✰ 05. The Ballad Of A Bygone Blight.

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"There's a little witch in all of us." PRACTICAL MAGIC (1998), dir. Griffin Dunne.

uptown girl ★ jackie taylor x 90sbaddie!fem!reader

the uptown girl has her eye on you, the backstreet boy girl

word count: 3200 warnings: smoking, jackie and reader being cute asf a/n: here's the shitty mood board i made for the 90sbaddie!fem!reader to give you an idea of what i was picturing. i love this pairing sm so expect more blurbs/fics! also lmk if you have any thoughts about them bc i'm foaming at the mouth (to the anon that sent one in my inbox: i love you sm i'm gonna write a lil blurb abt that soon!)

jackie taylor, jeff sadecki, and their cult of friends were characters stolen from a cheesy high school movie.  the clean cut jocks gelled their hair back and drove shiny red cars, while the girls dawned designer outfits and flashed million dollar smiles.  as the children of wiskayok's elite, the luxuries of life were handed to them on a silver platter.  one of those luxuries was the pre-signed checks they used to buy all the liquor and beer kegs imaginable for a bonfire party like this one.

while they gathered on one side of the wooded space, their rich laughter rising in the warm air, their antithesis huddled together on the other side.

that was you and your friends of course.  sitting on the hood of your friend's ford mustang—the car he said he found and totally didn't hotwire—anyone could see why.  with beat-up leather jackets instead of lettermans and breath that constantly smelled of smoke, you and your friends were the furthest from wiskayok's polished royalty.

your group's reputation for ditching school and stealing from liquor stores made you the "wrong crowd" that parents warned their children about.  some even went as far to call you guys a "gang," but that was mostly the classism talking.

it was obvious that none of you were drowning in the same cash that the taylors and sadeckis of the world were.  in fact, those families would have preferred it if you and your friends didn't live in such close proximity to them and their perfect children.

not that any of it mattered to you.  you only lived for a good time.

you sat beside two of your girl friends on the trunk of the car, legs dangling as you passed a cigarette between the three of you.  more of your friends stood around, sipping on beers and telling loud jokes while ignoring the sideways glances and upturned faces of those around you.

your best friend nudges your shoulder and brings the cigarette between her fingers to your lips.

"don't look now, but jackie taylor keeps looking over here," she says eyes flitting behind your head to where you had spotted jackie earlier, tangled in jeff's arms.  "what did you do this time?"

you never would have mingled with jackie taylor if it wasn't for soccer.  the two of you had been on the team since you were freshmen, and you'd somewhat become friends despite your differences as jackie taylor was never one to care for stereotypes. though, as the team captain, she wasn't afraid of getting on your case when you showed up to practice with cigarette between your teeth or when she heard of your latest adventures through the grapevine.

"y/n, you have to stay focused on nationals," she'd scold you in the locker room, only evoking an eye roll out of you.  it was hard to take that stern look on her face seriously when it was so darn cute.

"yeah, yeah, whatever," you'd say, her eyes lingering on you as you brushed past her and walked away.

you shared those stories with your friends, so your best friend could only assume you'd done something new to upset her.  what you hadn't told them was that you and jackie had started spending time together outside of soccer.

it was unusual when she approached you after practice, asking if you wanted to see a new movie with her, since your friendship had been strictly limited to soccer and school.  but you had already been looking forward to seeing that movie, why not with jackie?

it turned out that you enjoyed hanging out with jackie more than you thought you would.  her light was infectious and your cheeks hurt from smiling by the end of the night.  you were surprisingly glad that you had blown off your friends for her.

since then, you'd hung out with her once at her house and another time at the retro diner you frequented.  you guys weren't best friends by any means, but you slowly found yourself growing more comfortable around jackie.

"i didn't do anything this time," you say, pulling the cigarette from your lips.  almost everyone gives you a suspicious look.  "i swear, guys!"

"then what's her deal?  she's been looking over at you all night," your friend says, stealing the cigarette back.

"for real?" you ask. you're aware of everyone's eyes on you, wondering what the hell jackie taylor wants with you.

your friend nods her head, cueing you to finally look over your left shoulder toward jackie.  you find her already looking back at you from a distance.

she's leaning against jeff's car, facing you with her arms crossed over her chest and a cup of something in her hand.  jeff and her other friends are in the middle of a conversation, but she seems removed from it.

when she catches your gaze, she picks her hand up and gives you a wave.  her effortless smile reaches her eyes, and you almost can't believe how happy she looks to see you.

you raise your hand in a casual wave and a weak smile, ignoring the strange feeling in your chest.  you quickly turn back toward your friends.

you're not sure if it's jackie's disarming smile or knowing she's been staring at you that makes your chest tighten.  or if it's the feeling of your friends' eyes watching you share a moment with her, little miss perfect, that makes you uncomfortable.

either way, it's something you don't want to think about.  it's not like you and jackie would ever be more than what you were right now.  you tried not to worry yourself with what could be, rather you chose to focus on what was.

but the looks your friends throw your way are hard to ignore.  one of the guys breaks the silence with a cat call whistle.

"so, jackie taylor, huh?" he asks, an irritating smirk tugging at his lips.  you look back at him with a deadpan expression.

"what about her?"

he just looks at you for a moment, wondering if you're being serious or not, before he decides that you are.

"are you kidding?  did you see her?" he asks, stunned by your blindness.

"what?" you ask with furrowed brows, still not catching on.

he doesn't answer, but shows you instead.  he puts on a stupid, exaggerated smile and waves enthusiastically in an overdramatic impersonation of jackie.  the excitement in his eyes mimics jackie's, and laughter echoes around you.

"come on, she did not look like that," you say, crossing your arms over your chest.

"oh yes she did," he says before taking a puff of his cigarette.  "she practically had heart eyes when you looked at her."

"no, jackie's just like that with everyone," you insist, though you're not sure how much you believe your own words.  you can't help but second-guess yourself: was she really that happy to see you?

"no, she is definitely not," one of the other guys says.

"see, i told you!

"yeah, girls only look at you like that when they want to hit."

you smack your friend's shoulder and shoot him a look, though he's more amused than hurt.  you're not too surprised by his instigating.

"honestly, i second that," your best friend says from beside you.  you nearly get whiplash from how fast you turn towards her, in disbelief that she would join in on this stupid joke.  "what?  she was kinda giving you a look."

"what look?" you ask too eagerly.

"like...the look," she says, a smile forming after she notices the awe on your face.  "what?  is it that crazy?"

"there's no way," you say, shaking your head.  you look around and suddenly realize the only person you can convince is yourself.  "oh my god, is everyone seeing this?"

the chorus of nods and agreement hits you like a ton of bricks.

"jesus," you say, running a hand through your hair.  "is that why she wanted to hang out?" you mumble, more so to yourself.

"hang out?" one of the girls suddenly exclaims, outraged by this revelation.  "you didn't tell us you guys were hanging out!"

"yeah, cause it wasn't that-"

"well, it's confirmed then," one of the guys says.  "jackie taylor wants you," he says in a teasing, sing-songy voice.

in a matter of seconds, it seems that everyone joins in to tease you into oblivion.

"don't know why she'd go for a backstreet fucker like you, though," your best friend says with a laugh, smacking the back of your head.

you try to laugh along, but you're still not convinced that jackie taylor wants you.  you're trying to put the pieces together in your head, but they're not fitting.

"yeah, she's your uptown girl!" one of the louder guys shouts.

not even a second later he's jumping to the middle of the group and breaking out into song.

"uptown girl!  she's been livin' in her uptown world!" he sings horribly.  he pulls up the collar of his leather jacket while dancing flamboyantly.  without missing a beat, another guy joins in, matching his energy.  "i bet she's never had a backstreet guy!  i bet her momma never told her why!"

you and your friends are left in stitches watching the scene.  you clutch your stomach in a belly laugh as nearly all of the group joins in singing, not caring if anyone else notices.

"i'm gonna try for an uptown girl!"

everyone in a fifty foot radius catches sight of your friends causing an unnecessary scene, most of them scoffing and shaking their heads at you.  but not jackie taylor, who finds you keeled over in laughter and smiles in her starry-eyed way.

you're so free, she thinks.  so happy and lively and unapologetic.  you're so you.  and you're so unbothered by others' opinions and detached from their expectations, a breath of fresh air from the world she lives in.  it's what drew her to you in the first place and what pushed her to this new level of adoration.

she wants what you have.  she wants you.

watching you laugh and joke so unashamedly with your friends, she imagines herself beside you.  she imagines being tucked into your side and leaning her head on your shoulder.  she imagines hearing your infectious laughter right in her ear.

instead she's stuck listening to jeff and his friends talk about the game for the tenth fucking time.  she forces a smile every once in a while, but you're consuming her thoughts.  especially when you look so damn good from across the bonfire.  she couldn't stop staring if she tried.

it gets to the point where she can't settle for watching anymore.  she feels too far away from you.  she needs you up close.  she needs to feel your eyes on her.  she needs to see that smile reserved only for her.

after your laughter has died down, jackie catches your eyes straying back over to her, and she strikes.

you notice her mouth something from across the bonfire.  you think you know what she's saying, but you need confirmation.

'what?' you mouth back, eyebrows knitting together.

jackie pushes herself off of jeff's car and takes a few confident steps toward you.

'come here,' she mouths again.  this time her two fingers making a clear come hither motion.

without another thought, you slide off the trunk of the car.  you don't even care what she wants from you; if she's telling you to come over there, you're going over there, no questions asked.  you snatch the cigarette from your friend's hand before you leave.

"hey!  i was-"  her eyes follow yours.  "oh."

everyone catches on and suddenly you're hearing cat calls and "oohs" from every direction. 

"go get 'em, tiger!" your best friend says, punctuating her words with a smack on your ass.

you bite your lip to hide your smile as you walk away from your obnoxious friends and towards jackie.

she fluffs up her bouncy curls with her hand as she walks toward you, a confident, vibrant smile fixed on her lips.  you think she looks the closest to perfect a human being could achieve, especially in that black dress with the pink floral print.  you remember seeing it in her closet when you were at her house last week.

"that dress is goregous, jackie.  you'd look so good in it," you said, leaning back on your elbows on her bed.  she turned away from you so you wouldn't see the blood rushing to her cheeks.

it seems like she took your words to heart.

"hey," she says when she meets you halfway, her smile growing impossibly larger.  it's contagious.

"hey," you say, leaning back and placing your free hand in your back pocket.  as you do, the hem of your skin-tight crop top rises.  jackie's eyes are instinctively attracted the growing sliver of skin between your top and the low waistband of your baggy jeans.

she swallows before her eyes rise back to your face.

"you look really pretty," she says.  "you always do."

"stop it, jackie," you say, trying to hide your growing smile by bringing the cigarette to your lips.  she doesn't miss it.

"stop what?" she asks, grinning and leaning closer to you.  there's nothing she loves more than playfighting with you.

"flattering me," you say, following her lead and stepping closer.  you take a drag of the cigarette then turn your head to exhale the smoke.  jackie's eyes are trained on your lips as they from a perfect 'o'.

"i'm not," she says, fingers catching on the chain of one of the necklaces layered over your chest.  "because i mean it."

she sounds so genuine that your heart aches beneath her fingers.  she tugs on the pendant of one of your necklaces, bringing you even closer.

"well, that means something coming from you.  you look perfect, as usual" you say.

she can't hide her reddening cheeks this time, nor her stupid smile.  she hums sweetly.

"good answer," she says, sharing a chuckle with you.  "can i get a drag?" she asks, nodding toward your hand.

you wordlessly lift the cigarette up, offering it to her.  instead of taking it from your ring-clad hand, she grabs your wrist.  with your hand still holding the cigarette, she pushes it between her lips and inhales, keeping her eyes locked on yours the entire time.

you've known jackie taylor to be touchy and warm with all of her friends, but this felt different.  maybe it was your friends getting in your head, but whatever jackie was doing felt reserved only for you.  as much as you wanted to deny it, you liked it that way.

"wow, jackie taylor smokes?" you tease before she drops your hand.  "don't you know it's bad for you, your highness?"

she intentionally blows the smoke in your face, causing you to wince and frantically wave it away with your free hand.

"oops, didn't see you there," she says with a self-satisfied grin.

"hmm, right."

with smoke still clouding your vision, jackie takes the opportunity to glance back down at the bare skin of your stomach.  she feels the urge to hook her fingers in the loops of your belt and pull you impossibly closer.  she holds back for now.

"so what were you and your friends singing about?"

"oh, um..."

we were singing about you jackie!

"just, y'know, being stupid as usual," you shrug.  you couldn't scare her with the truth.

"well, it looked like fun," she says, almost longingly.

you were aware of how jackie resented her own friends sometimes and you truly felt for her.  you remember her twirling her straw around in her milkshake while she confessed that everything felt so fake and forced with them, and especially jeff.

that's why she was so attracted to the raw, unfiltered essence of you and your group.  maybe it was just her privileged curiosity talking, but you could tell she was fascinated with how different your life was from hers.

"y'know, you could...hang with us sometime?  i mean, i could introduce you to everyone, if you want," you say casually.

"really?" she asks, eyes instantly lighting up. 

she wants to be immersed in your world.  she wants to be immersed in you. 

"i mean, it wouldn't be weird?"

"no, everyone's pretty cool.  it doesn't have to be a big deal or anything...or we could just hang out if you'd like that," you say, trying to play it cool but feeling unusually excited.

"yeah," she says, grinning beautifully.  "we should totally hang out first.  like, whenever you're free, you should come over." 

she pauses for a second, biting her lip.  her eyes scan your face for a sign of disinterest, but she can't find any.  so, she steps closer to you, her fingers creeping toward your belt.

"or, if you wanna go right n-"

the sound of screaming scares both of you and jackie jumps back, her hand nervously falling to her thigh.  you look over jackie's shoulder and she turns, only to find your teammates all shouting over each other while trying to separate shauna and taissa.  it seems they've attracted everyone's attention as randy only adds to the chaos by shouting "cat fight."

jackie audibly groans, partly because she hates to see her team fighting, but mostly because they've infringed on her time with you.  she stomps toward them and, though you don't want to get involved in whatever is going on, you feel the need to follow her.

"enough!" she yells in her captain voice, so different from the way she had been speaking to you.  she immediately silences everyone.

she sighs and looks back at you for a second, almost as an apology for their behavior and how they've derailed your night.

"yellowjackets, with me, now!" she shouts, stomping away from the bonfire and toward the darker part of the woods.

while the others follow her reluctantly, you don't move, hoping you might be able to sneak away from this trainwreck while you still can.  but, as if she could feel the absence of your presence, jackie turns and finds you standing too far away from her.

she walks back over to you and grabs the same wrist she had held just moments ago.

"sorry," she murmurs, eyes softening for you.  "but you too," she says, before dragging you along with her as if she had separation anxiety.

you look over your shoulder back at your friends, who are all too amused by you and jackie.  most of them are making lewd gestures like scissoring their fingers together or thrusting their hips just to tease the two of you.  you can only send them a strong middle finger before jackie whisks you away entirely, though you can hear the remnants of their obnoxious laughter.

you look down at your wrist and the tight grip jackie has on it.  she doesn't need to be guiding you like this anymore, but you don't mind.  if you're being honest, you like it.

you slide your wrist out of her grip for only a second before you place your hand fully in hers.  she looks back at you, anger dissipating from her face, and you give her hand a gentle squeeze.  a smile creeps onto her lips, and she momentarily forgets the situation at hand.

if anyone was proof that opposites attract, it was definitely you two.

identity is the root.

you are not manifesting random events. you are not manifesting based on what you want. you are manifesting based on who you believe you are. and that belief, your identity, is what determines what appears in your life, what repeats, what leaves, what stays, and how things unfold.

this is why neville said over and over: assume the feeling of the wish fulfilled. he wasn’t telling you to act like you’re playing pretend. he was telling you that your reality forms around your state of being. and your state of being is just your identity in action.

your identity is the foundation of your self-concept. it’s not just one belief, it’s the entire self-image you carry. it’s what you expect without thinking. it’s how you explain things to yourself. it’s the inner story you’ve been telling for so long, you forgot you were telling it.

identity is subtle. it hides in how you react to compliments. it hides in how you respond to silence. it hides in what you assume people mean when they don’t reply, or when they do. it shows up in what you think is normal, likely, or typical for you.

if you identify as someone who is always left out, you will unconsciously expect to be left out. you will anticipate abandonment, misread neutral situations as rejection, and replay painful assumptions until they harden into “facts.” if you identify as someone who is loved, special, and always chosen, the opposite becomes true. your mind will filter life through that lens. you’ll revise in your favor. you’ll remember support instead of abandonment. you’ll manifest people who reflect that version of you back to you.

you’re manifesting what your identity believes is true. and identity is not stable by default, it’s habitual. you’ve simply practiced it over time. that means you can choose a new one just as easily. you don’t have to “heal” before you change. (even though this is beneficial) and you definitely don’t have to “earn” a new self-concept. you just have to stop identifying with the version of you who doesn’t have what they want.

neville said, “change your conception of yourself and you will automatically change the world in which you live.” he also said, “to be transformed, the whole basis of your thoughts must change.” and that happens not by controlling every thought, but by choosing a new identity, a new center of being, from which your thoughts, assumptions, and reactions now arise.

a new identity changes what feels natural. and the law always reflects what is natural to you. once it feels normal to be adored, you’ll start getting adored. once it feels natural to have money, you’ll start finding yourself in circumstances where money is flowing. you’ll stop thinking it’s a sign when someone treats you well, you’ll start seeing it as the bare minimum. because it matches the self you’ve chosen to be.

this is why identity is everything. identity determines your assumptions. assumptions determine your perceptions. perceptions determine your reactions. reactions reinforce your reality. and your reality is always confirming the self you are being.

you don’t need to visualize harder. you don’t need to micromanage the 3D. you need to ask: who am i being? who do i assume i am right now? and if the answer doesn’t match the version of you who has it all, shift. right now. no delay. 

you are not here to chase the desire. you are here to realize you already are the version of you who has it. all that’s left to do is assume them. the 3D always reflects who you believe you are.

lucky strike / CL16

Summary: Charles x American!female!reader - F1 comes to Sin City and you unexpectedly run into a certain someone.

Warnings: gambling, alcohol, cussing, use of pet names (A LOT), flirting, one moment of implied jealousy

Requested?: Sort of! Thank you to everyone who voted for Charles in the poll!

Author's Note: Charles won out in the poll, so here you go, everybody! (Of course I HAD to use The Charles Vegas Podium Picture). Also, I listened to Lucky Strike by Maroon 5 while writing.

one in a million ; my lucky strike

Well, you thought the whole F1 thing was absolutely ridiculous. You couldn't care an ounce less about Formula 1, so you certainly weren't happy about all the complications of it coming to your city.

You would call yourself an all American girl, and you're proud of it. If any racing, NASCAR. Football is the sport with the brown ball you throw- NFL, not the white and black ball you kick. That's soccer. You have the greatest food, the greatest mix of cultures, the greatest weather. If you didn't know better, you'd say you have the greatest country, too.

You watched a Formula 1 race when you realized the whole Las Vegas Grand Prix thing was actual, and when you saw that (firstly) it was honestly pretty boring, and (secondly) the only American driver is basically the most sucky one, you decided it would be pretty hard to get into it.

You're a Vegas girl, and you're proud of it. You're actually from Los Angeles, California, but you moved to Vegas to chase your dreams and live the life you dreamed of a year ago with your boyfriend, and it was so worth it.

Now you identify yourself with Vegas even more than you do with the Los Angeles Rams, despite the fact that your boyfriend broke up with you seven months ago and left to go be a prodigal son in New York City.

You decided Vegas was perfect enough for your clever hand, and you'd continue to be a prodigal daughter right where you're at.

But now the Grand Prix is the newest thing, and you don't like it at all. All these people flooding in, like as if there's not already enough people. Just to watch some cars drive around in circles, closing up main roads? No, you're not into it.

Your girl friends all seem to think this is just the best thing, and you discuss it across the table with two of them. One says, "Honestly, the McLaren duo are the hottest."

"No way- Ferrari! Have you seen Charles Leclerc?" your other friend disagrees.

You snort in disbelief and say sarcastically, "How about neither? So you guys only care about this because the racers are hot? Give me a break."

"Well," one of your friends starts, crossing her arms across her chest, "They are hot. At first, I wasn't so sure, but, I mean, come on! Maybe we could get glimpses of them when they're in Vegas!"

"Or meet them!" your other friend pipes in.

You scoff. "Good luck with that. Aren't these guys self-focused millionaires with too much money for their own good? Probably all greedy idiots who hook up with every half-sexy girl who comes along. So if you're into that, sure, waste your time trying to meet some hot plutocrats, with the one percent chance you might get f*cked like crazy for a night before they forget about you and move back to their mansions across the world! F*ck, is race car driving even a real sport? It's f*cking driving cars. I could do that!"

Your friends don't really argue with you, because you're right. And clearly, they do only care about the hot racers, because you figure any real fan of the sport would argue with you.

Two days before the Strip is supposed to be closed up for the Grand Prix, you find yourself submerged in the vibrant energy of Wynn Las Vegas, the dazzling lights and sounds of the casino floor swirling around you. The scent of alcohol lingers in the air, a reminder of the drinks you've indulged in throughout the night.

You slip between two people to reach the roulette wheel, holding your newly bought chips, with money you've earned earlier in the night.

Bets are placed around the table over and over, as you earn more and more chips. You feel someone nudge your shoulder, and a cocky male voice comments next to you, "You're having a good night, huh?"

"Every night is a good night," you remark back, not even glancing up at the man talking with you. He seems to have some sort of accent that you can't place. Perhaps French?

Which means he's probably from Louisiana. Possibly Quebec.

Probably some rich idiot F1 fan who can afford to travel half way across the country for the Grand Prix.

You don't plan to even give him the light of day.

"Until it's not," he says as you watch the roulette wheel spin once more.

You smirk and feel his eyes on you as you collect more chips.

The game goes on, and you think he's gotten the message that you don't care to converse with him, because does shut up.

But now it's the last bet of the game. You take a sip from your glass and feel a stupid, risky streak in you.

Some idiot part of you that's drunk and wants to push her luck way too far.

You place a straight-up bet, all your chips on the number sixteen.

You can feel eyes on you, and the same man next to you from earlier says, "Are you stupid?"

You chuckle. "Possibly."

"You're going to lose all your-"

"No, I won't." You straighten your back, staring at the wheel. It's true, you've earned a lot of money throughout this game.

And honest, it is true that you're stupid.

But it's also true that for some reason, you're confident.

"So you're overconfident and risky? I like that," comments the guy next to you. "But you're going to lose all your money. All that good luck for nothing..."

"You'll see," you breathe, ignoring his little flirt. "It's going to land on sixteen."

"Sixteen, huh?" This man's hazel eyes sparkle, and something in you tells you that you've seen this guy's brown locks, bright dimples, and perfect stubble before.

You've seen him somewhere. Recently. Like some guy you could haven't been drunk with, but the memory is fuzzy.

But you weren't drunk with him.

Despite being sure you've seen this guy before, you're also sure you've never met him before, either.

"Yeah," you nod, looking away, staring as the roulette wheel begins spinning. "It's my lucky number."

You're not looking at him, but you can feel him grin next to you. "Your lucky number, huh? Just so happens, it's mine, too."

You snort, rolling your eyes. "Is that some lame attempt of a flirt?"

"No. It really is my lucky number." By his tone, you can tell that grin has downgraded to a smirk. "But if you'd like to see a lame attempt of a flirt, that's an option, too..." His voice lowers as you feel his arm snake around you, and his hand land on your waist.

You gently shove it off as the wheel begins to slow. You hold your breath, watching, this stupid French boy no longer even a fraction of your concerns. All focus is on your slight potential lucky strike.

And then the world stops as the wheel stops, too.

On sixteen.

And then it all comes flooding back. "Oh my God!" you squeal stupidly, covering your mouth as there's rounds of, "You've got to be kidding me," "No way," "It's impossible!" and "How lucky is this girl?"

You feel surges of shock and pride as you collect all your money. Once you've received it, after such luck, and earning a fortune, you decide you're going to have a drink. Or more than just one.

But when you turn, there's that guy again.

"What's up?" you ask, the grin on your face impossible to wipe off.

"How did you know it was going to stop on sixteen?" he questions, and he looks a little more handsome than he did before as this time he succeeds in taking your waist.

"Are you trying to pick my pocket?" you question warily, though, shoving his hand away.

"Not at all," he chuckles, "But you're a smart girl, aren't you? And I think I might be a lucky boy. Come on- I'll buy you a drink."

You snort. "No way, pretty boy! I can buy my own drink, after what just happened! How cocky are you?"

"Call me cocky, or call me rich, but either way, you're too sexy to have to pay for your own drink."

You scoff at this, but figure that you can't really let down an offer of free stuff. You'll be the first to admit you're greedy. Once of the biggest reasons why you gamble is because you want money- duh- and as much of it as you can get.

So soon, you're sitting at a table with this random guy, looking into his eyes, holding your drink in your hand. After barely a moment of hesitation, your curiosity finally gets to you, and you ask, "Who are you, anyway? I could have sworn I've seen you somewhere recently."

He gets a smug look on his face, which you don't like, before he says, "You really don't know?"

Your nose crinkles up in confusion, and for a second you feel ultra worried. Is this someone that I've met, that I should remember? Am I a terrible person for not knowing who this is...?

But then he says simply, "My first name is Charles. Charles Leclerc."

You stare at the taller individual, knowing you've heard that name, trying desperately to wrack your brain of it.

And then, suddenly, it hits you.

Loudly, in your head, in your friend's voice, in the exact tone she said it, 'No way- Ferrari! Have you seen Charles Leclerc?'

"Wait-!" you say in shock. You can see the satisfaction on the man's face, Charles, as you realize. "So, you're one of those F1 racers? Like, you race for the Ferrari team?"

He snorts and nods. "I'm surprised you didn't recognize me right away. Do you live here in Vegas?"

"Yeah," you say simply, taking a sip of your drink.

"So I take it you hate Formula 1, then? Because how else are you living in Vegas right now and don't know my name, or recognize my face?"

"You sound awfully prideful."

Suddenly, he smirks, and drags his finger across your jawline, pulling your face to look up at him in the process. "Maybe so. But clearly you're not so much better yourself, Miss Bet It All On Sixteen."

You cock an eyebrow at him and return his smirk with a challenging grin. "Sure, but I was right. I won what I wanted."

"Hmm... Well, what if I'm about to win what I want?"

"Oh, yeah? And what is it that you want?"

He leans in closer, so you can feel his hot breath tickle your ear as he utters simply, "You, baby."

You smirk. "We just met, buddy. I'm not that stupid."

"I think you're just playing hard to get."

"Or maybe it's just hard for you to get me," you counter.

"Well, I like your spunk. And your good luck. I think I might need a little bit more of that." He leans away a bit, and comments, "And I think I foresee a little bit more of luck in your future."

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah," he smirks, leaning in closer. In barely any second, his lips meet yours, and though you know you should, there's no way you're pulling away now. He wraps his arm around you, urging you to lean into the kiss. You melt, letting him.

You don't know what it is.

But in this moment, you gently let your lips part, inviting his tongue to slip in between your lips, allowing yourself to, yes, make out with basically a stranger.

It wouldn't be the first time, but it also isn't something you do for fun whenever you feel.

When you finally force yourself to pull away, the first thing you breathe is, "How did you do that?"

He grins, and is clearly red in the face. But there's a look of shock on his face, too. As if his flirty cover was just confidence, and not because he gets tons of girls like this...?

Or maybe you're just reading too much into his expression.

Either way, he responds with, stroking your cheek, "No idea. Maybe I just have a way with you?"

You roll your eyes as you check your purse. No, he didn't pickpocket. He meant to kiss you. You stand up and say simply, "Well, I better get going n-"

"Sorry, what?" he suddenly snatches your arm back, pulling you back down to sit again with a surprised chuckle. "You just met a famous millionaire race car driver who bought you a drink after you won big money in roulette, let him make out with you, loved it, and now you're just going to casually walk off?"

You grin. "What? Do you think I was impressed by you? Think again, honey. Just because you drive cars fast and make ridiculous amounts of stupid money for it, and that you're insanely handsome- none of that means I'm any more impressed with you than I am with any other guys I meet on my night outs."

"Hm," he raises an eyebrow, and says, "What if you could get more from me, missy? Clearly, you're out for yourself and will do anything for a good deal. And you're f*cking sexy about it, too. So what if I had something else to offer you?"

You let yourself sit down at this, looking at him expectantly.

He smirks, clearly loving that he's 'won you over,' before saying simply, "Would like a free pass to the whole weekend, and a pass for the paddock?"

Your eyebrows scrunch together, and your eyes widen. "I- what?"

His smirk grows even bigger. "You heard me."

You inhale sharply, but cross your arms across your chest and come out sharply saying, "Unfortunately for you, I couldn't care less about Formula 1. In fact, I'm starting to dislike it a lot. But thanks for the offer."

His jaw drops, and his eyes practically pops out of his head, which gets a chuckle from you. For a moment, he's actually speechless, before he finally gets out, "Are you aware of the offer you just refused?"

You raise an eyebrow, not able to keep the cheeky grin off your face. "Probably not, but that's okay. Why, anyways, would you give a stranger such an opportunity in the first place? You probably have ulterior motives, and I think I can pretty much guess what they are, mister. You don't even know my name yet."

"Oh, God, you're right," he laughs, taking another sip of his drink. "Well, what's your name, princess?"

You roll your eyes, and tell him.

He grins. "It's been wonderful meeting you." He digs in the pocket of his light blue jeans, and pulls out a pen and a restaurant receipt. "I know you think you'll be able to forget me so easily, princess," he starts, scribbling something on the receipt, "but trust me- you'll be wanting this." He takes your hand and presses the receipt into it, before standing up just like that, and saying with a wave as he turns to walk off, "I'll talk to you later, angel."

You look down at the receipt to see a phone number scribbled on it in chicken scratch. But the numbers are clear. And though you walk out that night rolling your eyes at this Charles's boldness and cockiness, with an abundance of money you've earned that's a lot more worth the stupid grease-stained receipt, the moment you get back to your apartment, the first thing you intend to is putting that stupid number into your phone.

"This is stupid," you comment as you slide into the backseat, next to Charles.

He just rolls his eyes. "You won't be saying that by the end of this experience. Besides, you were the one who decided to text me, like I said you would. You were just playing hard to get."

You scoff. "Oh, shut up."

"You look lovely, by the way," he comments in a lower voice. "I like that skirt." You look down at yourself. You're wearing a matching crop top shirt and short skirt, your sunglasses holding your hair back away from your face, and brown sandals.

"Thanks," you snort, crossing your arms and looking out the window, turning your gaze away from the Monégasque driver. (Yes, you did, despite yourself, look him up last night, just to know who the heck this guy even is.)

(You also were sure to look up his salary.)

(Ridiculous.)

(But also intriguing.)

Soon enough, before you know it, you're walking alongside him, about to enter the 'paddock.'

Makes it sound like a bunch of horses racing.

But when you're there, surrounded by it, in the moment, you don't think rude comments like that.

You stop, taking in the high life atmosphere. The revving car noises, the lights of The Strip on the 'racetrack,' the crowds, the music, the richness, and the challenge.

Your breathing falters, and your heart beat quickens as your hand involuntarily finds Charles's wrist and grips it as you gasp, "It's... extraordinary."

You glance to Charles's face to see him softly grinning. His hand slips down to hold yours as he comments, "You seemed like the type of girl to love it."

Your smile widens. "I've been here so many times. On The Strip. But... it's not the same. How did they do it?"

He begins walking, pulling you along by your hand as you look around. "That's just Formula 1 for you. There's nothing in the world quite like it, Y/n."

He leads you by the hand toward the Ferrari garage. Once you're there, he says, "Want to meet my teammate, Carlos?"

"Don't know who Carlos is, but sure..." you say vaguely, taking in the large piece of machinery- the Formula 1 car- in front of you.

He chuckles. "You're f*cking adorable," he murmurs, before leading you away to see Carlos.

He's a well-built man with fluffy dark hair, tan skin, big brown cow eyes, and stubble. Pretty much looks like exactly how you'd imagine a Formula 1 driver to look.

He nods respectfully. "Hey, Charles," he says, and shakes your hand with a friendly wink. "This your new girlfriend?"

You look up to see Charles smirk. "Not yet."

One of Carlos's thick, dark eyebrows cocks up, and the suggestion of an amused smirk travels on his lips for a second. "Ah, I see."

"Charles!" you snap, your eyebrows scrunches together. "Not ever."

"Well, we'll see about that. So far, I've been the right one, now, princess, haven't I?"

"Pfft. I was right about sixteen, wasn't I?"

He rolls his eyes as Carlos says with a chuckle, "Well, it will sure be interesting to see how this plays out," before moving on with his life.

Charles takes the time to show you around, and halfway through the tour, you blurt suddenly, "So, this is all the Italian team and stuff. Isn't there an American team?"

"Hmmm," Charles snorts as his eyebrows travel farther up and he fights off a seemingly somewhat mocking smirk. "There is."

"Why don't you show me them? Don't they have an American driver? Like, Carlos is Italian, right? Isn't it protocol or somethin'? Anyway, isn't it called Williams, the American team, or something? Some guy named Logan something that's an American racer on there-"

At this, Charles can't seem to hold it together anymore, and doubles over laughing, essentially, at you.

"What?!" you demand indignantly.

"You really are clueless!"

"I-"

"Alright, alright, Y/n. Haas is the American team. They don't have an American driver- German and Danish. No, Carlos is not Italian; he's from Spain. Williams is British, and yes, Logan Sargeant races for Williams, and he is American. About the only thing you got right."

You roll your eyes with a shrug. "I told you I don't give a damn about this stupid sport."

"Whatever you say, Miss Starry Eyes."

So, first Charles takes you to Haas, where you learn, surprisingly, that not all the racers are young hotshots like Charles and Carlos at least seem to be. They're friendly enough there, but really don't care much to give you any of their time, so then Charles suggests to go to the Williams garage and see if there's Logan to bother. You agree to that, so soon, you're entering Williams.

As soon as you see Logan, you know he's the American. You can see it in his stance. You can see it in his golden blond slightly sweeped hair, gray blue eyes, and strong jawline. "That's Logan, isn't it?"

"How'd you know?"

You shrug, breaking off from Charles to Logan. "Hey! You're the only American 'round here?!" you ask with a friendly grin.

"Huh?" he asks, looking up, in the most United States of America way. "Oh, hi," he says in what you perceive as dumbly, with a friendly smile. Ah, that's more like it. None of these posh Monacan boys and hot Spanish men- this guy is just like home sweet home!

You can practically hear the eagles cawing over the Rocky Mountains!

"You're Logan Sargeant?"

He nods. "I am. And you are...?"

"Just some Vegas girl dragged here by Charles."

"Ah... so you know him?"

"Well, now, unfortunately, yes."

His eyebrows furrow, but he chuckles at the same time. Though this guy isn't nearly as handsome or charming as Charles, there's something about him you like a bit more-

Suddenly, a hand is on your waist, and hot breath says in your ear, "Got to be getting back to Ferrari now. Come on with me?"

You blush and nod. "Right, Charles."

You have no idea what to think of him.

"Podium?! Uh- is a podium good?!" you ask, eyes wide as Charles brings it home in second.

"Yeah, yeah, it's good!" some guy you don't know wearing red near you says.

"Oh- Alright, well- That's good, I suppose!" you respond a little manically.

As soon as Charles as the chance, he finds you. He still has champagne on his race suit and his face is glistening with sweat, and there's no way you can deny it- he's sexy. When he reaches you, he wraps his arms around you, and his stunning eyes seem to burn into you. He can't fight the grin off his face as he says lowly, "Get why my lucky number is sixteen, baby girl?"

"Ah, stop with that," you snap, your voice cracking. You don't know, but this seems- all this seems-

Way too important.

You reach up to touch the number sixteen on his hat, before taking it off his head and slipping it on your own, backwards, on impulse.

He grins. "You can keep it. Not like you'll need a keepsake. You won't forget me."

You bite your lip, giving a quick nod, still studying his handsome face. Your eyes linger on his light pink lips, which arch into a perfect cupid's bow, as you murmur absently, "You seem pretty confident about that, huh?"

"Of course I do. Looks like you might be my little good luck charm, hm? Can't be letting you run away from me, can I?"

"Hm. Well, we'll see about that."

"Still playing hard to get?"

"Not playing. I just am hard to get."

"Whatever you say, darling," he comments with a shrug, walking off.

The French accent is pretty sexy.

Your eyes flutter open, and the first thing you see are the big earnest eyes of Charles Leclerc, staring back into your eyes. "Morning sunsh-"

Your immediate reaction is to scream and promptly slap him across his pretty face.

He grunts as his hand flies to his cheek to cover it up, and he says, "Hey, hey, calm down!"

But your eyes scan the room. It's clearly a hotel room. There's only one bed: the one you and Charles are laying in right at this moment. You're wearing a large black T-shirt and big blue gym shorts very tightly tied to fit your waist. Charles is dressed in a grey hoodie and jeans with a white T-shirt underneath, his regular jewelry, and white sneakers. So clearly, he's already showered and gotten dressed. He smells like his rich cologne, and his hair is all washed and fluffy and clean. If you weren't in a slight panic right now, you'd have wondered if you could touch his hair and feel how soft it is.

But!

As you're about to gasp out questions, Charles sits up and gently sets his hand on top of yours. You become aware of the pounding in your head as you bite your lip nervously. Charles looks at you earnestly, and says calmly, "Hey, you don't have to worry. It's okay."

"What happened?" you exhale.

"Nothing," he soothes. "We went out. You got more drunk than any of us though you should. I didn't know where you lived, so I took you to my hotel room. Gave you clothes to change into, and we went to sleep. Nothing more."

You swallow an anxious lump in your throat. "How do I know I can trust you? Please, just be honest with me. I won't be mad. You didn't know any bet-"

"I didn't do anything. We didn't do anything. Okay?" he leans in closer, and reaches to cup your cheeks in his hands. "'Kay? Can you just trust me?"

You bite your lip, but slowly nod. "I suppose that's the only thing I can do."

Over six months later, you stand on the boat, staring out at the Mediterranean Sea, smelling the salty breeze in the air, feeling content, wearing a loose button down, light blue jean shorts with a brown belt, your slew of bracelets, white sneakers, and a headband holding back your hair.

Suddenly, Charles is up next to you. "Hey, princess." For months, you've had what you stubbornly call a 'situationship,' whilst Charles calls you his girlfriend.

Because you love Vegas more than you love Charles (or at least that's what you like to say), you refused to leave when Charles did. You like taking risks. Just not the 'travelling halfway across the world for a hot guy' kind of risks.

But you stayed in touch. Charles made sure of that.

Well, he meant it when he said he'd make sure you'll never forget him.

But then Formula 1 came back to the States, to Miami, and you knew you'd have to make the trip. The flirty comments and romantic tension thick enough to cut ensued as soon as you and Charles set eyes upon each other, like as if it hadn't been six months or so since you'd last seen each other last.

It just felt like-

Somehow fate is involved.

Well, when Charles invited you to the Monaco Grand Prix, that was an offer you felt you couldn't let down.

And, boy, was that the best descision of your life.

To see Charles win his home race like that, and to be there? Just thinking about it now gives you goosebumps. Charles had wrapped his arms around you after the race, his eyes a little damp, and you felt something more.

Like he really cared.

If you didn't know better, you'd say it was like he really loved.

Loved you.

But, no. Of course not. That can't be.

Can it?

Well, all night you partied. You were in on the fun. You also made sure to pay a visit to the Monte Carlo casino, as you obviously must.

You had amazing luck, once again.

On this thought, as you feel Charles approaching from behind you, you comment into the wind, "You know, I'm starting to think you're my lucky charm, honey."

He chuckles, coming up next to you. "Oh, yeah? That's what I said six months ago when I first met you, you know. I've been starting to think the same thing about you."

You snort. "Maybe so, Monaco race winner."

He smirks, and you can feel the pure joy radiating off him. He slips his hand into yours as he murmurs, "I was so lucky to meet you."

I smirk. "I am pretty awesome."

He rolls his eyes, but squeezes your hand. "So, do you like it here in Monaco?"

You nod vigorously. "Gosh, Charles, it's amazing."

"Better than Vegas?"

"Well- I don't know if anything is better than Vegas..."

He leans in closer and speaks lower. "Well, would Monaco be better if your good luck charm just so happens to reside here?"

"Hm..." you smirk, flushing a bit. "I'd have to think about that, prince."

"Yeah," he nod, his tone softer. "Why don't you."

There's some silence, as you watch the sun begin to set, reflecting off the sparkling water.

Charles leans even closer to you, his hands gliding around your waist, pulling you towards him. He leans down, gazing deeply into your eyes. Then that stupid flirty grin appears on his face again. "F*cking gorgeous you are, one in a million. I struck lucky with you. My lucky strike."

He closes the distance between you, his soft lips meeting yours in a passionate kiss. The heat of his body against yours sends shivers down your spine, igniting a spark between you as your tongues dance together in a sensual embrace. Connected.

Maybe it's not fate.

But it is most certainly luck.

And in this moment, with the lips of the winner of Monaco sucking on yours, you feel like the one who struck it lucky.

IMAGINES LIKE THIS MAKE ME PISS MYSELF

maybe, just maybe

─── maybe it would be all worth it in the end

frat!lando norris x fem!reader warnings; nsfw!! minors dni!!! [includes p in v, oral-- m & f receiving, fingering- f receiving, unprotected]

 2:43 AM. The time on your lockscreen is blaring, it embarrasses you and almost makes you go to bed. 

Almost. 

→ Lando 2:43AM Are you on your way?

You bite down on your bottom lip, gaze switching from the text and your reflection in the mirror. You were ready to go– you’ve been ready to go. Yet, your bottom is still glued to the edge of your bed and your eyes on your reflection. You stare at yourself, weigh your options, make a mental pros and cons list about driving over to a fraternity house in the early hours of the morning. And when it comes to Lando, the cons list always seems to run longer than the pros. It’s a sign, you shouldn’t go.

Your phone pings with another text from Lando.

→ Lando 2:44AM Just lmk so I can go wait for you downstairs. 

You’re not this girl. You’re not the hook up type, the “go see a boy at three a.m.” type. You’re not this girl, not the one contemplating the idea of the boy who only seems to remember you when he’s lonely. No. You’re the type to be in bed at three a.m., the type of girl to stay in and watch a movie at three a.m, than to meet a boy. You’d much rather meet a boy at three p.m. 

Though admittedly, you hadn’t been that girl much either.

Your phone pings again. 

→ Lando 2:44AM Or if not I’ll just go to bed. But please come.

The message makes the guilt creep up on you, eat you up and reason with you. It erases all the cons on that little mental list you made earlier, and all because he said please. You sigh softly, giving in to him like you always do. You slip on your shoes, throw your bag over your shoulder, before walking out of your room. Your fingers tap away at a response quickly, hitting send before you get to your car.

← You 2:45AM Omw. Be there in 5

→ Lando 2:45AM Okay. Drive safe. 

You bite down on your lip when you read his notification, fighting back a smile. It’s stupid, it shouldn’t affect you this much. But it does. He cares, you mock yourself. You put your phone in the cupholder, letting your music shuffle as you pull out of your parking spot. The drive turns out to be eight minutes thanks to slow stoplights and the one pedestrian that decided to run across the road. But you make it to the house in one piece, parking on the unusually quiet street, between a gray Lexus and a white Camry. 

← You 2:53AM Here

→ Lando 2:53AM Door is unlocked

Pit pat pit, your shoes smack against the three steps up to the front door. True to his word, the door knob twists all the way and allows you into the sleepy house. You wish you could say you’d never seen the house like this, quiet and void of some sort of gathering. But that would be a lie because you have seen it this quiet. You’ve walked into the house many times before, quietly and secretly, always to meet the same boy. 

Lando doesn’t look up from his spot, leaning against the arm of the couch in the living room as he stares at whatever illuminates his phone screen. He’s clothed in a gray hoodie, hood pulled over his hair, and black sweatpants. You shut the door quietly behind you, whispering a soft hey as you take the short steps over to him. He finally looks up, smiling briefly before leaning down to peck your lips. 

It’s sickening how natural– how normal, it all feels. It shouldn’t. 

“How was your drive?” He asks, stuffing his phone in his pocket before slinging that same hand over you. His arm weighs warmly on your shoulders, pulling you into his side. 

“T’was okay…” you answer, looking up at him, “I think the pothole on University Drive got bigger.” 

He doesn’t return your gaze, acts as your eyes instead as he leads you through the house. But he smiles at your comment, wide enough that you can see the crinkles by his eyes. “Yeah… it probably did.” 

Lando’s arm slips from around you when you reach the foot of the stairs. He gets up about two steps before you follow behind him. Your footsteps are muffled into the carpeting, and there is a soft glow that comes from the second floor of the house. At the top of the steps, on the wall to the left sits the fraternity composite from the previous school year. Lando’s photo is on the fourth row, third from the right. He has a charming smile, and eyes that laugh. He looked so good. 

“When are you guys updating that?” Lando turns around when you ask, staring at the obscurely large photo framed on the wall. It takes a couple of seconds, you see the gears turning behind his green eyes. 

“Uh… maybe next week? Can’t remember when Pierre said it would be.” He rubs his eyes, fighting back a yawn before he waves you over to follow him. 

It’s a fairly quiet walk to his room. The house is fast asleep, though not necessarily dead silent. You can still hear shows playing and music changing behind the doors of each room. Each individual sleeping habit becomes clearer in the short walk to Lando’s room. 

His door is already opened, letting out cold air and the smell of alcohol and cologne. Calvin Klein – the same bottle of eau de toilette you bought him for his birthday last year. And Old Spice, though you have the deodorant stick left on the nightstand, cap off, to blame for that. You crinkle your nose at the scent, setting your bag down on his desk before slipping off your shoes. 

“Uh…” Lando rubs the top of his hoodie, pressing it down against his curly hair, “Sorry. I spilled vodka on my floor earlier. It still smells.” 

You hum, nodding as you walk across his room to close his deodorant. Lando reaches around you, swiping the tube as the cap clicks, walking it over to his dresser and placing it next to his rings and the cologne. He apologizes, cheeks hot and the tips of his ears red. 

His room is still as messy as you remember it. Laundry hanging precariously over the hamper and there are more empty hangers in his half opened closet than used ones. His letters are hanging over the back of his desk chair, and his bag is leaning against the leg of it. It’s zipped open showing off three crinkled papers and two folders. One red one, one blue one– both empty.  A bright orange t-shirt hangs out the side of it, just barely covering his black water bottle stuffed into the designated pocket. By his bed, his nightstand holds a lamp with no bulb and three vapes. His sheets are undone, obviously lived in and if you know Lando, you know he hasn’t made his bed in a week. 

“Why were you drinking in your room?” You finally ask, crawling onto the bed and over to your side of it. 

“Just because.” He shrugs, walking over to the door to push it shut. He pinches the lock between the side of his index finger and the pad of his thumb, twisting it locked. “Why, you want to take one?”

You scrunch your nose at the offer and it makes him laugh. “It’s three a.m.”

Lando smiles knowingly, hands coming up to grab onto the back of his hoodie. “We’ve done worse things,” He says, pulling the white material over his head, tossing it on the floor and leaving his torso bare. His finger flicks off the lights, but the room is still dimly lit by the warm streetlight outside his window. You watch him climb into bed, walking on his knees the short distance to you before he dips his head and presses a rough kiss against your lips. His hand holds your cheek, the ends of his fingers just dipping into your hair. 

You smile as you kiss him back, blowing an amused breath through your nose. “Almost like you miss me,” you tease between kisses. He laughs, breathy and smelling like minty toothpaste, as he pulls away. You can see the way he looks at you, eyes filled with a kind of fondness that makes your heart melt and believe in something just a little more. 

“I do miss you.” 

You give him a look, a playful non-believing one. Wide eyes, raised brows, and a puckered lip that asked him oh really? It makes him do another one of those breathless laughs as he adjusts himself in front of you, right arm taught to hold up his body while his left palm curves over your right knee, pushing it further from your left. 

“Let me show you how much I do.” 

Your breath hitches in your throat, eyes watching as his fingers grip onto the waistband of your sweats. He tugs them down your legs, over your knees, and off your ankles in one swift, eager movement. You watch as he lays on his stomach, left arm fitting snugly under your thigh. He licks his bottom lip before tugging it between his teeth, eyes stuck on the baby pink underwear that he’s left you in– particularly the little bow that sits on the waistband, just below your belly button. There’s a crooked smile on his lips as his right hand comes up, index finger and thumb picking at the little thing, using it to pull the waistband of your underwear back before letting it snap against your skin. 

“Cute.” 

“Shut up.”

A low chuckle vibrates in his throat. He leaves the bow be, leaves the teasing words up in the air. But his fingers, his fingers are just ghosting over you, over the pink fabric. His fingers do what he won’t say with words. His long, slender, middle finger traces lines over your clothed slit. Up and down, up and down. You can’t breathe, anticipating the relief he’d surely give you if you’re only patient enough. 

The streetlight outside is orange and obnoxiously bright. You complained about it every time, begging him to get a curtain or buy new blinds (Oscar destroyed his old ones several parties ago, and he had yet to replace them). It’s been months and a handful of sleepovers and his only compromise was switching places in bed with you. But tonight, tonight you love that street light. You love the warmth that bounces off his skin, the way it allows you to see the freckles that litter his shoulders. But perhaps your favorite part of it all, the part that gets you the most, is the light cast over half his face. The shadows contouring him perfectly, and the light kissing the most prominent part of him. And that light allows you to see his eyes flick up towards you, a burning gaze as you feel his thumb pull your panties to the side. 

He looks down at your cunt with blown pupils and a hungry stare. “Missed your pussy.” 

A second. And another. And then his tongue is lapping you up and tickling your clit. You squirm beneath him, gasping for air as he wraps his lips around your nerves. It sends tingles through your skin, shoots pleasure into every nerve ending and pulls your back off the bed. You whine, begging for more more more. He rumbles against you, humming contentedly as he flicks his tongue against your core. Lando’s right hand grips the top of your thigh, pads of his fingers pressing against your flesh and leaving imprints of him. He eats your pussy like a man starved– tongue desperate to taste every inch of you. 

Lando, Lando, Lando, you chant softly. You pick up your head, abdomen tense as you begin to feel your orgasm build in the pit of your stomach. You’re standing at the edge, on the tips of your toes, waiting… waiting for him to push you over the edge. You moan quietly, fingers frantically searching for him and finding refuge in his curls. You feel every strand, every curve and twist of his hair against your fingers as you grip onto them to pull him closer to your cunt. You beg a whiney please… I’m so close. You breathe, gasping for air when you feel his middle and ring finger curl into you. His mouth continues to trace shapes and figures against your clit as his fingers pump at an unforgiving pace. It’s there, you’re right there. 

You lose the sensation of his lips, replaced instead by his warm breath. And your eyes are screwed shut otherwise you’d see the way he looks up at you through his lashes and that knowing smirk on his lips. “You gonna come for me baby?” he taunts, “make a mess all over my fingers? All over my face?”

You whimper, “All over your pretty face.” you confirm, looking between your legs. 

Lando smirks, “Yeah… yeah baby. Come for me,” he encourages, quickening the pace of his fingers and curling them. You could scream, you want to. But the house is so quiet, so fucking quiet. “C’mon baby, give it to me.” 

Your moan is broken by the gasps, broken by pleasure shooting through your skin. Your legs shake, clench around Lando’s head who doesn’t let up, who returns his mouth onto your cunt, tongue flicking and fingers squelching into you. You buck your hips against his face as you chase your orgasm, and he chuckles into you. You can feel his smile against you and that’s just enough to bring you over the edge. You picture it, the knowing smirk that he’s got you right he wants you. Lando savors every second of your pussy pulsating around him, your arousal coating his chin. It’s only when you stifle a giggle, when palms are against his forehead and pushing him away from your sensitive cunt does he finally stop. You feel empty when he pulls his fingers out of you, you feel almost… incomplete. 

Lando sucks on his fingers, humming around them before releasing them with a pop. You push yourself up, hand reaching out to pull the boy over you and smashing your lips against his. You can taste yourself mixed with his spit, your sweet arousal on his tongue doesn’t bother you nearly as much as it used to. You press your palm against Lando’s chest, push him down onto his side of the bed and find your place between his thighs. You can see his hard dick pressing against the fabric of his sweatpants, and you waste no time tugging the material down his legs with his underwear, with just as much desperation he had with you. 

“Almost like you miss me,” Lando teases. 

You bite back a smile, teeth digging into your bottom lip as you pull his bottoms over his ankles, discarding them to the floor. “Almost.” 

You level your head with his cock, quick to press your tongue flat against his shaft to lick a long stripe up his length. Lando hisses and its music to your ears. You do it again before wrapping your hand around him, sucking in your cheeks before releasing a ball of spit against the head. You use your palm to spread the wetness up and down his length, eyes flickering up for a bit of approval. Lando nods, breath stuck in his chest while he reaches over to you. His fingers comb through your hair, pushing your locks over your shoulder before resting at the base of your neck. He doesn’t need to say a thing, just has to push your head down gently, to encourage you where he wants you. 

You start at the head, tongue swirling before licking along the top of it. The skin is taught, sensitive, housing nerves you set ablaze with just a flick of your tongue. Slowly, you allow more of him into your mouth until he just begins to fit snugly at the top of your throat. Lando groans, sings praises and coos over how well you take him. You force yourself to take more of him, allow his thick cock to fill your throat. You gag around him before finding the strength to swallow. The boy moans at the way your throat constricts around him, whines when you do it again. His fingers grip your hair tightly to alleviate the pressure in his chest. You come up for air, releasing his dick with a pop, mouth dripping with spit as you gasp for air. 

“Wanna fuck that sweet mouth of yours,” Lando breathes. “Would you let me do that?” 

You look up at him through your lashes, lowering your head to press a kiss against the head of his dick. You nod against him, mouth falling open once again and moving just low enough that if he’d buck his hips, he’d hit the back of your throat. There’s a moment of stillness, a moment where you begin to feel every little thing in the room. The cool air, the plush duvet, and your mouth watering over Lando. Anticipation drives you mad, makes you giddy and wet between your legs. Lando pulls all your hair behind your head, frizzy locks spilling over his fist. The ends tickle your back, the base of your neck. The side of his hand presses into the back of your head, guiding you down his length, pushing further and further into your mouth. Your nose flares as you try to control your breathing, throat relaxed and jaw slack. And just as his head begins to squeeze into the top of your throat, he pulls your head back up. He starts slow, eases your mouth up and down his cock, pushing further with every dip, until he hears the profane sounds of air and spit stopping him from continuing. 

“God,” Lando groans, “Your fucking mouth…”

The compliment, whatever it was meant to be, is lost in the air as Lando throws his head back with another rough groan. You try to bob your head, swallow as much of him as you can. But your hair is bunched in his fist, tightly, rendering you still with your lips wrapped around him. You suck, swirl your tongue, do as much as your limited movement will allow, beckoning another sinful sound to fall from his lips. His fist only winds tighter, making the hairs on the bottom of your head ache.

He hums, the hand not in your hair tapping your jaw. Your lips are frozen, eyes flicking up to look up at him. Lando presses his lips into a thin line, suppressing an amused look, “Sorry. Open. Just open your mouth baby.” 

You hum, complying with his request and letting your jaw fall slack. You press your tongue flat in your mouth and grant him the room he needs as he begins to thrust himself into your mouth. The head of his cock hits the back of your throat that makes your mouth water, the not-so-gentle assault making your arousal begin to spread to the inside of your thighs, a mess of desperation. Lando’s legs are bent just enough on either side of you so he could push his hips up. He’s panting, moaning, a mess as he holds your hair tightly and pushes himself as far as your tight throat would take him. Your eyes water as you begin to choke around him, gagging and gurgling your spit– making a fucking mess all over him. You miss the words that tumble past his lips, miss the compliments and praises of how well your taking him as he fucks your mouth. All you could focus on is breathing through your nose, relaxing your throat as you accommodate his size. Lando pulls out of your mouth completely a moment later, fingers releasing your hair and finding your jaw instead. His four fingers hold onto your face, forcing you to look up at him while his thumb swipes the saliva that covers your bottom lip and chin. You blush but he smiles, guiding you over him so he can kiss you again. 

Lando’s hands trace your curves, finding their way to your hips. His grip is warm, the pads of his fingers pressing into the flesh of your love handles as he guides you over him. The kiss grows eager, heated by the proximity and your slick cunt just barely brushing his stiff cock. The playfulness dissipates and is replaced by desperation. Your knees are on either side of his hips, and your lips part from his as you reach for his dick behind you, pulling it up as you rub the head against your pussy. Lando’s lips latch onto your nipple, sucking the bud between his teeth. You hiss at the sensation, throwing your head back as you press his cock against your entrance. Slowly, deliberately, you lower yourself onto him. A groan bubbles from Lando’s throat and it vibrates against your skin. 

You whine when he bottoms out in you, whine at the fullness you feel when he’s pushed all the way inside you. “Fuck Lando…” You breathe, gasping for air. 

He nudges his nose against your jaw, encouraging you to tilt your head away from him to kiss you where you like to be kissed. His lips are soft, wet, gentle as he begins to kiss your neck. They lick and suck that makes the hairs rise on your skin. Slowly, you push yourself up on your knees before sinking yourself back down. The grip on your hips grows tighter, encouraging you to move quicker, to bounce on his cock faster. But you choose to savor the fullness, to savor the minutes that pass you both by. You didn’t mind taking your time chasing the high, you knew you’d get there eventually. 

You try to build up to the moment, swiveling your hips around him as you move yourself up and down. You feel every bit of him inside of you, moaning at how he stretches you when he’s all the way in you. You’re Lando’s hands squeeze your hips, hold you up so that only half of him is exposed. And then he thrusts up, sheathing himself in you completely. You nearly topple over at the force, hands quick to press against his chest to find your balance. The new angle has moans bubbling from your throat with ease. You’re desperate for more, pushing back against him as he continues to thrust upwards. 

Lando is impatient. He’s desperate, horny, and just vexed enough to flip you both over so that your back is against his mattress and he’s sitting over you. He pulls your right leg over his shoulder while he pushes your left thigh down into your chest. He mumbles under his breath, none of which you can make sense of, especially when he bucks his hips against yours, hard. You arch your back, head digging into his flimsy pillow and engulfing you in the scent of his shampoo left in the threads. Your senses are on fire, nerves overwhelmed with pleasure. Moans escape you, whiny and desperate with every stroke of his cock. 

“You like that?” Lando breathes, “Like when I fuck you like this?”

You nod, whining a pathetic yes. You do, god of course you do. There is no other reason, nothing more enticing than a three a.m. text message, it's truly the biggest reason you dare make the drive to a stupid frat house in the first place. You like– no love how Lando fucks you. You love the way he makes you feel, how he sets every nerve on fire and blurs all your senses so that all you feel is him. Him, him, him. 

You look up at him, see the cocky smirk curved into his lips as he continues to fuck you into the bed. There’s a sheen of sweat that coats his skin, the warm light of the streetlamp glistening against his toned chest. You reach up, fingers inching up from his chest to his neck, pulling him back to you into a heated kiss. Always a mess of teeth and tongue, mixed with desperation and the need to be as close to the other as possible. Lando filling you up, fitting himself in your warmth, doesn’t feel close enough. You moan into his mouth at the new sensation, the feeling of him– every ridge and vein, all of him– and the way he begins to fuck into you. You’re a mess, unable to keep up with the kiss, to keep up with the boy fucking you. 

“Lando,” You breathe against his lips

Lando pulls away, forehead resting on yours as his right hand comes up to cup your jaw. His thumb presses against your lips, pushing past them and resting on your tongue. Almost instantly, your lips wrap around his finger and sucking. His eyes go dark, the bright green gone from the lust that takes over his gaze. He savors the feeling of your tongue, soft and wet against the pad of his thumb. Flashes of the moments not too long ago make his cock twitch and he swears he could finish in that moment. But he pulls his thumb from your mouth, hand finding its place above your crotch to place the slick digit against your clit. You gasp, head thrown back into the pillow and the moans begin to choke you. You’re struggling to breathe as pleasure creeps up your bones, prickles at your skin one nerve at a time. 

“Oh god,” You breathe, “I’m gonna come.” 

You regret saying it because the moment you do, Lando stops. His hard cock, still inside of you, and your orgasm withering away. You whine in protest, turning your head into the pillow to hide the displeasure woven into your face. You could scream at the way he laughs above you, the soft coos of your name and the light hearted teasing that you didn’t get to finish. But before you could retaliate, to let your irritation get the best of you, Lando flips you over onto your stomach. His hands, planted firmly on your hips, pull them up. You feel his hands spread your ass, squeezing and then his lips against the skin. 

“Don’t worry baby,” Lando mumbles against the flesh of your bottom, “I got you.” 

A beat and then his tongue is on your pussy again. He licks a stripe, and another, and once more before you can no longer feel his warm breath. There’s a mumble of compliments, none of which you manage to make out between the rustling of the sheets and your left ear buried in the pillow in an effort to take a peek at him.  You’re panting, waiting, anticipating him. And when he pushes in deep inside of you, you feel whole again. Your fingers grip onto the sheets, eyes screwed tightly shut, as Landobegins to fuck you over and over, skin slapping and the sloppy sounds of your arousal coating his dick. Your lungs shake on inhale while your exhale is throaty and desperate. Your body shakes with the bed, with every thrust, banging the bed frame against the wall.

Lando’s fingers weave their way into your hair, gripping at the roots to pull back, upright, and as close to his chest as far as  your body allows. His breath is hot against your cheek. 

“You feel so fucking good.” 

“God Lando.” 

His free hand comes up, sliding along the curves of your torso and cupping your breast before finally finding their place around your neck. And when his hand finally resides above your collar bones, he releases your hair. You reach behind you, fingers combing through his curls as you search for a bit of stability in the new position. Lando bottoms out in you with every thrust, his movements rough yet persistent. You feel the sweat of his chest against your back and your arousal sliding down the inside of your thighs. And then it’s there– your orgasm– a growing bubble in the pit of your stomach. You don’t dare say a word this time, just moan a little louder and throw your head back against his shoulder. 

Lando’s grip tightens around your neck. Your eyes roll back into your skull. He whispers dirty words in your ear, words you wouldn’t dare repeat– words only uttered in the quiet of the early morning. He says just enoughs, does just enough, to push you over the edge for the second time tonight. Your pussy pulsates, clenches and unclenches around Lando as your orgasm washes over you. You’re panting, whining, fingernails clawing at his arm that’s lain across your chest. Lando’s lips are curved into a smile as he presses a kiss under your ear, can you take one more?, he asks. 

You’re a mess, but nod anyways. That’s my girl, Lando mumbles as he pulls out from you. It’s sick how you find pleasure in the way he pulls out, enjoying the slow and languid movement he makes before he guides you down on your back. The duvet is soft, warm, plush, against your back. You were spent, eyes drooping, and if it weren’t for his presence above you, you would surely drift to sleep in a matter of seconds. Lando’s lips attach to your neck softly, leaving a trail of wet kisses along the length of it. It’s almost sweet, the way he takes his time with you. A ghost of a smile curves onto your lips as you turn, pressing yours against him. The kiss is slow, sensual– like time has stopped for the both of you and allowed a couple moments without worry. You almost let yourself fall into that fantasy– that truly in the moment it was only you and him. Lando’s hand comes up to cup your face as he presses deeper, tongue tracing along your bottom lip. You allow him way, and your tongues push and slide against each other. You moan softly, needy, as you slide your legs open so he can come closer. Lando accepts the invitation, shifting on the bed so that his chest is pressing against yours. Your hands scramble around him, one through his curly hair and the other pressing against the soft skin of his back to bring him even closer to you. 

Want you, he breathes. Need you, you whine. 

Lando pulls his lips from you, craning his neck as he grabs onto his hard shaft, sliding it along your wet slit slowly. You hold your breath in anticipation, a shudder running up your spine at the teasing movement. Up… then down. And then he’s pushing into you so agonizingly slowly. You whine softly, hands moving up to his face to bring his lips back to yours, desperate to relieve yourself of this feeling churning in the pit of your gut. Lando kisses you feverishly as he bucks his hips against you, chasing a high he had yet to find for himself. You hold onto him, failing to keep up with him as he fucks you harder and harder. His pace is slow but the thrusts are deep, calculated, once again pushing you towards a cliff you’ve jumped twice tonight already. You’re a whiney mess, begging for more after every profane word that falls from his lips. Like when I fuck you like this? You feel so good baby. You’re made for me. I’ll never get enough of you. You’re fucking mine. 

You were. No– you are. You can’t remember life before Lando, before the yearning and the need to be as close to him as you could be. Even under the guise of uncaring, behind the fake “nothing he does affects me” facade you put up, there is always a little twinge– a fray in nicely kept threads. Deep in your heart, guarded by self-preservation and ego, you know that if Lando said jump you’d always ask how high? 

His thrusts become sloppy, desperate, as he begins to chase his own high. I’m gonna come, he mumbles against your lips. A soft moan rumbles from the back of his throat, vibrates against your lips as you swallow the sounds of pleasure. Your fingers intertwine with the curls on his head, gripping tightly as you feel your own release begin to wash over you. Your orgasm grips every nerve, lights your skin on fire and suffocates you in the best way. You’re forced to rip your lips from him so you can gasp for air. Your gasp turns into quiet cries as your pussy pulsates around him. Lando is not far behind, his hips quickly pulling out of you and spurting hot cum on your lower abdomen. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, turning your head so he can kiss you once more. 

“You okay?” He finally asks, warm breath fanning over your skin as he carefully pushes the hairs from your face. You’re spent, more than okay, and so with droopy eyes and a lazy smile, you nod. Mhm. 

Lando rolls off of you, sitting up and walking towards the opposite side of the room. He bends over to swipe a towel off the floor before sauntering back to bed and swiping the material along your belly. He cleans the mess, half amused, before bending down to give you another sweet peck. You hum contentedly, hands outstretched for him to pull you up. Lando’s hand grabs yours, pulling you up and off the bed with ease. You navigate through the dimly lit, messy bedroom in search of your clothes. You manage to find your panties and hoodie before rolling over to your side of the bed and under the covers. The duvet smells lived in, with a hint of Lando and all his vices. 

With boxers over his hips, Lando climbs into bed next to you. His arms are quick to wrap around you, head finding refuge in the crook of your neck. It’s quiet now, the world fast asleep and patiently waiting to join. But as spent as you are, as much as your body begs for rest, your mind reels. It’s easy to forget about sleep when anxiety begins to weave its way into every thought.

You feel stupid again. A bit of self loathing and a sprinkle of heartache courses through your veins. You told yourself that you wouldn’t give in, that if Lando wanted to see you again, that he’d have to make an effort to do so. You were supposed to make him make the late night drive, that he’d have to walk up to your dorm all alone and sneak out again the next morning. You promised yourself to make him work a little harder and yet, all he had to do was say please and you jumped on the opportunity to see him. Like “please” excuses the fact he’d only see you when everyone was fast asleep, that he’d only hold you and kiss you and call you his when no one was looking. 

You settle comfortably, regrettably, in Lando’s arms as he wraps them around you. His lips are warm against the top of your forehead, then against your cheeks, and finally against your lips. The gesture is reassuring, tying you to a bit of security– the kind you’ll look back on and wonder if it was real. The mental list of cons you had contemplated earlier in the night had made it to the forefront of all your thoughts. It’s a long list, extensive and albeit a little overdramatic. But that the top, enumerated number one, reads the same line that pierces your chest time and time again.

He isn’t yours.

It’s a sick thought, a taunting realization that you have in the dull moments of your day. So as you lay wrapped in him, you are forced to reckon with the fact that he isn't yours. How you feel about him, differs vastly with how he feels about you. The scales are tipped in his favor of his ego and pride. 

You shuffle out of his hold, and he doesn’t seem phased as you slide out of bed. You’re slipping on your leggings, stepping into your runners and reaching for your bag. He doesn’t so much as flinch until he hears the aged brass door knob squeak at your turn.

“You’re not staying?” You look up, stare right at his back as he begins to shuffle deeper into the covers. His shoulders and all the little freckles on it are left exposed under the warm light bleeding into the room. 

“No.” 

The air in the room is thick, but you wonder if you’re making up the discomfort in your head. Lando has yet to turn, yet to respond, yet to react to the palpable tension in the room. But his shoulders only rise with his breathing, slow and steady.

“Why not?” 

Because I wouldn’t be able to fall asleep anyways. Because it isn’t a good idea. Because if I stay, I think I’ll fall in love with you. 

You shrug, “Just wanna be in my bed. And plus I have an early day tomorrow, so I’d rather be home.” 

“That’s not a very good reason.” Lando turns over, eyes half open and tongue poking out to wet his lips. “Just stay, I’ll make sure you wake up in the morning.” 

You bite down on your bottom lip, mind reeling for another excuse, another out, just about any reason to give him so you could go home and drown in your misery. But before you do, Lando sits up. He reaches for his phone and swipes along the screen. He hums softly, tapping three times before flipping his screen around for you to see. Three alarms set– 6:05, 6:15, 6:25. There, he mumbles, now come to bed. 

You’d be lying to yourself if you said that the gesture didn’t make your heart do flips. The gesture– though maybe nothing to him– is a little more than something for you. It shows he cares. It shows that he wants you there. The gesture is enough to dissolve the walls of doubt you’d built for yourself. All it took was three alarms and the boy pulling back the covers for you to return to your place in bed. You bite down on your lip, bag sliding off your shoulder and dropping to the floor with a soft thud. You were never good at standing your ground anyways. You kick off your shoes, set them by the door, before crawling into the empty space by Lando. He’s quick to pull the covers over your bodies before his arms are around you and pulling you against him. 

“Missed this,” Lando mumbles softly into your hair, “missed you.” 

You hum softly, toying with the edge of the duvet. “Oh yeah?”

There’s a beat of silence much louder than your breathing. You’re too focused on the loose threads on the duvet, the feeling of the clumps of stuffing caused by a cheap dryer, much too focused on the less important things to see the way Lando raises his brow. 

“Yeah,” He replies, matter of factly. “Don’t believe me?” 

You shrug, poking your chin up as you stare at him. His eyes scan you, looking for a quiver of a muscle, something to tell him that you’re only poking fun at him. Instead, he sees the bit of heaviness in your eyes. 

You don’t believe him. 

There are questions that hang in the air, conversations that are much too honest for four in the morning. Neither of you pull the trigger on it, instead lay quietly by each other, soaking in the distrust and disbelief. But what was new? It has always been this way, this was you and Lando’s normal. Living a never ending cycle of doubt and mistrust, all the pushing and pulling, of fights left unresolved and conversations never had. Being with Lando meant living with uncertainty. Being in love with Lando meant wishing away that cons list and pretending that it doesn’t exist. Because at least– the very least– you’re here. 

Lando falls asleep moments later, snoring softly and holding you firm against him. He smells like soap, fresh linen, and just a hint of you. His skin is soft, littered with freckles and moles and the memory of the night behind you. You stare for a bit, count the lashes that lay on his cheek, pass the time as you debate in your mind if sleeping here was worth the way you would feel when he inevitably shows you out the next day. But then he squeezes you tighter. You feel his nose nuzzling into your hair, inhaling the scent of your shampoo. His body relaxes against you, and you suddenly feel whole. You feel like you belong. Maybe it was worth sticking it out. Maybe things would be different in the morning.

You fall asleep, regrettably comfortable and your heart relying on the maybes.

d rambles. . . i have wrestled with this fic for months because i honestly was trying to do way too much with it so i figured i'd post this and then post pt2. so this fic is p with very little plot- the plot to be found in the next part (hopefully). anyways i hope you all enjoy this and as always feedback is greatly appreciated. smooches!

The void state is SOOOOOOOOOOO easy once you actually realize what it is. One major reason why you aren't "succeeding" in the void state is because you *drumroll, please* put it on a pedestal. Duh, just like everything else.

One thing I've noticed is how Loablr overcomplicated the void state so much. You guys acted like you were becoming a demi-god or an ethereal being going to Jupiter from your bedroom. You think before bed when you are going to lay down and affirm for the void "Okay...whew well it's time to go to the void" Baby you ARE the void. The void state is literally just forgetting about your body until you fall asleep. 😭😭 That's why you cant hear, or see, or feel anything because you assumed a new part of you. That's why the distraction technique works so well. It is because you were easily swayed and distracted from your body, from your physical, and now only in your head.

"So how do I enter it?" It's really up to you. Do you want to peacefully go to sleep and wake up in it? Do you want to affirm it? Do you want to do sats? Whatever YOU feel comfortable doing.

Personally, the way I entered the void was through sats. I love sats so much, and I use it for almost every single one of my manifestations. Lie down in any position you want. (I personally chose my back.) Close your eyes and feel your whole body relax. Breathe in and out until your mind goes completely blank. Then affirm. Say "I" and breathe in "Am" and Breathe out. Repeat this process until you feel symptoms (floating, falling, etc) You may see it get pitch black behind your eyes, that's when you know You're in the void. (credits to reddit I got the affirming technique from there) One major tip is to make a rule that you always wake up in the void. You could affirm throughout the day how you wake up in the void on command/every night with ease. Thank you so much for reading! Feel free to ask questions, Anons are always open <3

time isn't real and everything is happening and has already happened all at once. so basically you have already shifted and are shifting as we speak. you've shifted millions and billions of times. even if you don't remember it happening, it has already happened. you are already in your dr