thanks for not killing me—yet.' 🍍

maxverstappen1:

Guys… Let’s just stay calm. We’ll tell him soon, and everything will be fine. Right, Y/N?

y/n_leclerc:

Fine?! I’m about to be disowned!

lando.jpg:

Don’t worry. We’ll visit you in exile. 😂

maxverstappen1:

Okay, okay. I’ll talk to him if I have to. Just… try not to panic. It’s me. Charles likes me… kinda. Right?

y/n_leclerc:

You wish, Max. He’s gonna use you as a traffic cone.

danielricciardo:

Let’s be honest. If anyone’s gonna crash into Max, it’s gonna be Arthur, just for fun. 😂

y/n_leclerc:

Great. Now I’m even more stressed.

lando.jpg:

And I know the perfect way to destress! drinks on me when we go back to monaco

f1_gossips tweeted:

🚨 Monaco Scandal: Y/N Leclerc and Max Verstappen Caught Kissing! 🚨

Hold onto your racing helmets, folks, because the latest tea is HOT! 🔥 Forget everything you thought you knew about Y/N and Max’s so-called “rivalry,” because sources in Monaco just served up some serious tea! 🍵rumour has it that Y/N Leclerc and Max Verstappen were spotted not only getting cozy while waiting for an elevator, but actually kissing. Yes, you read that right—kissing. 😳

According to eyewitnesses, they looked all kinds of cozy—like, too close for two people who “can’t stand each other.” To make it even juicier, Max was overheard calling Y/N “Schatje” and “Liefje.” Yes, you read that right. Pet names. Dutch pet names. 😱

They weren’t exactly trying to hide it either, full-on PDA while waiting for the elevator at a fancy Monaco Bar. With Max's arms around Y/N and her hand on his chest, it's safe to say things are heating up faster than a Monaco track in July. Is this the confirmation we've all been waiting for? Are they finally going public? Fans are losing their minds, and we are here for it. 👀💋

#MaxYN  #PlotTwistOfTheYear #ElevatorEscapade

Comments:

user63:

 WAIT, WAIT, WAIT. Max calling Y/N schatje AND liefje?!? I’m screaming. 🚨😱

user64:

 My man went from being jealous of the elevator guy to being the elevator guy himself

user65:

This is the enemies-to-lovers plot twist I didn’t know I needed.

user66:

 If Charles finds out, he’s gonna drive Max off the track. 😬

use67:

 Okay but I bet they were arguing over who pressed the elevator button first.

user68:

 What is miss girl’s obsession with elevators?!?!?

user69:

 So Max is soft now? Pet names and everything? I’m unwell.

user70:

I swear this whole time they’ve been pretending to hate each other, and now they’re cuddling in elevators. Someone explain. 😩

user71:

WAIT THEY WERE KISSING?! I was not emotionally prepared for this news. 😳

user72:

So Max’s love language is Dutch pet names and y/n's is elevator kisses? I’m dying.

user73:

KISSING in MONACO? This just became the most iconic off-track moment of the year.

user74:

I can't believe Max Verstappen of all people is out here calling Y/N "schatje" in public. 💀

user75:

Charles is gonna lose it when he finds out his sister is locking lips with his biggest rival. 💀

user76:

Monaco’s about to get real awkward if Charles runs into them... just saying.

Y/N woke up to the sound of soft, rhythmic breathing beside her. Her head pounded, and she felt like someone had stuffed cotton in her mouth. She blinked, trying to get her bearings, and slowly realized where she was: in Max’s bed, in Max’s apartment, with Max’s arm thrown lazily over her waist, holding her like they hadn’t just gotten plastered the night before.

For a moment, she lay there, wrapped in the heavy warmth of his arm draped across her stomach, trying to remember exactly how they ended up in this position. Her head throbbed with the unmistakable ache of too many drinks and too many bad decisions.

Max stirred next to her, shifting slightly but keeping his arm around her like it was a reflex. Y/N turned her head to look at him, his face still half-buried in the pillow, hair messy and slightly wild, looking so annoyingly cute it made her stomach do a weird little flip.

“Morning, Schatje,” he mumbled without even opening his eyes.

Y/N snorted. "Wow, you’re really pulling out all the stops with the pet names this morning, huh? Wasn’t it ‘Liefje’ last night? I’m gonna need a Dutch dictionary just to keep up."

Max laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest. "You should consider it. I’ve got a lot more where that came from. Besides, you’re cute when you’re all hungover and confused.”

Y/N groaned, rolling onto her back and throwing an arm over her face. “Ugh, don’t remind me. I feel like death.”

“Well, I think you look adorable,” Max replied, pulling her closer and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

She peeked out from under her arm, squinting at him. “You sure it’s not because your head is still spinning?”

“Maybe,” Max admitted, his smile growing. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Y/N giggled, poking his side. “You’re so full of it.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

For a moment, they lay there in silence, enjoying the rare quietness of the morning. It was one of those rare, soft moments—no teasing, no sarcastic comments, just the two of them tangled together, wrapped in the warmth of each other.

“Why did we drink so much last night?” Y/N eventually asked, her voice muffled by Max’s chest.

“Because Lando dared us,” Max answered, sounding almost proud.

"Why do we listen to him?" Y/N groaned, her voice hoarse as she nuzzled deeper into Max’s chest.

Max chuckled, his voice still raspy with sleep. "Because he’s surprisingly persuasive for someone who looks like a lost child."

Y/N groaned again. “I’m never listening to that idiot again. We need to stop letting Lando be in charge of our nights.”

“I agree. Never let Lando dictate our fun again,” Max chuckled, shifting to press another kiss on her temple. “I’m officially banning him.”

“Good.” She sighed contentedly, closing her eyes for just a little bit longer. “I could stay like this forever.”

“Me too,” Max whispered softly.

She giggled, pulling the blanket up over her head to block out the sun. "I still feel like death though."

"Same." Max shifted slightly, brushing her hair away from her face. "But at least I’m dying next to you, Schatje."

"Please don’t," she grumbled, but she couldn’t stop the smile spreading across her face. "Honestly, I blame you just as much as Lando. You were the one who said, ‘Let’s do tequila shots, it'll be fun!’"

"Because it was fun," Max shot back, smirking. "At least until we ended up making out in front of that elevator."

Y/N froze for a second before she groaned and threw a pillow over her face. "Ugh, don’t remind me. I’m still embarrassed."

Max rolled onto his side to face her, pulling the pillow off her head. "Why? You didn’t seem embarrassed at the time," he teased. "In fact, I seem to remember you being very enthusiastic about it."

Y/N’s face turned red. "Okay, okay, shut up!"

"I’m just saying." Max winked at her, then stretched, looking way too good for someone who was supposed to be hungover. "You looked cute."

"Great," she muttered, rolling her eyes but smiling. "Now I’m cute and dead."

Max snickered, then leaned over to kiss her forehead. "If you’re dead, I’m dead too, because Lando definitely spiked those drinks."

"Speaking of Lando, I’m pretty sure I need to blacklist him from my life," Y/N said, stretching lazily. She reached over the side of the bed and found her phone buried in her pile of clothes. "Let me see if he’s alive."

As soon as her phone powered on, it exploded with notifications. Text after text, missed call after missed call, all from the boys…and her brothers.

"Oh no," Y/N whispered, her eyes wide. She stared at the screen, frozen in horror. "Oh no, no, no." She scrolled through the chaos and saw that her brothers were leading the charge in spamming her. There were also dozens of missed calls, mostly from Charles, Arthur, and—“Why is Lorenzo involved? What the hell did we do last night?!”

Max, who was halfway to the bathroom, turned back around. "What’s wrong?"

Y/N held up her phone, showing him the sheer volume of missed calls. "Max, we’re screwed. We are so screwed."

Max’s eyebrows furrowed. "Who’s been calling?"

"Everyone. All the boys. My brothers. Even Lorenzo. And Arthur. This is a nightmare," Y/N said, her voice rising in panic.

Max blinked. "Lorenzo? That’s… that’s not good."

"No shit it’s not good!" Y/N shrieked, scrolling through her messages frantically. "I’m being hunted down by my entire family!"

Max grabbed his own phone from the nightstand, but it was dead. He shrugged. "I guess ignorance is bliss, huh?"

Y/N groaned, clutching her phone like it might explode. "You’re not helping, Max!"

She scrolled through the texts, all of which ranged from "CALL ME NOW!" to "What the hell is going on?" from Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo. Max peered over her shoulder, his brow furrowing.

"Okay, maybe it’s not that bad—" he started, but Y/N’s phone rang, cutting him off.

"Lando," Y/N muttered. "This idiot better have some answers." She answered the call. "Lando, what the hell did you do?!"

"Me?!" Lando’s voice screeched through the phone. "This isn’t my fault! I wasn’t the one making out with Max in front of an elevator!"

Y/N slapped her forehead, and Max burst into laughter. "Oh my God, Lando, seriously?!"

"Yes! Seriously!" Lando was practically hyperventilating on the other end of the call. "Photos got leaked from last night! You two were caught being all cozy, and now everyone knows. Charles called me at like 6 AM, and I thought I was gonna die. Arthur called next, and then Lorenzo—LORENZO! I had to confess, Y/N! I caved under pressure!"

Y/N’s eyes widened in horror. "Oh my God, Lando!"

"I’m a dead man! You’re a dead woman! We’re all dead!" Lando rambled, his voice climbing an octave with each sentence. "Charles is pissed, Arthur is even worse, and Lorenzo…Lorenzo is probably getting a hitman involved. And now they’re all at your apartment waiting for you!"

"Wait, what? They’re at my apartment?!" Y/N shrieked.

"Yes!" Lando cried. "They’re waiting for you, Y/N! They want answers!"

Max, who had been listening in, leaned closer to the phone. "What exactly are they mad about?"

"MAX! Oh God, Max, you’re so dead," Lando screeched. "They saw the pictures of you two—holding hands, kissing, being all ‘Schatje’ this and ‘Liefje’ that. And now they want to know why no one told them."

Y/N buried her face in her hands. "This is a nightmare."

Lando continued rambling, clearly losing his grip on reality. "Charles was so mad, he almost broke his phone when I told him I knew about you two. And Arthur? He’s got murder in his eyes. Murder, Y/N. I’m not even safe!. Arthur called me ‘an accomplice,’ and I’m honestly afraid for my life right now.”

Y/N exchanged a horrified look with Max. "We’re all doomed," she muttered.

Max, surprisingly calm, shrugged. "I mean, what’s the worst that could happen?"

"Death, Max," Y/N replied, her voice shaking with disbelief. "The worst is death."

Lando piped up again. "You guys need to come up with a plan. Fast. Charles, Arthur, and Lorenzo are about to storm the place like it’s a medieval siege."

Y/N was starting to spiral. "I need a plan! I need an escape route! I can’t face them like this!"

Max rubbed her back soothingly. "Relax, Schatje. We’ll go to your apartment, deal with them, and explain everything."

"Max, they’re gonna skin you alive," Y/N said, glaring at him. "You really think they’ll just let this slide? You’re dating their sister."

"And I’ll just tell them that I’ve got good intentions." Max smirked. "Maybe we can distract them with snacks."

"Lorenzo doesn’t do snacks," Y/N deadpanned.

Lando was still panicking on the other end. "I’m staying far away from this. You’re on your own!"

Y/N groaned. "Lando, you’re supposed to help!"

"I can’t help you if I’m dead, Y/N!" Lando whined. "I’m too pretty to die young!"

Max sighed, rubbing his temples. "Alright, let’s just get this over with."

Y/N looked at him, both amused and horrified. "You’re way too calm for someone who’s about to be slaughtered by my family."

Max winked at her. "I’ve got my secret weapon: my irresistible charm."

Lando’s voice piped up again. “If I don’t hear from you in the next 24 hours, I’ll assume you’ve both been murdered by Charles.”

"Yeah, you’re definitely gonna need more than that," Y/N muttered.

Lando interrupted one last time. "Good luck, guys. You’re gonna need it."

“Thanks, Lando. Very reassuring.” Y/N hung up and looked at Max, feeling the anxiety slowly building. “What do we do?”

Y/N tossed her phone onto the couch. She stood up, pacing the room. "This is bad. This is so bad. They’re probably already plotting my demise."

Max stood up and stretched, clearly unbothered. "I’ll take responsibility. I’ll tell them I made the first move."

Y/N laughed, despite the panic bubbling in her chest. "Oh, that’s gonna go over great."

"Don’t worry," Max said, walking over to her and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. "I’ll protect you."

She looked up at him, eyes wide. "You’re delusional."

"Maybe," Max grinned, "but I’m delusional for you."

Y/N shook her head, grabbing his hand. "Come on, let’s go. Might as well face the music before they break down my door."

"Or your phone," Max quipped.

Y/N glared at him. "This is all your fault."

Max smirked. "Maybe. But you love me anyway."

She groaned but didn’t deny it, knowing full well that Max was right—about both things.

Y/N ran her hand through her hair, trying to calm herself down. “Okay, okay. We’ll go back to my apartment and figure this out.”

Max stood up, stretching. “I’ll make sure to bring snacks for the interrogation.”

Y/N laughed, despite herself. “You’re way too calm about this.”

“Maybe I like living dangerously,” Max said, smirking.

“Or maybe you just have a death wish.”

“Either way,” Max replied, leaning down to kiss her on the cheek, “I’m with you.”

Y/N rolled her eyes but smiled. “Well, you better be. Because we’re both about to face the firing squad.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──