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kpopsexstories · 2 days ago

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17. TXT Yeonjun ‘Boyfriend’ Lazy Romance

Hi there person who sent 20+ requests for gay versions of stories I've originally written as straight 👋 Thank you so much for doing that! 🤭

Here comes a gay story for the above request, plus the request "19. TXT Yeonjun ‘Boyfriend’ Missionary Sex (Lazy Romance Bonus Story)".

In this gay (x male reader) version I've combined the two original stories: Quick Fix #39: Yeonjun ‘Boyfriend’ Lazy Romance, and Quick Fix #45: Yeonjun ‘Boyfriend’ Morning Missionary Sex, both from Quick Fix Season 5 🙂

I've changed the gender of the reader/partner, edited the s*x accordingly, and added a blowjob (because why not?). What I'm giving you today is one longer gay one-shot that I think turned out really hot 🌶️

So yeah, please enjoy! And do let me know in a comment or private message how you think this re-write from straight to gay turned out.

GAY ONE-SHOT #15: TXT Yeonjun 'Boyfriends' (Gay Version)

This is a 100% gay story. Check out this post for my straight smut and this post for more gay smut.

Idol: NCT Yeonjun

Content: You cuddle with Yeonjun in bed and discuss the burning question: are we a couple? The confirmation of your relationship status leads to hot sex.

Type of Sex: Romantic/sweet, Blowjob, Missionary, Cumshots

Word Count: 3.9k

There's no doubt that Yeonjun is your best friend, but the fact hasn't dawned on you until recently. You think about him all the time, spend time with him almost daily, and he's the one you want to call when you're excited or sad about something. You can no longer lie to yourself: this is getting serious.

You finally started to realize how close you have become when you had sex for the first time. It happened so naturally, felt so good, and considering that it was your first time receiving anal sex he was so sweet throughout the whole thing.

He took it slow, touched you gently, and kept asking if you were okay. Since then you've lost count of how many nights you've spent in his apartment.

This morning you wake up alone. There's no response when you call Yeonjun's name, but the warm sheets beside you tell you that he's been there until recently. He's probably just gone to the bathroom, or to make you breakfast in bed the way he sometimes does.

You smile and yawn and stretch your arms and bare torso. You look out the window and feel the bright light on your skin. Your body and mind is slowly coming to life, and you feel all happy and giddy inside.

Then you hear drawn-out footsteps in the hallway, and you turn to look at the wide-open door. Yeonjun lazily appears in it, slouching and barely lifting his feet off the ground. His hair is a hot mess, and all he's wearing is the underwear he slept in. So sexy.

He stops and stares at you. You giggle when you see his tired face. “Morning babe,” you say and chuckle. He's never been an early bird.

“Morning,” he mumbles and scratches his chest while yawning. Then he slowly makes his way back to you.

You roll to face him and lean on your elbow while he lifts the duvet to crawl back into bed with you. For a second he looks down at your legs and bulge, smirks and winks with his eyebrows. You giggle again and playfully pull on the duvet to cover up your exposed body.

He comes to lie beside you. The mattress jumps as he huddles up close in your arms and makes himself comfortable. You touch his naked skin and kiss his sweet lips, and rub your nose against his cheek.

“How did you sleep?” he asks with his eyes closed. You feel his legs and feet brush against yours under the covers.

“Amazing,” you say and it's not a lie. You haven't felt this good and rested in ages. “You look exhausted.”

Yeonjun opens his eyes and smirks. “It's your fault,” he says and pulls you closer by the hip. He puts an arm around your back and buries his face in your hair, and the giddy excitement in your heart intensifies.

Mornings like this make life worth living. And who are you kidding, you're not just good friends anymore, are you?

This is the question you've been pondering, and which returns to you when you lovingly look down at the head of the sweet man in your arms.

It occurred to you for the first time last night. Are we an actual couple? You feel a strong desire to find out if, maybe, hopefully, probably but not necessarily, he's wondering and hoping the same thing.

“Yeonjun?” you say in a low voice while stroking his warm back.

“Mm?” he mumbles by your neck. When you don't say anything else he lifts his head and looks into your eyes. His piercing gaze sends a strong current running through your heart and body.

You're afraid to ask. You don't want to ruin the friendship. But you've just slept together, again, and you need to know.

Little do you know that Yeonjun has indeed been having the same thoughts and questions on his mind. For the past few weeks it's all he's been able to think about. He even wrote a song about it, perhaps realizing your feelings for each other even before you did so yourself.

Now, there's something about your loving look that makes him think about it again, but he's scared too. He decides to open the door, but simultaneously to pass the ball back to you: “Why are you looking at me like I'm your boyfriend?”

It's like he's reading your mind. That's exactly what you want him to be. God, why does this make me so nervous?

“Because I love you,” you blurt out. That's more than you intended to say, but better stay calm.

Yeonjun's lips turn into a smile. A faint one at first, as he processes your words. Then it grows large and out of control, like he can't keep his happy emotions in check.

“I love you too,” he says.

His eyes are glimmering. You press a little harder on his back and start to smile too out of relief. The pause that follows feels like an eternity, until he comes in for a long, hot kiss on the lips.

“I love you,” he repeats. “I've wanted to tell you that for so long.”

“Why haven't you?” you ask in between soft kisses.

“I was afraid you'd think it was too soon.”

“Is it too soon?”

“Maybe. I don't care. I love you.”

There's no describing the intense feelings you have in this very moment. For a while there you honestly thought you fucked up. Now the giddiness inside you multiplies tenfold, and you feel both relieved and incredibly happy.

Your soft kisses quickly turn into a make-out session. You feel a tingle and your boner grows. Yeonjun's body stiffens as he touches your skin, which fills you both with excitement.

You rub your hips and covered dicks together, creating a wonderful sensation, and explore his smooth torso with your fingers.

His large hand ventures to areas no ordinary friend would touch. “Mm,” you moan with your eyes closed.

Yeonjun starts to pant softly, each time his bulge is pressed against yours. “I'll be your boyfriend if you want me to,” he whispers.

It makes you chuckle. “Yeah,” you whisper back. Yes! More than anything!

Yeonjun attacks you with his lips, as if your confirmation brings him immense joy. Your love-making quickly turns more passionate as lust and desire takes over, and when you roll slightly on your back while your tongue is inside his mouth he quickly follows and climbs on top of you.

Your bodies glide together. You spread your legs for him. His hand explores your chest, while the other moves down your side and he sticks his fingers inside your underwear.

His soft panting escalates. You caress his back and hold him close around the shoulder. Then he briefly lifts his body, putting weight on his knees, and reaches in to pull your underwear down.

You let him get you naked and lift your ass from the mattress, to allow his hand to go over your cheeks. Your dick is released which makes you feel good and free, and the sight of his gorgeous figure and soft skin, in combination with the intense love, makes your heart sing.

No questions or further confirmation are needed. You've done this part before, many times in recent months. But when you smile and look up and down the hot man between your thighs and kick the underwear off your feet – and he looks down at you with a horny affection – you both know that this will be the best time yet.

“I love you,” you repeat, and you genuinely mean it. He's not just your best friend, he's your lover, your partner. And now that has been cemented with a label: your boyfriend.

To have put a label on your close friendship and sexual relationship feels good. Real good. Amazing, even. My boyfriend, you think and can’t stop smiling, suddenly feeling very awake.

So does Yeonjun, when he comes back down on your stripped body. He plants his lips on your chest, strokes the full length of you, and slowly begins to grind against you while your legs are pushed further apart.

Horny and in love you hold him in your arms, feel his lower back, and glide down to massage his ass. You both keep moaning softly while you raise your knees by his sides, gently exploring each other until you slip your fingers in and push his underwear down.

The way the weight of his body rubs against your boner sends little shockwaves of pleasure from your groin. When you squeeze and push down on the ass he exhales deeply, and for a moment his passionate grinding intensifies.

You slide the underwear over his cheeks which prompts him to push up again. This time, he sits all the way on his knees and takes the underwear off, while you extend your arm to feel his smooth front.

Your eyes meet and you giggle. Your heart is beating fast and your cock is throbbing. Then your hand falls, to the long and hard shaft down below, and you wrap your fingers around it.

Yeonjun closes his eyes, opens his mouth, and throws his head back. He stands tall between your thighs and faces the ceiling, while you lovingly begin to stroke him.

“Ahh,” he moans. “Ahh, yeah, I love you so much babe.”

His words make you smile. You squeeze a little tighter and stroke a little faster.

“Ahh, yeah, babe!”

Yeonjun suddenly jolts. He falls forward, quickly planting his hands by your sides to stop himself from crashing down on you. Then he opens his eyes, stares directly down at your face with an intense lust written all over him, and slowly resumes the arousing grinding of his hips and pelvis against yours.

His dick brushes against the inside of your thigh. His balls play with yours, and the head runs up along your shaft. It all sends such a strong sexual pleasure to every fiber of your body that you buck your hip upwards and grab onto his arms hard.

“Ahhh, fuck!” you exclaim. Just this incredible sensation alone makes your ass so loose and ready for your first time as an official couple.

Yeonjun smiles wide, happy that he's able to make you feel this way. He gently lowers himself onto you.

“Mmm, mmm,” you both moan when you kiss, and your naked bodies glide together as one.

Then his lips jump down to your chest. He crawls further away while he wets your front, from the chest to your bellybutton, while holding your waist and hips. Eventually he reaches your rock hard dick, lifts his head to see it, and gives it a loving kiss.

“Ahhh, fuck babe!” you repeat and jerk again, when he takes the dick in his mouth. He licks it, closes his lips tight around it, and begin to bob his head up and down.

You want to scream his name right then and there, to proclaim your love to the world and announce how fucking amazing he makes you feel. Physically, emotionally, in this very moment and on all other days.

You reach out and grab onto his messy hair with both hands. You keep bucking your hip, shoving your dick deep into his big mouth. He drowns it in saliva and the sensation is so strong that pre-cum fills him up and he gets a taste of your produce on his tongue.

It makes him pleased. To watch you squirm like this is one of his favorite hobbies. But even though you've been in this position before, it's never felt as good as it does right now.

Eventually the dick falls back out, when Yeonjun pulls up and quickly returns toward you.

His body aligns with yours once more as he straightens out, and you get a taste of the salvia around his mouth when you kiss.

You wrap your legs around your boyfriend, and repeatedly buck your hip to maintain the intense sensation he gave you. You share his spit with him, both in your mouths and down below as your dicks brush and rub together.

You touch his back and naked ass, and hold him tight around the shoulder. His hands run up and down your sides with a strong and powerful passion, and you briefly think that you've never been this horny before.

He kisses and licks your neck which makes you laugh. You spread your knees wide for him and let out deep sighs. Then he lifts his ass and head again, and reaches in to find and guide his cock.

You both freeze. All that laughter disappears. You look into each other's eyes and maintain eye contact, while he focuses on getting the dick in place. You're not quite sure what is going on down there, but you know that you're about to be penetrated.

He explores your ass with a finger. It finds your hole and briefly goes in, just the tip as he finds his way and navigates the space between you.

You feel his warm breath on your face. The finger goes back out and is replaced with the tip of the dick, which is gently pressed against the opening.

“I love you,” Yeonjun whispers, while he slowly lets himself sink down and the pressure against your hole increases.

You bend your knees higher and lift your ass slightly to find a better angle. Yeonjun uses his hand to keep the dick straight, and looks serious and completely focused.

You both hold your breaths as the hole begins to expand. The head is slowly pushed inside, Yeonjun's saliva and pre-cum lubing it up.

You grimace, but when the head pops all the way in and the most painful part is over you relax, and your body sinks down into the mattress.

Yeonjun relaxes too, as his hand returns to your body and he pulls himself up to kiss your lips. The higher he pulls, he deeper his dick goes, and soon your hole has swallowed half the shaft.

It feels amazing. The great sensation of his cock inside you is one you've gotten used to. But to be fucked like this by your boyfriend, slow and with a new-found sense of love, really is something else.

Yeonjun's lips stay on yours as you slowly begin to rock as one. You pant lowly into each other's mouths, sometimes open your eyes, and the dick glides in and out of your body.

You carefully stroke his arms and shoulders. You brush your feet against his leg while his hand goes up and down along your side, and you press your foreheads together.

You both keep moaning and panting softly. “Mmm, mmm, haaah, haaah, mmm, yeah.”

Yeonjun briefly grimaces, then becomes relaxed again and smiles. “Mmm, mmm, my boyfriend,” he whispers.

You giggle again, and lovingly stroke his side and lift your head to kiss his lips. The kiss lingers, until Yeonjun closes his eyes hard and jolts.

He grunts and abruptly draws a deep breath. “Ahhh, ahhhh, fuck you feel so tight!”

You smile wide and squeeze your arms around his body.

“Ahh, ahhhh, fuck!”

The great sensation makes your boyfriend pick up the pace. His head slides down the side of your face and your hands glide down his back. Your legs remain wrapped around him when you feel his cheeks, and he thrusts with a passion that makes his ass clench and become firm each time the dick is pushed inside.

The ass jumps up and down on top of you. Yeonjun's nose and forehead press against your head and neck, and the panting in your ear grows louder. You feel the full length of his body in your arms, and open your mouth as you face the ceiling.

The mattress shakes and squeaks and the frame slams against the wall. Then Yeonjun's lips suddenly return to yours, and when they do he immediately slows down and his muscles soften, and you both sense a total relaxation rush over you.

He's trying to make this last. He wants to fuck you forever, especially now. But you could make him come just by touching his dick which would be too soon, and he must concentrate to control himself and not release.

When he sinks down between your legs the throbbing boner remains hard and tightly squeezed inside you. You do tiny jolts with your hips and the head rubs against your soft insides, while your hole occasionally narrows and the rim licks around the center of the shaft.

Yeonjun works hard to catch his breath. You look at him with love in your eyes and smile again. You keep making out, lips and tongues playing, while he slowly regains his strength and the orgasm which was already so near gets a moment to fall back.

Gradually, he rocks a little faster back and forth. His thrusts return, but they're gentle and not so intense. “You okay?” he asks and smiles down at you, and the look on your face tells him everything he needs to know.

“Yeah,” you whisper and caress his skin. “Yeah, I really am.”

He gives you another kiss on the lips, then on your nose, then your forehead. His mouth jumps down your face and you giggle, until he reaches your neck and you moan.

The lustful sound makes him shift gear again. He pushes himself slightly up on his hand and arm, stares directly at you, and your legs slide down his sides.

He spreads his knees slightly and holds on to your waist. He glances down between you as his ass moves back and forth. Each time he thrusts into you he inhales, and you open your mouth wide to let out abrupt puffs of air.

Your body starts to rock gently again as the sex picks up the pace further. In this position the dick rubs you in just the right spot, and you quickly feel an intense orgasm building.

You reach in between your bodies and grab your dick. You stroke it, while Yeonjun fucks you with soft but passionate motions, and become transported to a realm of pure physical and emotional pleasure.

Every movement and shift between the two of you feels stronger, wilder and more filled with love than any previous time you've done this. The way he fucks you, looks at you and touches you is a deep pleasure like none you've ever experienced before.

You've crossed a barrier by saying the words ‘I love you’, and by confirming what you both hoped for.

You've never been so hot for a man in your life as you are for Yeonjun in this moment. He’s your boyfriend, and you are his. That's why the sex you're now having is the best you've ever had in your life.

Yeonjun returns to your face but keeps his weight on his elbows. You let go of your dick and pull out your hand as he starts to moan again while thrusting increasingly fast. His ass jumps up and down in bigger motions than before, causing your body to catapult high as the springs of the mattress push you up, and the full length of his shaft to be tightly licked by your hole.

The immense desire in the way he breathes makes the wonderful sensation feel even stronger. “Mm, mm, mm,” he repeats with each jolt, as your bodies clap together.

You squeeze his hips with your thighs. “Mm, Yeonjun!” you exclaim which surprises you, because you've never said his name during sex before and now you’ve done it twice.

The jumping turns into a lustful rocking motion again. “Ahh, ahh, yeah, I love you so much,” he grunts while grimacing, before he comes crashing back down and you feel the full length and weight of his body.

He uses his spread knees on the bed to push and an arm behind your shoulder to pull. “Mm-mm-mm-mm!”

You hold him tighter and open your mouth wide to let out air and catch your breath.

“Ahh, ahh, fu-uuck, I love you!”

You feel the orgasm coming which makes you buck your hip, just as you did when he blew you, repeatedly jamming it against Yeonjun's passionate pelvis.

You throw your head back and squirm, and your arms and hands begin to shiver. Your whole body is filled with a euphoric bliss, seconds before you climax.

“Ahh, Yeonjun!” you exclaim again, louder this time. Ahh, yes, YEES, Yeonjun, fuck me, Ah-Ah-Ah-AHHHHHH!

Every muscle in your body stiffens. Yeonjun goes even faster and feels hot and tense. You can sense his grimacing face press against your neck while he moves his ass quickly up and down, rocks his body back and forth, and grunts louder than ever in your ear, until he too reaches his peak and his dick erupts inside you.

“Mm, MMMM, MMMMPFH,” he groans, a muffled sound drenched in desire. “Mm-mm-mm-ahhhhh, MMMMMM, MMPFHHHHHH!”

He jolts several times while he unloads. His dick jerks which only makes you more eager for it. Then you reach your own orgasm, without even touching your dick, and an intense sensation rushes from your groin and through your shaft.

Your dick is squeezed between Yeonjun's stomach and yours. It throbs hard, when your load is pushed through it and shoots out from the tip.

Yeonjun collapses on top of you and squeezes your side and waist. You feel very hot, almost sweaty but not quite, and shiver again as the strong rush of your orgasm begins to fade.

“Ahh, fuck,” Yeonjun sighs loudly. This is also a first, as he's never been this passionate and audible when you've had sex before.

“Mmm, Mmm,” you pant slowly while gasping for air. “I love you Yeonjun.”

“Ahh, babe,” he says. “Fuck you're amazing. Mmmmm, I love you too, so much.”

*****

You lay naked in Yeonjun's arm, resting on his shoulder, watching his chest and stomach move high up and down while you trace your fingers over his body. You feel spent but happier than ever.

That was incredible sex, short but stronger than ever, thanks to the physical and emotional connection between you.

You're not sure if Yeonjun has drifted off to sleep again. He's on his back and his eyes are closed when you lift your head to check. You stretch your neck to kiss his lips and he suddenly turns to face you.

“Why are you looking at me like I'm your boyfriend?” he asks with a playful grin when he opens his eyes.

“Because you are,” you say and smile back at him.

He pulls your head closer and gives you a kiss on the nose. “I like that,” he says, before leaning back on the pillow and you return to his shoulder.

You remain in this position for who knows how long. More than an hour, probably. Just resting, loving, feeling.

As amazing as the sex was, lazy mornings like this are what makes you really happy. You can't wait to have many more of them together, as a couple, and to tell the whole world about your decision: that Yeonjun is your boyfriend, and that you are his.

Recommended Stories:

TXT Soobin & Yeonjun Post-performance Sex

BTS Jungkook x TXT Yeonjun (Big Brother, Little Brother)

TXT Yeonjun ‘Boyfriend’ Lazy Romance (the original straight story)

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divinedomainn · 5 months ago

Text

Stream and Scream | reader x multiple men

play previous song? || ◁ PART 1 ▷ || play next song?

summary : After another horny stream, you drop the bomb: fuck-a-fan fridays—seven weeks, seven fans, seven filthy videos. masks on, faces hidden, just you and one lucky subscriber tangled up on camera each week. All they have to do? strip down, get hard, and show you why it should be them. Auditions start now.

contains : camgirl!reader x a whole ass roster, rotating cast, university AU, smut, porn with kinda a crack plot, casual sex, anonymous sex, exhibitionism, recording, oral sex, piv sex, rough kinky sex, everyone wants to fuck reader, horny simp men

A/N : and so it starts!!! is everyone ready to see the submissions from your favorite horndogs? :) (also i hope you can tell whose who hehehe) i'm trying to keep the writing inclusive for every sort of female presenting person so let me know how i've done!

The next few weeks passed in a blur of lace, lube, and direct deposits that made your head spin. What had started as a desperate half-joke had morphed into a full-blown empire - your empire. The girl who once contemplated selling her underwear for gas money was now clearing rent, tuition, groceries, and still had enough left over to drop serious coin on clothes and silk bed sheets.

You’d gone to the next level. Your friends were of course benefitting from your suspiciously newfound wealth, you casually said you had found a better part-time job, never letting them know the truth when you decided to take them shopping. Not yet at least.

Private requests were your bread and butter. You weren’t just good anymore - you were a professional tease, a digital siren with a library of toys, outfits, and vocal tones that could bring grown men to their knees. They paid for everything; soft whispers, rough talk, slow stroking, filthy roleplays. Some just oddly wanted to hear your moans on loop. Others wanted personalized videos where you called them by username and told them exactly what you’d do if they ever had the balls to show up in person.

You were making big bank. Like “accidental tax bracket change” big. Like “should probably consult a financial advisor” big.

And the men?

Oh, the men were obsessed.

Especially the regulars. Their usernames lit up your screen night after night, tipping with reckless abandon, flooding the chat with unfiltered thirst. You didn’t know who they were in real life, yet, but their personalities bled through the screen in such vivid, chaotic little ways.

EmoWithaBoner was yearning. Desperate in a way that made your chest clench and your thighs twitch. His messages were usually soft, almost sweet - You deserve everything, You looked so beautiful tonight - until something cracked open inside him mid-message and he’d type something crazy like: I would lick your cunt until you beg me to stop. Now that had gotten a small “Oh.” out of you. He wanted to worship you and ruin you all at once.

SixEyesOnly was a fucking menace. Flirty, cocky, constantly sending emojis that were way too smug for someone probably watching with only one hand available. His tips were ridiculous, like, spend $300 just to watch you eat grapes in a bad wig slowly sort of ridiculous, and his messages read like he was trying to fluster you on purpose. You assumed it was some sort of control thing with him, throwing money at people and getting them to do it. No complaints from you.

TempleOfSin was smooth, a little poetic, a little filthy. He asked for long, descriptive videos where you described what you were wearing, how you’d touch him, how you'd taste. He liked to also order roleplay videos where you pretended to worship him like he was some sort of God. Sometimes he called you his loyal little follower. You didn’t ask questions.

daddyissuez was feral. No other word for it. His requests were blunt, primal, always toeing the line of what the platform allowed and your own, now lacking, self-control. He liked spit, degradation, and power games. His tipping was sporadic and a lot less compared to the others, though, it was enough to keep him in your attention.

OfficeAfterHours was different. Polite. Polished. His messages came like little business memos laced with innuendo. “You looked stunning tonight. That color suits you,” followed by a $200 tip telling you to buy more in the same color. Never crude, always composed. It made him stand out more, somehow. Like a man who didn’t need to beg. A man who expected what he wanted, and always got it.

And then there was KingOfRot.

Unpredictable. Crude. Arrogant. He dropped tips like they were nothing. $500 just because you looked at the camera in a way he said was like a ‘deer in the headlights’. Odd, but $500 was a good amount to keep your mouth shut. He called you “pet,” “whore,” “delicious little thing.” You should’ve blocked him. Instead, you kept reading his messages twice over with your jaw unhinged and in wonderment whether or not he actually said that. His energy was intense and you hated how hot that was.

Which brings us to tonight.

You were perched in your new silk sheets, ring light warm against your skin, wearing your most transparent slip where your nipples were clearly on display and a smug little smirk behind that now iconic mask of yours. You’d hyped this stream for days - teased it on your feed, hinted at it in DMs. The chat was already on fire and you hadn’t even said a word yet. Tonight was a big one.

EmoWithaBoner: god ur so fucking hot tonight SixEyesOnly: i logged in 15 minutes early and i still feel late :(( OfficeAfterHours: You’ve outdone yourself this evening. KingOfRot: Come on, get to the fucking point, girl.

You grinned, slow and lethal, dragging your fingers along your inner thigh and ignoring KingOfRot.

“Well,” you purred, “I figured since you’ve all been very generous lately… it’s time I give something back.”

SixEyesOnly: oh fuck You licked your lips, loving the short little power trip it gave you. “I’ve been thinking,” you said, voice sweet and dangerous. “Maybe it’s time to start a little… tradition.”

You paused for dramatic effect.

“Fuck-a-Fan Fridays.” You bit your lip. Boom. Chat detonation. SixEyesOnly had sent you $200 just for the phrase.

EmoWithaBoner: you’re joking SixEyesOnly: oh shit baby TempleOfSin: Perfect. KingOfRot: You say when and where, pet. daddyissuez: i’ll be first. fuck the line OfficeAfterHours: I trust you've thought this through..

You leaned in close. OfficeAfterHours was cute in the way he was concerned for you. “I mean, why stop at one, right?” You giggled, cheeks burning behind your mask as you kicked your feet a little bit out of the view of your webcam. “I was gonna keep it casual, but um… yeah. What if I made it a thing? Like, a series?”

Another pause. You leaned in even closer, lowering your voice to a conspiratorial whisper that still carried heat.

“One fan. Every Friday. For seven weeks.”

You crossed your bare legs over one another, your slip rising on your thighs as you did so. “Seven Fridays. Seven people. Seven chances to fuck the brains out of a very nervous, very willing woman who cannot believe she’s actually saying this live right now.”

You sat up again, brushing the slip back into place like your nipples weren’t clearly on display.

“I mean..obviously, we’ll keep it anonymous. Like, we’re not stupid here. Masks. No faces. Just hands. Bodies. And my camera.” The chat was still in full meltdown, comments stacking so fast the shitty platform could barely keep up. Your heart was pounding, your skin warm and tingling from the high of it all—of watching them fall apart just from your voice, your words, the soft shift of silk and skin. You hadn’t even done anything explicit yet, and they were on their knees.

God, it was addictive.

You stretched your arms overhead with a soft sigh, the movement pulling your slip just high enough to tease your hips. A final little gift before the curtain dropped.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” you said with a giggle, feigning innocence even as your gaze sparkled with something much dirtier. “You guys are gonna give me a heart attack.” SixEyesOnly: no no no don’t leave yettt!! :(( KingOfRot: You owe me for the buildup, woman. You tilted your head, lips curving into a sweet little smile as you leaned forward, giving them just one more generous view of your tits before the curtains closed.

“But before I go…” you said, voice slipping into something quieter, softer, like a secret you didn’t mean to share. “If you’re serious about Fuck-a-Fan Fridays… I want you to show me.”

The pause that followed had its own kind of weight. You watched the chat stall for half a second. The anticipation was thick enough to choke on.

“Send me a message,” you murmured, “with a picture. No face. Just your body, and cock, obviously.”

You let your fingers trail down your own torso, to your hips, your thighs, hinting at what you wanted to see. “Let me see what I’d be touching.. What I’ll be fucked braindead by.” EmoWithaBoner: fuck i’ll take a hundred SixEyesOnly: don’t lose your mind too much baby KingOfRot: It’ll be mine you dream about when you touch yourself. OfficeAfterHours: Submission will follow shortly. No face. Clean framing. High quality.

You had to laugh—giddy and a little breathless. You honestly didn’t think they’d go this feral.

“Think of it as an audition,” you said, tucking your knees to your chest, playing sweet again. “Show me what you’re offering. How you’d fit against me. In me.”

You smoothed your hand up your own thigh, lazily now, teasing.

“And just so you know,” you added with a little grin, “I’m only really looking at the ones who’ve tipped enough to keep my attention. You know who you are.”

Oh, they most definitely did.

The seven of them were already scrambling—photos incoming, tips rolling, blood leaving their brains. You didn’t need names. Their usernames were burned into your memory. Their obsessions with you were paying your bills.

“Goodnight, boys,” you whispered. “Impress me.” The second you ended the stream, you collapsed backward into your pillows with a dazed little laugh, limbs spread like you’d just run a marathon and won a gold medal in filth. The glow from your laptop cast a soft haze across your legs, the screen already lighting up with the chaos you’d left behind—tips still pouring in, messages stacking, your inbox begging for attention.

And the photos?

Oh, they were already flooding in, from people you didn’t want, but it was there regardless - upping your activity.

You rolled onto your stomach, chin resting in your palm as you clicked open the first one with a half-curious, half-unhinged smile.

No face, just like you asked. Neck down. The guy was standing in front of a mirror, one hand wrapped tight around his cock, the other lifting his hoodie to show off his chest. His abs were flexed. His cock hard enough to cast a shadow.

You blinked. Let out a slow breath.

“…Damn.”

Another one came in. Different guy, different vibe—tattoos on his hips, hand slick and stroking himself in a dimly lit bathroom, captioned: Fridays look good on me. Want to see how I look underneath you?

“Oh my god,” you whispered, laughing as you pulled your legs up behind you. “This is real. I’m really doing this.”

And you were. One fan. Every Friday. Seven weeks. Seven videos. Each one getting posted to your feed, available for your hundreds of subscribers to watch, rewatch, tip on, comment under, and probably break their dicks to.

It wasn’t just a hookup. It was content. Premium content.

Still riding the rush, you opened your messaging panel and started typing.

New Mass Message Sent to All Subscribers:

Hey babes— If you missed the stream tonight (rip to you), here’s your official invite.

Fuck-a-Fan Fridays is happening. Starting next week, I’ll be choosing seven of you to spend one very intimate night with me. Every Friday for the next seven weeks, I’ll be posting a new video. One fan. One full-length scene. Just me… and whoever impresses me the most.

How to audition:- Send me a photo. - Neck down only. No faces. Masks will be worn on camera, so full anonymity will be protected. But I need to see everything. Cock out. Hard. Your body. Your vibe. The way you'd look on camera—underneath me, on top of me, behind me, inside me.

Show off a little. Or a lot.

Make me want it. Let the auditions begin.

xoxo,

—Your girl

taglist : @frozenmallows @90s-belladonna @moncher-ire @kunareads @blublublubby @grignardsreagent @soozeu @mochiivqi @sweetsformysoul @killak9mi @celloccino @gurlhere4fluff @syubseokie

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rafesangelita · 5 months ago

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♡ covering stepbro!rafe’s mouth while you ride him

warnings: rafe lecturing you lol, unprotected sex, groping, spanking, hair pulling, biting, teasing (?), cream pie

a/n: inspired by this p!link ૮ . . ྀིა⁩ send me a message or an ask if you’d like an invite to join my private community!!

“what the fuck are you doing?!” rafe rolled over upon hearing his bedroom door open, his eyes widening when he saw you walk in completely naked. “what?” you pouted, crawling into his bed. “you can’t just walk around like that, are you crazy?!” he shot up, making sure his door was locked before pinching the bridge of his nose. “our rooms are right next to each other.. no one saw me if that’s what you’re worried about.” rafe scoffed, shaking his head before grabbing ahold of your arm. “it doesn’t matter! anyone could’ve walked out of their rooms, and then what?!” you swatted his hands away, rolling your eyes.

you always found it ironic for rafe to act like he didn’t want you in his space, considering he had no problem taking up all of yours. “are you really gonna act like you don’t want me in here right now?” you batted your eyelashes at him, trailing a hand up his forearm as he sighed in defeat. “i just wanted to see you..” rafe blinked slowly, his eyes catching the way you bit your bottom lip as you palmed him through his underwear. you made things so hard for him, it was impossible to resist you. “please, let me use you, my fingers aren’t enough, ray,” rafe groaned, imagining you touching yourself next door, “i’m so wet already, you don’t have to do anything..”

like always, rafe let you have your way, both of you now laying in his sheets as you lined him up with your entrance. “you can’t make a sound, i mean it this time— holy shittt.” you smiled when rafe cursed under his breath, his hands resting in the curves of your hips as you sunk down onto his cock. pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw, you clamped a hand over his mouth as you started a steady pace, both of you moaning in unison. you were clenching around him so tight, rafe swore he could empty his load right then and there. “looks like you’re the one who has to be quiet—”

as if on cue, you shrieked when rafe thrusted into you from below, your clit pressing against his pubic bone as he wrapped a fist into your hair. knitting your eyebrows together, your mouth fell open as he started slamming his hips into your own. sitting up and pulling you up along with him, you bit into his shoulder as he locked your hands behind your back, prompting you to sit helplessly as he fucked you into oblivion. rafe ignored the sting of pain shooting up from his shoulder to his neck, the tension in his stomach threatening to release with every cry of his name.

you two were so fucked already when it came to keeping your depraved little ‘arrangement’ a secret, rafe knew it was pointless to shut you up even if he tried. landing a harsh smack to the flesh of your ass, he groped you in the same spot until you kissed him sloppily, your own high hitting you with an unforgivable force. rafe’s face scrunched up as if he was in pain even though he was experiencing anything but, and finally let go, his cum spurting inside of you as your walls fluttered around his length.

pulling out hastily, you gasped when he pushed you onto your back, both of you looking down as you two watched his seed dribble out of your glistening cunt. running his tongue over his bottom lip, rafe held your thighs open as he used his cock to gather his cum and glide it up and down your pretty folds. sighing contentedly, you looked up at rafe and felt your stomach erupt in butterflies when you saw that he was already looking at you. “you’re nothing but trouble, you know that?”

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lay-z · 26 days ago

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cw: 18+ | fem!Reader; (Sugar) Daddy kink; open ending

It’s a rare thing for you to indulge in this―spending time with your teammates off duty when there are so many things you could rather take care of than having a drink at a shady pub a little off base.

But they asked and you’ve all just returned from a tough mission, and this does feel better than trying to come down from the rush of being in the field all by yourself.

So, you dress up in civilian clothes like they do―nothing too fancy or flashy, but still nice.

The fabric of your jeans hugs the shape of your legs nicely, your sneakers feel so much more comfortable than your bulky combat boots―like you're walking on a fluffy cloud after spending the last weeks running with bricks attached to your feet―and your tight, long-sleeved shirt is neatly tucked into the waistband of your jeans, a nice leather belt cinching your waist and rounding up the look along with some simple jewellery you haven’t been able to wear outside yet.

Kyle is the first one to compliment you as you join the group waiting outside the pub, “Lookin’ good there, Sarge,” he remarks, flashing a toothy smile before taking another drag of his cigarette.

Next to him, Johnny whistles obnoxiously. “Aye, barely recognized ye there, doll. Did ye wash yer hair for once?”

Flipping him off good-naturedly, he wraps one arm around your shoulders loosely, barking out a laugh that even manages to make the captain crack a smile as he flicks ash from his cigar.

“Thought I was gonna be the late one,” you say, taking a swift glance around. You almost expect him to lurk in the shadows somewhere, but alas...

“Where’s the Lt.?”

Kyle shrugs, flicking the empty bud to the ground before stepping on it, while Johnny is already steering you towards the pub’s entrance.

“Knowing him, he might not join us at all.” Price comments, not quite answering your question, yet involuntarily crushing your hope that has been blossoming inside your chest since stepping out of the plane―when Johnny had first suggested to meet up for a drink.

Eventually, you let them drag you inside and towards an empty corner booth, and while the first round of drinks is ordered, you feel your private phone buzz in your back pocket.

Been a while, love. Tell me you've been a good girl for me.

Your cheeks warm as you glance at the screen, eyes flitting over the text preview from a new unknown number. It’s not that the text itself gets you hot and bothered, but the fact that someone might catch you in the act and figure out what you’ve been up to in your free time.

Tilting your screen to yourself discreetly, your nimble fingers fly over the letters.

Of course, I’ve been a good girl for you, Daddy. 🥰 Been just as busy, though. I’m so sorry about that. 🥺

And it doesn’t take long for him to reply.

Don’t be sorry, love. But show me something sweet now, will you? Daddy needs to see your pretty tits. Been too damn long.

And I’ll send you your allowance ASAP.

Biting your lower lip, your palms start to get clammy as you read his messages.

“Oi, you alright?”

It’s your captain who nudges your elbow, jolting you out of your thoughts. Locking your screen again, you nod jaggedly, forcing a smile.

“Yeah, I just gotta–” you start scooting out of the booth, “gotta use the restroom real quick.”

And you scatter like a mouse, feeling your teammates questioning gazes following up until you slip inside the women’s restroom and the door closes behind you.

The picture you take inside the relatively clean bathroom stall is nothing short a lewd tease.

Slipping out of your bra, you roll your nipples between your fingertips, tugging on them until their stiff and poking through your tight shirt.

Snap.

Cropping the pic and adjusting the lighting, you save it to your gallery before taking another.

This time, you tug your shirt up to your collarbones, gold necklace resting right above the valley of your naked tits, tiny pendant twinkling in the warm light of the old lightbulbs. Nipples hard, goosebumps pebbling on your exposed skin, breasts squished together to get the perfect picture for him.

Snap.

Cropped, adjusted, delivered. You stare at the chat as your nudes load on the screen before they’re swiftly marked with red heart emojis.

Christ, love. What Daddy would give to suck on those perfect nipples and bury my face between your gorgeous tits. Paint your skin with my load while I’m at it, too.

Thank you.

And suddenly, another alert pops up on your screen―one from your banking app this time. He’s already transferred your allowance along with a hefty tip.

It’s not really about the extra money you’re making but rather the validation and attention you’re gaining from these arrangements, given your lack of romantic relationships due to your job, and perhaps you keep telling yourself that you don’t have a favourite sugar daddy, even though this one is certainly more eloquent and exciting in his bluntness than most.

After putting on your bra again and tucking everything in place, you stuff your phone back into your pocket and make your way back to your teammates.

To your surprise, you immediately spot Simon’s hulking figure sitting at the booth now; dressed in all black and his balaclava secured in place over his face. The sight alone enough to make your heart skip several beats.

“There ye are, doll! Thought we’d lost ya already.” Johnny chuckles, his first pint halfway downed. You catch Kyle slipping out of the door for another smoke, phone pressed to his ear, leaving you alone with the rest as you slip back into your previous spot.

“Evenin’, sir,” you greet the newcomer as you reach for your own drink, somewhat desperate to keep your excitement hidden, your voice neutral. “Glad you made it.”

Across from you, Simon froze the moment you sat down. Tawny eyes widening behind his balaclava as he drinks in your appearance, pale cheeks flushing as his heartrate speeds up at once.

His eyes flicker down again, staring at the gold necklace resting oh so delicately around your neck.

#whimsical ᡣ𐭩 #simon ghost riley #call of duty #simon riley #simon riley x reader #cod #cod x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x you #ghost x you #cod smut #simon riley smut #tf 141 #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #john price

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buckysleftbicep · 3 months ago

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭 𐙚⋆°｡⋆

a/n: welcome to my masterlist, if any of the links aren't working, drop me an ask or a message!

requests are open!

disclaimer: some of my works include nsfw themes / 18+ content, all my works have content warnings, and nsfw fics are labelled with a 'ᯓ★' so minors please do not interact, thank you!

last updated: 6th July 2025

cornelia street

ONE SHOTS

— your love is a secret, i’m hoping, dreaming, dying to keep

just one race ᯓ★ | biker!bucky barnes x fem!biker!reader (modern au) summary: two years ago, you fucked bucky and never called back. when he sees you again, he's not just racing for the win.

winning streak | hockey captain!bucky barnes x fem!reader (modern au) summary: the national title on the line. one last goal. and bucky doesn’t skate to the trophy — he runs to you.

no sudden moves ᯓ★ | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: a mission had gone to hell, wounded and cornered, you and bucky hide in a shaft barely wide enough for one. it starts with a touch, and it ends with you coming undone in his hands.

private gallery ᯓ★ | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: sexting while he’s on a mission seemed like a good idea, until bucky comes home early and fucks you like he’s been counting the days.

in too deep ᯓ★ | dom!new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader summary: you told bucky it was your ovulation week and he took that as a challenge. you really, really, should’ve kept your mouth shut. based on this request

what home feels like | new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (5 + 1 trope) summary: the 5 times bucky thinks of proposing to you and the 1 time he does

soft hands, heavy heart ᯓ★ | inexperienced!new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: bucky wants you, but he just doesn’t know how to let himself have you. but you’ll spend every second showing him how it feels to be wanted.

daddy's best friend ᯓ★ | dbf!bucky x fem!reader (modern au) summary: your dad’s best friend has been avoiding your eyes all night, until he’s got you pinned against the laundry room door, hand up your thigh. it’s everything you shouldn’t want, but you always do.

little black dress ᯓ★ | new avenger!dom!bucky x fem!reader summary: you and bucky have always danced the line between desire and something more. but he never made his move, so you showed him exactly what it looked like when john does.

swipe right | grumpy!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader summary: sam thinks bucky needs to get back out there. he suggests tinder—and really, who better to ask for advice than you? things change when he asks what you're looking for.

under wraps ᯓ★ | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: you and bucky have kept things secret for months, stolen glances, quiet hookups around the compound and well, the team finally catches on.

heavy lifting | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader (domestic au) summary: moving is hard, but teasing bucky about his knees and getting kissed breathless on the floor makes it all worth it.

the things we left behind ᯓ★ | new avenger!ex!bucky x widow!ex!reader (reader is female) summary: you haven't seen bucky in years. not since the night he left. the blip changed both of you, and nothing was ever the same after. now, val has you working together again. the job is dangerous, the tension is unbearable. and the feelings? still impossible to outrun.

all the little moments | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: bucky tries to remember the moment he fell for you—but it wasn’t just one. it was every laugh, every late night, every quiet second beside you. and he finally realises, he’s been falling all along.

cradles and chaos | new avenger!bucky x pregnant!fem!reader summary: you wanted to surprise bucky with the news—you’re pregnant. the only problem? everyone else on the team found out first. cue the chaos.

the cat's out of the bag | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: during a storm, you rescue a stray kitten and spend the next week trying to keep her hidden from your boyfriend.

off limits ᯓ★ | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: at a high profile mission gala, bucky snaps when he sees another man's hands on you, jealousy boils over and he shows you exactly who you belong to

what's left behind ᯓ★ | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: after finding out bucky’s leaving on another mission without telling you, everything falls apart. the argument is brutal, but that night, he comes back to hold you. just once more. maybe for the last time.

exit wounds ᯓ★ | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: after you put yourself in danger once again during a mission, bucky finally snaps.

little rabbit ᯓ★ | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: you wanted to play prey and bucky was more than happy to hunt.

earned it ᯓ★ | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: during a mission, bucky corners you behind a supply shelf and slides his fingers between your thighs, all while your comms stay live.

right this time | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: after a disappointing date, bucky decides to show you what a proper date should be like. based on this request

briefed and blown ᯓ★ | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: you are on your knees for bucky, just before a mission briefing based on this request

high for this ᯓ★ | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: during a mission, you and bucky are exposed to a gas meant to strip away restraint. he resists, and well, you try. but when the heat fades, it’s not the mission that haunts you both, it’s what happened behind that door. based on this request!

lined up ᯓ★ | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: bucky teaches you how to play pool. based on this request!

you deserve nice things too | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: you decide to get your boyfriend a dyson airwrap, and teach him how to use it.

who did this to you? | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: bucky notices the bruises before you ever say a word. as the truth unravels, he steps in—not just to protect you, he makes sure you're never hurt again. (tw: abuse)

eyes don't lie ᯓ★' | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: you and bucky were trapped in a storm during mission, with one bed and so much tension. (really just lots of filthy sex guys)

all that's left ᯓ★ | fwb!bucky x fem!reader summary: you and bucky were never meant to be more than friends with benefits—until you say those three words. he walks out. then a mission traps you both in a sealed room, and suddenly, there’s no escaping the walls you both built.

ASKS

— i once was poison ivy, but now i'm your daisy

bucky being a gentleman in the streets and an absolute freak in the sheets | ᯓ★

bucky reacting to you asking to turn off the lights during sex | ᯓ★

DARK FICS

— i know he's crazy but he's the one i want

no one else ᯓ★ (non-con) | new avenger!dark!bucky barnes x fem!reader summary: you have a boyfriend, but bucky could care less. he waited, watched, let the fantasy of you rot until all that was left was his need and obsession.

where it truly lies ᯓ★ | ex!bucky barnes x fem!reader , steve rogers x cheating!fem!reader summary: you swore you were done with him, but every time steve touches you see bucky instead. one text drags you back to the motel, back to the lies, and steve will never know.

salvation never tasted this sweet ᯓ★ (dub-con) | priest!bucky x innocent!fem!reader summary: you came to confess your sins, but father james had no intention of granting you forgiveness

daddy's got a gun ᯓ★ (dub-con) | mob!bucky x fem!reader summary: you never meant to cross a man like bucky barnes, he is cold-blooded, ruthless, he always takes what he wants and no amount of fight can drown out the way you end up begging for more. based on this request!

SERIES

— i hope i never lose you, hope it never ends

bent and bruised ᯓ★ | new avenger!bucky x fem!ex-hydra!reader summary: you were built by HYDRA to please the soldier—then left for dead. years later, bucky sees your face again. but no amount of time can erase the way you once whispered his name through tears. (tw: dark themes) inspired by this request

for better or for worse ᯓ★ | new avenger!bucky x fem!reader summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next. (completed)

letters through time | 1940s!bucky x modern!fem!reader summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love. (completed)

beneath the crown ᯓ★ | knight!bucky x princess!fem!reader summary: in a kingdom ruled by duty, you're a princess promised to a prince you don't love. sir james buchanan barnes is the knight sworn to protect you. but one touch turns into a secret affair, dangerous, all consuming and impossible to stop. and now, you'd risk everything just to be his. (on hiatus)

ONE SHOTS

— you are the best thing that's ever been mine

notes on napkins | steve rogers x barista!fem!reader summary: just a barista, a rainy café, and the quiet way steve leaves his heart behind—one napkin doodle at a time.

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anonf1writer · 2 months ago

Note

Lando gives you his 4 tally mark necklace so everyone knows you're his 😍

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written. 3,1k words. warning: suggestive language. +18. note: this took me almost two months to get done. I'm so, so sorry! I hope you're still around to read it, and I hope I didn't disappoint. Thanks for the request, it means a lot to me!

──────────────────

The context of your relationship with Lando was easy to describe: you two had met through mutual friends less than a year ago, started casually hooking up right away, and had been officially dating for over six months now.

Giving the nature of Lando’s occupation, and the attention his every move got, things were still pretty private between you, meaning that the general public new nothing about your existence yet. Or of what was happening behind closed doors. Like the fact that you had met each other’s families, that you were comfortable around each other’s friends, and that at this point your visits to his apartment had been frequent enough for you to consider his place a little bit yours, too.

For the most part, when he was traveling and busy being a Formula 1 driver, you spent your time at your own place, doing your own thing. But on those weekends when he was back, or during those rare two or three days off in between races, you joined him in a blink of an eye. No invitation needed—not anymore. Both always on the same page when it came to making the most of it, as in everything, together.

On that particular Monday night, the one that set this storyline into motion, it wasn’t any different. You and Lando were at home, his home that was slowly becoming your home, and one of your closest friends was over for some wine and food. The two of you enjoying each other’s company in the living room, laughing and gossiping on the couch, while Lando distracted himself and livestreamed with his own friends behind closed doors. Nothing big, nothing new.

Sometimes, as you two blabbered and laughed, he would pop out of the room to get a snack, to go to the restroom, or just to check up on you. Just to say hello. To make a silly joke and move on. Never a big deal. Never anything that interrupted the conversation that was going on between you and your friend. Not even when the topic shifted to your new co-worker, a guy who had joined the company you worked at less than three weeks ago, and had quickly developed a not-so-subtle crush on you.

“What about that guy from work?” your friend asked, synced with the opening of Lando’s game room door. “Is he still texting you at random hours?”

Busy chewing the last remains of your pizza, you just grimaced and shook your head. Then watched Lando cross the living room and disappear into the kitchen.

“I think…” you said, then stopped to swallow the food, “I think he finally got the message.”

“Good...” Your friend nodded, and took a sip of her wine. “What was his name again?”

“Vincent.”

Mimicking her earlier movements, you leaned in and grabbed your half-finished glass from the coffee table. And then, as you were sitting back and bringing the wine to your lips, a tiny snort left your nose, and you shook your head. All to yourself.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing... He just followed me on insta the other day.”

“Shut up...”

“Mhm…”

You sipped more of your wine, watching your friend frown as you did so.

“How did he even find you?”

“I don’t know…” You shrugged. “But he did, and then he liked a bunch of my older pictures.”

“Noooo!”

“Yeah…”

“Oh my God! Can a guy ever read the room?”

A soft chuckle left your mouth.

“I didn’t follow him back tho, so again, I think he got the message.”

“He knows you’ve got a boyfriend, right?”

You shrugged again, then shuffled on the couch, pulling your legs up and making yourself comfortable.

“Everyone at the office knows, so maybe someone told him? I don’t know.”

“Wait, so you didn’t tell him?”

“I didn’t even tell him my name, let alone the fact that I’m dating someone I can’t really talk about.”

Your friend rolled her eyes, and then sighed. “Look, I think it’s lovely how consistent you two are on keeping each other a secret, but just this once I think you should tell him you’re dating and therefore not available.”

At that, it was your time to roll your eyes. “Or... He could realize I’ve done nothing to suggest I’m interest and back off because I don’t want him.”

“Right,” she laughed. “You’re talking about a guy that’s been acting like a creep.”

“Exactly. So if he bothers me again, I’ll raise a complaint to HR for harassing.”

You changed the topic after that, and a few minutes later Lando stepped out of the kitchen, the salad he had ordered in hands. He paused to chat a bit with you two, then kissed your temple and made his way back to the game room.

Eventually, your friend said goodbye and left Lando’s apartment, and you took a moment to clean up the mess left behind. Lando was still busy in his own world, his loud laughter vibrating through the walls and making you laugh along from time to time.

It was on your way to the bedroom that you decided to stop by. Just to let him know.

You knocked on the door once, and then another two times—the code you had unintentionally created to avoid interrupting his livestream and getting caught on camera.

“Yeah?” he shouted, but you knew better than shout back at him. Instead, you cracked the door open slightly. Barely. Only enough for you to peek inside and glance at him.

Lando’s eyes were already waiting for you, his head turned to the side while he fully leaned back into his chair.

“Heyyy…” he breathed out, lips curling up into the cutest, softest smile while he stretched his arms up in the air.

“Hey...” you whispered back, lips curling up as well.

“What’s up?”

“Nothing,” you said quietly. “Just saying hi before I get to bed.”

Lando dropped his arms and placed his hands on his lap, then tilted his chin towards the computer.

“It’s muted,” he said. “No need to be quiet.”

You raised your eyebrows, not changing the volume of your voice as you answered, “That’s what you said last time.”

Lando’s smile got bigger, and his eyes wrinkled at the sides. Mischief and playfulness taking all over his expression at the mention of that chaotic memory—when a female voice laughed loudly in the background of an allegedly muted livestream and caused a very serious online meltdown.

“I checked twice,” Lando said, turning back to the camera and giving a thumbs up. “Right, chat? You can’t hear me right now, can ya?”

He leaned in, then, squeezing his eyes to the screen.

“See? They are all lecturing me. Lando, we can’t hear you. Mic’s off, Lando. Lando turn your mic on. Lan—”

“Okay, okay.” You rolled your eyes and pressed your temple against the frame, but a soft chuckle still left your chest at his silliness. “Got it, yeah.”

He leaned back and turned his head to you, smugness written all over him. “Told ya. I learn from my mistakes.”

He winked. And, once again, you raised your eyebrows.

“They can still see tho, can’t they? So don’t get cocky.”

“You’ve barely opened the door,” he laughed. “Not even I can see you, I doubt they’ll be able to.”

“Yeah? Just watch them read your lips or start analysing who you’re talking to so late at night.”

“C’mon…” he laughed again. Head tilting back as he faced the ceiling. “Don’t be si—”

“Ooookay…” you snorted and stepped back from the door, a little too tired to get into one of his playful arguments. “I’ll save you from finishing that sentence.”

“What? C’mon… I’m just teasing.”

“I know. You’re having fun while I’m worried trying to protect your wishes. Then tomorrow you’ll be snapping at me because someone found out you’re not alone and I’ll have to watch you overthink while trying to find ways to prove I don’t exist.”

The world paused around you.

Time paused inside the room.

You watched the moment his face fell. How his expression changed along with the drop of his shoulders. As if some unknown truth had been thrown at him.

And just like that, regret dawned on you, a tight knot twisting low in your gut as you tried to make sense of your words. Of your abrupt change of mood.

You looked down to your feet and sighed, your voice coming out like a whisper when you spoke again. “Sorry… I don’t know why I said that.”

Lando nodded.

You noticed his movements, the way he turned back to his computer and leaned forward to reach his keyboard. How he typed, then clicked a few things, and then how everything went off. Heavy silence easily filling the room.

“C’mere,” he said, once again leaning back into his chair, then fully turning it towards you. You looked up, meeting his eyes, and Lando tilted his head slightly to the side. “Please?” He stretched his arm to you. “I’m not streaming anymore, I promise.”

You checked the screen, just to be sure, then dropped your arms to your sides and sighed. Embarrassment taking over your chest—and flushing across your neck and cheeks—as you walked towards him.

Lando didn’t wait for you to stand in front of him before reaching out for your waist, hands grabbing your sides and pulling you down to his lap with the easiness of someone who had pulled that move hundreds of times before.

You gasped, even squealed a little, a smile curving your mouth as you adjusted yourself to sit on his thighs. Body to the side and legs hanging in the air. Arms circling around his neck. Eyes settling inside his gaze.

Silent.

Comfortable.

Easy.

“Sorry,” you said. Again. “Didn’t mean to snap.”

“I know,” Lando smiled, placing your hair behind your ear, then cradling your cheek. “I never tried to prove you don’t exist. You know that, right?”

“Of course, yeah.”

“Is it how I make you feel, tho? Like I’m trying to hide you or something?”

“No... C’mon... I understand why you’re so... Protective. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“Ok…” He nodded, arms settling around your waist, pulling you a bit closer to him. “Just making sure.”

“Sorry for making you end the stream.”

Lando smiled. “Thank you for making me end the stream.”

A smile grew on your face, too.

There was a pause, in which he held your stare in silence as he moved one hand to the back of your neck.

“C’mere,” he said, then pulled you in, his lips brushing over yours once, then twice. Slowly. Softly. As if it was the first time he was getting a taste of them. As if he wasn’t really sure he was allowed to do that.

Your chest fluttered, and you leaned into him. Melted into him. Eyes falling shut and hands moving to curl tightly around his jumper. To hold onto its neckline like you were afraid he would suddenly stop and leave. Like he could vanish.

A low, contented hum escaped him, almost like he didn’t mean it. Like he couldn’t help it. Like he was melting into you, too. Hand pressing on the nape of your neck and arm anchoring around your waist, guiding the pace while he tilted his head and deepened the kiss.

You exhaled through your nose and followed his lead. Stomach flipping and thoughts blurring. Getting lost into the tenderness and casually of it. Into how personal, intimate, and affectionate it felt. How soft, how steady, how electric it was. The way he moved, the way he sounded, the way he tasted. How he treated you with respect and carefulness, like you were the most delicate and precious thing in the world, and yet made you feel breathless and powerless, like you could die if you didn’t get more of it. Of him. Or this.

And then, Lando pulled away. Panting. Hand still holding the back of your head and lips still brushing yours when he asked, “Who’s Victor?”

Your lips searched for him, unwillingly. Automatically. Your body craving for more before his words clicked inside your mind.

He didn’t stop you, kissing you back and allowing your mouths to ghost over each other as you spoke between kisses. Never quite gone.

“Victor?” you asked.

“Mhmm…” His nose bumped against yours, and he slipped his hand between your hair, making sure you wouldn’t lose the pace.

“I don’t… Hmm… I don’t know… Shit… Who’s Victor?”

“I don’t know…” he repeated. “Someone that’s been hitting on my girlfriend… Or so I’ve heard…”

You blinked your eyes open and flinched back. Just an inch. As far as he allowed you to. Only enough to meet his eyes.

“What?”

Lando shrugged, and you licked your lips. Trying to gather your thoughts. Trying to make sense of what the heck was going on.

“You mean Vincent?”

He rolled his eyes and pulled you back in, his lips barely touching yours before he was tilting your head back and moving them down your jaw.

“Potato, patahto,” he murmured, his warm breath hitting your neck while he kept smothering your skin. Your throat. “Still hitting on my girlfriend.”

A smirk grew on your lips, and you closed your eyes, feeling his lips kissing your sensitive spots. Feeling his tongue getting its own taste, his teeth grazing right behind.

“Didn’t know you were listening to us...”

“Was I supposed not to?”

He sucked onto your sweet spot, and you gasped. Thighs clenching and fingers twisting even tighter around his jumper.

“Fuck…” you breathed out.

“I know…” Lando murmured, brushing the tip of his nose up and down the same spot. “I wonder how many until I leave a mark…”

“You never leave any…”

“Maybe I should start…”

He kissed you again, softly, moving his mouth and making sure no inch would go unattended.

Heat built low in your belly, slow and relentless, and you shuffled on his lap—even though the position you were in didn’t allow you to feel much of him.

“Jealous?” you managed to ask.

Lando snorted and pulled away, guiding your head so you would look at him.

“Just annoyed… Pissed, actually… Why is some random guy texting you and going through your photos? Who the fuck does he think he is?”

You smiled, hands loosening up around his clothing and moving up through the back of his neck. Fingers tangling with his curls as you said, “Someone who stopped texting after I left him on read, and who never got a follow back from me…”

“Hm…” He leaned into your touch, eyes fluttering shut while you ran your nails up and down his scalp. “Can’t say I’m not happy to hear that.”

You chuckled. “Did you think I’d react differently?”

“No…” he said, eyes meeting yours again. “But as confident in our relationship as I am, can’t ever get too comfortable, can I?”

You tilted your head, not really knowing what to say at that.

Thankfully, Lando didn’t give you too much time to think about it before he added, “Don’t want him to think you’re single, tho.”

“We don’t know if he thinks that.”

“Then I want to make sure he knows you’re taken.”

You smiled. “I’m taken, huh?”

Lando rolled his eyes, hands sliding down your spine while he stretched his back and got taller underneath you.

“You’re mine,” he said, voice an octave lower and fingers reaching to the hem of your sweater. “Just like I’m yours. Yeah?”

You nodded, curling your body to place your forehead against his. Feeling his bare touch pressing on your lower back, warm and needy.

“Yeah... You know I am… Yours.”

“I know… I want him to know, tho. Not just him, everyone.”

“Lan…” you sighed. “If this is because of what I said, you don’t have to—”

“Not saying this because of what happened,” he said. “I’m saying it because I love you and because you’re beautiful and I don’t want stupid wankers hitting on you when I’m not around.”

“Well… That’s not really fair, is it? I can’t stop girls from hitting on you while you’re not around.”

“Babe, not one single girl has flirted or—”

You couldn’t help but laugh at that. Loudly enough that you had to bring one hand to cover your mouth.

Lando smiled. And you noticed how something softened inside him. How he dropped his shoulders. How his touch went from greedy to affectionate. Still pulling you closer, still holding you in place, but with a different intention behind it.

“I mean it, tho,” he said. “I don’t want to keep hiding it anymore. I heard when you said I’m someone you can’t really talk about, and I don’t want you to feel that. I want you to say ‘I’ve got a boyfriend’ and throw my name into a conversation if you feel like it. Just… Y’know… Want it to be natural.”

You pressed your lips together and sighed, pushing the playfulness aside to understand the seriousness of what he was suggesting with that.

“Okay… But just so you know, this feels natural to me. I don’t have to say ‘my boyfriend Lando Norris’ for me to talk about you. People who know me know I’m not single, the only reason why I haven’t told Vincent it’s because I haven’t really sat to chat with him. He saw me twice and decided it would be a good idea to get my number without even asking me about it.”

“Fucking idiot.”

“Right?”

“Can’t really blame him, though… Kinda hard to look at you and not to fall in love.”

“Oh my God…” You rolled your eyes, but also smiled, shoving his shoulder playfully before hugging his neck. “Shut up.”

He did as you told, busying himself by kissing you instead of talking again.

From then on, the kissing melted into something more. The chair becoming uncomfortable to hold so much want and so much need from both of you, and your touches and steps guiding you blindly to his bedroom. To your bedroom. To your bed. Clothes getting lost along the way.

“I love you,” he said, over and over again.

Stealing your breath away.

Making you forget your name.

How you got there in the first place.

Until you were shaking and falling on top of him, his hips digging and pushing until he got the last bit of pleasure out of you. Of him. Of both.

Erratic. Intense. Everything.

The next morning, Lando left earlier than you. You didn’t even hear him, didn’t even feel him. Tangled and sprawled in the sheets. Blissfully happy. Satisfied.

You saw it when your alarm went off, though. His tally mark necklace, his number four shining in the sunlight. Right on top of his pillow. And a post it right in between the two.

For you. So everyone knows you’re mine ;) Love you. LN.

And that’s how it happened.

That’s how you ended up clasping his necklace around your neck.

And that’s how now, every time you think of him, you bring your hand to your chest and hold onto him. How you know he’s always there, like a part of you. Loving you. Whether everyone knows it...

Or not.

──────────────────

#lando norris x reader #f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fic #lando norris fic #lando x reader #lando norris fanfic #lando norris x you #lando norris imagine #lando norris fluff #f1 social media au #f1 fanfic #lando x you #lando norris fanfiction #i said i wanted to know your thoughts on this but actually im scared to know so i deleted that lol #I'll just move on to the next one!

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a-casxandra · 2 months ago

Note

I seriously love your writings both of caleb and rafayel......! You literally ate!.....And i know you are gonna write zayne next but i really wanna see them regret more like how about a part three where they see you with some man and their jealousy spikes (but the man is like just a friend or relative)....and when they pull you away to some other place to talk in private you tell them that's how you felt when they were with mc but you are not like them...and blah blah blah angst angst angst....pretty please

🥺🥺

❝𝗕𝗔𝗖𝗞 𝗧𝗢 𝗙𝗥𝗜𝗘𝗡𝗗𝗦.❞

𝒀𝒐𝒖'𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝑴𝒆 | 𝑹𝒂𝒇𝒂𝒚𝒆𝒍 𝒙 𝒚𝒐𝒖 (𝒏𝒐𝒏-𝒎𝒄)

𝑩𝒂𝒄𝒌𝒃𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒆𝒓 | 𝑪𝒂𝒍𝒆𝒃 𝒙 𝒚𝒐𝒖 (𝒂𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒏-𝒎𝒄)

It had been six months.

Six months since he last saw you.

Six months of scrolling through his camera roll, hoping your face would blink back to life.

Six months of unfinished messages in his drafts.

Six months of pretending to move on, while being stuck in the same moment you walked away.

Rafayel saw you again on a Sunday.

Bright day. Warm air. People laughing around a pop-up market near white sand bay.

And there you were—laughing too.

Wearing a white sundress. Hair tied up in a loose bun. Holding an iced drink, chatting with some guy. He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Well-dressed. Probably kind.

Rafayel froze mid-step. A sharp breath lodged in his throat like a punch to the lungs.

You were smiling.

You looked… okay.

Without him.

And that hurt more than anything.

The man leaned in to tuck a stray strand of your hair behind your ear. Rafayel didn’t think.

He moved.

Before he could stop himself, he crossed the street, pushed through the crowd, and grabbed your wrist.

You gasped.

“Rafayel?” Your voice was pure shock.

The man stepped in instantly, protective. “Who the hell are you?”

But Rafayel’s eyes were only on you.

“Can we talk?” he asked, breath shaky. “Please. Just a few minutes.”

You looked at your companion, then back at him. “…It’s okay. I’ll be back in a bit.”

You always were too kind.

You walked to a quieter part of the bay, away from the crowds. Rafayel didn’t speak at first. He just stared.

“You look good,” he murmured finally.

You gave him a tight-lipped smile. “So do you. I saw the awards you won. Congrats.”

It felt like poison.

He didn’t care about the awards. Not when you weren’t in the crowd, cheering.

Then he snapped. “Who is he?”

You blinked. “Seriously?”

“Is he your boyfriend?” His tone was colder than intended.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “He’s my cousin, Rafayel.”

He shut up.

“God,” you muttered. “You really haven’t changed, have you?”

Rafayel took a shaky breath.“I thought I saw you happy with him. I thought—”

“You thought I forgot you?” You looked at him now. Really looked. “You think I just walked away and stopped feeling anything?”

His jaw clenched. “I don’t know. You never answered my texts. You shut me out completely.”

“Because you already shut me out first.” Your voice trembled. “I begged for your attention. I waited on you. I stood in the shadows, loving you silently while the world shipped you with her. I told myself it was just acting. That you’d come back home to me every time. But you didn’t. Not really.”

"i was stupid." he whispered. “I didn’t see what I was losing.”

“No,” you said, eyes glossy now. “You saw. You just didn’t care until it was gone.”

Rafayel felt the ache throb harder than ever. “I care now.”

You looked away. “Too late.”

Silence fell between you like an ocean.

“I still love you,” Rafayel said, voice cracking.

You shut your eyes at that. “And I’ll probably always love you. But love doesn’t fix trust, Rafayel. It doesn’t erase being forgotten.”

He nodded slowly. Pain blooming behind his ribs.

“I’m not asking for another chance,” he said quietly. “I just… I wanted to hear your voice again. To know if you ever missed me.”

You turned to him then. “I missed you every night I cried myself to sleep,” you said. “I missed you every time I saw your face on a billboard and knew that smile wasn’t mine anymore.”

A long pause.

“Do you hate me?” he asked.

“No,” you said gently. “I mourned you. That’s worse.”

Rafayel swallowed hard. You stepped back, and he felt you slip through his fingers all over again.

“I hope you find someone who chooses you every day,” you said. “Even when the cameras are off.”

He blinked fast. “And I hope you find someone who never makes you feel like a secret.”

You nodded. Then gave him the softest smile.

“Goodbye, Rafayel.”

As you walked away—back to your cousin, to your laughter, to your healing—Rafayel stood frozen, shoulders trembling, heart hollowed out.

He got his closure.

He got his answer.

But he never got you again.

It was a bookstore.

Of all places, it had to be that damn bookstore.

Caleb hadn’t even meant to go in. He was just wandering—haunted, really. Some part of him was always retracing the places you'd once gone together, like maybe memory could substitute for presence.

Then he saw you.

Poetry aisle. Laughing. With someone else.

Your smile hit him like a truck.

The guy beside you was tall. Kind-looking. He leaned close—too close. Your hand brushed his. You didn’t flinch. You laughed again, head tilted, that same way you used to tilt it with him.

Caleb’s stomach twisted.

Jealousy. Regret. Panic. All-consuming.

He moved before he thought, crossing the store and standing right behind you. “Hey.”

You turned. A flicker of surprise crossed your face. “Caleb?”

The man beside you stiffened slightly. Caleb didn’t care.

“We need to talk,” he said, voice low, sharp. “Now.”

You blinked, instantly guarded. “Excuse me?”

“Please,” he said, this time quieter. “Just—five minutes.”

You exchanged a glance with the man beside you—calm, collected, not threatened. He nodded once, as if giving you the choice. “I’ll be right back,” you told him softly.

You followed Caleb. Not willingly—but not resisting either.

He led you out the side door, into the quiet alley behind the building. The moment it closed behind you, the air shifted. Old ghosts crept in.

You crossed your arms. “What is this?” you asked.

Caleb ran a hand through his hair. “I saw you. With him. I just—I lost it.”

You stared. “So?”

“So I couldn’t handle it,” he blurted. “Seeing someone else make you laugh like that. It felt like being erased.”

You tilted your head. “Funny. That’s exactly how I felt when you forgot how to love me.”

He flinched.

“I know I don’t have the right,” he whispered. “But I can’t lie to you. I haven’t moved on. I haven’t been able to.”

“Caleb,” you said softly. “What are you doing?”

“I want to start over,” he said. “Not as who we were. As who we could be. Coffee. A conversation. One small step—”

You shook your head.

He stopped.

“I’m not angry anymore,” you said. “And I’m not bitter. But I’m done.”

His eyes searched yours. “You’re really saying that?”

“I waited,” you whispered. “I gave you chances. You wasted them. Now I’ve learned to build a life where I don’t have to be someone’s second thought.”

Tears burned at the corner of his eyes. “But I still love you.”

“I believe you,” you said. “But love isn’t enough. Not when it comes too late.”

He reached out, then stopped himself. “So that guy…?”

“My cousin,” you said again, almost tiredly.

Caleb blinked.

You offered a soft, almost sad smile. “It’s not jealousy that should’ve brought you here. It should’ve been realization. It should’ve been me.”

“I was a coward.”

“You were,” you agreed. “But that’s not my burden to carry anymore.”

Silence.

Wind passed between you both like a closing chapter.

“I hope you find peace,” you said gently. “And next time—don’t wait until it’s over to say what matters.”

You stepped back, and this time, he didn’t stop you.

Just stood there, like a man watching a door close on the version of himself he’d only just begun to love again.

You disappeared back into the store, the world, your future.

And Caleb stayed in the alley—

Finally, alone.

Truly.

Utterly.

Alone.

𝑨𝒖𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒓'𝒔 𝒏𝒐𝒕𝒆 : my actual plan was to have them get back together. but then i remember, you can't heal using the same method that hurted you. so yeah, i gave them closure instead. but don't worry i'm gonna give all of them happy ending! (●'◡'●)

#love and deepspace #lads #Lnds #Rafayel #Caleb #caleb x mc #caleb x you #rafayel x mc #rafayel x you #Caleb x reader #Rafayel x reader #non mc reader #lads xavier #lads sylus #lads zayne #lads caleb #lads rafayel #casxandraꔛ♥️

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cressidagrey · 23 days ago

Text

System Failure - Chapter 3: Barcelona

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Dr. Anastasia "Ana" Wolff (Original Character)

Summary:

Max Verstappen to Mercedes? The paddock is buzzing. The media’s in meltdown.

Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff, Mercedes’ notoriously brilliant, emotionally unavailable lead systems engineer and Toto Wolff’s eldest daughter, is not handling it well. Because Max isn’t just a potential signing, he’s the man she’s been sleeping with in secret for nearly a decade.

And if the rumours are true, and Max Verstappen really is joining Mercedes, then Ana’s carefully compartmentalised world is about to explode.

Warnings and Notes: George Russell Bashing. Sexism in the workplace. Spain 2025 mention. Difficult Family relationships. Toto tries his best. Let me know if I missed something else, and I'll add it!

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

Text Messages: George Russell & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

George: How’s Brackley holding up without me?

Ana: Efficient. Mostly quiet. Perfect, really.

George: Ouch 😅 See, that’s what I like about you. You’re so direct. No drama. No fluff. A bit cold-blooded, but in a cool way.

Ana:I’m sorry— Are you comparing me to a lizard

George: 😂 No no Just saying it’s refreshing, you know? Most women are so emotionalBut you’ve got that ice-in-your-veins thing Cold as a fish but gets the job done 💪

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: I wish I didn’t have feelings.

Max: Okay That’s a hell of a way to start a conversation, Poekie What happened?

Ana: Do I come across like I don’t? Like I’m cold. Or clinical. Or a refrigerated fish?

Max: Where is this coming from?

ANA George. He said I’m “cold as a fish.”

Max: Ana.

Ana: I do wish it was true. That I could shut everything off. Not feel so much. Not care so much. About work. About everything.

Max:You think not feeling would make your life easier But it’s your heart that makes you youAnd it’s the best part. There’s nothing wrong with you.People like George just don’t know what to do with you, because they are stupid. You feel deeply. You just don’t outsource it. You keep it close. Private. Precious.

Ana:I think I’d be easier to love if I were less… me.

Max: Don’t you dare.Don’t you dare try to be easier.

***

Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya, Montmeló, Spain, - 1 June 2025

The Spanish Grandprix 2025 could probably be summed up in one word: Catastrophe.

McLaren had built two unbeatable rocketships.

RedBull had fucked up the strategy.

Hard compound, safety car restart, lap 61.

10 second time penalty. 3 more penalty points.

P10.

1 Point for the championship standing.

In hindsight, Max did realise that what he had done to Russel into Turn 5 had not been his smartest move.

He shouldn’t have done it.

He knew that even as he lined it up— he saw the space open, just enough to plant his Red Bull down the inside of Russell, and some ancient, stubborn reflex in him clicked like a trigger.

He went.

And he hit him.

Not hard. Not enough to retire the car. But enough for contact. Enough for the stewards to start circling.

Enough to know, immediately, that it had been stupid.

Because it hadn’t been strategy. It hadn’t even been racing instinct.

It had been personal.

Somewhere between the apex and the runoff, Max had remembered what Ana told him.

George had called her a cold fish.

Ana, who had spent a full twenty minutes spiralling over the idea that she didn’t know how to feel. Who had asked him—him—if maybe she was broken after all.

Because George Russell, with his rehearsed smirks and PR-scripted charm, had decided her quiet meant unfeeling. That her composure meant cold. That her distance meant emptiness.

Like she wasn’t the smartest person in any room. Like she wasn’t the woman who spent nights calibrating engine maps down to the nanosecond, who had once held Max’s face in her hands like it was sacred, who felt everything but didn’t bleed it out for applause.

And George had called her a cold fish.

Said she didn’t have feelings.

And Ana—his Ana—had texted him asking if it was true.

And something in Max had snapped.

Because she wasn’t cold. She wasn’t robotic or hard to love. She was private. Careful. Brilliant in a way that lit up slowly and then consumed you, if you were smart enough to wait for it.

And George Russell didn’t get to flatten that down into a punchline.

Not about Ana.

Not ever.

So Max had hit him.

A decade of work to master his temper and he’d still hit him.

Not with his fists. With his car. In the middle of a race.

Like his father.

The realization sat in his chest like gravel.

He saw red, and he made it someone else’s problem.

That was dangerous. Stupid.

And it scared him.

Because Ana deserved better. He was supposed to be better.

Not the man who weaponised his anger. Not the one who made it everyone else’s fault.

Max pressed his palms to his face after the race, after the press. Inhaled. Exhaled.

It hadn’t helped that even before the race had been hell. That he had been driving at 110% percent to somehow claw himself to P3.

That he knew that he didn’t have a chance against Lando or Oscar, not because he wasn’t driving good enough, but because the car wasn’t there.

The race had been hell.

Not spectacularly, crash-and-burn hell. No. That would’ve at least come with adrenaline.

This was worse. This was futility.

And Red Bull—his team, the team he’d bled and won and clawed with—had just shrugged.

“We’ll review it.” “We’ll get it fixed before Silverstone.” “Bad luck today, mate.”

Max had nodded. Said the right things to the cameras.

Now, he just sat. Still. Drained.

And for the first time—not in anger, not in a surge of rage, but in something quieter, colder—he thought:

What if it’s time?

He’d given everything to this team. And in return, he’d gotten four championships, a dynasty, and—now—a ship quietly splintering at the keel.

Red Bull was falling apart.

And Max was tired of pretending that he couldn’t feel it too.

Max was tired. Not physically—he’d trained through worse. But mentally. Emotionally. Like he was pushing against a wall that wasn’t going to move, no matter how many laps he strung together or how precisely he hit his braking zones.

He was tired of being the fastest driver in a car that wasn’t built to win anymore.

And Mercedes…

2026 regulations loomed. And Mercedes, quietly and steadily, had stopped stumbling.

The car looked coherent. The power unit had held steady. And maybe most damning of all—they looked like a team that knew what it was building toward.

Mercedes had a plan.

Mercedes had 2026 circled in red, and every whisper said their power unit was terrifying.

He stood slowly, knees stiff.

The thing was… he didn’t even know if it was about performance anymore.

His head leaned back against the wall, eyes fluttering shut for a moment.

He wasn’t angry anymore.

He was just tired.

Tired of dragging a team that couldn’t keep up.

Tired of pretending he didn’t already know where this was going.

Because Ana was there. In Brackley. Building something that worked. That made sense. That held.

And maybe—just maybe—he didn’t want to win another championship alone.

Maybe he wanted to win it where she could see him.

He could see it—clearer than ever.

A fresh start.

A reset.

A future that didn’t feel like death by a thousand strategy errors.

And maybe more than that—her.

He wouldn’t say it out loud. Not yet. Not even to himself.

But the thought curled low in his chest, warm and terrifying.

If I went to Mercedes… I could be near her. Not just at night. Not just when we’re pretending it’s nothing. Every day. In the same garage. On the same side.

He let out a slow breath.

Maybe it was selfish. Maybe it was reckless.

But Max Verstappen had never been afraid of taking a corner flat.

And this?

This was starting to look like the cleanest racing line he’d had in months.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 1 June 2025

It was a Sunday.

A quiet one — at least in theory.

Granted it was Race Day, but most of the needed staff was in Barcelona, at the track. Most other staff was at home.

Ana was in her office. Waiting to get a call from trackside that they had broken one of the cars. Or getting a headstart on telemetry…or doing some very much not needed budget spreadsheets…

Because, well… she didn’t really do hobbies.

She’d tried. Once. Or twice. Bought watercolours. Took one yoga class.

But the truth was this: spreadsheets made more sense than socialising, engine maps were easier than emotion, and a baseline simulation was as good a distraction as anything else. Better, even. Machines didn’t ask her how she was feeling. They just did what they were told.

She had one monitor running component lifing data for 2026. Another with simulation outputs from a recent bench test. The third screen — muted, mostly ignored — was the live F1 broadcast from Spain. Lap 60.

Ana wasn’t paying it much attention. Not until she saw the timing screen glitch — yellow flag, Turn 5 — and her peripheral vision caught a flick of a Red Bull diving off-line.

She blinked, sat up straighter, and clicked the stream into full screen.

Her jaw tightened.

It was Max.

She watched the replay feed switch to show it: Charles and Max going side-by-side down the straight, a brush of contact.

Then Russell lunging up alongside Max…

Ana’s hands curled slightly against the edge of her desk.

And then—

The overtake attempt.

The so-called “let through.”

And then the second lunge.

The impact.

Ana flinched.

Not visibly, maybe. But her stomach twisted.

She knew that look in Max’s driving. The one that said he wasn’t thinking clearly. That the red mist had taken over.

She’d known him long enough to recognise the difference between aggression and anger. Between instinct and intent.

That… had been intent.

“Goddamn it, Max,” she muttered, too quiet for anyone to hear.

And then, a beat later, George came on the radio. Cheerfully smug. Like he hadn’t just nearly sparked a full collision. Like he hadn’t—

She sat back in her chair, exhaling slowly, a hard knot pressing under her ribs.

Ana had always been able to compartmentalise. That was her gift. Her survival mechanism. But this—

This was personal.

Not the race. Not the lunge.

But the memory of George’s message from days before. The casually cruel line. Cold as a fish.

She hadn’t told anyone how much it hurt.

Not even Max.

And now he’d—

Her phone buzzed on the desk. A message from engineering ops. She ignored it.

Instead, she rewound the race footage. Just to be sure.

She watched it again. The lunge. The contact. The way Max didn’t even try to hide the retaliation.

It was reckless. It was stupid. It was absolutely not championship-calibre driving.

And it was for her.

Ana wanted to scream.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: Are you insane?

Max: Hi I’m fine, thanks for asking

Ana: You got a ten-second penalty for trying to punt George into the wall. That’s not “fine”

Max: In my defense he had it coming

Ana: That is not a defense That is premeditated stupidity on cold tyres

Max: He called you a cold fish. I wasn’t thinking clearly.

Ana: So you decided to retaliate at 280km/h during a live race?!

Max: I know. It was dumb.

Ana: I am not going to argue about that. It was dangerous.

Max: Yeah. I know that too. It wasn’t about the race. It was about… I saw him. And I thought about what he said to you. And I got angry.

Max: So you weaponised a Red Bull chassis. Great. Rational behaviour.

Max: I didn’t mean for it to go that far. I just— Sometimes it gets ahead of me. The anger. I hate that I still do that. That I am like this.

Max: I don’t want to be like my father. Not on track. Not off it. Not ever.

Ana: Then maybe don’t crash into people at 280km/h when you’re upset.

Max: …

Ana: Don’t do it again. I don’t need defending. I need you safe.

Max: Copy that. No more defending your honour with multi-million-dollar carbon shrapnel.

Ana: Good. Also, apologise to your engineer and maybe the team.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Victoria Verstappen

Victoria: WHAT the heck was THAT, Maxie??? Just saw the replay. Are you trying to reenact Fast & Furious: FIA Edition???

Max: Hi Vic Love you too

Victoria: Don’t “Hi Vic” me Turn 5?? Turn 5?! Did GP put you on Red Bull and rage or were you just feeling a little unhinged for the weekend?? I just watched you try to yeet George Russell into another zip code in front of the entire world. Are you trying to collect penalties like Pokémon?

Max: Okay yes I know It was reckless I got emotional

VICTORIA It was reckless. It was stupid. And it was exactly the kind of shit Jos used to pull when he lost control.

Victoria: Max. I need you to hear me properly right now.

Victoria: Do not become like he was. Not even a little bit. Not even when it feels justified. Not when you’re angry or frustrated or hurt. Because it starts like this—these little moments—and then one day you look in the mirror and he’s there.

Max: Vic—

Victoria: No. You’re better than that. You always have been. But better doesn’t just happen. You have to choose it. Every single time.

Max: I know. I know. And I hate that today I didn’t. It scared me too.

Victoria: Good. Let it scare you. Then remember you have people around you who will drag you back if you start slipping. Even if we have to slap sense into you mid-race.

Max: You’d absolutely do it.

Victoria: Damn right. Now go apologise to whoever had to explain that radio message to the Sky Sports team. And maybe buy GP a bottle of something expensive.

Max: Already on it.

Victoria: Stay good, Maxie. Not perfect. Not soft. Just good. You owe that to yourself. And to us.

***

Group Chat: “WHO IS MAX VERSTAPPEN DATING”

(Members: Lando Norris, Oscar Piastri, Carlos Sainz, Daniel Ricciardo)

Lando: BRO.

Lando: WHAT DID WE JUST WATCH.

Oscar: Which part? The Leclerc move? The Russell collision? The radio tantrum?

Daniel: No no. The emotional unravelling of a man in real time.

Carlos: That was not racing. That was vengeance.

Oscar: Okay but can we just agree—this wasn’t about George.

Carlos: …yes.

Oscar: This was about something else. Or like… someone.

Daniel: I’m just saying. You don’t risk a 10-second penalty unless you’re fighting for something personal.

Lando: Do you think he’s in love?

Carlos: You think he’s in love with George?

Lando: NO— I MEAN IN GENERAL Not with George Oh my god Carlos.

Daniel: Plot twist: Verstappen’s long game has always been to date George Russell and then drive him into a wall.

Oscar: Honestly I’ve seen worse dating strategies.

Carlos: We are getting off track.

Oscar: Max’s been weird all year.

Carlos: He looked at George like he was trying to commit manslaughter with a carbon front wing.

Lando: Okay but… WHO IS IT THEN.

Carlos: He’s hiding something.

Daniel: You don’t say...

Oscar: Ten bucks says there’s someone we’ve never seen. Someone completely under the radar.

Lando: No WAG content No paparazzi No vacation leaks Nothing

Carlos: He’s a married man and we’re going to find out when she files the tax returns.

Oscar: Whoever she is… She has that man in an emotional chokehold.

Lando: He literally risked a podium to make a point.

***

Group Chat: “TEAM 33”

(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)

Max: I want to talk to Mercedes.

Jos: …what are you talking about?

Raymond: Is this a joke?

Max: No. I’m serious.

Raymond: Max, we’ve had these offers before. You always said no.

Max: I’m not saying no anymore.

Jos: Is this about Red Bull? The car?

Max: It’s about everything. The car. The future. The team direction. The way I’m driving at 110% just to get P4. And the fact that I’m tired of hearing next year every week.

Raymond: You’ve never once seriously considered leaving. Not since you joined. What’s changed?

Max: I think I’ve given everything I can here. And I want to win. Not manage damage every Sunday.

Jos: Are you sure this isn’t emotional? You’ve had rough seasons before.

Max: No. This is different. I don’t trust the plan anymore.

Raymond: If we talk to Mercedes, it’ll leak. Are you ready for that?

Max: Let it leak. Let everyone lose their minds. But set up the meeting.

Jos: And if they offer something real?

Max: Then I take it seriously. For the first time.

***

Lambiase Residence, Milton Keynes, England - 2 June 2025

GP didn’t even bother offering Max a drink. Just pointed to the kitchen chair like this was a routine —which, after nearly a decade, it kind of was.

They were sitting in his kitchen, a quiet space full of mismatched chairs and half-finished house projects, telemetry open on the tablet between them. Francesca’s, GP’s fifteen year old daughter, school prospectus laid forgotten on the counter. The kettle had boiled twice and been ignored both times.

Max the dog had greeted Max the human with a wagging tail and had then trotted off behind Eloisa, GP’s wife, up into the home office.

Max dropped into the seat with a groan.

GP didn’t sit yet. Just leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching him.

“You want to explain what that was with Russell?”

Max didn’t answer right away. Just sighed, dragging a hand over his face like he was trying to wipe the whole race off with it.

GP raised a brow. “Max.”

There was a beat. Then another. And then, finally—

“It was because of Ana.”

GP nodded once. “Ah.” He didn’t even pretend to be surprised. “Of course.”

“Don’t start,” Max muttered.

“I’m not starting,” GP said mildly. “I’m just… continuing. The ongoing saga of You Two: Will They, Won’t They, Why Haven’t They.”

Max exhaled like someone had punched the air out of him. “She texted me after qualifying. Asked if I thought I was a cold fish, because George said she was.”

GP winced. “Christ. That man has the emotional intelligence of a spoon.”

Max laughed, hollow. “She said she wished she didn’t have feelings. And then you told me to give him the position back and I…” He gestured, helpless. “I snapped.”

GP finally sat across from him. “Yeah. You did.”

Max didn’t look up. “I lost it. I just—there was already the Leclerc move, the tyres were cold, I was pissed off, and then I thought about that. And I wanted to prove something. I don’t even know what, exactly. But I didn’t think. I just drove angry.”

GP didn’t say anything for a moment. Then: “Well, that’s deeply fucking stupid.”

Max huffed a laugh. “Yeah.”

“You’re lucky nobody got hurt.”

“I know.”

GP ran a hand over his head “You’re not your father, Max. But you don’t get to pretend you’re not his son either. You’ve got his instincts—good and bad. And if you don’t finally learn to catch yourself before the fuse runs out, you’re going to burn the whole damn garage down.”

“I don’t want to be like him.”

“Then don’t. Especially not for a man who thinks a woman’s worth is in how she reacts to him.”

Max looked up. Something raw and earnest flickered behind his eyes.

GP’s voice softened. “You care about her.”

Max nodded. “Too much, maybe.”

GP leaned back in his chair, studying him. “You know,” he said slowly, “you two are exhausting.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean it. Tiptoeing around each other like there isn’t a whole decade of… whatever the hell this is.”

Max didn’t answer.

GP narrowed his eyes. “Are you ever going to stop?”

There was a pause. Then Max looked up, voice low but certain.

“I want to talk to Mercedes.”

There wasn’t a dramatic pause. No gasp of surprise. Just GP, sitting back in his creaky kitchen chair like Max had confirmed something he already knew.

“Alright,” GP said, after a moment. “You’ve thought it through?”

“I’ve been thinking about it for weeks.” Max rubbed a hand over his jaw, gaze fixed somewhere over GP’s shoulder. “At first it was just a maybe. A backup plan if things didn’t change. But then… it became the plan.” he said, voice low. “I know you have a job at Red Bull.”

GP didn’t look up. “That’s an understatement.”

“I’m not asking you to leave it.”

That made GP glance over.

Max shifted, elbows on knees, fingers laced tight. “I just… If I do this—if I really consider it—I’m not expecting you to come with me. You’ve been here forever. You’ve got your team, your systems, your—”

“Let’s go to Mercedes.”

Max blinked. “What?”

GP leaned forward now, calm and serious and unflinching.

“I said let’s go to Mercedes,” GP repeated, with a casual shrug like they were talking about a road trip and not blowing up a decade-long dynasty. “You, me. Pack up the telemetry server and your dramatic helmet collection and let’s go.”

Max stared at him. “I’m not joking.”

“Neither am I. Let’s go. If this is where it ends, then it ends. But I’m not doing this job without you. I didn’t sign up to babysit whoever they throw in that car next.”

Max stared at him. “You’re serious?”

GP shrugged. “Mate. You think I’m going to hang around here while Christian and Helmut do budget gymnastics and blame the floor for the fact we haven’t been competitive in four months? You’re the reason I come to work.”

Max’s mouth parted. “You don’t even want to hear the rest of the plan?”

“I’ve heard enough. The car’s shit. Helmut thinks solving performance issues means yelling louder. The team’s scattered. You’re exhausted. And I’ve been watching you drive like you’re trying to drag a wheelbarrow through quicksand.”

Max laughed, startled. “Jesus, GP.”

GP leaned forward, setting the mug down with a quiet clink. “Max, I’ve been at Red Bull longer than I care to admit. I’ve survived engine changes, regulation chaos, Christian’s PR disasters, and your puberty.”

Max huffed. “Barely.”

“But I’ve also watched this team stop evolving with you,” GP continued. “And I’ve watched you carry more than your share of the weight while pretending you weren’t.”

He paused. “You’ve outgrown this place. That’s not betrayal. That’s just truth.”

Max looked away, jaw clenched.

“And for what it’s worth,” GP added, “I’ve already downloaded every file I care about. They’ll probably revoke my login the second you say yes, so I might as well get a head start.”

That made Max laugh. Quiet. Surprised.

“I thought you’d fight me on this.”

“I am fighting you,” GP said dryly. “I’m fighting for you to finally have a car that deserves you and that doesn’t chew its own floor upgrades. And for me to stop spending Thursdays arguing with people who think duct tape is a performance solution.” Win-win.”

They sat in silence for a moment longer.

Max looked down at the table again. “I just didn’t want to ask you. I didn’t want to make you feel like you had to choose.”

“You didn’t ask,” GP said simply. “I chose anyway.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

GP gave him a look. The kind that said don’t be an idiot. The kind he usually reserved for Friday debriefs and bad tire management.

“Max,” he said, “you’re not just a driver I work with. You’re—” He stopped. Then rolled his eyes. “—okay, I’m not doing the emotional bit. But you know.”

“Yeah,” Max said, voice low. “I know.”

“Besides, someone’s gotta keep you from crashing into people just because your crush got her feelings hurt.”

“She’s not my—”

GP held up a hand. “Save it. I have a teenager. I know denial when I hear it.”

Max huffed. “You’re insufferable.”

They sat there for a beat. The weight of it all—ten years, four championships, one legacy—settling around them like dust.

Max swallowed. “You really think it’s the right call?”

“I think,” GP said, “if you want to win again—and I mean really win, build something new, start fresh—you’re not going to do it in a car that eats its own gearbox every Sunday.”

Max nodded slowly.

“And,” GP added, “if there’s ever been a time to walk into Brackley, it’s now. You’ll have leverage. You’ll have options. You’ll have her.”

Max looked up sharply.

GP just smirked. “You’ve carried this team long enough, Max.”

Max exhaled slowly. “So… Mercedes. Let’s talk to them.”

GP nodded once. “Mercedes,” he said. “Guess I better start brushing up on my passive-aggressive British email etiquette. You start figuring out how not to try and kill someone in turn five.”

“Noted.”

And just like that, the next chapter began — not with fireworks, but with cold tea, a messy kitchen, and the kind of loyalty that didn’t need to be asked for to be given.

***

Text Messages: Max Verstappen & Toto Wolff

Max:

Toto.

I think it’s time we had that conversation.

Toto:

Max.

Let’s talk.

***

Wolff Residence, Monaco - 2 June 2025

The sun had just started to dip beneath the horizon, casting a soft orange haze across the quiet Monaco sky. Susie was perched on the terrace sofa, legs curled beneath her, glass of white wine in hand, reading out messages from Jack’s school group chat and occasionally sighing at the absurdity of it all.

Toto’s phone buzzed once. Then again.

He glanced at it without much interest—he’d told his assistant not to bother him tonight unless something was on fire or Kimi had managed to break another sim rig.

But it wasn’t his assistant.

It was Max Verstappen.

Max: Toto. I think it’s time we had that conversation.

Toto stared at the screen. Blinked.

“Is it Ana?” Susie asked gently from across the terrace, noting the sudden stillness in his posture. “Everything alright?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Just turned the phone slightly in his hand like he needed a different angle to confirm the name.

“No,” he said slowly. “Not Anastasia.”

He held the phone up slightly for her to see, then clicked it back on to show her the screen.

Susie’s eyebrows rose. “Well. That’s a short sentence with very large implications.”

Toto ran a hand over his mouth, heart ticking up just slightly—not with nerves, but with the weight of knowing what might be coming.

He looked out toward the sea, then back at his phone. His voice was low.

Susie set her wine down. “Do you think it’s real this time?”

Toto’s voice was quieter than usual. “I think something changed.”

She nodded slowly. “Spain?”

He nodded back.

They both knew. Max Verstappen didn’t lose control often. And when he did, it wasn’t over tyre temps or DRS issues. Not really. Something had cracked.

“I thought he’d wait until after the summer break,” Susie said. “After Spa, maybe.”

“I did too,” Toto admitted. “But maybe he’s done waiting.”

He didn’t say what else he was thinking.

That maybe this wasn’t just about engines and chassis and unstable rear ends. That maybe this had as much to do with the exhausted look Max had worn all weekend

He stood, the motion slow but certain, already reaching for his laptop on the small table nearby.

Susie watched him move with the kind of quiet amusement that came from over a decade of knowing when something big was about to land.

“You’ll keep it professional,” she said.

Toto gave her a tight smile. “Of course.”

Then paused, thumb hovering over the message thread.

“…but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t enjoy the thought of beating Christian Horner at his own game.”

Susie raised her glass slightly. “You always did like chess.”

Toto: Max. Let’s talk.

Toto sent the message, closed his laptop, and stared out at the darkening sky.

Let the endgame begin.

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 3 June 2025

Tuesday lunch had never been about comfort.

It was about silence. Sanity. A brief, ritualized act of mutual disengagement from the absolute circus they all worked in.

Which is why, when Kimi Antonelli slumped into his usual chair at exactly 12:01, Ana said nothing.

Just passed him a plate.

He didn’t take it.

That was new.

She looked up.

Kimi was doing the thing where he stared at the floor like it had personally offended him. His arms were crossed. His curls were still damp from the simulator session. His entire energy radiated the vague hopelessness of someone trying not to cry in a public restroom.

No one said anything. That was the rule.

Ana unfolded her linen napkin, took a bite of her salad, and watched Kimi absolutely vibrate with unspoken crisis.

It took four full minutes before he cracked.

“I think I’m going to fail everything,” he muttered.

Valtteri didn’t look up. “Define everything.”

“School. Exams. Life. Racing.”

“Racing is dramatic,” Bono said mildly, slicing an apple. “It was an oil pressure issue. Not your fault.”

“You didn’t even get a dramatic exit.” Valtteri said with a shrug. “DNFs sucks.”

Kimi made a noise halfway between a laugh and a cough. It was small. But it counted.

Ana’s gaze was still on Kimi.

He was slouched. Defensive. His tray untouched.

She could see the patterns. The same sharp-edged spirals she used to chase down in code. Fractal-level self-doubt.

“And school?” she asked, voice softer now.

“I suck at actual exams. I panic. I go blank. I’m going to bomb everything and then next year when I crash out of Q1 someone’s gonna be like ‘he couldn’t even pass maths and it’ll be on a meme page forever. Italian, History, I’m okay. But maths is a mess. And I forgot the ethics reading and now I’m behind on revision and I still don’t understand half the equations and—”

Ana reached for her tablet. “What’s on your syllabus?”

Kimi blinked. “What?”

“Your syllabus,” she repeated. “For math. Show me.”

He stared. “Why?”

“I want to know what kind of nonsense is making you think you’re stupid.”

Bono snorted.

Valtteri hid a laugh behind his coffee.

“What part don’t you understand?” she repeated, tone flat. “Give me an equation. Or a concept. What’s tripping you?”

Kimi opened his mouth. Closed it.

Then: “How is that your reaction?”

“Because failure isn’t useful,” she said. “Give me something I can solve. Show me what the question was,” she said. “We’ll start there.”

Kimi stared at her, like she’d just offered to rebuild his entire life with a screwdriver and a stable baseline.

“…Okay,” he said, finally. “But don’t judge my handwriting.”

“I’ve seen Bono’s post-race notes,” Ana replied. “Nothing can be worse.”

“Hey,” Bono said, mildly wounded.

By the time lunch ended, Kimi had explained three exam problems, Bono had offered him an espresso for every passing grade, and Valtteri had somehow convinced him that DNFing in Barcelona was a rite of passage.

Kimi left the room with his shoulders slightly straighter.

Ana went back to work with a pencil smudge on her sleeve.

She would never say it aloud — certainly not to Kimi — but it reminded her, distantly, of Max. Not in the way he drove, but in the way he carried failure. Quietly. Like a debt to be repaid in blood.

It made her chest ache, in a way she didn’t have language for. So she didn’t dwell. She just went back to her schematics, her engines, her simulations.

But she made a mental note to follow up on the exam dates.

Just in case.

***

Unnamed Restaurant, London, England - 4 June 2025

The restaurant was nearly empty by late afternoon. It was cool, quiet, and sharply efficient—just like everything else about them.

Raymond Vermeulen was shown into a private room near the back. No cameras. No journalists. No names on the door.

A small table. Two chairs. Andreas Stein, one of Mercedes’ senior liaisons, stood as Raymond entered. They shook hands—brief, firm, and with the wary politeness of men who had danced around each other for years but never like this.

Not when it mattered.

“Raymond,” Andreas said evenly. “Pleasure.”

“Let’s not waste time,” Raymond replied, taking the seat across from him.

He’d said it before. Over the years, they’d entertained offers. Ferrari. Mercedes. Aston. But it was always gamesmanship. Leverage. A chessboard move to keep Red Bull sharp.

But this time, Max wasn’t bluffing. For the first time since he was 16 years old and grinning next to a Toro Rosso, Max Verstappen was thinking about leaving.

And Raymond wasn’t sure Red Bull even realized it yet.

This wasn’t the first time someone from Mercedes had reached out. There had been feelers. Quiet compliments in passing. Once, an envelope slid across a table during an off-season dinner with vague performance clauses and large numbers. Max had laughed. Crumpled it up without even reading past the first page.

That had been six years ago.

But now?

Now he was here.

Not to posture. Not to threaten. To listen.

And that, more than anything, told Raymond how real this had become.

Andreas didn’t offer small talk. He didn’t need to.

“So. You’re here.” A faint smile. “That already says something.”

Raymond leaned back in his chair, one leg crossing over the other. He’d never liked this part—the cloak-and-dagger meetings, the half-truths and legal gray areas. But this wasn’t about leverage anymore. This was about possibility.

“I didn’t come all this way for coffee.”

Andreas inclined his head slightly. “Then I’ll be direct. If Max is serious, so are we. The door is open.”

Raymond didn’t blink.

“You’d have to clear a seat.”

“We’re aware.”

“You’d have to buy him out of a very expensive contract.”

“If he wants to come,” Andreas said, “we’ll make it work.”

There it was. No flinching. No hedging. Just quiet, German certainty.

And it hit Raymond with more weight than he’d expected: they still wanted him. Even after everything. The dominance, the title fights, the perception of him as too embedded in Red Bull to ever leave. They were still ready to tear up their roadmap and rebuild around Max Verstappen.

And this time, Max might actually say yes.

“You’ve courted him before,” Raymond said slowly. “He’s always said no.”

Andreas didn’t move. “Has he said no this time?”

Raymond looked away, eyes flicking toward the darkened window that separated them from the paddock.

“He’s asking questions,” he said finally. “Big ones.”

“What changed?”

“He’s driving at 110% every weekend just to finish fourth. He’s tired. We all are.”

Andreas nodded once, not interrupting.

“There’s no unity anymore,” Raymond continued. “The leadership is fractured. Nobody’s thinking long-term. Everything is about putting out the next fire.”

Andreas didn’t pretend to be surprised.

“We can offer long-term,” he said. “You know that. The 2026 power unit’s already deep in development. We’re ahead of schedule.”

Raymond gave a short, skeptical breath. “That’s what everyone says.”

“I don’t mean PR-deck ahead. I mean actual, reliable, wind tunnel-validated, track-modeled progress. We’re not playing catch-up this time. We’ve learned our lessons.”

A pause.

“The engine,” he said simply. “Ours is further ahead than most believe. And it’s not just hardware. The integration work’s been meticulous.”

Raymond tilted his head. “I’ve heard rumors.”

“You’ve heard fragments,” Andreas corrected. “The architecture is clean. Adaptable. Fast off the line and efficient where it counts. Not draggy. Not stiff.”

“And who’s leading that?”

Andreas didn’t hesitate.

“Dr. Anastasia Wolff.”

That name caught Raymond off guard. His eyebrows lifted. “Toto’s daughter?”

“Yes. And not because of her surname. She’s been deep in the development cycle for over a year. Quiet. Brilliant. Brutal in data reviews. The team calls her the scalpel. She’s leading the systems architecture for 2026. The hybrid interface especially. Max would have direct input.”

Raymond didn’t reply immediately. It wasn’t news—he’d heard whispers. Seen the articles that mentioned her name deep in the technical columns. He just hadn’t realized how close she was to the core of it.

He exhaled slowly. “That explains a few things.”

“2026 is a clean slate. New regs, new engine philosophy. He could be the centerpiece,” Andreas said.

Raymond gave a quiet, humorless breath. “You’ve already written the press release, haven’t you.”

Andreas smiled faintly. “We’ve dreamed about it.”

Later that night, Raymond stepped out into London air and called the only person who would understand the weight of what had just shifted.

Jos picked up on the second ring.

“How did it go?” he asked, voice gruff.

Raymond hesitated. Not for drama. Just because saying it aloud made it too real.

“They’re serious,” he said.

A pause.

“And Max?” Jos asked.

Raymond swallowed.

“He’s more serious than I’ve ever seen him.”

And somewhere, deep in the pit of his stomach, Raymond felt it for the first time—the slow, seismic crack in the foundation of everything they’d built.

Raymond exhaled. “If we keep talking, it’ll leak.”

“I assume he’s ready for that?”

Raymond nodded once. “Let them lose their minds.”

***

Mercedes F1 HQ, Brackley, England - 4 June 2025

The box was sitting on her desk when Ana arrived.

Unmarked. Medium-sized. A printed label with her name, nothing else.

Ana frowned.

She didn’t do surprises. She didn’t like surprises. Surprises, in her experience, rarely meant something good. Surprises were miscalculations in clean systems. A last-minute reg change. A test that failed. A driver ignoring strategy.

Still, she peeled back the lid carefully, ready to find spare simulation notes or sensor modules.

But what she found was—

Clothing.

Folded with precision. Nestled in tissue paper. A small black envelope on top, unsealed.

She opened it.

Let me know what works. We’ll make more.

She would recognise her father’s handwriting everywhere. Ana stared at the card for a long moment, then reached for the first item.

A team polo.

Same cut. Same design. Same branding.

But softer.

She ran her hand across the inside hem and her chest clenched.

It didn’t bite.

It didn’t snag.

There were no tags.

The seams were flat-locked and pressure-tested.

The collar was gently structured, not stiff.

The cotton blend was like air. Like comfort. Like someone had listened.

This wasn’t from stock.

This had been made.

Specifically.

For her.

Ana didn’t move for several long seconds.

Then she reached beneath the polo and found more:

Beneath the polo was more:

A black zip-up team jacket in brushed cotton fleece, no inner lining, no collar tags.

A long-sleeved shirt with elastic cuffs that didn’t squeeze.

A matching hoodie with her initials embroidered inside the cuff in matte thread.

All of them in her standards. Her sizes. Her tolerances. Her sensory profile, without ever needing to say the word.

She rubbed it between her fingers, then pressed it against the inside of her wrist.

It didn’t sting.

She exhaled slowly.

No one had said anything. No one had made a show of it. There’d been no big team email. No label that marked her as different.

Just this box.

Just a quiet, practical kindness.

Not because she had submitted a request.

Not because she’d complained.

But because Toto—her father—had noticed.

She hadn’t asked for this.

Because asking had always felt dangerous.

Toto hadn’t even known she existed until she was eight years old. One day she’d been a quiet, stubborn child in her mother’s apartment in Moscow; the next, she was standing on the steps of a townhouse in Vienna with her hand in her mother’s and a suitcase at her feet, being told this was her father.

Toto had been a stranger then. A man built of steel and ambition, who hadn’t even known she existed until her mother—beautiful, and already done with parenting— had dropped Ana off, kissed her forehead once, and never came back.

She’d tried to behave.

She’d tried not to take up space.

He hadn’t known what to do with her.

Not at first. Maybe not even now.

He tried — she would never say he didn’t try — but he tried in the way engineers try to fix a machine they didn’t build. He tried with spreadsheets and plans and the occasional misfired offer to go karting.

She remembered the early years with him like walking through a museum on tiptoe—careful not to knock anything over. She was too quiet, too smart, too strange. He hadn’t known how to talk to her. She hadn’t known how to ask for what she needed. Somewhere along the way, that became their normal.

So she learned to manage herself.

To be small. Quiet. Perfect. To learn early that needing things just made her difficult. That emotions were inconvenient. That pain was better ignored.

She’d learned to eat what didn’t upset her stomach, to wear what didn’t make her skin scream, to find silence where she could and control what she couldn’t.

And then one day, after twenty years of managing herself, she had tugged at the collar of her Mercedes team polo and muttered, “They’re polyester. They feel like sandpaper dipped in hot glue.”

And Toto had heard her.

He’d listened.

She’d never really believed she fit anywhere in his life. She was the footnote. The consequence. The Moscow Mistake. The burden someone had left him with and that he’d… kept.

And yet—

This box.

This box was not the work of a man who had forgotten she existed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t emotional. There was no speech, no label, no ceremony.

It fit. For once, something fit.

***

Text Messages: Toto Wolff & Dr. Anastasia “Ana” Wolff

Ana: The shirts arrived. They fit.

Ana: Thank you.

Toto: You shouldn’t have had to work in something that hurt. You don’t have to ask to be comfortable.

Ana: I didn’t want to be a problem.

Toto: You’re not. You never are.

Ana: …Okay. Still. Thank you.

Toto: You’re welcome, Sternchen.

***

Group Chat: “TEAM 33”

(Members: Max Verstappen, Jos Verstappen, Raymond Vermeulen)

Raymond: Spoke to Andreas. It’s real. They’d move pieces if you’re serious.

Jos: What kind of pieces? Russell?

Raymond: Didn’t say. Didn’t deny either.

Max: They’d do it. And honestly… I’m leaning that way. 2026 looks promising.

Jos: The engine?

Max: The whole package. The new hybrid system. The energy deployment modeling. It’s miles ahead.

Raymond: That’s what they claimed. Said it’s being led by Dr. Anastasia Wolff.

Max: Yeah. It is. She designed most of the integration protocol herself. Used her degrees from Cambridge. Plus her doctoral thesis laid the foundation for her work.

Jos: … How do you know that?

Raymond: Wait. How do you know that?

Max: What?

Raymond: Her doctoral thesis?

Jos: Cambridge degrees?

Max:

I’m just saying—if she’s part of that project, it’s going to be serious. She doesn’t work on nonsense.

Raymond: Max, do you usually read the academic credentials of Mercedes’ engineering staff?

Max: …I’m interested in the project.

Jos: You’re interested in her, clearly.

Max: That’s not— I mean— We’ve talked. About work. A few times.

Raymond: You just cited her entire CV like it’s burned into your brain.

Jos: Max. Do you have a thing for Toto’s daughter?

Max: That’s a wild accusation.

Raymond: Oh my god. This is about more than just the car.

Jos: You’re switching teams for a girl?

Max: I’m switching teams because my current one’s imploding. But the possibility of working with someone I respect doesn’t hurt.

Raymond: Does “respect” usually include memorizing their thesis?

Max: Goodnight.

Raymond: We’re circling back to this.

Max: No, we’re not.

***

Text Messages: Jos Verstappen & Raymond Vermeulen

Jos: Tell me I’m wrong.

Raymond: About what?

Jos: About Max changing teams because of a girl.

Raymond: … You think?

Jos: I know. The way he was going on about Anastasia Wolff. he brought up her degrees, Raymond her doctorate he was quoting her credentials like he’s a LinkedIn profile in love

Raymond: He did have a tone.

Jos: Tone?? My son is ready to defect to Mercedes because Wolff’s daughter builds sexy battery systems.

Raymond: So what are we saying here You think Anastasia Wolff is the reason he’s considering leaving Red Bull?

Jos: I think it’s a factor He’s always been loyal—to people, not just teams And if she’s at Mercedes…

Raymond: To be fair, she’s not Toto 2.0. She’s more like… Terminator with a PhD.

Jos: God help us. He’s changing cars for a girl.

Raymond: He hasn’t changed yet.

Jos: No, but he’s thinking with something other than the steering wheel. That’s how it starts.

Raymond: To be fair, he stayed loyal to Red Bull for nearly a decade.

Jos: Because he had the fastest car. Now he has feelings. This is a disaster.

Raymond: So what do we do?

Jos: We pray Mercedes screws something up. Or that Anastasia Wolff breaks his heart before he signs the damn paperwork.

Raymond: That’s dark.

Jos: I raised him. I know what he’s like when he’s in love. He goes all in.

Raymond: You don’t think it’s the car?

Jos: Oh, it’s the car. But it’s also the girl.

Raymond: God help us.

Jos: God help Toto. If this goes the way Max wants it, he’s going to be father-in-law to a four-time world champion.

***

#max verstappen fanfiction #formula 1 #max verstappen #max verstappen smau #max verstappen fic #f1 fanfiction #formula 1 fanfiction #max verstappen fluff #mv1 fanfiction #max verstappen imagine #max verstappen fake instagram #f1 smau #max verstappen social media au #max verstappen x reader #mv1 x reader #f1 x reader #formula 1 x reader #mv1 fic #f1 grid fanfiction

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comikbook · 4 months ago

Note

so you talk about your religious trauma and it’s a major theme in your art, and i was wondering what your current relationship with religion is? is in, do you practice any religion or consider yourself religious? if it isn’t too personal :)

im willing to answer !! i dont talk about it on most of my socials outright because people tend to misinterpret things intensely when it comes to this kind of topic, but ill give it a shot trying to write it out. In fact, I will give the whole story of my experience with religion. So its gonna be long.

there will be talk of psychosis, eating disorders, delusions, and self harm in this post. However I will not be graphic in my descriptions.

To start out I suppose for context, my parents are not catholic. my mom doesn’t talk about religion, and my dad doesnt follow anything in the real sense, but practices a lot of principals of buddhism. My nana was catholic, and my extended family vary in their religious beliefs.

That being said, (i think to my nana’s influence) when i started school i attended a small private catholic school which has since been shut down. fun fact ! if you’ve ever watched the Netflix doc “The Keepers” my school was only about 3 miles from where one of the nun’s bodies were found. The priest who was suspected to be the one to blame previously taught at the school i went to before moving to the one he is known for teaching at. Not really relevant, but i did always feel a bit uneasy there as a child so it was a weird thing to find out later.

Anyways, I attended this catholic school for 3 years. pre-k, kindergarden, and first grade. I would often ask to use the restroom and just wander around the halls or hide in the bathroom. I would get scolded for asking questions that were “inappropriate”. The one i remember most vividly was “If God created all of us, who created God ?” to one of the nuns, who became upset with me. We weren’t taught whar we should have been, and when I did move to public school i was far behind my peers in specifically science, math, and history, but I digress. This is my one class photo from our yearbook !

It is important to note that my first remembered instance of psychosis started when i attended this private school. My mom was picking me up one day, there was heavy traffic. She was trying to get over and was complaining no one would let her. I caught myself staring at my reflection in the front mirror of the car, and the clicking of the blinker kind of overwhelmed me. In the constant clicking I “decoded” a message that involved me being told to do something particularly violent. In my small brain in addition to my outside influences, I thought the person that sent this message to me was God. I was confused as to why, but I felt i did something wrong to deserve it. i quietly prayed in the back seat internally for forgiveness.

So I started to receive more messages from “God” commanding me to do something or another, typically vile in some way. i would hear this voice in my head frequently, until eventually it faded out and stopped. I dont remember when it stopped, i just remember i had this experience as a child and then when i was a little older i just didnt think about it anymore.

I do have gaps in my memory of my childhood, pretty big ones, for reasons im still struggling to understand to this day. So that makes things fuzzy. I do remember falling back into religion briefly in middle school, but eventually fell out of it again.

As i approached the end of highschool my mental health was tanking. Mostly with depression and anxiety, however this wouldnt be the worst it would get. In 2019 I was in college and things were getting increasingly worse. I was one of the few people that loved the isolation of the quarantine actually, i fear if not for that what was to come would have been way worse.

My symptoms of psychosis started to creep back into my life. I was already isolating before the quarantine, but got worse after it had started. I know i said i enjoyed it, and i did, but it also fed into some bad habits. Anyways I was becoming increasingly scared and paranoid, I was actively self harming, I was extremely depressed. I had plans to take my own life, a few of them actually. I started eating less. I didnt think much of it, I was just depressed, i have been depressed most of my life so this was just a particularly bad bout for me is what i thought.

That is, until one night where I had my first psychotic episode. It remains to be the worst and only very big episode i have had. I dealt with it mostly alone, never alerting my family of it. I was on the phone with one friend i had at the time, although they were not the kindest to me overall. Despite that they sat with me. This episode led to me standing in one place for over 2 hours too scared to move. When I finally did, it seemed to trigger a more violent outburst.

I wont go into too much detail but i left the experience cried out, bloodied, and heavily bruised. My legs were entirely black and blue for over a month following. After this episode I finally decided to try to get help, and I met with my psychiatrist for the first time. I was immediately put on several antidepressants which ended up being beneficial but in the beginning caused me to lose my appetite entirely. This is when i fell more and more into my eating disorder. With this though, I was still experiencing delusions and hallucinations and got put on my first antipsychotic.

It helped with my symptoms, and it helped me get back to a normal weight. Even tho at the time I was abusing my adderall I was still able to get my body (mostly) back to normal, at least physically. That being said, while my symptoms were lessened they were not gone, it just became less scary to me. Maybe it was because I was being desensitized, but thats something to ponder another time.

I started to become more and more infatuated with catholicism again from that original episode forward. I was obsessed and that voice of god returned to me. I started hearing clicking and chirping coming from the back of my right ear, which ive dubbed as a “chip” in my brain placed by god for me to receive his messages. I thought there was an evil inside of me that needed to be let out, which i did by participating in frequent bloodletting to force out the bad, and make my body create newer, cleaner, and holier blood. This was something i felt I had to keep up often so that this evil force wouldnt take over. I was eventually able to stop self harming, and have been clean for over 2 years now. It is hard and i still feel the need to “cleanse” myself, but i try my best to push it down.

Fast foreward to 2022 and I would start the first piece in my painting series. I still experienced symptoms but much less frequently ! I started to detail my experience thru art. I would finish the first piece in my series titled “Forgive Me Father” in 2023. Since then I have made many more.

So we finally get to today. I have waited to talk about my current relationship with religion until the end as I felt the context was necessary, and to be honest it is complicated. As you can tell, It has effected me greatly and has come and gone in my life.

I would say from where I am now, I am not religious. A better way to put it i suppose is i consciously make the choice to not be. Like I said its complicated.

I like to think of it as there is two of me in my body. One is paranoid, scared, and extremely delusional. This is the part that still believes god is communicating with them. This is the person that still prays for forgiveness and cries over the fear of being sent to hell for their sins, all approved and constructed by god himself. and then theres my rational side, which exists im sure solely because of my medication. This part is extremely self aware, can tell when i am being delusional or irrational, who knows this is something caused by my illness. They exist side by side, at the same time, always. They fight in my head for control but always exist simultaniously, think of it like a pie chart. one may be more prevelant but the other is still always there.

So in a way, there is a lot I do personally believe. That being said the reason I do believe is because of my schizophrenia. So I choose to navigate my life as someone who actively does not believe as an attempt to not let the delusion control me. do i think people who are religious are delusional ? I do not, but I know in my personal case what leads me to believe these things is an unwell mind.

I still have an intense fascination with catholicism and religion in general. I think its a beautiful thing, it moves me, but i must keep it at a distance to avoid hurting me. It is not something I can actively engage in outside of general interest because it would kill me, and despite my previous statements i would like to live at least a little longer haha.

With all that said, and I doubt anyone will read this whole thing, its been a rollercoaster of a ride. If anyone has questions about it, feel free to ask. Im an open book about this stuff online most days, and Im willing to offer any information about it.

#my art #in gods hands #psychosis #mental health #mental heath awareness #schizophrenia #schizophrenic #psychosis awareness #religious delusions #religious trauma #mental illness #writing

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kaidoslastbraincell · 1 month ago

Text

how it all started (part 2) / baby saja x reader

tag list: @sky2lar, @minthoneynbasil, @seung185,

Part 1, Part 2, Part 3

KPDH MASTERLIST HERE

in which he is smitten from the start. actually...he's borderline obsessed and hopeless but we love it ;) - had to cut it short because it got long lmao but comment if you want the cat cafe date <3

pairings: baby saja x Zoey fan!reader

Since that day, all Baby had done was scroll through your Instagram page...he couldn't help himself. You were beautiful, cute, AND funny. Every post was a collection of photos: a selfie, random images from your week, cute cats, and a meme. The memes always had him snickering behind the sleeve of his sweater. Too bad you had yet to reply to his message.

You, on the other hand, had no idea what to do. Did you completely ghost him? Or did you bite the bullet and finally reply to the cute stranger who was apparently famous? It seemed like a no-brainer, but after both groups' little follow spree, your notifications had been bombarded. You eventually had to make your profile private. The story that Zoey had tagged you in had gone viral within minutes: a simple mirror selfie of her making a heart with her thumb and forefinger...and on that same wrist, the bracelet you'd made her. The caption read 'met the absolute cutest today (@)y/nl/n <3'

It was 3AM by the time you'd finally made up your mind. You'd lost enough sleep over the whole situation, so you sent a simple reply.

(@)y/nl/n: I was never hiding :)

You hoped he didn't screenshot the exchange and post it for publicity, but you had a feeling the Huntrix girls would all but murder him if he did. The reply was instant. Shit...did you wake him up?

(@)baby-saja: then the universe must have hidden you from me ;)

What you didn't know was that Baby had completely freaked out the second you replied, barging into Romance's room in their shared apartment and practically throwing his phone at the pink-haired boy.

"What the fuck do I say to that!?" he hissed, dragging his hands through his sleep-mussed hair as his eyes flickered between green and gold.

"What?" Romance muttered, "do you have any idea what time it is?"

"You're good at all this lovey crap. Reply for me!" He ignored the question.

With a sigh, Romance did as asked, taking a second to mull over the exchange before typing. He tossed the phone back to Baby before settling back into his bed.

"There. Now get out."

You blanked...there was no way. Choosing to ignore the ridiculously cheesy response, you replied.

(@)y/nl/n: i listened to some of your music...you guys are good.

Baby froze. Not only had Romance replied with something he'd never say himself in a million years, but you'd completely brushed over it. He was never asking the hopeless flirt for advice again. So he opted to bother Jinu instead. Luckily, the Saja leader was already awake when he let himself into his room.

"Can I help you?" he asked with a raised brow.

"You've got something going on with that Hunter chick, right?"

Jinu froze, unsure of where this was going. It seemed Baby was more observant than he led people to believe.

"How do you flirt with human girls?"

The dark-haired boy relaxed slightly, smirking.

"Is this about that girl from the fan meet? The one that's obsessed with Zoey?"

Baby growled lowly. "Don't fucking remind me. I don't want to have to fight for her attention."

For the rest of the night, Jinu gave his bandmate tips. He was a lot more helpful than the others would have been. They scoured through your Instagram profile, analysing every post and photo, making a list of things Baby could say. Compliments on your style, memes they thought you would like, and conversation starters that would make you actually want to talk to him. The notes app on his phone was full.

The rapper waited until you posted again to message you. As usual, it was a collection of photos: a picture of a cute cake, a cat you'd found on the street, and a mirror selfie of you with...was that Zoey!? His patterns rippled. You hadn't tagged her, and the other rapper was wearing a disguise, but her style was unmistakable.

(@)baby-saja: I like your outfit :)

And he did. You looked adorable in your cut-off denim overalls, pale blue knitted cardigan, and the nicest pair of pastel Jordans he'd ever seen.

It was a couple of hours before you replied, and he could only assume it was because you'd still been with Zoey.

(@)y/nl/n: thanks <3 our styles are similar, don't you think?

Oh he did think. You were practically matching. His heart was hammering in his chest as he stared intently at the photo, and he was overwhelmed with a single thought. Mine. Mine. Mine.

Conversations came easier after that, and you both started to get more comfortable. After a week of constant back and forth, Baby decided to make a move.

(@)baby-saja: a cat cafe just opened in town. wanna check it out together?

You liked the message before responding.

(@)y/nl/n: off work this week. just give me a time and address <3

The message seemed simple...unbothered...but in reality, you were jumping for joy. You loved cats. You loved cafes. And you liked Baby. He was fun to talk to, and it seemed you had a lot in common.

(@)baby-saja: tomorrow? noon? x

The next morning, you tore your wardrobe apart trying to find the perfect outfit. Was this a date? It seemed like a date. But you didn't want to assume. You decided on something simple: denim overalls, your pastel Jordans, and a light yellow, knit sweater. Taking a picture in your mirror, you sent it to him with a peace sign emoji.

(@)baby-saja: looking cute as always ;) and we're matching x

#myposts #kaidoslastbraincell #kpdh #kpdh baby #saja boys #baby saja #baby saja x reader #kpdh saja boys #kpop demon hunters #kpop demon hunters x reader #Spotify

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checkeredflagggs · 1 month ago

Text

To Paint a Picture: Patronage

Pairing: max verstappen x webber vettel!reader

summary: y/n webber vettel swore she was done with formula 1 and race drivers forever. max is determined to change her mind

a/n: I’ve had this piece rumbling about in my mind since like November so I’m really excited to actually start posting it!

a/n2: max is finally here!

a/n3: all art used is by anastasia trusova

Masterlist | Series Masterlist

Private Messages, the Grid (2010/2011 version)

Private Messages, Sebastian and y/n

Private Messages, Nando and y/n

Private Messages, Sebastian and y/n

Private Messages, the Grid (2010/2011 version)

y/n_vettel🔒

liked by seb5priv, nando, lewis44, and 27 others

tagged: nando, whiskey_5

y/n_vettel: meet whiskey! Thanks again tío nando!

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nando: enjoy him pequeña

↳y/n_vettel: I absolutely will!

↳hanna_priv: yes thank you Fernando

↳nando: hahaha yes Hanna I hope you enjoy him — he’s very well trained

↳hanna_priv: he better be

lewis44: if I knew you were looking to get a pet darling, I would have offered a puppy!

↳y/n_vettel: next time! And only if it’s one of Roscoe’s!

↳lewis44: oh absolutely — only the best for you

↳seb5priv: let’s ask permission first, shall we?

↳y/n_vettel: oh please vater?? Please?

↳seb5priv: not for a while

↳lewis44: good to know. Good to know

↳seb5priv: watch yourself

seb5priv: I will say he’s very well trained

↳nando: of course he is!

↳seb5priv: he heard #2 on a team call and he growled

↳y/n_vettel: that’s amazing!

↳nando: you’re welcome pequeña

y/n_vettel🔒

liked by valtteri, nico_r, danric and 373 others

tagged: seb5priv, hanna_priv

y/n_vettel: I’ve only been asking for years! But I’m a big sister now!

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danric: more vettels in the house!!

↳y/n_vettel: woohoo!

valtteri: congratulations! liked by y/n_vettel

lewis44: based on y/n, you’re going to be great parents! Much love to the newest addition

↳y/n_vettel: they’re currently dead asleep but I’m sure they appreciate it!

↳lewis44: well they do say to sleep when the baby does

↳y/n_vettel: oh she’s not sleeping, I’ve just taken her with me into the studio to give them a break

↳y/n_vettel: they look like dead people

↳lewis44: how much for pictures?

↳y/n_vettel: only of vater but call me liked by lewis44

micky: congratulations y/n! I know you’ve wanted a sibling for a while

↳y/n_vettel: it took them forever but they finally caved!

↳micky: you’re gonna be the best big sister

↳gina: umm?

↳micky: I said what I said

whiskey_tequila_5

liked by lewis44, valtteri, danric, jenson_priv, and 2,823,823 others

whiskey_tequila_5: a weekend photo dump + i have a sister now?

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user1: I would die for these 2

↳user2: whiskey and tequila have my sword

↳user3: and my bow

↳user4: and my axe!

↳whiskey_tequila_5: guess we’re taking the ring to Isengard…although we don’t know the way

↳user5: this is everything…

jenson_priv: awww peanut I thought we agreed a dog was gonna be next?

↳y/n_vettel: no you and Lewis kept bothering me about it and I hummed and nodded to shut you up, old man

↳lewis44: we’ll wear you done eventually…

↳y/n_vettel: uh huh…

seb5priv: another one?

↳y/n_vettel: you’ll love them!

↳seb5priv: …whatever you want blümchen

↳y/n_vettel: 💜💜💜

user6: these are the most spoiled cats ever

↳user7: no joke they for real live better than i do

↳whiskey_tequila_5: we’re worth it 💅👑

nando: Traerás a los dos cuando vengas a visitarme, ¿verdad?You’ll bring both of them when you come to visit me, yes?

↳y/n_vettel: of course!

↳nando: good

danric: some handsome looking pets you got there!

↳y/n_vettel: thanks Dan! Nando got me whiskey a couple of years ago and a friend’s cat just had kittens and they gave me tequila!

y/n_vettel🔒

liked by seb5priv, hanna_priv, nando, nico_r and 382 others

y/n_vettel: As I head into my last show of the year, I wanted to give thanks to everyone who got me here — including all the past versions of me who didn’t think we’d ever be here, the extended family the took me in and believed in me from day one, and Sebastian and Hanna who fought for me even before I knew I needed it. I appreciate it more than I can ever put into words — hopefully my artworks will speak for me

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nando: Ha sido un placer absoluto verte convertirte en las increíbles jóvenes en las que te has convertido, pequeña. Estoy seguro de que esto es solo el comienzo de tu viaje: te estaré apoyando todo el camino. It has been an absolute pleasure watching you grow into the amazing young woman you’ve become, little one. I’m sure this is just the start of your journey — I’ll be rooting for you the entire way.

↳y/n_vettel: I’m actually gonna cry tío…

seb5priv: Oh blümchen it has been an absolute pleasure becoming your father and watching you grow — even if you like to torture your old man

↳y/n_vettel: you love it!

↳seb5priv: I wouldn’t change a thing

lewis44: it’s been an amazing few years with you and I’m excited to see where you go from here 🖤

↳y/n_vettel: thanks uncle Lew 💜💜

danric: I know we just met recently but you’re a cool kid

↳y/n_vettel: thanks Danny Ric — you’re not bad yourself

↳danric: that’s the best compliment I’ve ever gotten liked by y/n_vettel

jenson_priv: can’t wait to see your show peanut — and to watch you continue to become the best version of yourself

↳y/n_vettel: so cheesy old man…but thanks I guess

hanna_priv: you are absolutely the best daughter I could have asked for — and I know Adeline would have been so proud of who you’ve become

↳y/n_vettel: thanks mutter 💜💜

Private Messages, The Uncles and y/n

Private Messages, Mick and y/n

Private Emails, Y/N’s Inbox

Private Messages: Jenson and y/n, Nando and y/n

Private Messages: Nico and y/n, Lewis and y/n

Private Messages, Kimi and y/n

Private Emails, Y/N’s Inbox

Private Messages, Max and Victoria and Sophie (Post Fundraising Exhibition)

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astars-things · 5 months ago

Text

Secrets revealed on Twitch

Lando Norris x Reader

Lando wasn’t even thinking when he said it.

He had been casually chatting with his Twitch chat, laughing as he played a round of iRacing, completely immersed in the game. His focus was sharp, his reactions quick, but then, in a moment of pure instinct, he said the words that changed everything.

“No, my girlfriend thinks that’s stupid too.”

The chat froze.

Lando didn’t notice at first, still focused on the track. But then, out of the corner of his eye, the messages started flooding in.

GIRLFRIEND??? WHO?? HE HAS A GF?? EXPLAIN YOURSELF, NORRIS.

He blinked, his hands tightening on the wheel as realization dawned. His heart stuttered. Oh, crap. He hadn’t meant to let that slip. It had been months of keeping things private, of soft moments away from the cameras, of quiet mornings and late-night phone calls. And now, in the middle of a stupid Twitch stream, he had blown it.

Quickly, he grabbed his phone with one hand, barely glancing at chat as he fired off a message.

Lando: Sooo I might have just accidentally told the entire internet I have a girlfriend. Lando: And now they’re kind of freaking out. Lando: And now they want to meet you. Lando: Want to come say hi?

You stared at your phone, biting your lip as you read his messages. Part of you wanted to tease him for slipping up, but the thought of actually going on stream made you nervous. You weren’t a public person—not in the way he was, at least.

But then another message popped up.

Lando: They’re literally begging. Like, I can hear them screaming through the screen.

You rolled your eyes fondly before sending back a simple, Give me five minutes.

When you finally walked into his gaming room, he was still looking at the chat, a sheepish grin on his face. “Guys, I don’t know if she’s gonna—oh, wait. Here she is.”

He turned to you, his expression instantly softening. “Hi.”

You smiled, stepping into the frame as he leaned back in his chair, looking up at you with that adoring gaze he always had when you were around. The chat exploded.

SHE’S REAL. OMG SHE’S SO PRETTY. WE LOVE HER ALREADY. Lando, blink twice if she’s holding you hostage.

You laughed, shaking your head as Lando pulled you closer, an arm wrapping around your waist. “So, this is the chat that’s been harassing you?” you teased, glancing at the flood of messages.

Lando groaned dramatically. “Yes. They’re relentless.”

You leaned into the mic. “Hi, chat. Be nice to him.”

NEVER. WE BULLY WITH LOVE. SHE GETS IT.

Lando rolled his eyes playfully before looking up at you again. “They’ve been asking questions.”

“Oh?” You raised a brow. “Like what?”

“Like how we met, how long we’ve been together, and whether or not I’m being forced into this relationship against my will,” he said, smirking.

You grinned. “I mean, should I let them believe that?”

Chat went wild.

YES. CONFIRM IT. LANDA PRISONER ERA. FREE HIM.

Lando groaned, dropping his head against your stomach, making you giggle as you ran your fingers through his messy curls. “Great. Now they’re never gonna let this go.”

You leaned down, pressing a quick kiss to the top of his head. “You’ll survive.”

He tilted his head up, eyes crinkling with warmth as he looked at you. “I always do when you’re around.”

Chat collectively lost their minds.

GET A ROOM. IM THROWING UP. ACTUAL RELATIONSHIP GOALS.

Lando just smiled, pulling you down onto his lap. “Well, chat, there you have it. My not-so-secret-anymore girlfriend.”

You laughed, relaxing into him. “Guess the secret’s out.”

And honestly? It wasn’t so bad.

#lando norris x y/n #lando norris x reader #lando norris imagine #lando norris #f1 x you #formula 1 x reader #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #mclaren #lando x reader

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rememberwren · 1 year ago

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Skin Deep

Tattoo artist!Simon x fem!reader. Reader, looking to expand your horizons, you get your first tattoo from an enigmatic artist deemed “Ghost”. 8.4k. Features: soft!Simon who is bad at people-ing, vaginal sex, lots of nipples, like at least three nipples, poor writing, abrupt transitions, shy and awkward reader. Based on this post.

Sequel here.

“I bit the bullet!” you shout over the music, hand cupped around your friend’s ear to be better heard. She shrieks in delight at the sound of your voice, turning to wrap her arms around your waist and pull you close to her swaying body. Many eyes in the club follow her movements. She has always been the wild child to your wallflower, attracting attention wherever she goes.

“You bit what?” she shouts back, her breath like a mint julep.

“The bullet,” you laugh. “I called that guy you recommended and set up an appointment. For the tattoo I wanted!”

She stares at you blankly. Her silky little tank top is drooping off of one shoulder, so you reach out and tuck it back into place. The longer she stares, the more nervous you grow. She’d been so encouraging after your last boyfriend dumped you—encouraging you to step outside your comfort zone, to ‘make more mistakes’, to live life more fully. Now she’s staring at you like you’ve grown a second head and it’s the one doing the talking.

“What guy I recommended?” she asks.

“Kevin!”

“Oh no. No, no, no. Not Kevin. Not Kevin. Why, Kevin?”

You frown. “You said you went to Kevin.”

“It wasn’t a recommendation, sweetie, if anything it was to caution you away from him! He’s a creep; there’s a reason why I never went back.”

You deflate like a balloon, going limp and letting her drag you to the nearby free seats at the bar where you sit heavily. It’s not just the tattoo. It’s the icing on a shitcake of a day.

A new song seamlessly starts, and the dancers nearby go wild with excitement. Your mood is the antithesis of the event; everyone seems to be having a great time except for you. Story of your life.

“You conveniently left that out. Ugh. I’ll cancel it. What am I even fucking doing—thank you—” you accept the cup of ice water the bartender slides in front of you with a shy smile, sipping at it and keeping your hand curled over the top of it protectively. “—none of this is like me.”

Your friend frowns. She steals your drink and sips at it. “You were the one who said you’d always wanted a tattoo. You’re an adult. These are exactly the kinds of decisions you’re old enough to make. Look, fuck Kevin. All my friends hate Kevin. I know another guy, and he’s highly recommended. Let me give you his number. Alright?”

“Alright,” you sigh. You make a silent promise to yourself though: if it doesn’t work out with this next tattoo artist, then you won’t be getting one at all. You’ll take it as a sign from the universe to get back in your comfort zone and stay there, once and for all.

What kind of a moniker is Ghost? you wonder to yourself as you skim the Instagram of the shop this Ghost owns. The profile picture is one of the building itself, and all of the pictures are of various inked body parts. Beautiful ones, admittedly. But no hint of the mysterious figure who owns the shop. There is a personal instagram linked @GHOST89 but it is private when you try to click on it.

The phone number your friend gave you rings straight through to voicemail. You let out a shaky breath. Fuck, you hate voicemail. Talking to people was difficult enough; talking to people’s disembodied machines was even worse somehow. It isn’t until you’ve hung up after leaving your message that you realize you forgot to tell him your fucking name (genius!). Groaning, you contemplate dialing him back when the phone in your hand rings—and it’s him.

“Hello?”

“I’m free Wednesdays for consultations,” says a baritone voice from the other end of the line.

Nice to talk to you too, you think dryly. Maybe this guy is as bad at the phone as you are. “I work Wednesdays. Are you free in the evenings?”

He sighs, like this is going to be very strenuous for him.

“Name a time. I’ll pencil you in. Half is due at the end of the consultation upon booking an appointment. Cash only,” he says.

Jesus Christ, could he be anymore abrupt? While a tiny part of you is grateful that he isn’t trying to make small talk, a larger part is terrified that you’ve already made an impression so foul that it’s incurred his wrath. What other reason could he have for being so stilted?

“Alright,” you answer cautiously. “How’s five?”

“Five. Don’t be late.”

He hangs up on you, leaving you wondering why every step outside your comfort zone must be so bloody far.

You arrive early to the consultation, only to find that the building itself—a tidy little brick two-floor, adorned with a sign that dubbed it SKIN DEEP tattoos & artisan piercings, which you recognize from Instagram—is locked. A note written in neat handwriting taped to the door declares NO WALK INS. Your palms are sweaty. You wipe them on your work slacks, but it doesn’t help. How are you supposed to get in?

All at once a shadow appears on the other side of the door. The shadow is enormous: well above six feet tall, and broad shouldered. A black surgical mask is tucked up over his mouth and nose, which only adds to his intimidating aura. Judging by the impressive sleeve of tattoos he has, you imagine that this is the guy.

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. And Ghost.

Dark brown eyes stare down at you when he opens the door, cocking a hip against the frame, staring at you. Waiting.

Waiting for you to explain your presence, you realize.

“I have a consultation,” you blurt out. “At…five?”

He opens the door wider to let you pass without a word. He’s so broad that you can smell him as you pass him: clean and masculine. The inside of the tattoo shop is bigger than it looks on the outside. There is a reception area with a desk and a computer and printer. The glossy wooden floors are polished to shine, leading to an open floor plan. There is a small sitting area with armchairs, a wide sofa, and a table on which rests two bottles of water, a notebook, and a steaming mug of liquid.

“Sit,” he says, his voice the same deep rumble you recognize from the phone. He chooses the chair beside the mug. His body is so goddamn long, his legs lean and thick all at once where he stretches them out in front of him. He reaches for the mug and takes a sip—of tea, judging by the smell. “Name?”

You tell him, perching yourself anxiously on the other chair. He glances up at you, eyes raking over your posture. Suddenly he tugs the mask down to rest beneath his chin, revealing a full, pale mouth. A straight, noble nose. A pink scar stretches across his lips and up towards his cheek.

“The water is for you,” he says.

“Oh!” You reach forward and take one bottle, breaking the seal. “Thank you.”

“This is your first tattoo.”

“What gave me away?” you ask with a weak laugh.

He doesn’t laugh. “Everything. Is someone putting you up to this? This smells like Soap.”

“What? No, of course not. I want this, I’m just, I’m an anxious personality. I promise.” You hesitate and then add: “I probably smell like soap because I showered this morning.”

His mouth twitches. He leans back in his seat and sucks on his teeth, and you get the distinct feeling that he is trying very hard not to laugh at you. Why had you mentioned to him that you showered? What was wrong with you? Just as you’re comprising a list of things, he picks up the pencil and the notebook, opening to a fresh page.

He asks what you want and God, that’s a harder question.

You do your best to express your idea, but your words feel halting and silly. His pencil scratches rapidly at the paper as he listens in total silence—pausing only once, when you say that you want this to be a sternum piece. Only then does his pencil seem to hover over the paper, his dark eyes seeking you out and pinning you in place on the armchair.

He reaches for his tea to take a generous sip and then continues writing.

He asks a few pointed, concise questions (and you’re just thrilled he was actually listening), following your answers up with more scribbling in his notebook. At length, he shuts the book.

“I think I see the vision. Give me thirty to sketch something and we’ll see if you want to book an appointment. Something this size, on your sternum could take more than one session, depending on how well you sit. How do you take pain?”

“I mean, it hurts?” you offer.

He stares. “Two sessions. Let me sketch something. Drink your water.”

You think that maybe he’ll move to another room to sketch, but he just flips to a clean page and begins to work right there (drawing the mask up over his nose and mouth again). With nothing else to do, you can’t help but watch him.

He’s handsome, in an odd sort of way. His brow is a little too low, his gaze a little too intimidating to be considered conventionally attractive, but you find him fascinating to look at, especially when he is so clearly in the throes of something he enjoys doing. It’s almost like watching someone have sex. The thought makes your face go warm. You pick up your phone, determined not to look at him again.

“Here.”

You glance up from your mindless scrolling. What he shows you is a beautiful rendition of what you had expressed wanting. There are a few key differences, and he patiently explains why he made the decisions he did. He didn’t make the changes because he thought your idea was stupid. He made them so the image would better fit the contours of your body. He made them because the ink will spread over time, and he wants the look to stay clean.

His thoughtfulness touches you.

“I love it. I want it,” you say, enthusiasm getting the better of you.

“This is just a first sketch,” he says dryly, making that warmth return to your face. “I’ll text you a few variations this week, and we can nail down the final piece. You want to book?”

“Yes,” you say, nearly buzzing. “I really want to book.”

He’s expensive—but judging by the book of his artwork that is available for you to flip through at the front desk while he quotes you a price and writes you up a receipt, he is more than worth the money. Fuck, he’s got skill. You thought that maybe his art style was too dark for what you wanted, but you found that he was able to adapt styles nicely. You just hoped this tattoo wouldn’t bore him to death.

“Thanks again for meeting with me,” you say as he sees you out. “I’ll be waiting for your text.”

“You’ll get it.” He glances past you out the window. It’s dark. “Did you walk?”

“No, my car is just there.”

“I’ll wait.”

And he does. His figure darkens the doorway until you have shut your car and locked the doors, temporary insanity making you give him a short wave. He raises two fingers and then disappears.

You didn’t tell me this guy was cute, you text to your friend.

GHOST? Cute? I’ve never even seen his face lol. He’s always wearing one of his masks.

You chew over this information. Yes he’d been wearing a mask, but he’d lowered it for you. Did that mean something? Did it mean something that you wanted it to mean something?

Masks are cute, you say.

Fuck the tattoo artist!!!! she says. Maybe he’ll ink you for free.

You’re terrible.

You’re…thinking about it.

Two days later, you squint blearily into the darkness at your phone after it vibrates on your nightstand. The time reads twelve past one in the morning. It’s from GHOST.

The two images he sends are beautiful; enough to rouse you straight from sleep into wakefulness.

I love them both, you tell him. But the second one is amazing. I think that’s the one.

Keep your appointment. Ten minutes later (after you have already fallen back to sleep) he sends: wear something appropriate.

And fuck, you didn’t even think of that.

“You’re being ridiculous,” you mutter to yourself in the mirror, turning sideways to assess yourself. On the bed behind you are a series of button up shirts, all of which you have tried on at one point or another.

“You are,” your friend agrees from where she lounges on your bed, scrolling on her phone. “Your tits are cute. Let Ghost see them.”

The look you give her is the one the phrase ‘if looks could kill’ was modeled after, surely. She doesn’t even see it, so the effect is lost entirely. You turn your gaze back to the silicone nipple adhesive covers again, still stuck to their adhesive backing. You’ve already used one set of the pack of three, and they covered your nipple and areolas nicely, but still left you feeling so exposed.

“Be glad you’re not going to creepy Kevin anymore,” your friend says.

“Very glad of it.”

You felt reasonably safe with Ghost, but still a degree of embarrassment about your own body. Or perhaps that was too strong a word—it didn’t embarrass you, but it felt private. Baring your breasts to a near stranger (especially one you had a grudging attraction to) made your anxiety reach epic level proportions.

“You should text him about it, see if he has any advice for you. He’s been doing this for years. I’m sure he’s seen it all,” she says—the first good idea she’s had all night, miles ahead of ‘Just let Ghost see your cute tits’.

That night, you take her advice and text him, hoping you aren’t overstepping some weird artist-client boundary.

I’m a little nervous.

You can cancel, is all he says. I’ll refund your money.

It’s not that.

What is it?

Not really accustomed to the nakedness tbh. There. You said it. Let him think you some prim priss; it was true.

But all he said back was: how can I help?

I don’t know, you admit. Then; sorry. I’m probably bothering you with this while you’re working.

I’m not working. Five minutes later, when it seems as if you aren’t going to message back: I keep the shop closed to the public. One customer at a time: you. I’ll let my piercer know I’m with a client and not to walk in. I’ll keep you covered every moment I can. Better?

Relief, warm and sweet curling low in your belly, you let him know: much better.

You bring the pasties anyway.

The day of your appointment, you are so nervous you are shaking. Now you know the truth behind the phrase ‘knees knocking together’, as you stand outside SKIN DEEP waiting for Ghost’s hulking figure to appear on the other side of the glass.

When it does, he’s like a little punch to the gut. That black surgical mask is in place—typical for him, if your friend’s words are to be trusted—but his blond hair, cropped short to his scalp is riotous in a way that is adorably charming, like he hasn’t been able to keep his hands out of it. His black t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, and his jeans fit him nicely around his thick thighs.

You’re horrified to find that your attraction to him has grown. Exponentially. Your friend’s words echo in your mind—fuck the tattoo artist, maybe he’ll ink you for free.

“Hi,” you squeak.

Ghost raises both his brows. He opens the door wider for you to slip past him. Fuck he still smells good.

“I’m still nervous,” you blurt out, hoping that speaking the truth out loud will help you feel better. It doesn’t.

“That’s normal. You can back out at any time, but the earlier the better. Come look at the image and tell me if it’s still what you want.”

It’s exactly what you want, and more.

“It’s perfect. You’re very talented.”

He huffs a little, like you shouldn’t have said such a thing.

The chair is a great leather contraption which reclines comfortably once he’s gotten you in it (after making you use the restroom first, during which you took the time to splash water on your burning face and double check that your pasties were in place covering all the cutest bits according to your friend). Simon moves around you, making preparations with the ease of someone who has done this work for many years.

You fight the arousal that blooms in your belly at the sight of him doing such benign things as washing his hands, putting on gloves, opening fresh needles, preparing little wells of ink and sticking them to the movable cart with Vaseline. There’s just something about a person who knows exactly what they’re doing and who is able to do it with efficacy.

“Ready?” he asks at length.

You nod, hoping your nerves don’t show on your face. Steeling yourself, you unbutton the shirt you’re wearing. His eyes follow your hands, but there is a detached, clinical sort of expression in them. He’s not watching a strip tease, he’s looking at a canvas.

Finally, you sit in front of him in only the pasties, the shirt lax around your shoulders, and your sweatpants, socked toes curling in anxiety in your shoes. Without missing a beat, he leans the chair all the way back. Then he opens a fresh disposable razor and shaves you.

“Am I hairy?” you ask, resting your hands oh-so-casually over your breasts to keep them out of his way.

“Yes,” he says. Then his eyes flicker to yours. “Everyone is. Everywhere. It’s normal.”

“I’m just teasing you.”

“Didn’t think you had the breath in your body left to tease me,” he mutters, voice nearly lost behind his mask as he carefully works the razor across your skin removing the baby-fine hairs from beneath your breasts and across your sternum. “You’re nervous, I mean.”

“Would you take the mask off?” you ask on a whim. It had helped last time, to see his face.

“No,” he says. He adds: “Sorry. It’s more sanitary f’you if I keep it on.”

You get the feeling that he really is sorry—and that’s well enough. Some of the anxiety in your belly fades away. He would take it off if he could. The most anxious part of the process (baring yourself to a stranger) has already passed. Maybe now you can begin to relax.

After cleaning your skin, he carefully lays the stencil and has you stand up to look at it in the mirror and make sure the placement is correct and holy fucking shit. It’s sexy. You’ve always been attracted to tattoos, and fancied the idea of getting one on your sternum for far longer than you’d ever admitted to anyone, but seeing it come to life gives you a rush you hadn’t expected. You feel so…badass.

“Good?” He asks.

“Very good,” you answer, sitting back down, hoping he ignores the way your breasts bounce a little as you do. He leans you back again and this time breaks out the needle gun.

But before he uses it on you, he carefully takes a clean towel and lays it over your left breast, covering the parts of you that are not nearest to his eyes. His gentleness and thoughtfulness go straight to your cunt.

“Thank you,” you say softly.

He just nods. The gun buzzes to life. “I’ll make a line and see how you feel. Last chance to back out without any souvenirs.”

“I’m not backing out.”

He clicks his tongue as if to say, It’s your funeral. Then he lays his hand on your sternum above your breasts, pinning you in place, and makes a gentle line.

It burns more than you expected it to. There’s a sandpaper quality to it, almost like the rasping of a cat’s tongue. The pain is sharp and bright, but it isn’t overwhelming. In fact…a strange part of you sort of enjoys it. Maybe it’s the rush of endorphins.

“Good?” He asks.

“Good,” you squeak.

You hear his quiet laugh, no more than an exhale of breath.

“Let me know when you need to break.”

You don’t know how you feel about the way he phrases that: when you need to break. He adjusts his mask a little, leans over you, and gets to work. Sometimes the needles pass over a place that is more sensitive than the others, making you flinch. He pauses when this happens, eyes flickering up to your own, making sure you are alright even though he can likely feel the pounding of your heart beneath his hand. That hand on your chest, wrist just brushing the top of your breast, is a solid warm weight that seems to tether you back down to the earth as he lines you. He is very careful not to brush against your breast when he wipes away the excess ink and traces of blood, but you feel hyper-attuned to how easy it would be for him if he wanted to. How huge his hand is compared to your tit. Beneath the pasties, your nipples ache with tension, a tension that is mirrored between your legs.

“Alright. Break,” he says, abruptly turning the gun off. He covers your exposed breast with another towel. “Take ten.”

He disposes of his gloves and disappears behind a curtain in the back, leaving you throbbing between the legs. Worming your phone free from your pocket, you scroll aimlessly, hoping to calm your raging hormones. He returns right at the ten minute mark, just as his cellphone rings. He glances toward where it rests on the table, but makes no move to answer it.

“Do you need to get that?” you ask, offering him an out.

“No,” he says. “I make everyone leave a message. Weeds out the cowards.”

It had almost weeded out you, you think about telling him, but in the end you decide against it. He gloves back up.

“Good for more?”

And so it repeats.

At one point, he runs into a patch of sensitive skin on your ribs just overlaying the bone. It has you sucking in a breath through your teeth, eyes squeezing shut. It’s too late to turn back now you tell yourself; the only way out is through.

His thumb gently strokes your sternum.

“It’s rough. You can take it,” he says, quiet and focused. The buzzing of the gun never ceases as he tries to make his work as quick as possible, his words a little distant and distracted. “Just keep breathing. That’s it. Good girl.”

Jesus. Did he not have any idea what those words could do to a girl? A groan escapes your lips, and he clearly mistakes it for pain, because his thumb strokes again the soft skin over your heart, just above the curve of your breast.

“You can do it. Just a little longer for me, and we’ll break.”

“Hurts,” you breathe, flinching again.

He hushes you, surprisingly tender.

“This is the worst of it.” This time, his thumb does brush the edge of your breast, making you suck in a gasp. He recoils, hand lifting away from you and curling into a fist. He rests that against you instead, taking away any further hope that he might brush his fingertips against you. You make it through the rough patch with tears in your eyes but no worse for wear.

“Break. Ten minutes,” he says again, already shredding his gloves and moving to disappear behind the curtain.

You call out: “Hey, wait—I’d rather just get through it in one go if I can. If this really is the worst of it.”

“I need breaks too,” he says stonily.

You duck your head, feeling silly. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He vanishes again.

He is late to return to you. Only by five minutes or so, but noticeably for a man so usually punctual and so demanding of punctuality in you. His face is stoic—what bits of it you can see from behind the mask—as he washes his hands thoroughly and preps his work station again.

This time his hand keeps a very respectable distance from your breasts—a fact which you both lament and appreciate all in one. He works with single-minded efficiency, giving you his entire focus. You break once more, but this time he breaks in the room with you, stretching out his back and neck (giving you a generous glimpse of his belly when his shirt rides up, exposing cut abs and a happy trail you’d give your life to follow).

“I think we could do this in one sitting, if you have nowhere else to be,” he mutters at length.

“Eager to be done?” you wonder.

He stares at you, expression flat, and says nothing. Nothing needs to be said.

“I don’t have anywhere to be,” you murmur, staring up at the bright adjustable light that he has positioned over you. You hope he mistakes that for the reason behind any mistiness in your eyes, his rudeness cutting you deeply.

So the two of you push through later into the evening, until you are sweating at your temples and the base of your neck from the continuous pain for so long. At last he lays the last gradient for the shading, sprays you down, and wipes you clean so very gently.

“Go take a look. I’m going to cover it up.”

It’s beautiful. Stunning, even. You let your shirt gape closed and cover the pasties, revealing a broad glimpse of the sternum tattoo, and it is the sexiest you have ever felt. It almost makes your eyes burn anew.

“I love it,” you choke out. “Thank you.”

“Can I take a picture of it?” he asks. “For Instagram.”

“Sure!” It will feel a little like being famous, you think, judging by how much notice each of the photos on his Instagram garners. He crouches down on the floor to be at the perfect height, reaches out and gently adjusts your shirt. Parts of the tattoo are covered—the very far edges—but you can’t deny how sexy it is. Maybe he feels the same way.

After he takes the photo, he posts it and asks for your handle to tag you in it. Then he says: “Let me cover it up. Keep it covered overnight, but tomorrow let it breathe. Keep it clean. Don’t do anything stupid to it. Understand?”

“I understand.”

“And if you have any questions—text me.”

You get home to find that Ghost’s personal account has requested to follow you. Thrumming with nerves and excitement, you accept the request and send one of your own, spending the night scrolling through his Instagram (so, so carefully to avoid any incidental ‘likes’). Plenty of the photos are of his artwork, still. But there are ones of his dog: a German Shepherd that is thankfully much more photogenic than her surly owner. There are three or four photos featuring Ghost himself, and only one has his full face in the picture. You find yourself staring at his fixated expression for longer than is respectable.

Three days later when you find yourself panicking, you don’t text him like he asked you to. You call.

Your skin is peeling off. Peeling. Off. The sight of it makes your stomach roll. The entire tattoo is hot to the touch, and the skin around it feels warm as well. Flushed. Is it supposed to hurt this much?

The internet doesn’t help. The peeling is normal, sure. But everything else is suggesting that your tattoo could be infected. What sort of ink did Ghost use? Was it reputable? What if the infection reaches your bloodstream? You were too young to die! Your anxiety spirals like a plane with one wing, trailing smoke as it soars straight down, determined to take you with it.

With shaking hands, you don’t even think about texting Ghost. You go straight to calling him, tapping his number in your phone and pressing it to your ear, listening to the ring.

He’s going to send you to voicemail, just like he does to everyone else—except he doesn’t. All the sudden there is glorious feedback from the other end: a cacophony of voices and laughter, clearly some sort of gathering.

“Yes?” Ghost says into the phone, as if that’s a decent hello.

“There’s something wrong with my tattoo!” you cry.

“Wait—get out of my goddamn way.” There is rustling, and then the noise decreases substantially. You can almost see him standing outside whatever bar his friends have brought him to, mask down around his chin, hand over his other ear as he strains to listen to you. “Say it again. Now I can fucking hear you.”

“There’s. Something. Wrong,” you say through your teeth. “With my tattoo!”

“Well? What is it?”

“It’s falling off, for one!”

He snorts. “That’s normal. That's why you called?”

“It’s all swollen and hot. And it hurts.”

Now that shuts him up. He sighs a little, switches the phone from one ear to the other. “Hurts how bad?”

“Worse than getting it.”

“Fuck me. Alright. Meet me at the shop in…twenty?”

“Twenty minutes from now?”

“From when else?” He hangs up. Man doesn’t know the meaning of the word goodbye.

The night is cool. You don’t bother with a bra, not when it irritates your tattoo so much. Pulling your jacket closed more tightly around yourself, you walk from your parking spot along the street to the tattoo shop.

Ghost stands outside at the curb. His figure is unmistakable. He is smoking, mask down, the lit end of his cigarette a burning ember that flares bright in the darkness. When he sees you coming, he crushes the cigarette beneath his boot and opens the door to the shop, which is still and dark. He flicks on a light switch as he goes, casting the place in a warm glow.

He’s dressed in his usual dark jeans and an obscenely tight t-shirt, his sleeve of tattoos on display. He leaves the mask down. His eyes are on your tits—or resting where your tattoo is beneath your clothes.

“Well. Sit. Show me.”

You sit in one of the armchairs, your shoulders rising in defensiveness. “What, just flash you?”

“Nothing I’ve never seen before.”

Gritting your teeth, you begin unbuttoning your shirt until it gapes open. You cup your breasts with your hands, maintaining your modesty while putting the tattoo on full display. He narrows his eyes, leaning down. His fingers reach out, but then he thinks twice and washes his hands.

“I was smoking,” he says when you roll your eyes in exasperation.

“You’re worried about getting the chemicals on my skin but not in your lungs?”

“Fuck my lungs,” he mutters. His fingers hover over your tattoo. “Can I?”

You nod. His fingers are cool when they gently prod and ghost along the edges of the tattoo, feeling for the signature warmth of an infection. “Any fever?” he asks.

“Not that I’ve noticed.”

“You feel warm, but I’ve felt warmer. I don’t think it’s infected. Have you tried icing it?”

“No,” you admit.

“Ice will help. Just use something clean, for fuck’s sake.” As he speaks, his breath fans across your chest, making you shiver. He sees this, his eyes darkening. “When you called, I thought it was for me.”

“It was for you,” you say, brow furrowing. “Who else?”

He snorts, lips quirking. It tugs on the scar across his lips. “Forget it.”

“Forget what?”

“Talking about it goes against forgetting it.”

You groan, tossing up your hands. “You’re impossible.”

He reaches out and jerks your shirt closed, hastily doing up a button. Your face burns as you do up the rest of the buttons—you end up having to backtrack and redo them because he was off by one.

“Thank you for meeting me. I’m sorry it was for nothing.”

“It wasn’t for nothing,” he says. “And I wasn’t doing much.”

“You were with friends,” you insist.

His eyes narrow. “Who told you that?”

“I saw it on your Instagram tonight.”

“Nosey.”

“I could buy you a drink sometime,” you offer after a lengthy pause, your heart pounding loud enough to fill the silence between you. Are you really doing this? Are you really asking him out? “Make up for the ones I lost you tonight.”

“Maybe.”

God, it’s like he’s not getting it. Maybe you need to be bolder. Fortune favors the bold, doesn’t it? Your hands are shaking when they fall back to the buttons on your shirt.

“Would you take one more look at my tattoo? Just to be…positive?”

He sighs and makes an impatient hand gesture. Your fingers fumble through the buttons again. You don’t cover yourself with your hands this time; just keep the halves of your shirt over your nipples. He dutifully exams the tattoo again, prodding gently, laying the flat of his fingers against it to feel the warmth it lets off.

“Maybe you should look closer.”

His eyes flicker up to yours. “Closer.”

Your mouth is dry. “Yeah.”

“Can’t get much closer than I am.”

“You could—if you wanted to.”

“If I—“ it hits him then. You can see it in the fractional widening of his eyes, the way his mouth parts softly in blatant surprise before he shuts it, dark eyes returning to your sternum. He says: “Closer.”

“Mhm.”

The back of his hand brushes against your breast, causing your breath to hitch. His thumb traces softly along the outline of the tattoo, following the path just beneath your shirt, nudging the fabric aside slowly, so slowly, until your breast is bare, nipple puckered and aching.

“Fucking hell,” he mutters. His eyes flicker to yours as if to see if you really want this—and whatever he sees must reassure him, because then he is sweeping his fingertips along the bottom curve of your breast and taking it into his hand, his palm rasping gently over your nipple. All the breath rushes out of you. Your thighs clench together. Already you’re aching—have been since you saw his mouth around that cigarette on the street—but he moves with determined caution. His thumb finds your nipple and teases it, pulling a desperate little sound from the back of your throat.

“Pretty little tits,” he says, his voice a warm, smoky rumble that goes straight to your core. He captures your nipple between his thumb and forefinger, pinching softly.

“Fuck,” you gasp, one hand reaching out to brace yourself against his shoulder. He is solid and firm beneath your touch, unmoving and unmalleable. Your breasts have always been sensitive, but it feels like every touch is directly related to the feelings in your cunt. You find your back arching, hips searching for friction against the seat of the chair.

“Be still,” he says firmly. Another pitiful sound slips past your throat. “Let me play with you.”

“Please,” you gasp. “Play with me—even if that’s all you want—just don’t stop, please.”

His mouth parts as he listens to you, his eyes so, so dark. The pupils have nearly swallowed his irises whole, until you can see yourself bare from the waist up in the reflection. He shakes his head a little. “You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

“I do. I—“ your words are cut off with a gasp as he hauls you out of the chair by your wrist and onto his lap. He’s so thick thighed that it stretches you obscenely to have him between your legs. His hands tear the button-up off your shoulders and down your arms until it flutters to the floor, leaving you half naked. Dipping his head, he presses a heated kiss to the place on your sternum where he had rested his hand during the tattoo—and then trails wet kisses towards your left breast, taking your nipple into his mouth and sucking with a decided softness.

You let out an unflattering, choked groan, resting your weight heavily against him until you can feel the prominent bulge in his tight jeans. His hands find your ass and grip you tightly, working you back and forth, rubbing that bulge against your clothed sex.

“Driving me fucking crazy,” he mutters against your skin, opening his mouth to drag the sharp line of his teeth against the curve of one breast before switching to the other and flicking his tongue over your nipple.

You gape at his admission. Had you been? He’d been so closed off and cool…though now that you thought back, maybe that was just his way of hiding it. Suddenly he grips the back of your neck, where your hairline ends, and pulls you to his mouth. He tastes faintly of smoke, even fainter of the drinks he had had earlier in the night, but it is an intoxicating mixture. Your tongues find a rhythm as your hips do the same, both of you fucking in every sense of the word except the literal kind.

He takes one of your thighs and wedges it between his own, until you’re no longer grinding against his cock but instead his denim-clad thigh. “You the kind of girl who can cum like this? Just from this?”

“Uh-huh,” you promise, head bobbing.

He buries his face in your neck. “Good. I won’t last when I’ve got my cock in you. I’d like you to cum at least once before then.”

“Oh god,” you groan, gripping his shoulders fiercely as you begin a halting, stilted rhythm against his thigh. The denim is rough against your leggings. He feels all around you: his scent, his taste, his touch. When his hands find your hips to help you work yourself against him more smoothly, a sigh of gratitude fans from your lips.

“What else do you need?” he asks.

“My—touch me—“ He abandons your hips once you find a suitable rhythm. He finds your nipples again, teasing them with clever fingers. The stimulation has your peak approaching faster, building like a storm in your lower belly.

Ghost leans back to look at you, eyes trailing over you from head to toe: your face burning with warmth, your breasts with peaked little nipples, your leggings nearly soaked through at the crotch with how wet you are. He shakes his head, like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Fucking perfect.” You bury your face in his neck, feeling a warmth inside your chest. He grips you by the neck again and tugs you back. “Look at me. Look at me.”

You look at him for as long as you can, but when the band in your belly finally snaps, your eyes roll up and slip shut, your mouth drops open in a choked gasp, nails digging into his shoulders as you shudder and shake in the throes of your pleasure.

He leans down to kiss you through it, tongue teasing at your slack mouth.

When he stands, he takes you with him, hauling you up until you wrap your shaking legs around his waist. It’s probably a good thing too. You aren’t sure you could walk otherwise. He carries you the few steps to the couch and lays you down, curling his fingers in the waistband of your leggings. You nod. He strips them off you, along with your flats, and your panties until you are naked as the day you were born.

Your thighs clamp together shyly. He lets them, reaching behind himself to pull his shirt off. Something catches your eye in the streetlights streaming in through the window: Ghost has one of his nipples pierced, a neat little barbell through the sensitive flesh.

Fingers enter your vision—your own—reaching out on instinct. You hesitate, unsure if he is receptive, and a little afraid to hurt him. He’s so bloody tall, too…but he takes care of that himself by kneeling down by your side, his eyes cautious. Closer, you can see the scars: silvery in the moonlight, crisscrossing over his torso.

“Does it hurt?” You ask, softly stroking your fingers beneath the pale pink skin of his areola.

“No,” he says. You can feel the timber of his warm voice vibrating through his chest, up your fingers, straight to your pussy. “You can play with it.”

You shyly run your thumb over it the way he had yours. He sighs, breath fanning across your arm. His eyes go heavy-lidded, tongue flashing as he wets his lips. After a moment, you grow insecure and move your hands away from his nipple down to a scar that crosses his sternum. He lets you, very patient, like a dangerous creature withholding its bite.

“You’re so—“ the words are whispered dreamily before you have any idea how you plan to finish the sentence. Flushing with embarrassed heat under his wary stare, you finish: “—hot.”

He physically turns away, expression inscrutable. You can’t help but feel like you have said the wrong thing. He puts a hand on your belly, stroking the softness. “You broken, or can you take more?”

“I want more.”

“Want my cock?”

You nod, feeling like a bobble head.

“I want to hear you say it.”

“I want your cock.”

His hand reaches for his belt, unbuckling it. Your eyes track the movement with hungry nerves. His hands put butterflies in your belly: thick palms with long, slender fingers, veins criss-crossing along the backs. An artist’s hands. He works his belt free with nimble grace and shucks down his jeans and underwear in one smooth movement, revealing his cock to your gaze and the light from the street lamps.

He is huge here to match. Downright intimidating in length and girth, uncut with a nice curve toward his belly. He grips himself and gives a series of smooth strokes, the muscles in his abdomen flexing into sharp relief.

“Oh my god,” you mutter.

“No gods here,” he says, kneeling up on the couch. His hands part your thighs, and for a long time he just looks at you, that sensitive, swollen place between your legs. He stares so long that you nearly cover your face, embarrassed by whatever he is thinking. Then he touches you, and when he does, he touches you with surprising reverence. He touches you like you are art.

“Can’t believe you let me ink you,” he mutters, stroking your vulva with his warm palm. His eyes are on the sternum piece now. “Practically let me carve my name into your skin. Anybody around here who sees it will know who did it. They’ll know who touched you.”

“Good,” you breathe.

His sigh is shaky. You’re learning his reactions, his very breaths. That shaky sigh means he’s pleased with you. You’ve said something right.

He reaches down to his jeans on the floor and works a hand into his pocket, pulling free a condom. He hands it to you—for inspection, you realize, though you’ve had so few one night stands (try zero) that you’ve never had the need to inspect a condom before. The package is intact at least. There appears to be an expiration date which you squint at. All looks well. You hand it back to him and he tears it open, rolling it down his considerable length.

Then he goes back to touching you. One hand braces himself against the back of the sofa so he can lean down to kiss you, tasting your mouth deeply. The other hand finds your entrance, circling it with a finger before slipping inside you all the way to the last knuckle. You are wet enough and relaxed enough that he slips in easily.

“Relax…there you go. Let me in,” he says under his breath, working a second finger in beside the first. It is a bit of a stretch—he’s thick everywhere goddamn it—but it’s a good stretch, a much needed one. The third finger has you stiffening, whining at the pinch of pain. He slows his fingers and lets his thumb find your clit, muting the pain with little jolts of pleasure.

“Ghost,” you groan, toes curling against the leather of the couch.

“I think you can take it,” he says, thumb so soft and insistent against that aching pearl of nerves. “But what do you think?”

“Your cock—want it—please—“

“Alright,” he laughs, pulling his fingers free and wiping the wetness on his cock. “No need to beg.”

He notches his cock against your entrance and slips inside you. Both of you inhale together, like on cue. Just the first few inches have you feeling full beyond your comfort zone, but he seems to understand in his silent, all-knowing way. He stills, working that free hand between you both to play with your clit until you’re clenching around him, body trying to pull him deeper. He slips further in and then reaches the end of what your body can take. You feel fucking stuffed, your hands shaking where you have gripped his naked shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

His own breathing is ragged, pecs brushing your nipples with every inhale. The little bursts of pleasure help, until you find that your hips have grown restless, working back and forth as much as his substantial weight will allow when you’re pinned beneath it.

“Stay still,” he mutters into the juncture of your neck. “Stay still or I’ll cum and this is all over.”

“Can’t,” you gasp, his revelation electrifying you. “Have to move, ‘m so full—“

“Fucking hell,” he groans. He pulls out, leaving you feeling gaped. “Roll onto your side.”

He gives you instruction but isn’t shy about reaching out and physically arranging you until you are both spooning, your back to his chest. This time when he enters you, it is more shallow, and easier for him to reach around and play with your clit.

You arch your back, seeking more of him, pressing your breast into his free palm. He plucks at the nipple, teeth nibbling at your throat.

“Want you to cum again,” he says, stilling your movements so that you can’t fuck your self back against him. “Give me one more. Then it’s my turn.”

“Ghost—I can’t—“ you’ve never cum twice before. Not even with your favorite toys have you been able to scrounge together more than one illustrious orgasm. This knowledge and your expectation of his disappointment has you stiffening in his arms.

“If you can’t, then don’t,” he says simply, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. He keeps his fingers soft and insistent against you, and only after a few lengthy moments does he feel confident enough to work his hips against you too. He pulls out too far and his length drags across your labia, the head brushing where his fingers play with your clit.

You give a sighing little moan. His head cocks; you aren’t the only one listening to sighs. Now when he gives those lazy, lackadaisical thrusts, his entire length just strokes the outside of your sex.

“Oh fuck,” you whine, feeling that band in your belly begin pulling tight again.

He hums behind you, a smug sound.

“Not sure I want you to cum now,” he says. “Hold it. I’m thinking it over.”

“Ghost!”

He laughs, honest to God laughs at you. Tears prick your eyes from the sheer need (and a bit from embarrassment) but his hips never cease nor slow their tireless thrusts against you, not even when you grow close enough to beg, close enough to plead.

He loops his arm around your waist and pins you against him when you cum to keep you from rolling right off the couch, your body wracked with shivers and spasms. The warmth of your release washes over you from head to toe, and you are still basking in it when his cock finds your entrance again and enters you.

The position keeps the penetration blissfully shallow (otherwise he might give your cervix a painful beating), but he still reaches new lengths inside you, filling spaces you didn’t know were empty. The shop is eerily quiet except for the sound of his hips snapping against your ass and the frequent breathy sounds his cock punches out of your lungs.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck and lets out a series of sounds that are toe-curling: deep groans and raspy curses, whispered praise and hisses through his teeth. His hand grips your hip tightly, leaving shadows the shape of his fingerprints on your skin as he fucks you.

Sooner than you’d like—but he’d warned you, hadn’t he?—his thrusts grow sloppy, the sounds messy thanks to your wetness as he finds his release and moans it into the skin of your throat.

“Fuck,” he whispers. And again: “Fuck, fuck. You broken?”

“Yes.”

He snorts. Then it turns into that laughter, warm and rumbling against your back. You smile where he can’t see.

“Sorry about this,” he says as he ties the condom off and throws it away, naked as the day he was born. You’re still naked too, though much more shy, legs crossed demurely and arms wrapped around yourself.

“Regretting it already?”

“Yes,” he says. Then, when he sees the stricken look on your face, he adds: “Should have at least taken you to dinner first.”

“Dinner?”

“You owe me drinks. I owe you dinner.” He finds his boxers in the darkness and slips back into them. Then, because the expression on your face still hasn’t relaxed, he says: “I don’t regret the sex. Do you?”

You shake your head.

He scoffs a little.

“I mean it,” you insist. You touch your tattoo. “I wanted it…the day you did—this.”

He raises both brows at you, silently calling your bluff.

“I didn’t think you were interested,” you admitted sheepishly.

“I jerked off in the back just from seeing half your tits,” he admits, slipping into his jeans now too. His mouth curls a little at the corner when he sees the way you gape at this news. “I was interested.”

You laugh; you can’t help it. “Dinner, then? Or drinks?”

“Yeah,” he says. “Alright. Get dressed.”

#simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #skin deep

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