#so its been back and forth work on the apartment and this

[femmeroll]

please could you write sevika dating a ballerina reader??? it can be headcanons (nsfwplss) or a short fic or whatever you like, thank uuu 🩷

i adore this!! thank u for the request my lovely ♡

sevika x ballerina!reader

cw: smut & fluff, hyperfemme reader, butch sevika, oral (r!receiving)

when sevika meets you, it’s like something out of a cheesy rom-com. it’s the middle of a cold, grey winter, and there you are at the bus stop. hair in a tight bun, legs adorned with light pink tights, and a frilly leotard to match. your zip-up jacket doesn’t conceal you at all from the bitter weather.

the second sevika sees you, she starts unzipping her heavy winter coat. the temperature was piercing, but she didn’t care. there was a cute ballerina freezing to death right next to her!

“hey…would you wanna borrow this? it’s way too cold for a light jacket like that, don’t want you to get sick or something.”

and the second you see sevika, light blush on her face with a hand outstretched to offer her jacket, a thousand lightening bolts shock your heart. you don’t yet know who this incredibly kind a wickedly handsome person is, but you know in your gut that you will find out.

you get sevika’s number so that you can ‘meet up’ to give her the coat back.

sevika asks you out after texting back and forth for a few days. she invites you to a cute cafe in town, one of those pretty ones that are covered in plants and vintage art.

you bring her coat to return it, but she insists that you keep it.

she pays for your drink and your pastry without hesitation. sevika is fidgeting with her sleeves the whole time. acting all shy as if she’s some high schooler who’s about to hold hands with a girl for the first time.

the two of you spend a whole afternoon getting to know each other. you learn all about her mechanic job and her two dogs and how she really likes doing crossword puzzles. she learns about how you’re a professional ballerina and you spend all your time at the dance studio.

sevika is so smitten it’s unreal. and when she sees you wearing her jacket when your ready to leave, she knows its game over. her heart can’t take it.

dating sevika is a literal dream. she’ll take you to every rehearsal and be in the front row of every single performance.

after every performance she greets you with a bouquet of flowers and the proudest smile plastered on that handsome face of hers.

“you were amazing as always, baby. i was cheering your name so loud at the end! did you hear?”

sevika will rub your sore feet after you’ve been in point shoes all day. every dancer knows just how fucked up your feet can get from those things. she’ll help you soak them in a salt bath and raise them up while she gently massages the pain away. she’s always gentle with you.

sevika prefers date nights at home. her perfect evening with you includes cooking you dinner, eating with you in the living room while watching a movie, and splitting you open in bed.

on the topic of the bedroom…

the first time having sex with sevika is after dance rehearsal. you come to her apartment exhausted and stressed about an upcoming performance.

while you’re trying to rant to your girlfriend, she gets a little distracted. every inch of your gorgeous body is on display in your tight leotard. and the way your legs are clothed in those sexy tights…she wants to eat you alive.

“…and the choreographer was being ridiculous. my feet were sickled for maybe half a second and-”

“can i help you relax?” sevika interrupts.

she gently grabs your hips with a smirk, peeling the straps of your leotard down.

“so worked up, aren’t you babe? let me make you feel better, please.”

sevika frees you from your tight dance clothes and nearly moans at the sight of your body. bare and needy, and it’s all for her. she gently lays you down on her bed, kisses trailing from your lips and throat to your stomach and thighs.

she licks a long stripe from your hole to your clit, warm tongue sending shockwaves through your veins. she groans at the taste, greedily lapping at your pussy. she can’t get enough of the sweetness of you. and your cunt is nearly drooling over the way she eats you like you’re her last meal.

“god, you taste so damn good,” she growls into you, eyes dark as she pushes her tongue inside you. her nose rubs on your clit with every movement.

you’ve never cum so quickly in your entire life. watching her eat your pussy like a woman starved, the feeling of her hot tongue, her nose on your most sensitive bundle of nerves. it’s no wonder your eyes are rolling back into your skull after only a few minutes.

you clench around her tongue, whimpering out her name as she works you through your orgasm. once you start squirming from overstimulation, she comes up to kiss you.

“that make you feel better, baby?”

[gabessquishytum]

Friend got me hooked on this oswaldxour oc concept we've been passing back and forth to make more and more deranged lol

Anyway dreamling but Dream is a crime boss who runs a club frequented by rich guys and criminals. It's neutral ground. Hob is a server there. Dream gets pervily obsessed with Hob who's always gently refused his advances which makes dream want him even more. In revenge dream makes him wear different, more revealing costumes to the other servers. I'm thinking shorts so short his hairy arse was exposed, translucent blouses, or shirts cut low enough to expose most of the hoboobies, or slinky little mini dresses

Hob would very much like to keep his job, as his criminal record makes it that this is the only work he could find, and obeys Dream.

Until one day Robin gets sick, or his scummy landlord jacks up rent trying to get Hob to 'pay in kind', or maybe even both, and Hob goes to Dream for a loan. Let's just say Dream makes him earn every red hot penny with interest for all those months Hob refused Dream

I do love these scenarios where Dream is powerful and fucking terrifying and Hob is still just some guy.

Hob is trying SO hard to keep on the straight and narrow for Robin's sake. He's a good dad - Robin is always clean and well fed and dressed nice, and he always gets to school on time. Even though it means that Hob runs himself ragged and hasn't had new clothes in so long, he's getting holes in all his shirts. His job sucks but at least he can work nights and be around for Robin in the morning and at school pickup time.

It's a precarious life and it really doesn't take much for it to fall apart. The rent goes up, and Robin needs medicine for a nasty chest infection. Hob can't really pick up more shifts at work because he needs to be at home with his sick son. He's sold everything else and it suddenly occurs to him one night that fuck it, he might as well sell himself too.

So. He goes to Dream and he swallows his pride, and he begs. He begs for Dream to help him out, just a couple of hundred to cover the month's rent and antibiotics. Dream listens with utter joy and pleasure in his heart. Finally, his darling has come to him. Of course Dream will help. He pays 6 months of Hob’s rent and has his men transfer little Robin to a private clinic where he can recover properly with all the meds he needs.

It's a lot more than Hob had expected. He knows that he'll have to pay. As Dream hands him a new outfit (its lingerie - a push-up bra, stockings and suspenders. The whole ensemble is red, the colour of Dream’s ruby pendant), Hob is trembling. He lets Dream touch him. The truth is, he'd love to be kissed and romanced, but he knows how bad Dream is. He fully expects to be roughly used and hurt in all manner of ways.

But he gets a hell of a surprise. Dream is cruel, yes. But his cruelty comes in the form of relentless pleasure. He makes Hob cum on his cock until he's overstimulated and screaming, and then he does it all over again. He doesn't leave a single bruise but he wrings Hob dry, leaves him twitching and barely conscious, and then takes even more. Its a sweet torture and Hob is totally helpless. The worst part is, he's totally ruined for any other man. Now he's obsessed with Dream. Now his life will never be normal again! And of course, Dream won't go easy... he'll make Hob beg again and again.

Dream's darling is finally his <3

[nonagesimus]

OC Kiss Week Day 1 - Desperate

another ficlet for day one with my Shadow Dragon Rose Mercar, and @willofthewolf's Rowan Mercar.

-

“So, things could be going worse.”

Rose glanced over to where Rowan had pressed themself up against the same wall as her for cover. It surrounded a garden at the edge of the plaza that was usually bordering on idyllic, somewhere Rose liked to sit if she needed to think something through, or eat lunch when she just wanted nice afternoon. Somewhere the pair of them met sometimes. Rose liked associating it with that, with good things, but right at that moment it felt like the entire city was screaming on the other side.

“How d’you reckon?” she asked, trying not to sound completely exhausted.

“Well,” Rowan’s fingers were plucking absently at their bowstring, familiar little sparks dancing off it with each movement, “The dragon could be completely immune to fire.”

Rose muffled a snort, flipped her spellblade back and forth in her hand. The Shadow Dragons were doing their best, but it felt like the ground was about to crumble out from beneath her. She did her best work up close, but even if they managed to force the dragon to the ground; it was a still a dragon.

Not even counting those boils on its front legs. Whatever it had been spewing out of its mouth—A few darkspawn in the catacombs weren’t going to be the last of their problems, Rose thought.

If they survived to see any more.

There was an echoing screech as the beast swooped overhead, the wind from its wings buffeting down, but it was swooping to the east. Not good for the east side of the city, but it gave the two of them some time to catch their breath properly. Rose looked over at Rowan, who’d also slumped down a little against the wall. She shifted closer to them, enough to press their shoulders together.

“Well,” Rowan said. “A blaze of glory isn’t a bad way to go out.” They wrapped their arm around Rose’s shoulder to pull her even further into them.

“How about this,” Rose countered, twisting to face them, “If we make it out of this, we take an actual vacation?”

“You’ll never follow through,” Rowan teased, but there was a vicious edge to their grin that Rose loved.

She reached up her free hand, traced the tattoo down the side of Rowan’s face, and said, “So, you’ll just have to stay alive and make me.”

Rowan’s arm tightened around her shoulders, pulled her into a firm kiss. Rose cupped her cheek, and kissed back, half of her screaming that if it was their final kiss she’d better make it count, half that there was no way in all the hells she was letting it be their last. Wind rushed over them again and they broke apart, looking up to see the dragon swooping back over them.

“Alright,” Rowan said, meeting her eyes again, “So, that’s a deal?”

“I don’t break my word,” Rose said.

“Then let’s go figure out how to get that fucker to land.”

[connyofthecosmos]

first attack of the year babeyyyy character belongs to @shibiichi!!

(check out my profile btw!! im team seafoam)

[anotherpapercut]

bro what the fuck are they doing with my package

[dzozef]

depression so bad it got my dad who doesnt believe in mental health telling me that i should go back to therapy

[ovrgrwnivy]

CLASSIFIED ; spencer reid

synopsis ; a sleepy morning turns into spencer falling over himself to get to work on time, forgetting his badge behind him.

includes ; spencer reid x fem!reader, kissing, getting interrupted by the bau, secret relationship

sunlight flittered through your blinds, heat radiated off your boyfriend who laid beside you, his arm draped over you as he slept peacefully. you card your fingers through his hair, unintentionally stirring him from his sleep.

“oh, i’m sorry baby” you apologise, voice soft in an attempt to keep him from waking up any further “go back to sleep.”

it was a rare day off for spencer, by your second date he’d told you he was in the bau, by your fifth you had gotten used to work tearing him away. but despite the annoyance, you had gotten used to it. you understood his job was important, you understood that evil wouldn’t take a break just so you could keep your boyfriend all to yourself.

when you asked him how personal time worked, he admitted to you that his team didn’t know he had a girlfriend. it stung a little, but when he explained that his job would be putting you at risk it softened the blow.

you’d heard the horror stories, how his boss’s wife was killed just so the unsub could get to him, about another girl who had been shot simply for being an agent.

it sucked, but you understood why, at least for now, spencer didn’t want to broadcast you all over the office.

“don’t wanna,” spencer mumbled, pressing a gentle kiss to your shoulder as he blinked his eyes open “don’t wanna waste my one day off.”

you couldn’t help the small smile that appeared when he said that, days off may be hard to come by but spencer made sure you were the sole focus for every second of them.

he propped himself up on his elbow, his other hand tightening its grip on your waist to pull you closer “c’mere, pretty”

his sleepy voice makes the words sound even better as you lazily wrap your arms around his neck, your fingers toying with the hair at the back of his head.

he presses a lazy kiss to your lips, which quickly spirals into something deeper. his hands grip at your waist, desperate, like he was afraid that if he loosened his grip you’d disappear.

trails of nips and kisses are dragged along your neck as he moves to hover over you, your breathing is shallow, fingers tightening in his hair as his hand slides over the surface of your stomach, fingers tracing along the hem of your underwear.

“fuck,” spencer mumbles, long fingers slipping under the fabric agonisingly slowly “you look so pretty, baby, so pretty under me.”

you let your eyes fall closed, his mouth still attached to your neck as his fingers ghosted across your skin.

until his phone rings, eliciting a frustrated groan from you both. you watch as he reluctantly reaches for it to see who’s calling. you don’t need to ask, his irate expression tells you it’s work.

“yeah?” his tone is blunt, uncharacteristically so but you can’t exactly blame him “what? no, i’m not supposed to be — right. fine.”

he doesn’t need to explain what’s going on, you already know by the way he jumps out of bed and hurriedly starts getting ready to head into work.

it’s immature, you know, but you can’t help but cross your arms in annoyance as you watch him bolt back and forth around the room.

“sorry, baby.” spencer sighs, easily reading the mixture of frustration and disappointment in your expression “i’ll make it up to you, promise.”

you hum in agreement as he presses a kiss to your forehead, promising to call you when he could before disappearing out of the room, and in turn, your apartment. you stay in bed a little longer, feeling sorry for yourself and worrying about your boyfriend at the same time.

the floor is a mess, both yours and spencer’s clothes strewn around as well as decorative pillows and comforters. as you begin picking clothes up from the floor, your eyes fall on a small, rectangular piece of leather hidden under a pair of socks.

spencer’s badge.

you gnaw on your bottom lip, conflicted on what to do. by now spencer would already be at the office, calling him to come back would cut important time from his schedule. but without it he’d be in trouble.

you needed to bring it to him without airing his personal business to the entire building, which is how you ended up signing in as a visitor who was here to meet with agent derek morgan.

the only name you heard from spencer that you could remember confidently.

a serious looking woman showed you the way to the bau office, your fingers nervously drumming on the leather cover of the badge as you headed up the elevator.

all hope was lost once you stepped out, two glass doors showcasing the expanse of the office filled with people shoulder deep in whatever they were working on.

you look around the hallway like a deer in headlights, unsure if you could just walk in or if you could just give the badge to someone else to pass on to spencer.

“you okay!?” a cheerful blonde approaches you, seemingly from nowhere. arms stacked with files and carrying a coffee cup at the same time.

“uh,” you’d feel guilty adding to her workload “do you need a hand?”

mentally you face palm, cursing yourself for your lack of social skills in the simplest of situations.

“please!” the woman gasps, the ceramic mug wobbling in her hand “hotch is going to kill me if i spill coffee all over his case. i already told him ‘mister hotch sir, it would be easier to go digital’ but nooo.”

you laugh softly, taking the mug from her unstable hand and tugging open the door for her.

surely you could enter with someone who was actually allowed in the office.

“follow me!”

she’s speeding ahead, a woman on a mission, up the steps and into what seems like a conference room. you trail behind apprehensively, not wanting to get either of you into trouble by just swanning in.

“if there’s any dismembered bodies or general badness on the screen i swear to god!” she warns, rounding a corner and disappearing into the room.

you hang back awkwardly, partly because you have no business in there but mostly just in case there was any dismembered people on display.

“you’re all good!” her head pops around the corner and she motions for you to come in, so you do.

there’s barely time to register your surroundings, a circular table with a group of people sitting around it. you spot spencer instantly, you don’t even attempt to guess who everyone else is.

his head is buried in a case file, so your presence is unknown to him. which isn’t a surprise considering you’re not meant to be in the building let alone the office.

“garcia, we talked about this.”

a stern voice comes from a tall, serious looking man. you didn’t need to be a genius to work out he was most definitely spencers boss.

“right.” the woman, garcia, presses her mouth into a thin line as she gently takes the mug from your hands “do you know where you’re meant to be, lovely?”

“oh, uh, here actually.”

as you retrieve the badge from your back pocket, spencers head snaps up at the sound of your voice. his eyes widen slightly and a small smile makes its way onto his face.

“hey, what are you doing here?”

his question catches you off guard, even more so when he gets to his feet and moves around the table towards you.

wordlessly, you hand over his id, the perfectly rehearsed excuse of finding it at a cafe stuck in your throat now that spencer had made it known you weren’t a stranger.

“how did i — thank you.” his smile widens slightly, his hand resting on your waist briefly as he pressed a thankful kiss to your temple “i’ll call you on the plane, okay?”

you knew he wasn’t trying to brush you off, but he was evidently busy and you had no actual reason to still be here.

you nod, face warming up when he gives you another quick kiss before you go, sending a tiny smile and a brief wave towards the rest of the team.

as you gently shut the door behind you, you aren’t quick enough to miss the questions thrown in spencers direction. even laughing softly at garcias exclamation of “spencer has a girlfriend!”

[amfstargirl]

Yandere batfam x neglected reader

So, pack up your car, put a hand in your heart, sing what ever you feel, be wherever you are

We ain't angry at you love. ⋆·˚ ༘ *

The pain of the neglected soul. Under the heavy mood lingering in the manor. An architectural design that screams wealth but is never wealthy with love and laughter. well, at least not to the second youngest child of Bruce Wayne, the billionaire playboy, the most powerful man in Gotham City.

Being a product of a mistake between an infamous prostitute and a well-known, almost "celebrity"-like man was not really an ideal life. Being shunned away by the woman who you call Mom, who's supposed to whisper sweet words to you and rock your fragile body back and forth to ease you of whatever you feel bad about, instead shoves you into the arms of an unknown man who's your supposed father. Yeah, that sucks.You've always adored your mom. Despite the horrible words she casually whispers to you - "you ruined me, kid"—you turn a blind eye to her actions and act deaf to her cruel words and instead pretend that she's the mom who loves you and adores you just as much as you do for her. Because it was better. It just was. Your brain can't really process the fact that your abusive mother can be abusive. No, not when she was the one who carried you for 273 days, birthed you, and gave you your name. A 5-year-old's brain can't possibly carry the thought of having that same woman hate you. So even when it was your birthday, you waited for her all day to come home and give you kisses and maybe a birthday cupcake or present. just for once, she comes home drunk, messy, and dizzy with a man on her arms while laughing feverishly. It crazy to think that was the most happiest you've seen her; she was always scowling when she was with you. Strange. Even so you greet her with a hug. "Momma, I've been waiting for you all day—" she cuts you off and tells you to get away from her and calls you this strange name "annoying" huh. Wonder what that means. And for the next hours you spend your birthday alone, in your bedroom. Awake and hungry. But it doesn't matter at least mom came home! Sometimes she doesn't even come home for a few days, but she came home today! That means she must love you. Only for a few days she stays at home with the strange man she brought home on the day of your birthday. It doesn't bother you, it was normal after all. She always do this and then after a few days the man's gone. Yeah, this is just temporary. You say as you clean the house full of dirty clothes and empty alcohol bottles. And then one night the strange man is yelling at your mom; screams filled the tiny apartment with smashing sounds of bottles echoing around the room. You're furious, and you want to defend the woman who you oh so lovingly call "mother" You push the man away, and it angers him. With his bloodshot eyes, he grabbed the bottle and smashed it at the side of your tiny head. You soon wake up in a large room with bright lights and thick white walls. Soon you find out that you're in a hospital; its so cool, it's the size of your living room! Maybe even bigger… Moments later you found out that your mother gave you up to some unknown man who is to be called your "father.". You thrash and scream against the nurse's hold and scream for your mommy, yet she never came.A strange man came and introduced himself. He said he was "Alfred" and said from now on he will take care of you. That's silly because no one in your entire life has had someone take care of you. Soon he drives you to a gloomy big house with lots of statues as Alfred proceeds to tell you that this will be your new home now. Different portraits adorn the walls, and shiny pottery and impressive works of art fill the house. Alfred soon introduced you to your father, Bruce Wayne. Now this is where it all starts. With your new home, hope sparked through your heart, and you believed that somehow, someway, maybe you'll be able to get the love that you have always longed for, yearned for, waited for.

Wrong.

Bruce Wayne, billionaire playboy, the most powerful man of Gotham, the heartthrob, the Batman, but never the father of y/n l/n. He doesn't even know you. Doesn't even try to acknowledge you and your hard work, desperate to try anything to make him pay attention to you. To give you the attention you crave and yearn for ever since you arrived at the comfort of his home. You weren't stupid. You knew who he was and his nightly activities. You understood. But what hurts was that despite this, he managed to give every. Single. One. Of his children, attention except you. Was it because you weren't like them? Was it because you didn't fight bad guys for a hobby? Or was it because he never deemed you worthy of his time? Why? Were all the things the kids and big adults whispered behind your back true? That you were a child of a whore and you were bound to become one too over a matter of time? Was it true you'll never compare to your siblings? Being compared to your siblings, who had so much talent and had their own special abilities that yours can't compare to, was draining—and partially true. Your little ballet classes can never impress bruce over his other children's combat skills, multilingual abilities, and genius calculations. And you learned to accept that over the years as you grew up.

Richard grayson, dick, the loving big brother, the family guy. Maybe he was a good guy. After all, he managed to acknowledge you for about 6 seconds one time! He even asked you about your ballet classes! Though that was only to distract his self before Damian came. Always the big brother and Lil brother duo! .. Despite being busy with being a full-time cop and a vigilante, he still makes time for family, the ones he considers as family. Not you, never you. Who were you kidding? Dick is the star of the show, and you're just another side character in his main character life! Just a plain, old, boring bystander. That's all you will ever be to little Richard Grayson's glam life story.

Jason todd was different. He was known as someone who was brutal and full of anger. So it was no problem for him to shove you and tell you off. He had no conscience in telling you to go away, and you liked that. You like the fact that at least he had the decency to not give you false hope. Jason todd hates you, and you know it. Jason todd is jealous of your normalcy and how oblivious you are to the danger of the world. In his eyes, you were his replacement; looking at you makes the green monster of envy crawl out of him and take his anger out on you. The way you are so vulnerable stirs something up inside of him, and he realizes that your eyes look just like his when he was full of wonder and innocence. It made him restless and irritated. It reminded him of his mistakes, foolishness, and those memories he buried deep inside his mind to save him from countless nightmares he desperately ran away from.

Timothy Drake, the genius Robin, the hero by choice, the prodigy son. You would be lying if you said that you weren't jealous of Tim at all. I mean, look at him! He's a genius, a hero, a heartthrob, and a role model to several youths of Gotham. He was exactly like Bruce, and I mean exactly like Bruce. His life revolved around solving crimes, fighting bad guys, acing all of his tests, and coffee. Anything was more important other than you. Sure! He has time to cuddle with his family for movie night (without you, of course) but never has the time to play video games with you. Everything seemed to send thrills to his veins and spark an interest in him except your very existence. If you were just a mere bystander in Dick's story, you weren't even in Tim's!

Cassandra. The girl of the family. You have always envied her. Not only was she the only girl of the family and doted on by every single one of your brothers, but you and she also shared the same interest. What's even more infuriating was that she didn't even have to try. She didn't have to beg countless times to have anyone attend her performances because they were all there. Even Jason, who hid in the shadows. They were all there to support her and show her the love you have always asked for, begged for. She swooned all of them with her dancing, and you can't help that maybe her hands are more gentle, maybe her feet are more pointed, maybe her posture is more straight than yours, maybe she's prettier than you, maybe she's more worth than you.

And finally. Damian al Ghul Wayne. The youngest son, the baby brother, the scarred child loved by his family. When Damian came into the manor, you were thrilled. You thought that maybe you and he could bond over the same trauma. Maybe finally someone can understand you.You thought wrong again. Damian thought you were weak and a disgrace to the bloodline of the Wayne family clan. He called you thousands of cruel names and insulted you whenever he had the chance to. He always belittled you and showed you no mercy, going as far as to drag the blade of his sword across your neck, drawing blood, just for him to cruelly laugh in your face and tell you that you are being dramatic. You forgave him. You were a good kid. Right? So why is it that a kid who made thousands of innocent lives bleed through his sword is sitting with his father—your father—on the couch, sleeping soundly on his chest? It's not fair.

They were never fair.

As Dick was checking the CCTV footage of the manor out of boredom, he managed to catch a glimpse of footage—about 2 weeks ago—of a person packing their bags and putting things from the manor into a box and leaving. It must be a thief! But that's impossible. The manor has many securities that even a skilled assassin could not pass through the gates; it's impossible. Unless…Dick took another glance at the footage and zoomed in on the screen and squinted his eyes. And for a second, his breath hitched and his heart pumped fast, his hand trembled, and his eyes dilated.

It can't be.

[trashytracktales]

Hey! Please do a lando x ex!reader. They break up after a lot of arguments due to being away from each other so much and then they meet a few months later and hook up. Like angst in the beginning then lots of smut.

If it's meant to fall apart | LN⁴

💌 REQUESTED by anon ──── I was actually planning to write something similar for so long. Thank you for the request and I hope you like it 🤍

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𐙚 summary ──── Surprisingly, months apart haven’t dulled the connection between them. After a night of passion and honesty on both sides, maybe there is a future where they can make all the right decisions, after all.

𐙚 pairing ──── Lando Norris x ex!reader

𐙚 rating ──── explicit

𐙚 category ──── F/M

𐙚 warnings ──── +18, mature/sexual content, lots of angst & back-and-forth, fluff & smut, teasing, praising, explicit language, unprotected sex, mention of alcohol and drinking, swearing, not the healthiest relationship I've ever written tbh (the toxicity is implicit tho), overstimulation, pussy-drunk Lando, Max F. & Ethan aka FEEFA cameo.

𐙚 word count ──── 10.6k (Thank you to everyone who voted on this poll I posted the other day, I didn’t expect to see so many 🥺).

𐙚 date ──── Nov. 27, 2024

𐙚 a/n ──── Guys, look. I know it's A LOT 🥴 I kinda let myself run with this one because I haven't posted anything in like a week or so. I still have 2 requests I'm working on, so don't give up on me yet 🤞🏻

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﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

SHE'S NOT ENTIRELY sure how long they’ve been dancing, but she hasn't finished her drink yet. Time feels like an illusion, blurring the edges of her vision with every new rhythm of the night. For the first time in months, she feels a little lighter, her friends’ energy pulling her out of her own head — and apartment, where she locked herself in after the break-up.

The club is packed tonight, bodies pressed together in a sea of drunken, sweaty chaos. Neon lights bounce off every surface, painting the room in vivid purples, blues, and pinks. It's not usually her style — not anymore — but she figured it won't hurt to let lose for a couple of hours.

It’s only when she steps away from the dance floor, her feet hurting and her head buzzing, that she spots him.

Why tonight, of all nights?

Why here, of all places?

Why him, of all people?

He’s leaning casually against the bar, a glass in hand, chatting with a few familiar faces. Faces that she can't help but miss.

She stopped talking to Max — well, Max stopped talking to her after ending things with Lando, too upset that she toyed with his best friend's heart for ‘no apparent reason’. Their friendship dissolved under pressure, fragile as a cheap plastic cup in the grip of sulfuric acid. But Max wasn't the only one who took it personally. That's why she needed to cut ties with everyone from her past. She needed new friends — her own friends —, she needed a new place and new clothes, and to rebrand herself from scratch. Which she did.

She thought she had made it through, but the past has its twisted ways of coming back when you least expect it.

Now, the sight of him, so vivid and real, makes her chest tighten.

She stops in place, hoping he doesn’t notice her, but then his eyes flick in her direction and, for a brief moment, neither of them blinks, the noise around them fading into a dull murmur.

He straightens slightly, his relaxed posture gone as his brows knit together. There’s something unreadable in his body language — surprise? Excitement? Confusion? Pain? She doesn’t know, but it mirrors the knot twisting in her stomach.

Her friends call out to her, pulling her attention briefly, and when she looks back, he’s still staring. Except now, he’s moving, weaving his way through the crowd toward her.

Oh, hell no.

Her heart starts to race, a mix of adrenaline and something far more complicated than fear, as she rushes to walk away; she's fought for far too long, and now her instinct is to fly as soon as she senses danger.

Unfortunately, she's not quick enough.

“Hey,” says Lando when he gets closer, his voice low but audible over the music.

Hearing him gives her goosebumps, hating the way her body is betraying her. It’s been months since she’s heard his voice, but it still hits her the same way: sharp and unrelenting.

She turns around, forcing a smile, “Hi, Lando,” she manages, her voice steadier than she feels, thinking she should try acting if she makes it out alive from this encounter.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asks, his tone careful, yet extremely suggestive.

It makes her stomach twist again.

He used that line the very first night they met, his boyish grin lit by the dim, flickering lights of another club, in another city. Potentially another life, she's not sure. She remembers the way he had leaned in, so full of confidence and asked the same exact question with a mischievous glint in his eye.

It feels too deliberate now, too heavy with the weight of their past for her to ignore.

“All set,” she finally says, her voice quieter than she intended, as she raises her half-full glass in her hand. “Thanks.”

For a moment, it feels like they’re strangers meeting for the first time. Except they’re not, and their history is hanging heavily in the air between them.

Lando nods, shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, “How about this, let me join you for that drink?”

She takes a look to where her friends are dancing, then she turns back to him, “I'm here with my friends.”

It's a pathetic excuse, she knows that. But she has no time to think of something else. Not when her brain is suddenly all scrambled and can't form a single coherent thought.

Lando frowns, disappointed, but not willing to give up that easy. “Come on, just a quick catch-up and then you can go back to your friends. Mine won't mind,” he shrugs, pointing at the bar, where the others are following their every move like a bunch of curious minions.

She catches Max lifting his glass in her direction, and Ethan, waving frantically.

Against her better judgment, she nods.

“Okay,” she murmurs, “Let's catch up,” she spits the words, sounding a bit too sarcastic. Still, it makes Lando smile.

His shoulders relax slightly, relief softening the tension in his body. He gestures toward a quieter corner of the club, away from the pounding bass and the sea of bodies. His first instinct was to take her hand in his, but since that's over the line, Lando keeps looking back, making sure she follows him. And she does. Like a naive, lost puppy that hasn't learned a single thing in the past five months, apparently.

The crowd surges around them, chaotic and loud, and before she can react, someone stumbles into her, their elbow catching her arm. As a result, she's thrown off balance, her feet slipping on the slick floor. Gasping, she's bracing for the inevitable fall that… never comes.

Lando’s hand shoots out, catching her waist and pulling her upright. His grip is firm, grounding, and suddenly she’s pressed against him, her chest brushing his.

“Careful,” says Lando, his lips close enough to her ear for the voice to cut through the noise.

The spot where he's touching her is burning her skin. She looks up, speaking with a hesitant smile, “Thanks, I'm good.”

The club around them fades away, and all she can feel is the warmth of his hand on her waist and the familiar scent of his cologne — a smell she used to know so well. It is almost intoxicating, and it makes her mouth water. She realizes that's what she was missing the most.

Lando smiles faintly, his hand slipping away as if he’s reluctant to let go. “Always got you.”

She doesn’t know how to respond to that, sensing the double meaning behind his affirmation. So, she nods and lets him guide her the rest of the way.

They find a small, semi-private booth near the exit, far enough from the main dance floor that the music dulls to a manageable volume. He gestures for her to sit first, then slides in across from her.

She fiddles with the edge of her glass, feeling his eyes on her.

“So,” she starts, leaning back against the booth, “You're here.”

Here, as in back home.

“For a week or so, yeah. Got a bit of a break between Brazil and Vegas.”

She nods, emptying the rest of her drink in one go, “How’ve you been?”

Lando shrugs slowly, “Alright. Busy with work and everything,” he trails off, his gaze dropping to her lips for a brief moment. “It’s not the same,” he continues, his smile fading away. “What about you, what have you been up to?”

She needs superhuman powers to stop herself from scoffing in his pretty face. It’s such a simple question, yet it feels loaded, heavy with all the things they haven’t said to each other in almost half a year.

“It's been… peaceful. I moved to another neighborhood. Kept busy, distracted.”

Lando hums, his expression unreadable for some reason. “Yeah, I get that. You look great, by the way,” he states it as a fact, his voice soft but unwavering.

She hesitates, then looks up at him, really looks at him. His face is the same and yet… not really. The boyishness is still there, but there’s a weariness in his eyes that's somehow new. Plus some facial hair she always begged him to try out. It tugs at something inside her, something she’s not sure she’s ready to face. Because it hurts. Because it annoys her. Because, after everything, she's still not over it.

“Cheers,” she replies, hoping he won't catch the blush in her cheeks. “I kind of hoped you would look like shit when I saw you again,” she admits. “You know, I'm talking no front teeth and severely balding. But, oh well. You too.”

Lando's smile widens, making everything infinitely worse for her.

He wears a black shirt that clings to his frame in a way that highlights the muscles in his arms. His black cap is pulled low, worn backwards in that signature way he always did, giving him that effortlessly cool vibe. His eyes are still the same, though. Dark, piercing, the same ones that could make her heart beat faster even after everything that’s happened.

“I thought about you a lot over these months, you know,” Lando finds himself saying, chewing on his lower lip.

She shoots him a surprised look.

As if, she thinks. His Instagram feed would say otherwise.

“You did?” she ends up asking, curiosity getting the best of her.

A hint of vulnerability creeps into his voice, “Of course. I've missed you.”

She laughs dryly, “But it's been good for us, right? We just established we both look great, no constant fighting, no slamming doors, no smashed phones…” she says, looking at him intently.

He can't sustain that for long, so he looks down at his shoes, slightly ashamed, remembering how bad it used to get when the distance between them felt too much to handle. He remembers the frustration, and the helplessness he felt when he couldn’t reach her, because he couldn’t make things right. He did smash his phone once, in a fit of anger, because he couldn’t get ahold of her for hours — not his proudest moment, that's for sure.

Lando swallows hard, “Yeah, it has been nice to have some distance. I guess it makes the heart grow fonder, right?”

“Hmm,” she hums, letting her eyes travel across the room, scanning random faces and wondering how life would be if she were someone else, “I don't know about that.”

She knows, in fact. But the words pause in her throat, too tangled up in memories. When he finally looks up, she's holding his gaze for just a beat longer than she should, and she wonders if he can feel it too — that familiar pull, like gravity, drawing them back together once again.

“I know—” Lando begins, not sure from which angle to approach. “I know it was the right choice at the time, but I can't help but wonder what things could have been if I'd fought harder for you.”

“Come on, Lando,” she laughs, unamused, giving her head a shake, “We would've ended up in another vicious circle, no matter what. It's always like that with us, isn't it?”

A part of him knows she's right. Still, “We'll never know.”

“Well, maybe it's better that way,” she manages, her voice lacking conviction.

“Or maybe it’s not,” he contradicts her, his words carrying a weight that presses on both of them. “You never think about us?”

Another sharp, dry laugh — it's either this, or she'll start crying. “I am actively trying not to,” she admits, her tone tinged with exasperation. “What’s the point, Lan? Thinking about what could’ve been won’t change what happened. You were always gone, and I couldn't spend my life following you around like a headless chicken. We had a good time, but it was never going to last,” she says the last part mostly as a reminder for herself. “Not in those circumstances.”

His jaw tightens. “You think it was easy for me? That it didn’t tear me up knowing I couldn’t be there for you the way you wanted me to?”

“I didn't say that,” her eyes snap to his, “We simply weren't working. We were too good at breaking each other.”

Lando leans back in his chair, frustration visible on his face. He hates that she's right, but it doesn’t stop the ache in his chest.

His jaw clenches, “I just… I don’t want to believe that’s all we were. Breaking each other.”

Her expression softens a little at his words, “Not all. But enough to make us miserable.”

For a while, the air between them feels heavier, the noise fading into the background. He wants to say something, anything, to counter her point, but all he can do is look at her and ask himself if they were, indeed, playing a losing game back then.

“Did you meet someone?” his question flies out of nowhere.

Lando looks at her with anticipation, sensing the hesitation.

“I did,” she replies, nodding slowly.

“And?”

She meets his eyes for a split second before looking away again, fixing her gaze somewhere on the table. “And we're happily married with twins on the way. What do you think? I just. Couldn’t.”

Lando's stomach drops, trying his best to remain calm, his hands clenching into fists. “You couldn’t what? Be with them?”

She shakes her head, her movements slow and deliberate, as if choosing her words carefully. “It was too soon.”

Her answer only leaves him with more questions. “So, what does that mean?”

“I don’t know what it means,” she rushes to say, her tone tinged with irritation. It’s clear she’s as unsure as he is, but that only makes it harder for Lando to process her reaction.

He runs a hand over his face, his exasperation bubbling to the surface. “I’m just trying to understand,” he says, his voice quieter but no less intense. “Because I've also tried.”

She looks directly at him now, her eyes narrowing slightly. “And?” she challenges in the same manner, her tone carrying just a hint of defiance.

“They weren't you,” says Lando, the truth of his statement hanging between them like a heavy anchor.

They remain silent after that.

She wants to ask him why — why he still cares, and why it hurts so much to be in the same space again after all they’ve been through. Nothing comes out, though; she already has the answer to that. They didn't break up because they stopped loving each other. They had both been too caught up in their own worlds to find any kind of balance. That broke them up.

He wants her to speak. He needs to hear her speak. To react. But when she says nothing in return, there is a brief second when he feels like giving up for good; he can't do anything if she's already made a decision. He knows how stubborn she is.

Lando nods to himself while getting up and start walking toward the exit, his thoughts all over the place.

The night air greets them with a quiet, cooling embrace as they step out of the club. Of course she follows, and she hates herself for that. But she can't help it — it's instinct. Like a magnetic force he's always had over her.

On the other hand, it's how they always communicated, through gestures and actions rather than words.

The soft click of her heels against the pavement gives Lando hope. He slows down so she can catch up, and then they walk side by side, without talking. The background noise of the city keeps them company, and by the time she decides to break the silence, he stops abruptly.

His voice sounds so small now, like a child asking his parents why can't he eat his chocolate bar before dinner.

“I know it feels so silly looking back,” says Lando, as though afraid to shatter the superficial peace between them. “We did so many things wrong, but I think we also did a lot of things right.”

She hesitates, her eyes dropping to the ground where a patch of light from a distant street light catches the edge of her shoe. Her arms fold tightly across her chest, while trying to look anywhere but at him.

“Yeah, breaking up was one of the right things,” she says thoughtfully, though her voice has a trace of bitterness behind it. “Before that, we tried so hard to make it work that we ended up burning each other alive.”

It's crazy how simple words can cause physical pain so quickly.

“Yet we're still here,” he reminds her. “Knowing what we know now, maybe we wouldn’t burn so fast this time. And isn’t it worth it, even if it only lasts for a little while? We were so happy at the start.”

That’s what he clings to. The laughter, the stolen moments, the way they fit together so effortlessly — she can’t argue with that. Their beginning was a beautiful dream, but it’s the nightmare that followed that keeps her guarded now, even though all she wants is to crack his ribcage open and slip inside him so they will never be apart again.

Her voice shakes as she tries her best to make him see her side, the memories spilling out like water breaking through a dam. “I had to put myself back together, Lando. Piece by piece. And I was all alone.” She forces herself to meet his gaze, finally, her eyes glassy with unshed tears. “Turns out, our friends were actually your friends, and I had to go through the worst breakup of my life with no one by my side. I had to move, I had to build an entire life from pretty much nothing. And I had to do everything alone, because I didn’t just lose you. I lost everything the moment I made you the center of my universe.”

Her words knock the air out of his lungs, guilt clawing at his insides. “Look, I know I should have been there,” says Lando, his voice barely steady. “Fuck me. I wasn’t supposed to let you go in the first place, alright? I should’ve been a better boyfriend, and I should’ve fought harder to make it work, using what we had then. But you did fuck with my head, and I thought being away would help.”

The first tear spills down her cheek, and she wipes it away hastily, as if she could erase the vulnerability altogether.

“It did help,” she agrees. “I know I can live without it now.”

Lando freezes for a split second, then stepping dangerously closer to her. “So, you’ll be fine if we stay broken up?” he asks, his voice almost a whisper.

She nods, but it’s shaky. And when she takes a step back, trying to put distance between them, Lando decides he gave her enough space. Fuck that. He's not thinking anymore, not with his brain, at least. He closes the distance again, his hands finding her waist and pulling her close in one swift motion.

It’s impulsive, desperate even. But he doesn’t care. The moment he feels her presence in his personal space, the fire he’s tried to smother for months, roars back to life, more powerful than ever. And just like that, everything it's right again. The way her body fits against his, the familiarity of it all, makes his heart race in his chest.

“Stop being so fucking stubborn, baby,” he murmurs into her hair, his voice cracking under the weight of his own desperation. “Why can’t we at least try, hm? You told me it was too soon for someone else. Maybe it’s because it’s supposed to be me.”

Her breath catches at the sudden closeness, at the rawness of his voice. She's unsure of what to do with her hands, until they hover awkwardly by his shoulders.

“You're not fair,” she whispers, her voice slightly trembling. “You can’t just accidentally waltz back into my life and say things like that.”

“I don’t give a flying fuck about being fair,” he says, his voice firm. “I just want us back. Simple as that.”

Her tears blur the edges of Lando's face when she tries to push him away, but his grip won't let her. Not this time.

“It's not that simple, and you know it,” she says. “We’ll only end up hurting each other again.”

“Then we hurt, so what?” he counters, his voice soft but sure. “At least we’ll know we tried until there wasn't anything worth fighting for. I'm not done with you, baby. Are you?”

Her hands finally move, trembling as they brush against his cheeks. They're not as soft as they use to be, his little facial hair scratching slightly at the pads of her fingers. The connection sends a jolt through them both as her touch lingers, trailing up to his hair. She pulls at his cap with both hands, placing it on her own head with a weak smile.

“It’s longer than you used to wear it,” she notices, her tears catching the street lights.

Lando’s heart clenches, managing to shoot a small smile in return, “I thought maybe I’d try growing it out. Do you like it?”

“I love it,” she admits as she tries to messily style his hair with her fingers. “It suits you.”

For a little while, they’re trapped in their own bubble. Her touch feels like home, and all Lando can think of is that he can't lose it again.

“I’m not asking you to decide now,” he finally says, his thumbs tracing soft circles on her waist. “I just need to know I’m not the only one still holding on.”

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, they're stumbling into her apartment. She knows it's reckless, and she's basically throwing away five months of progress, but it wasn't going to last, anyway.

Addictions are very hard to keep under control, especially when they have curly, dark hair and give you bed eyes.

“This way,” she says, her lips swollen from kissing all the way to her door.

Lando doesn’t have time to adjust, his head already spinning with hundreds of scenarios that fly tirelessly through his mind. However, the only thing that captivates him at the moment is her, and the way her fingers curl into the waistband of his jeans. She tugs him closer, her lips crashing onto his once again, their breaths blending in a frantic exchange of need and uncertainty.

He watches her fumbling with the buttons of his shirt, her movements clumsy but determined. His heart reaches his throat, swallowing hard, as his hands move from her waist to his belt, blindly unbuckling it before tossing it carelessly aside. The sound of leather hitting the floor barely registers over the erratic, overlapping rhythm of them kissing.

Then, he sees it. The spark in her eyes she used to have when she looked at him — it catches him off guard, giving him hope. He follows her as she moves slowly, her back toward the bed, her movements precise, like a cat's. She lies down, propping herself up on her elbows, while he takes cautious steps closer, his shirt hanging open to reveal his chest and toned abs.

But just as he leans forward, her high heel presses lightly against his chest, stopping him.

Lando freezes, his hands bracing on either side of her foot, tracing his palm up and down her leg, as his eyes dart up to meet hers.

“You can look,” she says, catching a glimpse of confusion in his eyes. “But for now, no touching.”

He frowns, clenching his jaw at her request. It would make sense for her to bring him to her place only to torture him, but she can't be that heartless. Right? The sight of her, stretched out on the bed with her foot holding him at bay, is almost too much to handle already.

“You're not fair,” he mutters under his breath, a ghost of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I don't give a flying fuck about being fair,” she repeats his words from earlier, her foot staying firm against his chest.

The power is in her hands, and she's planning on using them properly tonight.

“No touching,” she repeats, determined.

Lando's hands fall at his sides.

Slowly, she slides her foot down, letting it drag across his chest, making a quick stop on his lower abdomen before settling on the bed. Her gaze locks onto his, a daring glint in her eyes as she spreads her legs, revealing the black lace panties. The dress she's wearing lifts up her thighs of its own accord, leaving Lando chocking on air for a brief moment. His lips part as she trails her fingers down her own body, teasing herself the way she’s done countless nights before.

Nights when he wasn’t there.

Nights when she was alone, chasing a high only his touch could give her.

“Wanna see how I got through five months without you?” she asks, her hands traveling way down, hooking her fingers to pull at the soft material.

His breath hitches, the sight of her undressing before him so painfully slowly making his chest ache with longing and guilt.

“I thought of you,” she continues, letting a small whimper out when the soft lace peels off with a little resistance from her already soaked pussy. “Your hands, your mouth… the way you sound when you're turned on,” she discards the panties at the foot of the bed, her breath catching in her throat as she glances at him through her lashes. “Such a delicious combination between your sleepy voice and that low octave you hit when you're drunk.”

Lando’s mouth goes dry, his hands twitching at his sides, itching to lean over and collect the material off the floor to stuff it into his pocket as a souvenir. He’s never felt so powerless and yet so utterly consumed by someone before.

“Will you let me?” she asks, her lips curving into a smile that’s equally wicked and vulnerable, “Show you?”

Her name leaves Lando’s lips in a protest while he takes an instinctive step forward, but she stops him with her foot once again. It’s a punishment, and he knows it. She’s showing him exactly what he missed, and exactly how she wanted him for so long.

Lando's breath is shallow, his chest rising and falling as he watches her. Helpless. His every nerve is tuned to her, eyes following how her fingers slide so easily between her folds, spreading the wetness as she teases her hole. Of course she’s taking her time with it, only to make sure he registers every tiny detail, just in case he forgot.

Her head tilts to the side with a quiet gasp when she pushes slowly inside. The sound of her wet entrance is enough to make his knees weak, still, his body turns to stone.

On the other hand, his heart is a mess of pride and frustration — pride that she still feels comfortable to be this vulnerable and open in front of him, frustration that he has to see her like this, untouchable. That's why he's not even blinking, too afraid he'll miss a thing.

She starts to gently rock her hips against the bed, fucking her fingers in and out, her body trembling as her whimpers fill the room. It's too much for Lando, but luckily, she didn't say anything about moving. His legs finally give out, and he falls to his knees, the sound of his breath ragged and uneven as he gets closer to her.

Yes, she's in charge — for now, at least — but he can't stop his words slipping out. Quiet, yet demanding.

“Slower,” he says, fixing his eyes on the way her fingers slide over her clit. “Don't rush it, please. I want to see all of you.”

Her gaze meets his, and for a moment, neither of them says anything else. She sees the vulnerability etched into his features, the way his body betrays him, shaking with restraint, completely at her mercy.

He looks like a man unmoored, defeated. So beautiful.

“Lando…” she breaths heavily, her back arching against her own hand, that flattered slightly at his words, a blush creeping up her neck and cheeks.

She hates how much he still affects her, obeying him without questioning his ways. Like no time has passed whatsoever.

When they make eye contact again, it's like they silently agree to go with it; whatever tonight will bring.

“That's is,” says Lando with satisfaction as she resumes her movements. “You gorgeous little thing. So beautiful when you listen, yeah?”

She nods, feeling him leaning forward just slightly, close enough that she can feel his warmth on her skin, without him touching her in any way. The air feels electric, her breath stuttering as she keeps fucking up her fingers under Lando's careful guidance. He watches every motion, his jaw tightening, ignoring the ache in his boxers the moment she finds her sweet spot, crying at how good it feels. She tries to muffle the moan, but Lando catches the hesitation, his eyes narrowing in her direction.

“No, let me hear you. Please, let me hear you,” he implores, exhaling sharply. “God, you're perfect. I could watch you forever.”

Lando can't help but notice how receptive she becomes at his words, her body tightening at the way he's praising her. As a result, she presses her fingers harder onto her clit, feeling the pressure building inside.

“Mhm, Lan…”

“I'm with you, baby. Keep going,” he encourages her, his gaze fixating on the slickness dripping between her legs. “Fucking hell. You're already so close, aren't you?”

It's like every word gets caught in her throat, and the only way she can reply to him is with a pathetic, desperate whimper.

In hindsight, she's never came from her fingers so quickly before, but the wave that’s hitting her from every direction right now is too intense to process right away.

It happens too fast, and the next thing she's aware of is Lando's voice, bringing her back.

“Please,” she hears him beg, managing to give him a slight nod of her head in return.

In that moment, the lights go out. Even so, Lando wants to be patient, as his index finger lightly brushes against her warmth. She exhales, giving up control, her gaze locked on him as if he is the only one that ever knew her. Meticulous, Lando traces his long, rough finger through her wetness, causing a shock to run through her whole body as it moves up and down her clit.

She thought she already crossed her limit, but then he leans down to press his mouth on her — deliberately, unapologetically, thirsty.

Lando lets out a deep, guttural groan that reverberates against her, causing her hips to twitch slightly. His tongue is wet and warm on her pulsating clit, leaving her breathless while he tastes her like it's the last time.

“My sweet, sweet baby,” he whispers, his voice intimate and personal, the words enveloping her in layers and layers of honey.

Feeling his warm breath on her center causes a surge of tension within her, making her walls tighten as his tongue explores within. He can't help but smile just as she leans into him, her body responding naturally, and he grips her thighs, closing the remaining gap between them. At that, she instantly buries her fingers in his curls, her hips mimicking his head movements.

“Oh, fuck,” she exhales abruptly.

The rest is pure bliss — his tongue licking in deep strokes, his muffled moans between her thighs, and the way he can’t seem to let go of her, gripping her tightly because he’s been deprived of her taste for so long.

Just for a brief second, Lando raises his head and, as his gaze remains fixed on her eyes, his mouth sucks gently at her clit. She's never seen him so desperate before, the sight of him owning her like that covering her entire body in chills.

Gradually, his kisses become way too powerful, which forces her to quickly grab his messy curls and pull him closer, unable to control herself anymore.

Without any warning, she screams his name as her climax hits her like a tidal wave for the second time in a row.

His growling makes her thighs quiver in his grasp, the vibrations intensifying her pleasure as her body convulses with each new sensation, while Lando’s tongue continues licking her during every heartbeat and shiver.

Next time she looks at him, his lips shine, his cheeks are red, and his gaze so intense that it causes her heart to skip a beat, creating a connection that seems more profound than any physical sensation she's just experienced.

He didn’t try to give her the best she’s ever had, but attempt to remind her how well he knows her body — to show her she still belongs to him.

“You’re so pretty,” says Lando, keeping his eyes on her, while he presses one finger back inside her cunt to test how thight she is after her second orgasm.

“Lando,” she spits his name at the unexpected touch, still too sensitive, “What… are you doing?” she gasps softly, a mixture between a sigh and a moan, when Lando's finger pulls out and glides across her wet, delicate clit once again.

“What do you think I’m doing?” Lando murmurs against her thigh, his voice low and reverent.

He grins in her direction, while his thumb circles her clit with precise intention, like a wheel gripping the perfect racing line. Sure of himself, Lando continues his movements, realizing how overstimulated she is, as he gets up to hover above her. Her hips buck instinctively into his hand, a jolt of reaction she can’t control.

Seeing Lando on top makes her react on instinct, wrapping one arm around his neck, while the other hand travels down his chest. The heat pooling in her stomach rises fast, an apex she didn’t expect to reach so soon. It’s intoxicating, her body spiraling as her mind blanks out the world beyond him.

“Lan—” she gasps, her back arching as if trying to escape, though every fiber of her betrays that she wants more.

“Come on, baby,” he says, increasing the pace. “You can give me one more. You're doing so well, I know you can,” his voice is a blend of dominance and desire, while his fingers press into her, knowing exactly where to go and how to bend, “Like that, see? So easy for me to read you. I could fuck my fingers into your pretty hole all night long and you'd still come for me every single time, wouldn't you, baby?”

Shaking, she clings to his neck, crying out his name in spasms. He loops his free arm around her, gently kissing her cheek — a gesture so tender and innocent that makes her heart grow ten times in size.

She grips his shoulder with one hand, her eyes closing in pleasure. “I can’t—” she chokes, the words tumbling out between ragged breaths.

In an attempt to get her power back, she tries to push at his wrist, but his arm steadies her, determined.

“Of course you can, love,” says Lando, his voice a gentle command, the firmness in his tone like a driver refusing to lift his foot off the pedal, curious to see how far he can take it.

Her hand clenches around his arm as his thumb presses against her clit with ruthless precision. She reacts on instinct, muscles coiling tight as she bucks against his hand, not sure what controls her body anymore, since her brain got disconnected long ago. The slik rhythm of Lando's fingers becomes too much, and she knows she's close when he starts curling them inside at the perfect angle.

“La— Fuck, baby, that feels so good,” her voice is a high-pitched cry now, laced with desperation. “I’m going—”

“I know, baby. So pretty. Look at you, making such a mess for me,” he urges, leaning in to kiss her neck.

Her body tightens as pleasure explodes within her, blinding and all-consumming — a full-throttle sensation, unrelenting in its intensity. She sobs his name as liquid warmth spills from her pussy, coating Lando’s fingers. He doesn’t stop there, though, his hand continuing its pace, coaxing every last wave of her climax as his arm holds her securely against him.

“God, I've missed you.”

When her breathing slows down, he falls down on top of her, burying his head in the crook of her neck. Her legs shake slightly, and her fingers curl weakly into his bare chest as he cradles her close.

Lando presses a tender kiss against her temple, his voice filling the quiet. “It wasn’t acciedntal,” he confesses.

She blinks rapidly, tilting her head to look at him, confused, “What?”

“Earlier,” Lando clarifies, “You said I was accidentally waltzing back into your life — it wasn’t accidental,” he repeats.

“What do you mean?”

Lando places a few more kisses on the heated skin of her neck, sucking in a couple of bruises, the gesture meant to buy himself more time for the storm raging in his head to stop.

“Lando,” she pulls him out of it.

“Been trying to figure out how to do this for a while. I just… couldn’t stay away from you anymore,” he admits, looking up at her, his eyes pleading. “I had Max playing detective while I was away.”

She pushes him off her to sit up on the bed, pulling at the edges of her dress. “Seriously, what?” her tone is not defensive — at least not yet — but there’s a sharpness to it that cuts into him.

“No, I didn’t mean it like that,” he rushes to explain, “Look, I didn’t stalk you or anything. Nor Max,” he continues, getting up to stand next to her. “I didn’t even know where you lived until you brought me here. I swear.”

She wraps her arms around her own body, needing something to ground herself, “What did you do, Lando?” the girl asks, her voice quieter now.

He swallows, “I just asked him to check in on you. To see if you were okay.”

“And how did he do that?”

“He saw you tagged in a pic on this girl's account, and then did some research on the people you were with, paid some dudes to find out if their records were clean—” he starts chuckling when her fist hits his shoulder, playfully, but still with intent.

“Don’t be a dick,” she warns, her smile giving away the fact that she’s still amused by his immature sense of humor.

“I just… didn’t want to simply appear out of nowhere if you were happy. If you’d moved on,” Lando continues, his tone more serious now. “But when he told me you seemed like you hadn’t, I couldn’t keep pretending like I was fine. I'm really not.”

His honesty was always a breath of fresh air, but now it's suffocating. Hearing him admitting he's not okay, implying that she's the reason why, is simply heartbreaking.

Her arms drop slowly to her sides, her fingers gripping the edge of the bed, “Why now, Lando? And why not text or call?”

He scoffs, “Can you look me in the eye and tell me honestly that you would have picked up if I called? Especially given how we left things?”

She cups Lando’s chin in the palm of her hand, forcing him to look at her, “I'll always pick up if it's you.”

The admission makes his chest tighten.

Lando shakes his head, “I promise I’ve tried,” he says, “God, I’ve fucking tried. I threw myself into everything, and nothing worked. Racing, training, sim sessions, going out with the guys — no matter what I did, I was constantly thinking of you. Every night out felt wrong because I wasn’t coming home to you. And I know home is such a vague word for me, because I’m mostly away, but you made every single place feel like home, and that's why it didn't matter where I was at the time. I just needed… need you in ways I can't nor want to explain.”

His confession makes her head spin. The breakup had been difficult for her, but she hadn’t considered how Lando had handled the past five months. All along, she had assumed he wouldn’t miss her — that his life, always on the road and consumed by his own pursuits, was too busy to notice the absence of one small, insignificant detail: her.

She's now realizing how wrong she had been to think that way.

“So…?” she finally asks. “Do you think a few orgasms later can mend what was broken five months ago?”

“What? No, of course not,” he says firmly, leaning forward, his elbows digging into his thighs. “I swear, all I wanted to do tonight was talking to you. I didn’t plan on getting to this point, but I can’t say I’m mad about it,” says Lando, taking her hand in his, brushing his thumb over her knuckles. “You still want me,” she shoots Lando a rapid look, studying his face, “Just like I want you. I see it, I feel it. Baby, I know it.”

Her heart pounds in her chest, the sincerity in his voice cutting through her defenses like a hot knife through butter. She wants to be angry, to accuse him of being selfish, but the truth is, she isn’t. Maybe it’s foolish to believe him, but one thing Lando never did was lie to her. He did worse, yes, but he never lied.

“Lando...” she starts, but her voice trails off, wishing her head would stop spinning so she could think.

“I know I hurt you,” he continues, his voice softer now, “You hurt me. We hurt each other. But we're too good together not to find a way to make it work.”

She doesn’t respond immediately, her mind racing with memories of their past — the good, especially the bad, and everything else in between. Her fingers toy with the fabric of her dress, her eyes flickering between his face and the floor. The room is heavy with silence and, just for a moment, she lets herself believe that maybe, just maybe, they could find each other again.

Otherwise, if it's meant to fall apart, then let it happen with them gasping for air, tangled together, connected in every way imaginable.

THE MORNING SUN filters shyly through the curtains, soft and golden, spilling across the bed where Lando stirs awake. He’s all alone, the sheets around him rumpled from where she had slept. He blinks up at the ceiling, a little disoriented. Then, he hears the faint sound of running water and realizes she’s in the shower. It makes him feel like everything went back to normal, but he can't be sure of what's going to happen next. He can only speculate and hope, but nothing more than that.

The quiet is interrupted by the persistent buzz of his phone on the nightstand. He reaches for it, still groggy from sleep, scrolling through a handful of texts from last night — banter in the group chat, some Instagram notifications, a few missed calls; nothing too important to catch his eye. He places the phone back on the smooth surface carelessly, and his hand knocks over something solid in the process.

Frowning, he sits up to put it back in its place, and that’s when he sees it — a framed picture of them, taken during a rare quiet weekend in Monaco over a year ago, right at the beginning of their relationship. She looked so happy back then, caught mid-laugh as Lando was gazing at her with an expression so tender that it makes his chest ache now. The weight of the memory hits him harder than he expects, pulling him fully awake.

The sound of the bathroom door opening makes him turn, and he puts the frame back quickly. However, it's enough for her to catch his sudden movement, her eyes flicking to the photo and back to him.

Her cheeks flush a deep pink. “I meant to put that away,” she rushes to say, pulling the towel tighter around her body like it might shield her from the embarrassment.

“Carlos took this one,” his voice is soft, as his eyes shift back to the frame. He picks it up again, turning it in his hands. “You asked me why didn't I call, but… why didn't you call?”

She laughs dryly, crossing the space to take the frame from his hand and placing it face down on the nightstand. She sits down next to him, shrugging.

“And tell you what, Lando? That I couldn’t stop thinking about you even though you broke my heart?” she asks, shaking her head, the embarrassment turning into something closer to frustration. “It’s just a stupid picture, anyway. We barely knew each other when it was taken.”

“It’s not stupid,” he contradicts her vehemently. His hand reaches out tentatively, brushing against her soft forearm. “It's nice to know I wasn’t completely crazy for hoping you felt the same.”

Her lips part like she wants to say something, but no words come out. The towel slips slightly, and she clutches it tighter, her defenses crumbling under the weight of his hungry eyes.

“Lando…”

“Leave it there, yeah?” he says, pointing at the picture. “Facing your side of the bed, preferably.”

Seeing her suddenly deep in thought, Lando grabs her wrist and gently pulls her onto his lap, his thumb lightly brushing against her silky skin.

She looks at him, her emotions warring on her face. “If it makes me look less pathetic, it was face down most of the time.”

Lando laughs, his hands finding her waist, then her hips, steadying her on his lap, “I love you,” he says it casually, but it still freezing the blood in her veins.

Her fingers fly towards his mouth to cover his lips, “Don't,” she warns.

“You know I do. I was serious last night. You don't have to decide anything right now, but I'm not going anywhere. It sucks we needed to hurt for a while, we're both at fault, but I never stopped loving you,” he repeats.

“You're so unfair.”

“Don't care, say it back,” he teases, digging his fingers into her skin to tickle her sides.

She starts giggling, “Don't you dare.”

His grin widens, “Or what?” he asks playfully as her hands fly to his, trying to fend him off.

“Lando, I'm serious. Stop it,” her laughter blends with his while he leans in closer, his lips brushing her ear.

“I need to hear it, baby. Please. Just say it back.”

“It back,” she chuckles, feeling his fingers tickling her so mercilessly that tears form in her eyes. Their laughter bubbles over, loud and uninhibited, until she collapses against him. “Okay, fine. Fine,” her breathy voice stops him in place, catching his attention. “I love you, Lando.”

A simple confession; he asked for it. But none of them expected it to hang that heavily between them. It's not a lie — not in the slightest — and Lando knows it.

“Enough to give us a second chance?” he asks.

Her breath catches at the sudden shift in his tone, and before she can reply, his thumb traces her cheek gently.

“I'm so scared,” she admits, leaning into his touch.

Lando sighs, understanding too well where she's coming from, “I know, baby. But I'm even more afraid of losing us again. Losing this…”

His hand slides down her chest, tracing the curve of her breasts. With a gentle movement, he tugs at the corner of her towel, letting it drip smoothly down her body. Patiently, he runs his hands down her waist, moving back up to her chest as they leave goosebumps in their wake. Hungry, his hands rest on her breasts, squeezing them lightly until he feels her nipples in his palms, and she drops her head on his shoulder, whimpering softly.

Memories of last night make her body shudder, feeling the heat between her legs intensifying. Following his lead, her fingers start tugging at the waistband of his boxers, until they slip low on his hips.

Lando moves one hand around her neck, pulling her in for a kiss. He groans against her mouth, his breath hot and ragged, before breaking their connection long enough to kick the boxers aside.

Skin on skin, their bodies align like two puzzle pieces.

She hovers over him, his hands on either side of her, “I wanna take care of you,” he speaks softly, closing his eyes when her forehead rests against his. “Please, let me take care of you.”

There’s a vulnerability in his tone that twists something deep inside her. She's just learned how to be independent again. She can't throw all of it away. She can't let herself slip.

She can't.

“Okay,” she whispers, her voice steady despite the storm raging within her.

Her answer is all that Lando needs to hear. His lips crash back onto hers as he swaps their positions, lowering her onto the bed, his body pressing against hers, warm and solid. And so very real. Every touch, every kiss, every whispered word feels like a promise, a vow that he won’t let her slip through his fingers again.

And then, Lando takes control — not the type of dominance he's used to when he steers his car. It's more like devotion; his hands map her body all over again, like a driver learning every twist and turn of a new circuit, his lips following the trail his fingers blaze.

She arches into his touch, responding to him in ways she thought she’d forgotten.

But the body remembers.

And the remembering is, oh, so good.

Last night was just the warm-up, she reckons — an act meant to remind both of them how well they fit together. Lando was gentle, kind, and patient. But now, she sees the shift in him.

His eyes are darker, filled with lust, his touch greedier. She can't help but smile when she realizes that the Lando she knows all too well — the one who’s needy, insatiable, and unrelenting in his desire for her — is still there, and so ready to show off.

Her skin tingles in anticipation as she watches him, knowing exactly what he wants. And for once, she wants it just as much. Maybe even more, considering how her body is acting independently from her brain.

She wants him to give her everything, to burn through her until she’s left gasping and wet and ruined, and she’s ready to meet his hunger with her own.

But before that, “We're not done talking,” she tells him, breathing heavily against his mouth.

“Yeah, we'll talk. Stay with me and we'll talk all you want, baby.”

She wants to protest, but her air gets knocked out of her lungs and her fingernails sink into his shoulders when Lando nudges the head of his cock up and down her slit to collect the wetness. With a gentle kiss on her jaw, she closes her eyes, tracing her fingers down his arms as he pushes inside.

They both exhale, relieved that they're back where they belong.

Talking can wait.

Lando's hands grip her waist just as he pulls out, only to push back in, all the way to the hilt in one slow, but hard thrust. The feeling is almost too much for her, which is ridiculous since he just started moving. But she feels so full, and the sounds he lets out only make her open up for him even more.

“Wait, wait,” she can barely recognize her own voice, stopping Lando when their hips touch together.

She can't explain it, but she needs it.

“What's wrong?”

She looks down between their bodies, confusing Lando even more. “I…,” she begins, but she's not sure how she's supposed to voice her need.

“It's okay, you can tell me,” he assures her, bringing his hand to cup her face in his palm, tracing his thumb over her cheek.

“I—need a second to feel you,” she explains, pushing his hand away only to trace her palms over her face.

Lando chuckles, “Baby, don't hide from me. You're driving me fucking mad when you're blushing.”

“I'm not blushing,” she contradicts him, raising her hips against his, her walls hugging him tighter with every move.

“No?” whispers Lando roughly as if he lost his voice. “God, you're perfect. So good, so fucking sweet and perfect around me, baby.”

Her legs tighten around his waist, keeping him inside, while one hand moves to his lower back to push him against her even more. There is no physical space left between them, but she still wants more. It only makes Lando's cock throb inside her pussy, giving her a few more seconds to adjust to his length before he pulls all the way out and slides back, searching for the perfect pace.

“Fuck, Lando,” she whines, burying her fingers into his hair, tugging at the roots.

“Yes, I know,” agrees Lando, his eyes flicking over her face. His insides tighten at the sight of her parting her lips in pleasure, her breathing hot and irregular. “You're so beautiful from this angle.”

“Shut up,” she cuts him off, which makes Lando chuckle again.

“Why would I?” he asks, leaning closer to her ear, while thrusting a couple more times before pausing. “You look like a fucking goddess taking my cock so well.”

She squeezes her eyes shut at the sound of his voice, low and raspy, rocking her hips to find that sweet friction against her walls again.

“Keep,” she whines, “Keep going, then. Let me have it.”

Lando presses his lips on hers at the same time he resumes his movements, his hands roaming all over her body.

“You can have my cock, baby,” he groans into her hair. “All yours.”

She nods, wrapping her fingers around his biceps, “Yeah?”

“Promise you,” says Lando.

After that, he picks up pace, both falling into an agonizing rhythm. All this time, she had thought that familiarity might dull the edge of being with Lando, that knowing his moves would make it predictable and boring, maybe even ordinary.

Somehow, it’s the exact opposite.

It’s because she knows him, and he knows her so well, that every touch feels ecstatic, every kiss charged with meaning. He doesn’t need to guess what she likes; he already knows how to unravel her, how to leave her trembling and breathless. And she knows exactly what will make his breath hitch, how to draw out that low, desperate groan that ignites her own fire.

In a way, every time feels like the first, but it's always much better, because they know how to make each other fall apart like no one else can.

“Please,” she gasps, breathing wetly in his shoulder. “Harder.”

One thing about Lando, he's always been good at listening. Without thinking twice, he tightens his grip on her hips, fucking his cock inside her harder and faster than before. In an instant, her ears are blessed with the way his moans sound.

“God, I've missed fucking my pretty girl like this,” says Lando, his hands moving on her thighs to spread her more so he can slide in faster. “It's never like this, baby, fuck.”

Being with Lando is chaos, the kind of beautiful, consuming chaos that leaves everything around them in shambles. They are loud and messy, and everything is sweaty and wet and sticky. He kisses her like he’s starving, touches her like he’s desperate to memorize every inch of her skin, and she matches his fervor, meeting him with the same wild energy that pulls them under. Together.

“Lando,” she spits his name out of her mouth in short spasms. “Lando, Lan… Lando.”

It's almost like a cry for help, but she doesn't need saving. Not when he's fucking her so good, slamming against her over and over again, until the outside world fades away and all she remembers is his name.

“Lando,” she whimpers again.

“Keep me in, love. Like that,” she can barely hear him over the sound of skin slapping on skin. “Fuck. You're taking me so well, I won't stop fucking you, baby. I won't—”

She sucks in a breath of air, her body buzzing with pleasure. Wrapping her arms around his torso, she can feel how hot and sweaty his chest is. She moves with him for a couple more thrusts before she lets go, the sound of Lando fucking in and out of her while she comes so obscene that it makes her eyes roll.

“I'll never get tired of seeing you coming like that,” says Lando, pinning her to the bed, his cock feeling so fucking good inside of her that it makes him see stars. “So fucking hot, baby.”

Her nails scratch the skin of his back as her pussy clenches around his length, forcing another hiss out of Lando's mouth.

“Don't stop,” she manages to say, even though she feels her throat raw.

“Ah, look at you, now. Being so good for me,” says Lando with a smirk, tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Letting me have my way with you when you're sore and spent. And so wet, baby, you're dripping all around my cock. Fucking hell.”

Lando's jaw clenches, a visible battle playing out in his face as his breath hitches. She feels him moving deeper, hitting the sweet spot inside her, sending ripples of pleasure through her body with every thrust.

“Yes—fuck. Don't stop,” she repeats.

His eyes widen as he tries to hold on for as long as he can, but it's hard when he flashes his eyes in her direction and catches her already looking. It doesn't take long for him to realize there's a replica to her first orgasm. He nods, without saying anything else, bringing his hand up to her neck. She places hers on top of his, not to push it away, but to let it rest there as a sign that it's fine to claim her if that's what Lando needs.

And that's enough for him to lose it.

“Baby,” he breaths out, fucking her slopply, any sense of order dissolving under the weight of their eye contact.

She arches into him, her fingers trembling as they rise to cup his face.

“Keep your eyes on me,” she demands, her voice a desperate need.

She pictured that face thousands of times in the past months, but nothing compares to this. Lando groans at the command, his hooded gaze staying on hers. The intensity of his expression nearly undoes her again — his pupils blown wide, lips parted as he lets out s string of cuss words.

“That's it, pretty boy,” she whispers, her thumb brushing over his cheek as he moves inside her, his pace faltering for just a moment before he snaps back into thay sloppy rhythm, chasing his release. “Want to see you when you let go.”

She barely finishes her sentence when his orgasm crashes over him like a tsunami; no one would be able to even tell where she begins and where he ends.

Lando looks so beautiful and wrecked, and she drinks in every second of his surrender.

Beautiful, beautiful, beautiful.

When his features soften, she sees how vulnerable he is, and it leaves her breathless.

Satisfied and content, her fingers still trace his face, wanting to remember the exact way he looks in this moment, when he is completely hers.

Unable to support his weight, Lando collapses on top of her, feeling his body as light as a feather, which is so far from the truth. But she doesn't mind; she loves the feeling, actually. She loves the heaviness, and the way he keeps his cock tucked deep inside her, wet and softening slowly, not allowing his cum to leak out of her.

Descending back down from their high, the only sounds in the room are their slowing breaths and the soft rustle of the sheets. It's hard not to notice the weight of reality when it begins to creep in around the edges.

She lies beneath him, her fingers lazily tracing patterns on his back, but her mind is miles away.

“When are you leaving?” she finally asks, her voice barely above a whisper.

Lando tenses for a moment, then shifts to lie beside her, propping his head on his hand to look at her. The vulnerability in her eyes twists something deep inside him.

She swallows hard, suddenly flooded by all the reasons they had fought, all the late nights filled with misunderstandings and misaligned priorities. She remembers all the reasons why they broke up, and thinking how bad of an idea this has been. Because, how can she let go of him again, without feeling like she'll be losing both her head and heart in the process.

“On Tuesday,” says Lando softly. “But not how you think.”

Her brow furrows in confusion as she turns to face him. “What do you mean?”

Lando leans over, his hand caressing her cheek as he gathers his thoughts.

“I’ve been thinking about us for months. Since you left, actually,” he begins, his voice low and deliberate. “I had a lot of time, and I managed to figure out why it didn’t work before, why I couldn’t give you what you deserved. So… I’ve talked to the team.”

She almost stops breathing, her eyes widening in his direction while she waits for him to continue. Months ago, she would've die to have this conversation, and now that it happens, she doesn't know how to behave.

“I'm working on a schedule. To have more time for us,” Lando explains.

Her heart skips a beat. “You’d do that?”

“For us,” he repeats, his voice firm. “I can’t keep pretending I’m okay without you. I don't want to be okay without you, it's stupid. And I don’t want to keep coming back here, hoping for a second chance, only to mess it up again. I want to get it right this time.”

She stares at him, not knowing what to do with that information. This is not the Lando she knows. The recklessness and impulsivity got replaced by caution and planning the steps ahead. It's new, and exciting, and it makes her tear up.

“And what if it still doesn’t work?” she asks, her voice small.

He leans closer, his forehead touching hers. “It will.”

His tone is so definitive that she can't say anything else, letting the silence stretch between them as she searches Lando's face for any sign of hesitation.

There’s none.

“How... did you actually know where to find me last night?”

Lando smirks, studying her face with half-closed eyes, bringing his hand to her jaw. “That friend of yours posted on her story. Honestly, I didn’t know you were going to be there. But I hoped.”

She shakes her head, scoffing, “Stalker behavior.”

Lando shrugs nonchallantly, “I just happened to be nearby,” he chuckles.

“Lucky me,” she says, tracing the contour of his nose with her finger, stopping on his jaw.

“Lucky us,” he corrects, pulling her in for another kiss.

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© trashy track tales, 2024

[cyber333angel]

KINKTOBER DAY ONE -

COCKWARMING WITH LOGAN HOWLETT

it was a late movie night for the two of you, cuddling up with a bowl of popcorn while you watch horror films and sneak little kisses to each other. logan has his hand around your waist, fondling at the fabric that rests on your tummy as you giggle and swat his hand away at the ticklish movement. you snuggle your head into the pocket of his neck, breathing in the musky smell that always makes you feel so at ease, but the more you breath him in the more you feel that wet spot spreading in your panties. getting needier by the second as you rub your thighs together trying to contain yourself, by now you should know that logan takes note of every little thing you do, he knows you almost more than you do yourself and he proves that when he makes a little comment, picking up your head to face him. “you alright bub, what’s going on down here?” he says teasingly placing his hands on your thigh, smiling while you wince in embarrassment that he caught even your slightest movements.

you nod your head in a yes motion, your breath hitching as you spread your legs apart and snuggle closer to him. “m’alright lo, i just need you..” you say with a slight whine, kissing at his neck greedily, moving on to his lap to be closer to him. feeling his hands crawl around your waist as you suck at his lips, almost moaning into his mouth while you try to tug off his clothes — where logan stops you, holding your hands as you pause and look at him wondering what happened. “I know you just want me to just put it in bubba but you gotta work for it first.” he says, completely serious as if you have time to play games right now. “but-“ you go to argue but your shushed before you even say your defense. “nope no easy way like usual, you want me to make you feel good or not?” and of course you do, so you nod your head not knowing how mhch hard work it would take to get your way.

and that’s how you end up facing the TV screen with your back pressed up against logans chest, his cock buried into your cunt as you struggle to sit still. trying to quit your constant squirming as if it isn’t difficult to have all his girthy length wedged into the deepest parts of you, you peek behind him and see him watching the movie still with a beer in one hand and his other gripping your hip sternly. throughout the movie he tries to quiet your whimpers, grabbing your jaw to whisper some disapproving remark, acting like this isn’t the hardest thing for you. you only want to relieve the stretching feeling that’s in your cunt and you had been good so far. it was a little difficult at the beginning where logan had to keep telling you to sit down, having to hold your thighs in place while you whined about how much you needed to move. but at the nearing last 10 minutes of the movie and you think you can make it. “doing so good for me baby I knew you could do it..” he says slivering up his hand to your neck, holding it gently as he leaves trails of kisses up and down you neck to your back. the warm suction of his lips distracting you and and it’s like your hips have a mind of its own, guiding yourself back and forth on his dick so it hits you in all the right places. “mm logan i can’t take it anymore! I need to move s’too much!” you can hear his response close to your ear, hearing the greed in his sweet baritone voice as he finally says yes to your pleads. “of course baby, you were such a good fucking girl it’s time you get your reward right?”

[mandalhoerian]

spiderman oc dump in the tags because idk how to add read more in my ancient iphone6. im still building her and the fic so please go easy on me LMAO

(the fic is going to be called “mirror’s edge” and you’ll know why in the tags if you decide to read BSKSKSK I just want to get this off my system rn)

[ylangelegy]

smooth operator 🏎️ seokmin x reader.

a lot of drivers were friends with their race engineer. one had to be, considering how closely the two roles overlapped. now, drivers who were in love with their race engineer— a slightly smaller club. perhaps with only one member, even.

★ f1 racer!seokmin x ferrari race engineer!reader. ★ word count: 7.4k ★ genre/warnings: alternate universe: formula one, seokmin has a crush, literally seokmin as carlos sainz, pining... so much pining..., fluff -ish, hint of angst. cussing/swearing; mentions of a surgery, crash. ★ footnotes: watched 10 carlos sainz reels in a row and this is what i have to show for it. this is literally just 'if seokmin was carlos + if seokmin was in loveee with his engineer'. turned out much, much longer than i anticipated. not proofread. (it's 5am. have mercy.) once again, all f1 inaccuracies are mine. for obvious reasons: dedicated to @diamonddaze01. papaya forever, baby. 🧡

Seokmin has always known he was down bad for you, but he didn’t realize just how bad it was until the news broke. 

It came in the form of an email. RE: Your future at Ferrari, it proclaimed, and Seokmin had opened it anticipating the details of his contract renewal. Joshua was already locked in with an extension that spanned several more seasons; surely Seokmin would be given a similar deal. 

Instead, he’d been given an apology, an explanation, and a warning that the media would be in on it by tomorrow noon.

His future with Ferrari was virtually nonexistent. And stupidly, foolishly, his first thought had been whether you already knew. 

The next 24 hours tick by slowly. It takes everything in Seokmin to not seek you out, to ask what you think about the whole affair. Thankfully, he doesn’t have to wait for too long. 

You text mere minutes after the article is published. Two messages.

First, a link to the article that Seokmin doesn’t even bother to read. The headline is enough. Yoon to make shock switch from Mercedes to Ferrari for the 2025 season. 

Second, a GIF of a penguin cocking its head to one side. Three question marks pop up over its head. 

It’s exactly the kind of levity that Seokmin needs. He huffs out a laugh, which sounds just a little too hollow in the emptiness of his apartment.

His fingers fly over his screen, and he shoots back a response before he can think too deeply of it. Come over?

He doesn’t have to ask twice. You already don’t deny him on a regular day. How much more when he’s lost his seat at the Scuderia? 

You’re ringing Seokmin’s doorbell in an hour. He stumbles over to the front door, sleep-deprived and still a bit dazed. He’s greeted to the sight of you with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy in one hand and a bottle of Pinot Noir in the other. 

“Record time,” Seokmin says, his voice coming out as a bit of a rasp. 

“Tragic circumstances call for efficiency,” you declare, stepping inside like you own the place. Maybe you do, in a way. Seokmin’s apartment has always felt a little more like home with you in it.

He toes the door shut and watches as you march straight to the kitchen, like this is a mission and not a lunchtime grief counseling session. You plop the ice cream and wine onto the counter, and before he can protest, you’re already reaching for two spoons and a corkscrew.

“No glasses?” he muses, leaning against the doorframe.

You toss him a look over your shoulder. “Are you feeling civilized right now?”

“Depends who’s asking,” he says. 

He crosses the room, plucking the corkscrew from your hand and making quick work of the bottle. You trade him a spoon in exchange, and within minutes, you’re both parked on his couch— knees tucked up, shoulders brushing— passing the pint and bottle back and forth like it’s some sort of sacrament.

A lot of drivers were friends with their race engineer. One had to be, considering how closely the two roles overlapped.

Now, drivers who were in love with their race engineer— a slightly smaller club. Perhaps with only one member, even. 

Seokmin tries not to think of it. He doesn’t have the time to pine. 

“It’s over.” His voice is quieter than he means for it to be. The weight of it all is settling in, sinking into the cushions, pressing against his ribs. “They kept Joshua. They signed Jeonghan. I’m out.” 

Your spoon pauses mid-air. “It’s Ferrari,” you say after a beat. “They’ve dropped bigger legends.”

Seokmin knows that. He’s spent the past ten years worshiping this sport, its brutality, its politics. He should’ve seen it coming, should’ve braced for impact. Instead, he let himself believe that winning was enough.

You shift slightly, angling towards him. “Let’s focus on the next day, at least. What’s your plan?” you ask, your tone as even as ever. 

“That depends,” he says, flicking his gaze up to meet yours. “Do I get to be bitter first, or do I have to be a good sport immediately?”

Your lips curve. “I think you get 48 hours of being insufferable before you have to post the Notes app apology.”

“God,” he groans, “the worst part.”

You hum in agreement, nudging his knee with yours. “The public statement. The classic ‘Forever grateful to Ferrari for the opportunity’ while you cry into your pillow.”

Seokmin exhales something close to a laugh. “You know me too well.”

“Obviously.”

Maybe it’s the exhaustion. Maybe it’s the wine. Maybe it’s just you, sitting here in his apartment like you belong in every part of his life, like you always have. But when you shift closer, your hand resting on his knee, Seokmin feels the terrifying urge to be honest.

I’m going to miss you, he wants to say. What am I going to do without you? 

The words feel a little too raw, a little too real for one in the afternoon, so he clears his throat and grasps at straws for anything else. “We still have the season,” he says. “You haven’t gotten rid of me yet.”

When you flash him a smile, it’s not pitying. He’s grateful for that, at least. But then your words come— a quiet “I never wanted to be rid of you, idiot”— and it feels like getting shot in the chest. 

Ten years on the grid, and this season is shaping up to be his longest one yet. 

“Okay, Seok. We need a push now.” 

Your voice crackles through the radio, even over the high-pitched wail of the engine and the deafening wind tearing past his helmet. Lap 43 of 57, and he’s sitting in P5 with Seungcheol of Red Bull breathing down his neck. 

Seokmin exhales sharply, flexing his fingers against the wheel. He’s already wrung everything he can out of this car, dragging it through tire degradation and the lingering sting of betrayal.

And yet— your voice. Always your voice. Firm, steady, unwavering. The only thing in this whole mess that still belongs to him.

“Copy,” he says, forcing the word out between grit teeth. “Mode push.”

He flicks the necessary settings, shifts the brake balance forward, and readies himself to defend like his life depends on it. If not his life, then his dignity, at the very least.

A month ago, he would have thought differently. A month ago, Seokmin would have driven with Ferrari in his blood, believing he’d wear the red until he retired. But now? Now he drives for himself.

He’s collateral damage in a bombshell deal. Everybody wants to know where Lee Seokmin is heading next, and the worst part is that Seokmin himself doesn’t really know the answer to that question. 

He doesn’t want to see past this race. Right now, he’s only focused on two things: The checkered flag at the finish line, and the sound of your voice. 

Seokmin’s tires scream through the tight left-hander, the rear twitching as he corrects with practiced ease. Red Bull’s poster boy is still there, looming in Seokmin’s mirrors, but the latter holds the racing line. If Seungcheol wants to pass, he’ll have to fight for it.

The radio crackles again. “Good job. Hold him there. We’ve got better traction through the final sector.”

Your voice sounds closer than it should. He pictures you back at the pit wall, one hand on the radio, the other gripping the edge of the desk like you always do when things get tense. He wonders if you’re biting your lip, if your brows are furrowed in that way they always are when you worry about him.

God, he hopes they keep you next year. Even if he won’t be here to see it.

He pushes the thought away.

Lap 50. He’s still P5, but now Joshua is ahead of him, just over a second up the road. A small window of opportunity. A flicker of a chance. And maybe it’s stupid— maybe it’s reckless— but he’s already lost everything once. What’s one more risk?

“I can catch him,” he says into the radio, adjusting his brake migration. “If I get DRS, I can make a move.”

There’s a beat of contemplative silence. Then, your voice, pure as the driven snow: “You’ve got margin on the tires. Go get him.”

And just like that, the weight in his chest lifts.

Not because of Ferrari. Not because of the podium he probably won’t reach today. But because of you. Because for as long as he’s still here, you’re still rooting for him. 

If this is his last season in red, then he’ll make damn sure it’s a season worth remembering.

Lap 53.

The gap is closing. Slowly, surely.

Joshua is right there, his rear wing flashing ahead of Seokmin as they charge down the straight. A year ago, they might have laughed about this over dinner. Two Ferrari boys fighting for position.

But now, Seokmin’s stomach twists with something sharper. It’s not just a battle for P4— it’s a battle to prove he still belongs.

The radio crackles. “You’re within DRS range. We’re good on battery deployment. You know what to do.”

It’s not just a call. It’s a challenge. A test of how much fight Seokmin has left in him.

Your challenge.

He flicks open the rear wing, heart hammering against his ribs as the Ferrari rockets forward. The slipstream pulls him in, closer, closer—

Lap 54.

“You’re faster,” you hiss. “Stay patient.”

But patience has never been Seokmin’s strong suit.

Into Turn 1, he feints a move down the inside. Joshua covers it, just like Seokmin knew he would. That’s fine. He’s setting this up.

Through the chicane, Seokmin stays glued to the rear of the other Ferrari, tires protesting, the car twitching under him. He barely feels it. All he feels is the thrill of the hunt, the way his blood sings with the sheer want of it.

He pulls out.

Joshua squeezes him to the edge of the track, but Seokmin is already committed. Late on the brakes, he sends it down the inside, and he’s through.

The rear wiggles. He catches it. His tires scream in protest, but he keeps the car steady.

Lap 55.

“Nice move.” Your tone is clipped. You don’t seem entirely approving of his little stunt, though he doesn’t miss the edge of pride in your voice as you go on to say, “P4.”

His breath comes out in a rush. The job isn’t done. He forces himself to breathe, to focus, to bring the car home.

Lap 57.

The checkered flag waves. Seokmin crosses the line. P4.

It’s not a podium. It’s not a win. But considering where he was two weeks ago, drowning in uncertainty, it feels like something.

“Good job, Seok,” you say, the tension finally slipping from your voice. “That was a hell of a move.”

He exhales, slumping back into the seat as the weight of the race settles in. “Told you I could catch him,” he breathes, exhaustion laced with something lighter. Something almost like relief.

You laugh— soft, fond, like you knew all along.

And maybe that’s the real victory today.

Every press cycle has been absolute fucking hell to Seokmin as of late. 

The reporters are relentless. The vloggers, even more so. All of them want to know what it was like in the room where it happened. Did Jeonghan tell you? What did Joshua say? Where are you heading next? 

The third question hounded Seokmin across every race, in every damn country. It didn’t matter if he finished P1 or dead last. There would always be somebody demanding to know about his discussions with rival teams, his campaign for a new seat. 

The only thing keeping Seokmin tethered nowadays is you. 

The paddock is still a mess when Seokmin slips out of the press conference room. Cameras flash, reporters murmur, and somewhere in the distance, he can hear the unmistakable click of keyboards as people rush to twist his words into headlines.

His head pounds. His chest aches. He hates this part.

But then he sees you.

You’re waiting just beyond the media pen, arms crossed, eyes tracking his every move. The moment you meet his gaze, you offer him a smile.

It’s enough. It’s everything. It’s what keeps him on his feet, keeps him from running. 

You don’t say anything as he approaches. Just fall into step beside him, like always.

The two of you walk in silence for a while, weaving through the throngs of paddock staff and fans. He should say something, should at least try to make a joke about how many times he had to dodge questions about next season. For once, Seokmin can’t summon the energy.

When you finally speak, it’s in a delicate tone. “You did good today.”

A podium finish at Suzuka. Didn’t matter, he almost says. 

“Did I?” he asks just for the sake of asking. 

Your elbow bumps his. “Yeah. You did.”

Seokmin’s throat goes tight. There it is again. That urge to give you a piece of his heart; the whole damn thing, even. Before he can figure out how to respond, a kid— maybe ten, eleven years old— appears at his side, clutching a crumpled receipt, of all things, and a Sharpie.

“Hi,” the kid squeaks, staring up at Seokmin with wide eyes. “Could you sign this, please?” 

A practiced smile slots onto Seokmin’s face. It’s instinct. Years of muscle memory. He takes the receipt, uncaps the marker, and scribbles Forza Ferrari. 

Except— when Seokmin dots the ‘i’— he feels his stomach drop. The words stare back at him in bold, black ink, a painful reminder of everything he’s losing. Without thinking, he drags a line through them, crossing them out in one sharp motion.

He goes on to sign his name in one fluid motion. A bid to make the scrap of paper still somewhat worth it. 

The kid doesn’t notice the weight of the whole thing. “Thanks,” he chirps, practically shaking with excitement. “Can’t wait to see you race next year!”

If there’ll even be a next year, a small voice grouses in the back of Seokmin’s head. 

The kid disappears into the crowd, and Seokmin exhales. He feels your gaze before he looks up. He expects pity, maybe amusement— something that will make this sting even more than it already does. But when he meets your eyes, there’s none of that. Just quiet understanding. 

Seokmin swallows hard. “That was pathetic.”

Your lips twitch, like you’re fighting the urge to be blunt with him. Instead, you tilt your head and speak with that tone that brooks no arguments. 

“It’s hard to unlearn something that meant everything to you,” you say. 

That— yeah. That hits harder than he wants to admit.

Seokmin forces out a breathy chuckle. “I should’ve just written my name,” he mumbles. 

“Would’ve been a boring autograph,” you shoot back. 

He finally looks at you, properly this time, and something in the tension coiled tight in his chest loosens just a little. For the first time all day, Seokmin doesn’t feel like the guy whose seat was stolen. He doesn’t feel like the driver everybody keeps asking what’s next?

He’s just a guy you can joke with, a guy that’s worth one or two of your smiles. And isn’t that better than anything he could possibly be? 

You jerk your chin toward the motorhome. “C’mon, before someone else asks you the same three questions again.”

Seokmin hesitates for half a second before falling into step beside you. This time, it’s easier.

Seokmin is no stranger to discomfort. 

He’s driven through cramping, headaches, even a stomach bug that left him nearly delirious in Singapore one year. He knows how to push through the pain. 

This is different. 

It starts as a dull ache during FP1. A tightness low in his abdomen that he chalks up to dehydration, maybe something off in the hotel buffet.

By FP2, it’s a sharp, twisting pain, bad enough that he’s gritting his teeth through every braking zone. You check in more than usual, probably noticing the way his voice is shaky over the radio, but Seokmin waves it off. He can handle it.

Until he can’t.

By the time the session ends, he’s doubled over in the garage, clutching his side as if he can physically will the pain away. You’re the first person to reach him, your hand pressing to his back, voice edged with concern.

“Lee. What’s wrong?”

He’s sweating, his breath shallow, and yet he registers the use of his surname. You’re seriously worried, which would be endearing if he wasn’t fighting for his life. “Stomach—” A wince cuts through the word. “Hurts. Just give me a sec.”

You exchange a look with the team doctor. Seokmin sees it but ignores it. He doesn’t want to make a scene. He just needs to rest, needs a few hours to sleep it off. But when he straightens up, white-hot pain sears through his side, and he stumbles. 

You catch him just in time. Seokmin knows better than to protest when you whisk him away. 

“Appendicitis,” the doctor confirms, standing in the Ferrari motorhome with a clipboard tucked under one arm. “We need to get him to surgery. The sooner, the better.”

Seokmin sits on the couch, his arms crossed, jaw tight. His entire body protests the thought of stepping away. This isn’t just any race. It’s another chance to prove he still belongs on this grid. After everything, how the hell is he supposed to just sit out?

“Give me painkillers,” he insists. “I’ll race.”

You scoff. “Not an option. You physically cannot drive like this.”

Seokmin shakes his head. “I did FP1 and FP2. I can handle it.”

“Yeah?” You lean against the table, crossing your arms. You’re doing that thing again— the one where your eyes spark like flint. Seokmin has been in enough strategy meetings to know that you’re about to stand on business. 

“And when you’re in the car at 300 kph, and that pain gets worse? When you have to fight through a high-speed corner and your body quits on you?” You don’t wait for an answer. “You know what happens then? You crash. And it won’t just be your race on the line. It’ll be everyone else’s on that track.”

Seokmin presses his lips together, frustration buzzing under his skin. He knows you're right, but it doesn’t make it easier to accept. It feels like one more thing slipping away from him, one more weekend where his name won’t even be in the results.

“You have nothing to prove, Seokmin,” you say, your tone a little more gentle. “Missing one race won’t change anything.”

I have everything to prove, he wants to argue. But you’re right. He can barely sit upright without feeling like his insides are twisting into knots. How the hell is he supposed to survive 50 laps under extreme G-forces?

His shoulders sag, defeat settling in. “Who’s replacing me?”

“Kevin,” you say. “He’s already prepping.” 

Seokmin exhales sharply through his nose. Kevin Moon is the reserve driver, competent and reliable. He deserves the opportunity. Still, it stings. 

You must see it on his face, because your hand brushes against his. “Go get the surgery,” you say. “Heal up. We’ll be waiting for you in Australia.”

Seokmin swallows down the bitterness rising in his throat. 

He gives a tight nod. “Fine,” he mutters. “But if Kevin gets a podium, I’m never letting him hear the end of it.”

You let out a short laugh. “Wouldn’t expect anything less from you,” you say. 

A little later down the line, Seokmin will find himself grateful for that moment, that need to take a step back.

It becomes his first lesson in the art of letting go. 

Seokmin stands in the garage, the faint hum of the mechanics around him barely reaching his ears. He’s staring at the monitor in front of him, but his focus is somewhere else entirely. 

You’re there, of course. You always are. Right by his side, clipboard in hand, ready to guide him through every lap, every decision, every nuance of the race ahead. You’re the steady presence he’s relied on for so long, and if he’s being honest with himself— though he hates to admit it— he’s always relied on you more than he should.

But it’s fine, isn’t it? That was the way of this world. You were his engineer. He had to rely on you, had to trust you, had to believe that you would always have his best interests at heart. 

“Seok,” your voice breaks through his thoughts, steady and familiar, “ready to go?”

He blinks, snapping his gaze back to you. You’re already watching him, waiting for his response, as though you’ve been calling his name for minutes.

“Yeah,” he croaks. “Just making sure I’m locked in.” 

You give him a look, sharp and direct. “Seok, you don’t have to prove anything today. Just focus on driving, okay?”

It’s an echo of the conversation you had back in Saudi Arabia. You have nothing to prove. 

He relies on you. He trusts you. He believes you; he has to. 

“Got it,” he says softly, trying to ignore the way his pulse spikes when your hand briefly rests on his shoulder. 

The feeling is there again, creeping up from somewhere deep inside him. It’s been there for years, lurking just beneath the surface. Every time he sees you, every time you’re close to him, it hits harder.

He watches you walk away, your figure disappearing into the bustle of the team. He should be focusing on the setup, the tire choices, the strategy. Instead, his mind lingers on the way you always seem to know exactly what he needs, even when he doesn’t know himself.

“Seokmin, let’s go,” one of the mechanics calls, pulling him back into the present. He gives a quick nod, his thoughts scattering like dust in the wind as he makes his way to the car. The engine roars to life beneath him, and for a moment, the sound drowns out everything else.

But it doesn’t drown out the thought of you. 

The car hums beneath Seokmin, the engine roaring in his ears as the first few laps blur by in a flurry of tire choices, lap times, and strategies. Through it all, your voice is there. A calm presence in the chaos of the race. Every corner, decision, and lap, you’re there guiding him.

“Seok, we’re on track for a good finish. Keep your pace steady, you’re in control,” you tell him, your voice steady despite the ever-present tension.

He doesn’t respond, not directly, but he doesn’t need to. He’s felt your confidence in him ever since he’s joined Ferrari. And right now, with everything on the line, it’s that confidence that keeps him grounded. It’s what allows him to maintain his rhythm, to focus on each curve of the circuit as if nothing else matters.

Joshua is in his rearview mirror. Seokmin can see him inching closer with every lap. But Seokmin knows what’s at stake now.

“Hold your line. Joshua’s on a similar pace, but we’ve got a slight edge. Keep your head in the game,” you remind him, voice full of calculated precision.

“Copy that,” Seokmin grits out, his grip tightening on the wheel. He’s always been competitive, but now, with everything that’s happened over the last few months— his surgery, the uncertainty, the fact that this might be his last real chance to shine— it feels different. 

He wants this. He needs this. And not just for him, but for you.

It’s the smallest, almost imperceptible shift in his focus. It’s enough to drive him forward, pushing through the pain of the previous laps, the exhaustion, the pressure.

The laps tick down, and the gap between him and Joshua remains narrow, but Seokmin stays patient. He listens for your instructions, adjusting his braking points, taking each turn just a little more precisely, always with you in mind, guiding him through it all.

“We’re on the final stretch. You’ve got this,” you say, and something in your voice makes his heart race even faster. Something between the confidence, the care, and the sheer belief you have in him. 

For a moment, he lets himself daydream. He imagines what it must be like for you to say a different set of words with that unwavering conviction. How I love you might sound in that tone of yours. 

He drives it off. 

The final lap is a blur of speed, precision, and instinct. Joshua is close behind him, too close for comfort, but Seokmin’s hands are steady, his eyes sharp. The pit stops, the strategy, everything comes down to this.

And then it happens.

Seokmin crosses the finish line first.

A burst of emotion, a flood of relief and exhilaration, rushes through him as the roar of the crowd and his team’s cheers come through his earpiece. He doesn’t hear it as much as he feels it. The triumph, the validation, the overwhelming weight of everything he’s been through finally paying off.

None are quite as sweet as the crackle of your voice.

��You’ve done it.” Your tone is filled with something he can’t quite name. Pride, satisfaction, maybe even affection. “That’s three wins, my friend.” 

The third of his career.

The radio goes silent for a beat, and then there’s the unmistakable sound of a cheer rising up behind him, somewhere within the team garage. Ferrari’s first one-two finish since 2022, and it’s Seokmin leading the charge.

“Great job,” Joshua says over the comms, his tone warm but with that familiar competitive edge. He’s close, but Seokmin knows. Joshua knows.

This is Seokmin’s moment.

He pulls into the pit lane, and there’s a minute, just a fleeting one, where everything stops. The noise, the world around him, all of it fades as Seokmin simply sits there, breathing it in.

For a moment, it’s just him and the car. And you.

He pulls off his helmet, breathing in the fresh air as he climbs out of the car. The crew swarms him, congratulating him, but his gaze is immediately drawn to you.

You’re waiting at the pit wall, watching him approach. The smile on your face when he sees you— it’s not something he can ignore, not something he wants to ignore. 

Honestly? At this point, to hell with P1.

That smile of yours is everything he’s worked for.

The car skids across the track, a sickening scrape of metal against asphalt that makes Seokmin’s stomach lurch. 

His hands are already gripping the wheel in tight fists, his foot pressing uselessly on the brake as the car spins. He hears the screech of tires, the crunch of impact, and then— nothing.

Silence, save for the buzzing in his ears, the pounding of his own heartbeat.

“Lee Seokmin,” comes your voice over the comms, sharp with concern, but Seokmin can’t focus on it. He’s still recovering from the shock, still trying to piece together what just happened.

He sees the flashing lights in his rearview mirror, the yellow flags flying high. It’s done.

“Good,” he mutters, though the word feel hollow. His hands are still trembling on the steering wheel, the adrenaline from the spin still pumping through his veins, but he knows what comes next. His race is over thanks to Chwe fucking Vernon. 

He guides the car to the pit lane, the engine a low hum beneath him, but every turn feels heavy. He pulls in and slows to a stop, the team immediately rushing toward him. They don’t even have to say anything. He knows what’s coming. It’s a DNF.

“You alright?” Joshua asks over the radio, a touch of concern in his tone. Seokmin barely acknowledges it, his focus sliding back into the numbness he feels. 

He steps out of the car. There’s a weight on his chest now, something heavier than just the race that’s been lost.

When he’s finally through the media debrief, he stumbles back to the team’s garage, the last of the pit crew still bustling around, cleaning up the mess.

He’s not surprised when he sees you waiting near the back. The way you’re standing, shoulders slightly slumped, tells him you’ve already been waiting for him.

Seokmin doesn’t say anything at first. He just lets the exhaustion crash into him, sinking against the wall as he runs a hand through his hair. The events of the race feel like a blur now, everything moving too fast for him to process. 

“Seokmin,” you start, your voice more gentle than it had been on the comms. You take a couple of steps toward him, but you don’t push. You’ve learned not to press when he’s like this.

Instead, you stand close enough for him to feel your presence, offering him the silent support he’s come to rely on.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen,” he finally admits, voice terse and eyes unfocused. “I was doing okay. Then it just... happened. And I—” He breaks off, the words catching in his throat, frustration and self-doubt mixing together.

You don’t say anything for a moment, letting him work through the silence, but you take a small step forward, closer to him. “It wasn’t your fault,” you say, your voice steady despite the emotions he can hear in it.

You sound as sure of it as you always do. It’s the one thing that makes him feel just a little bit lighter.

“I still wrecked,” Seokmin mutters, his voice heavy. “I still spun out.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But you’re not the only one out there. It happens. What matters is that you're okay.”

Your eyes lock with his, and he sees something there that’s more than just sympathy. Something warm. Something comforting. You’re the only one who can get through to him like this, the only one who knows how to pull him out of his head when he starts spiraling.

You don’t need to say anything else. He doesn’t need more words right now. Just the support, the unspoken understanding that you’re there. That he’s not alone, even when everything feels like it’s slipping away from him.

“I’ve got you,” you say, the words low but steady, grounding him. “We’ll get through it. It’s not over yet.”

For a moment, Seokmin closes his eyes, taking a steadying breath. He can feel the exhaustion and the frustration starting to lift, just a little. With you by his side, he knows he’ll be okay.

It’s a privilege he won’t have for much longer. He doesn’t want to squander what little time he has left with you.

We’ll get through it. That ‘we’ ends with the season, but not today. Today, you’re still his. 

“Yeah,” Seokmin agrees, his voice almost a whisper. “We will.”

The summer break settles in, and with it comes a strange kind of peace.

The buzz of the races fades, the constant media scrutiny dies down. It’s a lot to process— sitting in fifth in the championship with 162 points, knowing the season has been one of his best yet, but that it’ll all soon come to an end.

And there’s a matter of the news, too. It breaks like wildfire. 

Seokmin is at his apartment, staring blankly at his phone screen, watching the notifications flood in. The announcement is live, plastered across social media and various news outfits. 

Williams Racing welcomes Lee Seokmin for 2025, 2026 and beyond. 

It should feel like a moment of triumph, a new undertaking, a step forward. Instead, it’s just surreal. 

The buzzing of his phone is endless, the questions from reporters unrelenting, but what really gnaws at him is the impending realization that it’s happening. He’s leaving Ferrari, the team he has called home for so long.

The red and black that has become synonymous with Seokmin's identity in the sport, the endless hours spent with his engineers, strategists, and you— the heart of his team. It isn’t just a change of scenery. It’s a shift in everything.

A text from you pings through. The same as last time. This time, it’s a GIF of a cat whose jaw has dropped comically. A laugh crawls out from the back of his throat. For once, he lets himself be honest. 

This feels like I'm walking away from everything I've known, he responds, the text admittedly much more load-bearing than it should be. But if anyone was going to understand the weight of this, then it was going to be you. 

Your response is quick. You’re not walking away from anything. You’re moving forward. Williams is lucky to have you. 

He leans back in his chair, fingers drumming the table in front of him. Your words should be comforting. And, in a way, they are. But it’s hard not to feel like he’s losing something— someone— by making this move.

You’re biased, he teases. 

Not at all, you shoot back. I mean, look at your season so far. You’ve been incredible. Williams will give you a fresh start, and you’ve earned it.

Seokmin smiles softly, your words lifting a little of the weight from his chest. It isn’t just the confirmation of his future; it’s the reminder that he hasn’t lost everything he’s built with Ferrari. You’re still here.

But something lingers, unspoken in all of Seokmin’s messages. A question he dreads to ask: What happens now? 

His fingers hover over his screen. For a moment, he considers just outright asking you, telling you, about this damn feeling that’s been thrumming in his system for God-knows-how-long. 

He settles, instead, for something that’s still the truth. 

That’s because you make me possible, he says. 

There’s a brief pause before your response comes again.

Don’t get all sappy on me now. We still have a couple more races to win. 

A chuckle bubbles out of Seokmin. You always know what to say. How to make it feel like everything will be okay, even when it’s hard to believe that.

I’ll win, he shoots back. Then, in a fit of bravery, one that he almost feels like applauding himself for, he adds, I’ll win for you. 

The air in Abu Dhabi is electric. 

The final race of the season, and for Seokmin, it’s his last with Ferrari. The sun is setting, casting a golden hue over the track as the engines hum with anticipation.

This is it. The last time he’ll race in the iconic red, the last time he’ll hear the roar of Ferrari fans cheering him on from the stands.

Seokmin stands in his garage, the team bustling around him. His helmet sits beside him, the familiar Ferrari colors glaring back at him. The engineers are doing their final checks, and you’re standing beside him. Quiet, focused, but there's something different about the way you look at him today.

It's the kind of glance that says everything without needing words. You've both known this day would come, but now that it's here, there's a bittersweetness that hangs in the air, unspoken.

“One for the road?” Seokmin says, his voice softer than usual as he meets your eyes.

You smile, though it’s tinged with a trace of sadness. “One for the road,” you echo. “Don’t crash.” 

He chuckles. “No promises.” 

The warm-up laps begin, and he slips on his helmet, the noise of the crowd outside swelling in his ears. The race is about to start.

“You’re ready,” you say, tapping his shoulder. He feels your presence beside him one last time as you relay the instructions through his earpiece.

The lights go out. The cars roar to life, and Seokmin is in his element. The track, slick from the desert heat, feels different today. He doesn't mind.

He’s determined to give Ferrari one last race to remember.

His eyes focus on the road ahead, but a small part of him is also tuned in to the fact that this race marks the end of an era.

The laps fly by. The strategy calls come in smoothly, with you guiding him through every twist and turn, keeping him grounded. Seokmin pushes hard, each lap faster than the last, as he battles it out with the other drivers.

As the race reaches its final stages, Seokmin finds himself in a podium position. The pressure mounts, but he’s calm, steady. 

He knows this track. He knows his car. He knows you.

“P2, Seok. Just a few more laps. Keep your focus,” you call, your voice steady and reassuring.

I’ll miss you, a voice in the back of Seokmin’s head screeches. He barely manages to hold the words back. 

“Thanks,” he replies, his voice catching slightly.

Seokmin was usually gunning to finish. Today, he’s dreading it. 

The final lap begins. It feels like everything is in slow motion as Seokmin takes each turn, each straight with precision, his tires gripping the track with the familiar strength he’s come to trust over the years. 

The end looms. You push him to it. It’s almost cruel, almost unfair, how in doing your job, you’re sending Seokmin off.

Seokmin grips the steering wheel, his hands slightly trembling. 

And then it’s over. 

Just like that. It’s over.

The crowd roars in approval. Seokmin barely hears it over the pounding in his chest. He pulls into the cooldown lap, his car slowing as he takes it all in.

Joshua finishes third, but he doesn’t say anything over the comms. Once again, this moment is Seokmin’s. 

You guide Seokmin through cooldown. He swears that if he strained his ears, he could catch the hitch in your voice.

“Thank you,” he says. He knows everyone is listening, wanting to see how the indomitable Lee Seokmin was going out. This was how.  

“It’s been a pleasure driving for you.” (The art of letting go.) “Forza Ferrari.” 

There are no cheers from the crew, no jabs from Joshua. For a long moment, the weight of Seokmin’s words linger over the radio. 

When you respond, it’s with that firmness that has made Seokmin so utterly infatuated with you. 

“Give them hell,” you say. 

It’s a command, and Seokmin is convinced he would’ve obliged based on your tone alone. Being the love of his life was just a nice little bonus.

He laughs, the sound carrying over comms. “They won’t know what hit them,” he promises. 

Today, Seokmin did well. 

Not first, not even second, but a solid position that Williams can be proud of.

He steps out of the car, wiping the sweat from his brow, and slowly removes his helmet. The blue of Williams shines beneath the bright race lights.

There's a sense of accomplishment; it’s not quite like the elation of his Ferrari days. Still, he did his job, and he did it well. That’s what matters.

As he walks towards the garage, his new race engineer is already there, calling out instructions and congratulating him. Seokmin exchanges a couple of words with Vernon.

Seokmin’ll get used to this, he’s sure. He’ll warm up to Vernon. He’ll grow into the dark blue of the Williams suit. 

And maybe he’ll even move on from you. 

Fat chance, he thinks, when he runs into you outside Williams’ motorhome. If he didn’t know any better, he’d assume you were waiting for him. 

“Not bad for a rookie,” you say right on the get-go. 

“You’re just saying that because you’re not in my ear this time,” he retorts, though there’s a twinkle in his eyes.

You laugh, the sound familiar and comforting in a way that makes Seokmin’s chest feel a little lighter. “I’m just saying, I never got to call you a rookie in that red suit. But now... it suits you,” you tease, nodding toward his new Williams suit. “Kinda bland, though. You looked way better in red.”

“I’m still making it work,” he insists, pulling at the collar of his blue overalls. “Even if it’s not quite the same.”

“You’ll make it work,” you echo, your tone light but sincere. You raise an eyebrow, a playful glint in your eyes. “So, how’s your new race engineer? You’ve got her wrapped around your finger yet?”

The implication that you’d been wrapped around Seokmin’s finger is almost laughable. It had been the other way around for years and years, and you were none the wiser. 

“Not yet. It’s different,” he admits. “I miss having you on the comms.”

There’s a brief pause, and you can feel the familiar energy between you two shift slightly, that same unspoken understanding hanging in the air. Seokmin’s gaze flickers down for a moment, then he looks back up at you, a little too seriously.

“Honestly, though,” he says, shuffling a little closer to you, “it’s been weird. You were always the one to get me through the races. I didn't realize just how much I depended on you until now.”

Your breath catches slightly at the unexpected honesty, but you recover quickly, shaking your head with a small smile. “You really have a knack for making me feel like I’m about to cry, don’t you?”

Seokmin laughs, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sorry. Too serious?”

“No, no, it’s just... you’re not the only one who misses the old team,” you say, your voice softening a little. “It’s been weird not hearing you. But you know I’m still rooting for you, Seok. I’m still in your corner.” 

And it’s that— that damned support, those words that are never just a platitude to you— that has the words spilling out of Seokmin. Maybe the distance has given him courage. Maybe, now, he has nothing to lose and everything to prove. 

“What will it take,” he says in a rush of words, “for you to be there not as my friend?” 

Your eyebrows arch upward. Crap. Seokmin knows he probably could’ve phrased that better, but when you’ve been holding on to a feeling— well. It’s hard to be coherent. 

“I like having you in my corner,” he amends. “And I want you there as more than a friend.” 

It’s still a bit of a fumble, a clumsy attempt, but you always did know how to detangle the web of Seokmin’s confusing sentiments. On and off the track.

You see his confession for what it is. He senses it in the way your expression shifts ever so slightly; he’s comforted by the fact that you don’t pull away, that you don’t immediately go running in the opposite direction. 

“You know,” you say slowly, like you’re picking out the best words. “I have a self-imposed rule on not dating co-workers.” 

This is somehow worse than the Your future at Ferrari email. “Oh,” is all Seokmin manages to say. Attempting anything else might betray the gravity of his distress. 

You level Seokmin with an amused glare. “We’re not on the same team anymore, Seok.” 

Oh. 

The look on Seokmin’s face must be priceless, because the grin that tugs at your lips is that smile you have whenever he used to nab a podium finish. The thought that it might be comparable to you is enough to have Seokmin going weak in the knees. 

He’s reminded of all those hellish press conferences. The endless inquiry of What’s next for Lee Seokmin? 

“Bring home a title for Williams,” you say, “and then maybe we can discuss a date.” 

Here’s the thing: Seokmin has spent countless hours listening to your voice. He knows its cadence, its inflection, from all the time that it has buzzed in his ear. He knows how you sound when you’re angry, when you’re tense, when you’re excited. 

And so he knows you’re not joking. The ‘maybe’ is a cushion. The challenge is sincere. 

Seokmin breaks out into a smile, and you can tell he’s not letting this idea go anytime soon. 

He’s going to win, and he’s going to come to you to collect. 

[valalice]

જ⁀➴ FOR THE FAME. a violet modern musician au

punk rockstar!vi 𝑥 popstar!reader

summary. the music industry—known for its raw creativity, dazzling performances, and turning anyone into an overnight sensation. but what comes with newfound success is being able to maintain a steady stream of traction around your name (whether it's good or bad, because all press is good press. right?), for some artists it comes naturally, becoming chart climbers release after release, while for others they struggle falling down the charts and becoming known as just a one hit wonder. now, when two artists under the same label are both getting sly criticism from blogs commenting on their declines, their managers have no other choice but to curate a classic pr stunt to regain their public appeal again, while creating buzz around their respective upcoming projects. what could happen when the industry's rebel and sweetheart become the unexpected pair of the year?

warnings. fluff, angst, and eventual smut. modern au. fake dating. enemies to friends to lovers. slow burn. reader's stage name is angel, you guys can honestly change it if you'd so like since it's rarely used. no use of "y/n". musicians: powder, ekko, claggor, and caitlyn. choreographer!mel. producer!jayce. homophobia and talk of internalized homophobia & comphet. addiction: alcohol & substance abuse, as well as talk of rehab. inaccurate knowledge of the music industry. social media extras & extended scene cuts. please check each individual chapter for appropriate warnings!

a/n. i'm am beyond excited to finally share this series with you all! this series started as a one off idea, and, well it turned into this. i know some have expected this, i've been throwing out teasers (more will still come) for some time. and to be honest i should not even be posting this series right now, but i cannot contain it for much longer, i'm just eager to get it out for people to enjoy! and is it hypocritical for me to be posting a series with the amount of drafts and request in my inbox? perhaps! but i promise that i will try my best to dually post between the series and other works! i'm still working on a posting schedule, so be on the look out for polls!

biggest thank you to @topimpabunny for dealing with my rants constantly, and bouncing ideas back and forth off of each other. truly, everyone thank her, because without her this series wouldn't even exist! another big big thank you to @veramores my wife, my best friend, for putting up with me yapping her ear away for like over an over. but nonetheless she is also apart of this series for giving me different perspectives on things. lots of love to the both of you <3

main masterlist ⋆ vi masterlist ⋆ read it on ao3

table of contents ◞ TRACKLIST

' 🅴 ' indicates smut

prelude ♪ popularity contest.

label mandated events. everyone dreads them, but social networking is a must; an art form managers have mastered and a sport to artists in order to thrive in the competitiveness that is the music industry. and it’s here where the two of you were closer than you had even thought.

track one ♪ sold your soul for . . . this? ( releasing february 14th on all music platforms )

with albums set to release during the summertime, meetings ensue to keep the artists on track. however, unpleasant news is shared that gives wake up calls when careers are on the line. oh, and a not-so-meet-cute happens between the bubbling popstar and spunky rocker.

track two ♪ the master plan.

uh, oh! looks like the track is still being produced!

extras ◞ DELUX EDITION

social media post

coming soon!

exposed ◞ BEHIND THE SCENES

discography ⋮ series playlist. reader's. vi's.

meet the artist ⋮ reader ꒱ vi

WANT A FEATURE?

comment on this post (and this post only) to be added to the 'for the fame' taglist! (i'm no longer responding to individually to each person who asks to be on the taglist, but i do see the comments and you are added!)

[newobsessionweekly]

She's my wife

Main masterlist | The Rookie masterlist

Tim Bradford x wife!reader Fandom: The Rookie

Summary: You are Tim's wife and join him to the station for the day, looking for a Metro recruit.

Fluff

A/N: I loooove this, I start to love writing fluff. Thank you for this request. I have so many ideas and I don't know where to start. Also, I'm looking forward to your requests. Thank you for your support and your feedback is more than welcomed and appreciated! Have a wonderful day, bubs and enjoy this story! Lots of love

Warnings: None, pure fluff, not proofread yet

Requested: Yes! Words: 3.8k Photo not mine, credits to the owner @renegadesstuff !

The familiar scent of stale coffee and printer ink hits you as soon as you step through the doors of the station. It's been years since you last set foot in that place, but the memories come rushing back with startling clarity. The station hasn't changed much—it's still a hive of activity, with officers rushing to and fro, phones ringing off the hook, and the occasional burst of laughter echoing through the halls.

As you make your way through the bustling room, you can't help but feel a pang of nostalgia. This place holds so many memories for you—the late nights spent poring over case files, the adrenaline-fueled chases through the city streets, the quiet moments of comradery with your fellow officers. It feels like a lifetime ago, yet the memories are as vivid as ever.

You pause for a moment to take it all in, your gaze sweeping over the familiar surroundings. The bullpen, with its rows of desks and cluttered bulletin boards, holds a special place in your heart. It's where you once stood as a training officer, guiding rookies through their first days on the job.

Tim Bradford was your favorite and a handful from the start—a troubled rookie who struggled to follow orders and grasp the basics of the job. You remember the frustration of trying to teach him the ropes, the countless hours spent drilling him on the rookie book, only for him to push back and resist at every turn.

You remember the determination in Tim's eyes, the way he refused to give up even when the odds seemed stacked against him. And despite his rebellious nature, there was something about him—a spark of raw talent and an unwavering sense of loyalty—that set him apart from the rest.

But amidst the nostalgia, there's a sense of purpose driving you forward. You're here on official business, after all— you were sent there to find a new recruit to join Metro. And while part of you wishes you could stay lost in the memories of the past, another part knows that you have a job to do.

You're greeted by familiar faces at every turn. The joy radiating from your former colleagues as they see you again warms your heart, and you can't help but return their smiles with genuine affection.

Among the crowd, you notice Tim watching you from across the room, his expression a mix of confusion and curiosity. You shoot him a reassuring smile, silently promising to explain everything later.

Lucy stands beside Tim, a look of bewilderment on her face. "Who's that?" she whispers to Tim, nodding in your direction.

Tim's brow furrows for a moment as he studies you, then he turns back to Lucy with a shrug. "That's Y/N," he answers simply. "She works with Metro."

Lucy's eyes widen in surprise, her gaze darting back and forth between you and Tim. "What's she doing here?" she asks, her curiosity piqued.

Tim gives a nonchalant shrug, trying to downplay the situation. "No clue," he replies, though a hint of curiosity lingers in his tone. "Maybe she's just passing through."

As Tim watches you from across the room, a wave of warmth washes over him. Seeing you here, in the midst of his workplace, brings back a flood of memories—of late-night patrols, of shared laughter, of the bond you forged as rookie and TO. Despite the hustle and bustle of the station, his attention is drawn solely to you, his heart skipping a beat at the sight of your beauty.

It's an understatement that he adores you. He loves you with every breath, every heart beat and he couldn't get enough of you. Since you were recruited for Metro, he missed you every shift, longing for you to make his duties more bearable.

There's a softness in his eyes as he approaches, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Despite the secrecy surrounding your relationship, seeing you there fills him with a sense of comfort and belonging. In that moment, surrounded by the chaos of the station, all that matters is the connection you share—a bond that transcends the boundaries of your professional lives.

"Hey there," he greets you warmly, "What are you doing here?"

Seeing him there, in his element, reminds you of the journey you've taken together—from a rookie and his training officer to partners in both crime and love.

You return Tim's smile with one of your own, your eyes twinkling with mischief. "Oh, you know, just thought I'd drop by and say hi," you reply casually, purposely avoiding his question. "How's your day been?"

There's a twinkle in your eye as you meet his gaze, a silent acknowledgment of the love and understanding that binds you together. Despite the complexities of your situation, there's an unspoken agreement between you—a shared understanding of the sacrifices you've made for the sake of your relationship.

Tim chuckles at your playful evasion, rolling his eyes. "Smooth as always," he replies, though there's a hint of amusement in his tone. "But seriously, what are you doing here?"

You feign innocence, batting your eyelashes at Tim with exaggerated sweetness. "You know I can't tell you." you tease, knowing full well that your response will only fuel his curiosity further.

Tim lets out a mock sigh, shaking his head in amusement. "Fine, keep your secrets," he says with a playful grin. "But just remember, I know where you sleep at night."

You laugh at his playful threat, leaning in to give him a quick peck on the cheek. "Wouldn't dream of it," you reply with a wink, before turning your attention to Lucy, who's been watching the exchange with interest.

A curious expression played on her face as Tim takes the opportunity to introduce you. "Officer Chen, meet Y/N," he says, gesturing to you with a fond smile. "She's a pain in the ass sometimes, but if you ignore her, she's ok."

"Nice to meet you, Lucy," you say, your tone friendly and inviting as you offered Lucy a warm smile, extending your hand in greeting. "I've heard so much about you."

Lucy returns your smile, her curiosity piqued. "Nice to meet you," she replies, shaking your hand. "How do you know Tim, if you don't mind me asking?"

You glance at Tim with a mischievous twinkle in your eye, a playful smirk playing at your lips. "Oh, you know," you reply cryptically, earning a raised eyebrow from Tim. "We go way back. Let's just say he owes me a few favors."

Tim lets out an exasperated sigh, knowing full well that you're enjoying teasing him. "Don't listen to her, Chen," he says with a chuckle.

"You should listen to me if you want to survive him." you winked at his rookie " I created the monster and I'm the only one who knows how to defeat him."

Tim's eyebrows shoot up in mock indignation, his lips curling into a playful smirk. "Hey now, watch it," he retorts, feigning offense. "I'll have you know, she doesn't need any help from you."

You laugh at Tim's exaggerated reaction, shooting him a knowing look. "Oh, I'm sure Lucy can handle herself just fine," you reply with a wink, earning a chuckle from Lucy.

"Wait–" the rookie began as realisation hits "You are Tim's TO?"

You glanced at your husband, smiling brightly as he put his grumpy expression on, "Guilty as charged."

As Lucy's eyes widen in shock and excitement, she can barely contain her enthusiasm. Her mind is racing with questions as she tries to process the realization that she's standing face-to-face with the legendary training officer.

The rookie turns to Tim, her expression incredulous. "You never mentioned her before!" she exclaims.

Tim crossed his arms above his chest, a hint of irritation creeping into his voice. "Because my life is none of your business, Officer Chen," he retorts.

She faced you with a barrage of questions, her enthusiasm didn't wane, "What was Tim like as a rookie? I heard he wasn't so keen on following orders, is it true?"

You smiled at her, starting to like her more and more. She's definitely giving Tim a hard time. What you know from Tim and seeing her so curious and exited, you knew she has what it takes to be a successful cop.

Before you can respond, Tim interrupts, his irritation growing by the second. "Alright, that's enough, Chen," he barks, his tone firm and commanding. "Shop, now!"

"Yes, sir."

Lucy's excitement fades as she reluctantly obeys Tim's orders, shooting you an apologetic look before hurrying off to prepare for the patrol. As she disappears from view, Tim lets out a frustrated sigh, the grumpiness lifting slightly as he turns back to you.

"She seems nice," you comment, nodding towards where Lucy disappeared. "She's a good kid."

Tim sighs, running a hand through his hair as he considers your words. "Yeah, you're probably right," he admits, his voice tinged with uncertainty.

You reach out to gently squeeze his hand, a reassuring smile playing on your lips. "I know, and I know that sometimes a little kindness goes a long way," you say gently. "She'll appreciate it in the long run."

As Tim gazes at you, a mixture of admiration and gratitude flickers in his eyes. He's more than just a grumpy, hard-to-please man—he's a devoted husband, a dedicated cop, and a man who carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. Despite his tough exterior, there's a vulnerability in his gaze.

The sun filters through the windows of the station, its golden rays dance across Tim's face, casting a warm glow that accentuates his rugged features. He appears even more handsome in this moment, his chiseled jawline and piercing gaze illuminated by the soft light.

His sandy blonde hair catches the sunlight, creating a halo of golden warmth around his head. His eyes, usually sharp and focused, soften in the gentle light, revealing a depth of emotion that takes your breath away.

As Tim searched your face, you're bathed in a soft, ethereal glow, the sunlight highlighting the delicate contours of your face and the warmth of your smile. Your eyes, a mesmerizing shade, sparkle with mischief and warmth, drawing him in like a moth to a flame.

He peaked around at the officers, everyone minding their business, before he leaned in, his warm breath caressing your skin, sending shivers down your spine. His hand gently cups your cheek, his touch tender yet possessive, as if he never wants to let you go. You feel the soft brush of his lips against yours, a gentle yet insistent pressure that ignites a fire deep within your soul.

As the kiss deepens, you feel his other hand slide around your waist, pulling you closer until there's barely an inch of space between you. His touch is electrifying, sending waves of pleasure coursing through your body as you melt into his embrace.

His lips move against yours with a hunger that matches your own, each kiss a testament to the love and longing that burns between you. There's a raw intensity to his touch, a desperate need to be as close to you as humanly possible.

For a brief instant, time seems to stand still as you respond eagerly, your heart racing as you lean into the kiss, savoring the warmth of his embrace. Despite its brevity, the intensity of the moment leaves you dizzy with desire, longing for more even as you reluctantly pull away.

Before the moment can linger, Tim's attention is drawn to something behind you. With a quick glance over your shoulder, you realize that Lucy is watching from afar, a curious expression on her face, sided by her mouth forming an "o" shape filled with surprise.

Tim's lips curl into a wry smile as he leans in to murmur in your ear, his voice barely above a whisper. "Looks like we've got a little shadow," he says, amusement dancing in his eyes. "She's gonna be a pain in my ass all day!"

You laugh softly at Tim's comment, shaking your head in amusement. "Well, you did sign up for this when you became her TO," you tease, a playful glint in your eyes. "Just be nice, okay? She's just curious."

Tim rolls his eyes at your advice, but there's a hint of affection in his gaze as he gazes at you. "Fine, I'll try to play nice," he concedes with a grin. "But no promises if she starts asking too many questions."

As your husband heads off for patrol with Lucy, you find yourself seated across from Sergeant Grey in his office, the familiar surroundings offering a sense of comfort amidst the chaos of the precinct. His office is tidy yet lived-in, with stacks of paperwork neatly organized on his desk and a few personal mementos scattered about—a photo of his family, a commendation plaque from his years of service.

Wade offers you a warm smile as you settle into your seat, "Y/N, it's been a while. Think the last time I saw you was at your wedding?"

You nod in agreement, "It hasn't been that long. But you know Metro, it keeps me busy."

"Well, it's always a pleasure to have you around." Sergeant Grey's words of praise for your time as an officer at the station warm your heart, "You were one of the best we had," he continues, sincerity evident in his tone. "It's a shame to lose you to Metro."

As the conversation progresses, you take a deep breath before broaching the subject of your visit. "Sir, I'm here on official business," you explain, your tone serious. "Metro is recruiting, and I'm here to find the best officer for the job."

Grey nods in understanding, "I see. And do you have anyone in mind?" he asks, leaning forward slightly.

You hesitate for a moment before responding. "Actually, I do," you admit, your gaze meeting his. "I think Officer Bradford would be the best fit for Metro."

He considers your words for a moment before responding. "I have to say, I agree with you, Tim would make an excellent addition to Metro."

There's a hint of hesitation in your eyes as he speaks, and you can tell that he senses there's more to your recommendation than meets the eye. "Is there something else on your mind, Y/N?" he asks, his tone gentle but probing.

You paused, choosing your words carefully before responding. "Well, sir, it's just... I'm not sure if it's appropriate for me to recommend Tim," you admit, your voice tinged with uncertainty. "I don't want it to seem like a conflict of interests."

You found yourself grappling with a mix of emotions. There's a deep-rooted sense of pride your work, coupled with a genuine desire to see Tim succeed in his career.

"Trust me, Y/N, Officer Bradford's qualifications speak for themselves." he leaned back on his chair, "Don't worry about it. I'll handle it from here. We both know you and Tim keep your private life apart, and I'll make sure Metro knows this decision is based solely on Tim's achievements."

Sergeant Grey's words sink in, a rush of relief floods through you, washing away some of the anxiety that had been gnawing at your nerves. It's comforting to know that your integrity as an officer won't be called into question, that your personal connection with Tim won't overshadow his merits.

With a grateful smile, you nod in appreciation, the knot of worry in your stomach loosening with each word he speaks. "Thank you, Sir."

"Now go find your husband!"

In the dimly lit interior of the shop, the tension between Tim and Lucy was palpable. Lucy's curiosity burned bright, fueled by suspicions and unanswered questions.

"So..." Lucy ventured, breaking the uneasy silence. "I saw you and Y/N kissing, back at the station. Is she your girlfriend?"

Tim's jaw clenched at the inquiry, his gaze fixed on the road ahead. "That's none of your business, Chen," he shot back, his tone gruff.

Lucy persisted, undeterred by his dismissive tone. "Come on, Tim," she pressed. "You can't just brush this off. I obviously know there's something going on between you two."

But Tim remained stoic, his frustration simmering beneath the surface. "I said it's none of your business," he repeated, his voice terse.

Lucy gaze lingered on him, studying his face. She couldn't read anything but irritation caused by her intrusion into his private life. She searched his hands, no sight of any ring, so the possibility of you being his wife dropped.

"Do you like her?" she insisted.

"What's the proper procedure for securing a crime scene?" he replied to her question, avoiding giving any details about you.

"Come on. You can't avoid this forever. Are you and her just colleagues, or is there something more?"

Tim's irritation simmers beneath the surface, his frustration mounting with each passing moment. He had hoped to avoid this line of questioning, to keep his personal life separate from his professional one. But Lucy's relentless curiosity had pushed him to his breaking point.

"What's the recommended procedure for securing a firearm during an arrest?"

She couldn't shake the feeling of defeat, knowing deep down that Tim wouldn't give her the answers she sought. Despite her best efforts to uncover the truth about Tim's relationship with you, she found herself hitting a dead end.

"I saw the way you look at her. You have feelings for her?"

"When searching a suspect, what areas of their body should you prioritize for pat-downs?"

"Fine. I'll shut up."

Confusion clouded Lucy's thoughts as she struggled to make sense of the situation. She couldn't understand why Tim was so guarded about his personal life, especially when it came to someone who seemed to hold such significance to him. It left her feeling unsettled, a nagging sense of curiosity gnawing at her.

As he focuses on the road ahead, he can't help but feel annoyed by Lucy's persistence. He knows she means well, but he's not ready to share the intimate details of his relationship with the woman he loves. He just wants to focus on their job, to keep their partnership strictly professional.

As lunchtime approached, the bustling street food area near the station came to life with the sound of chatter and the aroma of sizzling food. Amidst the crowd, you found an empty table, enjoying the inviting atmosphere, with colorful umbrellas providing shade from the midday sun as you waited for Tim.

Your husband approached the table where you were seated, a sense of defeat hung heavy in the air, exhausted from all of his rookie's questions. A small smile tugged at the corners of his lips, as he leaned down to press a soft kiss to your forehead. The warmth of his touch sent a shiver down your spine, a tangible reminder of the connection you shared.

As the conversation turns to you, Tim leans in with a curious glint in his eyes. "So, what were you doing at the station earlier?"

"Metro sent me to find a recruit," you confess, your gaze meeting Tim's.

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "And did you find one?"

Angela rises from her seat, flashing a smile, "I hate to break up the party, but duty calls. I'll catch you guys later."

You nod understandingly, bidding her farewell with a wave as she heads off to resume her patrol.

You return your attention to Tim, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. "Yeah. You."

Tim's eyes widen in disbelief, his expression a mix of shock and excitement. "Me? Are you serious?"

Nyla's figure blended into the bustling crowd as she disappears down the street with her rookie, leaving you and Tim alone.

You give him a knowing smirk. "Dead serious. They've been considering you for a while. Sending me down to the station was just a formality—a test, to see if I was ready for a promotion or something."

"You're getting promoted?"

"Uh-huh."

"That's awesome, babe. I'm proud of you."

As the lunch break comes to an end for Tim, he and his rookie prepare to go on patrol again. They stand by the patrol car, gearing up for their shift.

"Lucy, you're driving," Tim says, tossing her the keys with a grin. "Show me what you got."

Lucy's eyes light up with excitement as she catches the keys, nodding eagerly. "You got it, Officer Bradford. Shotgun!"

While Tim is in the shop, double-checking some equipment, you lean over the car door, catching his attention. "Hey," you say softly, a hint of concern in your voice. "Be safe out there, okay? And have a good time."

Tim gives you a reassuring smile, placing a hand over yours on the door. "Always am, love. Don't worry about me."

Just as the car starts to move, you lean in closer, your voice barely a whisper against the noise of the street. "And Tim... I'm pregnant."

Tim's eyes widen in surprise, his heart skipping a beat at the unexpected news. You placed a playful kiss on his cheek, before the car pulls away, you watch Tim drive off with a mixture of excitement and fear.

You were scared of his reaction, delivering him the news this way gave you time to process and turn all the possible scenarios upside down.

He meets your gaze one last time before the car disappears down the street, a rush of emotions flooding his mind—joy, excitement, and a touch of nervousness. But above all, there's a deep sense of love and gratitude for the life you've created together.

"Did you get your TO pregnant?" Lucy asks, her tone a mixture of surprise and incredulity.

Tim's jaw tightens, a flash of irritation crossing his features at the inappropriate question. He takes a deep breath, gathering his composure before responding firmly.

"She's my wife," Tim states, his voice leaving no room for further inquiry. "Now, shut up and drive."

He reaches up to where his uniform shirt collar meets his neck, pulling out a small chain with a wedding ring and some dog tags hanging from it. It's a subtle gesture, but one that holds immense significance—a symbol of the most important moments of his life, from fighting in Iraq and Afghanistan to marrying you.

Lucy's eyes widen in realization, a flush creeping up her cheeks as she realizes her mistake. Without another word, she focuses on the road ahead, her cheeks burning with embarrassment.

Meanwhile, Tim sits back in his seat, his mind still reeling from the unexpected turn of events. Despite the initial shock, a sense of pride and excitement fills him at the prospect of becoming a father. And as the patrol car speeds through the city streets, Tim's thoughts are consumed with thoughts of the future.

[fayes-fics]

Bridgerton Blue

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Benedict is stunned by his wife in Bridgerton blue.

Warnings: None, really. This is fluff and a teensy bit suggestive.

Word Count: 0.7k

Authors Note: Request fill for anon; see next post for details. I just had to use a GIF with him in a light blue cravat for the story. This is written from Benedict's POV. Sorry it's so short, but I hope you enjoy it! <3

The air catches in his lungs as he sees you. 

Sashaying into the bedroom from your dressing room, a vision in light blue. 

“How do I look, husband?” 

Your tone is affectionate, tinged with playful teasing but a hopeful earnestness that has a dense warmth spreading behind his ribs.

“Truly beautiful, my love,” he asserts as you swish the fabric back and forth, giving a little flourishing twirl as you draw nearer. 

He is captivated by the beauty of your look, yes, but more by you. Simply aglow. A beaming smile that seems to inhabit your whole being. He would do anything to keep you looking like that—as if the sun lives within you. Scarcely believing it is him you have chosen to spend your life with, to share the wonder of yourself with.

“And you are so very handsome,” you wink as you arrive in front of him, hands running up his sharply tailored jacket over the ruffles of his shirt. “This matches my dress perfectly,” you hum happily, him captivated by the way your eyes shine in the candlelight as your fingers toy with the tips of his cravat.

“It is by design’, he confesses. “I asked my tailor to work with your modiste,” he adds, enjoying the way your expression lights up even more at his forethought.

“You are the very best husband,” you attest ardently, and he can feel the sincerity behind your words as he cradles your face, your jaw moving delicately in his cupped palm.

Your hand encircles the back of his head and pulls him down gently but insistently. He happily obeys, smiling against your lips as you push up onto your tiptoes. Sharing a languid kiss that has a tingle running down his spine, your nails a mild scrape over his scalp.

“I wanted to wear Bridgerton blue,” you explain quietly, tilting to bury your face into his neck and inhaling heartily, the tip of your nose pressing under his ear where he dabbed his cologne, just for you, your very favourite scent. “To tell the world I could not be prouder to have your name, to be your wife.”

Your impassioned declaration stirs something profound in his soul—the magnitude of your mutual desire and love. The missing puzzle piece he had been searching for until that fateful day last year when the jumble that was his life suddenly found its shape, its order, its wholeness.

“I am the luckiest man in the world,” he murmurs into your cheek, your eyes fluttering closed as he peppers gossamer kisses over your skin.

His hands slide around you, pulling you closer, loving the slight hitch in your throat as your bodies mould to each other. 

“And I could not be prouder to be your husband,” he echoes your words, nuzzling your face until your lips ghost each other, breathing shared air. “I love you so very much.”

“I love you too,” you whisper over his cupid’s bow, arms banding tight around his neck as he lifts you from the ground. 

There is a bloom in his chest and a tug low in his gut as the kiss deepens, your tongue seeking his, a sensuous parry that always alights an intense flame within him. A burning want to be with you. Only you. Away from the world and all of its noise. To lose himself in the profundity of your connection when you are intimately entwined, hearts syncopated, bodies alive.

“Must we attend this ball, my love?” he pouts as you break apart, his tone turning mischievous, deploying that crooked smile that always has your pupils rapidly dilating. 

“I fear your mother will disown us if we do not attend her ball…” you chuckle reluctantly as he places you back onto your feet. But there is a distinct stirring in his britches as you crowd closer and offer coquettishly: “I will make it worth your while if you do, Mr Bridgerton…”

And just like that, he is putty in your hands. Cannot help but bring your knuckles to his lips to drop a lingering kiss onto the fabric there—a promissory note for what you will share later, his voice husky as he replies.

“Lead the way, Mrs Bridgerton.”

masterlist • wips • taglist (follow this blog to be tagged)

Benedict taglist pt 1: @makaylan @longingintheuniverse @iboopedyournose @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld @broooookiecrisp @queen-of-the-misfit-toys @eleanor-bradstreet @divaanya @musicismyoxygen84 @miindfucked @sorryallonsy @cayt0123 @hottytoddyhistory @fictionalmenloversblog @zinzysstuff @malpalgalz @panhoeofmanyfandoms @kinokomoonshine @causeimissu @delehosies @m-rae23 @last-sheep @kmc1989 @ferns-fics @corpseoftrees-queen @magical-spit @bunnyweasley23 @how-many-stars-in-the-sky @hanji-emo-blog @sya-skies @urfavnoirette

[chlix]

superbloom

bf! chan x fem! reader: you almost ruin your own proposal

pairing: chan x reader

genre: fluff!

word count: 1.7k

warnings/tags: public proposals, y/n is a bit of a mess but its ok

a/n: this is a request from @taevhs who requested reader accidentally saying no to her own proposal out of shock and stressing chan tf out (ask is linked HERE). i am SO sorry this took so long to get to 😭😭😭 i hope it was at least semi-worth the wait

The thing is: you should’ve seen it coming.

Chan is a lot of things, but he’s not subtle. Especially when he gets really into something. He’s good at disguising the planning, at worrying in private and then clearing his face when he sees you, but you know him too well. You can sense the vibe even without him saying anything.

And anyway, you’d talked about marriage before. You’d thought about wedding planning and what time of year would be best, who would you invite. You inquired about a marriage license. You planned on getting a better apartment together. You were engaged in everything but name. So really, the proposal was imminent. It was just a matter of waiting for all his plans to come to fruition. So, you played dumb when he started paying special attention to your hands and the rings you wore most often. You didn’t start fights when you noticed him texting your best friend more than usual. You pretended not to see when you saw him researching photographers on his open laptop. You were willing to play into the surprise, and honestly, you didn’t want to pry. You wanted to be enchanted and impressed when the time came. It would make it more exciting.

You must’ve had a lapse in mentality for a second, or perhaps you just had a lot on your mind that day, because when he asked if you wanted to play hooky and go on a day trip with him, you didn’t suspect a thing.

“How spontaneous,” you’d said, delighted.

He’d only smiled. “Gotta keep you on your toes, y’know.”

You didn’t notice how the nervousness pulled at his eyes as you called in sick to work and put on a cute blue dress. He suggests a white sundress, but you decline, feeling like it’s more of a blue kind of day. You don’t notice how he doesn’t comment on the choice the way he normally does.

Your destination was a botanical garden up north, a prospect that excites you. Your Instagram needed something to spruce it up and some photos against the foliage would be perfect to introduce a vernal vibe. He leads you over to a wall of hydrangeas, and helps you rearrange your hat and jewelry so they stand out in the bright afternoon sun.

"Okay so look left, now look up, now hold out your bag." He's always good at directing you for photos, copying the same directions he's been given on his various shoots, and you've become much better at taking direction the longer you've been together. 

"Okay now look at the flowers and pretend to pick off a petal. No, reach out a little farther. Okay, hold that." You hear his voice moving as he changes angles, trying to find exactly where the best shot is. Your eyes fixate on the hydrangeas, at the vast greenish blooms that are climbing up the trellises, smelling almost sickly sweet. For a moment you worry that the pale green of them might clash with your dress, but if that was the case then at least you have dozens of other photos in different locations. No great loss. Inside the bush, you can see small insects climbing along the branches. There are a few buds deep int he recesses, too young to push their way out and bloom. All whole world beneath you, sheltering in soft petals. A home for smaller creatures.

You get so distracted by the flowers themselves you don't notice that Chan has stopped speaking.

"Did you get it?" you call out. No response. You turn to where he was standing across the way.

He's gone.

Confusion settles in. Your eyes dart back and forth. "Baby? Where'd you go?" He's nowhere. You turn completely around, towards the other end of the wall of hydrangeas, and that's where you finally find Chan.....down on one knee.

Your vision immediately tunnels. His hair is out of place, as if he's been running his hands through it. He does that when he gets nervous. Your gaze darts down to see an open ring box in one hand, the gem glittering in the bright sun, nearly blinding you just from the intensity of its presence.

"Oh my god." You can't breathe. Your heart stutters in your chest.

"Y/n," he says, looking up at you with so much tenderness and love. "these past few years with you have as beautiful and perfect as a spring day. You're the most wonderful woman I've ever met, and I’ve never been so glad to know anyone. I never want our time together to end. I love you more than life itself.” He takes a breath then says those four words. “Will you marry me?"

Your brain short-circuits. It’s like the sun is dimming above you, your whole body struck still. You think of the hydrangeas washing out your dress, and the sun in your eyes, and all the people around watching you flounder and struggle for something to say. You’re so shocked and excited that it’s overwhelming you- cold sweat breaks out on your brow and you lose control of your mouth entirely so instead of saying a resounding "Yes!" the word that comes out is a very quiet "No..."

Chan freezes. The smile that had been spread across his face falls, his eyes dim. 

"No?" he asks, clearly unprepared for this answer. "You don't-"

His own shock snaps you out of yours and your brain kicks back into gear. Horror overwhelms you.

"Oh my god! No, no I just- I was thinking about how I look and how everyone is looking at us right now and I should've worn that white dress you suggested to me and now I've fucked up all the photos and-"

You can't tell if you're making it worse or making it better, so you give up. You grab him by the coat, haul him up, and kiss him.

Suddenly, there's movement around you, and several people burst out from behind the hydrangea bushes that surround you. You open your eyes and see all your friends and family swarming and excited. They were watching the whole thing. They’re all wearing white. Chan invited them so they could share in this happy moment with you. The people around you in the garden clap politely and call congratulations. You look up and notice someone pointing a camera at you a distance away. Chan had the whole thing filmed.

It's a picture-perfect proposal and you'd almost ruined it.

You step back from him, and god he still looks so unsure and you hate yourself for stealing even a little of his joy.

"Yes, Chan. Yes, I'll marry you. A thousand times yes."

Relief sinks into every part of his being, and he leans in to kiss you again. And then your friends and family reach you, and it's all chaos. Your friends are shattering excitedly at you about oh my god Y/N you don't know how hard it was to keep a secret we've been planning this for ages, and the guys in your friend group are clapping Chan on the back, giving more sincere congratulations than you've heard from them in years, but all of it is white noise to you. The only person who exists to you in this moment is Chan. The adrenaline slowly ekes away, and you feel more at peace, more right than you ever have before.

Later that night, you're sitting in your apartment flipping through some zines you'd picked up from the gift shop on the south end of the garden. Chan is in the kitchen putting away leftovers, and the TV is turned on low, white noise for your quiet evening. Your new ring gleams on your finger, and you can barely focus on the botanical facts you're wearing because it keeps catching your eye and distracting you with private glee.

You feel the couch dip as he sits down, and you lean into his side. His hand comes up to wrap around you automatically.

"You scared the shit out of me today," Chan says, and his tone is light but you know he's telling the absolute truth. You wince, setting the zine down and turning to face him properly.

"I was nervous about doing a public proposal," he continues. "I know you said you were okay with it but when I saw you panic I started to worry."

"I'm sorry. I really was just surprised. My mind was in a thousand different places."

You both know you have a tendency to put your foot in your mouth. It's rare you fumble on such a serious occasion, though.

"When you said no, I think my heart dropped into my stomach."

You sigh, cursing your past self for planting any seed of doubt in his mind. "I got overwhelmed. With love for you, I swear, but I started spiraling because I was so caught off guard. I regretted not wearing the white dress you told me to wear. I'd already been thinking that my blue dress clashed with the flowers, and then I realized you were proposing and I thought I'd ruined your whole plan. I felt bad.”

Chan let out a sigh, but it wasn't a tired or exasperated sigh. Instead, it was fond.

"You could've insisted on wearing sweatpants today and it wouldn't have ruined the proposal. You look beautiful in anything. All I wanted was your answer."

"You must've known that there was no way I would've said no."

"But you did."

"Out of shock! Cut me some slack, it's not every day you get proposed to! I've never done it before! I didn't know what to do with myself!"

"I've never proposed to anyone either," Chan says. "I was sweating bullets."

"I just thought it was the heat."

"You're a menace."

"I'm your fiancée," you say, and it's the first time you've said it out loud, and it fills you with so much excitement that a smile splits your face in half all over again. "I'm going to marry you soon."

Chan's smile is a twin of yours. "You are," he says. "And you've never done that either."

"We'll figure it out," you vow. "And I'll learn to watch my mouth."

"Please do. If you don't say "I do" at the altar, I'll collapse out of cardiac arrest."

"Then I guess I better start practicing," you tease. "I, F/N L/N, do take you, Christopher Bang, to be my lawfully wedded husband. I'll repeat it in the mirror every morning."

You're joking of course. You know that when the time comes to say vows, you won't be stuttering or stumbling over the words. They're already echoing in your head over and over again. You think you might start saying them in unrelated conversations, the words bursting out of you like water from a dam. I do, I do, I do.

Chan leans over, finally relaxed, and kisses your cheek. You close your eyes and bask in the attention.

Next time you’ll wear a white dress, and you won’t flinch for a second.