#prev tag : gold

[chocottang]

something silly

golden is tired of gold doing everything others say so he tried to make a point, and failed miserably

[leriexoxo]

Pretty Boy, Asshole 2

Husband! Leeknow x Reader (arranged marriage au)

Tags: Arranged marriage AU, Strangers to Lovers, Slowburn, Enemies(ish) to Lovers, Angst, Smut, Fluff, Domestic Feels, Emotional whiplash. Mean Minho, Language.

Word count: 4.6k

Summary: But the thing about sharing a house with a man like Minho? Hate starts to unravel. Fights get personal. Distance gets intimate. And soon, the walls between you start crumbling one argument, one sleepless night, one accidental kiss at a time. You didn’t ask for this marriage. But now that you’re in it, you’ll be damned if you let him walk away before knowing exactly what he’d almost thrown away.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The phone rang.

Minho answered it quickly, stepping into the hallway.

“Yeah?”

“Boss, it’s me,” his assistant said on the other end. “Everything’s confirmed for tonight. Do you still want the rooftop? The chef just needs a final headcount.”

Minho rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes flicking back to the closed bathroom door behind him.

“…Just two,” he murmured.

“You got it. Wine pairing?”

He hesitated. “No wine. Just tea. She prefers tea.”

The assistant hummed. “Noted. I’ll text you the room code and timeline. You should be there by seven.”

Minho hung up with a soft “thanks,” and stood there for a long second.

What the hell was he doing?

He didn’t even know what this was.

Not exactly.

Only that something had changed. In the car. In the bathroom. In the silence that followed. The way her eyes softened, even while her mouth held stubborn fire.

He wanted to get this right. For once.

—

You were already trying to put the morning behind you, curled up on the couch in a robe, scrolling half-heartedly through a book you weren’t even reading. There was something in your chest today—something new. Something almost… unsteady.

And then Minho appeared in the doorway.

Wearing a black button-up and slacks. His sleeves rolled up just enough to expose his forearms. His hair styled but still soft around the edges. Eyes on you.

“I need you to get dressed,” he said plainly.

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

He stepped closer, hands in his pockets. “I want to take you out. Dinner.”

Your heart stuttered. “Is that an apology?”

“It’s a… start.”

You looked him over, unsure if this was a joke. “Do I get a dress code?”

He smirked slightly. “Wear something you’d want to be stared at in.”

And then he left.

Just like that.

You stood there for a long moment, brain short-circuiting.

Because this wasn’t the Minho who slammed doors.

This wasn’t the man who flinched when you got too close.

This was someone else.

Someone trying.

And you didn’t know how to feel about it.

—

The rooftop was glowing.

You blinked when he guided you out of the elevator, hand resting lightly at your lower back. The sun was just beginning to set—casting golden light across a candlelit table set for two, with soft music humming from somewhere invisible. The chef bowed once in greeting before disappearing inside.

Your breath caught.

There were flower petals on the ground.

Steam rising from a white porcelain teapot at the center of the table.

And the view? Endless city, kissed with orange and gold.

“…Minho,” you whispered. “What is all this?”

He looked straight ahead. “You’ve done nothing but compromise since this marriage began. This is just me… catching up.”

You stared at him, stunned silent.

He pulled the chair out for you.

You sat automatically, watching as he took the seat across from you, reaching forward to pour your tea first before his own. His hands were steady. Eyes unreadable.

The food was beautiful—small portions of rich flavor, carefully selected. The tea, your favorite blend. Every single detail chosen with care.

“You remembered I like jasmine tea?” you said softly.

He nodded, not looking up. “I notice more than you think.”

Something twisted in your stomach. You were so used to the fights, the coldness, the passive-aggressive silence. You didn’t know what to do with this version of him—this thoughtful, almost-gentle Minho.

“This doesn’t mean we’re suddenly in love,” you said quickly, trying to protect your heart.

He finally looked up.

“I know,” he said, voice steady. “But it means I want to try.”

And something in you cracked.

He didn’t reach for your hand. Didn’t make a move. But the way he was looking at you? Like he was finally seeing you, not just the obligation—you weren’t ready for it.

But god, you wanted more of it.

The dinner passed in a daze. Laughter slipped out where you didn’t expect it. Your feet bumped beneath the table and neither of you moved away. When dessert came, it was the kind of sweet you’d once mentioned liking in passing—and he’d remembered.

And by the time you returned home… the silence between you wasn’t awkward anymore.

It was something else entirely.

He paused in the doorway to his room.

You lingered in the hall.

And for a moment, neither of you moved.

“…Goodnight,” he said finally, voice low.

You nodded. “Goodnight.”

He waited a beat longer. Like he wanted to say something else.

Then shut the door softly behind him.

And you?

You stood there in the dark, heartbeat wild.

Because for the first time…

You didn’t want the night to end.

—

You couldn’t sleep.

Maybe it was the tea. Maybe it was the soft music still echoing in your head.

Maybe it was the way Minho looked at you all through dinner—like you were something to be remembered, not endured.

Your body was humming. Stretched tight like a bowstring.

Restless.

So you slid out of bed and padded into the hall, bare feet brushing cool wood floors.

The baby doll you wore was one of the few things you had brought from your old life—a silly little purchase from a night of wine and impulse. You’d worn it tonight just to feel soft again, for no one but yourself.

It was sheer, barely-there. Lacy. Dangerous.

You didn’t expect to run into your husband.

But of course—of course—you did.

He was already in the kitchen, leaning over the sink with a glass of water in his hand, head tilted down, neck on full display.

Shirtless.

Sweatpants.

Hung so low on his hips you genuinely forgot how to walk for a moment.

He didn’t hear you at first, but when the fridge door creaked open—he turned.

And everything in the air shifted.

He stared.

You froze.

The glass in his hand tightened ever so slightly. His jaw ticked.

His gaze dragged down your body, slow, shameless, and seething.

“What the fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

You blinked. “What?”

Minho took a step closer. One. Measured. Step

“That,” he said, eyes burning, “is what you wear to sleep?”

You straightened, suddenly on edge. “It’s mine. I can wear whatever I want.”

“Are you expecting someone in your bed tonight?”

You scoffed. “Excuse me?”

“Because if you’re not,” he said, stepping closer again, “that’s even worse.”

Your heart was pounding. Your hands were cold but your skin was flushed. “Why would it be worse?”

He stopped just in front of you now—dangerously close.

“Because if there’s no one there to see it, then why the hell isn’t it me?”

The words cracked through the silence like a whip.

Your mouth parted but no sound came out.

Minho was breathing hard, his eyes flicking from your mouth to your thighs, rage and desire locked in a vice.

“You walked out of that room,” he continued, voice low, “looking like this—like a goddamn fantasy—and you didn’t think I’d lose my mind?”

You swallowed.

“It’s just sleepwear,” you whispered.

“Not to me.”

There was nothing but breathing now. The soft hum of the fridge. The near-silent war erupting between you.

And still—you didn’t move.

Neither did he.

Minho reached past you suddenly, slow but sharp, and grabbed the water bottle from the counter behind. His hand brushed your hip. Bare skin on bare skin.

You flinched. He didn’t.

Instead, he leaned down, whispered in your ear.

“That thing you’re wearing?” His voice dripped molten heat. “Take it off before I do.”

And then he walked past you, brushing so close you could feel the heat radiating from his skin.

You turned slowly, heart in your throat, breath caught, heat pooling between your legs.

Because for the first time…

Minho didn’t just look at you like a wife.

He looked at you like he wanted you.

Really wanted you.

And you didn’t know how long you stood there after—but sleep never came.

—

You came back from your spa day practically boneless—hours of oils, massages, and hot towels had washed the whole week off your skin.

You stepped inside the house humming, keys jangling, the familiar scent of your perfume still lingering in the air. Something was different, though. You couldn’t quite put your finger on it at first. Maybe it was just the calm…

Then you walked into your bedroom.

Correction: your former bedroom.

Because the room was empty.

As in completely empty.

No bed. No dresser. No pillows.

Not even the sad little candle on the window sill you forgot to blow out the last time you stormed out.

“What the hell—” you whispered, spinning around in confusion.

Your bags were gone. The cozy hoodie you’d tossed over the desk chair was missing. The room was hollow, like you’d never even lived there.

And then you heard it.

A glass clink. A soft exhale. The faint sound of ice swirling in something strong.

You stalked toward the living room, your plush spa slippers slapping the floor with murderous intent.

There he was.

Minho. Lounged across the couch like it was his personal throne. Glass in one hand, half-buttoned silk shirt in the other, looking annoyingly content.

He didn’t even look up at first. Just took a sip.

“Oh hey,” he said smoothly. “You’re back.”

You blinked.

“Where’s my room?”

He raised a brow. “Gone.”

Your jaw dropped. “Gone?”

He finally turned toward you, a lazy smirk tugging at his lips. “I moved you into the master. Wifey.”

You just stared at him.

He said it so casually—like he hadn’t just erased your entire goddamn living arrangement.

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

“I—What—You can’t just—”

“I did.”

“Why?”

Minho stood, walking toward you with his drink, slow and unbothered. He stopped just in front of you, tilted his head slightly, and murmured:

“You’re my wife. You should be in my bed.”

Your mouth snapped shut.

Your brain rebooted.

Your knees wobbled slightly.

He was still looking at you like this wasn’t even a discussion.

“Unless…” he added softly, brushing a lock of hair from your face, “you’re planning to move out entirely?”

You scowled.

“I didn’t say that.”

“Good. Then it’s settled.”

And before you could say another goddamn word, Minho turned, finished his drink in one smooth gulp, and walked away—toward the master bedroom.

Where your things now lived.

Where he lived.

Where you would apparently sleep now.

Together. Every night.

And all you could do was stand there.

Stunned. Confused.

A little turned on.

Okay, Maybe more than a little.

—

The room was dim, lit only by the faint city glow filtering through sheer curtains.

You stood there for longer than necessary, staring at the perfectly made bed—his bed. Your bed, now.

Minho was already under the covers, one arm tucked behind his head, the other lazily scrolling through his phone like this was any other night. Like your entire world hadn’t just been moved, rearranged, commandeered.

You padded over to the opposite side and slipped under the sheets, trying not to let them rustle. You kept your back to him, careful not to even graze his side. The silence was heavy. Not tense—just loud.

You exhaled softly, trying to relax.

It was fine. You were adults. You could sleep beside each other. He hadn’t made any advances. Maybe he just wanted to play house to appease the parents or the board or the whole damn world.

You closed your eyes.

Thirty seconds passed.

Then sixty.

Then—you felt it.

A shift.

The sheets tugged slightly.

Minho moved behind you, inching closer.

You froze.

Another moment of stillness. Then—

A hand. His hand. Curling around your waist.

Your breath caught in your throat.

You weren’t touching before. You definitely were now.

His body was warm, bare-chested against your back, and his grip wasn’t firm, but it wasn’t tentative either. It was intentional.

“Minho,” you whispered, barely able to get the name out.

“Hm?”

Your heart thudded.

“What are you doing?”

“Sleeping,” he murmured.

“Like that?”

He let out a slow, amused breath, the sound ghosting across your neck. “You’re my wife. I thought I should start acting like it.”

Your fingers gripped the sheet. “By spooning me?”

Another small chuckle, deeper this time. “I didn’t hear you complaining.”

You could feel him now—all of him. His warmth pressing into you. The way his thumb had started to trace a small, infuriating circle just below your ribs.

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch a glimpse of his jaw in the dark.

“Minho,” you said again, more breath than sound.

“What?” he whispered, voice husky and tired and devastatingly close.

“You’re touching me.”

His lips were so close to your ear now. “I know.”

You didn’t move.

You couldn’t.

Because somehow, without even trying, he’d pulled you into a moment neither of you could take back.

Your breath hitched when he exhaled slow and low against your skin.

“Go to sleep,” he murmured, like a tease. “Or don’t.”

And he didn’t move his hand. He didn’t even loosen his hold.

He just stayed wrapped around you like he belonged there.

And maybe, just maybe, for the first time since this whole thing started—

You didn’t hate how it felt.

—

The morning after your first night sharing a bed was quiet. Almost suspiciously so.

Minho had slipped out early, but not without a glance back—one you didn’t see, but would’ve felt if you’d been half-awake. You stirred a little when the blankets shifted, only to realize with sleepy confusion that his warmth had been there all night. Still ghosted along your back. Still lingering on your skin.

When you finally got up, there was coffee waiting on the counter.

No note. No text.

But there was coffee.

It became a rhythm after that.

Shared space. Shared silences.

Shared bed.

You never talked about it. He just… reached for you now. Without hesitation. Every night. Arm around your waist, your back to his chest, your breath syncing with his. Sometimes you felt his hand drift up to settle under your ribs. Sometimes it stayed firmly at your waist. But he never crossed the line. Never demanded more.

Not with words, anyway.

Days passed. Tension softened into comfort. Walls began to crack. Just a little.

But that night—that night—

Something changed.

You had both just turned in. The city’s glow lit the room again, and Minho’s arm, like usual, found its place around you. You exhaled, feeling yourself fall into that familiar lull, that strange cocoon of heat and muscle and unsaid things—

But then, without thinking, without planning it—

You turned.

In his arms.

Slowly. Intentionally. Until you were face-to-face, your hand resting on his chest, your knees brushing his.

Minho froze.

His eyes locked on yours like he was trying to decipher what the hell you were doing—but more than that, why you were doing it.

The air pulsed with something new. Something electric.

You looked at him, voice barely above a whisper.

“Why are you doing this?”

His brows drew together, ever so slightly. “Doing what?”

“This.” You nodded to the space—what little was left—between you. “The holding. The moving in. The everything.”

He didn’t answer right away.

Just stared at you.

Or more specifically… your mouth.

You noticed the exact second his resolve wavered.

“Minho,” you said again, softly. “Tell me.”

And just like that, he lost whatever quiet battle he was fighting in his head.

He cupped your face gently, thumb brushing your cheek.

And then— He kissed you.

Not like that night at the bar. Not angry, not territorial.

This time it was slow. Careful. Warm.

So soft it hurt.

And you kissed him back.

Mouths moving like they’d been waiting to. Like they’d been practicing in their dreams.

Your hand found the side of his neck, pulling him closer. His fingers curled around your waist again, only this time there was no more space to close. None at all.

The kiss deepened.

Still gentle, but longer now. More open. More honest.

Breathless pauses. Whispered exhales. The soft rustle of sheets as your bodies pulled together, instinctively.

You didn’t speak again.

Didn’t have to.

Because for the first time since all this chaos began, you both understood one thing—

This was real.

And you weren’t running from it anymore.

His lips were still on yours. Still soft, still slow.

But something shifted.

Somewhere between the way your fingers curled tighter around the back of his neck and the way he exhaled through his nose—like he was starving for this, for you—the tenderness began to burn.

Minho kissed you deeper.

Hungrier.

Your breath hitched as his hand slid from your waist to your back, pressing you flush against him. There was no more hesitation. No more space. Just months of tension unraveling between your mouths, in the shaky sound you made when his tongue swept over yours, in the grip of his hand as it traced the curve of your spine.

He groaned softly into the kiss. “Fuck…”

It was like something in him finally broke loose.

You gasped when he rolled you beneath him, not forceful but urgent, his body settling between your legs as his lips never left yours. His hand found your jaw, tilting your face to deepen the kiss even more, his thumb brushing your cheekbone so delicately it made you ache.

Your hands moved without thought—up his bare arms, over his shoulders, into his hair. You’d never felt him like this. Not in pieces. Not in stolen glances or lingering touches. This was all of him.

All heat and desperation.

He kissed down your jaw, your neck, nipping the skin there until you whimpered.

“Tell me to stop,” he rasped, lips hot against your collarbone, his voice shaking.

You didn’t. You didn’t even hesitate.

Instead, you reached for the hem of your sleep shirt and tugged it up and off.

Minho stilled.

His eyes darkened as they swept over your bare chest, chest rising and falling faster now.

“Shit,” he breathed, like he was already undone.

And then he was on you again, kissing everywhere—lips on your collarbone, your breasts, your stomach, everywhere his hands had imagined but never dared to touch until now. It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t chaotic. It was worship.

Every brush of his mouth was laced with intent.

Every groan was a confession.

He whispered your name like it was something holy.

You tugged at his shirt until he finally sat up just enough to pull it over his head, and God—Minho. The way his body looked in the moonlight, toned and golden and yours. You traced your fingers over the line of his abs and he hissed, grabbing your wrist gently.

“You’ll drive me insane.”

“You already are,” you whispered.

He laughed—breathless and stunned—but it faded fast as he leaned back in to kiss you again. This time it was slower. Deeper. His hand slid between your legs, and when he found how wet you were, he cursed under his breath.

“You want this,” he said, eyes locked with yours. “You want me.”

You nodded. That was all it took.

He kissed you again, hard this time, and soon, his sweatpants were gone, and your panties followed. Every nerve was raw. Every inch of you trembling, burning, needing.

He settled above you again, chest to chest, foreheads nearly touching as he lined himself up.

He paused.

One hand cradled your jaw. The other curled around your hip.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

You did.

He pushed in slowly.

You gasped, hands gripping his shoulders, and his head dropped to your neck with a shudder.

“Fuck—baby—” he moaned, voice cracking. “You feel like—God.”

He moved with care at first, deep and slow, every thrust deliberate, like he was memorizing the way you wrapped around him. You held on like he was anchoring you—like you might float away without his weight on you.

Your name left his lips again and again, low and reverent, while you whispered his in return between breathless moans.

It was messy and perfect.

A long-awaited breaking point.

And when he finally came, it was with his mouth on yours, holding you like he never wanted to let go.

Like he finally understood.

And maybe you did too.

—

The scent of eggs and butter hung warm in the air.

Sunlight spilled softly through the kitchen windows, casting sleepy gold over the countertops and floor. You stood at the stove, barefoot, wearing nothing but his oversized black T-shirt—your thighs peeking out with every shift of your hips as you stirred the pan.

It was early, earlier than you ever woke up, but after last night… you needed to move. To process. You needed space to feel what happened between you and Minho in that bed, on those sheets—space to understand why it changed something so deep, so permanent, you were scared to even breathe wrong in case the dream slipped away.

But it wasn’t a dream.

It was real.

He was real.

And unbeknownst to you, he was standing right behind you—leaned against the wall shirtless, loose gray sweats hanging from his hips, his dark eyes locked on your figure.

You, in his shirt.

You, in his kitchen.

You, cooking breakfast like you belonged here.

It short-circuited something in him.

Minho didn’t move at first. He just watched, the tight coil in his chest winding tighter with every second. But then your hips swayed slightly, humming to yourself under your breath—and he was gone.

Possessed.

In a flash, he crossed the room and wrapped an arm around your waist from behind, pressing his chest against your back. You gasped, startled.

“Minho—!” you laughed, elbowing his ribs gently. “You scared me.”

He didn’t laugh. He didn’t say anything.

Instead, he reached forward silently and turned off the stove. You blinked in confusion—until you felt it.

Him.

Thick and hard, already pressing into your ass through his sweats. You shivered.

“Last night…” his voice was rough, low, lips grazing your ear, “was slow. Sweet.”

He pulled your hips firmly back into him. You inhaled sharply.

“This won’t be.”

He pushed your hair aside and kissed the curve of your neck, wet and open-mouthed, and your knees buckled. His grip tightened.

“No running now, baby,” he growled. “You woke this up—now you take it.”

You exhaled shakily, head lolling back against his shoulder. “Minho…”

He kissed down your shoulder, then knelt suddenly, dragging your panties—his shirt riding up your thighs—to your ankles.

And then his hands parted your legs from behind, mouth hot and dangerous against the back of your thigh.

“Oh my—” you gasped, fingers clutching the counter.

You barely had time to register what was happening before he leaned you forward, cheek pressed to the cool marble, and dove between your thighs—tongue licking a long, slow stripe up your soaked slit.

You screamed.

Minho groaned.

“Fuck—you taste like everything I’ve ever wanted.”

He gripped your hips and buried his face in you, eating you like a man starved. His tongue flicked and curled, lips suctioning over your clit, and when you started trembling, he moaned—loudly—grinding his hips against your leg like he couldn’t take it either.

“Oh my God—Minho—” you sobbed, legs shaking.

He growled, arms wrapping around your thighs to steady you as he devoured you harder, wetter, like he couldn’t breathe without it. You came so fast and so hard, you nearly collapsed, but he caught you—his mouth glistening, eyes wild.

Before you could recover, he stood, grabbed your waist, and slammed into you from behind with a single, brutal thrust.

You wailed.

“Yeah,” he hissed, “that’s my good fucking girl.”

The stretch, the pressure, the way his hands gripped your hips—it was everything. He pounded into you over the stove, sweat dripping from his temple, teeth gritted, his pace merciless and unrelenting.

You couldn’t speak.

You couldn’t even think.

The only sounds were the slap of skin, your cries, and his growled praises—so tight, so fucking good, my wife, mine.

Your legs gave out around the second orgasm—he caught you again, wrapped an arm around your waist, and pulled you upright into his chest as he continued fucking up into you with ruthless precision.

“Minho—!” you sobbed, tears leaking down your cheeks.

He kissed your temple and whispered, “I know, baby. I know.”

He chased your release with everything in him, and when he came, it was with a strangled moan of your name, spilling inside you and holding you tight like you were something he couldn’t believe was real.

You didn’t finish breakfast.

You didn’t leave the kitchen.

And when he carried you to bed afterwards, you knew—whatever this was, it wasn’t fake anymore.

—

The bedroom was still dim when you woke again.

Your cheek was pressed against a warm chest, a steady heartbeat beneath your ear. Minho’s arm was draped over your waist, holding you close like he hadn’t let go once during the night—and judging by the way your legs were tangled together, he hadn’t.

For a while, neither of you said anything.

There was no need.

The silence was calm now. Peaceful. The kind of quiet that only came after storms, when everything inside had been screamed out, cried out, touched and loved into stillness.

You let your hand trace slow patterns on his skin. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t tense like he used to. In fact, he tugged you even closer, nuzzling into your hair with a groggy little hum.

“You didn’t run,” he whispered.

You smiled against his chest. “You didn’t push me away.”

That made him pause.

And then, softly: “I never wanted to.”

You tilted your head to look at him. He looked tired, but in the best way—raw and open and stripped of the hard walls he once wore like armor. His fingers were still tracing lazy lines up and down your back. The morning light kissed his face gently, and you realized it all at once.

This was your husband.

Not just the man your parents married you off to. Not just the cold stranger who once hated your presence in his home.

This was your husband.

He saw the thought in your eyes. His own softened.

“I’m sorry it took me so long,” Minho said, voice hoarse.

You reached up and touched his face, brushing your thumb over his cheek.

“I’m not,” you whispered. “Because now it’s real. Every single piece of it.”

He leaned forward and kissed you—sweetly, slowly. No hunger this time. No urgency.

Just warmth.

And something so terrifyingly close to love, you felt it all the way in your bones.

Later, you stayed curled in bed together, ordering breakfast in and eating it right off the tray, half-naked and laughing at the mess you made of the sheets and yourselves.

He kissed your shoulder mid-bite.

You wiped syrup from his lip with a giggle.

And when he finally pulled you into his lap with a content sigh, burying his face in your neck like he never wanted to be anywhere else again—you knew.

You were exactly where you were meant to be.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: Final part is up!!!! Ahhhhhhhh ❤️❤️❤️❤️❤️ so so so i’m gonna start a whole ass taglist, if you want out just let me know yeah?

Please like, comment, reblog! I look out for those, and thanks for following, we’re almost at 700!!!

Taglist: @tsunderelino @innieandsungielover @inlovewithstraykids @reignessance @jeonismm @sttnficrecs @herejusttemporary @krssliu @sagestarlight @kenia4 @miilquetoast @thackery-blinks @leeminho-hall @suga-is-bae @butterflydemons @inejghafawifesblog @malunar28replies @minchanlimbo @mal-lunar-28 @breakmeofftbr

[5sospenguinqueen]

Pocket Money Pt 2 | Lance Stroll x Reader

Summary: After some time apart, you and Lance realise your love and future mean more than fans' hateful comments

Warnings: Swearing. Sexual innuendos? Hateful fans

Female reader. All pics found on Pinterest.

prev.

F1 Masterlist

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astonmartinf1 just posted

liked by chloestroll, scottyjames31 and others

astonmartinf1 fighting for points in imola. lance brings it home in P9, securing valuable points for the team #imolagp

5,396 comments

user1 lance stroll domination might bore some people

lance_stroll the car felt good this weekend. let’s keep it up, team

user2 just me or was lance looking a little happier this weekend than he has recently? 

YourUserName wonderful race result

liked by lance_stroll

→ user3 the first social media appearance we’ve had from y/n in weeks and it was in support of lance?!?! what does this mean

user4 does this mean they’re still together?

→ user5 nah he definitely dumped her ass and now she’s just trying to get him back

user6 y/n commented and lance liked it! please tell me they’re back together. most underrated but cutest couple on the grid

user7 @/YourUserName talk about trying too hard. he broke up with you, sweetie. let it go

user8 i know they’re more private but i need them to confirm they’re still together so i can sleep easy

astonmartinf1 @/YourUserName fancy paying us a visit in canada?

liked by YourUserName 

user9 not a bunch of you switching up like you weren’t calling for her head on a pike

→ user10 literally, you guys are probably the reason they broke up but now you’re acting like it’s not what you wanted, and the end of the world

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astonmartinf1 just posted

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astonmartinf1 all ready for race day tagged: lance_stroll, fernandoalo_official, YourUserName

4,889 comments

user11 omg lance looked so happy this weekend and i bet it was because y/n was there

fernandoalo_official y/n looks far better in lance’s helmet

→ YourUserName should put me in his seat next time

→ astonmartinf1 deal

→ lance_stroll my father will hear about this

→ YourUserName okay draco malfoy

chloestroll okay but i think i just fell in love with those eyes

→ scottyjames31 why are you never this publicly obsessed with me

→ chloestroll because you’re not y/n

→ danielricciardo she is the moment

BestFriend do NOT put her in the car. girly barely passed her driving test the second time

→ YourUserName you can shade me in our messages but publicly, you’re supposed to support me

→ lance_stroll you told me you did pass the first time

→ YourUserName no, i told you i tried really hard. and you claim to listen to me

→ lance_stroll i do! 

→ YourUserName it’s okay. i’m still proud of you

→ lance_stroll and i’ll still let you behind the wheel so long as the drive is less than 10 minutes

user12 is this confirmation that they’re back together!!

→ user13 it has to be. not only is she in the paddock but she’s on an official post AND lance commented in response to her

user14 so you’re still trying to tell me she’s NOT a fame whore? she vanishes from social media after being found out as a gold digger to come back on an f1 page

→ user15 seriously, what is your issue? lance looked happier this race than he has in weeks, and he scored some points. there’s obviously only one reason for that

━━━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━━━

user1 agreed with @/daddynando. when you search her business, she is literally like second face you see after the ceo. she worked hard and deserves to flaunt it

→ user2 honestly. everyone talks about her being with lance for his money like she’s not loaded herself, and earnt it

→ user3 lance stroll wins for #1 wag because he’s always been so supportive of her and proud 

user4 funny how many of you have switched your opinion since finding out y/n is in charge of running a pretty wealthy company, and has enough money to keep herself comfortable without lance

user5 i also really miss y/n and lance. they were a more lowkey couple but he was always caught in the background of driver clips staring at her

→ user6 i won’t believe in love until they get back together 

→ user9 @/user6 you’re such a hypocrite. you literally have rts from two months ago of hateful tweets about her

user7 i’m so happy other people are finally being supportive of lance and y/n

user8 the way the two of them used to gush about starting a family and growing old together but the internet had to make her feel horrible about being in love 

user9 not that i’m not happy to see all this support for y/nance. i’m just wondering where you were when she was getting death threats?

user10 omg guys, lance just posted! 

user11 aston martin reposted this as well

→ user12 so did f1

→ user13 and mclaren, redbull and mercedes

→ user14 and danny ric, charles leclerc and a whole bunch of the grid

→ user15 they really said, we’re fed up with all of you

user16 people who have actually met her in the paddock say she’s the nicest person ever so idk why all you keyboard warriors thought you knew better

user17 the grid really said “not our y/n”

user18 anyone else feel like that last sentence was a bit of a threat? 

→ user19 it’s because aston martin’s legal team located one of the women who was sending the most threats and served her 

→ user20 i love that the official F1 website did an article about this because it serves as a warning to others

→ user21 lance stroll will find you lol

━━━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━━━

YourUserName just posted

liked by lance_stroll, danielricciardo and others

YourUserName here’s what you missed on glee 

3,115 comments

user1 omg welcome back. we’ve missed you 

user2 excuse me but all the lance pictures. my favourite f1 couple are back together! 

lance_stroll my pretty girl 💚 but why did you have to post the ice-cream pic?

→ YourUserName but i also posted that hot pic with the chain 🤤

→ lance_stroll i thought we talked about that emoji

→ danielricciardo don’t try and change her

user3 woof woof (i can’t tell which of them i want to sleep with more)

user4 okay but the black shirt and the chain. i’m starting to see what miss y/n sees him in

YourBrother dude, i do not need to see your underwear on this app. please do not post what are clearly post-sex pics

→ YourUserName they were not! we did that the night before. this was me begging him not to leave for a meeting and get back in bed. he declined :( 

→ BestFriend how dare he! 

→ lance_stroll it was an important meeting! 

→ BestFriend and she’s an important person! 

estebanocon at least lance will stop moping now

→ lance_stroll i think i was allowed to mope! the love of my life was sad and in another country 

→ user5 ladies, get a man who simps over you like lance stroll  

chloestroll um, why am i not included in this photo dump? do i mean nothing to you?

→ lance_stroll how many times do i have to tell you that you’re not her favourite stroll

→ YourUserName it’s actually lawrence 

user6 do you know what i like seeing more than happy y/n and lance? no hate comments on y/n’s post. our queen is being respected and loved as she should be 

user7 excuse me, are those wedding pics in the background

→ YourUserName oops

lance_stroll just posted

liked by alex_albon, fernandoalo_official and others

lance_stroll 💚🤍

4,006 comments

astonmartinf1 everybody stay calm! we are totally normal about this! 

→ user8 admin is all of us 

astonmartinf1 a huge congratulations to the newlyweds but we’re still disappointed that you didn’t have an aston martin themed wedding :( 

→ YourUserName we had an aston martin as our wedding car?

→ astonmartinf1 keep talking

→ user9 not admin acting like they didn't know this prior to y/n spilling on her recent post

YourUserName i love you, my darling husband

→ lance_stroll i love you more, my breathtaking wife. thank you for marrying me

→ user10 get someone who THANKS you for marrying them

danielricciardo what a beautiful day, mate. and what a gorgeous bride 

→ YourUserName no amount of compliments will make me forgive you 

→ danielricciardo i didn’t mean to! i was drunk

→ YourUserName you still kissed my husband

→ lance_stroll you promised you wouldn’t tell the internet! 

→ YourUserName i lied!

→ landonorris this marriage is off to a great start. nice work, ricciardo 

chloestroll have i stopped crying? not really. my baby brother and perfect sister-in-law

→ YourUserName i’m so lucky to call you my sister-in-law. although i think you’d do better as my wife ;)

→ chloestroll there’s still time

→ lance_stroll stop

→ scottyjames31 agreed

user11 i don’t understand how anyone could deny that these two truly love each other. the way they look at each other 

landonorris could you go be ridiculously in love somewhere else?

→ lance_stroll this is my instagram?

user12 omg they still got married on their original date

YourBrother nonna says it’s time for babies now

→ lance_stroll i’m trying my best

→ danielricciardo don’t tell the internet that you’re raw dogging every night

→ YourUserName that’s it. you’re blocked

━━━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━━━

YourUserName just posted

liked by lance_stroll, georgerussell63 and others

YourUserName say hi to baby stroll

3,421 comments

lance_stroll my amazing family 🥰 y/n, you have given me the best gift by being my wife, and then by being my partner in parenting. i love you 

→ YourUserName why do you insist on making me cry, my heart. i love you and our family more than anything

user13 excuse me but where was the pregnancy announcement!

chloestroll baby and the bear

→ YourUserName baby stroll loves his bobo bear more than anything 

→ chloestroll what can i say, i’m the ultimate gift giver

→ lance_stroll you gave me an old vogue magazine for my birthday last year 

→ chloestroll yes but for your 18th, i got you a hot date who eventually turned into the love of your life so i think i’m off the hook until the end of days 

→ YourUserName i only agreed to it because i thought i would be YOUR hot date @/chloestroll 

→ lance_stroll i have feelings 

user14 we get their wedding and then we get nothing until they announce a whole ass baby 

scottyjames31 am i still banned from the stroll household?

→ lance_stroll idk will you stop bringing red bull baby stuff into my house

→ scottyjames31 but then how will he show that he’s uncle scotty’s #1 supporter

→ danielricciardo and uncle danny’s 

→ lance_stroll because he’s his dad’s #1 supporter 

→ danielricciardo @/scottyjames31 this is uncle erasure 

user15 when lance told us y/n wasn’t at races for the past 5 months because she was swamped at work, what he really meant was she was hiding a baby bump from us

user16 i knew her showing up in a different team hoodie every race was more than just a running joke! 

→ landonorris she wore those because she loves mclaren! she loves us! 

→ YourUserName debatable

→ landonorris i thought being a mum was supposed to make you nicer

→ YourUserName it did but you’re not my child 

user17 i know this is gross but from doing the math, he got her pregnant on their honeymoon

→ user18 faster than he is on track 

user19 um, mr stroll, we weren’t familiar with your game. those back muscles

→ YourUserName they’re what got me pregnant 

→ user20 um, hello mrs stroll. PR might be after you now 

→ astonmartinf1 she’s off the hook for now. we’re kind of hoping for them to make a grid’s worth of babies

→ user21 lawrence stroll ghost wrote this 

→ lance_stroll sounds like we need to get started on baby #2, sweetheart 

→ YourUserName only if you push this one out 

→ lance_stroll deal

━━━━━━ ༻𖥸༺ ━━━━━━

Hands up if you were shocked by Lance’s contract announcement today 😂 Never saw that coming

Baby Fever Angst Series

F1 Request are open! (They might just take some time)

Tag list

@callsignwidow @luvrrish @evans-dejong @sadsierra2 @justdreamersdream @spookystitchery @dark-night-sky-99 @majusialikesfastcars @luckyladycreator2 @mrosales16 @reguluscrystals @tvdtw4ever @alwaysclassyeagle @gigicisneros @thecubanator2 @goldenharrysworld @awritingtree @jxnellat @lav3nder-haze @hc-dutch @mxdi0 @buckybarnessweetheart @ironmaiden1313 @dreamercrowd @yourbane @glow-ish @g-l-o-b-e-w-h-o-r-e @weekendlusting @lemon-lav @minkyungseokie @bibissparkles @peachiicherries @rosecentury @exotic-iris13

[mythology-void]

GOD FINALLY SOMEBODY SAID IT

don't get me wrong, high fantasy stuff is very awesome and cool to explore in a film context and if im watching lord of the rings i am a monarchist for 682 minutes, but it's just a little silly to me how even with LOTR as the baseboard for basically every high fantasy book ever, so so many people are ignoring that very clear main point and even going so far as to say that high fantasy can only ever be centered around kings and queens and monarchs.

like. obviously inheirted power dynamics between rich people in the 1600s is very cool and a valid thing to want to explore, but it's genuinely so much cooler to explore the flaws of a autocratic system through the eyes of one of its subjects, especially one who's been disproportionately affected by the mistakes of the monarchy. watching THOSE people interact with the system that hurt them (even if the leaders thought they were making good choices!) is SO much jucier than a bunch of rich white people poking each other with long sticks for 3 1/2 hours

You know, it's kinda funny how much of high fantasy centers around kings and nobility and courtly intrigue considering that the archetypal high fantasy, Lord of the Rings, had the rather explicit moral of "saving the world is up to this backwater hick and his gardener because no politician, least of all inherited nobility, would have the ability to see past their own ambition and throw away a weapon". Oh sure, Aragorn is a great king and all, but there's a reason he's over there running a distraction ring while the hobbits do the real work. Sauron loses because he gets distracted by kings and armies and great battles (i.e. typical high fantasy stuff) letting Frodo and Sam sneak through his back door and blow it all to hell.

Just saying, maybe old Jirt knew what he was saying when he said that the small folk doing their best and holding to each other was more powerful than a dozen alliances and superweapons and we should respect him for it.

[robinsgrl]

kildare nights. six, pope if u can hear us. prev ! next.

gold at hand and no more treasures to hunt, the freshly graduated treasure hunters are left to deal with the simple life. as simple as a certain level of fame and millions of dollars in the obx can get you, at least.

an. sorry for being late on this!! i’ve been working on my other series as well!! maybe take a lil peek if u wanna lol. y’all to be so honest i was feeling kie in the beginning and then rafe but now im kinda on jjs side 😭😭 im soooo indecisive and im def playing favorite rn sorry for the rafe girlies. anyways it warms my heart when y’all gimme ur cute little thoughts so please don’t hold back ill even settle for hate (jk kidding)

taglist. @sippinpeachtea @leather-n-velvet @beebeerockknot @star611 @emer-sonnn @miidollaasignnn @vrtualstar @rafecameronsloverrrrr @jeonjungkaka @amara-mars @chaoticroaddreamerpasta @yawnzshit @poppet05 @proxy-princess @zomb-1-egutzz @starsval @ethanthequeefqueen @moonssyrup @sarahmaybank @bilssturns @cakuqe (send an ask or comment to be added to the taglist! some of you can’t be tagged sorry! if i missed you, please remind me again)

[please-be-nice-im-sensitive]

Ten questions to ask a mutual

Instructions: prev asks ten questions and you answer them, then ask ten new ones and tag ten people to keep the chain going! I’ll go first

What is the weirdest thing you’ve eaten? (For me it’s the time I accidentally drank ants)

do you like purple or green more? (For me it’s a 50/50 I love them both)

what is your favorite two color color combo? (For me it’s purple and gold)

are you a cat or dog person? (Dogs 100%)

what is your favorite painting (Miranda by John William Waterhouse)

Mountains or beaches? (Mountains)

what’s your favorite dessert? (Lemon bars)

are you right or left handed? (Right but I used to be left handed)

salty or sweet? (Sweet)

summer or winter? (Winter)

I’m tagging 11 people but it’s whatever

@wra1th-k1ng

@bladevoyager

@tragedyanddust

@kindred-spirit-93

@urfavgreekmythnerd

@sickneurotic

@ry-diggity

@we-are-but-dead-stars

@thestarryfalls

@tamaruaart

@hermesmoly

[leighsartworks216]

Comparing Hoards

dragon!Sylus x blind!oracle!Reader

Series Masterlist - Chapter One - Prev Chapter

My heart aches at how goddamn fluffy and sweet and soft this chapter it (enjoy it while it lasts)

Warnings: blood, mentions of death, literal sleeping together, cuddling, hand holding, awkward flirting

Word Count: 1,441

Main Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

You jolt awake. Heart racing, mind reeling from the sudden escape of your dream. Your vision.

You saw it so clearly this time. A claymore, large and unwieldy, shoved into Jewel’s chest. The blood pouring out over blade and hands alike. Jewel, telling this strange woman to push it deeper in, very nearly to the hilt. Why would he do that? Why would he beg for death like that?

Something hard curls around your waist. It takes a moment to register as his tail. A moment longer to notice the heat at your back, and something large and leathery draped over your body. It’s a huge contrast to the pillows littering the floor beneath you, carefully placed to your liking; your “hoard”.

You try to turn over. His tail tightens slightly.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs. His voice is low and rough, clearly affected by sleep.

You tap awkwardly at the scales on his tail, clearing your throat softly. “Why are you in here?”

The great leathery thing over you shifts a little, alongside the drawn out sound of him stretching. He’s only a foot or so away. “You were shivering.”

Ah. “Is that it?”

He huffs. “I was tired. And curious. ‘Bout why you’d prefer these soft things.”

“They feel nice. You must like things to be rough and hard. And cold.” You tentatively touch the leathery thing. “What is this? Is this a blanket?”

It shifts away from your fingers, letting in the chilly cavern air. A shiver accompanies the burst of goosebumps along your skin, even while covered by the few blankets he brought back from his excursion. It settles back over you lightly. “Mmph, it’s my wing.”

The vision that seemed to burn your mind feels distant now. Bearable. You don’t feel the burning ash in the air, or smell the coppery stench of all that blood. It’s nothing more than a dream, prophecy as it may be. But you cannot recall in all your foresight ever seeing wings. Logically, he has them, or else the trip up the mountain would have been far less sudden and disorienting.

“Can you hide them?” you ask curiously.

The pillows shift slightly behind you. “Hm?”

“Like, can you make them disappear when you want them to?” you clarify.

“Why?”

“I’ve never seen them in my visions. I was just wondering, that’s all.”

He sighs lowly, pillows shifting more and wing overtop of you rustling as he settles back into a comfortable position. The heat sinks into the blankets. Settles down over you, like an embrace. It feels safe. You mindlessly stroke the scales of his tail, following the ridges and shapes with light fingers. “Yeah. I can hide them.”

You make a soft sound. Questions seem to flitter in and out of your mind like birds to a pile of grain, skittish but hungry. You wish you could know everything about dragons and fiends. Wish you’d been told anything outside of their ferocity and danger. The persistent doom that overshadows the things that make them like any other creature, that show their lives and impacts on nature.

Your touch begins to slow, hand stilling until it stops, fingers relaxing and palm resting flat atop it. Your eyes feel heavy behind their lids. Body feels weightless with the oncoming threat of sleep. You curl up tighter beneath the cover of his wing. “I wish I could see them,” you murmur, lips barely moving around the words. “I’m sure they’re… something… to behold…”

You drift back into your visions. You strain to see through the ash and flower petals for the impression of great wings sprouting from his back.

-

“Where do you usually sleep?” you ask him suddenly. You sit on the plush chair he gifted you, listening to him rummage through his piles of gold and treasure. The bandages around your neck are gone, at last. The bruises, so he says, have already begun to fade. Your necklace is returned to its rightful place, cold metal gentle against your skin where it sits on your collarbones.

Jewel chuckles. “Did those stories of fiends never say?”

You try to think. “I don’t think they said anything about fiends sleeping. They were always about how ever-watchful they are, always guarding their treasure at all hours of the day.” You smile, remembering the feeling of his tail around you and his wing overtop. “Which clearly isn’t true.”

He hums, like there’s a secret he’s keeping that he wishes he could tell. “Not completely,” he says finally. “We do sleep. Most of us rest during the day.”

“Do you have a room here somewhere?”

“You’re sitting in it, oracle.”

You blink dumbly in the direction of his voice, body straightening in abject horror. This chair- The chair he gifted you because it’s soft… “Did I steal your bed?!”

He laughs this time, rich and light. “No, oracle - my room. Fiends sleep atop their treasure.”

You relax again. “Good. If you said you slept in this chair, I would have felt awful.” You scrub your face with your hands, groaning. “Imagine me sleeping on a dragon’s bed while he just watches.”

“That doesn’t sound like a terrible sight at all.”

Heat rushes to your cheeks. You clear your throat, dropping your hands to your lap. “Yeah, well, if you sleep on top of all that,” you gesture out to the piles of treasure, “then I can’t imagine I’d be all that comfortable.”

His footsteps approach the plush lounge chair. There is no attempt to surprise you with his proximity this time, yet you find yourself nervous with every step closer. A fluttering in your chest and stomach, creeping up the back of your throat. “Would you care to try it?” he asks, directly in front of you.

You purse your lips. There’s no way it will be comfortable. You remember all those times coins and gems poked into your bare feet. But you also remember something he said last night, when you woke up to his presence behind you. “I was tired. And curious. ‘Bout why you’d prefer these soft things.”

Slowly, you nod. “Alright. I’ll try it.”

His clawed hand lifts yours from your lap, talons wrapping gently around your soft flesh to help you to your feet. He leads you deeper into the room, past piles you know to be there, until he reaches one he deems fit for your first go.

Coins and small, loose treasure slip free under his feet as he takes the first steps up. They tumble down to your ankles, almost ticklish, as he helps you up with him. It’s a challenge, to be sure. You reach out to him with your other hand and he grabs on right away, chuckling underneath the noise at your plight as you clamber higher and higher up on the pile. You laugh, too. You wish you could see what a fool you’re making of yourself.

After a couple minutes, you’ve reached the top. Jewel doesn’t let go. “Now lay down.”

Carefully, feeling a mite off balance with the still-shifting gold beneath your feet, you sit yourself down. You let go of one of his hands and lay yourself back. The rustling of shifting gold becomes silent.

It’s strange. It’s not comfortable - jagged edges stick into your back, a metallic scent wafts unwelcome into your nose, your neck has absolutely no support - but you don’t hate it. You couldn’t sleep here, but simply laying here, like laying on a giant bed of pebbles, is almost peaceful.

The pile shifts beside you as he lays down, too. Your twined hands rest between you, firm and secure. You feel the weight of his eyes on you.

“What do you think?”

You laugh softly. “It’s not comfortable.”

He chuckles. “You mortals are too soft.”

Your laughter echoes back from the cavernous ceiling. Even after you both quiet down, it faintly returns the mix essence of your voices. You close your eyes, trying to imagine what this would be like as a dragon. Hard scales scratched pleasantly by your hoard of treasure, metal easily warmed and inviting. The power of sitting up here and looking down over everything else.

His hand shifts in yours. You open your hand, mindlessly turning your head as though you could watch what he’s doing. His palm turns against yours, gauntleted fingers brushing overtop your own. They spread, fitting into the gaps, and curl around your hand once more. His hold is so loose, as though he’s prepared to pull away. You curl your fingers around his before he can, holding on, keeping him close.

“It’s not a terrible sight,” he murmurs quietly.

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @animegamerfox @flamedancer13 @leiakitty @seris-the-amious @fries11

[leighsartworks216]

What's Mine Is Yours

dragon!Sylus x blind!oracle!Reader

Series Masterlist - Chapter One - Prev Chapter - Next Chapter

Getting this one up early today haha! Also I am reminded just how bad I am at letting slow burns be slow 💀

Warnings: none that I can think of

Word Count: 507

Main Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

Days of sleeping on the hard floor of your “accommodations” is taking its toll on you. Your back aches, your joints are sore, and you can’t seem to stop yawning as the lack of good sleep starts to build up. You don’t complain about it. It feels harder to complain now that you know your captor a little better. Not to mention, you have no idea where he sleeps - sleeping on the hard floor could be perfectly normal for a dragon, for all you know.

Unfortunately, now that you’ve grown accustomed to sitting in that chair in his treasure room while he rearranges and organizes his hoard, you’re really starting to feel it.

“Why do you keep doing that?”

“Hm? Doing what?” You sit up a little straighter in the chair. You’d started nodding off, but with so little else to do, it was hard to stay awake. You’d be glad to help him in his task, if he’d let you, but you’d more likely than not just slow him down.

He huffs. “You keep… breathing in an odd way. Do mortals usually do that?”

You think for a moment, trying to piece together what he’s talking about. Then, it clicks. “Oh! Oh, I was yawning. We yawn when we’re tired.”

“And you’re tired?”

“... A little. It’s hard for me to sleep… on the ground,” you admit hesitantly. “And this chair is really soft. It’s nice.”

He doesn’t say anything for a moment. The gold doesn’t shift. The chair’s cushion is warmed from your body heat. A scrap of warmth in a place so cold and empty. Your body sinks into it again, without thought.

“You can have it.”

You blink back to alertness once more. “What? Really?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Isn’t it part of your treasure hoard? Why would you want to give up something precious to you?”

“Oracle,” he drawls, “have you already forgotten?” His steps thunk across stone, approaching you with a calm confidence that still sets your hair on end. Instincts of a prey animal being approached by a predator. You jump when his clawed fingers curl under your chin and lift it up, presumably guiding your gaze to his face for as tall as he is. “You’re one of my treasures, too. What am I losing by giving it to you, hm?”

You swallow. You can feel the sharp points of his nails ghost over your jaw and cheek, never breaking skin, never pressing hard enough to even threaten such a thing. You slowly pull your chin from his grasp. His fingers, hard and cold and frighteningly gentle, slip away. You lean back into the plush cushion. Hands smooth over the roughened velvet. “I… I don’t think I want it brought up to my room.”

He chuckles softly. “Then it can stay here and you can sleep on it whenever you like.”

“What about my room?”

“You said you like how soft it is, yes? Then I suppose I’ll have to find some soft treasures for you to start your own hoard.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @burningtrashgentleman @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @nezuswritingdesk @anaathxma @ssushi @mina7820 @monophobix @m0onfl0x @mentaltrouble2201 @mskaylacharite @nerrivm @ichosesparklingtorment @schnittled @animegamerfox @leiakitty @loliesaregreat @flamedancer13

[redvexillum]

Thirteenth Kiss: Captivate II

A/N: Part Two. How many more? Well, at least more than two.

Tags/Warning: f!reader, eventual smut, fake relationship, Lucifer is touch-starved

<- PREV || TABLE OF CONTENT

This Lucifer fellow—the Lucifer, the first to fall from grace, the so-called origin of sin and sorrow, the devil whispered about in bedtime prayers—was not at all what you expected. 

You thought he’d be taller, maybe. Brooding. Wreathed in smoke and brimstone, his presence commanding, oppressive. Instead, he was… surprisingly short. And cheerfully anxious. Like a magician preparing for a show no one asked to attend. 

He opened the door to his towering palace with the kind of nervous energy that bordered on theatrical desperation. Clad in a crisp, white tailored suit with soft gold accents, a gleaming top hat perched on his head, and his iconic apple-topped staff clutched like a lifeline, he looked more like a circus ringmaster than the world’s greatest sinner. The round, cherry-red blush painted on his cheeks only added to the illusion. He seemed almost friendly, like someone trying far too hard to be liked. 

Not exactly the embodiment of eternal damnation. 

It seemed even Hell’s royalty had use for the “Rent-a-Girlfriend” app. 

You were curious—why would Lucifer of all beings need a pretend girlfriend? But the moment you stepped into his home, a whirlwind of monologue drowned out your questions. He launched into an exhaustive historical tour of the estate, pointing out each carved pillar, each blood-red curtain, each cracked portrait frame with a mixture of pride and wistful melancholy. 

And the portraits… there were so many of them. 

Each featured the same stunning woman, long blonde hair, radiant smile, ethereal beauty that made you shift uncomfortably and glance down at your body more than once. You weren’t sure if it was jealousy or something far sadder: a reminder that he was still haunted by someone long gone. 

It was, frankly, weird. 

And suddenly, the avalanche of messages from your fellow Rent-a-Girlfriend workers, their complaints, rants, warnings about “Luci,” suddenly all made sense. The awkwardness, the indecision, the obsession with ducks (which, yes, had come up mid-tour), and that strange, desperate edge to his hospitality. 

You glanced at your phone. His strict thirty-minute timer had long since run out. Yet, he hadn’t dismissed you. He was still talking, gesturing, smiling through paper-thin bravado as he gushed about his family, specifically his daughter.

He was trying—harder than most you’d met. 

You weren’t sure if he was just bored and playing some elaborate joke, or if this was the truth of him: the king of Hell, cracked and lonely, clinging to the pieces of a life that shattered long ago. 

Either way, you weren't about to let him become your first bad review. No one, not even the OG Devil himself, would break your streak. But more than that, you had made yourself a promise when you first clawed your way into this infernal realm: 

You’d help people—even if it meant pretending, even if it was only for a moment. 

Even the ones everyone else had given up on. 

You cleared your throat, firm but polite, halting Lucifer mid-ramble as he continued to wax poetic about his “radiant, perfect daughter, Charlie.” He had been walking aimlessly, leading you through endless, echoing hallways that seemed to stretch into infinity, each corridor darker and more ornate than the last. The palace was grand, cold, and lonely, much like the man himself. 

Stepping in front of him, you finally blocked his path. 

“Can I ask you something?” you said, your voice calm, steady, and just sharp enough to cut through the strange, rambling haze he surrounded himself with. 

Lucifer blinked, caught off guard. He adjusted his white top hat and fidgeted with the polished apple atop his staff. “Uh, yeah… yes, sure, sure,” he replied, his eyes darting to the chandelier above, then the wall to your left, anywhere but your face. His fingers began tapping a nervous rhythm against the staff—click, click, click. 

You met his skittish gaze head-on. “Why do you need a girlfriend?” 

Blunt. Honest. No point in pretending. 

For a moment, he froze, then puffed out his chest like a cat trying to look bigger than it felt. The corners of his lips curled into something resembling a confident smirk. 

“Well,” he said with exaggerated flair, spinning his staff once before leaning toward you with a raised brow, “I would think it’s obvious. I’m Lucifer. I laid out everything in my request. You do know how to read, right?” 

Ah. So he was kind of an asshole. 

You gave a short, dry laugh and pulled out your phone, thumbs tapping quickly until you brought up his profile. 

“Let’s see,” you said, your voice laced with mild sarcasm. “You're looking for a homely girl, pious,”—you arched a brow at that one—“gentle, able to convincingly lie, and pretend to have been in a committed relationship with you for, what, three years?” You scrolled further. “And… likes ducks.” 

Lucifer nodded along as if this list explained everything, like it was perfectly normal to demand chastity and duck enthusiasm in the same breath. 

You looked up at him again, brows drawn together as you tried to make sense of the absurdity. “So… you’re looking for a dating experience? Or are you trying to convince someone that you have a girlfriend?” 

The pride on his face faltered like glass catching a hairline fracture. His left eye twitched. The bravado began to crumble. 

“Well…” he began, his voice tight, slipping into awkwardness like a child caught sneaking cookies. “It’s… it’s kind of a long story and—” 

And there it was. The paper-thin veneer of confidence, peeling at the edges. 

You tilted your head slightly, your expression softening, not out of pity, but something closer to understanding. Maybe he was an asshole, but you were starting to suspect that wasn’t all he was. 

“Then start at the beginning,” you said gently. “I’ve got time.” 

And just like that, he stopped tapping his staff. 

Your eyes studied him—every twitch, every crack in his carefully composed facade. His body language screamed discomfort, guilt, a fragile ego poorly hidden behind flair and showmanship. You tried to see through him, trying to make sense of the anxious man standing before you, who was supposed to be the King of Hell. 

“I actually take pride in being the perfect girlfriend for my clients,” you added, voice steady, matter-of-fact. “The more you tell me, the better I can tailor myself to what you need.” 

Of course, that wasn’t the whole truth. You had your reasons for working in a place like Rent-a-Girlfriend. You didn’t wear pretty smiles and hand-hold strangers for fun. In fact, it was far more…personal to you.  But even so, this man—this Devil—was still a paying client. 

Also, bills didn’t pay themselves. 

Lucifer rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing. “Well…” He began to gesture with one hand in a spiralling motion, like he was physically trying to untangle the situation as he spoke. “You could say… I may have told my daughter that I’ve been secretly dating someone for years… and that I’ll be bringing said girlfriend to her New Year’s Eve party.” 

You blinked. Once. Then again. 

That’s when the full weight of what he said sank in. “Oh,” you said slowly, your tone bordering on unimpressed. “Is that all?” You tilted your head again, maybe expecting something grander like a political plot, infernal diplomacy, some great cosmic deception. Not… a white lie told to his daughter. 

His brows knitted together instantly. The flicker of sheepish charm vanished from his face, replaced with frustration and a wounded frown. 

“Is that all? Is that all?!” he repeated, his voice pitching higher with indignation. He whipped his cane toward the nearest family portrait. It had to be the seventieth one he’d shown you by now, framing a blonde woman with a radiant smile and a mischievous child nestled beside her. “This is my daughter we’re talking about!” 

Then, in one sharp motion, he grabbed a handful of his golden curls and tugged, visibly distressed. 

“I just got her to trust me again! And I had to open my stupid, impulsive mouth and lie—like some bumbling idiot—!” 

You could see it happening: the slow unravelling, the spiral of self-blame. The way he started to fold in on himself, his voice tight with panic and regret. And sure, he’d lied. And yes, it was dumb. But you knew the weight of a lie told with good intentions. You knew what it felt like to be terrified of hurting someone you love, even if it meant hurting them anyway. 

“Hey… hey,” you said gently. Your voice softened, almost hesitant. Your hand hovered for a breath, unsure—then you placed it lightly on his shoulder. He tensed, then stilled. 

“It’s going to be okay,” you said with a quiet smile, trying to infuse your words with warmth and reassurance. “We can pretend until the New Year… then part ways, no hard feelings. No one has to get hurt.” 

You were about to suggest the more honest route, coming clean to his daughter. From everything you’d heard, she sounded sweet, forgiving, the type who would rather be told a hard truth than fooled by a pretty lie. You opened your mouth to say just that. 

But before the words could leave your lips— 

“You’re hired.” 

Your eyes widened. “What?” The word tumbled out in surprise. 

Lucifer gave a nod, too quick, too eager. “You’re hired,” he repeated with finality. 

“Just like that?” Your brows furrowed, confused. “What—what about your thirty-minute policy? The vibe check? The… duck compatibility test?” 

With a bright, almost childlike grin, Lucifer pointed dramatically between the two of you, his finger bouncing like he was choosing dance partners at a ball. “It’s a match made in Heaven—or, I suppose, in Hell!” he quipped, bursting into laughter at his joke, clearly delighted with himself. His eyes sparkled with mischief as he waggled his eyebrows in your direction, the gesture so corny it made you blink. 

“I needed someone who could jibe well with me,” he said confidently, as if this were a well-thought-out strategy and not an impulsive lurch into delusion. “And then bam—you say exactly what I was thinking! Go to the party, wow Charlie, and then poof, the next morning we cry, kiss, and part ways forever!” He threw his arms up dramatically, spinning in a small circle like he was performing in a musical. “The fact that you also thought of that just proves we’re in sync already. We’ll make such a convincing couple!” 

He laughed again, this time like he’d solved some great existential riddle. Pride shimmered on his face like a kid who’d just built a lopsided treehouse and declared it a castle. 

You opened your mouth to point out that sharing one vague idea did not constitute real compatibility, but the words never made it past your lips. You’d been doing this long enough to know that people needed what they needed, even if it didn’t always make sense. If this delusional half-solution brought him comfort, who were you to take it away? 

Life—and death—had taught you that nothing was ever clean-cut. There were no heroes, no villains. Just people wrapped up in their shades of gray. 

“Alright,” you said with a small nod. “Then if you could just click confirm on my profile, we can—” 

“Tonight.” 

You blinked. “I—sorry?” 

Lucifer clasped his hands together, eyes wide with urgency. “It has to be tonight. We’ve got less than four days. Four days! That’s barely enough time for haircuts and coordinated outfits, let alone building a believable relationship history!” 

You hesitated, your professional instincts kicking in. “If you want an instant booking, there is a rush fee—” 

“Done!” he declared with a flourish, nose lifted high like a snooty aristocrat. “Not to worry, my dear.” He snapped his fingers. “I have so much money. Honestly, sometimes I forget where I put it all.” 

As if on cue, a shimmering heap of Hellbucks appeared in the middle of the hallway with a little puff of sulphurous glitter. You stared at the money pile for a beat, your lips twitching despite yourself. 

He was strange. Eccentric. Maybe even a little… cringe. But as bizarre as the whole situation was, you couldn’t bring yourself to dislike him. Oddly enough, the King of Hell didn’t seem like such a bad guy. Which, when you thought about it, was kind of hilarious. 

“Okay,” you said, refocusing. “Then let’s go over the basics. What kind of girlfriend are you looking for, exactly? What’s our dynamic?” 

Lucifer tilted his head, completely blank. “My what now?” 

You raised a brow. “What’s our relationship like?” you clarified. “Like, have we met at a duck appreciation convention? Did we meet at a bar?” You hesitated, then added with a smirk, “Are we, uh, sexually active?” 

He made a choking sound, eyes widening in horror. “Wha—what?!” 

You couldn’t help it—you giggled. “I suppose I could’ve worded that better.” You leaned in, teasing. “Are you comfortable with PDA?” 

He blinked. “What’s PDA?” 

You stared. 

Oh boy. 

You took a slow, steadying breath, the kind that settled deep in your chest. It dawned on you, this entire night was going to be a careful game of trial and error. You’d be feeling out his comfort zones inch by inch, all while gently peeling back the layers of whatever awkward bravado he had wrapped around himself like armour. 

And something told you, deep in your gut, that he didn’t even know what he wanted. 

This was going to be a long night. 

“Okay,” you began, your voice gentle but steady, “some people prefer physical affection to come in small, familiar gestures. Like this—” You paused with your hand hovering just shy of his arm. “May I?” 

Lucifer blinked at you like a startled deer, his expression dazed, almost startled by the question. Then, after a beat, he gave a hesitant nod, the movement jerky and unsure. 

Offering him a reassuring smile, you closed the space between you and let your fingers lightly rest on his arm, the fabric of his suit soft under your touch. Slowly, deliberately, you smoothed your hand down the length of his arm. You felt the ripple of tension immediately, his muscles stiffened beneath your palm, his posture going rigid. His lips parted just slightly, and you caught the unmistakable flush blooming across his cheeks and ears, gold as a summer sun. 

“And maybe,” you said softly, “I’d do something like this—to show how comfortable we are with each other’s touch.” You let your other fingers drift up, brushing through the soft waves of his pale hair, before gently tracing along the curve of his ear. 

“Oh—oh!” he gasped, suddenly jerking away from you like you’d lit a fire under his skin. He backpedalled with the grace of a newborn goat on ice, until his back hit the wall, and he clamped his thighs together, arms crossed protectively over his chest like he was defending his virtue. 

“W-well—what, uh—what would be more convincing to Charlie?” he stammered, his voice cracked and high, like he was trying to salvage dignity from the ruins. 

You tilted your head, studying him. “Well, that depends entirely on what you’re comfortable with,” you said, your tone light but firm. “After all, if you react like that—” you motioned toward his current flustered state, “it might look a little suspicious, don’t you think?” 

His gaze dropped to his posture—how tightly his arms hugged his chest, how stiffly he was standing. He cleared his throat, clearly mortified, and with great effort, tried to shake out the tension in his limbs, forcing himself into something resembling a relaxed stance. 

“Right,” he said, nodding, though it looked more like he was trying to convince himself. 

“If you hate physical touch, we can work around that—” 

“I don’t,” he blurted out, a little too loud, a little too fast. 

You raised an eyebrow. 

“I—I mean, I actually love it,” he said, fumbling. “Touching. You… you touching me. I mean—wait, no, that sounds weird, doesn’t it? Not like that kind of touching—unless you want to—but not that I’m asking for that—I mean—” 

You stared at him, fighting a smile as his words spiralled into incoherent babble. 

And then it hit you. 

He’s touch-starved, you realized. Painfully so. 

For all his flamboyant flair and over-the-top dramatics, Lucifer looked like someone who hadn’t been touched with real gentleness in centuries. 

“Okay then,” you said softly, watching his face carefully, “let’s just say you’re not used to strangers touching you—which is totally normal, by the way.” You offered a small, understanding smile, trying to ease the tension still radiating off him like heat from a flame. “We can start small. No pressure. Just enough until you’re comfortable… if that’s the kind of relationship you want to show at the party.” 

Lucifer blinked at you, still visibly flustered but curious now. “Start small? How?” 

Without answering right away, you simply smiled, soft, warm, unthreatening. Then, slowly, you reached out and took his hand in yours, your fingers carefully sliding between his. You raised your joined hands so he could see them, his palm snug against yours, the space between you closing just a little more. 

“Like this,” you said softly, your voice barely above a whisper. “Something simple. Until you’re used to it.” 

His eyes locked on your hands, and for a heartbeat, he didn’t breathe. 

You felt it, the subtle shift in the surrounding air. The usual theatrics had quieted, and that ever-present nervous energy dimmed into something still. His gaze lingered on your interlocked fingers, and you didn’t miss the way his lips parted, as though he were trying to speak but had forgotten how. 

Then came something you didn’t expect. 

A flicker of pain crossed his face, so quick it could have been missed, but unmistakable—like a memory had surfaced, uninvited and raw. His brows drew together just slightly, his mouth trembling at the corners, and his eyes, those glittering, otherworldly eyes, looked just a bit too glossy. 

And then… he squeezed your hand. 

It was faint at first, tentative. But it grew into something firmer, more certain. Not possessive. Not showy. 

Just present. 

The false bravado, the haughty grins, the theatrical flairs, the arrogant twirls of his cane, quietly dissipated. And in their place was something vulnerable, almost fragile. Two strangers, holding hands in the middle of Hell, sharing warmth not just through skin, but through a kind of unspoken understanding. 

You didn’t say anything. You just let him feel. 

And at that moment, as he continued to stare down at your joined hands like he was afraid to blink and break the spell, you found yourself hoping—really hoping—that this was what he had been looking for. 

NEXT ->

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[httpsserene]

httpsserene's F1 Kinktober '23

summary: your boyfriend has to make an appearance at some sponsor event. he's gone ahead and bought you an alluring outfit, but he failed to mention how seductive he looks in the new fitted suit his team got him. you two won't be staying long, but you increase the pace by riling him up, mostly unintentionally. so it's your fault that he makes you ruin his loaned mclaren.

༊࿐ ⊹ ˚. what can i say, y'all. back at it with the unhinged thirst. every time i do one of these, they've been getting shorter and shorter. don't be afraid, for #4 (dr/mv) i'll be back on my game, they deserve it. yes gremlin lando appearance. also, i cannot imagine oscar ever acting this way, that's why i put the ooc tag? it's definitely a fun read tho (i think), along with the smut! thank you, loves, for the support on this event!

thank you to my betas! @biancathecool for helping with my grammar and @barnestatic for her wonderful spoiled brat idea :))))

click here for f1 kinktober '23 table of contents.

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car sex & squirting — 𝐨𝐩. 𝟖𝟏 oscar piastri x fem!black!reader 5k words. squirting. car sex. semi-public sex. ooc (out-of-character) oscar piastri. overstimulation. mild possessive behavior. mild jealousy. vaginal fingering. vaginal sex. protected sex. the audacity of men.

oscar is known for his unfazed, composed and collected demeanor. he’s aware that some people say he has no personality–but, he’s just an introvert at the end of the day. oscar’s a man of few words: that’s what people who aren’t well acquainted with him would say. if you’ve had the pleasure of sticking around oscar long enough for him to become comfortable with you, you’ll learn that oscar has an incredibly complex personality. he’s overly sarcastic, has a niche sense of humor, and can ramble endlessly at you. but, he’s still a fairly calm and quiet individual. which is why the way oscar is about to scream at the top of his lungs in the middle of this mclaren event, would be considered uncharacteristic of him.

he originally invited you to join him tonight thinking that having you by his side would eliminate the social exhaustion he experiences at these types of sponsor events. however, the aussie failed to realize that you may introduce a…different problem, to tonight’s business party. when oscar asked you to join him two weeks ago, he was prepared for all of your objections–you’re both chronic homebodies, and you both hate partaking in small talk with balding, later-aged, cologne-drenched, white men who don’t know when to let a conversation die. he chose the perfect time to ask you (after you emerged from the bathroom post-self-care bath), and addressed all of your grievances. 

oh, you don’t have anything to wear? he already bought you an outfit, had it altered to perfectly fit your measurements, and bought you a pair of heels and a purse to match. oh, you won’t be able to get your hair done in time? he already scheduled an appointment with your usual hairstylist the day before the event, paid all of her fees, and tipped her very nicely. oh, your nails aren’t done?  he booked you a spot at your preferred nail salon for a premium mani-pedi, and has a few nail inspiration photos picked out if you can’t decide. if you need your lashes done or need to get waxed, he can make the call right now; he has them on standby to fit you in.

knowing the amount of phone calls oscar had to partake in to arrange all of this causes you to fold and agree to join him. there’s nothing more the two of you hate than making phone calls–well, besides the pr events.

oscar had chosen an alluring burnt-orange mesh corset and matching ruched ankle-length skirt that looks beautiful against your warm, soft and shining brown skin. your hair is silk-pressed, length reaching your mid-back and your edges are laid in a minimal manner, matching the simplicity of your makeup look. simple gold rings are spread across a few fingers, ears accessorized with a pair of small good hoops oscar gifted you, and his initials rest in the dip between your clavicles attached to a thin gold chain. objectively, you're considerably modestly dressed, the only skin you're showing is on your arms, shoulders, a smidge of your decolletage, and the tops of your feet in the low-heeled strappy sandals. 

this is the start of what oscar failed to account for. he didn’t expect the outfit to hug your curves like plastic wrap. the whole night he’s had to forcefully deny himself the opportunity to stare at your ass, but that doesn’t mean the other men at the event have the same courtesy. he’s taken to burning holes with his eyes into anybody who lets their gaze linger over your form for a second too long. on a regular day, oscar is generally unaffected by anyone who appreciates your body (they can look, but the second they try to touch–you let them know exactly how they had you fucked up), but if he catches one more mclaren engineer undressing you with their eyes–he will make zac fire all of them; he’ll plan his own race strategy and do his goddamn pitstop by himself.

oscar also didn’t account for how your timid and sweet attitude would have everyone enamored with you; at first, watching everyone eagerly attune to your shy words was amusing to him, but it quickly became a nuisance. he was originally leading you around the room, doing his rounds at any important figures’ tables, and everything was fine. and then, oscar had made the obvious mistake of making you laugh–a pleasant stream of giggles spilling from your lips, dimples deepening, and smile widening at whatever small joke he made. he’s always thrilled to see how you throw your head back in amusement, how your hands clap together gleefully, and how your eyes squint in from the force of your laughter. as he shakes himself out of your dazzling trance, he attempts to rejoin the conversation–but every single person at the table remains entranced and wide-eyed at you. 

this would be completely fine, of course, if it was a one-off occasion; but it’s not. 

suddenly, every person oscar tries to thank for supporting mclaren, starts ignoring him and paying more attention to you. he’s literally the pilot of the car that these people are spending an absurd amount of money on, but they can’t even bother to try and pretend to listen to him. men and women alike are finding any excuse to prolong conversations with you, and even lean within your personal space with the excuse that ‘they can’t hear you very well because you’re so soft spoken.’ nobody can invade your personal space, but oscar. he has no choice but to do the very thing he hates–pda. you continue to circle around the room, his hand constantly resting on the small of your back or the dip of your waist. when you’re in the middle of listening to some completely unnecessary story a man is telling you, oscar constantly adjusts your hair, plays with your rings, and smooths down your skirt if he feels like they’re trying too hard. you banish oscar to getting you a glass of water when he begins to interject in conversations in a passive-aggressive manner.

his third strike off the night, might actually be an overall win in his books. when you saw oscar in his new fitted suit, you stared him dead in the eye and told him to ‘get naked and rail you’. it’s this beautiful deep cream color that pairs perfectly with the dark orange tone of your outfit, but the vest underneath the suit jacket highlights his tiny waist so clearly that it makes you want to scream. in between socializing, you overwhelm oscar with compliments, unable to stop telling him how handsome he looks. you surgically attach yourself to his side and hug his arm; taking an occasional squeeze of his bicep, playing with his cufflinks, and tracing the veins on the back of his hand. oscar practically runs to get you a refill of water because he’d be unable to stop himself from getting fully hard if you touched him any longer–the trousers hide nothing.

he can feel your burning gaze from across the room, and turns back to watch you after asking a waiter for water, and catches your eyes roaming the length of his body. in high-definition, he sees your tongue wetting your lips before you bite at your bottom lip–and then, your attention is stolen away from some random man who’s introducing himself to you and the group of ladies you found yourself accosted by as soon as oscar left your side.

and, that’s it for oscar. he thinks he may have heard his last-fucking-button being pressed inside his head, and seethes. he goes to push off from his leaned stance against the counter and makes to start his warpath, but a hand grasps at his shoulder. oscar turns around snappily, biting out an irritated and sarcastic, “can i help you?”

“woah! calm down now, mate. thought you were going to bite my head off for a second,” it’s lando, “if i were anybody else i’m sure there would be an unfortunate tabloid of ‘how oscar piastri is the most rude f1 driver on the grid’” lando jokes teasingly, yet a hint of seriousness leaks into his tone. 

oscar nods, understanding the underlying warning within the brit’s teasing. he apologizes softly to lando, before glancing back over at you, and can infer that you charmingly informed the man that you have a boyfriend—based on the way you point in his direction. oscar watches the polite smile fade from your face as the man continues to bother you, and the murderous look rises to his face again.

“OKAY”, lando claps abruptly, startling not only oscar, but everyone in a 10 foot radius. lando waves everyone else’s eyes away, smiling like he didn’t do anything, and speaks underneath his breath, “go. i’ll cover for you.”

oscar’s mouth drops open, baffled, “what?”

“leave—get your girlfriend and go,” lando says matter-of-factly, his smile becoming genuine, “zac probably won’t like to hear that you looked particularly murderous, and he definitely won’t like hearing that you slaughtered our sponsors, and that i let it happen.”

oscar snorts before he thanks lando sincerely, and the brit dismisses him, “i’m just looking out for my rookie teammate as the senior driver for our team. i can’t let your horny teenage mindset become common knowledge to our esteemed guests.”

“first of all,” oscar says dryly, his grateful mood dissipating at the mocking, “i didn’t even know you knew the word ‘esteemed' existed,” lando scoffs, “and secondly, you are literally only two years older than me.”

lando looks at oscar with a blank stare and deadpans, “do you want to leave or not?”

oscar daps up his teammate in farewell, and makes his way over to you as quickly as he can without seeming desperate, your glass of water left behind on the counter. your back is facing him as he approaches and you're still unwillingly participating in conversation with the man who can’t take no for an answer. as he gets closer, he can piece together the conversation; the dude doesn’t believe you have a boyfriend and you must be lying to him, and you’re adamant that your boyfriend is very real.

“look, bro. even if i was lying about having a boyfriend, why would i give you my number now? like, i’m just supposed to forget how you’ve been harassing me—“

oscar rests his hand on your side, and when you turn your head to see who’s touching you, he leans down and kisses you. it’s a kiss deep enough to let everyone know who you’re leaving with tonight, but not deep enough to be salacious (he can hear lando’s cackle from the other side of the room).

you melt into his kiss before he pulls away, leaving you dazed and disoriented, stumbling into him. oscar drapes his left arm around your shoulder, guiding you to tuck into his side, while he offers his right hand to the offending man for a handshake. “it seems i haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you yet. i’m oscar, i drive for mclaren,” he introduces himself, sounding overly pleased.

the man angers, ignoring oscar’s extended hand and cockily states, “you should already know who i am. my family nicely lent you the mclaren you drove here tonight!”

“ah,” oscar smiles viciously, “if ‘your family’ kindly lent me the car, that would explain why i only remember your father’s name–and not his arrogant, disrespectful, and narcissistic trust-fund son’s name.”

the man stomps his foot in rage, like a spoiled brat, and questions, “who do you think you’re talking too?!”

oscar smirks, “nobody important, apparently,” (one of the ladies listening whispers a quiet ‘damn, that’s crazy’), oscar continues, “don’t worry, mate–i’ll make sure your father’s car returns home to him safely. should i bill you for any cleaning, in case i make a mess of it?”

the guy stumbles over a response before he scoffs and stomps away. oscar shrugs uncaring, before addressing the group of ladies who were cliqued to the side watching the whole interaction, “well. if you all don’t mind, i’m just going to steal her away from you ladies, if that’s okay?” (like there’s an option). the ladies fawn over oscar’s protectiveness before they let the two of you go, and then he starts herding you towards the exit.

it’s torture. in every five steps the two of you take, you're interrupted by various guests trying to catch you one last time. oscar feels like they’re all intentionally aggravating him; patting you on the arm, commenting on how eye-catching you look, and using the fact that the two of you are leaving to press a kiss to your hand in goodbye. you two burst out of the main doors and sigh in relief, for different reasons–for you, it’s because oscar didn’t give one of his sponsors brain damage, and for oscar, it’s because he’s one step closer to getting you in his bed.

you grasp at oscar’s hand, and he starts to lead you down the steps towards the valet, and as you fall into step at his side, you speak softly under your breath, “i can understand why you kissed me like that inside because the dude was being an asshole–even though you were marking your territory like some kind of dog–but, please; don’t tear this poor man’s throat out for helping me into the car.”

the australian remains quiet, properly chastised and works on releasing the pent up effect of the annoyances from inside the venue. everything is going well; the valet asks oscar for his parking ticket, and he goes to grab the keys, but stops just before he makes to start heading to the car, and turns back to you two and says, “i don’t know if i told you when you walked in but–you look incredibly beautiful tonight, miss. you could be a model, seriously. like, you should feel so lucky to have a woman like her–”

all attempts of oscar finding his peace are thrown out of the window. he interrupts the dude’s rambling, and bites out, “hey man, y’know what. i can just take the keys to the car. we can walk to it.”

the valet stutters, confused, “a-are you sure, i mean it’s like pretty far in the back. i can run and get it no pro–”

“it’s FINE! i mean, it’s cool, we can use the extra steps, y’know. enjoy the breeze and everything,” oscar says, slightly maniacal. there’s no breeze, it’s warm. the valet’s and your eyes meet for a second and a shared thought of “he’s trippin” is passed telepathically.

the valet concedes, not wanting to upset the f1 driver any farther and tosses him the keys. as the two of you are passing by, oscar hands the man a bill that’s probably too big based on the man’s astonished gasp. you call out to the man, continuing to walk further in the lot, “sorry about him! he just gets a little touchy about strangers driving his car, y’know?” oscar grumbles lowly next to you, and you smack him on the arm, “what did you want me to say? ‘oh sorry, my boyfriend just wants to fuck me really badly to soothe his needless jealousy?’”

“as long as he knows who’s the one who gets to take you home and fuck you.”

“oscar!” you squeak, “we both know we’d die of embarrassment if you said that. i can’t even imagine those words coming out of your mouth, in that order.”

you guys eventually puzzle out where the car is after several remote beeps of the car’s horn, and find that it’s literally tucked away in the last row, far corner with no surrounding cars for two rows.

oscar doesn’t open your door like he usually does, and leads you around to the driver's side. he opens the door, pushes the seat back as far as it goes, and sits down. without saying anything, he loosens his tie and goes to unbuckle his belt before you reach down and grab at his hand, bewildered, “oscar jack! what the fuck are you doing?”

he blinks, “i’m fucking you, right now. it’s too long of a drive back—i’m going to crash the car if you keep sitting next to me in that goddamn outfit. i was going to take you to the bathroom inside, but i figured you’d at least prefer the car. you can be a little louder here.”

your mouth dries, “you said they loaned you an incredibly rare, vintage mclaren, babe. i’m not gonna-“

oscar wrestles his way out of his suit jacket, spreads it underneath him on the leather seat, and pats his lap. “problem solved.”

shifting your weight, you glance around nervously. oscar is right, you would prefer the car over the bathroom. all those people inside who could overhear, gossip, and spread the news of how rookie mclaren, f1 driver, oscar piastri, had you yelling his name in the middle of an event. you’d pass.

“oh, c’mon now, babe. you didn’t think i saw the way you were eating me alive with your eyes inside,” your boyfriend teases, “i know you‘ve at least gotten a little wet for me already, haven’t you?”

that’s all it takes; the australian acting possessive and feening to get inside you is more than enough to have you straddling his lap and pulling the car door shut with a slam.

oscar tugs you into dirty make out, and you get lost in his pink lips, tugging teeth, and explorative tongue. the last of your breath tapers out in a reedy moan, and you break the kiss to pant against his lips, and oscar laughs. his laughter spreads through your chest, and it has your hips rolling against the bulge you feel underneath you. his amusement is cut off, and his hands fly to grip at your hips. he starts tugging you against him in a filthy grind, and choked off moans from the two of you start to fill the car.

you press kisses to oscar’s jaw line, paving a path down to his wide strong neck with your tongue. you suck on small patches of skin, not using enough suction to leave a mark, but enough for oscar to become aware of the fantasization that you could. the aussie gasps at every random suckle of your lips as he scrambles to pull the skirt up your legs. you shift your hips up to make it easier for him, as your hands feel down his torso to his belt. it unbuckles fairly easily, and you shove it out of the way, to unzip the slacks and pull his cock out.

oscar moans, throwing his head back at the feel of your hand on his length, and you get entranced in the trap that his pale thick neck is, again. you hum against his neck, introducing teeth alongside the ache of the suction of your mouth, and bully the collar of his shirt out of the way to find a space to leave a few marks. oscar’s breath freezes at the first hickey he feels you leave, but the rapid inhale he takes next clears his mind enough to have his right hand pull your panties to the side, and move to caress your heat.

you shudder on top of him, your breathy sigh amplified within the car. oscar sinks two fingers inside of you, and a much louder moan is tugged out. your hands fly up to grasp onto his shoulder, and your head tilts backward away from his neck in pleasure. his fingers thrust into you gently for a few beats slowly working to open you up for him and once he feels your cunt starting to relax, his thumb reaches to press at your clit. whines fill the air, as you lean all the way back, resting your back on the steering wheel allowing oscar all the space he needs to stretch you out. his fingers start curling as they drag out of you, and you can feel the pads of his fingers rubbing over a soft spot on the front of your walls. 

oscar’s eyes were stuck marveling over the overwhelmed expression on your face, but once he starts feeling wetness dripping down his arm he glances down, and curses out a rough, “fuck, baby—you’re dripping all over me.” your cheeks burn hot, and you can’t tell if that’s out of humiliation or the effect of his awe-filled voice. your right hand releases his shoulder, and bats at his arm, before tugging at his wrist to pull his fingers out, “that’s enough, mmm, just get in me already.”

oscar eagerly draws away; he uses his clean hand to tug his wallet out of his back pocket, and tugs a condom out with a smidge of struggle before handing it to you. you snatch it out of his hand, biting it open and rolling it over his cock, and once it’s on, you tease, “jeez, osc. you really were planning on jumping me in the middle of the event tonight—grabbing a condom and everything; you think i’m that easy?”

he chuckles, satisfied, his hand drenched in your wetness rubbing over his cock to get him slick, and teases back, “you’re about to ride my cock in the parking lot of said event, pretending to be worried about ruining the seats of this vintage car. i’m not calling you easy, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared, does it?”

your cheeks are definitely burning from humiliation this time around, but you huff, ignoring him checking you. you tug his hand away, raising your hips, and guide him to your entrance with your own hand, before slowly sinking down. 

twin sets of moans fill the air as he bottoms out; one of his hands reaches to palm at your ass (it’s sticky, so it must be the one he fingered you with), and the other grips at your waist tightly. you squirm on top of him, knees barely managing to find enough room to prop on the seat to give you a stable base. once you feel stable in your cramped position, you give a testing grind of your hips, and from there, it’s lights out.

oscar lets you set the pace for a few thrusts, suffering in the languid rock of your hips; you’re torturously tight around him, and he can only groan at the feeling of you wrapped around him. his chest heaves, before he brings both hands to halt your hips, and starts fucking up into you rough and quick. a scream jostles out of your throat at the unexpected change of speed, but you just take it with no complaints, allowing yourself to go limp against the wheel of the car to hold your body upright. he moves your body for you, pulling you downwards to meet his upward thrusts; and you feel him constantly applying pressure against that one tender spot right under your navel.

your boyfriend revels in the sound of the moans he’s punching out of your throat, admiring the way your head is thrown back—mouth open wide, eyes scrunched tight, lips bruised and bitten to hell. it’s a lewd picture, painted by himself. the car rocks along to his frantic rhythm, windows fogging, and sweat begins to form on both of your skin. the aussie’s core tightens; he won’t last much longer, you’ve had him half-hard the whole night.

a frustrated grunt escapes oscar, and you hum questionably about to ask what’s wrong–but his right hand leaves your waist to furiously start circling your clit, and an ear piercing shriek leaves you. “c’mon now, babe. ah-be good and come f’me yeah? im so close, baby–please,” he babbles, the last shred of sanity leaving him. his hips don’t falter once–to you it feels like they’re moving quicker, every sensitive spot receiving attention from the sharp snaps of them.

you cry out, it’s all too much; your hand reaches down to press against his navel in a feeble attempt to stop him from stroking so deep and roughly, and incoherent pleads try and tumble out of your mouth, “mm! osc–no! ah–too much, baby! it’s too much–hngh–feels weird–s-slow down!” it’s like his ears are filled with cotton; he can hear you begging down at him but can’t make out what your saying over the blood rushing in his ears. he’s trapped staring at your pretty cunt, watching the obscene amount of wetness coming out of you–the suit jacket underneath him is completely ruined, and he off-handedly thinks it won’t be saving the leather upholstery.

your legs start quivering and trembling–it damn near looks like you're freezing to death, even though the car has become as humid as a sauna. your own orgasm shocks you, and your eyes roll back erotically–unable to give oscar any warning. and in your last moment of awareness, you realize that something feels different, but it’s too late.

you choke on your scream of, “oscar, fuck!” as fluid gushes out of your cunt, and the first wave is enough to completely drench oscar’s pants, and oscar finally returns to the moment in amazement. he eagerly brushes his hand against your clit, and shortens his strokes to quick little jabs to force more of your juices out, and you can only ride along. you try to slam your legs shut, to jostle oscar’s hand away, but it’s futile with his torso propping you open for him. you’re sobbing messily, as he forces more liquid to spray from your cunt–and he moans out his own orgasm, ripped from him in surprise. the australian halts his stimulation this time around when you frantically tug his wrist away when the pleasure melds to pain, and allows himself to get a few more jerks of his hips in.

you fall forward, collapsing into his chest–the squelch of your thighs meeting his pant-covered ones has him humming and grinding his hips into you as gently as he can. the two of you shake against each other, hearts rabbiting as you catch your breath. oscar’s hands rise to rub at your back, bringing you down from the aftershocks still trembling over your body. 

“i-i’ve never squirted before,” you whisper into his neck.

your boyfriend hums softly, “did you like it?”

he feels you nod against him shyly.

“then, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about,” he comforts, knowing if he seems approving of it, you’ll be quicker to accept it as something good, “how i’m going to explain the ruined suit and car seat to mclaren on the other hand…”

a shaky laugh from you causes oscar to smile, “i told you you shouldn’t fuck me in the car.”

“how was i supposed to know that tonight would be the night i’d made you gush all over me?! i was hoping that when the time came we’d at least be on a couch,” he whines.

“shut the fuck up,” you joke, “i want a live play by play when you explain the cleaning bill to zac.”

the aussie pauses, faking thoughtfulness, “maybe i should send the bill to the trust-fund baby. zac would back me up–he’s american, he’d probably find it hilarious.”

oscar gently shifts you over to the passenger seat, and you tug your skirt all the way down, and he fights his way out of his slacks that stuck to his thighs with your wetness. he manages to wrangle them off and kicks them to the side of the car floor along with the soiled suit jacket, after fishing the keys out of them, sitting out in his boxers, and glances over to see you adjusting your appearance as best as you possibly can.

“you want a mcflurry?” the aussie offers.

“as long as we can get a fry with it,” you smile at the random shift in conversation, allowing him to hide his embarrassment.

oscar turns the keys in the ignition, and the engine rolls into life with a deep, vibrating hum. he catches your legs pressing together tightly, and you squirm at the purr of the engine under your seat.

“well,” oscar starts nonchalantly as he reverses out of the spot, “you have the time that it takes to get from the drive-through to the flat to finish eating–because as soon as we get home, i’m taking you to bed and learning how to make you squirt, consistently. i don’t care how long it takes, or how many orgasms you have–i’ll keep going ‘til you come dry, babe.”

© httpsserene - do not reupload. photos in header image are from pinterest. divider by @cafekitsune.

[daemonmage]

Tbh that’s not too dissimilar to how the golden/silver age comics worked. Clark was originally Superboy helping people around Smallville.

Idk if people actually new but I think it would be hilarious if they did and were just like “yep, we totally don’t know who superboy is, just sending flowers over to the Kents for fun.”

Starting to think a cooler headcanon for Clark’s upbringing might just be that the entire town of Smallville collectively decided to just go with it and accept that Martha and John's kid has superpowers, but we don't talk about it.

Someone's tractor gets stuck and nothing can get it out? "Be a dear and run down to the Kents, would you? Ask for Clark?"

"Why Clark, we need a machine--"

"Run along now."

Or if he kicks too hard and the football vanishes into the upper stratosphere, no it didn't, we all collectively saw it land over there *vague hand movements*

[tanghuyuj]

we get, the same! a woonhak smau

#16 - pretty

synopsis: it’s the start of the new school year and you’re not excited whatsoever. though, your classmate and desk partner, kim woonhak, is beyond excited. you two evidently don’t get along well, bickering left and right. but when you begin to notice small details that woonhak does for you and it seems as if your whole school is just waiting for you to get together, you start to spiral.

warnings: 6 attachments + ~0.2k written. nothing else!

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the view was pretty. extremely beautiful, in fact.

though it was a nice moment, and supposed to be calming, you couldn’t pretend that the boy sitting next to just happened to be kim woonhak, and you surely couldn’t deny the way that your heart was pounding at an unexplainably fast pace.

why do these things keep happening?

“busan is really pretty, huh?” he speaks.

you turn to him slowly. he’s looking out of the glass window before he turns to his left—to you.

you stare at him for bit, blanking out with a bunch of confusing, overwhelming thoughts clouding your mind.

the light gold rays shine on his face so prettily, so softly. you take a mental note of every single detail you could of him. his pale skin that looked almost flawless, to the way the ends of his eyes turned slightly downwards and had a nearly unnoticeable shadow to them.

“yn?”

you blink. and then blink again.

“huh?” you clear your throat, sitting up a little straighter. you nod, “yeah, busan is really pretty.”

what were you thinking? what was this unfamiliar tingling in your heart? and wait—why does woonhak’s gaze on you feel as if you’re in a warm, bright spotlight, where you’re the only one on the stage and woonhak is the sole individual in the audience, careful stare watching your every move.

you jump back into reality. he smiles, the corners of his lips turning upwards. that signature cheeky smile now plastered on his face.

the next words to come out of his mouth make you feel as if the world is crashing down on you. good or bad? to be completely honest, you don’t care. it didn’t matter in the moment and it might not ever matter.

why? because your heart was sure of what it felt at this point. all of those thoughts and silly daydreams could only point to one thing; one specific, outright emotion.

woonhak murmurs, “you’re also really pretty.”

fuck, you like kim woonhak.

maia’s note: EEEKKK this was so cute to write like i was actually kicking my feet giggling. yn has finally realized their feelings.. now what about woonhak ? likes, reblogs, and feedback is always appreciated!! 🩵

taglist: @kekaekeke @mimimimiaa @s0shroe @mungbeancoups @molensworld @en-dream @kaiyunsim @httpenhoon @ranjupotato @cinnamonshuaa @pinklemonade34 @kazemiya @siekksjs @sirenla @kittkyu @mensisim @livibbu @junhanism @enzstr @thea-herondale @i03jae @sionshiii @helpsplease @yurisblooming @defnotsanni @haechology @janjoonty @petralovesbonedo @anormieee @nineooooo @oowir @luvkwh @skibidihan @mbella607 @stantxtforabetterlife @midnight-rain-pdf @massiveunicorn6969 @bambisnc / @kstrucknet (taglist: open! white = cannot be tagged.)

[myjjongie]

PROFILES .ᐟ ── nonchalant mfs

SYNOPSIS: another casual grueling day at your job lands you to reunite with jake sim—your hallway crush who moved away in high school. not wanting to hope for more from the chance encounter, you end up being paired with jake for a semester-long project. knowing deep down things will never happen, your only goal is to be friends with jake. while on the other hand, you haven't left jake's mind since he moved away.

» JAKE: second year at decelis college, just recently came back from being abroad in australia for a violin scholarship. used to be classmates with yn in high school as well, remembers her as if he met her yesterday. would prefer building legos over practicing the violin in all honesty.

» JAY: second year at decelis college, majoring in music production. jay has been childhood friends with sunghoon and jake since they were kids. is usually seen around campus carrying his guitar.

» SUNGHOON: second year at decelis college, focusing on general studies in the mean time. apart of the ice skating club as well as a consistent gold winner. sunghoon pushes a nonchalant image (and gets away with it) but he's genuinely a loser.

» JISUNG: second year at decelis college, majoring in computer science. jisung was friends with jay and sunghoon prior to jake coming back from australia. jisung tries to push the nonchalant façade but fails in the end (contrast to sunghoon).

» CHENLE: third year at decelis college, is under a basketball scholarship. met stephen curry one time and has not shut up about it since... is a rich kid alongside jay, but lacks money awareness. majority of his time is spent on the basketball court, unironically.

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evie's note: i have chapter one being mapped out, IM SO BACK CHAT. also IGNORE the bleow 5% battery. i was LOCKED tf in making the profiles LOL

out of my league taglist ... ( if interested leave a reply ! )

perm tag: @ikeulove @leehsngs @ijustwannareadstuff20 @enhanextdoor @zaycie @dylanobr1ens @miraeluv @ancnymcnzjy @lvvrikss @treasureteez @delirioastral @izzyy-stuff

@rairaiblog @izzyy-stuff @thing89 @cinnamqnki @viagumi @zyvlxqht @wonzzziezzzz @manuosorioh @hizhu @soobundle1009 @right-person-wrong-time @vvenusoncasual @letwiiparkjay @jayhoonvroom @djikeu @aineest4r

©myjjongie 2025

[leighsartworks216]

What's In A Name

dragon!Sylus x blind!oracle!Reader

Series Masterlist - Chapter One - Prev Chapter - Next Chapter

Today has been rough, but I still wanted to get out this chapter since it's already written up

Warnings: injuries, pain, banter

Word Count: 1,005

Main Masterlist

AO3

Tag List Form

You hiss as you carefully pour the medicine over your palm. The bottle clatters against the floor, unintentionally. The pain is all you can think about, willing the sting to fade so you can keep working. As soon as it becomes bearable, you pick up the roll of cloth from your lap and work through feel alone to line it over your hand and start wrapping it. It’s not the best job ever, but it’ll do. Hopefully.

You repeat the actions on the other side. Soon enough, your hands are as well treated as you can manage. You feel the ends of the cloth, checking that they’re secure and won’t come unraveling.

Something almost giddy wafts up in your chest. You giggle dumbly as you open and close your hands, testing the limits of the wraps. “Hey, not bad!” you say to yourself. “Hah! I knew I could do it!”

Your cheering voice echoes back to you, slowly petering off into nothing. The silence sours the glee. You sigh and wrap your arms around yourself.

You have no idea what time it is, no idea where you actually are, and no idea where the stranger went off to. All you do know is that the longer you sit here on the thin sheet meant to be your bed, the more aware of your exhaustion you become.

You try to set everything where you can find it again. The room is small, so it shouldn’t be too difficult.

You feel out how long the sheet is. It’s not even half as wide as you are tall, but you’ll have to make do. You wrap it tightly around your shoulders and lay down slowly on the rock floor with your arm acting as a pillow. You wrap your cold feet tightly in whatever excess blanket you have left.

With a quiet prayer to Astra, you let yourself be consumed by a restless sleep. Visions of darkness, blood, and flowers, and a story that spans hundreds of years.

-

“Has your god seen fit to answer my prayer, yet?”

“He has, actually.” You walk alongside the edge of what you can only fathom to be a pile of gold. The metal coins dig into your feet, but that you can handle just fine. It’s when a gem is suddenly underfoot that you’re cursing and trying to brush it aside. You can feel his smug look every single time it happens.

You hear metal clinking against metal a short ways behind you. “And?”

You shoot a sly grin in that direction. “Why should I tell you? What would I get in return?”

He huffs an amused laugh. “What do you want in return?”

“Fresh food and water, and new clothes. It’s freezing in here, you know? And I haven’t eaten anything since…” You trail off, thinking. “What time is it, anyway?”

“You’re demanding a lot for a simple prophecy, pet.”

“Oh?” You turn away, walking along the mounds of treasure again. “Then I guess you’re not interested in what your future holds? Pity. I found it quite interesting.”

He sighs. Good. Serves the bastard right for kidnapping you. You hope he regrets it every single day. Though… whether he’d kill you over it is definitely a risk.

“I’ll get you some food. There’s a spring in the tunnels that you can get your water from. As for clothes…” You turn to listen better as you hear furniture creaking. Heavy footfalls approach, rounding you. “I have some tucked away. Whether they’ll fit you or not is questionable.”

“Are they good quality?”

“They’re better than your tattered rags. Does that suffice?”

You hum, considering. “Your destiny is going to be intertwined with someone else’s.”

He scoffs. “That’s it?”

“Until I’ve had a proper meal, yeah! Besides, I’m still trying to decipher some of what the prophecy is saying.” You cross your arms over your chest with a frown. “It’s like it spans millennia, but that shouldn’t be possible.”

He’s blessedly silent for a minute, giving you time to consider this predicament, before something hard nudges at your back. “Come on, pet. I’ll show you where the clothes are.”

You follow the clinking of metal under his shoes out of the chamber. “Stop calling me that! My name is Y/N, I’m not a pet, least of all yours, and I’m not some helpless ‘little thing’ for you to toy with!”

He tests your name on his tongue. It’s startling to hear it said in your captor’s voice. Perhaps you should have held your tongue and let him continue insulting you. A name can be a dangerous thing, after all.

“What’s your name?”

“I don’t have one.”

“What?!” you balk. “You must have one! What am I supposed to call you?”

You run into something solid and warm. The heat of his breath brushes your skin again as he whispers teasingly into your ear. “You can always call me master.”

You try to shove his face away with no luck. He laughs at your efforts, but gives you space once more. “Not in a million years. What about…” You wrack your brain for any semblance of something he liked from what little you could piece together. “Silver? Or Gold, or something?”

He chuckles. “I’m a bit more precious than that.”

“Okay, fine, then how about, um, Jewel? Jewels are better than silver and gold, aren’t they?” You hear him sigh, long and drawn out. The clinking of coins follows his footsteps. You trail after. “Look, give me something to work with here!”

“Jewel is fine. I don’t need a mortal’s name anyway.”

“That’s the second time you’ve specifically called out mortals,” you point out. The airflow in the cave changes as you step from the grand treasure chamber (this guy has some weird hobbies) to the closed-in tunnels. You’re grateful when you hear him bypass the stairs. “What are you if not a mortal, too?”

“Like I said before, maybe I’ll tell you one day.”

You sigh. “Jewel, you are one strange guy.”

---

Tag List:

@the-golden-jhope @armycaratlover @sylusfluffymeow @cheesemachine44 @nyx2021 @angel-jupiter @thelittlebutton @pikachuzhc @pomegranatepip @cordidy @an-ever-angry-bi @thejysemongko @deusfoundry @that-lost-one @always-just-red @22carolina08 @lunaizhere @sine-nomine0 @beautifulthingsiadore @lalaluch @burningtrashgentleman @nothankyew @terriblesoup @jeleryyy @leiakitty

[animarune]

Omg how wonderful *yoink*

I just found the funniest font ever

Like. What is this. Why is this. Who is the target audience of this?

[redvexillum]

Thirteenth Kiss: Captivate III

A/N: Listen. He's ... doing his best.

Tags/Warning: f!reader, eventual smut, fake relationship, Lucifer is touch-starved

<- PREV || TABLE OF CONTENT

“You know…” you murmured, your voice light with teasing as your knee sank into the plush surface of the king-sized bed. The mattress dipped beneath your weight, creaking faintly in the quiet room. You dropped to your hands with a feline grace, brows raised as you looked up at him from your position. “You have hundreds of rooms in this absurdly massive house. We don’t have to do this.” 

Lucifer flinched, clutching the blanket like it was a lifeline, dragging it up over his bare chest with almost comical urgency. His knuckles were pale from the strain of his grip. “Nope,” he said too quickly, voice thin. He drew in a breath, held it for a beat too long, then added, “I don’t mind. This is… better. For comfort. Mutual comfort.” He tried to smile, but it barely touched his lips and didn’t even graze his eyes, which flickered with thinly veiled anxiety. 

You pressed your fingers to your lips to stifle a laugh, the warmth of it slipping between your fingers as you giggled. The sound felt too loud in the stillness of the room. The absurdity of the situation still hadn’t worn off—Lucifer Morningstar, powerful and terrifying, squirming beneath a blanket like a nervous teenager on his first sleepover. 

After finalizing the odd little transaction that had landed you here—as his pretend girlfriend—you’d spent the evening talking about literally everything. Favourite colours, trivial pet peeves, the kind of conversation meant to fill silences but never scratch below the surface. There had been an invisible line between you both, a careful distance you didn’t dare cross. 

Except when it came to Charlie. His tone shifted every time her name crossed his lips: warm, wistful, almost reverent. You could practically see the glint in his eyes when he talked about her. 

You noticed the glimmer of gold on his left hand. A wedding band, simple and elegant. 

Unmoving. 

Untouched. 

And when the night stretched long enough to make the shadows yawn across the walls, he insisted you stay with him. Not to share a bed in the way others might assume, but simply to lay beside him. 

To exist beside him. 

You leaned in now, bracing your hands on the mattress, smirking as you looked into his wide, panicked eyes. “So… are we going to cuddle?” 

His reaction was instant and violent. He choked on a breath, coughing like he’d inhaled fire, his face a shade of gold you hadn't seen on him before. 

You burst into laughter, loud and uninhibited. “I’m just kidding, Luci,” you said playfully. Then you paused, tilting your head as you studied him. “Can I call you that?” 

He rubbed his chest, trying to recover, eyes still darting anywhere but at you. “Uh, yeah. Sure. Sure, that’s fine,” he said in a voice that had pitched up to something almost… boyish. 

You glanced down at yourself—at the simple white spaghetti-strap tank clinging softly to your skin, and the pale pink shorts cinched at your waist with a satiny bow. The heart-shaped curve of the fabric accentuated the smoothness of your thighs. 

You looked back up at Lucifer. 

And smiled. 

How cute, you mused, biting the inside of your cheek to hold back a smile as you caught the telltale flush blooming across Lucifer’s ears. You laughed quietly to yourself, warmth settling in your chest. It was moments like this that made it hard to remember he was supposed to be your client, not your… well, not anything else. 

You slipped beneath the heavy blanket, the fabric cool against your skin before your body heat gradually softened it. The bed was enormous—absurdly so. You could stretch your arms out in every direction and still not reach the edge. It made your usual mattress feel like a child’s cot in comparison. 

“Must be nice,” you murmured absently, eyes drifting upward as your head hit the plush pillow, “to sleep on a bed this big every night.” 

Your gaze wandered over the canopy above you, where rich royal-purple drapery hung in soft folds from the carved wooden posts that framed the bed. Ornate and regal. The kind of thing you’d only seen in period dramas or overly indulgent furniture catalogues. It smelled faintly of lavender and something deeper. Perhaps, old paper? Ink? Him? 

The silence stretched for a moment, interrupted only by the soft rustling of sheets. You turned your head slightly and caught sight of Lucifer lying stiffly on his back, his gaze also fixed on the ceiling. The space between you could easily fit another person. He hadn’t moved any closer, not that you expected him to. 

“Yeah,” he finally said, his voice quieter now, tinged with something brittle. “It’s… a bit too big, though.” He let out a half-laugh, small and self-conscious, like he wasn’t sure whether he was making a joke or a confession. 

Then, almost too quickly, he shifted gears. “Anyway! We should get some shut-eye. Big plans tomorrow!” His voice lifted with artificial cheer, the kind that made your heart ache a little. He rolled onto his side, facing away from you, shoulders pulled tight and defensive. “Good night!” he added brightly, as if the words could mask the sudden drop in energy. 

You stared at his back for a moment. He’d put even more space between you, and not just physically. The bed felt colder somehow—emptier—despite how large it already was. 

You blinked slowly. Once. Then again. 

You exhaled quietly and turned onto your side, facing away from him as well. “Good night,” you whispered, your voice barely above the hush of the room. 

You closed your eyes, trying to coax your body into sleep even as your mind wandered. Tomorrow would be the beginning of the performance. Only three days left to convince Charlie that you’d been her father’s secret lover for years. Just three days to make her believe a story that wasn’t real. 

You could do it. 

You were a professional, after all. 

Lucifer lay curled on his side, spine curved inward like a crescent moon, sheets bunched awkwardly around his waist as he tucked his knees closer to his chest. The shadows in the room were gentle now, the light from Heaven's gate barely managing to filter through the heavy drapery, painting pale streaks across the canopy above. But the quiet wasn’t peaceful. It was loud in that aching, suffocating kind of way that only settled in when you were pretending not to feel. 

He regretted asking you to sleep beside him. 

The words he used earlier—to foster connection, to build intimacy, to sell the story faster—felt hollow now, echoing in his chest like a lie he had told too many times. He could still see the look on your face when he’d said it: one brow lifted, your lips twitching with disbelief. You hadn’t bought it. Not really. But you’d smiled anyway and agreed. 

That smile, it had unsettled him more than he cared to admit. 

He shifted, and the cold brush of metal against his skin made him flinch. The gold band, long forgotten on his finger during the day, now felt heavier than ever. It nudged his finger like a whisper of the past, a quiet reminder. 

A ghost. 

How long had it been since someone had shared this bed with him? Truly shared it? Not as a guest, not for appearances, but in the sacred, unspoken way people once did when love wasn’t so far away? 

There was a time—long ago—when this very bed had felt small. When Lilith would curl into his side, her laughter still ringing in his ears while their tiny Charlie scrambled between them, limbs flailing, giggling wildly. They’d all collapse into a warm, tangled heap of breath and blankets and soft goodnights. 

Back then, the edges of the mattress had seemed to close in around them like an embrace. 

But now…?

He pressed his face deeper into the pillow, the scent of old memories clinging to the silk. He hadn’t been able to get rid of the bed. Too much of him was buried in it. Too many pieces he couldn’t face. The mattress sagged in familiar places—echoes of bodies that once filled it. 

Now, the vastness of it mocked him. A monument to emptiness. The cold side of the bed always stayed cold. 

It was too big. 

Far too big. 

For one person. 

And yet… you were here. Just a few feet away, your breathing soft and steady. He hadn’t looked at you—not since he turned his back, like a coward—but he could feel your presence. Quiet. Patient. Kind, even when you didn’t need to be. 

He had you. For now, at least. 

But did that make him feel less alone? 

He wasn’t sure. 

All he knew was that the warmth on the other side of the bed wasn’t just from the blankets. 

And that terrified him. 

The loneliness clung to him like a second skin. Always persistent, always suffocating. No matter how many layers of silk, status, or charm he wrapped around himself, it always found a way in. It gnawed at the edges of his soul, slow and constant, like ocean waves eroding stone. 

There was regret, too. Small, flickering embers glowing weakly in the pit of his chest. Not enough to ignite, but enough to burn. If he had just been honest with Charlie from the beginning, if he had faced her questions and her pain instead of hiding behind this elaborate farce… none of this would have happened. You wouldn’t be here. This wouldn’t be happening. 

But… 

When was the last time someone had asked him about him? About his memories, his joys, his griefs, without judgment or agenda? He had grown so accustomed to performing, to manipulating conversations and reading sinners like open books. He knew the signs of false interest. The glazed eyes. The vacant nods. The polite smiles stretched too thin. 

But with you… there had been none of that. 

You listened. You heard him. 

And under the pretense of getting to know each other, for the sake of the illusion, of course, he realized he'd spoken more about himself in one evening than he had in years. Decades, maybe. He hadn’t even thought to ask you much of anything. The realization sat heavy in his chest. 

Tomorrow, he promised himself, clutching the thought like a vow. Tomorrow I’ll ask. I’ll listen. I’ll see who you are—really are. 

A soft sigh broke the stillness, followed by the gentle rustle of the sheets. 

He startled, breath catching, heart suddenly hammering against his ribs like a caged bird. 

Carefully, slowly, he turned. 

You were sleeping peacefully. 

Draped in those pastel pajamas that clung softly to your form, you seemed to glow in the night's light, every detail sharpened by the darkness surrounding you. Your lips held a faint curve, as though smiling in some distant dream. You looked… serene. Open. Vulnerable in the quietest, most sacred way. 

His eyes lingered on your hand resting between the two of you, the same hand that had cradled his earlier with a gentleness he hadn’t expected. He could still feel the ghost of your touch, warm and firm and grounding. 

His fingers twitched, aching with some unnamed desire to reach out again. 

And yet, all he could feel was confusion. 

It was the only emotion he could name in the whirlwind pressing against his chest. 

Confused, because this was all supposed to be pretend. A fabrication. A game. A lie wrapped in soft smiles and false memories. 

But if that were true… why did it hurt? 

Why did he feel sorrow coiling beneath his ribs like smoke, thick, and aching? 

Why did your presence bring both comfort and a sharp, unexpected grief? 

Confused. 

Confused… because in a bed built for two, where once he had been truly loved, he was lying next to a stranger. 

And somehow… he didn't mind it. 

“Wait—wait, wait,” you sputtered, shaking your head as you held a forkful of syrup-drenched waffle midair, your brows climbing in disbelief. “Back up. How did we meet again?” 

The morning light poured through the velvet curtains in golden beams, warming the sprawling bed you still hadn’t gotten used to. And to your complete surprise, the day had started with breakfast in bed. From Lucifer Morningstar himself. 

He had entered the room with an almost boyish pride, balancing a tray like a waiter at some five-star resort. The food looked absurdly good—five golden waffles stacked tall, each one glistening with amber-coloured syrup and topped with a perfectly square pat of butter melting at the centre like it belonged in a painting. A bowl of ripe strawberries and blueberries sat beside it, their scent sweet and fresh. Another plate held three thick-cut strips of bacon fried to a crisp perfection, and two sunny-side-up eggs with yolks like twin suns. 

You couldn’t lie. It made your heart flutter just a bit. The effort. The attention. The ridiculousness. 

But now, sitting up with pillows fluffed behind you and a tray balanced on your lap, you were trying to hold back laughter as Lucifer gave you the most serious look in the universe. 

“We met at the Duck Gala,” he said without hesitation, tone grave and completely devoid of irony. 

You blinked. “I’m sorry, the what?” 

“The Duck Gala,” he repeated, like it was the most obvious answer in the world. 

You squinted at him, brow furrowing. “That’s… that’s not a real thing. That’s not a place. Is that even a sentence?” 

Lucifer’s face lit up with delight. “I’m so glad you asked.” 

And just like that, over the course of the next twenty minutes, as you nibbled your waffle and popped berries into your mouth, he launched into an elaborate explanation. It might’ve been insane if he hadn’t delivered it with such charismatic certainty. 

Apparently, the Duck Gala was a prestigious, exclusive annual event held at Lucifer’s estate. An event he invented for no one but himself. According to him, it was a celebration of “the finest, most misunderstood creature in all of creation: the duck.” He claimed (deadpan, mind you) that he helped design the original duck alongside God, and to this day, he honoured that artistic achievement with a private black-tie gala. 

“But you’ve never invited anyone?” you asked, mouth half full, trying not to laugh. 

“Never,” he said proudly. “It’s very exclusive. So exclusive that only the ducks are aware.” 

“And I’m supposed to tell Charlie,” you said slowly, “that her father, who’s never mentioned a single gala in his entire life, has an elite yearly event centred around ducks, where you invited no one… and just forgot to tell her about it?” 

Lucifer picked up a strip of bacon, bit into it with an exaggerated crunch, and shrugged. “Exactly. Sounds perfectly reasonable.” 

You stared at him. 

He smiled with a flash of charm, then waggled his eyebrows. “Theatrics, darling. You have to sell the absurdity so well it becomes believable. Trust me.” 

You looked back down at your plate, shaking your head as you cut another piece of waffle. Warm, fluffy, rich with syrup—it was delicious. But even the sweetness couldn’t distract you from the looming truth. 

“Yeah,” you muttered under your breath, “Charlie’s definitely not going to buy this shit.” 

And yet, as he continued to babble about duck tuxedos and quacking orchestras, you found yourself laughing. Not fake, not forced. Real. Honest. 

And maybe, just maybe, you didn’t mind the madness so much. 

In the end, after plenty of gentle prodding—mostly on your part—you mutually agreed on a more believable story: you met through an online dating app. 

Simple. Relatable. Closer to the truth. 

And the closer you are to the truth, the easier it is to lie. 

The only adjustment was the timeline. Instead of claiming it was yesterday’s whirlwind chance encounter, you decided you'd met two years ago. Long enough to build a history, short enough to make it plausible you’d kept it quiet. 

Still, you didn’t miss it—the way Lucifer’s shoulders drooped, the small pout on his lips when you vetoed his precious Duck Gala origin story. The disappointment was faint, but present, and it tugged at you with a strange, unexpected ache. 

Your words came before you could think twice. Careless at first. Reflexive, even. 

“Well,” you said casually, licking a sticky trail of syrup from your thumb, “maybe this year, you should invite me to the Duck Gala.” 

You met his gaze, offering a teasing grin. “Sounds like a fun event. Plus, if you’re the one catering, that alone makes it worth attending.” 

His expression shifted like sunrise breaking over a bleak horizon. 

His eyes lit up, warm, almost childlike in their brightness. And his smile curved with real, radiant joy. 

Cute. 

That was all you told yourself. 

Just cute. 

You weren’t here to feel anything. This was just a job. An arrangement. But that didn’t stop something soft from blooming in your chest, no matter how much you tried to ignore it. 

You told yourself you just wanted to lift his spirits. After all, in Hell, it was rare to find someone like Lucifer. Most hellspawns were cruel, bitter, hardened by their damnation. But him? He was… different. Softer around the edges than he’d probably like to admit. 

And if you’d met him in the human world, back when you were still someone else, someone you weren’t proud of, you might’ve taken advantage of that softness. Manipulated it. Used it. Left him broken and empty, like so many others. 

That thought hit you hard. Bitter and uninvited. 

A sharp, sour taste coated your tongue, stealing away the sweetness of the waffle. An old memory, unwanted and unwelcome, nudged its way into your mind. A shadow of your past self, cruel, and cold and selfish. 

Your eyes drifted downward to the tray he had brought you this morning. The breakfast he’d made with surprising care. 

You felt the shift before you heard his voice. 

“What’s wrong?” 

The softness in his tone startled you. It wasn’t prying, just concerned. And that only worsened it. 

You blinked rapidly, pushing back the tendrils of memory like sweeping dust beneath a rug. You refused to let them take root. Not here. Not now. 

A breath. Then a bright, airy laugh. 

“Oh, nothing,” you said, reaching for a piece of waffle and stuffing it into your mouth like a chipmunk hiding from its own thoughts. “Just picturing what a Duck Gala would actually look like!” 

You chewed dramatically. “Mmm—yum! Ten outta ten, Luci.” 

He chuckled, eyes lingering on you with a quiet kind of curiosity. But he didn’t press further. 

And you were grateful for that. 

You glanced at him again, your heart quieter now, your thoughts calmer. 

Today, tomorrow, and the days that followed—however long this lasted—you would keep choosing better. Keep proving, if only to yourself, that you have changed. 

That you were no longer that person. 

And maybe… maybe in helping Lucifer with his problem, find peace, or even just hold on to a scrap of happiness… 

Maybe…you could earn a little of your own. 

NEXT ->

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