#I really need to learn the meaning of light hearted

[gremlinmodetweeker]

Mine friendo, one, I dunno why it reblogged three times and I do not take any of that back, and two, I need your take on a Nikto kitter cause I wanna, with permission, write a piece with your au 🙏 if it's okay

Okay so, I had to wait until I got home for this but PLEASE IT'S OKAY TO WRITE FOR THIS OH MY GOSH PLEASE DO. All I ask is a tag as credit please. I mean, it's not really my au, it's just appreciated. It's not necessary. What is necessary is tagging me so I can read it! I want to read this!!!

TW: mentions of torture, violence, recovering from grievous wounds

However, your other part of your ask might lead to a bit of a tragedy. See, when Kortac created their task force of cat hybrids, they were trying to use the parts of cats that make perfect hunters to make their soldiers. Silent, fast, agile, strong, excellent eyesight under low light conditions, enhanced smell and hearing, capable of mimicry, able to endure hot and cold environments. Above all, they were to be loyal. So, they used the domestic cat to keep their soldiers domesticated enough to keep them under their thumb.

Nikto was among the first used. He was the first successful prototype. He was perfect! He was loved for his skills as a soldier, and he was loved as being an affectionate domesticated cat. Nikto was adored.

Unfortunately, KorTac had funding cuts and all the perfect soldiers they made had two choices: be let free, or be euthanized. The head of the lab was a soft-hearted man, and he insisted that the cats were to be set free. When the order went through that the cats were to be euthanized regardless, he panicked and smuggled the cats out to a city where he let them free. He begged them to forgive him as he let them go.

The cats all gathered together to face the harshness of city life. Not all of them made it, but most managed. They were homeless cats, homeless humans. They were lost and scared, but they persevered.

Eventually, some of the cats started to get adopted. Nikto watched as his brothers and sisters in arms managed to find places to stay and hide in their cat forms. He saw how wonderfully things worked out for them. Surely, he could find a happy home too, right?

So Nikto let himself be adopted by someone. He was picked up by a teenager with his friend and brought back to a shed. There, Nikto was forced to endure the worst of human behaviour.

The teens learned of a way to make money online. A strange way, but an easy way. It made good money, so they heard. It was easy, as long as you could do it.

Nikto was tortured for hours and hours in that shed. Being a stray for so long, he was too hungry and weak to be able to shift and defend himself. Instead, he was forced to endure horrors I hate to repeat.

When the teens figured that Nikto was dead, they put him in a can and kicked it over into a puddle of some leftover household acid, remains of what they'd used on him previous. Too weak to move, Nikto accepted his fate and closed his eyes.

He was woken up later by an animal trying to nibble at him. Parts of his body fell off as he heaved himself out of the puddle. He felt himself shake, he thought this was the end. But, he needed to warn the others. He couldn't let them suffer a fate like this.

Nikto hauled himself through the streets. He pushed through back alleys to get back to the city, and back to where his squad mates lived. When he arrived back, they did their best to care for him, but they didn't think Nikto would make it through the night.

But he did.

Nikto lived the next day, and then the next day, then the next and then the next day. Every day he lived was a miracle. Hutch, Roze and Askel poured their heart and souls into Nikto, and too their amazement, Nikto began to recover.

His skin started to grow back, his eyes fluttered open. His breathign relaxed, he started to talk.

And talk he did! He told them all about the humans. He warned them all. He made them all swear to protect themselves, to never let themselves fall into the wrong hands again. He made them swear to be strong, to always be healthy enough to shift into human forms. They promised, and they followed his word.

To this day, Nikto feels his heart drop when he hears someone has been adopted. He's made an initiative where each time one of their kin are adopted, another will follow them home to ensure they go to a safe home. They always make sure.

Nikto is still afraid of humans. It doesn't help that nobody really wants to adopt a cat like him... He's covered in scars now, scars that transfer to his human form. Despite how horrible he looks in his cat form, he'll stay in that form to avoid showing his human face. He's never forgotten the fear he felt when he saw his own eye staring back at him from within a fleshy socket, surrounded by redness and folds of scar tissue. He won't ever let anyone see his human face again, he swears by this.

Sometimes, someone will be foolish enough to ask Nikto if he'd consider trying to get adopted again. Nikto never says anything. He never has to. The way the whole room goes silent speaks volumes.

When he leaves them to stew in their own pity and misery, he'll think about what they said. He'll consider their words. A part of him wants to be adopted. He wants a warm, happy home. One like back at KorTac. He's been told KorTac was horrible, but when he was in the cage he had a roof over his head and three meals a day. He didn't go hungry, he didn't shiver at night. He was always safe.

Nikto, despite it all, still wants a home. Is he ready yet to find a human to trust? He doesn't know. He doesn't think he'll ever be ready, but he reminds himself that nobody is ever ready for change. It just happens. One day, a human will find him and love him for who he is, he holds onto that hope dearly.

Here's a quick ref of Nikto for you guys at home. Sadly, he can't really wear a mask in cat form, but at least he has a mask in human form. Still, despite how rough he looks, he still prefers living as a scarred cat than having to face his human form in the mirror again.

Oh, and as for the video? The one those teens made to make hundreds of thousands of dollars? The one that would make them filthy rich?

It made $97 USD.

[arkieve]

1977, Christmas break. Regulus had his first kiss behind the greenhouse at their school two weeks ago. With a pocket full of coins and a stomach full of weights, he learns how to use a phone box for the first time–clutching a piece of paper with a phone number on it. All just to hear James’ voice again. One last time before the year ends. | wc: 582

It’s nerve-racking listening to the ringing, waiting for his call to be picked up. He sways back and forth, white-knuckle grip on the phone, thumb between his teeth as he waits. 

Regulus keeps an eye out on the cobblestone street, irrational fear that the passers-by will somehow know he’s doing something he shouldn’t and report back to his mother. 

A few feet over, Mr. Kreacher leans impatiently against the sleek black Rolls-Royce. When he notices that Regulus won’t be coming out anytime soon, he, too, engages in a covert activity–fishing a pack of cigarettes from his inner jacket pocket and lighting up. It almost eases Regulus’ nerves and makes him smile.

“Hello?”

Regulus jumps at the sudden voice–one he doesn’t recognise. Older, masculine–James’ dad. Shit, he hadn’t rehearsed for this.

“Hello?”

“I–Hi,” Regulus cringes. This was stupid, he feels stupid, and he can’t feel his nose; the tips of his fingers are tingling from the biting cold. “Sorry, I’m just go–”

There’s another, rather weaker voice that joins in on the other line. “Who is it?”

Oh. Regulus recognises that one, and so does his heart, apparently, from the way it threatens to leap out of his chest.

The conversation on the other end is muffled, and then there’s some shuffling before things become clearer.

“Regulus?”

His heart goes pitter-patter, pitter-patter, pitter-patter. The heat in his cheeks should be enough to defrost the windows of the phone box.

“James.”

“Shit, it really is you,” he sounds excited, breathless. More shuffling and he settles, breathing out a sigh that sends shivers down Regulus’ spine.

“So,” James’ tinny voice calls over the line. “What are you wearing?”

Regulus allows himself the blush that covers his entire face and he knocks his head against the glass window to his right. 

“Oh, you know,” he mumbles, playing James’ game to the best of his abilities, “the usual.”

“Ah,” Regulus can hear the stupid smile on his face, “my favourite.”

“Shut up, you’re just saying things.”

“I’m not! I like everything about you, so I’m not lying, not really.”

Regulus thunks his head against the glass again in response, biting his lips so hard it hurts. “Shut up,” he mutters.

“I miss you,” James says without missing a beat, and Regulus needs him to stop, or at least give him a minute so his heart can slow down. There are only so many times he can hit his head against the window before the lady walking her dog, who’s taken a special interest in his peculiar behaviour, intervenes for his sake or he, you know, drops unconscious. “I really miss you,” James repeats, as if once isn’t enough.

“I miss you too,” comes Regulus’ reply, and it doesn’t scare him how easily those words come out of him, nor how much he means it. “I really miss you too.”

“Then I should hurry back, shouldn’t I? Can’t leave you there all by your lonesome.”

“No,” Regulus pouts, and then he remembers himself enough to stop pouting, but not enough to stop himself from saying, “you can’t. So you better hurry.”

“I’m on my way, love.”

Love. Love. Love. Love. Lovelovelovelovelovelovelove—

There’s a knock against the glass door of the box. “Hey, kid! Knock it off with all the banging will ya!”

Regulus startles, struggling not to drop the phone before cradling it to his chest, frozen as he watches the man leave him to his horror and James’ awful cackling on the other end of the line.

[natelikestowrite2054]

The Infection. Wanda Maximoff. Chapter 1

Wanda's not here. We are all that remains.

Summary: After a mission overseas, you return to the compound and meet up with Peter Parker. But something unknown attacks the base, and you soon learn who's behind the carnage.

Warnings: Infected Wanda, uneasy atmosphere, violence, suspense.

Author's Note: I hope you all enjoy reading this first chapter. There will be more to come.

You huffed as you dried hair after taking a well-deserved hot shower. Today had been grueling and unforgiving. The muscles in your body ached badly from the slightest bit of movement, and your eyes could barely stay open. But this wasn't a first-time experience for you. It was one you had done numerous times with the Avengers. The scars down your back, chest, and arms each held a story worth telling.

It had been over a year now since joining their team. A day that you'd never likely forget about. But unlike a majority of them. You didn't wear a suit of armor, possess secret powers, or have superhuman strength. No, you were a normal person, but not without the means to defend yourself. Your old life had taught you many lessons, and that was what aided you the day it all changed.

You neatly folded the towel and hung it over the heated rack. Sighing, you picked up your phone and opened it to check if Wanda had seen your messages. Two messages you'd sent half an hour ago had still gone unseen. Now you were getting worried. You typed up another message to send to her.

Wanda, I'm starting to really worry about you. You only said a few words to me or anyone when we left Sokovia, and then you suddenly disappeared as soon as we got back. If you need space, I understand, but please communicate with me. I love you so much, and I'm here for you. ❤��

Your mind pondered on the circus of theories as to what could've made Wanda so distant that she'd dissappear from everyone.

Did going back to Sokovia reawaken her painful memories? Should you have said more to comfort her? Was she planning on breaking up with you?

You snapped out of those delusional thoughts and exited the bathroom, switching off the lights and carrying your uniform over your forearm. The smell of fabric triggered deep memories of nostalgia from days long gone. You gently placed the outfit on the bed and searched for clothes for the evening.

Ding!

Your heart skipped a beat hearing the notification. You nearly stumbled forward, trying to get your leg through your sweatpants, hoping that Wanda had finally answered your messages. You scooped up your phone and opened to see it was a text message from Peter Parker.

Hey, I'm swinging in now. Meet you at the entrance?

Oh shit. You mumbled, realizing you had forgotten about your plans to hang out with Peter. You had been so overwhelmed with the stress of Wanda that you'd completely forgotten about tonight. It was something you'd planned out for some time, and you had been looking forward to it.

Peter wasn't a part of the Avengers, and that made it almost impossible for you two to see one another. You first met Peter when Tony Stark recruited him to help with a mission. Peter preferred to work alone and stick to being a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. But the day you two met, there was an instant connection.

You ruffled your hair, trying to ease the sudden anxiety of forgetting the hangout. Reluctantly, you texted Peter back.

Sure, I'll meet you by the entrance.

A few seconds later Peter replied.

See you soon.

You pocketed your phone and fixed your hair after messing it up out of frustration. I suppose tonight wouldn't be so bad. After all, you were in need of a break after the eventful day. You walked out of the room into the hallway toward the elevator. Your fingers pressed the top button, and the doors grumbled open. You stepped inside and waited for the lift to arrive at the bottom.

Once you had arrived, you eagerly squeezed through the still-opening elevator doors. The anxiety and excitement of seeing Peter clashed inside you like swords on a battlefield. Your eyes caught him just walking in through the front entrance. He seemed to be struggling to stuff his mask into his jacket.

"Are you struggling a little bit there, Parker?" You snickered. "No, it just won't. Ah, I got it," Peter said. He turned to look at you only to be greeted with a tight embrace. Peter hugged you back, and you winced. "Oh, are you okay?" Peter gasped. "Yeah, I'm just sore from today. I'll talk about it later. But it's great to see you again, Peter. How have you-" An unwelcomed smell entered your nostrils, and you immediately asked, "Okay, why do you smell like pizza?"

Peter clearly embarrassed and turning red answered sheepishly, "Because I've been delivering pizzas."

"Wait, you're delivering pizzas now?" You asked almost a bit taken aback. "When did this start?" "Oh, I started a few months back," Peter told. A thought came to your mind and it made you snort. "Please tell me you've been swinging around in your costume when delivering them, oh please," you prayed. Peter smiled to hide his embarrassment as he admitted to it. You laughed, imagining how confusing it must look for New Yorkers seeing Spider-Man deliver pizzas. "Oh, my gosh, that's brilliant. I can imagine J. Jonah Jamerson is printing a front page for that one. Speaking of that, what happened to taking pictures of yourself for that knucklehead?" You asked, nudging Peter's side.

"I-I've still been doing that. The pizza delivery job is just some extra work." Peter explained. "How come?" You asked. "Well, it's just I've been a little bit behind on rent." Peter told.

"Do you need money?" You asked. "No, no, please, I can't take any of your money. I'll figure something out." Peter assured.

"Peter, if you need help, we -" Peter immediately dismissed your offer again. "No, it's fine, really. I have it under control." You breathed out through your nose to keep your sigh of frustration hidden. "Okay, but please, if you change your mind. We are all here for you."

"I appreciate it, Y/N, thanks." Peter thanked with a cute smile.

You pressed the button for the elevator doors to open. "Tonight, we're just going to relax and enjoy ourselves," you said. "Are you up for a movie and some board games?" "Sounds great, let's do it." Peter agreed. As you both entered the elevator, you pressed for the top floor.

"Is everyone here tonight?" Peter asked. You scratched an itch on your nose before answering, "Yeah, everyone's here. We recently got back from a mission in Sokovia." "Sokovia?" Peter repeated with a peak of interest dripping from his quirky voice. "Yeah, Wanda informed us of another Hydra base there," you explained. "Did you find out what they were doing there?" Peter inquired. "Not yet. We're still reviewing the data we saved before it was all wiped clean. But from what I could gather is that Hydra was running some kind of experiments."

"Experiments?" "What kind?" Peter asked. "Some kind of human testing. We were concerned about there being new super humans. But again, we won't fully know as half the data was destroyed when we began our assault."

"Mhm, so everything else is okay?" Peter asked. "Yeah, everything's... f-fine." You answered, not trying your best to hide the stress and worry for Wanda that was eating you like a cancer.

"Hey, you okay?" You glanced back up at Peter and stuttered with your explanation. "Y-Yeah, I'm fine just tired."

"Are you sure?" Peter asked again.

"Yeah, I'm sure," you whispered with a half convincing smile.

The mini screen in the corner of the elevator caught your attention. For some bizarre reason, the floor numbers seem to have frozen in time. But that's when you noticed the shift in Peter's expression. His eyes were wide like a deer caught in the headlights.

"Peter?" "Peter what's wrong?" You asked. Those few seconds felt like a lifetime time before Peter answered, "Y/N, something's wrong, something's -"

The elevator suddenly stopped.

You both froze in place, feeling the rumble of the elevator throughout your bodies. The lights from above flickered on and off until darkness followed. "What happened to the power?!" You exclaimed whilst frantically pushing the buttons on the panel. Nothing worked. Peter stepped toward the doors, prying his fingers in-between them. The young hero grunted with effort as he separated the doors. It sounded like nails on a chalkboard. Peter stepped out first, keeping his arm out in front of you in a protective manner. His eyes scanned the darkened hallway for any sudden movements.

"W-What's going on?" You muttered.

"Y/N, listen to me. There's something very dangerous nearby. Whatever it is, we need t-"

The thundering sound of clanging echoed through the floors above. You looked up toward the ceiling, listening to the deafening noises. But what came next was unlike anything you'd heard before. A loud screeching roar beyond human capability, and it made every hair on your body stand up. You started to hyperventilate, feeling the vibration of it throughout your body. "W-What was..." You choked out through your panicked breaths.

"Come on!" Peter exclaimed as he shoved the staircase door open. You raced after Peter with the adrenaline, igniting and fueling your body like a soldier charging onto the battlefield. As you climbed the stairs, the sound of gunfire and yelling was growing louder with every step. "Come on, Y/N!" Peter yelled from above. "We're almost at the top!" You leaped up the last set of stairs when you heard the screeching of Peter's shoes. You halted thinking Peter had come face to face with what was responsible. But as you looked up, there was nothing but what remained of the stairway door.

You slowly stepped up onto the walkway and inspected the scene of the crime. The door had been torn apart from the center and pulled inward. But what caught your eye made your heart skip a beat. Carved deep into the metal of the door appeared to be the workings of something with sharp claws.

"What could've done this?" You whispered.

Peter unzipped his grey jacket and swiftly took it off, revealing his tightly red and blue fitted costume. You turned away to look back at the door and bravely decided to investigate further. "Y/N, wait." Peter warned. You ignored it and squeezed through the gap in the door. Once you were through, your eyes gazed upon more of the same claw marks on the wall. Following the trail lead, you down the blackened hallway where the doors leading to the living room had been ripped clean off.

"Peter." You quietly called. Peter emerged through the gap and saw the carnage before him. "Oh my God." Peter gasped with wide eyes. "Okay, Y/N, I need you to listen to me. You need to get out of here and call Nick Fury. I'll go and investigate." Shaking your head, you argued, "No, I'm not leaving you here." Peter stepped closer and put both his hands on your biceps with a firm grip. "Y/N, please just listen to me. Whatever did this is dangerous. I sensed it before the power was cut. I can't let you get hurt." Again, you shook your head, ignoring Peter's reason. "I can't let you face this alone, I won't run knowing I could've done something." "Y/N it's too dangerous, and you don't have anything to protect yourself with," Peter pointed out.

"I'm staying." You repeated arrogantly.

Peter stared into your eyes. His expression was mixed between frustration, anger, and worry, knowing he couldn't change your mind. Peter pulled down his mask and repeated, "Okay, but promise me that the moment something happens to me. You save yourself. Promise me."

"I promise Peter." You answered confidently.

Peter nodded, and you both started to move cautiously toward the living room. He kept his arm out in front of in a protective manner. Anxiety made your hands clamy, and your heart thumped loudly in your ears as you entered the room.

Your eyes scanned the darkened area. There was no sign of anybody. Glass was scattered all over the floor, the couches and TV were tipped over, pieces of Tony's equipment broken and discarded like trash. Even one of the large windows had been shattered. It was like a battlefield. You continued following behind Peter with sweat dripping down your face like raindrops. When you felt something underneath your foot. You lifted your shoe off the object only to see it was a gun.

Natasha's gun.

You scooped up the pistol and checked it only to find the weapon had been completely emptied. Whatever Natasha was trying to bring down didn't surcome easily to bullet wounds.

Peter's eyes surveyed the area in front of him when he suddenly felt his spidey sense trigger drowning out his footsteps that came to a hault. You felt Peter's hand grab your shirt in a bone crushing grip. He whispered in a low tone, "Y/N, don't move." You froze like a statue, not daring to move another muscle.

Peter's breathing was shallow. His sharp spidey sense ringed loudly. Peter desperately searched for the threat, but there was nothing but the darkness that swallowed you both like a nightmare. The young hero needed to concentrate on where the threat was and quickly. Peter took a deep breath in and let it out. All went quiet. Peter's spidey sense homed in on the danger, and he moved his two fingers to the center of his web shooter before whispering the bone-chilling word.

"Run."

Peter shoved you out of the way. Emerging from the darkness were a pair of long tendrils that grabbed ahold of Peter's wrists and ankles like an octopus seizing its prey from within its lair.

You landed hard on the ground, crazing your cheek on the broken glass. Turning your head, you saw Peter pinned against the wall by the long, dark tendrils. Suddenly, one of the tendrils perked up and lunged toward you. Just as it was about to snatch your ankle, it was yanked back by one of Peter's webs. "Run, Y/N, RUN!" Peter groaned out.

You quickly stood to your feet and sprinted out of the room toward the stairway door. The sound of Peter's yellling traveled through the walls and followed you like a haunting spirit of mockery. The thought of what that monster was doing to Peter was too much bear, but you couldn't stop. You had to escape whilst Peter held it off.

The last flight of stairs was just below you now. You wasted no time and leaped down them, landing on your two feet. Grunting, you pushed the door open and sprinted toward the exit. You could make out the sight of the far-off street lights through the glass windows above the front door. Freedom was just ahead you could almost taste it.

Suddenly, you stopped hearing a loud rumble from above. The ground shook like an earthqauke was unfolding. Your eyes followed the sourace above when the ceiling collapsed, forcing you to retreat. You helplessly watched as Peter fell through the rubble. He reached out to fire a web to save himself, but it was too late. Peter crashed onto the title surface, cracking it. His body went limp as he laid trapped underneath a pile of rubble.

"Peter!" You cried.

You ran to Peter's side. But stopped upon seeing a dark shadow land in front of you and to your horror you saw it was...

Wanda.

No, it couldn't be. But it was indeed her. The right half of her body was consumed by a black and red substance that stretched all across the right side of her body like torn clothing. But the most disturbing feature was the right side, her mouth littered with rows of sharp fang like teeth.

You turned to flee. But Wanda was too fast. She raised up her right arm, and the black and red goo stretched across her hand like multiple streams transforming into a long tendril. It attacked with incredible speed and wrapped tightly around your throat. You kicked and squirmed as the oxygen supply to your lungs was cut off.

Wanda slowly turned you to face her and pulled you uncomfortably close to her face. Her wide pupils stared deeply into yours like a vengeful demon. "W-Wanda." You choked out in a pleading tone. The cold, slimey tendril tightened like an anaconda. All you heard leaving Wanda's lips was a chuckle that echoed through your ears.

As your world began to turn dark, you continued to thrash desperately, trying to break free, but you slowly felt yourself scumming to the sleep.

"Sweet dreams, little lamb."

[clockwayswrites]

Me: This is a fun, light hearted fic!

Also me: writes a bit of torture

[spider-man-2o99]

(shaking you, wailing, frothing at the mouth, etc.) miguel is a heavily-traumatized person and. like. i really just cannot stress enough that that influences just So Much Of How He Acts, man.

[shidoukanae]

Paris Valerian but i redesign his dragon form for funsies based on how i see him=. Not sure if I like this design bc im not a fan of bulkier looking dragons but for Paris I think this works??

Some headcanons about this design:

has a bit of a bull-like look bc I associate bulls with persistence and madness and idk that fits Paris well so if Fian has a “fox” motif Paris gets a “bull” one for his dragon form 

His design is based a lot on how a stereotypically evil dragon would look???? Because imo OG!Paris reads as a massive antagonist and I think giving him a look that fits that vibe in his dragon form works!! Especially because he still is an antagonist in a way (though god does he not read that way lmao)

he’s stronger in his dragon form than Fian is and he uses this to his advantage to bully Fian around whenever they playfight as dragons. That said, it seems Paris is surprisingly gentle towards Fian in this form and never hurts him.

he uses this form to intimidate people into getting what he wants. He’s not used to getting retaliated against while in this form and quickly respects anyone who does so (read: Fian, Lyla and Helene)

the silver scales on his body can glow in the same way his eyes do. Typically, he keeps them dull-colored (see above) but if he feels a strong emotion of any sorts they’ll glow brightly without him meaning to (noticeably: they glow constantly whenever Helene is around for obvious reasons~).

[cynical-ghost]

KILLER QUEEN

Part.2

Synopsis: After being forced into being a second driver for McLaren people are irritated by her wasted potential.

Paring: Charles Leclerc x driver!reader.

Genre: SMAU-social media, slight angst?

A/n I love Lando but I needed a ‘Villain’ so I apologise 🫶

Ynforeal

Liked by Charles_Leclerc, Arthur_leclerc, yourbff and 923,157 others

Ynforeal Duty free shopping and plane ✈️ @/Charles_leclerc

Ynismymother You are gunna do great today Yn!!

Charles_Leclerc Race you 🏎️

Ynforeal I’ll beat you🫶

Gossip_grid

Liked by dramapaddok, ynismymother, F1_wags and 342,564 others

Gossip_grid Yn Ln and Lando Norris are making their way to the McLaren garage. We wish Yn the best and hope the McLaren strategists get their act together.

Ynismymother They better get their act together, since she moved to McLaren she’s been pushed to the side.

Ferrarienthusiasts They are waisting her talent by making her second driver.

Cl16YL03 Charles should tell her to take the Ferrari seat, apparently Ferrari have offered her it.

Charlexyn4eva Really? Where did you hear that?

Cl16YL03 @/dramapaddok have a post about it.

Charlesxyl4eva 🫶

dramapaddok

Liked by Gossip_grid, Cl16YL03, Charlesxyl4eva and 434,231 others

dramapaddok Yn Ln joining long-term boyfriend and fellow driver Charles Leclerc in red?

Inside sources have shared with us that McLarens second driver has been offered a seat at Ferrari.

To learn more about this story and many others click the link in our bio🧡❤️

Cl16YL03 I hope she moves to Ferrari, all McLaren have been doing is focusing on Lando and leaving Yn the 5 minute strategy’s

Ynismymother GO FOR IT YN!!!!!

YLn03first no hate to Lando but Yn is the better driver, all you have to do is watch old races when she was racing with Mercedes.

Formula1_updates

Liked by Ynismymother, user15, charlesxyn4eva and 1,264,648 others

Formula1_updates it’s yet another sad day for McLarens Yn Ln. After being told to retire the car after engine failure, Ln proceeded to walk away from the race altogether, after sitting alone yn’s race engineer had a word with the upset woman.

User15 This is so upsetting to see time and time again

Ynismymother McLaren are ruining her career at this point

YLn03first Disappointment aging and aging, my heart goes out to Yn.

mclaren

Liked by Ynforeal, ynismymother, dramapaddok and 298,743 others

mclaren We wish Yn Ln well for her future in racing.

Ynismymother FINALLY!!

Charlesxyn4eva Yn is leaving McLaren? YES🍾🎉🎉

YLn03first Finally a win for Yn Ln.

User15 this was a long time coming, I really hope she takes the Ferrari seat now!!

Cl16Yln03 Are we going to get a couple team?!!!

Charles_Leclerc

Liked by Ynforeal, yourbff, Arthur_leclerc and 546,896 others

Charles_Leclerc The season is about to begin… ❤️

Charlesxyn4eva WHAT DO THE LIGHTING MCQEEN CROCS MEAN!!!

Ynismymother Yn For Ferrari ???

Cl16YLn03 When Will it be my turn 🥲

User15 I’m waiting for Ferraris announcement of Yn joining them!!

[maidenvault]

During my last rewatch of the prequels I was actually shocked by how much I've misremembered or decontextualized certain moments in my mind because of how they're often talked about in fandom as showing the Jedi as too arrogant, too bureaucratic, generally just burying their heads in the sand while everything goes bad etc. So I'm gonna try to address every individual scene that typically gets brought up to argue that this is an actual theme in Lucas's portrayal of the Order.

The Council doesn't take Qui-Gon's account of meeting a Sith seriously.

Mace and Ki Adi Mundi do both express doubt this guy could be a Sith. (Understandably! Historically they've never known Sith to be able to hide their existence, and for them to have survived totally in secret for a thousand years is a pretty wild thing for Qui-Gon to be so sure of.)

BUT Yoda admits that the dark side is hard to see, and Mace assures Qui-Gon they'll do everything to find out the identity of the attacker. Later he's ordered to go back to Naboo and try to draw out Maul to discover more. Qui-Gon accepts this and doesn't ask for backup. Why should he? He held his own against Maul before, and Maul's probably not gonna show himself again to face a ton of Jedi. They end up missing the chance to learn who trained Maul because of how things go down, but Qui-Gon's death isn't the result of the Council mishandling the situation.

At the funeral, Yoda says the presence of one Sith means there's another out there. They know they've got to be on guard now and will be, but they've got no more leads for now.

2. Qui-Gon's not here to free slaves.

There's this idea that slavery existing on Tatooine shows the Order is apparently too tied up doing shady things for self-interested politicians (footage not found) to help the people who really need it. But Padme's shocked to know the Skywalkers are slaves for a reason. The truth is there isn't a lot of slavery in the galaxy at this time because the Jedi have helped keep it that way for centuries only by working with the Republic. In TCW we see that Zygerrian slavers have a particular hatred of Jedi because they're literally The Anti Slavery People and did so much of the work to crack down on their trade. But Tatooine is controlled by the Hutts and they simply don't have the resources to start a war with them.

(And honestly, it's crazy how people talk like Qui-Gon's a monster for honestly and apologetically telling Anakin no, that's not why he's here. This is a child he's already indebted to and who has a hero-worshipping idea of Jedi, it would be fucked up for him not to be clear about how he can't help him and his mom.)

3. They doubt Dooku could be behind the assassination attempt.

This I understand shows the Jedi to be a little naive. But they knew Dooku as a good man, and at this point he and his followers are still putting on a show of wanting to secede for idealistic reasons (and a few of them, manipulated by Dooku, actually do have good intentions). Only later do the Jedi learn they're illegally building an army before they've even officially left the Republic and clearly have no interest in the peaceful resolution Padme's been advocating for. And they only find this out because they have Obi-Wan investigate the assassin and this very quickly leads him to Dooku.

4. "Arrogance, yes. A trait more and more common among Jedi. Even the older, more experienced ones."

In context, this line from Yoda is clearly not meant to be taken so seriously. Obi-Wan says he fears Anakin is too arrogant, and this is Yoda's light-hearted way of telling him not to be so hard on him. Part of training a Padawan is learning to trust them so they can grow, and Obi-Wan perhaps needs the reminder that he isn't done learning himself.

Of course Yoda saying this could be partly motivated by them having been caught off guard before by the existence of Darth Maul and the dark side clouding their awareness, as we're told repeatedly throughout the PT they know is a problem. But it's kind of contradictory to take this as confirmation that this is a serious fatal flaw of theirs. If someone acknowledges their own arrogance then they're aware of their ability to be wrong, which means they can't actually be that arrogant. If truly meant in a general sense and not just as a gentle reproof of Obi-Wan, it's a pretty self-deprecating comment coming from Yoda.

5. "If an item does not appear in our records, it does not exist."

Chief Librarian Jocasta Nu gives this haughty response to Obi-Wan looking for Kamino, a system that's not in the Jedi Archives. So being so overly confident in the infallible knowledge of the Jedi, he takes her word for it and totally drops this lead.

Except no, he goes to someone older and wiser to figure out what this actually means. And he and Yoda are forced to conclude that the unthinkable - a trusted person among them somehow had reason to erase information from the archive - must nonetheless be what happened. This is honestly an exception that proves the rule: Kamino, and we can assume only Kamino, is missing from the archive only because it was removed, which is so suspicious it just shows he must be on the right track to discovering something. Jocasta is kind of snooty about it but theirs obviously is supposed to be one of the most accurate and complete databases in the galaxy.

6. Obi-Wan doesn't believe what Dooku tells him about the Senate.

For one thing, in this conversation Dooku's lying about basically everything but this. And I can't ever stress enough that Palpatine is a threat unlike anything the Jedi have ever dealt with before, who's already taken control of so much before they even know they're fighting anything, so the idea that a Sith is controlling the Senate would be really hard for anyone to believe.

Still, we know Obi-Wan reports this to the Council anyway. But it's a vague statement and they still don't have any information to act on. Palpatine soon has them very busy putting out fires in the war, and naturally fighting the Separatists who are led by Sith seems the best way for them to get to the bottom of what exactly is going on with the dark side. And they do finally turn their attention to how power-hungry Palpatine is getting once the war is nearly over and they've got the bandwidth for it, and think about what they might have to do if he's the threat to their democracy they fear, but of course he's too many steps ahead of them all the time.

---

So basically, what we see the Jedi being so guilty of in these examples are thought crimes. When confronted with the crazy explanation that happens to be true, their instinctive reaction is "No, I don't think that's possible." And then they do their due diligence to uncover as much of the truth as they can anyway. And Yoda, the Grand Master of them all, is often the first to admit that their first assumptions could be wrong. But Palpatine wouldn't be a good villain if his moves were predictable and he couldn't get an advantage over the good guys - that's just how storytelling works sometimes and it's not that deep.

It honestly felt stupid typing so much of this out because it's 90% just describing what actually happens in these scenes. But I guess it's a lot to ask that people actually carefully watch the films they discuss. 😒

[spicyspiders]

old man logan part 2

3.1k words

logan isn't as mean in this, but there are still moments when he is, like when he forces the reader to drink a glass of whisky he poured for him because he doesn't want him to waste it.

part 1

You wanted to give the guy a chance, but fuck, you just weren’t interested. You thought it’d be a good idea, after all, your mother told you she didn’t want you spending your whole summer at home. You assumed what she meant was a summer job, but you thought going on a date would be more entertaining. 

It wasn’t really the guy’s fault though, your mind was much too occupied by the thought of Logan. It has been two weeks since then and your mind hasn’t stopped thinking about it since that day. The only interaction you’ve had with him since then was nods and glances when you saw him outside. 

A week after that day, you learned of his change of heart. It became much louder outside after Logan returned all of the lost toys in his backyard, much happier. You even made a comment about it to your date. 

“That was sweet of him,” the man said from across the table at the bar. 

“Yeah. It sure was,” you responded, trying not to smile too hard. 

“Why do you think he had a change of heart?” Your date asked. 

You quickly changed the subject after he asked, not wanting to give anymore details away. “Sorry,” you pointed to one of your ears, “it’s pretty loud in here.”

”Do you wanna,” he pointed at the door, his eyes bright under the light of the bar. 

You nodded and gathered your things to pay your tab, the sweet taste of the drink you had earlier was still at the back of your throat. Only having one drink at the bar meant it was easy to come up with another excuse to get in your car and drive home. 

The man looked disappointed, but he quickly perked up after you pressed a kiss to his cheek with the promise of next time whispered into his ear. 

“How was your date?” Logan asked when you got out of your car, “not so good I guess since you’re home before sundown,” he let out a cruel laugh. 

“It was just one drink,” you responded as you shut your car door. 

“What,” he tossed the rag he had just cleaned his motorcycle with over his shoulder, “he not want to invite you inside for a nightcap?”

”A nightcap?” You grimaced, “how old are you?”

Logan chuckled, “don’t get mad at me,” he said, stepping closer and into your driveway, “I’m sure he would’ve invited you in if he knew how easy you were,” he said quietly, not close enough for you to smell the cleaner on the rag. 

“Next time he’ll know,” you said, crossing your arms. 

The laugh Logan lets out is loud and booming, much too loud for the time of evening it was, “you’re telling me,” Logan says once he’s gotten his laughing under control, “you don’t put out on the first day?”

“I do when I want to. My mind’s been just a little,” you pause, looking away from Logan’s eyes and definitely not down to his lips, “occupied.”

“Why don’t we go inside and talk about it,” Logan whispers. 

Logan wastes no time getting his hands on you once you’re behind his door. His hands are warm on your hips as he presses you into the door. The kiss is not at all like the one you pressed to your date’s cheek earlier, it’s rough and messy and just what you expected. 

“What’d you drink earlier?” Logan panted after pullings away from the kiss, “it tastes like you swallowed a pound of candy,” he says, looking disgusted. 

“That’s how I like my drinks. Besides, I only had one,” you watched as Logan stepped back and walked to his kitchen, “it shouldn’t be that bad!” You yelled at his back. 

You could hear the sound of cabinets slamming and glass hitting the counter before Logan’s voice followed he sound, “get in here.” He spoke again after you were beside him leaning against the countertop, “I’m putting you on the good stuff. None of that sugary bullshit,” he said as he poured a glass of whisky. 

“I think you just wanted an excuse to drink,” you said as he moved to the second glass. 

“I don’t need an excuse to drink. I’m a grown man, and so are you. You’re too old for that-”

”Sugary bullshit,” you say, cutting him off, rolling your eyes, “I know.”

“A toast,” Logan says after picking up his glass, “to trying new things.” 

You weren’t going to tell Logan you’ve had whisky before, but you play up your reaction just to save his ego. You cough even though you’re used to the burn and make a face of disgust even though you’re used to the taste. 

With a laugh, Logan claps a hand on your back, “it’s not a shot, you’re supposed to savor it,” which was ironic for him to say given how quickly he drank his. With his hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle, he looked at you expectantly.

”What,” you snapped. 

“Drink it,” Logan commanded, “you don’t waste my whiskey.”

“You drink it,” you said back.

Slowly, Logan takes the glass as he steps in front of you and crowds you up against the counter. His eyes stay locked to yours as he takes the rest of what was in your glass into his mouth. You wait for him to swallow, but instead he wraps his other hand around the back of your neck and gets in real close. 

“Open,” he says around the liquid in his mouth. 

You have no choice but to comply, especially when his hand tightens on the back of his neck. The whisky trickles into your mouth, along your tongue, and then down your throat in a warm path. You lick your lips, the tip touching Logan’s as you try to gather the bit that fell from the side of your mouth. 

Logan’s thumb gathers it before he pushes it into your mouth, “good boy,” he murmurs when you suck the taste from his skin. 

He pulls his thumb from your mouth and then back down your chin where the liquid had dripped, leaving another wet trail. He kisses you again, this time much slower. His tongue runs along yours and all you can taste is a mix of whisky and something that is all Logan. 

“You really are easy,” Logan says when he pulls away from the kiss, one of his hands moving to your hard cock tenting your pants, “look at how hard you are,” he says like he’s in awe of a brilliant discovery. “Bedroom?” He asks with a smirk.

“Wouldn’t standing for too long hurt your back?” You respond, biting back your smile as you watch his smirk fall. 

“Little fuckin’ smartass,” Logan grumbles as he hoists you over his shoulder, “I gotcha,” he says at your noise of surprise, making sure to pat your ass for good measure. 

“I can walk,” you say to him after you’re thrown onto his bed.

”Not after this,” Logan responds, swooping down to mash your lips together. With his knee, he made space between your legs for his body and used his hands to lift your legs and get them around his waist. 

You moaned into the next kiss Logan initiated as he rolled his hips to grind your cocks together. For what felt like hours, Logan thrust your cocks together through your clothes. It made you feel like a teenager again, especially with how close you felt when Logan finally pulled away to pull his shirt off. 

You wanted to look over to see if you could see into Logan’s closet to see if tank tops were all he wore. You’d give him props though if they were at least different colors. It’s too bad Logan’s chest was too distracting. 

You ran your fingers up Logan’s chest, gliding through his dark chest hair until you reached his broad shoulders. You used them as a sturdy purchase to pull yourself up to get your mouth against his again. You ran your nails down Logan’s back and he pulled back and let out a noise of pain which had your cock throbbing. 

Free from the kiss, you leaned down to the expanse of Logan's neck to bite at the skin. Above you, Logan moaned when you ran your tongue along the mark you just bit into his skin, the flesh tasting like sweat. 

Logan pulled you back face to face with a hand on the back of your neck. His breaths hit your face as he panted from the pleasure, his eyes dark and full of lust. He pressed a chaste kiss to your kiss before pulling away again to get your clothes off. 

“No underwear?” He asked, a smile stretching out across his face. 

“You didn’t have any on either,” you responded. Logan’s hard cock bobbed in the air between your bodies, but he didn’t let you touch it as he pushed you back down onto the bed once your shirt was off. 

“I’m in my own home,” Logan said as he wrestled your pants off and threw them into the pile of your clothes. 

“You were outside when I got home,” you said, wrapping your hand around the back of his neck to pull him into another kiss. 

“I was waiting for you,” Logan said against your mouth after he pulled away, “you’ve been ignoring me,” he said, nipping at your bottom lip.

”I’ve been busy,” you said before grabbing two handfuls of Logan’s ass to get your cock against his. Your head fell back into one of the pillows on Logan’s bed as your cocks rubbed together, making a mess of precum.

”Whoring yourself out,” Logan said into the column of your neck before he bit harshly into the skin. He held himself up on his forearm, his other being used to go between your legs, past your cock and to your hole. 

He groaned around the skin between his teeth as he circled the pad of his finger around the tight furl of your hole, “you’re fuckin’ killing me,” Logan said, his forehead falling to your neck. “This all for me?” He asked, almost mockingly. 

“Sometimes I like doing the shower if I’m home alone,” you say with a groan when Logan rubs your cocks together again. 

“Yeah? You gotta go fast before mommy and daddy get home?” Logan asks as he presses the edge of his finger to the opening. “Who were you thinkin’ about hmm?” He asks, looking at you with his dark eyes. 

“You thinkin’ about that guy you were gonna go on a date with as you took your shower this morning?” Logan asked, his finger touching your hole, but not yet pressing inside. “Or me? Cause you already knew he wasn’t going to satisfy you,” Logan says, finally pressing his finger inside. 

Logan’s finger met the remnants of the lube you weren’t able to wash from your hole, slicking the way so that his finger could go all the way to the hilt. He moved his finger slowly, not pulling it out, but instead moving it around enough for you to become accustomed to it. 

He leaned down to kiss you just as slowly as he worked his finger, his tongue moving to the rhythm of his finger as he mapped out your mouth. He pulled his tongue from your mouth as his finger left and swallowed the soft noise you let out. 

Quickly Logan left and came back with a bottle of lube after rifling through his nightstand. Back on the bed, he got behind you and got you onto your side and lifted one of your legs up and rested it against his muscular bicep.

His finger, now wet with lube, touched the edge of your hole, spreading lube along the skin. It glided inside as Logan pressed his lips to yours. He kissed and kissed and kissed you as he got you ready for his cock that laid on his thigh. 

The only interruption to your lips was when Logan found your prostate with his two fingers. “There we are,” Logan whispered after he pulled away. For a moment, he fucked his two fingers into your prostate, milking the bundle of nerves until your cock gushed precum. 

You felt full by the third finger, not thinking you could take more, but when you looked down at Logan’s cock, everything in you wanted to try. Logan’s fingers went to your chin to turn your face away and back to kiss him, and all you could focus on was pleasure as his fingers on your prostate turned your brain to mush.

After Logan pulled his fingers free from your hole, he rolled you onto your stomach. He pressed kisses to the side of your neck, right on your hammering pulse as he slicked up his cock. Logan pressed his sweaty forehead to the back of your head as he lined his cock up to your hole. 

You bit into the pillow as the head of Logan’s cock entered your hole. If it felt intense, the rest of the length of cock was damn near overwhelming. You sobbed into the pillow when Logan bottomed out, clenching on his cock as you tried to adjust. 

“Fuckin’ hell, bub,” Logan groaned as he let his weight fall on top of you. 

“Don’t,” you started, but your words fell into a moan when Logan circled his hips, “call me bub while your dick is inside me.”

“What should I call you then? Boy?” He asked, his breaths hitting your ear, “you gonna be a good boy and take my cock?” He questioned, pulling his cock from your hole. “Or should I call you my bitch,” he said as he bottomed out again, “you already take me so well and we’ve just gotten started.”

Every time Logan pulled out and thrust back in, you could swear you could feel his cock in your stomach, like he was carving out a spot inside you just for him. His hips slapped against your ass as he held you down with his hands on your hips, selfishly taking his pleasure through the use of your body.

“Fuckin, wanted you since I first saw you,” Logan said after he thrust all the way inside and ground his hips on your ass, getting his cock as deep as it could go, “knew you would take my cock so well,” he said, biting into your shoulder. 

He roughly flipped you over and placed one of your legs on his shoulder. His cock was back inside with a swift thrust, Logan’s hand on the ankle on his shoulder. Once all the way in, he pressed his lips to your ankle and then nearly bent you in half to get his lips on yours again. 

Again and again Logan pulled his cock from your body to thrust it back inside, and again and again Logan’s cock would nail your prostate. Since the brush of his fingers, there was a burn in your stomach, one that Logan made grow brighter and hotter. 

“This everything you wanted?” Logan asked, not even giving you the chance to answer before he had his lips on yours. You moaned into each other’s mouths when Logan’s hand wrapped around your hard cock and stroked to the thrusts of his hips. 

Your orgasm hit you like a wave of the coldest water, washing over the burn Logan started. The force of it had your back arching off the bed into Logan’s body as stripes of white spurted messily over his fist and between your bodies. 

Logan answered the moans you let out with ones of his own as you clenched down on his cock over and over again, and it wasn’t long until his thrusts came to a halt. Logan came with a shout, his arms wrapping around your body as he let his weight fall on top of you once more. His body gave involuntary twitches as the aftershocks hit and whimpers of pleasure fell from his mouth and into the crook of your neck where his head was buried. 

You raised a hand and ran your fingers through Logan’s sweaty hair, the man raising his head at the contact. He kissed you softly, taking in the soft noise you let out as he shifted and his cock slipped free. After one last kiss, he lifted himself up and walked from the room. 

You stretched out like a cat on Logan’s bed, your cock twitching when you felt Logan’s cum leak from your hole. 

“Comfortable?” Logan asked after he returned, your face smushed into a pillow. 

Like earlier, you could hear the clink of glasses being set down, but new was the sensation of a warm cloth on your skin. You just hoped it wasn’t the one he used to clean his motorcycle earlier. 

“Should I clean you with this?” Logan asked, his lips dragging along your neck. Warm drops hit your back, making you gasp, “or my mouth?”

”What type of lube did you use? Strawberry lube doesn’t taste too bad,” you said tiredly into the pillow. 

“Slut,” Logan responded, sounding almost fond as he wiped you down. “I should take a picture before I clean you up,” he said to himself but loud enough for you to hear after spreading your asscheeks to look at your fucked out hole.   

You rolled over when Logan turned you over with a hand on your hip to get your front. You hissed as the wet warmth came into contact with your soft cock. “Ah,” you moaned at the overstimulation. 

“Hush,” Logan commanded, “you can take it,” he whispered, his body inching closer when your hips came off the bed. “That’s my boy,” Logan praised once you relaxed back onto the bed. 

He left once more to toss the rag away before he joined you back on the bed. He reached onto the bedside table for the bottle of whisky and glasses he brought up. It was quiet for a few moments as he poured you each a glass, save for the hum of the air conditioner. 

“You gonna see him again?” Logan asked after he took a sip. 

You glanced over at Logan, watching how his eyes were trained on the sloshing liquid in the glass, “something came up,” you responded, smiling down into your glass before you raised it and took a sip. 

Logan shifted closer and wrapped an arm around your shoulder. He raised his glass and you clinked yours with his before you both took another sip.

[gghostwriter]

Language of Devotion

Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader

Summary: You caught Spencer learning a new skill—your native language

Trope: Fluff! just fluff

Warning: Language learning app inaccuracies, that’s it really. I wrote this in a frenzy and no proofreading was done

Main masterlist

At around 6:30pm, you arrived at your boyfriend’s apartment complex with takeout on hand. The whole day you’ve spent slumped on your office desk, slaving away on documents that needed your attention and wishing time would move faster. You were knackered and planned to spend the rest of the evening charging within your boyfriend’s arms. You knocked twice on his mahogany apartment door but there was no answer.

“Spence. Spence,” you called out. “You there?”

Silence.

Strange, even though it was a week night, he mentioned that no call came in for a case—strictly paperwork day. You juggled the takeout to your other hand as you reached into your bag for the spare key with slight difficulty.

As you let yourself in the apartment, a ping sound echoed in the confined space. The source of the noise coming in from the bedroom door that was slightly ajar. You quietly placed all your items on the dining table and crept towards the room at the further end of the apartment.

Heart beating loudly on your chest, you peeked inside the room and breathed a sigh of relief. It was Spencer, hunched over his desk, furiously scribbling on a notebook and his phone light reflecting on his glasses.

“Hey Spencer,” you lovingly greeted and although you’ve already announced your presence multiple times earlier on, the sound of your voice made him jump and if you didn’t know any better, a whimper of fright also escaped his lips—he’d deny this, of course.

“Hey, Y/N,” he raked his hand through his hair. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

You smiled coyly. “Y’know for an agent, you’re awfully jumpy.”

He laughed, the tone of his voice warming your heart. “I was just busy with something,” his hands closing the notebook and pushing it aside, as if he didn’t want you to see what had occupied the entire capacity of his brain.

That intrigued you. Spencer wasn’t really the type to keep things hidden from you unless it’s case related and in which, he doesn’t bring it back home for him to study. When your relationship started that was one of your laid out boundary and he had respected and agreed to it—the days and nights that he’s not on call were meant to enjoy each other’s company.

You tried to creep closer, curious as to what he was doing. Being adept with your body language, Spencer tried to divert your attention—keyword ‘tried’. “What’s for dinner? I’m starving,” he rubbed his stomach for emphasis.

“I got us some pasta from the Italian place around the block,” you answered, still distracted by the secret contents of his notebook.

He wrapped his arms around you, seemingly intent on manhandling you out to the dining, before his idle phone notified with a green owl flashing on its screen and an automated voice in your first language spoke through the speaker: Dr. Reid, are you still there? Your chapter and lesson progress will not be counted should you exit.

You turned your head to watch Spencer’s cheeks turning pink.

“Spence, are you—are you using Duolingo?” A giggle escaping your lips. “To learn my first language?”

He smiled with a hint of guilt. “Uh—well, research published in Psychological Science indicates that multilingual individuals exhibit better attention control, cognitive flexibility, and problem-solving skills than monolinguals.”

“Uh-huh, that doesn’t explain why you’re learning my first language specifically.”

He caressed your cheek and smiled. “It’s the first language you learned to speak and it’s part of who you are, Y/N. I mean, you entered the US for your job as a translator,” he explained, staring into your eyes as if you were the most important thing in the world—you were, he assured, you and his mom were. “Do you know you only speak in your language when you mumble in your sleep? You dream in a language that I can’t understand and I want to know every side of you. I love you that much.”

You leaned in for a kiss, his care and adoration to you leaking out of him like honey and you were a bee unable to resist the sweetness. “That’s sweet of you, Spencer,” you pulled back and studied his hazel doe eyes as if they hold the key to the universe. “But I have to ask, does this also have something to do with my mom and dad flying in for a visit?”

He nodded. Last month you mentioned to him that your parents were visiting for four days before they fly to New York, where your other sibling was located. “I want them to get to know me and like me as your boyfriend and—and I can’t do that if we can’t understand each other.”

“They can speak English, granted it’s very much broken, but I can translate for you, Spencer, it’s no problem at all.” You assured him. “Plus, you’re a federal agent, that already makes you great in their books. My dad feels relieved that his own daughter is dating someone who could protect her and my mom already likes you—trust me on this. She hears how happy I am when I talk about you.”

“Are you sure?” He clarified again, clearly he was nervous in making a good impression. You were his first girlfriend and he wanted the relationship to last for a long time—forever really, if you’d let him.

“Yes, Spence. If you want, I can teach you the basics just to get you by. Duolingo isn’t really that accurate,” you mentioned as you pulled him out of the bedroom and into the dining. “Now, let’s eat. I’m hungry and the pasta has turned cold.”

He laughed, nodding his head, watching you prep the table as he reheated the pasta based exactly on the packaging instructions.

And on the first night of your parent’s arrival, your mother pulled you aside and smiled. “He’s a keeper, Y/N. Don’t let him get away.”

You laughed as you watched Spencer try his best to communicate with your father in his broken grammar and questionable pronunciation. “I won’t, Mom. I think he’s it for me, really.”

[honourablejester]

I’m realising as I browse around that I really love lore when it comes to ttrpgs, games and game worlds. And by that I don’t mean I like to obsessively learn lists of dates and wars, and the names of leaders of factions, I mean …

I like learning weird, juicy details about the worlds of games. I like finding little nuggets that say things about the set-up and culture and assumptions of the world. I like finding fragments of ideas to hang whole story and character concepts off.

I love that in D&D 5e’s Spelljammer, the Astral Sea is full of the corpses of dead gods that you can fully sail up to in your ship. Just. Floating out there. Waiting for you to rock up to them.

I love that in Sunless Sea, the king of the drowned is the way he is because he fell in love with an eldritch sea urchin from space, and successfully married it. His niece is an angry sentient floating mountain whose mother is a goddess-mountain and whose father is a face-stealing humanoid abomination. This is fine and normal.

I love that in Starfinder, there are mysterious bubble cities in the surface of the sun that the church of the sun goddess discovered and cheerfully occupied despite having no idea who the hell built them or for what purpose.

I love that in Dishonored, the entire industrial revolution that has built the empire we’re in the midst of saving or destroying was built on the properties of whale oil harvested from eldritch tentacled whales that live half in the oceans and half in an eldritch void personified in the form of a weird-ass black-eyed shit-stirrer of a deity who was formed from a murdered and sacrificed child. And this is largely a background detail.

I love in the Elder Scrolls that the dwarves up and fucking vanished, as a race, at some point in history and absolutely nobody has any clue what happened to them or where they went, but their technology is so insane that ideas like ‘they time-travelled’ or ‘they erased themselves from existence’ are absolutely on the table.

I love that in Numenera, so many incredibly advanced civilisations have risen and fallen on this world that it’s absolutely littered with bonkers science fiction artefacts that have caused the current medieval-esque society built over top of them to develop in bizarre ways, and also you can find a mysterious artefact that absolutely baffles and delights your character, but that you the player will fully recognise as a slightly-more-advanced thermos flask.

I love that in Fallout, an irradiated post-nuclear apolocalypic hellscape, there’s a cult that worships the god of radiation as they have come to understand it, and they are mysteriously immune to radiation with absolutely no explanation whatsoever. They’re not ghouls, the usual result of fatally irradiated humans with some resistance, they’re perfectly normal humans who can somehow just tank rads all damn day. It could be a mutation, but Lovecraftian gods apparently do also fully exist in this setting, so it’s also possible that maybe they were on to something with this Atom thing.

I love that in Heart The City Beneath, there’s a mass transit train system that they tried to hook up to the eldritch beating god-thing buried under the city so that they could metaphysically chain the stations together more easily, which went horrifically and metaphysically wrong in entirely predictable fashion, and now there’s a whole order of train-knights who have to keep people safe from the extradimensional weirdness magnet the network has become.

That, and all the fantastic little details you can stumble across. There’s a biotech augmentation in Starfinder called an angler’s light that gives you a little angler-fish bioluminescent antenna on your forehead, and it was developed by asteroid miners who needed light but also both hands free for work. In Dishonored there’s a festival that everyone pretends is outside of time so nothing you do during it can be held against you. There’s a god of snuffed candles mentioned in a single line from Heart The City Beneath who has pacifist cannibal priests, and that is literally all the information you get on him.

While things like the history and geography and timeline of a world do also fascinate me, I’m not really here to memorise stuff like that. I’m here to find weird little nuggets of information and worldbuilding and delight in them. Give me funerary customs and weird myths and oddly specific circumstances and baffling little objects and absolutely bonkers cosmological implications. Give me the corpses of dead gods, and aesthetic movements with highly specific backstories, and bureaucratic fuck-ups of titanic scale, and mysterious things that seem to break all other rules of your setting with absolutely no explanation because people in-universe have no fucking clue how they work either. Why are the Children of Atom immune to radiation without ghoulifying? Not a clue, but Confessor Cromwell has been cheerfully standing in that irradiated pond that kills the player character with about 10 minutes of exposure for the last year and he’s still absolutely fine.

I just. I really love lore. I like my settings to have some meat in them, some juicy details to dig into, some inexplicable elements to have fun trying to explain. Particularly that last bit. I feel like a lot of people when building worlds feel like the rules have to be absolute and everything has to have an explanation, but nah. Putting some weird shit in makes everything immediately feel bigger, more real, because we don’t have even half an idea of how our world truly works, there’s always something we just don’t fully understand yet, and you can put that in a fictional world too. Some mysteries, some contradictions, some randomness, some weirdness. There’s a line, obviously, this depends on execution, but a little bit of mystery really does help.

Lore is awesome. And weird lore is even more so. Heh.

[syllikins]

"𝐀 𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐄𝐑?"

❀ genre: fluff

❀ pairing: sylus x reader

❀ contains: mutual pining, sylus down bad, yucky vulnerable feelings (jk i love him so much for this reason), reader in denial (sorry guys), poorly proofread

❀ word count: 1.03k

❀ authors note: i'm taking a crack at this. but omg that scene where he tells mc there is no love purer than his after he asks if she finally realizes how he feels about her? COME ON. HOW CAN I NOT LOVE HIM?? had to write something inspired by that dialogue because it was so????? i'm definitely going to reference to some other stuff he has said in the game that made my heart flutter because?????

"there is no love purer than mine."

is a statement that has been replaying in your mind over and over again since that day.

you couldn't help but wonder if sylus lacks self awareness because how can you actually pinpoint his feelings when every conversation the two of you engage in seems like a ploy for his own entertainment.

every pointless banter. every teasing remark. every sickeningly corny nickname that unfortunately sounds like honey whenever it left his lips. maybe you ignored his childish attempts at flirting because you were too busy ignoring the ticklish feeling it gave you in your heart down to your toes.

sylus may make your eye twitch or send a small twinge in your brain with every smartass comment he feels he has to belch out: but maybe that's part of his charm. he mainly gets away with it with a face like that.

but your developing feelings for sylus was far more emotional than it was physical.

maybe it was the way he was always ready to lock in when it really came down to it.

the two of you being around each other always ended up with you or him being hurt. sometimes both. and if not either of you, chaos ensued. maybe a building was blown up instead. it was fun but it was times like those when you learned about sylus in a slightly more intimate way. it took a few deep gashes and heavy panting, near death experiences and stitches. but he needed your help. you liked that he could at least admit that. he saw you reliable enough to call on you when he was most vulnerable. and he helped you in the same way, despite protest.

he likes to hold hands. but it's not just his fingers intertwined but more like your hearts tangle more than your fingers. it was nice...he may mean it to be authoritative but there is always an underlying sense of comfort in his fingertips.

maybe he was a vampire. as you had previously joked. silver hair. red eyes. that inexplicably gorgeous face. pale skin that would automatically show any trace of lip gloss or lipstick that he would have obtained by getting a bit too close while attempting to tease you. that allure that often times makes your head go numb before you're brought back to reality by another witty comment.

you were more than enthralled by him; you realised as you laid in bed a few nights ago.

now he just makes you nervous. why would he say that?

there is no love purer than his?

and it's all for you?

it all feels like too much.

he calls and you stare at the caller ID before choosing to nervously accept the call. not before you start a petty argument.

but even among his arrogance, and the chirp in his voice when he engages with you, he's still sickening sweet. slipping in how strongly he feels about you in between every other colourful retort of yours or so. gosh. could he not?

after you pathetically stutter through a smartass comment of yours, his amused chuckle has you fighting the urge to chuck your phone. so you just hang up instead. maybe you just need to go outside. that should calm you down.

the warm yet slightly humid summer night air hugs itself against your slightly trembling form, a small fire lit in your heart as you walk down the empty sidewalk in pyjamas.

no one is around. all the stores are closed. it's just you and the street lights as you murmur about all the things you don't like about him in an attempt to kill the light in your heart, this light giving you an odd sense of pleasure. to no avail, your rambling on seems to make the light grow. and a small buzz on your leg.

in your pocket.

he's calling again.

you stare at it this time. its like you think the loving feelings pouring from your pores will tap the accept button for you. this doesn't last long before you shake your head and put the phone back in your pocket. you continue walking, eyes kept on the sidewalk as you weigh the pro's and con's of accepting such feelings.

*thud* you've hit your head on something.

the familiar scent in your nostril already tells you what- more like who it is.

it's obvious he used his evol to just appear in front of you. or else you would have seen his shadow underneath the streetlight you're under before your forehead met his chest.

the mere thought of it being him before even seeing his face is enough to get your stomach to flip, so you flip yourself in the other direction. then he wraps his hand around your wrist but he never seems to forget to add the electrifying part.

your free hand twitches as he intertwined his beautiful fingers with yours, the linking of both your pointer fingers keeping you together.

the silence among the song of cicadas makes you bite your tongue, anticipating a smart, playful retort. and yet amidst your baited breath nothing.

your heart beats in your ears as his warmth lingers on your fingertips. the two linked fingers generating the most heat.

"gosh, would you stop tormenting me already?" you whisper.

"is that what you think this is?" his voice echoing in the street.

you're both silent for a moment. yet neither of you make a motion to separate the linked fingers.

"your love...in it's purest form..."

another silence.

"it belongs to you." he finishes

you turn to him, still staring at the pavement.

"my love....." you began.

he seems to be holding his breath as you fidget in front of him. you attempt to make your slippers overlap or something to that effect as your palms get sweaty.

"is just as pure as yours." you breathe out in something like a scoff.

even now you're trying to challenge him

"and i want you to have it."

 when you utter that last bit, you look him straight in the eyes.

he exhales and accepts it with no hesitation.

in his arms, where both your hearts tangle.

© syllikins 2024

[bi-writes]

so idk where i got this idea but mercenary!ghost x fem!reader because he's scary and mean and dangerous but then he sees some girl's ass in light blue denim.

notes about reader: as always, i tend to write readers described as curvy because im curvy and we deserve attention from 6'4 beefcakes who are soft only for us. reader is a civilian.

mercenary!ghost (part 1/?)

cw: mature language and content, suggestive language and content, dark!ghost, mentions of ghost's past canon trauma (domestic abuse + violence), mw3 spoilers, violence and gore + mentions of murder and extortion, mentions of reader + domestic abuse, protective!simon, size kink (reader is described as much smaller than simon, easily manhandled by him), pet names (luv, bunny + rabbit, puppy, angel face), reader learns she has a dark side and she likes it, nsfw thoughts about reader, suggestive touching (fem!receiving)

the sound of the burner phone pings on the desk in front of him. when he picks it up, he narrows his eyes as he reads the message displayed across the screen.

DEPOSITED.

when he opens his laptop, his eyes scan over the balance on an offshore account, and he relaxes when he sees the hefty balance climb just a little higher. he closes the device once he's satisfied with what he sees; and like always, he tastes the warmth of that satisfaction. it's a nice high, but it won't last, and then he'll need to feed the gaping hole that lives in him.

it remains hungry. he has never been able to close it--it has only ever gotten wider, ripped at the seams and torn at the edges every time another body close to him drops.

the high is poison. but even if it kills him, no one will miss him. so he picks up the handgun that lays haphazard on the bed, and he tucks it into the back of his jeans.

he passes by the mirror as he fits a dark denim jacket over his shoulders. he stares back at himself, a recognizable beast of a man staring right back. he pulls his hoodie up over him, and in the shadow of it, all he can see are his dark eyes, pale skin peeking through the eyeblack that has lightened up with the wear of it throughout the day.

he craves something strong and warm tonight. he itches for something soft, too, something that makes him forget the red on his ledger, even if for only a few hours.

there is nothing quite strong enough to wipe that kind of stain away. he is nothing if not a reaper, and he buries bodies with the same tenacity that he had when he wore his country's flag on his chest. this time, however, he does not take orders--he names his price.

he thinks something is wrong with him. some used to say that it was his courage that brought him back from the dead--that his heart is too strong, his will to live too much, and that is how he continues to open his eyes and live another day. but he doesn't agree with this thought, because he doesn't really think he feels anything at all.

he doesn't feel human. he doesn't feel alive. the only thing that makes him feel any sort of vulnerability is how red his own blood is when he bleeds. when his scars heal jagged and crooked, it is because there is something underneath the skin. but he feels nothing inside--no remorse, no guilt, he is not sorry.

he does not check to see if those men are innocent. he does not care about the names that end up on his list. he doesn't ask questions. and he thinks something is wrong with him because he sleeps at night just fine now; the nightmares have gone. he is alone, and it is peaceful.

there are no voices. there is only silence. and there is something wrong with him.

the pub is quiet. it is a weekday, and the only patrons are here after a long day's work, and they all look into the depths of their half-empty glasses hoping to find relief there. there is none, but they will finish their glasses hoping it might be dissolved in the alcohol.

he asks for two fingers of bourbon. it stings when it goes down, but then it settles warm. he is poured another two fingers of it, but before he can pick it up, someone else grips the glass and tips it back to swallow it down.

the glass hits the wood of the counter with an echoing thud, and you cough out a fuck as you settle into the seat beside him. you run a trembling hand over your face, and he notices immediately the red of your knuckles and the splitting of the skin there. they are fresh; the bruising is still new, and the blood is just barely beginning run down the back of your hand.

he leans over the bar, swiping the whole bottle of bourbon, and he silently pours more into the glass, hitting it towards you before picking up a new glass and filling it generously.

"who's the lucky bastard?" he asks, and your eyes flick to the cuts on the back of your hand before going back to the dark swirling colors of the drink.

"i'm sure he'll be coming in here any second to introduce himself."

the pub doors slam open, and there is a man coming in, chest heaving, dark hair falling over his forehead in sweaty curls that do nothing to hide the clear bruise on his face the split of his lip. his eyes move over the room before they settle on you, and his boots fall heavy as he makes his way over.

ghost sees his intentions clear immediately. the way his hand twitches at his side, the angry glare, the uncontrollable urge to hurt and to take and to control coming off of him like steam.

he has seen this kind of man before. this man was the one that kept him up at night as a child. this man was the one that scared his mum, that drove his brother to chase vices, that tore apart a house that should've been filled with something warm and sticky and kind into one marred with teeth, rotten and putrid and forgotten.

his hand goes for the back of your neck, and you close your eyes and tense in the anticipation, but it never comes. a strong hand grips his outstretched one, and the man cries out as ghost twists it behind his back and uses his other hand to slam his face into the wood of the bar, trapping him there.

the bartender does not even flinch, just continues to wipe down glasses. the patrons continue to stare into the abyss of their sorrow.

you jump a little, your head snapping to the side where the man squirms and sputters, his face going pale from the paw of a hand gripping him by the back of the neck and shoving his face into the counter. if he pushes any harder, you wonder if it'd splinter and fray, dig into the bones of his bruised cheek.

"this man botherin' ya, yeah?"

your eyes finally flick up. you do not know what you expect, but it isn't this. you can only see his eyes; they scare you. you do not lie because you aren't entirely sure how far his kindness will go.

"yes," you whisper, and when the man tries to spit at you, a rough gloved hand grips his curls and positions his head against the edge of the counter, forcing his mouth open until the top row of his teeth bite the wood.

"y'keep talkin' to her, n'it'll be the last time you talk, hear that, mate? y'talk to me, n'me only."

you swallow hard, and the man trembles. a strong boot hits the back of his knees, and then he's crumbling to the ground, his jaw straining as the counter is still forced against his mouth. hot, pained tears come down his face, and then he addresses you.

"what did he do?"

"bad first date," is all you can manage to sputter. he grips the man by the scruff of his neck before pulling him off to speak, tilting his head to the side as he observes the begging man on his knees.

"y'try to put your hands on'er?"

"i-it wasn't...like that! i-it was just a mis...a misunderstanding, please! please--please tell him--!"

"don't like fuckin' liars either," is the only warning given before his mouth is forced to bite the counter, and then a sharp elbow comes down on his head. you jump in surprise at the suddenness of it all, and you close your eyes when you hear the crunch of teeth being broken. his scream is enough to rattle the pub, but when you look around, it's as if nothing at all has happened. it is quiet, and all the bartender does is shake their head.

when you open your eyes, he's crawling on his hands and knees out of the pub, and what he leaves behind is a mess of blood and teeth and fluid that are splattered against the floor at your feet. you shake as you look up at him, stiff in your seat and soft tears coming down your face.

he towers over you. you have to tilt your head back between your shoulders to look at him face-to-face. you cannot see his face; he hides it behind dark fabric, but his eyes talk loud. they are dark, and they are dull, and you realize as you stare up at him that he is not phased in the slightest by what he had just done. in fact, he steps into your space, and the squelch of blood under his boot doesn't seem to bother him. he wears black, and you wonder, momentarily, if he wears such a color to hide the red hiding between the threads of the fabric. the red he can't wash away.

"let me look at ya, little rabbit."

you flinch when he knocks your knees apart, spreading them to make space for the width of him. he reaches up with one gloved hand and grips your chin, tilting your head to either side to see if you are hurt anywhere but your hand. when he is satisfied with his observations, he cups the expanse of your throat, smoothing those big fingers along the pulsing vein there and feeling the way you swallow.

so alive. so soft. a pretty little bunny, dropped into his waiting hands.

his eyes fall, and he takes you in. wide hips that take up the seat you're sitting in, hugged so nicely by light blue denim jeans. they curve over the swell of your ass, and he wonders how much of it would fit in his palm--he thinks about how it might feel to spread them apart and taste the succulent sweetness that he knows exists between your thighs and how your mouth might look slack jawed and wide open for him.

you look like a good girl, even with bloody knuckles.

then he follows the line of your shirt. it's a simple t-shirt tucked into your jeans, but the neckline gives a nice peek of you and the curve of your tits--they sit so nicely there, all perky, and ghost thinks they look lonely. they would be better off in his mouth or squeezing his cock between them or pebbling between his dirty gloved fingers.

filthy. disgusting. he is scarred all over, and you look so soft and sweet, with those tender puppy eyes and the way your lips tremble, and he bets you kiss all soft and slippery. he bets your cunt is tight and with enough coaxing, he could make you drench his skin with something decadent and slick, with whatever drools into your panties. he imagines it is there now, even as you tremble and shake and plead with your eyes for him to let go of your throat.

but ghost is not a good man. he does not feel; he is not a man at all. he is a beast in the shape of one, disguised, and he brings misery to everything he touches. he knows he will do it to you, too--touching pretty girls, he leaves them with burns. they are not the same after they are with him, and he wants to feel bad about it, he wants to feel something, but he does not. he feels nothing.

"you olright, luv?"

you nod frantically, putting a hand over his wrist that holds you, and he almost laughs. your hand is so much smaller than his own. if he squeezes his hand just a little harder, he figures it would not take much to break what lies beneath it. he leans in, and you gulp when your thighs trap his hips. he is warm, a furnace that burns, but you relax when the side of his mask nuzzles against your face.

he is a dog, and he is fond of you.

you should run. you should hit him like you hit your wretched date, and you should run, far, away from him, swear off men for good and never allow one in your space again lest they be as beastly as this. you should run while you can, but you are a bunny not yet in his trap, and you still have time to escape.

but then both of your eyes open at the same time, and his eyes meet your own, and then--oh.

the cage snaps shut. it rattles around you. it is small and confined, but you don't realize what it is yet because you can still breathe, and it is still warm, and you are still soft and alive and here.

your face softens, and his eyes flicker down to your lips as you lick them. maybe he was right. liars are bad. men like the one you were with before were scum. you had been with men like that before, you had seen the destruction they brought to those they thought they loved. when they wrought fear and made others bleed, they never got in trouble. no one cared to do to them what they deserved because they silenced their lambs and slaughtered the light out of them.

it is biblical--an eye for an eye. if they take from you, why can't you take from them?

it is brutish men like this one that do what others are too timid to. your thighs close around his hips, and you feel something digging into your leg, something metal and heavy tucked into his jeans. a weapon, but you imagine it is a mercy because you have an inkling that what he does with his hands is so much worse. bullets are clean and fast; his hands are not.

johnny would tell him to let you go. he does, over his shoulder, spitting at him to leave, to let you slip through his fingers and find your way out, to open the cage.

the wee lass--look at 'er angel face. let 'er go--not meant for this, LT. she scares. 's in 'er eyes. won't last.

but he does not feel. he is not human. there is something wrong with him, he knows it, but he doesn't care. he will ruin you, and he should feel bad, but he can't, he doesn't. and then there it is--your eyes are flickering low, eyeing the mask, and you are wondering how much effort it would take to push it up and lick into his mouth, taste him, suck the warmth of the bourbon from his mouth and replace it with your own.

he will kill again. the cage is shut, it is locked, and he is watching the bunny in its cage, watching as it becomes aware of its surroundings, takes in what is new. but just like he figures, just like he knows, this little bunny has no idea what this cage is. she has no idea she is even in one.

fuck what johnny says. if johnny was like him, if he was not skin and bone but steel and reptile, he would not have died. he would have come back. he would have moved his head, shaken the blood off, and gotten back up, but he didn't, and he's not here, and he's not real--so fuck what he thinks, fuck what he says, fuck him because he left me, and i'm all alone, and if i don't devour and eat and tear apart, i will wither away because i am not me, i am something else--

he smiles under the mask. you notice it, the slight movement there, and you smile, too, suddenly. his hand falls, and the back of his knuckles graze over the swell of your breast, down your stomach, and then he's gripping your waist. that hand slips behind you, and you brace yourself with both hands on his chest as he cups one side of your ass. possessive and suffocating--you think maybe you should run again, but you don't want to.

you want something more. you want something a little rough, something a little sharp. you want something to tell you that a little blood is good sometimes. that answering blood with a little more blood was exactly how it should be. that we don't have to be docile, to back down. you want to be told that it's okay to bite.

there is something wrong with you.

[pucksandpower]

Lover

Charles Leclerc x Reader

Summary: the little (and not so little) ways that you and Charles show your love for each other

You’re in the kitchen, phone pressed to your ear as you listen intently to Charles’ mother give you her famous tiramisu recipe step-by-step. “Now, this next part is very important,” she stresses. “You’ll need one cup of granulated sugar to add to the mascarpone filling.”

“Got it, one cup sugar for the filling,” you confirm.

Pascale chuckles warmly. “I’m so glad Charles has found such a lovely girl who wants to learn my recipes. He’s always loved my tiramisu since he was a little boy.”

You smile, touched by her kind words. You and Charles have been together for a year now, but it still makes your heart flutter to be so accepted into his close-knit family.

“It means so much to me that you’re sharing this recipe with me,” you tell Pascale sincerely.

You chat with her a while longer, going over some of the trickier steps and getting tips on how to best soak the ladyfingers. Finally, you have the full recipe memorized and are ready to give it a try.

“Okay, I think I’ve got it now. Thank you so much again, Pascale! I really appreciate you taking the time to walk me through this.”

“Of course, chère! Let me know how it turns out. Charles is a lucky man to have such a thoughtful girlfriend,” Pascale says warmly before hanging up.

You grin, eager to get started. You know tiramisu is Charles’ absolute favorite dessert and you want to surprise him with a homemade version tonight after he finally comes back from his latest race.

Humming to yourself, you gather the ingredients — mascarpone, eggs, espresso, cocoa powder, and of course, the sugar. You double check you have everything and preheat the oven so the ladyfingers will be perfect.

As you start the recipe, you feel a rush of excitement. You follow each step meticulously, Pascale’s voice guiding you in your mind. You carefully separate the eggs and beat the whites to stiff peaks. When it’s time to add the sugar to the mascarpone filling, you pause.

Now, which one was the sugar again? You look between the two identical jars of white powder, second-guessing yourself.

Shoot, you should have labeled them.

After a moment of hesitation, you decide on the bowl on the left. Yes, that must be sugar, you reassure yourself. You mix it into the silky mascarpone filling until it’s perfectly combined. Once assembled, you spread the filling over the ladyfingers and cover it with a final dusting of cocoa powder.

It looks absolutely beautiful. You did it! You made Charles’ favorite dessert completely from scratch. You can’t wait to see the look on his face when he takes the first delicious bite.

You glance at the clock as you clean up. Charles will be home soon. You carefully store the tiramisu in the fridge to chill until after dinner.

Right on time, you hear Charles’ keys in the lock. You hurry to greet him, throwing your arms around him in a tight hug. “I missed you!”

He grins and nuzzles your neck. “And I missed you, ma belle.”

Over dinner on the balcony, Charles tells you all about the race and his ambitious one-stop strategy under the Suzuka cherry blossoms. You listen attentively, asking questions and laughing at his dramatic reenactments.

Finally, it’s time for dessert. “I have a surprise for you,” you say with a playful smile.

Charles’ eyes light up. “Oh really? Do tell!”

You bring the chilled tiramisu to the table, along with two small plates and forks. “Ta-da! I made your favorite, with your mom’s secret recipe.”

“No way, you’re kidding!” Charles exclaims. He takes in the layered dessert with delight. “It looks incredible, mon cœur. I can’t believe you did this for me.”

You blush happily as you dish out servings for both of you. “I hope I did it justice. Your mom walked me through the whole thing over the phone.”

Charles takes a big eager bite, closing his eyes as he savors it. “Mmm … it’s absolutely delicious,” he declares after swallowing. “Seriously, this is amazing. Here, you have to try it!”

He holds out a forkful toward you. You accept it into your mouth, immediately bursting into incredulous laughter. “Oh my god, this is so salty! I definitely screwed up somewhere. You don’t have to eat it!”

But Charles just grins and takes another hearty bite. “What do you mean? It tastes perfect to me.”

You stare at him in confusion. “You can’t actually like this, Charles. It’s like I poured the entire salt shaker in by accident.”

“No no, it’s great! The best tiramisu I’ve ever had,” he insists. Seeing your disbelief, he takes your hand from across the table. “Really, Y/N. I love it because you made it just for me. With love. That’s what makes it so special.”

You feel your insides turn soft and melty at his words. “You’re just saying that to be nice,” you protest weakly.

He shakes his head. “I’m saying it because it’s true. Because ...” He pauses, looking into your eyes sincerely. “Because I’m completely in love with you, mon amour. I’d eat a thousand salty tiramisus if it made you smile like this.”

You can’t help the joyful laugh that escapes you. “You’re such a hopeless romantic, you know that?” You tease him.

“Only for you,” he flirts back with a playful wink.

You lean across the table to kiss him tenderly. When you pull back, the adoration shining in his green eyes leaves you breathless.

Maybe he’s right. It doesn’t matter that the tiramisu is an utter fail. All that matters is that you made it with love.

And that’s the sweetest taste of all.

***

It’s been a few weeks since your salty tiramisu mishap. You and Charles laughed about it afterwards, but you were still determined to make him something special with your own two hands.

So you decided to take up crocheting. It was trickier than you expected, but you persevered, watching YouTube tutorials and getting tangled in yarn for hours.

Finally, after a month of work, you’ve produced your first wearable creation — a sweater for Charles.

It’s an oversized style, cream colored with red racing stripes across the chest. You did your best to evenly stitch the rows, but there are gaps in some places that cause the stripes to waver drunkenly.

The sleeves are several inches too long, dangling adorably over Charles’ hands when he tries it on. And the neckline gapes open no matter how he tugs it.

But none of the flaws matter to Charles. His face lights up like a kid on Christmas morning when you present it to him.

“You made this? For me?” He asks as he eagerly pulls it on.

You nod, suddenly shy. “I wanted to make something special for you, even if my skills are still .... developing,” you admit with an embarrassed chuckle.

But Charles is beaming, admiring himself in the mirror. “It’s perfect! Seriously, I love it. This is the best gift ever!”

He engulfs you in a big hug, sleeves flopping over you. You hug him back, relieved and happy he appreciates your efforts.

From that day on, Charles insists on wearing the sweater constantly, even styling it with whatever eclectic pants he decides to wear on race weekends.

You try to discourage him — the holes along the hem are getting bigger from snagging and the neckline is truly unsalvageable.

But Charles won’t hear it. “Are you kidding? This is my new lucky charm!” He declares. “I have to wear it for every race now.”

Sure enough, he starts a winning streak whenever he dons your handmade sweater, even though it’s quite a departure from the fitted shirts and designer hoodies he previously favored, leaving his fans scratching their heads at the sudden change.

You watch in amused endearment as he proudly wears your gift for candid pre-race interviews and photo-ops. The overlong sleeves just make his exuberant gestures even more adorable.

Finally, a reporter works up the courage to ask him about the quirky sweater. “That’s quite a statement piece you have been arriving in each Sunday,” the reporter comments during a press conference. “What made you decide to wear it?”

Charles’ face lights up even more. “My sweater? It was handmade for me by my incredible girlfriend,” he announces, making you blush furiously from the audience.

“She worked so hard on it, even though crocheting is totally new to her. So I wear it to show how much I appreciate her and how talented she is,” he continues sincerely.

The reporters “aww” as Charles shows off the uneven stitches like they’re couture. “It’s my good luck charm now too! She put so much love into making it that I feel like I can’t lose whenever I have it on.”

He looks directly at you, eyes shining. “It’s the best gift I’ve ever received, because she made it just for me. I’m the luckiest man in the world to be with someone so thoughtful and caring.”

You have to wipe away joyful tears at his heartfelt words. You never imagined your clumsy crocheting would come to mean so much to him.

But Charles wears that sweater for every race, no matter how tattered it gets. Because for him, it represents something priceless — your love.

***

You hum along to the radio as you stir the melted chocolate in a bowl. The rich aroma fills the air of your shared apartment. Today is Valentine’s Day and you want to surprise your boyfriend with homemade chocolate-covered strawberries when he gets home from training.

You dip the first plump, red strawberry into the silky chocolate, letting the excess drip off before placing it gently onto a baking sheet lined with parchment paper. One by one, you coat each strawberry, taking care to fully submerge them.

When the tray is full, you quickly pop one glistening strawberry into your mouth and slide the rest into the fridge to let the chocolate harden. As you wait, you tidy up the kitchen, washing the bowls and utensils used to make the treat. A glance at the clock on the microwave tells you Charles will be home soon.

The sound of the front door opening makes you grin. “Mon amour, I’m back!” Charles calls out.

You grab the tray of chocolate-covered strawberries and head towards his voice. “Welcome home! I have a surprise for y-”

You stop short, your throat suddenly feeling scratchy and tight. Your lips tingle oddly.

Confused, you lift a hand to your neck. Is this just excitement to see Charles? But no, your tongue is starting to swell now too. Your breathing becomes labored.

Charles rounds the corner. “Mon ange, what’s wro-” His eyes widen as he takes in your distress. In a few quick strides he is by your side, the tray clattering forgotten to the floor. “What’s happening?”

You wheeze, barely able to force out words. “Can’t … breathe …”

Charles sweeps you into his arms and runs for the front door. “Hospital. Now.”

You cling to him, each ragged breath a struggle. The world seems to blur and tilt alarmingly.

Then somehow you’re in Charles’ car, speeding down the street. One of his hands grips the wheel while the other clutches yours tightly. “Just hold on, stay with me. We’re almost there.”

You try to respond but only manage a choked gurgle. Black spots swim across your vision. A feeling of detachment steals over you.

The car screeches to a stop outside the emergency department entrance. Charles lifts you from the passenger seat, calling for help. There is a flurry of activity as a team of doctors and nurses rushes over with a gurney.

You are barely aware of being wheeled into an exam room, too focused on trying to pull air into your lungs. A mask is fitted over your face, dispensing blessed oxygen. An IV is inserted into your arm.

The medical staff works quickly, asking Charles questions as they begin treatment. Antihistamines. Steroids. Epinephrine. The medications slowly start to counteract your reaction. The vice-like tightness in your chest and throat gradually lessens.

After what feels like an eternity, you are able to take full breaths again. The room comes back into focus, no longer spinning. Charles sits at your bedside, clutching your hand, his handsome face creased with worry.

The doctor examines you, nodding with satisfaction as your symptoms continue to improve. “It appears you had a severe allergic reaction. We’ll run some tests to determine the cause.”

Charles looks stricken. “But how? What could have possibly …” His gaze falls on your swollen lips. “The strawberries,” he whispers.

You nod weakly. It had to have been. You’ve never reacted to them before, but an allergy can develop at any time.

Charles smoothes back your hair, distress pouring off of him. “I’m so sorry, mon cœur. I should have been there with you.”

You squeeze his hand. “You couldn’t have known. I’m okay now thanks to you.”

He just shakes his head, unconvinced.

The testing confirms it — you are now mysteriously allergic to strawberries. The doctor gives you an EpiPen prescription and strict instructions to the fruit in the future.

After several more hours of observation, you are finally discharged from the hospital with an exhausted Charles supporting you.

The sun has long since set on what was supposed to have been a romantic Valentine’s Day. Instead, you spent it swollen and terrified in the ER.

Back home, Charles tucks you into bed, insisting you rest. You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror — puffy-faced and red-eyed — and cringe. Some Valentine you turned out to be.

You reach for Charles’ hand again. “I’m so sorry I ruined our evening. I wanted it to be perfect but instead I ended up scaring you half to death and forcing you to rush me to the hospital.”

Charles silences you with a gentle kiss. “Not another word, mon amour. You have nothing to apologize for. All that matters is that you are safe.”

He caresses your cheek, looking at you with such love and tenderness it makes your heart ache. “You could never ruin anything. You are the light of my life — my everything. No Valentine’s Day is complete without you.”

You feel yourself tearing up. Even after the ordeal of this evening, he still looks at you like you hung the moon.

“You’re still the most beautiful Valentine I’ve ever had, you know that? A little swelling can’t hide that.” Charles brushes away your tears and pulls you close. “Rest now. I’ll be right here when you wake up.”

You nestle into his embrace, letting his warmth and steady heartbeat soothe you. As you drift off, you can’t help but marvel at how lucky you are to have this man. Even at your puffiest and most distressed, he thinks you’re beautiful.

No matter what surprises life throws at you, with Charles by your side you know everything will be okay. He loves you unconditionally — swollen lips, hospital visits, and all.

***

“Close your eyes,” you say to Charles as you lead him into the living room.

He laughs and covers his eyes with his hands. “What are you up to, mon amour?”

You grin, though he cannot see it. “You’ll have to wait and see.”

You guide him across the room, hands on his shoulders. He shuffles along, peeking through his fingers.

“No peeking!” You scold, and he squeezes his eyes shut again, smiling.

You position him in front of the coffee table. “Okay,” you say. “You can open your eyes now.”

Charles drops his hands. On the table sits a large gift-wrapped box with a massive red bow on top. His eyes go wide with surprise and delight.

“For me?”

You nod, bouncing on your toes excitedly. “Happy birthday!”

He pulls you into a tight hug. “You are too good to me, ma belle. Thank you.” Leaning down, he captures your lips in a sweet kiss.

You swat his shoulder playfully. “You don’t even know what it is yet! Open it.”

Charles grins and turns his attention to the present. He carefully unties the bow and lifts the lid on the box. Inside sits a sleek red bomber jacket with the Ferrari logo embroidered on the chest. He runs his fingers over the leather appreciatively.

“This is beautiful,” he murmurs.

“Look on the back,” you prompt.

Charles turns the jacket over. Across the back, in bold white letters, it reads: DADDY.

His eyes go wide again, and for a moment he just stands there gaping at the jacket. Then his eyes roll back in his head and he collapses to the floor in a dead faint.

“Charles!” You rush to his side, kneeling next to him on the plush carpet. Gently you pat his cheek, trying to rouse him. “Charles, wake up!”

After a few tense moments, his eyelashes begin to flutter. You breathe a sigh of relief as he opens his eyes.

“Wha … what happened?” He mumbles.

“You fainted, silly.”

You help him sit up slowly. He puts a hand to his head, still looking dazed.

“I had the strangest dream …” He trails off, glancing around the room. His gaze lands on the jacket lying nearby, and his eyes widen again.

“It wasn’t a dream,” you say softly.

Charles looks at you, lips parted in shock. “Then you … you’re …”

You furrow your brow in confusion. “I’m what?”

“Pregnant!” He exclaims. “We’re having a baby!”

Now it’s your turn for your eyes to go wide. “What? No! I’m not pregnant!”

Charles frowns, thoroughly bewildered. “But the jacket said … I thought it was your way of telling me we’re expecting.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Oh my goodness, no. The jacket is for a very different reason.”

He looks almost disappointed. “It is?”

You take his hands in yours. “I know you’ve been talking about getting a dog for months now, ever since you met Mimi.”

Comprehension begins to dawn on Charles’s face. “So the jacket …”

“Is for our new puppy!” You finish excitedly.

Charles’ face lights up. “You got me a dog? Really?”

You nod, grinning. “Really! I picked him up yesterday from the shelter. He’s the cutest little dachshund, white with brown spots. I’ve been keeping him at your brother’s so I could surprise you today.”

Charles whoops and tackles you in another ecstatic hug. You laugh as he covers your face in rapid, smacking kisses.

“This is the best birthday surprise ever!” He crows. “I can’t believe we’re finally getting a dog. And the jacket — it’s perfect!”

He grabs the bomber and shrugs it on over his t-shirt. It fits him flawlessly, the white lettering bold against the red.

Charles scrambles to his feet and rushes to the nearest mirror, twisting this way and that to admire himself. “I love it! Thank you, thank you!”

You stand and wrap your arms around him from behind, resting your chin on his shoulder. “I’m so glad. But you should really be thanking your new baby boy.”

Charles turns in your arms and cups your face in his hands. “Have I told you lately that you’re the best girlfriend in the world?”

You grin up at him. “Hmm, I don’t recall. Feel free to remind me.”

“You …” He punctuates each word with a kiss. “Are …” kiss “The …” kiss “Most …” kiss “Thoughtful …” kiss “Loving …” kiss “Girlfriend …” kiss “In …” kiss “The …” kiss “World.”

You pretend to swoon. “My, what a sweet talker you are.”

He chuckles and kisses you tenderly. When you break apart, his eyes are shining.

“So when do I get to meet our new baby?” He asks eagerly.

“Right now, if you want,” you say. “We can go pick him up from Lorenzo.”

Charles pumps a fist in the air. “Yes! I’m going to be the best dog dad ever, just you wait and see.” He crouches down and coos, “Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?”

You pat his head playfully. “You’re a good boy.”

Taking your hand, he practically drags you out the door, babbling excitedly about names, beds, toys, and treats for the puppy the whole way to the car. Your heart swells watching his enthusiasm. You know that dog is going to be the most loved and cared for pup in the world.

When you arrive at his brother’s apartment, Charles bounds up to the front door ahead of you, unable to contain his excitement. Lorenzo opens it laughing, the wiggling brown and white puppy in his arms.

“Someone’s here to see you!” He says, handing the squirming bundle of fluff to Charles.

“Hello, hello!” Charles cuddles the puppy to his chest, his whole face alight with pure joy. The pup responds by licking every inch of Charles’ face he can reach.

Charles laughs delightedly. “Aren’t you just the sweetest boy? Yes you are!”

He looks up at you, eyes shining. “Thank you, mon cœur. This is the best gift I could have asked for.”

You lean in and scratch the puppy behind his silky ears. “Of course. Happy birthday, my love.”

As you walk back to the car, Charles cradling the puppy like a newborn, you know in your heart that your little family is one step closer to completion.

***

The race weekend after Charles’ birthday feels strange. As you wander through the Ferrari garage during free practice, Fred rushes over looking concerned.

“Here, take a seat,” the team principal says, grabbing a folding chair and positioning it behind you. “You should not be on your feet so much in your condition.”

You frown in confusion. “What condition?”

But the French man has already hurried away. Shaking your head, you continue walking. It’s a few minutes later that you spot Pierre.

“Hey!” He says, jogging up to you. Before you can react, he places both hands on your stomach and smiles brightly. “Wow, it’s hard to believe that little baby Leclerc is in there! I can’t wait to meet my niece or nephew.”

Now you’re really bewildered. You take a small step back from Pierre’s wandering hands. “What are you talking about? I’m not pregnant!”

Pierre laughs. “Very funny. You don’t have to hide it from me.” He winks and walks away.

When Charles finds you later, you’re still puzzling over the strange encounter.

“Everyone is acting so weird,” you tell him, explaining what’s been happening all day. "It’s like they all think I’m pregnant or something."

Charles frowns. “That is odd. Where would they get that idea?”

You shake your head. “I have no idea …”

Later, after the last practice session of the day, you wander into Ferrari hospitality for a quick cup of coffee. Carlos quickly spots you and makes a beeline over, cheeks flushed with excitement.

“I just saw the photos of Charles wearing his new jacket.” He says. “A mini Leclerc on the way, how wonderful! Congratulations to you both.”

“What? No, there’s no …” you start to protest, but Carlos is already walking away.

Charles comes up beside you, having overheard. “This is getting out of hand,” he mutters. “We need to clear this up.”

“I know!” You say. “I feel bad, they all seem so excited. They must think we’re hiding a pregnancy from them.”

An idea comes to you then. Turning to Charles, you say loudly, “Honey, why don’t we go introduce the baby to everyone? I know they’re all just dying to meet him!”

Charles catches on immediately, smiling slyly. “Of course! Let’s go get our little one right now.”

You nod, linking your arm through his. As you walk away, you hear gasps and murmurs behind you.

“They already had the baby? When did this happen?”

“I can’t believe they’ve been hiding it all this time!”

You have to stifle a laugh. Charles grins and squeezes your hand.

In his driver’s room, your puppy is napping contentedly on a plush dog bed. Charles scoops him up gently so as not to wake him. Cradling the pup, you both head back out to the hospitality suite.

Everyone turns to look at you eagerly as you enter. Carlos steps forward, craning his neck to see the bundle in Charles’ arms.

“Here he is!” You announce proudly. “Our baby boy!”

Charles turns so they can see the sleeping dachshund nestled against his bomber jacket. A shocked silence falls over the room.

“Wha … that’s not a baby!” Carlos splutters. “That’s a dog!”

You and Charles just shrug with matching sly smiles. “He’s our baby.”

As the puppy yawns and stretches in Charles’ arms, licking his chin affectionately, you know with certainty that your furry new addition will be showered with just as much love and adoration as you both share for one another.

Who could ask for anything more?

[moechies]

tsumu - nii ❤︎ cw cest

“s-s so creamy, ‘tsumu-nii.”

“yeah? you like it ?”

“mm . .”

you slobber around the tip of atsumu’s cock, strings of spit dribbling down the heavy shaft. one hand wraps around his heavy base , the other around his blushed tip accompanying your mouth.

you’re crouched in between his spread legs , only seconds ago when you had asked your nii-chan for something unfamiliar .

₊˚⊹ ❤︎

“can i suck your cock, nii-nii ? please !”

“no honey. y’gonna hurt yourself, you don’t know how t’do it. next time , okay?”

“but— “ you protest with a petulant whine.

“i said no. y’really need nii-nii to repeat himself?”

“i’m sorry..” you mewl.

he’s so mean. you had only wanted to help , since he had complained about the raging hard-on he seemingly ‘couldn’t get rid of,’ struggling and squirming in his spot on the couch. frankly, it was bothering you too.

you just want what’s best for your nii-chan.

you lean against his chest, his arms enveloping the small of your body , but he feels a tiny pang in his heart as he watches you pout, upset at his rejection.

he sighs and you look up, “okay fine. wanna try makin’ nii-chan feel better?”

he swears he sees your eyes light up.

❤︎ ⊹˚₊

“n-nii nii, i really like it.”

“y’makin’ nii-chan feel so good baby. don’t hurt yourself now.”

“won’t..” you whine at his constant reminders.

you kiss against his tip, tasting his creamy pre on the plush of your lips. you have yet to take him down your throat without instruction ; you know he was likely to scold you if you had.

he runs his fingers through the soft of your hair , soft pats to the top of your head.

“gorgeous sis.”

you blush at the compliment , eager for more. you place the tip of his shaft against your tongue , soft suckles to the sensitive tip.

“ah.. shit . ‘s perfect for nii-nii.”

you rub your thighs together when he grunts , hand crawling back into the bed of your hair with a gentle tug.

“wanna learn how t’make nii-chan feel even better ?”

[lipglossanon]

April Showers

Real Dad!Leon S. Kennedy x real daughter!reader

A Little More Savory tier commission from @ao3-rex1223

Word Count: 2365 (I went over! 🫣)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, DEAD DOVE, father/daughter incest, nicknames, dirty talk, kissing, shower sex, grinding, nipple play, breeding kink, lactation kink (mentioned), unprotected sex, creampie

Proofread ✍️

The weather app on your phone is nothing but a filthy liar. 

“Sunny with a partly cloudy afternoon, my ass,” you mutter out loud. 

“What was that, sweetheart?” Your dad glances over to you, the downpour soaking his hair until the fringe lay flat on his forehead. 

You keep your eyes firmly above his neck, a Herculean feat since you wouldn’t mind following the water as it drips down his shirt—nearly opaque now and showcasing his mouth-watering pecs. It’s been a stupid, invasive thought that you can’t shake since moving closer to home after graduating. Your dad’s been helping you out around the house, fixing things up, and during one of those times, you accidentally stumbled on him half naked in your bathroom. 

It really wouldn’t have been a big deal; he got covered in some kinda gunk from cleaning the gutters and decided to take a shower before heading back home. Not thinking about it twice, you opened the door to hand him a towel, only to be met with his flexing back muscles and tight ass. He’s been haunting your dreams, whether you wanted him to or not. 

Since then, you’ve been keeping a catalog on what makes him so hot; suffice it to say, the brain rot hasn’t abated in the slightest. 

“Oh, nothing,” you sigh. “How much longer til we make it back to the cabin?”

He glances down at his smart watch, the small face bright in the gloom. “GPS says about another quarter mile.”

Groaning, you tip your head back, raindrops smattering across your face and down your neck. “Who’s bright idea was it to hike today?”

Leon grins, "Believe it was you this time, squirt.”

Trudging forward, you shake your head, “Yuck, you know I hate that nickname.”

“Come on,” your dad needles you, laughing at your sour face. ��It’s cute.”

“Uh huh,” you roll your eyes, then gesture to the trail in front of you. “Following your lead here, pops.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he waves his hand at you and steps out in front. “Make your old man slug it out first. I get it.”

Rolling your eyes again, you give his broad shoulders a light push, meaning it solely as a joke—something you’ve done a thousand times before—however, because of the sudden deluge of water, the trail is nothing but a slippery, muddy mess, and he loses his balance. 

He begins to fall backwards, and you try to catch him, but it’s a moot point; he just has too much weight on you. Both of you crash down onto the ground, Leon sprawled on top of you, leaving you both coated in mud. Wincing, you try to raise up at the same time Leon turns on his side, and you end up pinned underneath his body. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you valiantly stifle the whine in your throat. It’s unfair to have your hot dad pressing you into the ground, pelvis to pelvis, while mud and leaves are seeping into your clothes. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he laughs a little deprecatingly as he finally hoists himself up, stretching a hand out toward you. “Guess we’ll need to clean up in the outdoor shower.”

Heart tripping over itself, you nod, “Sure.”

Turning his back to you, he curses under his breath, “Good thing it’s insulated, huh.”

Head dizzy at the thought of seeing your dad strip down in front of you, you can only cough out a strangled yep. Shooting a look over his shoulder, you smile tightly. 

“Must be a frog in my throat,” you joke weakly. 

It’s enough to make him grin and chuckle. 

“Well, Kermit, let’s get outta here.”

“Does that make you Miss Piggy?”

“Har, har, aren’t you funny?”

“Learned from the best.”

A comfortable silence falls between you, only broken up by the sound of rain and your trampling footsteps. Making it back to the cabin, you follow behind your dad as he walks to the lean-to built onto the side of the building. A shower stall’s setup alongside the house, protected from the elements by the sheltered roof. Glancing at it, it doesn’t seem like a lot, but it's fairly spacious inside with a little shower bench. 

“C’mon,” Leon nods his head at the stall, kicking his boots off and starting to unbutton his jeans. “We’ll both hop in in our undies and get clean in one go. Save time, so we can get started on dinner and warm up.”

You feel faint, blood surging hotly through your veins. “Um, s-sure. Quick and easy, right?”

He chuckles, “That’s the spirit, squirt.”

Arousal dampening a smidge from the silly nickname, it revs back up when he turns his back to you and bends over to take off his jeans and socks. Biting your lip, you press the dough of your thighs together, eyes drinking in his toned form. Once he’s down to his briefs, he steps into the shower stall, holding the door open as he cuts on the water. 

“Hurry it up, sweetheart, haven’t got all day,” he sing songs. 

In no time at all, you stand next to your dad wearing only a sports bra and boy shorts, brain overrun with thoughts of his half naked body. You bite back a gasp when his hand comes up to press between your shoulder blades, ushering you into the shower. He steps in behind you and shuts the door. 

It’s wide but not very deep due to the bench. As you both try to rinse off, you’re rubbing up against your dad in an almost obscene way. You really aren’t doing it on purpose, but he finally grabs you by the hips and stills your movement with a cut off groan. 

“Dad?”

“Sorry,” he mumbles behind you, fingers gripping you tightly as he lets out a breath. “I didn’t—it’s been a while and just—that’s no excuse, ‘m sorry.”

Your heart beats a staccato in your throat, and you rock yourself back, ass brushing against his stiff cock. 

“Oh, dad,” you whimper, and he inhales a sharp breath. “That’s so hot.”

He doesn’t stop you from pressing your ass fully against his chubbed cock, grinding back against him with a moan. His grip shifts, and he guides your hips into a rhythm that makes your toes curl, knowing your dad is getting off to this just as much as you are. 

“Daddy,” you whine, reaching one hand over your head to drape over his shoulder. “Touch me, please.”

His hands move from your hips to drag along your sides until he’s groping your breasts through your flimsy bra.

“Take it off,” he tells you, voice thick with lust. “Show daddy these tits of yours, baby.”

Slick floods the gusset of your panties while you eagerly strip your bra off, dropping it to the shower floor with a splat. His hands immediately grope and squeeze your breasts, fingers tweaking and tugging your hard nipples.

“Daaaad,” you moan, hips rocking back against his while he plays with your tits.

“Hang on,” he mutters, one hand disappearing, and you hear him shift behind you. Glancing down, you see him kick his underwear off to the side, making you whimper.

“There we go,” he sighs, slipping his cock between your thighs. “Mmm, so soft. And..”

He trails off, and you feel him guide his cock up to rub against the outline of your cunt. “So wet, baby. S’this all for me? What a dirty girl.”

He coos the last sentence in your ear and you melt against him, keening low in your throat. “Daddy, please.”

He pulls back and turns you around to face him; your dilated eyes rake down his body, taking in his thick, dripping cock. Leon yanks your panties down, and you step out of them. 

“Pretty pussy,” he groans, fingers skating along your slit, smearing slick along your cunt and his fingers. 

“Dad,” you tilt your head. “Kiss me.”

“Baby,” he rumbles in your ear, and your hands grip onto his biceps, pulling him into a wet kiss. 

He slips his tongue past your parted lips, groaning as he licks into your mouth. You’re so turned on, it feels like your brain is melting from your ears. Leon ruts between your thighs, cock dragging precum all over your pussy lips, parting your slick folds to nudge against your clit. 

“Want it,” you pant, pulling away. “Want your cock.”

“Yeah?” He drops his hand down to grip the base of his dick, guiding the tip until he’s pressing against your hole. “Want daddy to stuff your pretty pussy?”

“Please, please, please,” you chant under your breath, eyes wide as they watch him tease the tip in and out of your fluttering cunt. “Dad, please, I wanna fuck you.”

“God,” he groans, sinking halfway into your snug pussy. “Take it then, sweetheart, since you want it so bad.”

“Yes, yes, oh, fuck,” you moan and whine, hands gripping his shoulders but making sure to keep your nails from scratching him up. No need to give your mom any suspicions. 

Once he’s buried completely in your wet heat, he grabs your thighs and picks you up. Without pulling out, he walks you both back so he can sit down on the bench. Your knees settle on the outside of his thighs, letting you sink down on his cock until the tip kisses your cervix. 

“So deep,” you slur, that pinch of pain making you clamp down on his dick. “Daddy, no one’s ever been this deep.”

“Fuck,” he hisses, hips snapping up, making you squeal as he knocks against the opening to your womb. “This sweet pussy’s never had a dick this big?”

Shaking your head rapidly, you sling water everywhere, “Nooo.”

“Goddamn,” he bites out, pulling you into a spit filled kiss. “Gonna dick down my little girl like she deserves.”

“Uh huh,” you mumble, kissing him between all your little moans and pants. “Give it to me, daddy.”

“Gonna let daddy breed your little pussy, sweetheart? Hmm?” He teases against your lips, warm palm cupping your lower belly. “Put a baby right here if you let me cum in this soft pussy, cream you nice and deep.”

Shuddering, more slick leaks from your cunt, coating his cock, while your nails claw at his back, totally forgetting about not leaving any marks, “Dad, y-you can’t—we shouldn’t, it’s bad.”

“So bad,” he simpers, kissing your neck. “But doesn’t it feel good? C’mon you know you want it. Let daddy stuff your sweet cunt, baby.”

Nodding, you kiss him, sloppily making out underneath the shower spray. His fat tip drags against your g-spot on every thrust, fucking you better than your last boyfriend by far. It really shouldn’t be this good between father and daughter, but now that you know how sweet this forbidden fruit truly is, you never want to stop. 

He pulls away to mouth kisses across your jaw and down your neck, nipping at your pulse point. Drooling, you pant and gasp, knees digging into the tiled bench of the shower as Leon pounds into your clenching heat. 

“Fuck, pussy’s so much better than your moms,” he grunts, fingers digging into your hips. “Like this tight hole’s made for my cock.” 

“Daddy,” you whine, and he groans, biting down on the swell of your breast. “Feels so good.”

“Yeah?” He slows his pace, dragging his cock in and out of your cunt in deep strokes until you’re writhing against him. 

“Want it fast,” you pout. “Please?”

“Don’t like being teased?” He chuckles, pressing a kiss on each of your nipples. “Let daddy play with you a little, sweetheart.”

Clit aching, you rock yourself against him. “But dad—“

“Shhh,” he nips at your stiff nipples, and you whine. “Just let me enjoy it. God, you’re so sexy.”

Pussy fluttering around his cock, you whimper, and he groans in satisfaction. “You like that? Yeah, best little pussy daddy’s ever had.”

He fucks you slow and deep, cock pumping in and out of your pussy while his mouth and tongue tease your nipples. 

“Just think, if you let daddy knock you up, these gorgeous tits will be full of milk.” He bites your nipple roughly, a sharp pleasure that makes your pussy flutter. “Then daddy would have to help milk these fat tits every day.”

You hump down on his cock, thighs burning as you fuck yourself faster and harder against him. “Oh, god, dad, you’re gonna make me cum.”

“Fuck,” he groans, moving a hand between your bodies to strum across your senstive bundle of nerves. “Little clit’s so fat and slippery, baby.”

Keening, you thrash against him, arousal building higher and higher until it’s all white noise in your head. “‘M so close.”

“Cum for me, let daddy feel this little cunt squeeze his dick,” he coos. “Be a good girl and cream all over my cock.”

He pinches your clit a little harder, and it’s enough to snap that band wound tight in your lower belly. Your climax hits you hard, pussy squirting slick as your walls clench over and over while you shudder and writhe in his lap.

“Oh fuck,” he chuckles in disbelief. “Squirt’s more than just a nickname, huh?”

Thighs twitching, you slump against him, muscles too weak to keep you up. He wraps his thick arms around you and begins to pound up into your sopping wet pussy. 

“Gonna cum, oh fuck, gonna nut in your hot little pussy, oh, oh, yeah, take it, gonna knock my daughter’s fat pussy up, breed your sweet little cunt,” he babbles against your neck, cock throbbing in your fluttering walls. “Oh, fuuuck.”

He buries himself to the hilt, shooting rope after rope of hot, thick cum inside your puffy cunt, letting your snug pussy milk every drop. He doesn’t pull out when he leans back and takes your chin in hand. Leon tugs you into a soft kiss, the sweetest one that you’ve shared thus far. 

“Let’s go inside and continue this,” he nips your bottom lip. “We’ll worry about the consequences later. Daddy hasn’t had enough.”

He palms your belly, “Gotta make sure it sticks, too.”

A dull throb echoes through your cunt, “Okay, dad.”