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darkdemeter · 7 months

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𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐍, 𝐁𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄

◤✘BUCKY BARNES COLUMN | Dark Pirate! Bucky Barnes x Siren! Female Reader ISSUE NO.#...

NOTES: ↳ Yes. Yes... YAAAAS! IM DOING IT! I'm frickin' writing a pirate Bucky! Mmmm! Fuckin' love pirate stuff, I'm just living for Bucky being a hot pirate commanding a vessel on the high seas. WARNINGS! ↳ Pirate Bucky — semi dark Bucky — submissive/soft captive reader — possessive Bucky — SMUT 18+, Minors DNI! — P in V sex — memory loss/wiping via magic (reader affected) — light use of physical and sexual acts to avoid conflict — indirect breeding kink? — pet names — brief consumption of alcohol — I think that's it? SUMMARY: ↳ He is your captain. There is no place you'd rather be than by his side, nothing you could ever want for that is not him. You owe everything, your entire self, to him. Yet overboard and on the tide you sail across, in search for a great and ancient treasure, a song continues to seep through the cracks of your heart and soul… a song so familiar yet unknown. Forgotten. Bucky reminds you yet again that there is no place else for you that isn't beside him, that there is nothing out there.

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There lays a song forgotten in your heart and soul, distantly faint as the receding tide to the shore. With each spare moment of peace you were given to dwell beneath the lapping waters, you spend a portion of it in search of that song. And what time remains within the falling sand’s glass, you bask in the blue and faded black abyss.

Tonight is no different. You could not remember the forgotten song that lulls you tenderly, pulling through skin and scale, calling you somewhere far, much too far, away from the balancing hull above.

You could not abandon your captain. Betray the trust between you both. After all, it was he who found you washed atop the rocky crevices of the island, who rescued you from a fate of drying out in the sun’s merciless heat. Who took care of you when there was nothing left of the life you once knew.

To break that earnt trust, to betray him, you can’t think of anything far more heartbreaking than that.

“Time’s up, my Siren,” the voice of your captain beckons you. He calls you to the surface.

A sigh ripples through the water and your head tilts up towards the surface, the darkened slits in your milky white eyes shrink away from the moonlight penetrating through the waves. The long limb of your tail sweeps back and forth, thrusting you upwards, skin and scales shimmering brighter as you near the barrier between water and air. The breach pulls a lungful gasp of the night's chillingly crisp air, the only warmth coming from The Avenger.

Hair drench-pressed and thinned forms a curtain over your features as you peer up at the looming figure pridefully arching over the ship’s wooden rail. The slivered slits of your eyes grow wider as they focus on him, with a lantern beside him, glass scorched and worn by smoke, it illuminates the upper portion of his body. His white shirt ruggedly wrinkled and loosened to showcase a muscled chest, skin tanned by the sun’s heated kiss, sleeves rolled to the elbow, black ink painted legendary stories over his body in memorabilia. Stories forged into his flesh for all to study and cower in fear.

He summons you with a kink of his finger and you obey his silent command with an all too eager nod. Around you, the water spirals into a column and rises up, pushing you higher to reach the wooden railing. Aboard the ship, the crew is merry in their celebrations. Another successful day of conquest and battle on the high seas, another amassed sum of gold and valuables to add to hull and reputation.

Of course spirits would be high and cheerful tonight. And of course, what was a conquest without the captain’s prize at the end of it all?

Gathering yourself over the rail and onto the deck, the glistening shine of your tail morphs into two shapely legs, the milky hues of your eyes and other remnants of your true body hide in their human disguise. Your eyes find the hourglass on his opposite side, the sand all gathered in the bottom glass pit. Your captain holds something out for you and you graciously accept his gift, pulling the thin veil of your robe over your naked body.

His ocean blue eyes scan you up and down, the left corner of his plush, chapped lips turns upwards.

“Did you find what you were looking for?” He purrs his question and it brings a cold chill to run up and down your spine, your lungs freeze with what little breath they had at that moment.

He turns his body properly to face you, burly shoulders and thick muscles straining the fabric of his shirt. His eyes fold slightly into a sharpened stare of interrogation.

“I–I don’t…” You shake your head, breath hitching. “I don’t understand, Captain. I search for nothing that is not you.”

“Aye?”

Your gaze drops to the limb of his remaining flesh hand, the other limb itself brings an uncomfortable yet hazy familiarity, you dare not to look at it up close when in the awoken presence of his intimidating stature. Often you would question its being there and admire its raw and unique - mystical - materials, when your captain lay beside you fast asleep.

Wrapped tightly over and under the callousness of his palm, the golden chain twinkles in the pale moonlight, the larger pearl at its centre holstered by binding gold and tinier pearls, beneath the gilded net a more refined shape of a pearl dances on its link.

However, your mesmerised pupils flicker up in an instant, brought to the attention of your captain awaiting your obedient answer. A noise is pitched in your throat with the answer but it dies swiftly before its deliverance.

Your vision focuses behind him then, up near the ship’s helm, her fingers lace slowly in their hypnotic movement as the fabric of her scarlet magic is weaved together. A warning. You do your best to hide the distressed visage of fear, batting your eyelashes and brushing aside the death of your verbal response, you bow your body forward submissively to his that towers over you.

When your lips touch his, he almost instantly devours yours in a hungry kiss, the soft caress of your fingers tracing the curves of his chest brings pride and lust to possessively reel you into him, your nude front colliding against the hardened wall of his own.

Your hands run their course of exploration up the swollen bulk of his arms until they find purchase and entangle themselves in his dark locks. His own hands ravage your body, kneading the flesh and slim muscle of your hips.

He groans when you submit to his overpowering will, mouth parting to his eager tongue that shoots forward like a fired cannon, aimed to dominate you in every sense of the word. Your soft whimpers beneath him bring him unimaginable pleasure, the sort that drives him to seek it evermore, with no seeming end to his insatiable hunger for what is you; your entire being. Wolves are known to be ravenous beasts. It’s why he’s known by the moniker as the White Wolf.

His tongue fiercely dances over yours, swirling and his bottom teeth tease you by nipping your lip, earning a high pitched squeal from you. He chuckles, the sound rich and dark in its intention. Your core comes alight, burning hotly and the once cool air dissipates as heat courses through every vein and nerve in your body, your mind swimming in the ocean pools of his eyes. Eyes that at times are the only thing you need to be connected to the sea.

The prominent tent of his erected endowment presses against your stomach and lower abdomen. You finally pull away, however, in his caging embrace it’s not very far you’re able to move back.

“Wait for me in my cabin, little Siren,” he orders gruffly. Your mouth falls agape and you sputter in your rattled confusion.

“But I—” Still he penetrates you with that cold stare. It prods at you with radiant intensity, it matches the ominous scarlet glow that now burns brighter now as it moves down the upper deck’s stairs. Your eyes dart between the woman who controls the rolling waves of red magic and the ferocity of your captain’s hardpressed gaze.

Your head bounces quickly. “Yes...”

A few words of compliance are cut off by a gasp. As you attempt to follow his order and return to his cabin, he halts you within his metallic grasp and pulls you back in, curled lips mere inches from your own, in the clutches of his brazen hold, he commands your attention. Your hands are forced to rest over his chest.

He drawls with a warning growl, “Yes?”

“Yes, Captain Barnes.”

Bucky nods his head once and lets you go, his eyes flicker between the cabin door and you, silently instructing you to hurry along. Your bare feet barely make a sound over the wooden deck in your traversal towards the cabin, where you would await your captain to claim his prize. Treasure that he greedily gets to have all to himself. The conquest he takes glee in ravishing himself full of.

Once you’re tucked inside, exactly where he wants you, Bucky scratches at his stubbled jaw, his recent shave already beginning to grow in again. Wanda approaches his side, the fabric of her magic ceasing at her fingertips like embers passing over into lowly ashes.

“That was a close one,” Bucky growls, his tongue that savours your taste runs over his teeth. She hisses with a hushed tone, “With each outing she is given to delve into the sea, my magic weakens, Captain.”

His eyes roll to glare at the woman beside him. She sighs with a bow of her head, eyes downcast as to not provoke him into thinking her words a challenge.

“All I mean to say is that you must reinforce her rules. She’s beginning to suspect far too much, and with each piece of recollection, my power is sapped by her own. Enforce her rules once more.”

Bucky’s shoulders shrug upwards with an all too arrogant huff, haughty in his conviction. He idly tilts his flesh hand, admiring the piece of you he has wrapped up in his iron grasp.

“She will do well to keep in mind her place. She’s intimidated.”

“She’s conflicted, Captain.” Her words bring about a scowl to Bucky’s face, lips coiled into a snarl and nose wrinkling, eyes thinning. “And it will be a matter of time before she is free of you, and you will be known as the captain who lost his siren.”

The bridge of this knowledge leaves Bucky in a state of strife. An aspect to his notorious reputation was garnered by your captivity. The White Wolf known by all as the fearsome pirate captain who tamed a siren; held you in the oyster of his clutches. If he did lose you, then his reputation would be suffering a heavy loss. As if to sense his change of demeanour, her hands raise up with her glowing, magic tipped fingers. His nostrils flare and the harsh prestige that made him a force not to be trifled with, he commands, “Do it.”

Bucky struts off with a roll of thunder beneath his leather worn boots, swiping up a half drunk bottle of rum and swallows an animalistic gulp, joining in on the festivities of his crew. Wanda observes her captain for a moment before diverting her attention towards the cabin. Her hands fold over one another, and with her palms outstretched, the scarlet hue dances through the air in a thin, cloudy blanket, searching and finding the miniscule gap beneath the wooden door.

He pummels into you until your back pushes far into the mattress, eliciting sharp whines and sultry moans from your parted lips, breath caught in a pattern of shallow pants. He chases after his second high as he drives his cock deep into you, the sound of skin slapping skin perverts the cabin’s air and already you begin to feel your core tremble in its own pursuit for its fourth orgasm. With each powerful snap of his hips, his throat chokes out a grunt in his exertions, the girth of his cock sinks deep into the channel of your hot, velvety cunt.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he growls lowly with a hiss, “so fuckin’ tight! You feel so good, you’re— taking me so well.”

With an exceptionally powerful rut of his hips and he has you on the precipice of screaming, thighs quivering in their hold around his waist, heels digging into the dip of his large, muscular back. Any coherent thoughts and words die on the vine of your vocal cords, only able to procure sounds of pleasure, to chant his name over and over again.

“Captain Barnes!” you mewl with fervour. Bucky’s chest vibrates with a husky chuckle. “That’s right, scream my name, let the crew hear you, Love. Let them hear how drunk you are for my cock.”

His one palm is laced with sweat, thick and roughened fingers squeeze yours in a passionate display of his dark possessiveness over you. Your captain could be very jealous when another’s eyes lingered on you for even a second too long, many others had suffered the brunt of his fury - weapons ablaze - and you in the end suffered the brunt of his envy with his cock pounding into you for the next several hours.

To remind you to whom it was you belong to.

His lips suckle one of the erected peaks of your breasts, moaning as his tongue leaves a wet trail around it before passing over to the second to repeat the treatment. Your head turns to the side sharply when the head of his cock splits you open even further than you could previously imagine, hitting a hidden crevice that leaves you without breath.

He gauges your reaction, the colour of your eyes blurring, phasing between the natural milky white canvases and the hue of your disguise, your canines and incisors now elongated, all because of the pleasure that pools at the junction where your bodies meet. But for a moment, you catch the glimmer of gold still wrapped around his hand, glimmering metal gnawing and rubbing across his skin, you’re torn between your euphoria and clouded curiosity.

“Say it again,” he grunts with a hard thrust that makes his muscles ripple insanely beneath his skin.

“C’mon, say it for your captain, Love.”

Your lips and tongue drag across the flesh of his wrist, the pulse of his racing heart beats through, you can almost taste the rhythm. His sweat tastes strong with his musk, a strong flavour of the salty sea, sandy beaches and gunpowder.

You moan softly, almost in a whisper, “Captain… C-Captain Barnes.”

The effect you have on him is indescribable to him. Never has he been able to put it into words, all he can do is feel it; carnally. The repetitive pounding into that deeper and sweeter spot has your back arching up, the smooth layer of your sweat covered body rubs against his, able to feel each defining muscle, he uses his metal hand to grip hold of one of your thighs, angling you so that you’re spread further apart for him. Your eyes begin to fall heavy and roll back into your skull in your drunken haze, the shimmer of scarlet presently blooms from time to time in them.

“That’s right. You belong to me, little Siren. It’s my cock that has you dripping wet.” His thrusts become faster, losing the precise edge he had before, his climax inevitably as close as your own. Your nails embed crescent moons into the skin of his one hand while the other bites into his shoulder.

“I’m the only man— fuck! The only man who gets to have you like this. Shit… shit. ’M going to fill you up.”

“Please, please… Cap—”

“Aye, I’m going to fill you up, have you nice ‘nd full until my cum is leaking out of your little cunt, Siren. Fuck… you want that, don’t you? I know you do.”

You gasp with each attempt to breathe, each push and pull of his cock strikes you like a match to light the powder keg, the explosion of your climaxes comes as a white hot flash in your vision, momentarily blinding you. Your hot walls squeeze around his large endowment, forcing him to thrust back and forth even harder, grunting hot breaths against the shell of your ear.

His seed is flushed into the channel of your pussy in thick, seething spurts that paint your walls that milk him for every precious drop.

What he gives makes your lower abdomen weigh a little heavier, a little bit fuller than you were before. His hips grow slower with each dissipating explosion from his tip. His large chest expands hugely with every intake of air to his lungs before deflating as a pleased groan.

In his reverie of contentment, having had his fill of his prize - for now - he withdraws his softening cock from your pussy, a moistened pop echoes in the emptiness of your thoughts. Bucky rolls off of you to lay at your side, atop the furs and silken drapes of the bed. Before you can make a move he uses his metal arm to drag you in closer, tucking you into his side, the coldness of his fingers skimming the delicate texture of your arm.

The soothing rock of the ship is enough to lull you to sleep, the lids of your eyes inching closer and closer together.

“Still deny that you found nothing?”

His question only brings your brows to knit together. You shake your head and huddle closer into his side, basking in the comforting warmth of his body. Why on earth would he ask you such a silly question? As if there was anything of importance that outranked him, by being at his side.

The answer you give is instant in its resolve, “I don’t understand, Captain. I needn’t find anything out there… I have you.”

Your answer, though unable to see it from your position, pleases him and his lips curl into a toothy smirk, long sweeps of his dark brown hair tousled about in his post sex state. You lay your head against his chest to hear the steady thrum of his heartbeat, eyes closing to seek rest and refuge in the arms of your beloved captain. The man that grants you safety, that promises you nights of passion followed by the comfort of his body next to yours. All he asks in return is your loyalty. Your devotion.

For you to be his siren.

Behind the blurry curtain of sleep layered over your eyes, you awaken and by your estimation, only for around an hour or maybe a little more. The morn still hasn’t risen over the ocean’s horizon, the moonlight shimmering and shining over the waves. The candlelight that bathed the cabin with a sensual atmosphere had now burnt out.

Breaths of deepened sleep sound next to you, the chiselled sculpt of his chest you’d used as a pillow takes steady form, as he sleeps. It makes you wonder as to what he dreams about, sometimes a scowl is etched into his attractive visage and he becomes restless, leaving you to somehow comfort him. And other times, mostly after he’s spent drawing orgasm after orgasm from the two of you, he finds respite.

You take the time to thoroughly yet delicately rub your eyes, robbing the tiredness of its hold to take you once more. With a tilt of your head, hair coming over your shoulder to graze the top of your breasts, his other hand lay out over the bed, residing just over the edge.

The mysterious object that somehow you know is linked with you, but as to how or why, or its significance to you in any case, is still laced around his calloused palm. Despite its odd gleam of familiarity, you believe this is the first time you’ve seen it before, however, the tiny voice in the back of your mind says otherwise. Then you must have seen something like it before somewhere.

Something deep in the recess of your heart, you have to know. Is this somehow linked to the estranged longing to a home you can’t remember? Does this necklace bind you to the lost melody of times erased from your memory?

You take caution in moving carefully, inching your way to lean over the sleeping form of your captain, skin brushing skin, you slowly rotate your hips and hoist a thigh over his waist. Heated crimson flushes into your cheeks as you analyse your newfound position, but also from the way his body stirs lightly, still enraptured by sleep yet his body adjusting to your core lining over his naval.

Thawed from your frozen idle of panic, you take a moment to calm the racing of your heart that hammers vigorously against your chest, your nimble fingers reach out towards his flesh hand that clings protectively to the mysterious necklace.

This almost feels… too easy. You swallow a silent gulp, fingers grazing against his palm when his body shifts, bumping up into yours, you pull your reach back so fast, your hand slaps against his ribs, doing your best to cover up your true intentions. His stills beneath you once more and your shoulders fall lax with a sigh of relief.

Again you dare another attempt to grab the necklace, this time you don’t risk breathing, holding it for what seems like forever until your lungs begin to swell with an ache that makes them feel like bubbles about to burst.

You work the chain until it's loosened and finally allow your held breath to escape you, the strain to remain silent proving far more difficult than you would have liked. The weight of your body shifts backwards, now sitting up, you allow your eyes to take in every detail of the object in your hands. The gold chain is light, ghostly as it graces your hands, your fingers lace and loop it around amidst the process of your conjuring thoughts.

Like a puppeteer pulling the strings you raise the necklace up by its precious thread. The pearl encaged by its makeshift net swings from side to side, as though even when you are completely still, it has a soul of its own accord.

Everything you knew about pearls is forfeit, the identity of this one brings the bevel between your brows to form in thoughtful wonder. Therein lies the piece of some puzzle, the missing notes to the melody to which you only recall the faint rhythm of the song.

It has to mean something of greater importance. But if it did, then why is your captain so adamant to dismiss your curious nature to find the answers?

As if the pearl itself is the key, you hear within your heart and soul the song. Voices sing a tone that is calming to your senses, a sweet and endearing lullaby meant for you to hear whenever you find yourself in the loneliest of places, in the darkest reaches of the ocean, the connection will bring you somewhere you call home.

But your home is The Avenger. Aboard the ship with Captain Barnes. The man known as Bucky to his closest inner circle. So why do the voices mingling with the tide call you away from all that? With each passing second you become ensnared by the spell of the pearl, the voices of whom you somehow find solace in become louder, the softened chorus of their song echoes a hundred times over in your head.

Before you even give pause to reason, your own voice becomes paired with the orchestra of sirens. You have no words, and maybe you never did, all you did need is the pearl to help guide you in remembering the melody. The uncertainty of your humming eases, the unforeseen instructors aiding you, your voice is soft within its deep reverie when it all comes to an abrupt pause, a gasp severing the tune.

He has you by the wrist, fingers bruisingly tight and giving you no choice to pull away from him, as he often did whenever he saw you retreat from him without his say so.

Bucky’s eyes bear into yours, penetrating the barrier of the necklace, he stares you down the way a wolf does the lonely prey in its path. His eyes match the brooding darkness of a storm at sea, a breed of villainy that threatens those who dare to try him.

“Captain…” Your throat bobs with a nervous swallow. “I– I wasn’t—”

Out of pure instinct to not tempt his fury, your hold on the necklace ceases and it gathers in the roughened pad of his palm, large thumb that has caressed your sensitive nub plenty of times now works against the spherical shape of the pearl, brows heavy in their judgement to assess your punishment. His movement is sudden upon the brink of your awareness, a sharp gasp that cuts into the tender muscle of your chest as he plants you flat on your back, hands both of flesh and metal pin your wrists on either side of you until the bruising ache becomes far too unbearable. But you do nothing to voice the level of your pain. He would not hear of it. His newly erected shaft ghosts over your entrance, the beginnings of your slick painting his already drooling tip. “I’m beginning to think you like breaking my rules, Siren.”

#female reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #pirate au #pirate bucky #siren reader #bucky smut #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #bucky x reader smut #bucky x reader

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transform4u · 3 months

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Born Proud on the 4th of July-500 Follower Story

Milo Higgins stood tall and broad-shouldered in his backyard, a picture of American pride and muscle. His olive-drab t-shirt strained against his chest, showcasing his rugged physique honed by years of military training. The yard was a sea of American flags fluttering in the summer breeze, interspersed with military memorabilia and a meticulously maintained home gym in one corner.

As the football game blared from the outdoor television, Milo hollered over his shoulder, "Suzie, bring me another beer and some wings!" His voice carried a gruff authority, a remnant of his military command style. He believed in traditional roles, firmly believing women belonged in the kitchen and that his word was law in his domain.

His routine was disciplined and intense. He woke at dawn for his military-style workouts: push-ups, pull-ups, and weights, all executed with a grim determination. His evenings were spent watching football, wrestling, and Fox News, occasionally barking orders to Suzie or grumbling about politics.

Today was special—a Fourth of July party for his military buddies and their families. The guests began to arrive, a mix of fellow servicemen and their children. Among them was Julio, Suzie's best gay friend and Milo's least favorite person on Earth. Julio, always impeccably dressed and effortlessly charming, greeted Suzie with a warm hug.

"Hey Suzie, you look amazing!" Julio said with a wide smile.

"Thanks, Julio! So glad you could make it," Suzie replied warmly. She turned to Milo, gesturing towards Julio. "Milo, this is Julio."

Milo glanced at Julio with thinly veiled disdain before muttering, "Hey," and quickly walking away towards the grill where he flipped a few burgers with unnecessary force.

Julio followed him, undeterred by Milo's cold reception. "Hey, Milo, happy Fourth! Thanks for having me over."

Milo grunted in response, not making eye contact as he adjusted the heat on the grill.

Julio persisted, maintaining his congenial demeanor. "You know, Suzie talks so highly of you. It's great to finally meet you."

Milo turned abruptly, fixing Julio with a steely glare. "Listen, Julio. I don't need you putting ideas in Suzie's head, you hear me? She's my wife, and what she thinks ain't your concern."

Julio raised his hands placatingly. "Hey, man, I'm just here to celebrate, like everyone else. No worries."

Milo's jaw clenched, his dislike for Julio simmering just below the surface. "Just watch yourself," he warned, before turning back to the grill, effectively ending the conversation.

Julio's face fell as Milo launched into a tirade, his words stinging like a slap. "Listen here, you little punk. I don't care what you think about me or my wife. Just keep your filthy mouth shut and stay away from her. You're nothing but a damn faggot, Julio! And your woke politics can go straight to hell. This country was built on traditional values, not your queer ideals. And don't even get me started on how much of a hypocrite you are. You come into our home acting like some kind of saint when really you just want to corrupt my wife with your perverted lifestyle."

He couldn't believe the man was so narrow-minded and hateful. Suzie had always spoken highly of him, but it seemed she was married to someone who couldn't accept the truth about people or their relationships.

As Julio tried to gather his thoughts, he glanced over at Suzie, hoping for some sort of support or understanding from her. But she just looked uncomfortable and embarrassed by her husband's outburst. It hurt Julio to see her like that; he knew how much she loved Milo despite his flaws.

Taking a deep breath, Julio decided it was time for action. He wouldn't let Milo get away with this kind of behavior without consequence—not if it meant hurting Suzie in the process.

Julio sighed inwardly but plastered on a smile as he rejoined Suzie and their friends, determined not to let Milo's hostility ruin the festive atmosphere.

Neither Milo nor Suzie knew that Julio practiced brujería, a tradition steeped in mysticism and rituals. Julio, despite his charming exterior, had a deep knowledge of spells and hexes passed down through generations of his family in Mexico. Among his abilities was the art of cursing objects, infusing them with intentions and consequences.

As the Fourth of July party continued, Julio spotted Milo at the grill, his usual stern expression etched on his face.

Julio, frustrated with Milo's dismissive attitude and simmering hostility towards him, decided to take matters into his own hands. He knew he had the power to influence outcomes through brujería, and with a mix of irritation and determination, he focused his energy on the bottle of beer in his hand. Under his breath, Julio muttered an incantation, his eyes briefly glowing with a faint, otherworldly light:

"Por los poderes de la luna y el fuego, Transformo esta cerveza en un maleficio. Que el odio y el desprecio de este hombre hacia los gays, Se vuelva en su contra como una maldición.

Con cada sorbo de esta bebida, Su masculinidad tóxica se desvanece. Se transformará en lo que más desprecia, Un estereotipo gay que lo abochornará."

With a subtle wave of his hand, Julio completed the enchantment and then approached Milo, offering the beer with an inscrutable smile.

"Hey, Milo," Julio greeted with a disarming smile, holding out the beer. "I brought this from my hometown in Mexico. It's one of the best beers you'll ever taste."

Milo looked at the bottle skeptically. "I don't know, Julio. I'm not really into Mexican beers. Today's about celebrating America, you know?"

Julio's eyes glinted momentarily as he maintained his pleasant demeanor. "Come on, just try it. It's a gesture of peace between us."

Milo hesitated for a moment, then shrugged. "Alright, fine. But just this once." He took the bottle from Julio's hand and popped the cap, taking a long swig.

As the cold beer flowed down his throat, Milo felt a strange sensation. He coughed suddenly, suds spilling over his lips and onto his shirt. Julio watched closely, concealing a small smile as he subtly chanted under his breath:

Milo wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, unaware of the subtle changes beginning to take place within him. A warmth spread through his chest, and an inexplicable feeling of lightness replaced his usual heaviness.

"What did you put in this beer, Julio?" Milo asked gruffly, his voice sounding slightly different, softer.

Julio chuckled lightly. "Just some magic from my homeland. Enjoy it."

Milo frowned, feeling strangely vulnerable yet oddly at ease. He glanced down at his beer-stained shirt and then back at Julio, who was still smiling warmly. The party continued around them, unaware of the subtle transformation unfolding within Milo Higgins, the patriotic soldier who suddenly found himself questioning the very ideals he had staunchly upheld.

Milo Higgins felt an intense heat surge through his body, as if an internal inferno had been ignited. It was a sensation unlike anything he had ever experienced—his muscles, once rippling and defined, now pulsed and trembled. His biceps, which had strained against his olive t-shirt, began to shrink, losing their mass and definition. His abs, once a symbol of his strength, softened and became less pronounced. Even his pecs, once proud and prominent, faded away under his shirt. His legs, accustomed to carrying his imposing frame, lost their bulk and power.

Panic gripped Milo as he felt himself getting weaker and weaker. He looked down at his hands, which seemed smaller and more delicate. He felt a strange sensation of shrinking, inch by inch. At 6'3", he had always towered over others with a commanding presence. Now, as he shrunk, inch by inch, fear washed over him. At 5'4", he looked around in horror at the people around him, who suddenly seemed taller and more imposing.

The beer can slipped from his weakening grip, clattering to the ground. Milo stumbled towards Julio, his voice trembling with fear and confusion. "Wha… what did you do to me, you freak?" His Adam's apple shrank, and his voice emerged with a distinct effeminate lisp, each syllable peppered with uncertainty. "Wha's wrong with my voice?"

Julio met Milo's panicked gaze with a coy, sinister smile. "Oh, nothin' Miley," he replied casually, drawing out Milo's new name with deliberate playfulness. "Just thought you needed a taste of your own medicine."

Milo's hands shook as he touched his softer, smaller features, a mixture of disbelief and horror etched across his face. His mind raced with questions and fears about what had happened to him. The once imposing soldier now stood before Julio, diminished and vulnerable, his identity and masculinity in flux.

Milo screamed, "No, no, no! You have to thtop thith! Where are my muthtcles? What'th happening to me?"

Julio smiled maliciously. "Hush now, little guy. You won't have to worry much longer. The mental changes will soon make you exactly what you hate—exactly what you made fun of in the past. Now, I'm not sure what exactly you'll become. Your own mind will take you down that row. But it seems like you think---or thought, that all gay men are whiny, short effeminate little twinks. How fun" But the time you're doing you'll be---" He leaned in close and whispered menacingly, "The perfect gay."

Milo tried desperately to resist but couldn't shake the feeling that his own mind was taking him down a path he never wanted to go on. The changes were becoming more apparent, he realized that Julio had been right all along—he was becoming everything he had once despised.

As Milo Higgins stood there, his mind began to undergo an even more profound change. It was as if a bright light bulb in his head, not that it was ever very bright to begin with, was gradually dimming. The thoughts and memories that once defined him—anger, resentment, and a rigid adherence to stereotypes—started to shift and rearrange themselves.

Milo's face contorted in confusion and fear as Julio spoke. "Twinks? What the hell are you talking about?"

"You know, Milo. The young, slender gay men who act very feminine and are often seen as objects of desire by older men." Julio grinned maliciously. "It seems like your own mind is going to turn you into the very thing you despise most."

Milo stared at Julio in horror, his body trembling with fear and uncertainty. He couldn't believe what was happening to him—or that he was even considering becoming something he had always despised so much.

Gone were the memories of military service, where he had prided himself on his strength and loyalty to his country. The camaraderie of college football days faded into the background, replaced by new memories and experiences that began to flood his consciousness.

Instead, Milo found himself recalling moments of activism and protest, standing up against unjust wars and marching alongside women and LGBTQ+ communities for their rights. He remembered the exhilaration of going to school for art, where creativity and expression took precedence over conformity. Acting in community theater brought him a sense of fulfillment he had never felt before, a stage where he could explore different identities and emotions.

Singing show tunes with his bestie Suzie and Julio replaced nights out with his former buddies, where they would rate women and boast about conquests. Drag race, musical theatre,

As Milo's mind rewired itself, he began to feel a newfound openness and acceptance. The rigid boundaries of his previous beliefs dissolved, replaced by a curiosity and empathy for others. He felt a stirring of attraction towards Julio, mixed with admiration for the confidence and courage it took to confront him.

Milo's head spun as he noticed all the men around him—their muscles straining against their shirts, sweat glistening off their hot bodies. His straight self seemed to dissolve before his eyes; women suddenly seemed icky and gross compared to these strong, virile men. A lust built up within him as an emptiness crept throughout his big bubble butt—he needed to be filled by one of these sexy straight men!

The straight men around them began teasing Milo playfully now that they realized how turned on he was by them. They called him names like "sissy" and "faggot," laughing with Julio as they watched Milo blush in embarrassment. But the embarrassment only seemed to turn Milo on further; his dick started to get hard, leaking precum as he watched the muscular military men flirt with him shamelessly.

Julio quickly grabbed Milo's hand. Julio's touch on Milo's hand was electric, sending a jolt through Milo's body as he blinked in confusion. Suddenly, they were no longer in Milo's familiar Patriotic Pad of the Patriarchy. The surroundings shifted around them, and Milo's eyes widened in disbelief as American flags morphed into rainbow flags that fluttered proudly in the air.

They found themselves in the midst of a bustling gay nightclub, pulsating with vibrant music and colorful lights. Milo stood there, momentarily stunned, as the atmosphere enveloped him. The air was alive with laughter, dancing bodies, and an undeniable sense of freedom.

For a moment, Milo's thoughts flickered to Suzie, his blonde wife, and the plans they had for the Fourth of July party. But those thoughts quickly dissolved amidst the energy of the nightclub. He felt a surge of excitement and liberation that he had never experienced before.

As Milo looked around, he noticed people of all shapes, sizes, and genders embracing who they were without fear or shame. He saw barely dressed twunks with their abs on display; cute twinks flirting shamelessly with muscle bears; daddies in leather trying to score with hot muscular men in jockstraps. A lust burned within him—a horniness that couldn't be contained any longer. He always thought gay men were just horny sexual deviants looking for sex at every turn...and that's exactly what he was becoming.

He started to move with the music, his body swaying instinctively to the beat. A smile tugged at his lips as he let go of inhibitions he never knew he had. His movements became fluid, graceful, and filled with a newfound confidence.

Milo's demeanor shifted dramatically. He felt a surge of expressiveness and flamboyance bubbling up from within. His voice, once gruff and commanding, softened into a melodious lilt as he engaged in conversations filled with laughter and camaraderie.

Gone was the rigid masculinity and narrow-mindedness. In its place, Milo embraced his love for theatre and the arts with an enthusiasm that surprised even himself. He found joy in discussing plays, musicals, and the latest performances in town. His gestures became animated, his laughter infectious as he connected with others who shared his passions.

Milo's eyes sparkled with a mixture of wonder and excitement as he realized he was becoming the very stereotype he once dismissed—a cute, bubbly, theatre-loving, liberal twink. As Milo looked down at himself, he gasped in disbelief. His attire had transformed into cute booty shorts that accentuated his toned legs and a colorful tank top that hugged his newly slender frame. His face seemed to lose any hint of sharpness, aging backwards in time. The years dissolved before his eyes, smoothing out wrinkles and refining features into something more youthful and boyishly charming. His hair darkened and grew unruly, framing his face in a way that accentuated its newfound softness. His once rugged face seemed to soften before his eyes, losing any harsh edges as if time itself was rewinding.

His blonde hair darkened to a rich brown and grew unruly, framing his face in tousled curls that added to his youthful appearance. Milo's features became smoother, his jawline more delicate, and a deep brown tan spread across his skin, giving him a radiant glow.

In this moment of transformation, Milo's old name seemed to evaporate into the air, replaced by a new name that echoed through his consciousness—Ishaq. A deep, bronzed tan spread across Milo's skin, giving him a healthy glow that seemed to radiate from within. Memories flooded Ishaq's mind—days of arriving in America as an immigrant, navigating a new culture with broken English and a charming lisp.

Ishaq was proud of his Middle Eastern heritage, and his newfound identity as a cute, bubbly, theatre-loving, liberal twink felt both exhilarating and liberating. He embraced his sexuality and his cultural roots with equal fervor, a proud expression of who he was meant to be.

Beside him, Julio danced with infectious energy, their movements synchronized in perfect harmony. Ishaq wore a cute and flashy outfit that shimmered under the nightclub lights—a sequined jacket adorned with colorful patterns, fitted jeans that hugged his curves, and stylish sneakers that completed his ensemble.

In the midst of the music and laughter, Ishaq reveled in the freedom to express himself authentically. He twirled and spun with Julio, their laughter ringing out like a chorus of acceptance and love. For Ishaq, this moment was not just about embracing his new identity—it was about celebrating life, love, and the beauty of being true to oneself.

The nightclub throbbed with pulsing lights and a bass-heavy beat as Julio and Ishaq moved gracefully across the dance floor. Ishaq's outfit, adorned with sequins that caught the strobe lights, shimmered with every step he took. His Middle Eastern accent and gentle lisp were evident as he spoke passionately to Julio.

Ishaq leaned in close over the music, his eyes bright with excitement. "Oh, Julio, darling, do you thee how fabulouth thith night ith? The vibe, the freedom... it'th all tho ex-hil-arating!"

Julio grinned, matching Ishaq's enthusiasm. "You're right, Ishaq! You always bring such energy to the club. By the way, who's your ultimate drag queen from Drag Race?"

Ishaq's face lit up, his hands gesturing animatedly. "Oh, hon-they, it hath to be Sasha Velour! Thhe's tho creative and revolutionary, and her lip thyncheth are pure art!"

As they danced, the DJ seamlessly transitioned into a playlist of pop hits. Suddenly, the familiar beats of Beyoncé's "Single Ladies" filled the air. Ishaq gasped in excitement and turned to Julio, his eyes twinkling mischievously. "Oh my God, Julio, thith ith my jam!"

Ishaq pulled Julio closer, their bodies moving effortlessly together to the infectious rhythm. In the midst of the pulsating music and swirling lights, Ishaq gazed deeply into Julio's eyes. "Julio, you know what? I can't help but thay it... you're the cuteth thing I've ever theen."

As the night progresses, Julio and Ishaq's flirtation escalates into something more. They begin to make out passionately, their tongues dancing in each other's mouths. Ishaq whimpers and begs Julio to take him, his eyes filled with desire. Julio smirks, knowing he has complete control over the situation.

Without hesitation, they rush towards the bathroom where they lock themselves inside. The sound of flesh slapping against flesh echoes through the walls as they lose themselves in their lustful desires. Ishaq moans loudly as Julio takes him from behind, pounding into his tight hole with unbridled force. He screams out "Yassss daddy!" begging for more of this rough treatment from his new lover.

When they finally reach climax together it's like an explosion - both men crying out in ecstasy at being so deeply connected physically and emotionally at this moment in time . After coming down off their high, Julio tosses a wad of cash at an exhausted looking but satisfied Ishaq saying "You were worth every penny boy ,I'll be sure tell my friends about your services." With that said, Ishaq forgets about being friends with Julio anymore .He was just another gay whore now who happened to have given him pleasure earlier tonight .

#transformation #male tf #dumber #straight to gay #straight to gay tf #jock to twink #jock to twink tf #race change

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monkeyssalad-blog · 1 month

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flickr

1965 Redd Foxx Adult Party Album - Laff Your Ass Off by Vinnie DeVille Via Flickr: Vintage 1965 vinyl LP album from comedian Redd Foxx - Laff Your Ass Off. Long before he was Fred Sanford, Redd Foxx made his living doing stand- up comedy, and he was one of several comedians putting out these adult “party” record albums. A lot of adults had these squirreled away in their homes in the 1960s I can remember as a teenager if you were at someone’s house listening to records, and no parent was home, one of these would eventually find it’s way to the turntable. It’s always a thrill when it’s from Vinnie DeVille!

#1960s #As We Were #Covers #Redd Foxx #Vinyl Records #LP Records #Party Albums #Adult Comedy #Comedy Albums #Celebrity Memorabilia #Record Albums #Album Covers #Vintage Vinyl #Vintage Graphics #Vintage Illustration #Mid-Century Illustration #flickr

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purel6mbie · 4 months

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'𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐚𝐤 𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐧 𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬' .. !

꒰ calcharo x reader

꒰ domestic au, fluff, i love him sm .. a bit longer than usual ♡ was planning to post it a bit later but take this as my celebration gift for finally pulling him yayyy !!

there was no bigger sin than cruelty. the way people could find joy in hurting others was beyond you. resonators were always confronted to all kinds of dangers while out on the field, but the scars they'd get from their battles would later serve them as trophies, some memorabilia of their bravery. there were scars, though, that were destined to stay buried both deep into one's skin and under layers of fabrics. those were by far the most painful.

you were far from knowing all the details of your lover's history. calcharo was a reserved man that spoke little and never about himself; but while most would qualify him as 'rude' or 'cold', you had learnt to appreciate the silent love he offered to you. he was a caring and faithful lover, making sure you were never missing anything, although he doesn't speak it out like most would. his love was in tender glances, gentle touches and loving actions.

the need to protect him grew on you like a mold, from what you didn't know yet. but you knew that you'd never hesitate to give all of yourself to him, for him. just like he has for you.

when he comes home, later than most would, calcharo isn't anymore surprised to see you had been waiting for him in the living room, reading a book. you act like you didn't see the slightly reprimanding glint in his cerulean eyes and come meet him at the door, welcoming him silently. you weren't much of a loud person yourself.

'i hope your day wasn't too tiring. i've missed you,' you smile gently at him as you make a move to free him from his sword; but his long gloved fingers catch yours to stop them, holding them like rare antiques and you can't help but blush at the touch.

'you don't have to, I'll do it myself, dearest.' his low voice assures you. you look back at his eyes and see the exhaustion behind them. 'I've missed you too, today.' calcharo whispers, bringing your knuckles to his pale lips before walking to put his weapons away.

the dinner you both share is mostly spent in a comfortable silence, some words being exchanged about each other's activities throughout the day. however calcharo always made sure to keep most of the details away from you : you didn't need to hear about the gruesome things he has to see daily.

your lover knew you by heart, and so when you muster the confidence to reach over the table and wrap your hand around his, he looks over at you and gifts you with a small, barely noticeable smile, that still manages to free the butterflies in your stomach nonetheless.

'let me do the dishes,' his voice interjects as you put on your gloves. the hand on your shoulder stopping all your movements. his voice is gentle as he breathes out the words. 'you should get yourself ready for bed, i won't take long.'

you know you won't be winning that argument so you defeatedly let him do, heart bursting at the sight of your lover doing such a domestic task. you were blessed to be loved by him.

when he is in fact done, calcharo joins you upstairs, tiredness pulling at his features. he doesn't hesitate taking your extended hand that guides him to bed, on the thick and pricey mattress covered in dark blue satin sheets. no matter how tired he might be, the man never would dismiss you as you sat behind him, brushing his long hair and braiding it before you both lie down. this had become some sort of ritual between you both, and rituals helped calcharo stay grounded both in time and space. it gave him something to look forward to at the end of each day. he might not express it as vocally, but the way he closes his eyes as the hairbrush slides down his scalp tells you everything you need to know. the mercenary trusted you fully, ready to risk being vulnerable while his back is turned on you.

'im done,' you whisper, setting the hairbrush down.

calcharo turns to take your hand, giving it a thankful squeeze to which you answer with a tender smile, peeling the cover off the mattress and silently inviting your lover under.

he pulls the warm fabric over your shoulders and makes sure your feet are covered before letting his head fall onto the pillow, facing you. his blue eyes seem to glow under the moonlight spilling from the window and you bring your still intertwined hand between your faces, on the plushy pillow. your lips lean in to press an adoring kiss on the rough skin of his hand, and his soon move to do the same on yours, lingering there slightly longer before he pulls back.

you contently close your eyes, squeezing his fingers in between yours thrice, a grin playing on your lips as you fall asleep in an instant.

calcharo knew what that meant : each squeeze for one word I.love.you. you're the one who initiated it, and it since then has become yet another ritual you both shared.

contemplating your resting features, never letting go of your hand, the man renews his vow to someday manage to say the words to you, like you deserve to hear them, and not just through secret codes. once he feels like a man again, he tells himself, and not like some failed experiment, 'I will say the words back to you. dozens of times a day. as much as you'd want me to. I'll be a man to you, the one you deserved all along.' and, feeling from the vibrations of your unconscious that you've reached dreamland, he allows himself to close his eyes too, giving your hand three squeezes.

©purel6mbie 2024 | do not copy, translate, repost !

#calcharo x you #calcharo x reader #calcharo #wuwa x you #wuwa x reader #wuwa official #wuwa #wuthering waves x reader #wuthering waves #wuthering waves fic #wuwa fic #wuwa fluff #calcharo fic #calcharo fluff

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tmarshconnors · 1 year

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Marilyn Monroe

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knottahooker · 2 months

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Do you like Dungeons & Dragons? Do you like the USPS? GET STAMPS!

For the 50th anniversary of the game, the USPS has launched a collection of collectables and memorabilia. Buy some cools stuff and support the USPS!

Also a poster, some matted stamps, pins, bookmarks, postcards....

#dungeons and dragons #DND #USPS #included a search link for your convenience #image ID in alt

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doyoulikethissong-poll · 10 months

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Blur - Coffee & TV 1999

"Coffee & TV" was written by Blur's guitarist, Graham Coxon, who also sang lead vocals rather than frontman Damon Albarn (whom later started another little band; the Gorillaz). Coxon wrote the song about his struggle from alcoholism, and how after giving up drinking he would unwind by watching television over a cup of coffee instead and writing songs. This experience also contributed to his first solo album, The Sky Is Too High. "Coffee & TV" reached #11 in the United Kingdom and #26 in Ireland. It was a major hit in Iceland, where it peaked at #2. The song's musical style is an anomaly in comparison with the rest of 13, appearing similar to Blur's earlier, Britpop days. The single edit of the song also appeared on Blur's Best Of compilation, released in 2000, and featured on the Cruel Intentions soundtrack.

The super-cute music video featured a sentient milk carton known as "Milky" searching for Coxon, who appeared as a missing person's face on its side. The video won several awards in 1999 and 2000 including Best Video at the NME Awards and the MTV Europe Awards. In 2002, the video was ranked the fourth best video of all time by VH1. In 2005, it was voted the 17th greatest pop video of all time in a poll by Channel 4. In 2006, Stylus Magazine ranked it No. 32 in their list of the Top 100 Music Videos of All Time. In a similar poll, NME ranked it the 20th greatest music video of all time. The model of Milky, as used in the video, was sold at an auction of Blur memorabilia in 1999. When Blur played at the London 2012 Olympics Closing Concert Celebration at Hyde Park, fans who bought a Blur T-shirt on the day were given a free replica milk carton of Milky. The video is seen on Season 3, Episode 11 of The Sopranos in which Anthony Jr is watching the music video on MTV. Some tumblrinas might recognize Milky as gifs from an ancient tumblr post. "Coffee & TV" received a total of 55,9% yes votes.

youtube

#finished #blur #90s

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artisticlements · 9 months

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Architectural Elegance Meets Racing Legacy: Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s Mooresville Mansion

This captivating image showcases the grandeur of Dale Earnhardt Jr.'s mansion in Mooresville, North Carolina. The photo captures the essence of the property, blending historical significance with modern luxury. The mansion, set against the picturesque landscapes of Mooresville, reflects Dale's passion for racing and his penchant for sophisticated living. Every element of the mansion, from its classic American architecture to the racing-inspired interior design, tells a story of a racing legend's journey and achievements. Visit: https://www.omnihomeideas.com/design/celebrity-homes/dale-earnhardt-jr-house-in-mooresville/

#Dale Earnhardt Jr.#Mooresville mansion #racing legacy #luxury estate #North Carolina #architectural brilliance #modern design #historical significance #celebrity homes #interior design #racing memorabilia #sustainable living #smart home technology #personal journey #racing-inspired elements

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ur-mag · 10 months

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Eric Clapton guitar sells for huge seven-figure sum at rock memorabilia auction | In Trend Today

Eric Clapton guitar sells for huge seven-figure sum at rock memorabilia auction Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

View On WordPress

#Celebrities #Eric Clapton guitar sells for huge seven-figure sum at rock memorabilia auction #Money #Motors #Politics #ShowBiz #Sport #Tech #UK #US #World

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leclsrc · 2 years

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you know it ✴︎ cl16

genre: porn WITH plot (for once?! everyone cheered), humor, bit of fluff... oh inaccurate depictions of the 2022 season sorry

word count: 7k

Charles is a bit disappointed the pretty girl he harbors a crush on doesn’t have him listed as a Formula 1 crush. He is a lot disappointed that you two can’t fuck.

nsfw warnings under the cut!

18+ because... degradation, praise, charles is a bit switchy here lol, penetrative sex, a bit of ass play sorry...., oral (m receiving), semi public sex, yeah

title from this. i love u guys im so sleepy

Joris insists there’s some big present waiting for Charles in his car, to celebrate the middle of the season that has, and will no doubt continue to stretch into a period of conflict and strategy woes. He yanks off the beanie sitting on his head, listens to small talk drifting between Joris and Carlos as they all walk toward their cars to alleviate the bubble of nerves in the low of his stomach.

Sure enough, there’s an unassuming box lying on the driver’s seat. Joris slides into the passenger seat after Carlos drives away with his girlfriend, his grin shit-eating and mischievous. The door is half open when Charles takes the box to inspect it. White, with the Ferrari logo printed neatly on the centre (very classy touch), the sides are signed by different members of his team. He scratches through the seal and pulls the flap open.

He’s been given a quasi-official Ferrari box of condoms.

Thirty-six condoms, at that, small squares neatly lined up next to each other. Talk about a welcoming present. Not a camera, not racing memorabilia, not a new pair of shoes. Just condoms. Thirty-six of them.

“A mid-season pick-me-up,” presses his friend, giddily. The shorter male lounges comfortably on the seat, a blissful look of pride on his face. Laughing with exasperation, Charles wedges the box shut and tosses it carelessly into the backseat, preparing to drive. This isn’t his first rodeo with weird gifts—he’s half-sure he got adoption papers from an especially excited fan once before.

“You are such an asshole.”

“It’s also a congratulations on winning literally every race so far present,” Joris adds. It’s hyperbole but has a ring of truth to it. As the season closes, Charles’ chances of holding up the trophy this year increase.

Despite himself, Charles has a better outlook on his chances for the remainder of the season, driving-wise. He’s given it his all so far, and the rest looks promising enough. He only hopes he’s right. Netflix also increased the amount of people getting into the sport, so he’s dealing with tons more fans and nosey DMs, but it’s not too much of an impediment to a hopefully stellar season.

Charles makes a right. “Do you plan to use them?” Joris asks then, a teasing tone taking on his voice as he scrolls through his phone.

“No, not really,” Charles says, lying straight through his teeth.

“You’re a fucking liar, you are.” He whips his head toward Charles, observing his stoic side profile. “You’re single, haven’t gotten laid in months—”

“—weeks.” Corrects Charles with a cough, the defense coming at an embarrassing speed.

“…Case in point. And sports gets everyone horny. And if you didn’t know, Mattia actually OK-ed the condoms, so you’ve basically been greenlit by your boss to fuck half the world. Thank me later. I’m proud of myself.”

“Sports gets everyone competitive. Because it’s sports. Which, you’re conveniently forgetting, is my life profession.”

“Loosen up,” Joris whistles lowly. “You think Lewis got seven titles by being a closed-off celibate? It’s practically tradition to fuck around if you’re single in sports. And, for others, being in a relationship is barely an obstacle, anyway.”

Charles hates to admit that Joris is right—because he is. Racing isn’t racing without the extravagant parties that follow, and the girls and guys brought back to hotels for reasons known to everyone. People from everywhere come to the paddock and the clubs—models, influencers, actors. The pent-up energy has to go somewhere, he supposes.

But even if the little shit is right, Charles still maintains a level of dignity. Ergo, he’s steadfast in his belief that he will not be sleeping around or putting this godforsaken box of condoms to any semblance of use while the rest of the season progresses. He just hopes he won’t eat his words.

—

Monza kicks off with a 1-2 and secures Charles with a comfortable lead ahead Max.

He is high on adrenaline all night, toasting and chugging to the win, snapping pictures with Carlos, proud out of his mind. It’s everything he’s wanted and more, a quench to the thirst he’d developed over the season, a slap in the face to his doubters, a kiss on his. He texts his family, friends who aren’t present, some other people who he feels are deserving of a personal announcement, and pockets his phone.

“Now would be a great time to put that gift to use,” Carlos says at some point, when everyone in the garage is kicking back alcohol and slowly preparing to move the celebrations someplace else.

Charles cringes visibly, having almost forgotten about the dreaded gift, and totally forgotten Carlos’ knowledge of it. Even with the recent win, he’s already thinking of the next, the promise of a two-peat, another podium, hell, another 1-2. The condoms were honest to God the last thing on his mind.

They break apart an hour later, when Charles is heading to the hotel and Carlos is headed somewhere else. He’s almost to the exit when someone calls his attention in a curt English voice.He turns and finds Lewis jogging toward him, outside of his race suit and back in the fashionable apparel Charles merely wishes he could pull off.

“Lewis,” he waves, pacing toward him to save the extra few seconds of waiting.

“Amazing, amazing race, man,” the elder compliments. “You’ve got the best chance at the title here.”

Warmth melts into Charles’ body and he offers praise back, which—praising Lewis is just about the easiest thing in the world. Nerves bleed out of him as the conversation continues, the atmosphere of a finished race a welcome accompaniment to their strategic talk.

“Headed to a party, yeah?” Lewis asks when they’ve both exhausted the topic. Charles gives a half-hearted shrug, already energized enough from such a momentous win, and he nods in response. “Nah, I get it. Sometimes you just gotta sleep. But hey, if you’re ever free, we should go get dinner sometime.”

—

The “dinner sometime” happens in Singapore. Having gotten P1 beside Lewis and therefore once again high off the adrenaline, Charles claps Andrea on the back and retrieves his phone to view two texts. One reads Put the condoms to use yet, champ? from Joris, and the other Can I take you up on the dinner? from Lewis. One goes answered and the other goes muted on his iMessage.

A little something he failed to remember was Lewis’ plant-based diet, a fact that hurtles back toward him when he can’t find steak on the menu of this classy, hole-in-the-wall type of restaurant. Of course Lewis would know these types of places, he thinks. He’s a millennial semi-hipster with a separate Instagram account for his dog.

Charles ends up ordering pasta, and Lewis beside him orders a cacophony of very vegan, hippy sounding meals, the quantity of which could feed the two of them. “I hope you don’t mind,” Lewis says when the waiter departs, “but a friend is actually joining us tonight.”

“Sure,” Charles says honestly. As long as it’s not some deranged hyperfan, he does well in social situations. Right then, Lewis calls someone over. Charles looks up, squints through the dim mood lighting to try and make out the nearing figure. And then you’re sitting down across them, smiling softly, exchanging hellos with Lewis.

A little something Lewis fails to remember is his “friends” can just as well be called “celebrities,” because he is, after all, a sporting legend. So if Lewis says “friend,” Charles will assume it’s a “friend,” and not a world-famous model whose face is plastered everywhere on and offline.

“Charles Leclerc,” he says blankly.

You introduce yourself, sliding easily into a bout of questions, apologies for missing the race, you’re impossibly jetlagged, it’s crazy. Lewis chips in with something about how he’s already ordered food for the both of you, and this and that, and Charles is hopeless, staring at your face the entire time. He hopes he looks more sexy than aloof or, worse, starstruck, because it’s turning out to be the kind of situation where he looks like the deranged hyperfan, and not the other way around for once.

To be clear, Charles isn’t a fan of you. He just knows of you, because honestly, who doesn’t at this point? You’re talking on and on about how your latest shoot with Jacquemus was a pain because you shot in a tank top in sub-zero weather, but you express it like it’s the most profound topic on Earth.

Lewis turns to him and, in an (eventually successful) effort to include more of Charles in the conversation, goes, “She’s a big Formula One fan, Charles.”

Okay. Common ground. Charles lifts both brows smugly, his eyes flickering back over to you. “Really?”

You meet his eyes and smile, looking downward and blinking owlishly. You’re so pretty, long lashes fluttering as you blink and try to find an answer. Christ, you’re so painfully his type.

Lewis chimes in again—“Really. And not just because she and I are friends. I mean she was into racing before we got acquainted. Honestly. Quiz her and everything”—then excuses himself to “take a call.” (His phone wasn’t even ringing—total bullshit—but Charles is ultimately grateful for it.)

You make a face of shut up toward the departing Lewis, and Charles exhales a quiet laugh at your defiance. You clear your throat and come up with an answer.

“I’m not a big fan,” you say. “I’m more of a casual, ‘every once in a while’ type of fan.”

“That’s what every big fan of sports says,” Charles says smoothly.

“Is it?” You ask, cocking your head to the side, making a tch noise. You chuckle before going, “Well, if you insist, I’ll be honest. I didn’t want it to come to this, but okay. I am a fan… of Red Bull.”

Charles fakes extreme offense, his jaw dropping as if totally scandalized. You laugh, throwing two hands up in faux surrender. “Not Red Bull,” he says, his tone making him sound even more devastated. “You’re telling me you—don’t tell me you think Max Verstappen is attractive.”

“I mean, a bit!”

Charles makes sarcastic sounds of disapproval, and you laugh. Charles leans forward, and you do, too, both of you smiling. “So you’re into the angry drivers?”

“I’m not into a specific kind of driver,” you say casually, your tongue peeking out to lick over your bottom lip. Your voice is as soft as it is firm, slow and demure, matching the way your eyes glint. You’re impossibly pretty. He almost can’t handle it.

“So who’s making the cut?” He prompts, interested.

“Well, for starters, drivers who are my age,” you say slowly. “I turned twenty-four this year, so anyone within that bracket.”

“Oh?” Charles pretends to delve into deep thought, teasing. “Maybe Stroll? He’s very funny, speaks good English. You can never really say no to a Canadian.”

Your face warms, and you hope your flustered state isn’t too obvious as you shake your head. “He seems fun, but I prefer somebody a bit… a bit older.”

“Older…” he hums. “Pierre, perhaps? Tad bit older, real charming, great driver. I can introduce you. We’re good friends, you know.”

You click your tongue, smiling shyly. You bite your lip and it takes everything in Charles to not turn on his horny gears when he sees you, big eyes and lip bite, look so pretty. “You tease me,” you say meekly. Charles covers a cough with a chuckle and adjusts his position on the seat.

Later, after Lewis comes back in (“Long call, eh? It was about Roscoe.” Bullshit again) and you all get to order drinks, and you’ve departed in your private car, pressing an air kiss to Lewis and waving goodbye to Charles, he turns to the Mercedes driver and hums.

“Next time you have one of these”—he points to the restaurant, gestures to the front door—“dinners, let me know, okay?”

“Ah.” Lewis winks, smirking. “I’ll be sure to.”

—

Understandably, your schedules never seem to mesh well together. Lewis ends up giving Charles your number as compensation.

He stares at the contact longer than he’d like to admit, when he’s marinating in the sweltering heat of Austin. He’s finished much of his work for this half of the day so he’s mostly watching the engineers work on the last bits of modification for Sunday; he cherishest the free time and drafts, reads, and rereads texts, scours Google and Instagram for pictures of, and anything related to, you.

There’s a few new articles about buying a new car (a Benz, much to Charles’ chagrin) and new photoshoots intermittently scattered across Europe, with all sorts of brands. He sees a picture you’ve posted of yourself smiling at the camera and thinks of how pretty it would look as his lockscreen.

Am I seeing you soon? He texts finally. He hopes it’s enough to let you know who he is.

Hopefully is the reply. He smiles the whole day.

—

You’ve been texting and calling almost everyday, conversations stretching continents. He only sees you next in Mexico, Friday night, at a club Lewis has rented out for a crazy price that will no doubt be replenished in days anyway. He’s dropped to second here, but the thrill riding in him makes up for his disappointment. The place is so crowded—everyone and their mums seem to have been invited here—room blinking purple and blue, each step vibrating with the heavy bass of EDM. He catches you right as you exit the washroom area, and you look pleasantly surprised to see him.

He saw you earlier, when you were doing shots of tequila and chatting with with Bella and Lewis, but just as quickly as he spotted you, you’d dipped back into the sea of people. Now is better, he thinks. You two are alone.

“Charles, hi,” you say casually. You’re wearing a tight top and a short skirt that, despite Charles’ best efforts, always cast his gaze downward. He wonders what’s underneath, hungers to get his hands there. But he’s nothing if he’s not patient, willing to play the long game.

He takes a step forward, his gaze steady on you. Charles isn’t the tallest driver, but he’s got a big presence. You swallow, taking a step back to accommodate him. He smirks. “You look pretty.”

“You flatter me,” you say thickly, smiling, inviting him closer. The air is hot around the both of you—when your eyes flit around, they see nobody. You’re alone together. His eyes pierce into yours so deep you feel like breaking eye contact, exhaling as you take another step back—evidently, you’re distracted, because you stumble.

His arm circles around your waist, and once you steady, the hand moves down to your hip. It stays, a reminder of what you might be getting soon. You smile curtly, wondering what this might look like to a bystander, a stranger. Somebody might want to piss and walk in to see the strongest world champion contender’s hand on Chanel’s poster girl’s waist.

“Is this okay?” He asks softly against your ear.

“More than.” You say, breath shaky. “It’s more than okay.”

He chuckles. “Good. I’d hate if we couldn’t fuck before Abu Dhabi.”

Your finger traces down and wraps around the belt loop of his jeans. “Who said anything about fucking?”

Charles exhales a laugh, his lips curling upward into an amused smile. “Ah? I can’t fuck you, then?”

“I’ll let you fuck me when you’re holding up the world champion trophy,” you say sweetly, tugging him closer. “That’s okay, right?” You stare up at him, blinking, pouty. He wonders, is this how you might look with your lips wrapped around his—

“That’s about a month away.” His composure barely wavers, his hand traveling lower, blunt nails digging into your ass. Your breath hitches.

“I’m aware,” you say lowly. So be it, Charles thinks—he’s got thirty-six condoms for a reason.

“Define fuck,” he says, voice rough.

“Penetration.” You’re quick with it, cocking your head to the side. You lean back confidently, testin him, eyes batting flirtatiously.

It’s time he get a little creative.

—

Daytime weather is hot and the paddock is swarming with people, but Charles has his sights set on somebody sitting in the Mercedes hospitality. He manages to get out of morning meetings earlier, wedging himself out of the room and passing by a mirror to fix his hair with admirable concentration. He’s in the middle of combing through it when a force tugs at the hem of his polo, causing him to stumble backwards.

“Uh—Carlos? What the hell?” He asks, brow raised defensively. Facing him are Carlos, Joris, and Pierre, arms crossed over their torsos and amused expressions on their faces.

“What are you doing?” Asks Pierre, cocking his head to the side.

“Fixing my hair.”

“Pussy appointment?” Joris interjects; the vulgarity of his statement earns him a poke on the side from Carlos, who clicks his tongue.

“Wh—I don’t—”

“You are shit at lying, mate,” says Pierre, his lips curled into a devious smile. “Who is it?”

“It’s nobody,” he lies.

“Charles,” says Lewis suddenly from behind them, waving his arms to get the former’s attention, “are you going to go over and say hi?”

Hook, line, and sinker. He’s been caught. “Well, well, well,” Carlos starts, mischievous.

“Guys—” Charles says, attempting to make an excuse.

“Looks like your vow of celibacy isn’t so far off after all,” Pierre adds. “That one over at Mercedes is going to break it, eh?”

“Yeah.” Joris says, smirking. “Lucky George, huh.”

The three face him, incredulous. “I was kidding,” he fibs, once he realizes his epiphany is wrong. “Kidding.”

Charles walks off, and ends up seeing you right where he expected you, sitting beside Lewis in a tiny dress with your hair pinned up into a bun. Almost naturally, your words fall into the flirtatious back-and-forth you’d started at the dinner, hyperaware of the cameras snapping your pictures. At some point, the Brit excuses himself to “take a call” (again, bullshit) and leaves the two of you alone.

“See anything nice on the paddock?”

“Nothing I haven’t seen before,” you say with a teasing smile, head cocking to the side to gauge his reaction. He chuckles.

“Did you get a picture with Max?”

“Only a ton.” You pause. “And Daniel, too.”

“Ah, you’re just crushing on the whole paddock, now are you?” He pokes his tongue into his cheek, leans forward.” Uh, Checo?”

“Pass,” you say with a nose scrunch. You’re so fucking pretty.

“Lewis.”

“God, pass. He’s not ugly, but he’s my brother at this point.”

“Pierre.”

“Horribly French, but… smash.”

“Are you not into the French?” He smiles. “Good to know. Hmm—Carlos.”

“I’d be stupid to say anything other than smash.” You narrow your eyes, licking over your lips. “I’m into the Ferrari guys, is the thing.” His gaze travels to your crossed legs, long and disappearing into the hem of your dress.

He smirks. “Are you?”

“I really am,” you hum.

“Are you staying long? All weekend?”

“Yeah, I’m free from work for now,” you say casually. “Any recommendations on what fun things I can do here?”

“I can think of…” he says, smirking a little. “A few.”

—

Stupid places to have sex, number one: a motorhome.

Still, Charles is crowding you up against the wall of the room, swallowing the whimper that leaves your mouth with his own. And still, this isn’t sex. At least not the kind he wants the most. He mentally praises Carlos for being able to decipher the typo-laden text he’d sent out on the way here, one hand around your waist, the other barely capable of typing with how fast his brain ran. Clesr the fuckng room npw now npw it read. Thank God.

Your mouth tastes like champagne, and everywhere else smells divine. Your hands roam impatiently over his shoulders and you make muted noises of frustration at your inability to pull his shirt off. You settle for letting your hands crawl underneath it, stroking over his abs.

“D’you remember what I told you,” you pant, his lips insistent on your neck, “at the club?”

“Yeah,” he says, grunting at the memory.

“Okay.” You breathe. “Let me suck you off.”

“Fuck,” he groans. “Jesus. Okay. Fuck.”

You giggle, and he watches intently as you drop onto your knees, looking up at him through thick lashes. You’re insistent, pulling the zip of his jeans down and tugging his cock out. It’s pretty, thick like the rest of him, already hard.

He’s at his limit, having you here like this, on you knees and stretching your lips around the tip of his dick. Your eyes barely leave his, fluttering as they tear up when you take him in your throat.

He throws his head back, squeezes his eyes shut, lets a hand unpin your bun and thread itself into the untangled hair. If he looks at you, he’ll see your head bobbing up and down on his cock, and he genuinely needs to hold off the orgasm first.

He rocks forward into your mouth and feels your throat close up around him. That’s enough to weaken his resolve, send grunts out of his throat that he can’t keep quiet.

“Oh, shit,” he says, feeling every part of your mouth and throat around him, warm and tense. He can’t help but thrust harder, steady but not too rough, growing more aroused with every sound of you choking on him.

His gaze flickers toward you. You’re teary-eyed, lips dotted with spit, choking yourself on his cock. Just for him, here in public. You pull off, blinking tears away from your face and looking up at him smilingly.

He laughs, guiding his cock back into your mouth, watching the way your brows knit together, pleading, almost. You're at his mercy, he thinks, thrusting harder, listening to your coughs. He loves seeing you like this, innocent face messy and slick with spit and precum, eyes big and needy.

“You like that?” He grunts. “Look at me.”

You nod the best you can. Yes, you want to say. Give me more, I love it.

“Yeaaah, fuck. I know you do,” he says through his teeth, staving off his orgasm the best he can before he releases all over you. The image alone of streaking you with his cum, claiming you all over-eyelashes, tits, cheeks splashed with cum-is enough to send him closer to the edge. “Gonna cum,” he grunts.

You moan around him, the vibrations causing his eyelids to flutter. You shake your head, pulling off and wrapping your hand around his dick, stroking slower. “Not yet,” you say sweetly, watching him throw his head back in pleasure and frustration. He runs a hand through his sweaty hair, exhales shakily.

“Shit.” He whines. “Come on, baby. Make me cum.” He cups your jaw, stares down at you.

You stroke him faster, lip between your teeth. “Okay,” you say with a smile. “Cum for me, Charles.”

He stops staving himself off, falls into the pleasure and relief of your hand around his cock until he’s tense all over, knitting his hand into your hair and pushing you backwards so he can press his tip on the flat expanse of your tongue and let his cum shoot there. It drips from your tongue and lips onto your chin and you giggle, swallowing it, scooping up the rest to push into your mouth.

You stand, licking your lips slowly. “I owe you,” he pants, zipping himself up. Already he’s thinking about what he can do to you in return. Tease you, like you did him, bend you over his lap or sit you on it and make you whine and writhe and wait and cum.

“I’ll hold you to that, champion,” you murmur, kissing his cheek and slipping back outside.

—

Ferrari’s advice is shit and despite his good mood and quick-witted driving, Charles finishes in fifth—not too shabby, but disastrous for his overall standings.

He suffers through a horrible debrief where attempts to defend his honor go unheard, his mood wilting and wilting until he’s at the media pen and ushered in front of some network he hasn’t heard of. They’ve probably paid to get a good seat here.

He’s in a shit mood, he hasn’t seen Joris or Pierre or you in hours, and has only faced red-faced frustrated superiors and now, wide-eyed journalists with loose mouths. The media’s done the mandatory speculation between the two of you, so he already expects questions of that variety, but it’s still hot and angry when he does.

Are you banging the Marc Jacobs model? The Irish reporter asks with a wink, so very unprofessional and not at all belonging to reputable media. The hot leggy one who has fuck me eyes?

Charles clenches his jaw, rolls his eyes, says fuck off mate and shoves him backward a little, then walks away and readjusts his cap. The clip makes Twitter and he feels even worse with the amount of troll accounts telling him to Jeez, take a joke.

After the ordeal, in your hotel room, you sigh softly and run your hands through his still shampoo-smelling hair. “You didn’t need to do that,” you say, a bit strictly. He knows you’re grateful, though, and a bit proud.

“I wanted to,” he insists softly. He forgets to leave before morning; when he does, he forgets his official Ferrari shirt hanging on the seat, leaving in a spare one instead. It’s got his number across the back. You don’t tell him.

—

In between Mexico and Sao Paulo, he manages to catch a flight to New York to peek into one of your photoshoots. It’s for Chanel and he’s half-sure he’s taken more pictures of you than the official photographer did. At this point your vague relationship status has caught onto headlines everywhere, and he doesn’t miss the curious murmurs from paparazzo that follow him as he enters your apartment later to greet you.

You’re in a pair of shorts and a tank top when you open the door, greeting him with a tight hug and leading him inside with a loose grip.

“Wine?”

“Please.” He eyes the wide area, the big floor-to-ceiling windows and the art on the walls. “Hungry?”

“Mmm.” You hum, sliding a glass toward him. “Starving.”

“Pizza?”

“Something else.” You smile. He tears his eyes away from your tits, poking out of the thin cotton, and coughs.

The both of you end up on the couch, your legs draped over his as you talk about racing.

He’s ranting about how he’s neck to neck with Max now, and the final verdict will likely be decided at Abu Dhabi, a fact that sends nerves all through him. You’re listening, you really are, but it’s difficult to keep listening because his hand, big and rough, is stroking your bare calf as he talks absentmindedly.

You offer the occasional mmm-hmm and uh-huh and even the oh really to sell it, but he doesn’t seem to be conscious of how many sparks are coursing through you because of his hand on your leg. He just talks and talks, accent curving into curse words elicited by the competition.

And his voice, rough and deeper when he slides into Italian phrases, gets in your head, reminds you of the way he’d moaned when you had his dick in your mouth. You like that? he’d said, panting, heavy, hot. His hand remained in your hair, controlling you the same way you did him. Fuck.

When you blink, he’s stopped talking, and has likely noticed your wandering imagination if his teasing smile is anything to go by. You cough, clear your throat, adjust your thighs. You’re thinking—you can’t stop thinking—about what happened in Mexico, not just in the motorhome but in the club where he’d let his hand sprawl over your ass and stay there, possessive.

The tension rises. I owe you. He really does. You reach over and grab your phone from the coffee table, snap a few pictures of him. “—Hey!” He protests, scrabbling to grab it from you while balancing his half-full glass. “I look god awful.”

You stand up, review the picture. He looks so impossibly handsome. “You’re right, you do,” you say, pouting.

He reaches over again, chuckling, and you avoid him. “Foul play!”

“Tch. At least show it to me,” he says defeatedly, so you do: presenting your screen to him.

Quickly, he makes a grab for it, but you just escape his grip, ending up right in front of him and leaning over. You’re losing your balance, digging your toes into your carpet to maintain stance. He spares a glance at your shorts, riding low on your hips, showing a bit of thin lace.

Charles tugs you forward by the hem of your top and then takes your wrist into his grip—the force of his grab makes your tits shake underneath your flimsy tank top. It’s dragged down so far your tits are spilling out. His eyes flicker down to them, dark, and a pretty smile spreads across his face.

“Come on, give it,” he challenges, eyes narrowing a little. You bite your lip, inwardly liking this a little too much—being at his mercy, trapped in his strong grip. You’re flustered and it shows.

He wrestles you onto his lap with ease, his arms steady around you. You stare downwards, dark eyes meeting his, hand on his broad shoulder for leverage. He’s so pretty, you think, so hot and handsome and you need him right now. Through his jeans you can feel how thick he is, his dick growing, getting hard and huge under you. It feels big even through a few layers—you can’t help but imagine how it might feel inside you.

Your phone clatters to the carpet behind the couch. “I win,” you say breathlessly.

He grabs your hips and jerks his upward, letting his stiff dick press up even more against your shorts.

“I think I’m the winner here,” he says gruffly, hands feeling you up all over. He thumbs at your chest, rubbing over your tits. You shiver—it feels good having him on you like this, your mind turning to mush.

“Shut up,” you laugh, shakily. A hand wanders in between your thighs, another coming to squeeze your barely-covered ass. You can’t focus on much, just his hands roaming everywhere and his hard dick pressing against your core. He shoves your hips downward again, his cock hard and perfectly against your pussy.

“You feel that?” He asks; it leaves him in one low breath.

“Yeah,” you say, whimpering. “I want it.”

He grinds up against you again, his thumb teasing the hem of your shorts. Closer to where you want it. “Don’t think you could even take it, baby.”

“I hate you,” you say. “You know I can.”

He laughs. “We’ll see, yeah?” You find a rhythm of grinding down against his cock, nestled right against your ass. He’s everywhere and you can’t handle it anymore, finding yourself craving him more and more.

You moan against his neck—and then come to your senses. “No.”

He smirks when you pull away. “Tempted, were you?”

“Not…” You pause. You’re sweaty, flushed all over, and your panties are sticking to you from how wet you’ve grown. “Not very.”

—

Abu Dhabi is a son of a bitch.

It comes with meetings, meetings, debriefs, calls, meetings. Everything is riding on the night’s race, the flurry of social media a welcome source of anxiety for him as he watches the hours whiz by. You’d missed seeing him, understood he was busy; you send a selfie to compensate and it gets him calm enough to last the pre-race buzz.

Time speeds by with lunch, coaching, drills, talks with Carlos and Mattia and even Max, who displays support as strongly as competitiveness. Before he even realizes it, he blinks and he’s in his suit, adjusting his balaclava, inhaling, exhaling. Everything is just the way he likes—needs—it to be.

He drives himself to P2 behind Max, eyes shut.

All else seeps into him, natural method, natural routine. He flexes his thumbs. Through the team radio his engineer goes good luck, and Charles’ practice bleeds into his subconscious. The air is heavy, with tension and excitement, the division of blue and red. Everyone’s eager to see who claims the title.

The lights go off and everything is left to skill, blurring into noise and turns and expletives yelled into the team radio. He can’t even feel himself think, turning with dexterity and overtaking with the kind of vengeance he hasn’t let out in a while.

For all his trying, Max keeps up just the same, keeping a neck and neck level for the relative entirety of the race. They’re milking out the last few laps together, and Charles feels every fibre of his being work toward this, just this, nothing but this right now. Nothing but the finish line.

You got this, Charles, says the engineer, voice heightening. Maiden world championship.

He nods to himself, trusts his instincts and when he catches sight of the finish line, he thinks: he’s the best driver on the grid.

So he revs faster, and the rest descends into—

Absolute fucking chaos.

—

He’s smiling when he approaches the reporter, who’s already holding the mic with wonder. He asks for a message in Italian, then reminds him—and the crowd—that, in case he forgot, he’s world champion. Charles thinks he genuinely can’t ever.

“What are you doing to celebrate?” He asks then, smiling.

Sweaty, with damp hair and shiny skin, he smirks and leans closer. “Someone, I hope.”

—

“Hey there, champ.”

You’re already leaning against his hotel room door when he gets there, after the chore of wrestling himself free from the rest of the team pressuring him to get drinks. Carlos helps out, babbles something or other about Charles being “busy with something else”—which isn't wrong, not at all. He offers a smooth wink, bending down to kiss you.

Your mouths meet, softly first then increasingly messy as he pins you against the door. You push away, breathing heavy. “I don’t know what you’re into, but I don't want the top floor of this hotel seeing us fucking.”

“I wasn’t into that, but now that you brought it up…” You swat his arm and he laughs, unlocking the door and pulling you inside. You’re clinging onto him—his arms, his chest, anything, kissing up his neck and jaw. He groans at how needy you are. All for him, he thinks. Probably soaked through your panties and it’s all because of him.

“C’mon, pretty girl,” he says gently, voice low as he leads you to the bed. He catches sight of your shirt and a brow raises. “Did you buy that?”

“Hmm?” You look down, following his gaze and blinking. The shirt you’re wearing is loose, hanging off your shoulders and hastily tucked into your miniskirt so it looks like you actually have trousers on. “Oh. No, this is yours.”

“Mine.” He smiles a little. “You look so good in it, princess.” His hands mindlessly grope at you, hungry, sneaking underneath your skirt to feel at the lace there.

In retaliation, you lean forward, unbutton his jeans and tug at it.

“You left it at one of my”—you gasp, feeling his finger sneak its way beneath your panties—“my hotel rooms.”

“Pretty girl, pretty shirt, pretty lace, yeah?” He tugs, lets the garter of the skirt loosen and fall off your hips on its own. “Red.”

“You take too long,” you groan.

“You’re just eager,” he laughs, thumbing at your clothed cunt.

You’re so wet, evident even in the lazy circles he rubs over your entrance. You’re aching, desperate, begging almost. So he gives you what you want, maneuvers you onto his lap and pushes your (his) shirt up to stuff your mouth with it.

It won’t work for long, but it’s enough. He pushes your panties to the side and pulls his hard dick out. You’re sitting against it now, leaking slick onto it, at his mercy, branding his name and his number across your back. It’s hot.

He stares at the way you rock softly against him, hungry eyes meeting yours. “You’re so pretty, baby. Ruined.”

“Fuck me already,” you say, voice throaty, innocent.

“Can you take it?” He asks, teasing you, slapping his dick against your clit softly. You whine.

“Please,” you insist. “I want it. Make it fit.”

He’s a massive tease with it, his breath fanning against your skin, hands sticky on where they’ve hiked your shirt up. He lowers you, slower, against the tip of his dick and he watches your eyes flutter when you sink onto it. After ages of waiting. Your grip’s like iron on his shoulders, moans leaving you in quiet bursts of pleasure.

You’re far away, dumb from the feeling, you barely register the way he shoves the shirt back into your mouth to keep you quiet. “So fucking tight, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you say. It’s muffled, barely intelligible. “For you.”

You’re only able to take it because you’re so wet, so turned on, face and brain filled with nothing but pleasure. He can’t take it.

“Mmmfh,” you say, muffled by the bite of cotton in your mouth. You’re sweaty, flushed, overstimulated—you don’t know where to focus. On his lips against your jaw, his hand on your neck, the way your pussy swallows his aching dick. “It’s so big, I—”

“You okay?” He asks, breathily. Smiling. He’s in control, but still he sounds whiny—almost, if not as desperate as you. “You’ll take it all for me, won’t you?”

“Oh god,” is all you muster, letting him stretch you out even more, gushing all over his cock. “I, I—”

He moans, his grip tight against your waist, watching his dick bury itself in you. “You’re getting me so full,” you whine. “So deep, I feel it—” you taper off into a moan again when he presses hs thumb to your clit, distracting you from the stretch as he finally, finally bottoms out.

“Good?”

You nod. So good, give me more.

You grind against him, let the shirt fall out of your mouth. “You’re getting my dick so wet,” he comments, breathless. “So pretty for me, too.”

Growing antsy, he attempts to move, but you whine. Your turn to tease, you think, after he was a dick to you just now. “Not yet,” you say, lip caught between your teeth. His hands are tight around your waist. Desperate.

You squeeze around him, watch his brows knit together, a grunt leave him in a frustrated exhale. “You wanna fuck me?” You tease against his neck, blinking innocently.

“Yes,” he replies, not missing a beat. You pout, like you’re empathizing with the problem you’re causing; you grind slowly against him and he lets out a guttural fuuuuck. He’s so big, so hard—you can feel every inch of him inside you.

“Tell me again, Charles,” you say with a giggle. You’re so hot like this, face flushed and timid, hips moving slowly. He could cum just from the way you bite your lip, the way a whimper slips out of you when he hits the right spot.

“—Yeah,” he says, sweetly. “I want to—please, let me fuck you. C’mon, baby, can I?”

“Aww,” you tease.

“Can I?” He asks again, voice deep and thin with the need to fuck you, thrust up into you and make you the dumb one. His face is flushed and desperate. “Can I move, baby? Let me, please.”

You’re not stupid. You know—if his flushed, pleading face and big green puppy eyes are anything to go by—that he’s going crazy, growing antsy. But you’re not complaining.

“Hmm,” you say, feigning genuine thought. “I don’t know, Charles. Feels good just like this. And you want to make me feel good, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says.

“Yeah.” You repeat, staring into his dark eyes. He’s frustrated, desperate, flushed all over and sweaty. His fingers dig into your hips. “I’ll make you feel really good, baby, if you let me.”

“Go ahead,” you say softly, “fuck me, please.” And he’s thrusting upwards to meet you halfway. It’s knocking you out, almost, the pleasure of it, the dizzy onslaught of euphoria. He’s stretching you out so well, whining softly into your neck and yeah, you two have waited far too long to have this. You

“Fuck,” he grunts, lids squeezed shut and head rolled onto your shoulder. “Go on, baby, ride it, make me cum.” He cups your jaw, reaches his thumb into your mouth. It’s too much, all of it. He makes you suck on it while thrusting up, dizzying you with his cock.

He grabs handfuls of your ass, teases his thumb at your tighter asshole just to watch your eyes flutter, feel your cunt grow wetter. “I’ll fuck you even fuller next time,” he says; the implication gets you hot.

You bounce harder, chasing release as his thumb teases over your ass, the tip of it just thrusting in enough to elicit strings of moans out of you. “Come on, ride me,” he goads. “So good for me.”

“Fuck,” you pant, “cum in me, please.”

You cum first, writhing around him and riding your orgasm out in lazy grinds over his hard cock. You want to see him cum, see his eyebrows knit and his mouth release pretty whines, feel him claim you inside, hands hot and heavy on your ass. He does, with a guttural fuuuuck, shoving his dick up in you to the base and spurting all his cum in you.

He thrusts, watches his cum leak out of you, fucks it back in, in a vicious cycle. You shiver, blinking coquettishly and watching along—and then you’re both crumpling over each other on the bed behind you. You pant heavily against his chest.

“Hey.” He muses out loud, drumming against your skin.

“Yeah?”

“I have thirty-six condoms we need to go through. Wanna go on a date?”

#f1 #charles leclerc #charles leclerc x reader #charles leclerc imagines #charles leclerc drabble #charles leclerc smut #f1 x reader

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