#IS THERE NO WAY FOR YOU TO GET OFF THE RIDE AND HAVE SOMETHING TO EAT??? GOOD FUCKING LORD

[vampiefemme]

want vi to rub her clit against mine sooo bad lord help me… the soft moans that would leave her lips…. goddd those armssss

salivating at the thought of her bush covered in ur cum combined with hers… lock me up please. 18+ below, minors kick rocks!

don’t get me wrong, vi loves using the strap. the way you keen when she dips the tip into your wetness, the way you bounce back when she thrusts into you from behind. it’s heavenly, sure, having you on her strap… but there’s just something about the feeling of your pussy against hers that makes her feral.

“so fuckin’ wet,” vi pants, her upper lip glowing with a thin sheen of sweat. one of her legs is hooked around yours, the other dug into the mattress, your bodies aligned perfectly so she can rut against your sticky cunt with her own. the sounds are obscene - gushing and squelching, filthy curses and whiny moans. if you weren’t so blissed out right now, you might have it in you to be embarrassed.

while she rides you, hips rotating at a delicious pace, vi uses one hand to grope at your tits, pinching and pulling at your nipples until your moans sound absolutely pornographic. after multiple orgasms from vi’s tongue and fingers, you’re close again - she can feel it in the way your legs shake, can hear it in the tremors that break up each of your moans and your ceaseless cries of vi, please, more, vi—

“that’s right,” vi breathes, daring herself to go faster, to bring you to your peak quicker, “cream on my pussy, sweetheart, fuck—”

you practically scream when you finally come undone, eyes rolling back into your skull as your back arches off the mattress, each of your fists tightened around handfuls of cotton sheets. it’s enough to bring vi to the edge, too, and while you’re riding out your own high, she fucks herself against you until you’re both a mess, covered in sweat and bruises and bite marks. vi’s wet down to her thighs by the time she finally crawls off you, still catching your breath.

“lemme get us some water,” she says between breaths, “then we can go again.”

[sturnlsstuff]

GENTLEMAN | matt sturniolo

loser!matt x partygirl!reader

matt gets dragged to a party, when he meets the "party queen" who definitely doesn't find him terribly boring like he thought she would, which she makes sure he understands.

requested by @mattsobvimyfav . divider credits. @anitalenia

— warnings; smutty smut, sub!matt, soft!dom!reader, making out, blowjob, riding, unprotected p in v, dirty talk, whiny matt (hot alert), pet names (pretty/good boy, baby, sweetheart...) cursing, praise kink lowkey, mentions of weed, cigs and alcohol, — english isn't my first language.

women like you were out of the league for guys like matt. you were a typical popular girl, partying every week and not like normal people did. you were the queen of the dance floor. party queen, that's how people called you. everyone with eyes and a brain admired the graceful way you carried yourself around. never missing parties, always staying until the very end, usually your friends had to carry you out of the building due to the excess alcohol in your blood and inability to stand on your own feet. when you were telling a joke, everyone laughed. when you were taking shots, so did others, that's how convincing you were.

you could have any guy you wanted, but no one was perfect for your standards. you were admired by girls who wanted to be like you and guys who wanted you.

matt was one of those people. he admired you.

he didn't know you well as a person who kept away from people. he was an observer type, only talked to his closest friends, of whom he had few. maybe even a little shy, that's what people called him, but really when he felt comfortable? he could be so interesting.

he had never talked to you before, only ever heard about you or knew what he had noticed. matt wasn't the party type, usually was practically dragged out of the comfort of his room. he didn't like looking for adventures. and today? some girl that his brothers were friends with, and that matt knew by sight, had a birthday and of course chris and nick once again dragged him out of the house for the party, ignoring his complaints. so that's how he found himself in this house full of rich, drunk kids, loud music blasting in his ears, every now and then someone would trip over his legs, causing him to roll his eyes. he sat half the party on the couch in the corner of the main room, arms crossed and beer in hand. he really wanted to go home, but his brothers would kill him if he didn't last until midnight. half an hour left.

unable to bear it any longer, he finally goes outside where the music was a little muffled, giving him the feeling of getting to breathe again. maybe that was the case. being surrounded by so many people was overwhelming. he lights a cigarette, which was his little addiction but helped him relax, and leans against the wall, praying that the minutes go by faster.

he started getting more and more relaxed, finally at peace, tilting his head back and blowing out clouds of smoke until he heard giggles. his eyes immediately opening, noticing you and your two friends coming out from behind the building and walking crookedly towards him, you searching for something in your purse. he would recognize the party queen everywhere.

"... i can't find it!! i swear i had it!!" you laugh, giving up with whatever you wanted to find, your purse slips off your shoulder just by the front door of the house, right next to where matt was standing. he automatically bends down and hands it to you, drawing the attention of you and your friends to him, which makes his heart beat faster. "oh helloooo, thank you," a smile appears on your face, that brings a slight warmth to his cheeks.

"yeah, no problem," he tries to keep it cool, scratching the back of his neck nervously. you look at your friends, gasping playfully, "ohhh, maybe this gentleman will have a lighter—" your gaze goes back to his blue eyes that were now wide. "do you have a lighter??? i think i lost mine!"

"a what— oh—" he snaps out of his trance, staring too hard at you which makes him blush even more. you were so beautiful. he clears his throat, "yeah, uh, i have one..." he hands it to you, your friends giggling at his nervousness, while you thought he's being really cute. "here you go."

"you're a life saveeeerrrrr," you're about to start searching for the cigarettes but he's quick to pass his own pack to you. "oh god, you're like an angel," your grin widens as you take a cigarette from him, putting it between your lips and lighting it up.

"girlll, my song is playing! can you hurry up?" your friend complains, causing you to roll your eyes.

"just go, i'll come in a minute."

"you sure?"

"yeah, go," you repeat yourself and stand next to matt who was leaning against the wall against, his heart pounding in his chest. he could feel your perfume mixed with... weed, perhaps? you give him the lighter and cigarettes back with a simple 'thank you'.

you both stand next to each other in silence that was starting to weigh on him, but he wasn't able to speak first. you both smoke your cigarettes when you finally look at him again. dressed all in black, a beer in one hand, on which you notice tattoos. oh, he's handsome as fuck.

"so" you speak up, getting his attention. "does this gentleman have a name?"

he smiles shyly, overwhelmed by your beauty. "i'm matt."

"matt," you repeat, tasting his name on your tongue. "i like it. suits you."

the way you repeat his name makes him feel both uncomfortable and strangely excited at the same time. he rubs the back of his neck nervously again, blowing out the smoke, just as you say your name too. he gives you a glance, "i know."

"oh, do you?" a smirk appears on your lips as you take another drag. he replies hesitantly, "well, i mean... who doesn't?"

you nod confidently, "right." your eyes travel to his tattooed arm again, feeling your stomach twisting in knots at the sight. he catches it and looks down at his arm as well. "i like them. make you look hotter," you confess.

he blinks, caught of guard by your words. he wasn't really used to people, especially not girls like you, saying things like that to him. mostly because he barely was leaving his house. he feels his heart race, a warmth spreading through his chest. "thanks."

"of course," you respond casually, checking him out once again before looking away with a small smile and taking another drag of the cigarette. you were slightly high, not really that drunk yet and you knew what you were doing. his awkwardness was so cute, there was no way you'd let this man go so quickly tonight. you actually felt like you need to have him.

matt finishes his beer in one swing, putting the empty bottle aside, causing your attention to get back to him.

the more you looked at him, the more he reminded you of someone, but there was no way you talked or even seen matt before. though, you decide to ask, "wait, don't i know you already?"

he raises his eyebrow, locking eyes with you. "me? i don't think so." i would definitely want you to, he thinks.

"oh, 'cause i feel like i do. or maybe you just remind me of someone—"

"i'm a triplet. you probably know my brothers."

"ohhh, wait—" you snap your fingers, trying to remember. "yeah, chris and— and nick? oh, now i know. never seen you before though. lowkey thought they're bullshitting about being triplets."

matt smiles amused, taking one last drag and throwing the butt of the cigarette on the ground, trampling it with his shoe. "yeah, m'not really out going."

"i see," you nod, smiling back. "i'd definitely remember you."

he chuckles softly, feeling his face warm at your words again. damn, get your shit together matthew. "really, huh?"

"yeah. with this looks and that—?" you point at his tattoos. "i promise, i would remember."

you didn't feel like beating around the bush, you liked him. he was extremely handsome, his hair looked so soft you wanted to run your hand through it, his eyes made you weak in your knees and his lips begged to be kissed. not to mention the aura he had around him, he intrigued you. matt was different than the rest of those assholes you met at parties.

he looks away shyly, the smile on his face makes your heart flutter. literal butterflies — something you've never had before.

you finish the cigarette in a comfortable silence, getting slightly overwhelmed after the weed you smoked before. leaning against the wall, your shoulder brushes against his, drawing his attention back to you.

"you good?"

"mhm, it's that cigarette, give me a second."

he nods, watching as you throw the rest of it aside. "okay. jus' don't go passing out on me."

"hey, i'm not that drunk i can even stand on my hands if you want. look—" you're literally bending over in front of him, hands on the ground, and you're ready to do it, but he quickly grabs your waist, forcing you to straighten up. matt tried his hardest not to look at your ass and the way your short dress rode up. his pants suddenly start to grow tighter but he ignores it.

"you better not—"

with a giggle, you turn around to face him, the feelings of his hands sends a shiver down your spine. "i could easily do that."

"sure," he raises his eyebrow, the blush on his cheeks only growing because of the closeness. "i don't think i'd know what to do with a drunk and unconscious party queen on my hands, if you did that."

"right, okay." you bite down on your bottom plump lip, which doesn't go unnoticed by him. "but what would you do with a slighty tipsy and definitely conscious party queen on your hands, hm?"

his eyes sparkle with amusement, heart rate subtly increasing at your promixity. "well, that's a pretty open-ended question," he replies, his voice low and gentle. "depends on the party queen personality and how she's feeling."

oh, he's funny.

"and if the party queen is feeling perfectly fine and have the best personality ever?"

the air between you two suddenly feeling charged with an unexpected, but pleasant tension. matt could feel himself getting more and more worked up. he tried to be the gentleman that handed you the purse a few minutes ago, or gave you a cigarette and a lighter, but it was getting hard. especially now, when he realizes his hands are still on your waist and you don't seem to mind at all.

"oh, in that case i'd probably just try to keep up 'n hope her great personality doesn't find me too terribly boring."

"nah, i think she finds you pretty intriguing actually." you tilt your head to the side, eyes dropping to his lips before moving back up. oh, those lips.... "and if she wanted to show you just how bad?"

he swallows hard, "you mean, hypothetically... if she wanted to show me she's interested?"

"mhm, yeah. exactly what i mean," you lean in, giving him time to push you away, but he doesn't. oh, he would never. he wanted you so bad, knowing he's just one of hundreds of your simps, but it was the last thing on his mind right now. all he wanted is to feel your lips on his.

and he finally did.

closing the gap between you two, you kiss him softly, what he does too after a moment. his initial hesitation melting into reciprocation as your lips move against his. his hands, unsure at first, eventually move down to your hips, pulling you gently closer. your fingers tangling into his messy, soft hair, pushing him slightly against the wall, getting a hum in approval. matt starts relaxing against you, letting you set the pace and tone for your interaction. as you take your time, he finds himself growing more comfortable and excited. he would never think it would happen. with you out of all people.

the kiss starts getting more and more heated, you grow slightly impatient, feeling the ache between your legs starting to grow. you press your body closer to him, hand traveling up and down his chest, your tongues dancing together. once he feels how gently you bite his lip, a small whine leaves him, your mind spins and definitely not because of the amount of alcohol or weed you've consumed.

you break the kiss, both of you panting as you mutter against his lips, "come with me, yeah?" getting a weak nod in response, you're fast to make your way back into the crowded house, dragging matt behind you by his wrist.

his palms start to sweat as you take him upstairs and reach some empty room, pushing him inside. the noise of the party fading behind you two once you kick the door shut and attack his lips again.

matt is overwhelmed but in the best way possible. his senses are filled with your sweet scent, the tension growing in his pants with each second. his eagerness showing in his tentative exploration, but offset by an earnest enthusiasm. he lets out a soft sigh into the kiss, surrendering to your lead. he hits the bed and falls onto the mattress, you climbing on top of him, straddling his thighs. he gasps softly as your weight presses down on him in the most distracting and exhilarating way. his hands instinctively find their way to your hips again, gripping slightly as he tries to adjust to this new position.

breaking the kiss, you start trailing kisses down his jaw and neck, his head tilts back unconsciously, giving you better access to his skin. his whole body shivers at the delicate touches of your lips, a soft moan escaping him as you hit a particularly sensitive spot, sucking on it to intentionally mark him.

his reaction brings a smile to your face and you look up to see him in such a cute state. messy hair, cheeks reddish, his pink lips swollen from the make out as he lets out heavy breaths.

"look at you, pretty boy."

his eyelids flutter open, revealing pupils dilated with desire. matt touches the mark on his neck lightly, fingers tracing where you'd sucked. "that's..." he clears his throat, feeling his face flush even more. the way you look at him is both intimidating and incredibly hot.

"hm? you like it?"

"y-yeah, that's really... good," he admits.

you just couldn't help yourself, he was so majestic, really. the way he was clearly trying not to rush or throw himself at you, makes you want to give him all the pleasure in the world so he wouldn't be able to forget about this evening, no matter how hard he'd try.

"want more?"

his eyes darken slightly, voice hoarse with lust, "that wouldn't be really... gentleman of me, hm?"

you smile, finding him amusing. "oh, but i'm proposing this to you, not the other way around. so...?" you whisper against his lips, "how it's gonna be, baby?"

this time he captures your lips in a kiss, wanting to show you how much he wants— no, craves you, hoping this is enough of a response.

a wave of heat washes over you, hands traveling under his shirt which steals another whine from matt. you had never been so turned on before in such a short amount of time, automatically starting to move your hips and grind down against him, feeling how hard he was beneath you. pride overwhelms you at the feeling of how much he's affected by you, the want for him even bigger than before.

his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you closer as he deepens the kiss. he can feel you moving on his lap, the friction driving him crazy. your tongue explores his mouth, lips clicking against his. his hands shaky on your body from the desire he felt. "you can touch me, matt..." you pant against his plump lips, pressing your clothed, soaked core against his dick harder.

"y'feel so good..." his eyes are glassy with lust as he looks up at you. his chest is heaving, and he bites his lip, trying to compose himself when he finally allows his hands to explore your body.

"mhm, i can feel how bad you want me," you keep grinding against him, the friction causing you both to whimper. "is really cute.... and hot— you know?"

"please—" his eyes flutter shut from pleasure, your hands teasing him just above the waistband of his jeans. "what is it, baby?" you bite back a smile at his desperate expression.

"just... i need you please— can you..." his breath is coming in ragged gasps now, and he feels both embarrassed and completely exhilarated. his hips rise slightly to meet yours, a natural response to the overwhelming sensation. his body aches for more contact, more friction, more of you.

"can i what? c'mon, you gotta ask nicely if you want something." you're teasing, torturing him purposely, enjoying how adorable he gets when his shyness takes over. "look at me, matt."

blushing intensely, he opens his eyes and stammers out, "can you... i mean, would you... with your mouth?" he immediately looks mortified at his own boldness, his cheeks flaming red as he quickly adds, "sorry, i didn't mean to presume—"

"i think you did mean it though," you smile softly, licking your lips. his words and the image that just popped up in your head makes your pussy pulse. "how can i say no when you're being such a good boy for me?" you press kisses to his neck just as he whines again, your hands already working on his belt. his eyes watching as his jeans and boxers get pushed down his legs. he gasps as the cool air hits his exposed lower half, his body trembling slightly. his dick twitches as you kneel on the mattress between his legs, looking at him in awe. "just relax."

he nods quickly, trying to calm himself. his chest is rising and falling rapidly, hands fumble anxiously with the hem of his shirt unsure what to do with them. is not like he was inexperienced, he was in a relationship before, but having you, the popular party girl that everyone wanted, between his legs was definitely making him more nervous than he would usually be.

you put your hair up into a messy ponytail, his body immediately tensing up. he can feel the blood rushing to his cock, making it throb with anticipation. he tries to relax his legs, spreading them wider to give you better access. you stop just above his tip, looking up at him with a smile at the messy state he was already in, even if you didn't start yet. "gonna say a magic word?"

he swallows hard, his blush deepens, "please."

his eyes dart between your face and his hard, leaking with precum dick, hardly believing this is really happening. but it feels real, when you give him a kitty lick before starting to suck on his tip. a strangled moan escapes matt's lips, his hips involuntarily twitching upwards. the sensation is electric, his hands fist in the sheets beneath him, grasping desperately for some form of anchor. "o-oh, fuck—"

your tongue is swirling around his tip teasingly, before you take him deeper, his eyes roll back in his head, breath catching in his throat. he can feel every ridge and curve of your mouth, the wet heat almost more than he can bear. a shaky whimper escapes him, hands slide up to tangle in your hair, gripping tightly as he fights the urge to buck his hips forward.

he was so big, the choking sounds echoing in the room, saliva dripping down your chin. hollowing your cheeks, you start bobbing your head up and down, nose brushing against his pelvis. "s-shit.... feels so good— mmmm, fu—ckkk--" his entire body shudders, he watches you through heavy-lidded eyes, completely captivated by the sight. the sounds alone are enough to make him dizzy with desire. his breathing becomes more ragged, mingling with the wet sounds of your mouth. "oh god..." he whimpers. you're breathing through your nose, focusing on his tip again, your hand working on the rest of him. the sensation combined with your mouth is incredible, almost too much to process. matt bites his lip hard, suppressing a loud moan, but it still escapes as more of a choked groan. "fuck, please—"

he was completely out of it, a big whining mess, his hips uncontrollably lifting upwards, his tip hitting the back of your throat. his toes curl as he feels the mounting pressure, his entire body tingling with exquisite tension while you suck on his dick like on a lollipop, being all messy with it, gagging every now and then. panting heavily, he tugs gently at your hair, "w-wait, m'gonna.... m'so close, wait—" you hum in approval, wanting to taste him on your tongue. it sends vibrations through him, another whimper escaping him. you speed up your movements, matt automatically starts thrusting up into your mouth as his orgasm approaches, "f-fuck, sorry, i.... i can't— shittt, gonna cum— can i... oh—"

he's lost at this point, his head threw back, a loud, unrestrained moan ripping from his throat as you resume your actions. his hips lift off the bed, pressing himself deeper into your mouth, getting another moan from you. the sight was hypnotizing, his flushed features, the way he tried to muffle his moans by chewing on his bottom lip. you were dripping, clenching around nothing just from watching him.

with a choked cry, his entire body convulses as he finds his release, pulse after pulse of ecstasy flooding through him. his fingers fist so tightly in your hair that he's vaguely aware it might hurt, but he can't seem to loosen his grip. you whimper around him, tasting him on your tongue and swallowing everything. your tongue swirl around his sensitive tip one more time before pulling out with a wet pop. his vision blurs, heart pounding in his chest. he lets go off your hair, your eyes meeting his, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his tip. damn.

his face flushed with heat as he smiles, "holy fuck."

"holy fuck indeed," you lick your lips, the sight so intimate and erotic for him that he feels his spent dick twitch in response. "that was, like, amazing—" he mutters, still struggling to find his voice.

you chuckle, moving so now you were on top of him again, hands on each side of his head. "what a shame that we met so late," you say, running your hand through his hair, a shiver going down his spine.

"i was supposed to leave at midnight," he admits. your eyebrow raises, "oh really?" he nods, "yeah, not a fan of parties."

"well... i'm glad you didn't have the chance to leave then."

"me too." he pulls you into another desperate kiss, tasting himself on your tongue, getting a hum in surprise. he was clearly eager for more. your fast to roll your dress up around your waist, grabbing his hand and directing it between your legs. when he feels how soaked your panties were, he can't help but whimper again. "feel it, baby?" you break the kiss, looking at him, his eyes darken with lust. "that's allll because of you."

his gaze travels over your body, taking in the curves he's only ever imagined. he swallows hard, his voice hoarse with need. "please, i need you..."

"you're so cute when you beg," you smile biting down on your plump lip. removing your underwear, you position yourself just above his tip, letting him feel the wet warmth, teasing him mercilessly. matt whines softly, his body tensing with the need to thrust into you and finally feel you. "what was that, hm? tell me what you want, matt."

"need you... to ride me— please—"

"need me, hm? and how bad?"

he whines again, louder this time, his hips bucking slightly in an attempt to get him inside you. "so bad," he pants, his voice barely recognizable in his desperation. "please, please, please..." he chants, his voice cracking with need.

"gooood boy," you praise, his words getting you even wetter. wrapping your hand around his cock, you give him a few strokes before slowly sinking down on him. "begging so pretty— f-fuck...." the sudden feeling of your warm, tight pussy enveloping his aching dick is almost too much for matt to handle. he throws his head back, a loud, wordless whimper tearing from his throat as he's sheathed inside you, a moan leaving your lips as well at his reaction. "shit, you're so big—" you stay still to adjust, lifting your dress higher to be more comfortable. you feel his dick twitching inside you after your words. amused written all over your face when you look at him, "you like it, hm? who would've know you're so naughty...."

matt's hands tremble as they grip your hips, trying desperately to hold back the urge to grind into you. his breath comes in short, sharp bursts as he savors the exquisite tightness gripping him.

"feels good?" you slowly start moving, he nods his head weakly, words caught in his throat as he tries to speak around the lump formed by his swallowed moan. "mmm, holy shit, matt—" his cock is buried so deeply inside you that it makes you see stars for a moment. you crave more of him, so you start speeding up the pace.

"so... good..." he manages to rasp out, his eyes rolling back briefly before snapping forward to lock onto yours again. "you're...too much..."

"yeah? want me to stop?" you mock him a little bit, knowing that's the last thing he wants.

he shakes his head frantically, a sheepish grin spreading across his flushed face. "no, no...don't stop. i meant...fuck, you're just so tight— fuckkk, feels incredible." he bucks his hips slightly, emphasizing his enthusiasm, his nails dig into your hips, his body tensing as he tries to pull you down further onto him.

"you're doing perfect for me, baby—" you moan out, putting one hand on his chest as you start moving your hips harder, your attention drawn to his tattoos. the sight of his arm causes you to painfully clench around him, your pussy gripping him like a vice. he hisses at the feeling, it drives him wild. "shit, just like that—"

you both aren't able to hold back your moans, letting them spill out one after another. each thrust pushes you both into ecstasy, your hand on his chest the only thing anchoring him to reality. matt's hands slide up your sides, then down to your thighs, marveling the soft skin beneath his fingers.

matt notices the way your eyes are locked onto his tattoos and it makes his dick throb even harder inside you. "god, matt— mmhpp, oh my...." you lean forward, needing some balance as your legs start growing tired, your hands on each side of his head. he reaches up to your waist, guiding your movements as he lifts his hips to meet each thrust. "f-fuck— you're so beautiful..."

your eyebrows knitted together in pleasure, eyes rolling back as you feel your orgasm approaching. he can feel it as well, which pushes him over the edge too. "gonna cum for me, pretty boy?" you choke out, looking down at him through half-open eyes.

"mhmm, fuck—" he pants, his own face contorted with pleasure. he sees the concentration on your face, the beads of sweat forming on your collarbone. he wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you down onto him even harder. "s-so close... shiiit—"

"me too," you whine into his ear. "fuck..." his grip tightens on your waist as his release builds. his movements become more urgent, more desperate. "tell me... mm— tell me how you want it, sweetheart—" he knows he won't last much longer, not with how perfectly you're stretching around him.

"inside me—"

"y-yeah?" his voice breaking as he feels you clench around him again. "you want me to fill you up?"

"mhmmm—" you moan just as he whimpers again, what pushes you into a state of bliss, euphoria consumes you as your orgasm crashes down over you, your hips stuttering.

once he feels you creaming around him, and the pretty — mesmerizing moans, oh he's too far gone. matt's control snaps, he buries himself as deep as possible inside you, his hips jerking as he unleashes a torrent of cum deep within your spasming pussy. one last moan leaves him, his vision blurring as his release seems to go on forever. "fuckkkk—"

after you both ride out your orgasms, your hips come to a stop, his hands splaying out against your lower back as he pulls you flush against him. matt can feel his release slowly leaking out of you and dripping down his thighs. your breath against his neck tickles his skin.

"oh my god," he breathes out, making you chuckle and you lift up your head, seeing his flushed face. so cute. "made me see fuckin' stars, holy shit."

you laugh again, getting off to lay down beside him, head on matt's shoulder, his heart skips a beat at that. "you're funny," you say.

he wraps his hand around your waist again, not really ready to let go yet. "m'serious."

"okay, mr serious," you roll your eyes. "doesn't mean you aren't funny. and still a gentleman."

"getting into your pants before first date isn't really gentleman of me," he smiles shyly as you look up at him.

"i got into your pants," you correct him. "you gonna get into mine after that first date."

"there's gonna be one?"

"oh, definitely."

taglist: @certifiedstarrr @chrislovespepsi @le4hsblog @sturnsxbitvh @sweetlikesug4rvenom @xaristhings @mattsfavbitchhh @lvrsturniolo @r0s3luvr @slut4brunettes @madisonsturnioloss @chrispillowprincess @sturnioloslutttt4 @ashlishes @mattsbitchh @hi-people-who-are-alive @stellward123 @inssanely @matts-girlfriend @imnotalive420 @emely9274 @shadowthesim @yunkilm @sophiaxsblog @namelesssav @demyackerman @fratbrochrisgf @lvrsturniolo @chrisweetheart @chrisfavoritewhore @sturnslutz @ncm9696 @certified-sturniolo @mattsobvimyfav @swagalicious260 @giannalovessturniolo @sophand4n4 @brazyturtleneck @jocelyncsblog @sophand4n4 @giannalovessturniolo @alesturniolos @ilovenmcs

[littlegrapejuice]

Flatline | LN4

Pairing: Lando Norris x Reader

Summary: Lando parties a bit too hard and needs to be patched up. Luckily, he can count on a pretty nurse.

Author's Note: I'M BACK MFS🙂‍↕️ it's been a while haha but enjoy this lil lando fic that was inspired by the song Flatline by 5sos!! Also happy new year hehe, hope everyone is doing good and i wish y'all the best for 2025🫶🏻

F1 MASTERLIST🏎

King’s Day 2024. Amsterdam, Netherlands.

Amongst all the drivers, people would’ve thought Max Verstappen the most prone to be sighted in public while celebrating his country on its national day. However, the one that was currently trending on social media was Lando Norris. Pictures as well as videos were being posted, reposted, and commented on every second. No one had expected Lando to spend the weekend away in the Netherlands in between two grand prix. But here he was, partying on a boat and even DJ-ing along with his good friend Martin Garrix.

Lando didn’t know whether people just didn’t care about him – seeing as the Netherlands were the home of one of the greatest drivers of the current generation – or if people actually didn’t know him. In any case, he was glad not to be disturbed by fans – even though he loved them – and be able to enjoy the day the same way everyone else was doing it: by partying, dancing, singing, and drinking.

Obviously, Lando was planning to be careful as he knew that his PR team would have his head if he did something stupid during his two-week break. But still, he was having fun like a typical twenty-four year old. He was having the time of his life. Dutch people definitely knew how to party on their national day, that’s for sure.

…..

A few hours later however, what everyone hadn’t been expecting was for Lando to end the day with bandages all over his face. As the surprise of him being in the Netherlands settled down after a while, pictures and videos stopped circulating around. Until fans all over the world were met with images of Lando with a bloody nose, a smile still on his face. People had no idea what had happened. No context had been given, only the speculation of Lando having drunk and partied too hard that he had hurt himself.

Fortunately for him, Lando had been able to count on you. Being a friend of a friend, you loosely knew Martin but had never really exchanged more than a few words with him. However, he was currently glad that the invitation to his boat party had managed to reach you as you were qualified to take care of Lando’s battle wound – his words. Being a nurse, and the only one with some medical knowledge on the boat, you had quickly reacted when people had started panicking after seeing Lando’s face starting to bleed.

To be honest, people had overreacted a bit. Because when you approached Lando to see the extent of the damage, you realised it was only a cut albeit the consequence of some glass. So although he wasn’t hurt very badly, you still suggested bringing him into the hospital where you worked. Obviously, Lando had refused at first as he pretended that everything was fine. He was. But just to be sure, you needed to give him a general check-up in a clean location as a random boat in Amsterdam wasn’t exactly the most hygienic place to patch someone up.

So after Martin also agreed to the idea, Lando had no choice but to listen to his friend and go with you. The Dutch told Lando that he would come get him later as he needed to bring his DJ equipment back home – he promised to be ready to give him a ride back from the hospital later on as he knew that Lando had a flight the next day. This is thus how you found yourself in a cab with none other than Formula One driver Lando Norris on the way to your workplace. Truth be told, you hadn’t expected to go there today. But you knew it was part of your job to be able to help anyone in need even if you were on your day off.

The ride had mostly been silent. Lando had been on his phone, probably texting a few people about his whereabouts, while you were focused on the next steps to do when you’d be arriving at the hospital. You were pleasantly surprised when Lando paid the driver without a second thought and told him to keep the change.

“I could’ve paid, you know. Thanks,” you told him as you entered the building.

“You’re taking care of me on what definitely seemed like your day off, so that’s the least I can do for you.” Lando smiled at you and even with the bandages around his face, he was still very good-looking.

“Still, I appreciate it. You can go wait in this room if that’s okay?” He nodded and you finished explaining what would happen next. “I just need to inform my manager I’m here, get some stuff for a small check-up, and then I’m all yours. I won’t be long.”

“Sounds perfect”, Lando replied with a grin.

True to your words, you were back in the room where you’d left the Brit less than ten minutes later. He noticed that you’d changed into your uniform – which you’d been lucky to have a spare here as your usual one was at your flat – and enjoyed the view of observing you in your element. Working in the medical field was your calling, and you didn’t see yourself anywhere else.

First, you removed the bandages that you’d wrapped around Lando’s face earlier before you cleaned up the small wound – properly this time, with adequate material. As Lando winced when you disinfected it, you apologised.

“Does it hurt much?” You asked.

“Not really”, he shrugged. “Just uncomfortable I guess.”

“Hmm, okay”, you nodded. “Tell me if there’s anything else at any point.”

Quickly finishing up, you were soon enough putting a band-aid on Lando’s nose. You debated offering to put a silly one originally designed for kids, but decided otherwise as you didn’t want to look weird for suggesting it. However, the driver had noticed your eyes drifting to them when you’d hesitated in which one to take, so he spoke up:

“You think you could actually give me one of those”, he wondered with a smile before adding. “The cute ones, there.”

When you saw that he was pointing at the Disney ones, you stiffled a laugh. You hadn’t expected him to directly ask for one himself, but you were kinda glad that he did. Amongst the different characters present, your choice was easily made.

“I guess that the Cars one caught your eye?” You raised an eyebrow, waiting to see if you were right.

“Bingo!” He laughed. “I’ll admit that Frozen was tempting but I gotta stay true to my roots.”

“Fair enough”, you chuckled. “Your job ain’t really much to do with building ice castles, or I’ve done my research wrong.”

“You looked me up?” Lando asked, the surprise obvious in his tone.

“Well, yeah?” You answered with a ‘duh’ tone as you gently put the Cars band-aid over the plain one you’d previously applied. “Even though the whole country supports Max and not many people care about the other drivers, I gotta know about the competition.”

“You think I’m competition to Max?”

“Of course! Anyone is: as long as Max isn’t the only driver racing on track, he has competition.”

Your explanation made Lando’s grin widen as he was glad to be considered in the same league as the Max Verstappen, especially by someone who lived in the Netherlands. To you, any other driver that had managed to be a part of the twenty that raced in Formula One was a good one – Lando included.

“He does have three more championship titles than me though”, Lando stated. “And God knows how many wins.”

“He’s had a good car for years,” you pointed out. “Your time will come, don’t worry. I can feel the papaya greatness for this year – though if I ever wear orange, it’s for Max.”

Not knowing what to reply to your words, Lando simply nodded while you put away the box of band-aids. You thought about the final steps of your check-up, and turned back to face the driver.

“Okay, so I’ll just put this on your finger to see your heart rate and then I’ll make you do a breathalyser if that’s alright with you?”

“Yeah, no problem. Do your job, don’t worry.”

“Great, thanks.” You carefully clipped the pulse oximeter on Lando’s finger before stepping away. “I'll be right back in a minute.”

“Take your time,” Lando replied. “I’m not going anywhere.”

When you left the room, the Brit let out the biggest sigh of his life. Oh God, he thought. It seemed like you hadn’t realised how close you’d been to Lando as you were only focused on doing your job, but he hadn’t been able to take his eyes away from you. He really hoped you hadn’t noticed anything, as the last thing he wanted was to make you uncomfortable at your workplace. Get a grip, Lando told himself while waiting for you to be back. Don’t fuck this up if you want a chance.

You came back into the room shortly after, a box in your hands – which Lando assumed to be the breathalyser. He knew he had drunk enough that he wouldn’t be allowed to drive, but he hoped he had sobered up enough after his trip to the hospital. After unboxing the breathalyser, you got close to Lando again and explained to him what he’d have to do.

“Nothing too complicated, don't worry. You’ll just have to exhale into this.” You showed him the object. “And I’ll tell you when to stop. Then, you’ll be good to go!”

Lando nodded in reply, even though he hadn’t really paid attention to the actual words you’d said. He had been more focused on your face and the way you’d gently brushed a strand of hair away from your face. He almost wished he’d been the one to do it, and he wondered if it was the remains of alcohol in his blood making him think that. He also wondered if he would still be attracted to you if he had met you while stone cold sober. But when you gave him a soft reassuring smile as you told him to be ready to blow into the breathalyser, he knew he would find you gorgeous no matter his state of mind.

What he didn’t know though, is if it was the alcohol or his attraction to you that was making his heart faster – both, to be honest. The result was the same: the machine was showing his heart rate quickening and Lando could perfectly hear it echoing in his head, which made his eyes widen at the thought that you would hear it too. Lando’s heart rate was actually the least of your worries as you were focused on the current task of measuring the level of alcohol in his blood, but it became the most important barely two seconds later when you heard the continuing beep that usually meant the lack of heartbeat.

“Your heart is going flatline!” You exclaimed in shock as you tried to quickly assess how Lando looked in order to find the cause. “Oh my God… oh my God, what the fuck is happening?!”

And while you were panicking, Lando realised that he had made a grave mistake. See, as he still wasn’t back to his normal state of mind, the driver thought that it was a wonderful idea to just remove the pulse oximeter from his finger so that you wouldn’t have noticed his heart rate speeding. But of course, you had immediately noticed the lack of constant beep from the machine and were currently still stressing – breathalyser completely forgotten.

Seeing your panicked state, Lando was now feeling extremely guilty and decided to come clean.

“I’m fine!” He was almost shouting. Hearing his voice made you stop in your tracks, and you looked at him with worry in your eyes. “Sorry”, he apologised. “I accidentally removed the thing, please calm down. I’m not dead.”

“Oh”, you could only answer. You felt awkward now. “That’s good, then.” You scratched your neck and nervously laughed. “It’s weird, it shouldn’t come off that easily unless it’s forcibly removed. Sorry if I gave you one that wasn’t properly working.”

And this was his last straw. Lando was now feeling even guiltier at your words, as you were going to blame yourself for using seemingly faulty equipment.

“Please don’t be mad, but… I-actually-removed-it-myself”, he said as quickly as he could.

“What?” You questioned with a tilt of your head.

“I removed the heart thingy myself because I didn’t want you to hear my heart rate.”

“Lando, that’s my job?”

“Yeah, but like…” He didn’t know what else to say, except for the truth – thank the alcohol for giving him the confidence to utter the next words. “I was just thinking about you, and you were looking super pretty while explaining stuff, and I wasn’t really paying attention to be honest, but then I felt like my heartbeat was going really fast, and you’d hear it, and you’d think I’m like weird, and–”

“Oh God, Lando calm down!” You put your hands on his shoulders so that he would look at you instead of the floor, and meeting your eyes silenced him. “You’re good, don’t explain yourself. I know that you’re not completely sober yet so your mind might make you do weird things. I’m just glad you’re alright and not suddenly a victim of a heart attack.”

“I don’t want you to see me as a crazy drunk guy right now!” He retorted, trying to clear his name. “Even sober, I’d think the same. Maybe not do the same stupid shit though…” He muttered the last sentence.

Silence now filled the room as you removed your hands from Lando and put them in your pockets before sighing. You tried to assess the situation and process his words. You’d had your fair share of people complimenting you in your workplace so Lando’s feelings weren’t that unusual, but it was still rare to end up in this type of situation. You thought for a minute about what to do while Lando stayed quiet. He was scared of dumb words leaving his mouth, so he didn’t want to take any more risks.

“Tell you what”, you caught his attention. “We finish this up, I clear you free to go, and maybe we can start over when you’re not my patient anymore. Sounds good?”

Still not trusting his words, Lando simply nodded. You then kept going with the last steps of your check-up before announcing to Lando that he was discharged. He had surprisingly sobered up quicker than you would’ve thought – maybe because of the heart rate incident – and his alcohol level wasn’t as high as you’d imagined it to be.

You walked him back to the entrance hall and asked him if Martin was here to get him. He briefly checked his phone and noticed a couple texts from the Dutch that were notifying him of his arrival in a few minutes. You therefore decided to wait with Lando, having all the time in the world – it was still your day off and you knew that the hospital wasn’t understaffed today, so there was no need for you to stay and give a hand.

As you were waiting in an excruciatingly awkward silence, Lando chose to man up and clear the previous situation up.

“I still think you’re beautiful,” he stated. “And I’d love to get to know you,” he added. “I know I’m not fully sober yet, but I’m almost there and my thoughts haven’t changed.”

“That’s good to know”.

“Good as in positive for me to shoot my shot?” Lando wondered with a nervous smile.

“You can try, I think your chances of success are pretty high right now.”

“Great.” His grin widened, and you couldn’t help thinking about how he was currently the beautiful one. “So, can we go out together one day? I know this great restaurant that my wonderful local friends told me about.”

“That’d be my pleasure”, you replied.

“When do you finish work?” He asked, even though he knew the answer.

“I’m actually done…” You feigned to analyse the time on your watch. “Right now. What a coincidence!”

“Coincidence indeed”, Lando agreed. He then took out his phone and gave it to you. “I’ll text you the location?”

“Sure”, you nodded. “Maybe not a full meal tonight, but I’m still down for a drink and snacks.”

“Works for me. Raincheck for a proper date then?”

“Come back for it once you have a race win under your belt”, you challenged.

“Deal”, he accepted. “I have really good motivation.”

“Tell you what, you can also get a wish if it’s the next race that you win.”

“A wish? Anything?” You nodded and Lando thought about ideas. “Kiss on the first date?”

“Alright, you’re on!” You sealed the deal with a handshake, a playful glint in your eyes.

Merely a couple seconds later, Martin was pulling up in front of the hospital which was yours and Lando’s cue to go your separate ways before meeting soon again.

…..

A week later following your semi-date with Lando, you were now watching him celebrate his first win on the top step of the podium in Miami. You couldn’t be prouder of him, and your first thought was to text him as soon as you saw him go back to his garage. You hoped that he’d have access to his phone soon enough and quickly drafted a message to congratulate him. Right before you sent it, your wish – and eventually his in the process – seemed to have been granted.

Flying back to you next weekend before imola

I’m expecting a welcome kiss👀

You chuckled at his texts, a blush appearing on your cheeks as you thought about how he was still serious about you, and deleted your initial message before sending a new one.

Wouldn’t have it any other way

Congratulations race winner! Can’t wait for the next ones, I knew your time was coming🧡

If Lando never imagined that being hurt could lead to him bagging a pretty nurse and getting his first Formula One win, he was now thinking that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to get a small wound before each race if it meant that you would take care of him and that he’d be lifting the winner’s trophy afterwards.

..........

Hope y'all liked this ^^ idk if it's common knowledge on here but I'm a HUGE 5sos fan and when i recently heard flatline after a while, i knew i had to write smth f1 related for this song (esp the chorus)

Likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreciated if you enjoy my writing<3 it means a lot to me and i love knowing what people think - apart from my bestie who's often my #1 fan haha

See you next time, take care🤍

[hivemuthur]

Drugs in Our Body | Reader Version

viktorxfemale!reader AU university, AU modern era, recreational drug use, smut-adjacent (but really was aimed more at sensual)

word count: 5,4K

summary: A self-indulgent one-shot of Viktor and Reader going through a high together and ending up all tangled up, touchy, kissy, breathy, so on and so forth. I might or might not have written Viktor into my core memory from uni.

Cross-posted on AO3 + POV3rd Person Version

—

It had been going so well. You’d managed to sneak out of the third floor, enjoy a solitary elevator ride up to your dorm room, and avoid bumping into anyone. A quick stop at the only working vending machine in the building had earned you a packet of honey peanuts—your second small victory of the night. Shoving a tiny packet with white powdery leftovers into the nobody-knows-what-it’s-for pocket of your jeans, you quietly unlocked the door and slipped into the darkness of your bedroom.

Sue, your roommate, was off campus for the weekend, and the relief of having the room to yourself was palpable. All that was left was to rid yourself of the constricting clothes and underwear in favour of her freshly laundered favourite pyjamas. Mission accomplished.

You were just pulling on your shorts when a soft, methodical knock echoed through the silence.

Shit.

Your first instinct was to ignore it. There was absolutely no way anyone could have seen you—you’d made sure of it. This was a very serious mission, and you had accomplished it with meticulous care. You could definitely just pretend you weren’t there.

“I know you’re in there,” a voice with an undercurrent of amusement—and the accent—called through the door, slipping straight into the soft spot in your brain. Your current state of unfiltered contentment only magnified its effect, sending warm waves through your body.

Barefoot, your steps silent, you padded to the door and cracked it open. The fluorescent lights of the dormitory corridor immediately assaulted your eyes, and you let out an involuntary whine. Standing there, bathed in the harsh glow like some caricature of a holy figure, was Viktor.

“Need something?” you asked, squinting at him painfully.

He was dressed in sweatpants and an oversized green jumper, the hem of a white T-shirt peeking out at the collar. Leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, his hands rested on his cane, one eyebrow raised, his lips curled into a knowing smile.

“How inconspicuous do you think you are?” he asked, smugness radiating off him.

Your heart sank. Impossible. You had been so careful. Every step had been measured, every movement ghost-like. During the elevator ride, you hadn’t so much as breathed too loudly. He was bluffing.

“What do you mean?” Your voice dripped with exaggerated innocence, enough to make Viktor snort softly.

Slowly, he leaned in, one hand propped on the doorframe as his sharp gaze zeroed in on your face. Your noses were now an inch apart. Less than an inch. You could smell the faint scent of his body wash and the wool of his jumper. Your carefully constructed composure cracked as you inhaled sharply, just once, stealing a whiff of him.

It was worth it.

“This little sneaking-about routine you just pulled,” he said, his eyes studying you, his lips curling in amusement as realization dawned.

It was over. He knew.

The blown pupils, the blush blooming across your cheeks, the smile you couldn’t suppress when he got closer—it all gave you away. But you weren’t ready to let him win without giving him some grief first.

“I… went to get a snack. See?” You reached over to a cabinet by the door, pulling out the packet of honey peanuts and holding it up like a prized exhibit. “Don’t you believe me?”

He raised an unimpressed eyebrow as he took the peanuts from your hand. “Close enough. Maybe I would… if you weren’t giggling the whole time,” he said with a teasing smile.

You froze. Giggling? Impossible. You’d been quiet as a mouse, serious as a statue, your determination unwavering as you had ghosted through the building.

“So… what’s going on?” His voice was casual, curious—almost as if he were asking you out—and it yanked you right out of your spiralling paranoia.

Before you realized it, your hand had grabbed his forearm. His jumper was so soft under your fingers, and you pulled him gently—hesitantly—through the doorway. Your eyes never left his as you inched him inside, a silent question lingering in the back of your throat: Am I busted?

After a moment of silence in the darkness, you cleared your throat. You could see the amusement on his face, etched there the entire time, and it made your blood simmer.

“Just killing time while Sue’s away. Why?” you said, your voice a picture of innocence. You turned away, plucking a book from the cabinet and settling on the bed. Because, of course, you were going to have a reading session in a pitch-black room.

Even with the only light in the room being the faint glow of the corridor bulbs seeping through the door crack, you could feel his gaze flick to your legs. It burned.

“And how, pray tell, were you killing time in complete darkness?” His voice dripped with an unthinkable suggestion, sending a shiver down your spine. Or perhaps the shiver came because the implication wasn’t as unthinkable as you wished it were.

God, get your sass back on, girl. You had to, or you were going to lose miserably.

“Excuse me? Are you accusing me of indecency, dear TA?” you shot back, your tone sharper than you intended but steady enough. It earned you an indulgent smile from him, so maybe it was the right move.

“I would never,” he replied, mock innocence smoothing over his features. Viktor stepped closer, reaching to turn on the night light beside the bed. Its orange glow was soft yet oppressive, making you squint against the sudden brightness. “Though I might take my chances accusing you of… some other indulgence,” he added with a sly smile as he sat down beside you.

“I am a victim, not a villain,” you quipped, the words leaving your mouth before you could stop them.

Viktor’s expression shifted instantly to one of concern, and you inwardly cursed. Too late to take it back now.

“You are?” he asked, his gaze sharpening as he turned to look directly at you, trying to piece together what you meant.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, your voice light and dismissive, though the apology sounded genuine. “That sounded worse than it was. Don’t get all worked up.” You offered him an apologetic smile and, without thinking, rested your hand on his forearm.

His jumper was impossibly soft under your fingers, melting into your skin. You had to gather every ounce of willpower not to let your fingers linger or caress his arm, lest you completely betray yourself.

“There’s a party on the third floor,” you admitted, “and, well… it was boring.” God, you felt like a child explaining yourself after drawing a masterpiece on the bedroom wall while the adults sipped drinks and discussed politics. This felt wrong; surely, you didn’t have to explain yourself.

“Alright,” Viktor replied, his tone reassuring and careful. His eyes flicked down to your hand on his arm, and he didn’t move. It was warm, soft—comforting—and he didn’t want to scare it away.

“And… what did you have?” he asked, his voice low and steady.

“E, I think?” you said, your tone casual but hesitant, like someone confessing to sneaking an extra cookie before dinner. You thought it was E, though it felt slightly different—softer. You felt calm and didn’t think your heart was about to explode.

“You think?” His brow arched, scepticism plain as day. So irresponsible, on full display. He could convince you to do anything now. He could whisper you into robbing a bank with him. He could make you serenade him. He could ask you to lick his neck while he groped your ass and kissed your stomach. He could... no.

“Oh, that makes me look so bad,” you groaned, dragging a hand over your face, the sound almost slapping him out of his dark fantasy. “But it’s not as bad as it looks.” Your hand returned to his arm, and he flinched slightly.

“I am sure,” he replied dryly, “as long as no one has a heart attack or falls in battle with an imaginary dragon.” His attempt at joking felt weak, too breathy to be taken seriously. Shut up, Viktor. What are you, her father?

“God, you sound like a parent, Viktor.” You threw him a look that was part annoyed, part amused. He sounded like a parent—though not like any of your parents. Your parents would have convinced you to take acid with them to deepen the family bond as you all probed through each other’s consciousness. Gross.

“Alright, alright,” he relented with a small smile. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. So… where did you get it from?” He could at least have his eye on whoever drugged his favourite second-year student—or made you so bored you thought E was the answer.

“Snitches get stitches, you know?” you shot back, leaning into the playful deflection. The truth was, you didn’t even know the guy who handed you the tiny zip bag and asked, ‘Do you want to have some fun?’ Somehow, you were convinced admitting that would only make the situation worse.

He sighed, long and exasperated, tilting his head slightly to the side. “Are you feeling alright? Do you need someone to watch over you?”

“I’m fine,” you assured him with a dismissive wave. “I was actually just going to… stay here and enjoy it. And frankly,” you added with a cheeky grin, “if you’re going to stay here, all sober and responsible, I think that would make me self-conscious.”

But please, stay and watch over me, Viktor. Take care of me while my body is crushed with fluff was pushing violently through your mind. You had to cover your mouth with your hand to keep yourself from saying it.

“I hear you loud and clear,” he said, rising from the bed. “Text me if you need something, though?” Pity. He would have gladly combed his fingers through your hair and caressed your hands, knowing that in your current state, this simple touch would bring you more pleasure than any man ever had.

“Or…” you began, your voice slow and deliberate, “you could jump in with me?”

God, yes, roared in Viktor’s brain. Yes, I’ll jump in with you. I’ll jump anywhere after you. I’ll eat your soul, and it’ll be my last meal, and I’ll die happy.

He tried to compose himself, to come off as casual. His eyes widened, his lips parting slightly in surprise. “Are you offering drugs to your TA?”

“You make it sound like the crime of the century, Viktor,” you teased, though the words were a cover for the rising panic in your chest. What the hell had you just done? Had you really just offered your TA drugs? Were you insane? What was that expression on his face now—disbelief? Amusement? God, please don’t let it be pity. Maybe he’d be cross with you, but that might actually be easier to handle. You should’ve just asked him to stay, to bring you water periodically. That would’ve been enough. It would’ve been perfect, actually. Maybe then you could even sneak another whiff of his sweater when he wasn’t looking.

“Well,” Viktor began, his voice dry but with the faintest lilt of humour, “if we treat the university ethos as law, it is technically a crime: drug distribution, leading your classmates astray, bad influence.” He had to hold his composure. Truthfully, he was tempted to snort the entire bag in one go, just to melt into you.

“I think I missed the moment when I forced it down your throat,” you shot back, crossing your arms and meeting his gaze. His joke made you feel calmer, though. Maybe it would end there—just a funny anecdote he’d tease you with throughout the rest of your time at university. And maybe, ten years in the future at a reunion, he’d ask you, ‘Remember that one time?’

“Are you sure it’s E?” he asked, his tone neutral but inquisitive, eyes scanning your face. You were too calm for it to be E. You’d be dancing around, touching his face uncontrollably, and above all, you’d never come back to your room to enjoy solitude.

“No,” you admitted with a shrug. “But it’s really not such a big deal. No… visions. It just… feels nice.”

‘Nice’ was an understatement—it felt like being bathed in butter, like all the knots in your body had untied themselves simultaneously, while your mind retained its analytical sharpness. Or so you thought.

“I see.” His tone grew quieter, more thoughtful, and you watched him carefully as his gaze flicked to the tiny bag in your hand. “Alright, show me what you’ve got.” He silently hoped it was what he thought it was.

You hesitated but eventually held out the small zip bag with a pinch of white powder inside. His fingers brushed yours as he took it, and for a moment, you felt your breath hitch. He had such long fingers you were sure they would meet if he wrapped them around your neck. Oh, God. He tilted the bag, examining it critically, like a chemist assessing their materials.

"And how did you take it?" Viktor asked, lifting a brow. The last time, he had dissolved it in lukewarm water, as they toasted with Jayce. The taste was still unbearable, so they had to down a box of orange juice, and it still didn’t exactly help.

"I… rubbed it in my gums." You winced at the memory. "Do not recommend, though."

"Let me guess," he said, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "It tastes like shit?"

"Worse." It tasted so much worse. Not that you had ever tasted shit in your life, but it tasted like some vile chemical trying to burn its way through your tissues. It tasted so wrong, yet it gave you so much artificial happiness afterward that you had already decided you’d be able to do it again sometime in the future.

"Ah," he nodded, a small huff of amusement escaping him. "I think I might know what this is." He paused, weighing the bag in his palm, before raising a brow at you. "Alright, ground rules if… I take it: no sex." He couldn’t. He really wanted to and really couldn’t. It would lock you both into a one-night stand while being high, and a potential future of all the stands you could be having depended on him being responsible. As much as he could be in that moment.

"You think rather much of yourself, mister!" you shot back, flustered and scrambling to cover it with mock indignation. You hadn’t thought of it once; you just wanted to curl into him and breathe in his jumper until you snorted it off of him.

"Oh, give it thirty minutes, and you will think much of me as well," he retorted, his smirk deepening into something almost smug. "But it’s more of a contract I’m making with myself while I’m still sober. And I need a witness." Good, Viktor. You deserve a medal. You deserve a girl.

"And your witness can be high, I presume?" You looked at him, amused. It was a shitty contract, but you could oblige. You already knew what you wanted from this night.

"I work with what I’ve got," he quipped, shrugging one shoulder, his tone breezy but precise.

"Alright," you sighed, rolling your eyes. "Consider your contract witnessed."

"Shake on it?" His smile was so wide you would shake on absolutely anything.

"Ugh, fine!" You extended your hand reluctantly, and his fingers wrapped around yours in a brief, firm shake. His hand was warmer than you expected, his grip steady.

"Here we go then," Viktor said, releasing your hand and sitting down beside you. Truly, here we go.

"Wait," you said, your eyes widening as he tipped a small amount of the powder onto the back of his hand. "Are you snorting it?" What the hell was this, Breaking Bad?

"I know how to take my medicine, thank you very much," he replied smoothly, his voice coloured with faint amusement. You would’ve thanked him for learning this way—the taste was almost undetectable.

"And when was the last time you’ve taken this so-called medicine, Viktor? 1976?" you teased, leaning slightly closer to watch him. You thought that if you were ever to do it again, you could lick it off his hand, and that would make the taste bearable.

He gave you a flat look before replying, "My third year, give or take. The thesis caught up with us soon after, and then, well… I had to become a well-respected TA." He delivered the last part with a hint of mockery, letting the words hang in the air.

"Did you lose with the dragon?" you asked, a grin tugging at your lips.

"Yes," he said, deadpan, the corners of his mouth twitching. "It disembowelled me and Jayce. Let me just say, it wasn’t pretty." He leaned forward slightly, his gaze still on the powder as if appraising his next move.

You bit your lip, watching him curiously, the buzz in your body softening your edges. Was this really happening? Watching Viktor—your TA, the notoriously unflappable one—do this was something you never thought you’d witness in a thousand lifetimes. Yet here he was, sleeves rolled up, calm and deliberate, like this was just another late-night experiment.

"Fuck, I’m sorry. Push it away from your mind – no dragon in sight, just me," he said, seeing your eyes widen and remembering how prone to suggestion your mind would be right now.

"See you on the other side," Viktor said, tipping his head back slightly as he snorted the powder. He blinked a few times, exhaling slowly, then turned to you with a faint, lopsided grin. "Hmm… we need some more light. And music. And… do you have any food?"

"Is everything a project with you?" you asked, a laugh slipping out despite yourself.

"I like to take as much as I can from the little moments of indulgence that are granted to me," he replied, his tone matter-of-fact, though there was a hint of something warmer beneath his words.

"Not the sex though," you shot back, folding your arms but unable to hide your teasing smirk.

"Don’t sulk. You’re going to like it," he said, brushing you off with a wave of his hand before pausing and glancing down. "Do you mind if I take this off?" Without waiting for a proper answer, he began unbuckling his leg brace, the metal joints clicking softly in the dim light.

"I don’t think there’s anything I mind at the moment, Viktor," you murmured, watching him. The deliberate way his fingers worked, the small sigh of relief he let out when the brace came free—it was unexpectedly intimate, and you felt something warm settle in your chest.

He placed the brace aside, flexing his leg experimentally before leaning back on the bed. "I will be asking you a lot of questions tonight, so you better brace yourself."

"Whaa…? I didn’t sign up for an exam!" you protested, widening your eyes in mock horror. You had already put on your comfort Spotify playlist with a lot of The Smiths and Dandy Warhols on it, and a couple of colourful dinky lights scattered around the room.

"It’s not an exam. Consider me… your guide," he said, his tone taking on a playful gravity that made you grin.

"Viktor, I’m not an E virgin. I don’t need to be handheld," you said, rolling your eyes but plopping down close to him all the same.

"It’s not handholding. And I wouldn’t doubt your expertise," he said, his voice low and steady, "but it’s not E you’ve taken."

Your brows knit together as you stared at him. "No? What is it? Are we going to die?" Your mock horror made Viktor chuckle slightly.

“It’s M. The joy of E without the speed. It’s… nice,” he explained, his words soft and unhurried. He tilted his head slightly, as though listening to something only he could hear. “And given how I am starting to feel, we have around… two, maybe three hours of this?”

Your stomach flipped at the easy confidence in his voice, at the way he seemed so utterly calm despite the strange circumstances. You shifted in your seat, trying to suppress the giddy flutter rising in your chest. “So… what do we do?”

“Nothing. Anything you want. See what you feel like,” he replied, his gaze meeting yours, steady and curious. For a moment, the room felt impossibly still, like the two of you had been suspended in time. The edges of everything softened—the glow of the lamps, the hum of the city beyond the window, even the faint buzz under your skin. It all blurred into a single, surreal moment as you looked at him.

“What I feel like…” you murmured, your voice trailing off as a sudden, uncontrollable grin spread across your face. “Alright, Viktor. Guide me.”

“Come closer,” his voice was soft as he patted a space on the bed in front of him, splaying himself on his side. You leaned in slowly, propping your head on your fist.

“May I?” His hands hovered over your face, asking non-verbal permission before he touched you. You nodded, closing your eyes, and it made Viktor smile this time. His fingertips ghosted over your cheeks and brows; a touch so gentle you could barely feel it yet felt it intensely at the same time. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until Viktor spoke. “Breathe.”

“Are you nervous?” he asked, seeing you give a shaky exhale.

“No,” you lied. Your heart was thumping in your chest so loudly now that you were convinced Viktor could see the tremble in your sternum if he looked closely.

“Let’s get rid of this tension,” he said, pulling you into a tight hug. You immediately wrapped your arms around him, cradling the base of his skull with the fingers of one hand, while the other hugged his waist tightly. You could feel his soft jumper under your palms and felt warmer as his scent filled your nostrils. You breathed him in—the body wash, the fresh laundry, his skin and clothes wrapping around you like a blanket.

He slid one hand around your back and shoulders, the other finding its way down to the base of your spine. For a fleeting moment, he had an internal struggle to resist the urge to squeeze your ass tightly. Your bodies slotted together as if it was meant to be—here, on your dorm bed, entangled together, forever. His hands kneaded at your flesh when he rolled over you swiftly, allowing his palms to travel to your ribcage, squeezing it affectionately as he pressed his face to your body and took a long, deep whiff of you. You weren’t wearing a bra, so he was painfully aware that only one layer of clothing—relatively easy to get rid of—stood between his lips and your skin. You arched into his movement, making him release an audible sigh of contentment.

“You smell nice,” he whispered against your neck and smiled as he rubbed his cheek on yours, his eyes closed, heat slowly spreading through his veins. Then, he hooked his good leg under one of your knees to feel more of you underneath him, propped his elbows on each side of your head, and dropped his forehead to rest on yours.

You looked up at him, expression unreadable, as if you were studying him. His blown pupils, gold rings around them barely visible, dark freckles on his pale skin travelling deep under the collar of his t-shirt, the sharp structure of his face softened by colourful lights, the tiny bud of flesh crowning his upper lip. You really wanted to kiss him.

You saw the flicker in his eyes, nearly completely black now, before he rolled them to the side. “Not yet,” he whispered hoarsely as he tangled your fingers together, raising your palm to his lips to place a soft, lingering kiss on your knuckles.

“Bear with me, please,” the plea in his voice tied you into knots. His touch burned you, even as slight as the feeling of his long fingers cradling your palm. His hands felt heavy on you, grounding you, keeping you safe on this ride.

“Why so cautious?” you asked, your voice soft but edged with curiosity.

“I need to brace myself here,” he replied, his tone steady yet laden with something deeper, something vulnerable. He had to be cautious. If this was the time you had sex for the first time, it would be the last. He was convinced of it. Even when his entire body screamed at him to shed his layers of clothing and just merge with you. Just drown in you.

“I remember the contract, just the reason for it… eludes me now,” you said, using his own phrasing that he so often threw at you. You managed a small, teasing smile, but it trembled at the edges.

He chuckled quietly, the sound warm and almost sheepish. “I will indulge you then. This... would either be the best or the worst we could have,” he paused, measuring his next words and deciding if it was the right place to bare himself in ways other than nudity. “And I’m not ready for either tonight,” he added, the words hanging between you, a delicate balance of truth and hesitation.

For a moment, there was silence, as the space between you stretched, and you could feel the tension in his every breath. You were starting to understand what he meant, not just in the words, but in the way his hands tightened around yours, the way his body was so close yet still holding back.

“Viktor,” you murmured, your voice softer than you intended, pulling your gaze from your joined hands to meet his eyes. And God, he was so beautiful.

“Don’t think about what is not happening. Focus on this,” he said, squeezing your hand and rubbing his thumb on the heel of your palm. The touch sent a jolt through your body. “I promise, it will be good. I haven’t even kissed you yet,” he smiled, and you felt your resolve falter and shift to his side.

A quiet agreement settled between you. You wouldn’t step beyond the layers of clothing. There were so many steps still to take tonight, though. Viktor took a deep breath, partly in relief, partly to brace himself for what came next. He cradled your neck, and you wondered if his long fingers would leave a palm-shaped burn mark on your skin. His exhale washed over your face, smelling faintly of toothpaste and a man. He kissed you in slow motion, allowing you to warm up to the novelty of this touch.

You took his upper lip between yours as he slowly coaxed his tongue into your mouth. His hands travelled down to prop your bare thighs under the length of your shorts, and God, he was so happy you were wearing shorts.

He kneaded at the backs of your legs, his touch strong and confident. His mouth explored yours, licking the inner side of your lips, a faint taste of lip balm on his tongue. He bit your lower lip gently, sucking on it long enough to leave a mark that would bloom in full by morning.

You tangled your fingers into his hair, pulling him closer, breathing through your nose, as your hips and chests met, melting together.

He let out a breathy laugh, surprising himself. “You taste like a girl,” he murmured, his voice soft and unguarded. You blinked at him, not quite understanding. What he meant was that you tasted like lip gloss and summer, like a sweet drink laced with heavy alcohol—and it was the only taste he wanted in his mouth until the end of time.

“Any girl?” you asked, shooting him a questioning glance.

Instead of explaining, he said simply, “My girl,” before sinking back down into you, his lips trailing along your neck, nipping lightly at your ear. His hips rolled against yours without meaning to, and you felt how hard he was, but you didn’t comment, respecting the boundaries you’d both agreed upon. Instead, you wrapped your legs around his waist, your warm hands sneaking underneath the layers of his woolen jumper and crisp t-shirt. His body was all sharp lines and firm muscle under your touch, flexing instinctively beneath your fingers—a striking contrast to your softness, yielding to the shapes he wanted you to take.

When you closed your eyes, the brightness behind your lids didn’t dim, but it sharpened your focus on the sweet sounds he made. The soft whimpers escaped him as he breathed you in, the slow, deep inhales he took every time his face buried itself in the crook of your neck. His hands slid gently under your sweatshirt, wrapping around your ribcage and squeezing softly, almost as if he were coaxing your heart to him. His thumbs brushed the line just beneath your breasts, making your body tense in response, but he didn’t push further. Instead, he pressed his face into your stomach, his lips lingering there in a kiss that sent warmth blooming through you—a kiss he’d wanted to give but thought impossible only an hour ago.

“I have no words to describe this feeling,” he said quietly, his head resting against your belly, his hands moving to caress your thighs. You tangled your fingers into his hair, tugging gently to ease the tension from his scalp, and he let out a soft groan in response.

“Better than being eaten by a dragon?” you teased, your voice low and light as your mind wandered, overwhelmed by all the goodness surrounding you.

He propped himself up quickly, his flushed cheeks and disheveled hair framing his face. His lips were swollen from kissing, his eyes bright and loving as they locked onto yours. The sight stole your breath, and you felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude for listening to him, for letting this moment happen.

“You have no idea,” he replied, a smile breaking through.

Your bodies resumed their slow, unhurried dance, a rhythm built not on urgency but on the quiet comfort of simply being together. He held you close, his hands moving in soft strokes up and down your back, drawing you tighter against him. The warmth between you felt like a steady, glowing fire, soothing and constant. Your fingers found their way back into his hair, and you kissed him again, slow and tender, each lingering touch a wordless promise you both understood.

The intimacy felt endless, as if nothing outside this moment existed. His heart beat steadily beneath your palm, a rhythm that matched your own, and you let out a contented sigh as you melted into him. Viktor’s breath slowed and deepened, syncing with yours, his chest rising and falling against you. The space between your lips disappeared again, the softest whisper of air passing as you kissed, savoring the connection like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Time blurred, stretching and bending until it felt infinite, a luxury you didn’t dare question. The soft sounds of your kisses filled the quiet room, the outside world forgotten. You felt him smile against your lips, his hands cradling your face, his thumbs brushing the edges of your jaw with a tenderness that sent your heart racing.

Eventually, the kisses slowed, and he rested his forehead against yours, your faces inches apart, your eyes closed. A pleasant heaviness settled over both of you, the high of the moment fading but leaving behind a sense of peace. Your jaw ached faintly from the constant kissing, but you didn’t care. Viktor, too, seemed to feel the weight of exhaustion creeping in, though his arms stayed tight around you, unwilling to let go just yet.

As the faint strains of ‘I Love You’ by The Dandy Warhols played softly in the background, the last remnants of the high dissolved into a quiet contentment. His breath evened out, his hand resting warm and steady on your back. You let yourself drift, your head nestled against his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat as it lulled you toward sleep.

The last thing you remembered before the world faded completely was the warmth of his arms holding you close, his presence wrapping around you like a shield. Nothing could pull you apart—not in this moment, not ever. And with that, you both surrendered to the embrace of sleep, the quiet comfort of each other’s existence the only thing that mattered.

[cybrasigilism]

Can you do nsfw alphabet w nam-gyu? 🤭

NSFW ALPHABET with Player 124 (Nam-gyu)

warning: smut and all things of the like, the usual | not proofread | lowercase intended | these are my headcanons for this character, please be respectful even if my opinions on the character differs from your own

character: nam-gyu (player 124)

A/N: since i have another nam-gyu request lined up and cooking in my drafts i figured this would be a great way to get comfy in writing for him. it’s nice to see some player 124 fans up in the fandom especially since he shouldn’t be getting hate for the same shit thanos was also doing (yes i know he did kill se-mi and he did lose some credit with me for that, but i fear i saw that one coming a mile away). also, THANK YOU GUYS FOR 100 FOLLOWERS? i’m genuinely blown away by the sheer amount of support y’all have given me and I’m eternally grateful :’)

MDNI! 18+ content under the cut, reader’s discretion is advised

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A= Aftercare what they’re like after sex

↳ based on how clingy he is with his friends? yeah, he’s gonna be down for a cuddle post-sex. if it’s a one and done thing though, don’t expect much in the regards of after care. at most he might offer you a smoke but he’s only super affectionate if you guys are in a relationship

B= Body part their favourite body part of theirs + their partners

↳ his and your favourite part of his body is his hands, without a doubt. his favourite part of his partner? hands down we’ve got ourselves another ass man, and who’s surprised?

C= Cum anything to do with cum, really

↳ bites his lip when he gets close (just gonna put this here and run off)

D= Dirty Secret a dirty secret of theirs

↳ really, and i mean really, loves how you look with his hands around your neck

E= Experience how experienced are they? do they know what their doing, etc.

↳ i get the impression that he’s fairly experienced, and he does know what he’s doing in the regards of rougher sex. however he does need guidance when it comes to more intimate, gentler sex

F= Favourite Position this one speaks for itself

↳ any position where you’re riding him is his favourite. he loves being able to feel you up and take as much control as he feels like, while still letting you do most of the work.

G= Goofy are they more serious in the moment? are they humorous, etc.

↳ regardless of whether he’s on top or not, he will be mocking you. it’s all out of love of course, but sometimes that can be called into question

I= Intimate how are they in the moment, the romantic aspect?

↳ it really takes a while for him to warm up to gentler fucking, especially since he’s so used to rough + sloppy one night stands. it’s always jarring to see him get vulnerable with you though

J= Jack off masturbation headcanons

↳ talks you through touching yourself OH MY GOD THIS DAMN WIND AGAIN SOMEONE SHUT THE WINDOWS-

L= Location their favourite place to do the do

↳ semi-public sex turns him on, need i say more?

M= Motivation what turns them on, gets them going?

↳ total cliche, but seeing you in revealing outfits totally gets him aroused. if you’re wearing something that hugs your ass just right, yeah you won’t be wearing it for much longer

N= No something they won’t do

↳ i don’t feel like there’s a lot this guy wouldn’t do, but if anything it’s probably pegging

O= Oral their preference on giving or receiving oral, how skilled are they, etc.

↳ couldn’t care less if he’s eating you out or if you’re sucking his dick, he’s always down for oral sex. hell, he’s probably into doing 69 but that’s for him to know, and for you to find out

P= Pace are they fast + rough? slow + sensual? etc.

↳ he’s typically going to be pretty rough, he’ll be gentle somewhat at the start if you specify that you’re a virgin but trust that the gentle act will cease quite soon into the fucking™️

Q= Quickie their opinions on quickies, how often, etc.

↳ he absolutely loves quickies, there’s something about that adrenaline kick that he can’t get enough of

R= Risk are they game to experiment? how do they feel about risk?

↳ if any one of the squid game characters is down to experiment with risk, it’s nam-gyu. if he’s willing to take crazy unknown drugs from thanos in the games, he’s willing to experiment in bed

S= Stamina how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last? etc.

↳ is it the drugs? is it his experience? god knows. but whatever it is, his stamina is pretty crazy. he will usually outlast you in the matter of rounds, but that might also be because of how thankless he is on your pussy

T= Toys do they own any toys? do they use them on themselves or their partner?

↳ i’m not sure he’d be the kind of guy to own crazy toys, definitely owns a couple fleshlights, and he will use vibrators on you if you bring them

U= Unfair how much they like to tease/be teased

↳ lets not kid ourselves here. he is the king of mean teasing, he’ll tease you the whole time if he feels like you deserve it

V= Volume how loud they are, what sounds they make etc.

↳ definitely not much of a moaner, more so grunts and what have you especially if he’s in control. he’ll call you his “personal fucktoy”. something i could totally see him saying while he’s fucking you is “fuck, ‘so tight for me. nice to see what a pathetic little slut you are.”

W= Wildcard a random headcanon for the character

↳ really good with his hands. he will tease your clit if he’s able

X= X-ray what’s going on under those clothes?

↳ is he super jacked? no. does he have a fair amount of muscle on him? yes absolutely. for size, he’s easily 6” hard

Y= Yearning how high is their sex drive?

↳ his sex drive is almost concerning. point blank

Z= Zzz how fast they fall asleep after

↳ don’t expect him to wait up for you. if he’s super worn out he’s heading off to snooze-ville before you do

══════════════════

thanks for the request! i’ve been meaning to write for nam-gyu especially since he does not get enough recognition in the fandom :)

as always, any advice/constructive criticism on how i can improve my writing is appreciated and requested! have a gorgeous day all 💋

tags: @gabbystinks

[takes1]

i’ve never put in a request before but i read literally all of your haikyuu stuff and i was wondering if you could do something like your asahi x feral!reader but for tsukishima? or even just more asahi or tsukishima stuff would also be cool

tsukki using toys on feral!reader

i love you. here's your present pookie <3

warnings. heavy nsfw, minors DNI

details. fem!reader / rough sex / switchy, mostly dominant!tsukki / mutual masturbation / exhibitionism / voyeurism / use of vibrator / use of dildo / mutual crushing / dirty talk / tsukki loves to tease / flirty!tsukki / friend sex / mostly clothed sex / light choking / 3.3k words

links. my masterlist. more haikyuu. my ao3

Even the way he slid his tie off made you want to drop to your knees and beg him to fuck.

Tsukishima was an alright buddy, but you knew he'd make a much better lover. Maybe it was your delusion, built-up by years of crushing on your closest friend, but there was something about being a mean guy's favorite got you going.

More specifically: soaked, swimming in your raunchy imagination, even investing in some toys to help with the fantasy of it all, most nights.

He had no clue. You were always careful not to look at him more than you had to, to never speak to him too often. It was only thanks to being in the same class that he came over to study, and you got the chance to callous your crush-masking and Calculus III at the same unfortunate time. So fun.

"You study at all yet?" He stretched with a yawn, sore and tired from practice.

"A little," You were usually curt with him when it was just you two.

Today, Yamaguchi opted to work on his serves after practice with his mentor, instead of studying with you two. You nearly cancelled this, but you needed to go over a few concepts with somebody before the quiz tomorrow morning.

Yamaguchi was the best person to bounce off of, so the three of you had better, friendlier chemistry than just you and Tsukishima. You didn't have to fake it as much.

You set your laptop up on your desk and stood, bent at the hips to open up your class materials and take some books out of your bag.

"I didn't have time today," A weight was on the side of your hip, making you stifle a flinch. It was only the side of his leg, from the way he leaned back onto your desk right next to you, "I had to practice at lunch, too."

Another yawn.

They had been busier, lately. Both of them couldn't meet as regularly because they had extra, informal practices.

"Big match coming up?" You clicked to the website and took the soonest opportunity to get away.

You sat down in your chair and kept your eyes on the monitor. You couldn't handle his proximity. You were already wet just from the ride over, having to sit thigh-to-thigh with him on the train. It would be impossible to focus if he kept this shit up.

"Kinda."

The conversation died there. Neither of you tried too hard to keep any discussion alive without Yamaguchi.

He started getting his materials together and paused, then took another few minutes to root around. He glanced around your desk and didn't find what he was looking for.

"You got a pen I could borrow?"

You half-hummed, in the middle of copying down an equation from the screen to your paper.

"Uhh- yeah, yeah. Bedside table. Should be next to the uhhh, the lamp."

Tsukishima watched you for a moment longer, suspicious, but stretched again and pushed himself up to find the pen. To his delight, that was not what he found, when he tried looking through the drawers instead of limiting his search to the surface.

A quick glance back to you- still focused on anything but him, to a level he had grown to understand as simply overcompensation, and he knew he was clear to let his curiosity roam.

"Interesting."

"Wha'?" You mumbled, lazy against your knuckles, a dry, slow blink at your monitor filled with equations.

Long, slim fingers danced over the pink, silicone dildo in the back of your drawer. His grin grew to serious proportions when he found its smaller, surely nosier friend. He could have guessed you were a little freak, but loved this confirmation.

In your attempt to give your retinas a break, you found a spare pen behind one of your notebooks.

"Oh-, hey, I found it," You sighed.

You turned in your swivel chair to face him and see what the delay was about. A flash of pink in his hand made your blood run cold.

"Tsukki!"

You almost tripped scrambling out of your chair, the sound of your call a short and wheezy one, so he had plenty of warning before you were upon him, plastered to his front just like he wanted.

"Put that down!"

His hand flew high into the air, at a height you could never hope to reach- it angered you so quickly, and you felt your face getting hot. That tall bastard utilized his abnormal wingspan at the worst of times.

Frantic fingers clawed his sweater down, but there was no chance you could pull his entire arm down far enough.

From here, you realized he was also holding your smaller vibrator in the same hand. That just wasn't possible without freakishly large proportions.

You screamed, "You're such a fucking weirdo! Put it back!!"

Tsukishima pouted at you, making you think you might have gotten through to him, but like most of his expressions, it was sarcastic.

"Ooooh... I'm the weirdo?"

That one, especially coupled with the eye roll, pissed you off. It wasn't your fault that he was incapable of sexual attraction. You were over-active, sure, and maybe you rivalled the sex drive of a man, but that was your personal business. Up until now, it was stored safe and secret.

"Fuck you!"

You shoved him. And he actually fell back. He wasn't very heavy.

When he hit your mattress, it was a race to recapture your toys that had gotten knocked out of his hand before you could get to them.

You scrapped to get on top of him, weigh him down, and dodged his elbow to reach his wrist-- it was too late. He gripped the thing and you could only then try to pry his hand open.

"Ah-ah-ah," His smirk was so mean, how he found you, in the midst of all your panic, as cute as a button, "What's the magic word?"

"You're never coming over again, you dick," You muttered, fuming, when his fingers just wouldn't be opened.

Tsukishima didn't do much to keep his hand away from you. You held his forearm against your chest because you the most leverage there.

His unrestricted laugh was pretty; scratchy and elevated, watching you try and try again to take your belongings back from him.

Fatigue was getting in the way of your efforts. When he pulled his hand back, over his head, you got knocked off balance and caught yourself, looking down at him.

It distracted you for a moment.

There was something in his eyes you hadn't noticed before, in all your attempts to retrieve your precious toys.

"A little small..." He furrowed his brow, a purse on his lips as he angled it in the light behind you, "Don't you think?"

The hand against your other side made you pause. His thumb, starting to rub you through your uniform, made you shudder.

Why was everything so slow, all of a sudden? You could hear your elevated heart rate, acutely aware of how heavy your breathing had gotten. Tsukishima seemed as though he had always been here, in this state, because he looked you over at a glacial pace.

"Oh- god," You shivered at the realization you were sitting on him, in your skirt.

What had been such a sure reality of never getting off to him again, all at once, became the very reason to do so.

When you looked like you were gearing up to move off of him, smaller, and meeker in spirit, he spoke up through your habitual doubts.

"Stay-," His hand was firm now, gently pushing your weight onto himself, "Stay here."

Hearing something genuine come out of Tsukishima's mouth was so rare that you thought he was joking. You kept trying to rise off of him.

"Hey," He chuckled, but his smile was fleeting.

He set your toys down and used both hands to weigh you down by your thighs. Your uncomfortable expression was mostly confusion.

"Why would I do that?"

You were torn between wanting to take your stuff back and get far away, and the animalistic urge to stay and entertain whatever this was.

His scoff, the roll of his eyes, made your thighs flex, like it always did. This time, he could feel it. But it was confirmation he didn't need, at this point.

"Don't act like you're not into me."

The heaviness of being caught made you sink. It didn't appeal to you to find out why he knew. He was intelligent, after all, and made it his job to notice small things.

Now that it was out in the open, you had no need to lie. A lot less to worry about, too.

Tsukishima smirked at your tiny, defeated sigh.

You glanced to the toys, free for you to take and hide again, but found no desire to do so. You took a good, thorough feel of that soft sweater under your hands. It turned into pushing up under his shirt, and adjusting closer down, open for a kiss, if he felt so inclined.

He sucked in a breath through his nose, restraining himself only once, at that little, dirty roll you did against his cock.

A slow, unsure kiss was soon a rushed and racy battle for power.

Any drop of validation you gave him, whether in sound or feel, was drowned in a charged kind of yearning for more; More of that noise, more of your mouth, more of your body under his starving grasp.

His fingers spread over the plush of your ass, quickly between you and your underwear, spreading you from the back with so much vigor that you whined at all the intensity.

"Mm- yeahh, I know you like that shit," He nestled his kisses against the side of your face, rough and smiley.

You gasped, sharp, at his words and his nails digging lines into your skin.

"Oh my god," You moaned, eyes shutting at how his attention seemed to wrack through you like some sick wave.

In your sudden inability to kiss him back, he ripped open your uniform blouse and sucked hasty bites into your chest.

Finally. He made you feel like you could take anything.

When he sat up, you came with him, and rejoiced in the way he shoved you onto your back, all out of breath and turned on, hovering over you like you were his. That proud expression on your face deserved a few more kisses, he decided.

They were still so rough and challenging to keep up with- especially when you felt him sliding your panties off.

"M-mn," You chased after his lips for a second, not wanting him to pull away so quick.

"I want you to use this," He muttered, and handed you your vibrator- he was keeping it in his pocket, so it didn't get lost in the sheets (as it often liked to).

The sound of that was enough to make you giggle, instantly compliant. But it made you curious.

"Well- what will you do?"

Tentative, you held it without moving- but his hands guided it right where it needed to be. He smirked at your gasps, your thighs flexing hard against him.

"I'll watch," His voice was proceeded by the clang of his belt, zipping out of his belt loops and clattering onto the floor.

Your drunken eyes widened at the monster he pulled out. Yeah, it did make your dildo look small. But it looked natural in his big hand, starting to stroke himself at the view of you, under him.

There was no chance to be coy- he was doing the same thing, even the one to suggest it all. You gave a dreamy sigh, content at the chance to be his cam girl.

His head tilted, eyes lowered to watch your pussy, getting juicier by the minute- so he was a sick son of a bitch, too.

Ever the one to tease, he muttered, "How often d'you think about me?"

That made you warm. You didn't want to say it right away, because even you knew it was getting to be an addiction. It was hard not working one out every night when he was making you horny any time you spoke in class.

"Every day..." You mumbled, eyes still locked on the way he stroked himself, curious to try it for yourself.

He was busy imagining how often you had probably both been masturbating at the same time, with no idea. His hands pushed your thighs up- a nasty, preoccupied gaze on just the way it puffed up your pussy. God, he needed to feel you from the inside.

"Me, too," He admitted. Though it was a dirty thing to say, he said it so flat, in his own little way, as he searched for that dildo. He left out the fact that he jerked off multiple times a day.

"You wanna get that wet for me?"

You hummed, sweet and cute, at the opportunity in front of your face.

Getting it nice and slick in your mouth was just a way to torture him a little more, let him in on what he had been missing- you sucked the thing off a little longer than necessary.

His jaw flexed at the sight, his eyes narrow, intense, just how you liked them.

You grinned as he took it back and cleaned the string of spit from your lip. He sucked it off of his finger like cotton candy.

Tsukishima took the liberty of filling you up with it- watching every little twitch and savoring every whine with so much concentration.

The look of it had him pumping himself a little faster, a little dumb at the sight of you stuffed, already, and dripping onto your sheets. You had been getting off to him every night, then treating him like the dirt under your shoe, for three years?

"I would've been fuckin' you so good- mmnh- freshman year, if you had just been honest with me."

His words made you lose your breath, gasping at the thought of how much you could've helped yourself out, if only things had been different. But, that fixation on his face, all the anticipation leading up to now; you wouldn't have traded it for the world.

You bit your lip at how slow and patient he was, stretching you out all for himself.

"D'you want me to cum?" You asked, tone purposefully candied for him.

There was no hesitation. He looked a little staggered. It was adorable, how badly he wanted to see it happen.

"Fuck, yes."

It took you more effort to hold out, talk, and edge, than it did to give him a show.

You just fell into what you usually did when you got home from classes- this time, with little sounds falling from your lips, and your thighs up the way he liked so much.

The way his eyes clouded over, how he started to relax in the shoulders, and grew breathier at your performance stroked your ego on a deeper level.

"Ah-h!"

His breath stalled at the sudden tension, the gasp on your lips. He was watching you, completely captivated, at your rigid brow and crescendoing sounds.

"Mnn-H-Aahh!" You wished he would touch you, so bad, but it didn't happen. He was too busy studying you.

"Damn," He sighed.

He was taken by the way you came completely undone for him- it made his face soften, made him want to kiss you through it, but he loved watching from right here. It was unbelievably hot.

Though he pulled out that pink obstruction to his real plan, he didn't let you move your vibrator away. He grinned at your reaction, as you were still coming down.

You squirmed at the discomfort, a little panic in your eyes, all to find him enjoying it more.

"A-ahh-! Tsukki--,"

"Ohh- sorry, you thought you were getting a break?" His voice was so sweet, so amused.

He lined himself up with you, sure to lube up in all that extra slickness. It was so deranged and bold that it made you relax, watching in quiet, but whiny captivation, despite needing more time.

"Fuuck," He sighed, a huffy laugh on his lips at how perfect you took him, "God- mmnh-!"

It shouldn't have surprised you, but he wasn't slow, and he wasn't gentle. You supposed you weren't, either. You were both one in the same, too excited and caught up in the rare chance to let loose with a likeminded pervert.

The intensity in his twitchy brow gave way to a narrowed focus on your face.

"Feels so good, (Y/n)."

"Mmnh- call me anything but my- na-me," You sighed, a clip at the end of your phrase as he started using you like his own toy, fast.

He stretched you so good- nothing like your pitiful replacement for him. You couldn't believe he was packing so much, for such a skinny guy.

Though you half-expected him to keep using your name as a means to tease you; he smirked, instead.

"You can- ahh, be my dirty little slut, then-,"

You did say 'anything.' And, to your pleasant surprise, you didn't hate that as much as you thought you would. You still laughed at him, though, because he deserved it. He grinned, unable to take it too seriously, too.

Your recovery period was laughably short. The newness of his cock, the hungry look in his mean face over you, his attitude completely transformed by your body, had you short of breath all over again, wanting more, taking him better with less discomfort.

You welcomed his intensity. This time, all of it, finally wasn't fabricated in your head.

It began to spiral, tightening like a spring in your tummy, into the fundamental need to be railed to another orgasm.

"Harder- please," Your begging couldn't go unrewarded.

It was like he was waiting for confirmation to fuck you as hard as he wanted-- his hand naturally squeezed around your throat, a struggle playing out in his eyes, now, at the way you gripped his arm to keep it there.

He got raspy, breathy, sweat rolling down the side of his face.

Your volume was intense- elation and indulgence all at your liberty, since you were the only people home. Your family trusted Tsukishima, and you were only just now learning that they probably shouldn't.

"F-uck!"

The pretty shock taking your face, coupled with the spasm of your cunt as you actually came twice was all too much for a guy as nasty as him.

That shit was too raw- your gasps, wavering cries, too good for his filthy mind. He was gonna throw all of his porn away as soon as he got home. Next time he needed to cum, he'd take the train here.

He pulled out and absolutely ruined that cute uniform. You were twitchy, panting at all the overstimulation, drenched in sweat, and unable to care right now. He pried his own fingers, slowly, from your neck and lowered to kiss you. It was slower, now, as you both caught your breath.

Coming down with somebody wasn't nearly as sobering as coming down by yourself.

His forehead was slippery against yours, "I'll pay for- ah, your uniform, if I need to."

It was a sweet gesture. You pressed a kiss against his cheek with a laugh, "Just throw it all in the washer."

"Hm," He smirked, an idea taking form behind his eyes as you were carefully stripped of your clothes.

"Let's go again. One more time."

☆VIP☆

@integers @paradoxicalwritings @yuchacco

my masterlist. more haikyuu

[lowkeycasanova]

but she told me i can nail her sh*t

zoro x afab!reader

warning: smut

He licked his lips, panting and letting his head fall back. Eyes fluttering and jaw tight as you bounced your ass on him, his cock rock-hard inside of you.

"Damn" you heard his whisper. As you continued to ride him, he let out a grunt from deep within his throat. You smiled, as you loved when he was even the slightest bit vocal, giving you reassurance and confidence.

His large hands found their way to your thighs, then hips, then slightly cupped your ass, around your back, and up your waist and ribcage. Zoro was obsessed with how your body felt and wanted to explore...caress every inch.

For a while, he complied, letting you do all the work at your own pace. The tension in his muscles betrayed him from how much he wanted to move. And maybe it was the way you tugged his hair or the deliberate roll of your hips against his, but his patience snapped. With a low growl, his hands gripped your waist firmly. Before you could react, he shifted beneath you, lifting you up and bending his knees so that he could buck his hips properly.

You gasped, your body tense for a moment as you were surprised with the sudden change.

"My turn." he said, his voice low and rough with a smirk tugging at his lips. There was a fire in his gaze and you felt something pulsate between your thighs. Your control had been thrilling but now it was time for him to take over.

He begins to fuck you. Hard. His momentum starting of fast and then stabilizing. The sound of skin slapping and your little yelps was almost enough to get him off right then and there. Your breast bounce in his face like they're begging for attention. After a few moments, he sets you back down so you two can gain control of your breathing. You let out a small laugh through your thin breaths, fluttering around him, and just as it begins to even out, his hips are bucking you upwards again. His stamina is something to be reckoned with.

His hands move all the way up to your jaw this time, cupping your cheeks as he rails you. It feels so good. He feels so good but you're like putty in his hands. Your hips seemed to have locked up due to the pressure so you can't do anything but take it.

His hips jerk into you over and over and with every pump, you hiccup a half moan. Your hands move to hold his wrists as his hands still cup your face. He feels a flash of arousal knowing that you're just barely hanging on for the ride.

He's looking at you just before he comes, your jaw clenched but muttering a 'please' and 'zoro' here and there.

He's panting hard and drops his head back as he releases. It feels like euphoria. His heart beat hammers until it begins to slow. There's a ruggedness in your eyes and hair that makes him proud. Your thighs are too weak to even dismount from him. His hands go from your cheeks to your arms as he leans forward to kiss you.

****

Sanji’s voice broke through the quiet air on the deck. Zoro peeked through his eyes. His arms were crossed behind his head and his back against the mast as he watched Sanji approach you with a tray in hand, holding drinks. His grin stretched from ear to ear, and his eyes sparkled as he basked in your presence.

The exchange played out like a scene Zoro had seen many times before. Even after handing you the drink, Sanji lingered. All that flair. Such a try hard and you don’t even give him a second glance. Not that you were unkind- far from it. You always smiled, said thank you. It was always genuine.

Zoro didn’t hear all of what was said but he did catch the romantic undertone in the way Sanji said “I hope it pleases you” when referring to the beverage. Zoro tried to stifle a laugh but was unsuccessful as your eyes darted to him from behind Sanji. A faint twitch of amusement in your expression even when he tried to play it off.

Zoro was always giving Sanji a number.

“Number seven.”

“Fourth placer.”

Provoking the blonde cook filled him with subtle yet undeniable satisfaction. And last night, among the many shared nights, further convinced him that there, in fact, was a hierarchy between the two men.

If Sanji had even the slightest idea of what was going on between you and Zoro, he’d have an outburst, quite literally bursting into flames, and throwing some indignant response in Zoro’s direction.

You reminded Zoro of where he stood. It didn’t matter what Sanji did. You already made your choice.

[v6quewrlds]

With the bengals winning against steelers, it's only right we get a blurb/imagine of after-game activities...

imagine post-game shenanigans with joe.

author's note⠀⁎⠀suggestive but no smut because i wasn't feeling it lmao

"Fuck you!" Taylor jeered at a fired-up Steelers fan who had recognized you as Joe's girlfriend, his words slurred and aggressive. You rolled your eyes, scoffing at his audacity. The two of you were attempting to join the crowd leaving the bustling stadium, your plain hoodies and baseball caps failing to allow you the privilege of blending in once the home fans began to realize their team had just been defeated by the quarterback whose girlfriend was now in their midst.

You tended to avoid attending road games due to Joe's insistence on keeping you safe. The risk of confrontation with die-hard fans was always high, especially when emotions were as raw as they are today.

When you had first told him that you had decided to go with Kia and Taylor, he had been hesitant, forcing the three of you to promise not to wear any Bengals' merchandise and to keep your heads down. No flashy game-day outfits, no screaming, and no arguing with fans. The tight game, however, had you all riled up, and you hadn't even made it through the first quarter before the excitement got the best of you.

As the crowd began to disperse, the hostility grew palpable. You noticed the glares and the muttered insults, but you ignored them. You were leaving victorious, and you weren't about to let a bunch of sour fans ruin the moment. The three of you made your way through the throng, Joe's instructions ringing in your ears: "Just get to the car and stay together."

The Uber ride back was a mix of elated chatter and nervous glances at your surroundings. Your heart raced with every honk and shout from the passing cars, but you made it without incident. Back in your hotel room, you gathered your bags and downed celebratory shots of tequila. You shuffled back to your ride to the airport, the adrenaline from the game still pumping through your veins.

The private jet was a welcome sight. A luxurious cabin in stark contrast to your economy flight into Pittsburgh last night, with its plush leather seats and the soothing hum of the engines. You felt your anxiety lift from your shoulders as you all climbed into your seats, leaving the tension of the city behind. You couldn't help but think of Joe, probably still in the locker room, dealing with the media circus that came with a victory of that magnitude.

Your phone buzzed with a FaceTime call from Joe just as you all settled into your seats, waiting for the pilot to step into the cabin to announce when you'd be taking off. Your heart skipped a beat as you saw his sweet, exhausted face fill the screen. "Hey, baby," he said, his voice hoarse from yelling throughout the game. "You guys get out okay?"

You grinned, your friends leaning in to say hello. "Yeah, we're all good. Just about to take off." You gestured to the plush interior. "Thanks for the upgrade," you teased, your eyes sparkling.

Joe chuckled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "Couldn't have my girl and her entourage flying coach in enemy territory," he quipped. His gaze lingered on your lips, the exhaustion giving way to something more heated. "You look good, babe, even through this screen."

Taylor and Kia giggled, making lewd gestures behind your head, egging Joe on. He rolled his eyes playfully and leaned closer to the screen, his voice dropping an octave. "You better be ready for me when I get home. We've got some celebrating to do," he murmured, his eyes darkening with desire.

You couldn't help but laugh as your friends gasped in faux shock at Joe's suggestive tone. "I saw that! You disgusting pervert!" Kia exclaimed dramatically, referencing the TikTok with a grin, and pointing at the screen. Joe's grin only widened, his shoulders shaking as he tried to keep his voice low.

"I'll be waiting," you said with a knowing smile, your voice thick with anticipation. You hung up as Joe was called for press duties and turned to your friends, who were speaking with the pilot.

By the time you touched down in Cincinnati and made it home, you had mentally decided on the perfect way to greet Joe. You changed into his favorite lingerie set, a black lace number that hugged your curves just right. The scent of vanilla and champagne filled the room as you popped the cork on the bottle and filled two flutes. The bubbles danced in the light as you set them on the kitchen island, waiting for the moment Joe walked through the door.

Your heart pounded in your chest as you heard the garage door open and the sound of Joe's footsteps echoing through the hallway. He looked exhausted, his jaw tight, but the sight of you dressed like that brought a lazy smile to his face. He dropped his bag and shrugged out of his coat protecting him from the falling snow. "Damn, you weren't kidding," he murmured, his eyes devouring you.

You walked over to him, placing a flute in his hand and whispering, "You told me to be ready, didn't you?" You balanced your flute in your other hand, lifting it to clink against his. The sound of your glasses meeting filled the room, a tiny promise of what the night would hold.

Joe took a sip, his eyes focused on yours. He could feel his body responding to you, the ache from the game's physicality forgotten. He took you in, his eyes tracing the curves of your lingerie-clad body, the way your skin seemed to glow against the black lace. "You're going to be the death of me," he muttered under his breath, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. "Do a spin for me, pretty girl."

You rolled your eyes, but the playful challenge in Joe's voice made you smile. You twirled around, the lingerie hugging you in all the right places, the flimsy material leaving little to the imagination. You felt a rush of power and excitement as Joe's eyes widened and he took a sharp breath in. You knew he liked what he saw.

He threw back the rest of his drink, the liquid sliding down his throat as he stepped closer to you, setting his empty glass aside. "Come here," he said, his voice gruff and low. You felt your heart flutter as you stepped into his embrace. The warmth of his body was a stark contrast to the cold air outside, his arms wrapping around you tightly. He kissed you deeply, his hands exploring your curves. The taste of victory and the promise of a night of passion mingled in the air, electrifying your every touch.

"I'm glad you like it," you said, your voice teasing, as Joe's hands roamed your body. You felt the heat between you build, his touch setting your skin on fire. "But first," you whispered, pulling away slightly, "I need to check on that head of yours."

Joe's smile immediately faded, and he sighed. "Babe, I'm fine." But you were insistent.

You had seen the hit replayed over and over on the screens in the stadium. The way he had been pancaked, face first, to the ground had made your heart stop for a moment. You were paralyzed from your seat, silently praying as the trainers rushed onto the field. When he finally stood up and walked off the field, you felt a mix of relief and anger. Relief that he wasn't seriously injured, anger that he was still so woefully under-protected years into his time with the Bengals.

"Just let me take a look," you said, taking his face in your hands and turning him so the light from the kitchen illuminated his skin. His eyes searched yours with an annoyed look that you ignored. You knew he was trying to gauge whether you were just worried or if you were about to turn into Meredith Grey.

He grumbled but allowed you to inspect his head, his hands resting gently on your hips, thumbs tracing the lines of the lace pressed against your skin. You felt a slight bump on his forehead, but there was no bruising to be seen. "It's just a little swollen," you said, your voice tight with concern. "Are you sure you don't have a concussion?"

"I'm fine, babe," Joe said firmly, his patience waning. He knew you meant well, but the adrenaline from winning had his body humming with need, and your gentle fussing was only making it harder to focus on claiming his reward. "They checked me out already."

Your eyes squinted skeptically. "Sure, the 'unaffiliated' neurological consultant who's hired by the NFL and defers to the team doctor," you quipped, unable to let go of your concern.

Joe huffed again, rolling his eyes. "Look, if there was something serious, they wouldn't have cleared me to finish the game," he said, trying to soothe your fears. "And you know the Players Association pays them too."

You pursed your lips, "Fine," you conceded, letting your hands drop to his chest. "But if you start feeling weird, or you get a headache, or anything, promise me you'll tell me. I'm serious about that, Joe."

"I promise," he said, leaning in to kiss you again. His hand slid down your back, caressing the soft skin above the lace. You felt the tension in your body start to dissolve as his mouth moved to your neck, kissing and nibbling the sensitive flesh. His hands roamed lower, cupping your ass and pulling you closer to him.

"Someone's eager," you murmured, a hint of laughter in your voice as Joe's hands grew more insistent, obviously trying to ignore your fussing. You knew the game had taken a lot out of him, but you also knew the effect you had on him, and it was clear he wasn't going to let a little fear get in the way of celebrating. You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, the brief tension forgotten as your bodies met.

"I'm trying to fuck, and you want to give me a medical exam?" Joe chuckled against your skin, his voice muffled in the crook of your neck. His hands grew bolder, slipping beneath the lace to cup your breasts. Your laugh turned into a moan as his thumbs brushed over your nipples. The sound sent a jolt of desire straight to Joe's core, his cock thickening as he felt you respond.

"I can't help it," you murmured, your eyes fluttering closed as your hands drifted from his chest to the back of his head. You sighed softly as he nibbled tentatively at the edge of your jaw.

"You're my baby, and I want you to stay my baby." Your voice was filled with a mix of concern and desire that made Joe's heart swell. He kissed you again, his tongue sliding into your mouth, tasting the sweetness of the champagne. He could feel the urgency building between you, the need to celebrate his victory in the most intimate way possible.

[gospelica]

just friends!

cw: frat!toji x fem!reader, degradation, spit, unprotected sex...... probably more

It’s demeaning, really, the way Toji Fushiguro watches you from the other side of the room. You can barely see him, shadows and party-store strobe lights displace his expression for seconds at a time, but when you do manage to hold his gaze long enough to make out the sharpness in it, your skin crawls. Through his eyes, you're no better than the last of his conquests.

You still like the heat of his hatred, though, especially when it's his best friend's lap you sit on. Shiu Kong has an arm around your waist, fingers dug into your side, the pressure light yet insistent. His face is flushed against your neck; lazy kisses pepper your throat. He wouldn't be marking you up for the world to bear witness if Shiu knew you belonged to Toji first, but he had insisted you were just friends, it was nothing more than a casual night or three. Now, he gets to watch as Shiu's free hand trails up the inside of your thigh, waging war against his urge to have you ride his fingers in the middle of the crowded living room.

Shiu's eyes are closed, lips wet against the expanse of your throat as he sucks a hickey into your skin—your eyes are locked on Toji, who stands across the room, jaw clenched tight and hand wet with the spill of beer from his plastic cup. A sea of bodies act as the barrier between you two, dancing and grinding against each other in the same show of college-aged lust you're exhibiting with Shiu's hand trailing that little bit further up your thigh. You watch Toji swallow and take a step back, ready to turn away, but something deep inside of you aches to be seen. You use a hand to lift Shiu's chin up so that you can plant your lips to his in a bruising kiss. Your brown-haired tryst responds eagerly, parting his lips, letting your tongue dart in to explore the seam of his mouth. His eyes flutter shut but yours stay open and stuck on Toji, who doesn't blink as he watches you share spit with his best friend. He looks like a different man.

You pull away from Shiu slowly, dragging your teeth over his lip before leaning back in with purposeful abandon and you can almost swear you see him shudder in turn. One of his hands has slipped under your shirt palming your breast, his thumb rubbing a taut nipple through your bra. The contact makes you moan involuntarily, but it does nothing to distract you from the intense stare of Toji Fushiguro who is still watching you. It takes all the restraint you possess not to look back, to ignore the piercing stare that could burn a hole right through the side of your skull. Instead, you give Shiu a soft but sultry smile and say, "I'll get us another drink, and then we can get out of here?" 

"Sounds good," Shiu gives you a nod and takes his hand from under your shirt so you can stand from his lap. You eye the growing tent in his pants that he has to readjust to sit comfortably, and you smile as you turn to walk to the kitchen while Shiu follows you with his eyes.

You slip behind a corner into the kitchen where half-emptied bottles of nondescript booze and solo cups of mixers sit precariously along the countertops. You grab one of the bottles and two cups that you hope are clean and start to pour a drink for you and Shiu. You need this: a good orgasm or two to get your mind off of Toji and his incessant proclamations of 'just being friends'. You'll fuck Shiu as a 'fuck you' to Toji and move on to the next guy that won't make you cum half as well as either of them can. But the bottle is plucked from your hands, spilling over as it's placed down harshly and you're suddenly pressed against the edge of the countertop by someone much larger than yourself, their chest pressing against your upper back, crotch against your ass, arms boxing you in on either side.

This isn't Shiu; he's too coy for something this crude.  This guy, who smells like mint and a deodorant you've smelt too many times before, leans forward until his lips brush against your ear. His breath is hot, fanning your skin in ragged waves. Him. "So are you gonna fuck him?"

"Fuck you, Toji. We're just friends," you parrot his own words back to him. Just friends, he had said whilst knuckles deep in your pussy, begging you to sit on his face only a moment later. Just fucking friends.

"That's what I thought," he exhales, and his voice is low, rough. You shiver, goosebumps prickling on your arms. The pressure of him on your back slackens and you twist, turning around only to find yourself still boxed in, but face to face with the source of your every wrongdoing, Toji fucking Fushiguro. The grin pulling at his lips makes him appear predatory, almost feral. It's an animalistic thing; the look he gives you, hungry and angry and desperate. Like he wants to devour you in whole and spit you out just to taste you again. "Let me rephrase: have you fucked him already?"

No. "Yes." That answer comes quickly enough, even if it sounds a little pathetic in the face of Toji's glazed eyes.  Your hands rise of their own volition, landing on Toji's chest and trying hopelessly to push him back. "Now get off me."

He doesn't budge, instead leaning in until you can feel his breath ghosting across your lips, noses bumping together lightly, "you're a fucking slut," he smiles, and you want to slap the grin off his face, want to claw into those beautiful eyes of his for looking at anyone but you. You hate him, you hate him with everything you have, you hate that your heart is slamming against your ribcage in response to his words. He's so close he can probably hear it, feel it, taste it on his lips and feel it in his hollowed bones.

You slip a hand from his chest down to the bulge of his jeans; he's hard, and you palm him through the coarse denim. "I'm the slut?" you bite, "what about you, Toji? Huh?" You squeeze him harder, feeling him twitch underneath your touch, "what are you then?"

One hand snaps from the countertop beside you to your throat, fingers digging in hard enough to start hurting. "I'm one minute away from fucking you stupid on this goddamn counter, that's what I am." When you don't dignify him with a word in response, he continues, lips barely an inch from yours. "You'd like that wouldn't you? You just won't fucking admit it."

You’re a moment away from spitting in his smug face when Toji takes the hand against his crotch and uses it to pull you out of the kitchen in a swift but forceful motion. You trip over your own feet with the speed that he drags you, his grip unrelenting, but you’re able to glance into the living room as you pass to see Shiu talking to someone you don’t know. You try and get a look at your replacement, but Toji is too fast, his grip on you only tightening as he takes you upstairs and starts checking doors for a room to push you into. 

A chorus of “ooh la la” erupts when Toji swings open a bathroom door to find a group of people smoking weed on the floor in front of the toilet. You could use a toke right about now. Toji huffs a half-assed ‘sorry’ before pulling you to the next door and trying it- there's a click and before you can register his success, Toji is pulling you into the empty bedroom and subsequently pushing you against the back of the door as it shuts.  Your hand flies to the door handle in instinct, searching for a lock to turn and ensure your privacy, but it's futile when Toji has a hand clamped over the handle to keep you from playing with it.

"Let someone walk in," he says. "Let them see just how fucking desperate you really are," he reaches a hand up and grabs your hair, yanking it backwards to expose more your neck. "Just how bad I wanna ruin you."

You slap him hard across the cheek. The sound reverberates through the room as Toji turns his head only in the slightest to rub the sting away. Though his shock is short lived, he steps closer, forcing you back against the door until you hit the wall with no space left for retreat and he's pressing his lips to yours in retaliation, licking over and over at your bottom lip until you finally give up and kiss him back. This is worse than the stinging cheek of a slap, the wrung heart of knowing you want this more than a drunken clumsy night with Shiu Kong: you want the anger and the hurt and Toji is kissing you like he loves you just to taunt you. To torment you for being weak enough to let him. For wanting the man that you hate to fuck you against the door.  And you do. You want it so badly it hurts more than your ego. 

"Fuck you," you speak against his lips.

His reply is a hand to your jaw, rough and mean and lifting your head so he can access the bites left behind by Shiu in the living room. He dips his head down and licks across every last mark his best friend had bitten into you, painting over Shiu's spit with his own, staking his claim like a dog with a bone.  "Tell me to stop," he breathes out, mouth still glued to your throat.

"Fuck you." 

You don't have time to think before Toji is grabbing at the waistband of your shorts and tugging them down to pool around your ankles; your legs instinctively curl inwards to cover yourself but Toji pushes your knees apart with both hands and lowers himself between your thighs. He pulls one of your legs up, rests it over his shoulder and looks up at you with darkness in his gaze. Though he's the one on his knees, you're the one at his mercy. His lips curve up at you again and he bites into the flesh of your inner thigh, making you hiss out a gasp at the sudden pain.

"Tell me to stop," he repeats in a growl.

"Fuck you," you spit in return.

"Say please."

Your eyes flutter shut in defeat. "Please."

"I told you," Toji presses an almost sweet kiss to your clit, "that you're a fucking slut." He moves his tongue back and forth between your folds, and you let out a soft moan, your hips rolling instinctively forward to meet the invasion.  You can't help it - you love his tongue, he knows that - you'd beg for it when you were sweeter on him but now... now, all you're capable of doing is arching your hips further into his mouth, hand flying down to the mess of hair atop his head in an attempt to pull him impossibly closer to you. 

"Please, please, please..." Your hips thrust harder into his mouth with each syllable that leaves your lips, growing close to sweet release. Toji moans softly and licks over the sensitive bundle of nerves buried within your folds. You pull hard at his hair, you hope it hurts, you need to be as close as physically possible to him, need it to connect you completely.

And then it happens. It happens in a cold second, one moment you're building to orgasm and the next you're feeling wipe his mouth and stand up with no climax from you to show for it.  You don't move at first, frozen solid and waiting for something to happen. But nothing does, and when you realise he hasn't moved either you force your eyes open, squinting past the black dots dancing across your vision to find him staring at you with a wide smile.

"What the fuck, Fushiguro?" you demand, though it comes out more pleading than anything. Your voice cracks. It's embarrassing.

"Shiu wouldn't have made you cum either," he shrugs, an evil look on his face- you want to cry. You want to shoot your hand down and finish the job off yourself but you know Toji would never let that happen; he nods to the bed against the wall. Some strangers bed; a full length mirror sits opposite it. 

"Don't tell me this is some sick punishment." God, you wish he would stop smiling.

"Just get on the fucking bed."

“F—”

“Fuck me, yeah I know. Move your ass before I fuck that too.”

Your plain lust makes it difficult not to oblige, and you’re walking over to the edge of the bed and sitting down before you can register yourself doing so. The sheets are a dark blue and smell like detergent and dryer sheets, so the thought of fucking on a strangers dirty sheets are calmed as Toji traipses towards you. 

He lands between your legs, eyes darting down to look at your glistening cunt before taking in the rest of you. With a simple nod, he orders your top and bra off, and you’re naked before a ‘fuck you’ can leave your lips. Toji remains fully clothed, but you think he likes that contrast, that aspect of control. You’re so cock-hungry you let it pass, because you can see the tent of his jeans and there’s little you wouldn’t do to be full of Toji Fushiguro right now.

“Open your mouth,” he speaks down at you. 

Your lips part, head tilted back ever so slightly as your tongue lolls out of your mouth. Toji spits directly onto it, the very same saliva that had just mixed with the lust of your pussy now lace your tongue and spill down to your lips. 

“Swallow.”

You do, Toji loves the sight. So much, in fact, that he wastes no time in pulling you to your feet just to press a wet kiss to your lips, swap some more spit, and then turn you on your heels and push you face-down into the mattress of the poor soul who owns this bed. You land with a whine, and Toji lands a spank to your ass in a silent order to get on your hands and knees for him. 

You comply without even thinking, curling your body in the perfect angle to allow Toji easier access to your aching entrance. Looking forward, you watch yourself in the mirror, a mess of everything you shouldn’t be doing, and Toji: a mess of everything you should. He lines up behind you and moves to push inside of you, but his hips halt before he makes contact.

His eyes flit up to meet yours in the mirrors reflection. “I don’t want to ever see you with another guy like that. No one but me, you got it? You need to be fucked stupid to understand who you belong to? Sure thing. You need dates and kisses and to call me your fucking boyfriend so you don’t chase the next dick that’ll fill you up? Whatever. As long as it’s me.”

 You nod. You want it. You don’t deserve such awful things but you crave it.

Toji slowly pushes himself into you until he’s fully seated inside you; you let out a groan as you adjust to the stretch of his size. You’ve never quite gotten used to how big he is. You squeeze your eyes shut at the sensation and he takes that as his cue to start moving. He pulls almost all of the way out of you, eyes stuck on the sight of his cock covered in you.

“Did you just ask me to be your girlfr—FUCK.”

Toji slams his hips forward and you feel his entire length split you open on the spot. You cry out, loud, long, and ragged breaths leaving your body as he begins to pound into your body again and again in quick succession. His hands grip your waist harshly, fingers digging deep into your flesh to make sure you stay in place on the bed. 

When you finally do manage to relax, pleasure begins coursing through you like waves on the shores of some vacation beach you couldn’t name. Toji takes your hair in one hand and continues his bruising grip on your waist with the other.

The repeated snapping of his hips against yours is brutal, skin against skin and sweat permeating the room's heat. With every thrust you’re pushed forward, your eyes locked on your reflection in the mirror. You’d lay your head down to rest against the sheets if Toji wasn’t fisting your hair so tight, pulling your head up to stare at yourself getting wrecked on his cock. 

He leans forward, chest pressing against your arched back, a harsh bite to your earlobe, and then the growling words— “could he fuck you stupid like this?”

“Yeah,” you manage, tone dripping with an aching need. 

“Yeah?” Toji loosens his grip on your hair and instead snakes his fingers around your neck, squeezing each side of your throat in such a way your head already feels light. He pulls you up, your back flush against his front as his cock still drills into you; he squeezes further. “Shut the fuck up.”

Toji trails his hand from your neck to your bottom lip and slips two fingers inside your mouth as he fucks you. You’re full of him from both ends, tasting his fingers and taking his cock in its entirety like you were fucking made for it. There’s something about being taken apart so thoroughly that nearly pushes you over the edge of your climax, though it’s not until Toji slips his hand, fingers wet with your spit now, down to your clit and starts rubbing it in quickened circles that you’re really melting into his touch.

It isn’t long until you lose your mind, legs trembling underneath the weight of such overbearing pleasure. Toji’s the only reason you stay upright, holding you against hisself as his hips starts stuttering and he falls over that same precipice you just did.

With one last hard thrust that near sends you delirious, he spills into you, filling you up so full with his seed that you already grieve the inevitable loss of it when he pulls out and insists on watching it leak from your pussy in a display of his hold on you. 

For now, though, you revel in the haze of laboured breath and the warmth of his sweat-glossed chest against your back. You can feel his heart beating against your shoulder blades in a rapid drumming rhythm. You watch yourself in the mirror, plugged with Toji’s cock as he presses a gentle kiss to your shoulder in turn— he’s never done that before.

“Did you mean it?” you ask through raspy breaths, barely above a whisper.

“That you’re a slut?” Toji grins, biting over the spot he had just kissed, “yes.”

“That you want to be exclusive. More than ‘just friends’.”

“I just came inside of you, I’m still fucking inside of you. We aren’t just friends.”

 His voice is thick and hoarse, you can hear the smile forming on his face in spite of his efforts to keep his expression blank. You want to say something more, tell him a million different things that should probably wait until he isn’t plugging you with his cum, but your thoughts are cut off by a heavy knock at the door and the call of your name.

It’s Shiu, and he’s turning the doorknob.

And his best friend is still balls deep inside of you.

[plethorawrites]

Guys! Clark has started to invade too!!! Anyway, today I was thinking about Smallville Clark Kent (personal go to when thinking about the character) with a new neighbor from the city...

---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---___---_

Clark Kent: Who sees you by the fence, petting his family's horses, and doesn't recognize you, which is odd because he recognizes everyone in such a small town.

Clark Kent: Who quickly realizes from the way you dress to the lack of an accent that you're not just new in town, but from some larger city that probably has apartment buildings with more tenants than the entire town has people.

Clark Kent: Who brushes off your apology for petting the horses, which you'd only done because you've never seen any in real life and couldn't resist how sweet they looked.

Clark Kent: Who watches you insist on going home to unpack instead of keep talking, but runs into you at school the next day and offers to show you around.

Clark Kent: Who you offer a ride home in your car as a thank you for being an extremely patient tour guide.

Clark Kent: Who accepts, under the condition that you let him show you the town too and when you tell him you pretty much have with how small it is, shakes his head and tells you there's a lot of places people don't know about aside from him or a few other kids.

Clark Kent: Who not only shows you his favorite places the next time you're both free, but also says he would be glad to teach you to ride, if you ever wanted.

Clark Kent: Who is thrilled when you take him up on it and spends several hours on a trail with you at a calm pace, keeping close in case anything suddenly spooked your horse. Although they were incredibly good horses so there weren't any problems.

Clark Kent: Who was fascinated by watching you slowly get more accustomed to the town—wearing clothes that were from a local boutique instead of a designer brand, engaging in the rather silly but beloved town traditions, even cutting off some of the friends from the city who you realized weren't really your friends at all after they once visited and immediately started making fun of Clark and his friends.

Clark Kent: Who was surprised at first, when you showed up at his family's door one day asking to help with the animals, but quickly got used to you coming over to help him feed or bathe them, which you claimed was your way of thanking him for the riding lessons but he suspected you just wanted an excuse to be with the animals.

Clark Kent: Who knew you'd fit in with his friends after they got over their own prejudice of you being rude or pretentious because you're from the city and likes hanging out with you with them but likes it just as much, maybe more, when everyone leaves and you're able to stay a bit longer in the barn.

Clark Kent: Who leans out the window next to you, enjoying the breeze as the sun sets and tells you he's glad you moved to Smallville.

Clark Kent: Who sees you shudder from the cold and instantly wraps his jacket around you, conveniently ignoring your blushing cheeks in case he was misreading the situation.

Clark Kent: Who still carefully tucks a piece of hair out of your face—while the voice in head screams not to ruin things—just to see it better and wets his lip while staring at yours.

Clark Kent: Who leans in slowly, waiting for the moment you'd slap him and walk out for daring to try something with you, but only sees you leaning in too.

Clark Kent: Who kisses you for the first time while you're in the barn, wearing his jacket, but promises himself then and there that it wouldn't be the last.

[lanf1an]

SEASONS lando norris x fewtrell sister pt.4 - january 7 2025

pt.1 pt.2 pt.3

Wordcount: 1936

The group was scattered across the slopes, each pairing off for a morning of skiing or snowboarding. Lando and Dylan had somehow ended up together after riding the lifts, and were carving through the snow in companionable silence. Lando had to admit Dylan was annoyingly good on a board, making it look effortless as he sped down the powdery trails.

At the bottom of the run, they paused to catch their breath. Dylan stretched his arms above his head, grinning. “Man, this is the life. It’s great you guys have been doing this every year.”

“Yeah, it’s the best,” Lando replied, adjusting his goggles. “You’re lucky you got the invite.”

Dylan laughed. “I guess I passed the test with her, huh?”

“Guess so.”

As they lined up for the next lift, Dylan turned to him. “Speaking of passing tests, she told me she’s thinking of taking that job in Japan. Pretty big deal for her, right?”

Lando froze. “Wait—what job in Japan?”

Dylan looked confused. “She didn’t tell you? It’s with her company. Some kind of high-level exchange position for a few months. She’s not sure yet, but we’ve been talking about it.”

Lando forced himself to stay casual, though his chest tightened. “You’ve been talking about it?”

“Well, yeah,” Dylan said. “If she goes, I’d probably go with her for a bit. There’s great boarding in Japan, so it’d be a win-win. But she’s still deciding.”

Lando didn’t respond immediately, pushing off as the lift began to carry them up the mountain. 

“She didn’t mention it to me,” he said finally, not wanting to admit it.

Dylan shrugged, oblivious. “She’s probably waiting until she decides for sure. I mean, she’s got you, Max, her parents—it’s a lot of people to think about.”

“Right,” Lando said shortly, staring out over the snowy landscape. — Later that evening, the group was lounging in the cozy living room of the chalet, the fire crackling softly in the background. Dylan was engrossed in a card game with Max and some of the others, leaving you and Lando alone in the corner, sipping your drinks.

Lando leaned closer to you, lowering his voice. “So... Japan?”

You blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Dylan mentioned something about you getting a job offer in Japan,” Lando said, trying to sound nonchalant but failing. “You didn’t think that was worth mentioning to me?”

You sighed, swirling your drink. “It’s not set in stone, Lan. I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it until I decided.”

“Decided what?” His voice had an edge now. “Whether or not to move halfway across the world?”

You frowned, defensive. “It’s an amazing opportunity, Lando. I’m not saying yes or no yet, but it’s something I have to consider.”

His jaw tightened, and he set his glass down a little too hard on the coffee table. “What about the season? You’ve always been there—well, mostly. I can’t imagine doing it without you around.”

Your expression softened slightly, but your tone remained firm. “Lando, I wasn’t at every race last season, and you were fine. Look at your results!” You gave him a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. “You’re a superstar. You don’t need me there holding your hand.”

He stared at you, his lips pressed into a thin line. “It’s not about needing you to hold my hand. It’s...” He trailed off, running a hand through his hair. “You being there—it just makes things... easier. Part of my routine I’m used to”

Your brow furrowed. ‘’Part of your routine?’’

“I just… It’ll be weird without you around. You’ve always been there.’’

The sentiment was sweet, but there was something about the way he said it that made your chest tighten. “You’ll be fine,” you said, forcing a smile now. “You’ve got Magui, and Max, and the whole team. You’re not exactly lacking in support.”

“It’s not the same,” Lando replied, his voice barely above a murmur.

Your hand froze mid-reach for your drink. You set it down instead, the clink of glass against wood sharper than you intended. “What are you saying, Lando?”

He hesitated, like he hadn’t expected you to call him on it. “I’m just saying… you’ve always been part of this. Part of my life, my career. You get it in a way that—” He stopped himself, shaking his head. “I don’t know how to explain it.”

“Try,” you said, your tone sharper than he expected.

His brows furrowed, and for a moment, he looked like the boy you’d known all those years ago—earnest, vulnerable, and completely unaware of how his words could cut. “I guess I just… I need you. You’ve always been there, and I don’t know what it’s going to be like if you’re not.”

“You need me?” you repeated irritated. “Lando, I’m not going to Japan to sit on a beach. This is my career. My chance to do something for me. Do you even realize how that sounds?”

His eyes widened in confusion. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just saying—”

“You’re just saying you want me to put my life on hold so I can keep holding your hand through yours and be part of your routine?” you snapped, the words tumbling out before you could stop them.

Lando recoiled slightly. “That’s not what I’m asking.”

“Isn’t it?” you pressed, you voice rising. “You’re asking me to stay, Lando. To stay and make your life easier, while I give up something I’ve worked just as hard for. Do you know how selfish that sounds?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” he said again, but this time his voice was quieter, tinged with guilt. “I just— It’s not easy, okay? Doing this. And I thought… I thought you understood that.”

You stared at him, your heart pounding in her chest. “I do understand. That’s why I’m still here, isn’t it? That’s why I’ve always been here. But you don’t get to ask this of me, Lando.”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, you thought he might argue. But instead, he nodded, the weight of her words sinking in. “You’re right,” he said finally. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think.”

The tension in her shoulders eased slightly, but the sting of his words lingered. “I know you didn’t,” you said softly. 

— Mexico, 29 november 2023

The shrill sound of tires screeching and the thud of impact echoed through the paddock speakers. Your breath caught in your throat as the screen showed Lando’s car slamming into the barriers, a plume of debris scattering across the track.

“Red flag. That’s Norris in the wall,” the commentator announced, their tone serious but calm.

You were already on your feet in the McLaren garage, staring at the screen with wide eyes. The replay looped, showing his car losing grip on the exit of a corner before careening into the barriers.

“Is he okay?” you blurted, your voice sharp with worry.

One of the engineers turned to reassure you. “We’ve got radio communication. He’s fine, just frustrated.”

The knot in your stomach didn’t ease until you heard his voice crackle through the team radio, muttering, “I’m okay, I’m okay. Sorry, guys.”

You exhaled, hands trembling slightly as you sat back down. He might be physically fine, but you knew how much this would rattle him mentally.

The energy in the hospitality area was buzzing with activity, mechanics and engineers rushing around to prepare for tomorrow. You made your way over to Lando, who was perched on a counter, still in his race suit, a bag of ice pressed against his shoulder. His helmet sat beside him, a little scuffed from the impact.

“You alright?” you asked, leaning against the counter beside him.

He shrugged, wincing slightly as the motion aggravated his shoulder. “Yeah, I’m fine. Car’s a mess, though.”

You shot him a look. “The car can be fixed. I’m asking about you.”

Lando glanced at you, his expression guarded but softening under your gaze. “I’ve had worse.” Then, with a self-deprecating chuckle: “Though I can’t say the engineers are thrilled with me right now.”

“They’ll get over it,” you said firmly. “They know you’re pushing to the limit—that’s what you’re supposed to do.”

“Yeah, well, limits don’t win races if you’re sitting in the wall during quali.” He leaned back against the counter, his jaw tight.

You didn’t let the tension linger. “Oh, c’mon, Lan. You’ve come back from worse. Remember last season? You started at the back of the grid and still finished in the points.”

A faint smirk tugged at his lips. “That was different. I didn’t stuff it in the barriers first.”

You reached over, grabbing a nearby energy drink can and tapping it lightly against his knee. “Then tomorrow’s your chance to remind everyone what you’re made of. You’ve got the pace, and we both know you love a challenge. Besides,” you added, grinning, “you’ll make the highlight reel if you pull it off.”

That earned a real laugh from him, and he tilted his head toward you. “You think I’ll pull it off?”

“I know you will,” you said, your tone unwavering.

Lando sat there for a beat, then hopped off the counter, dropping the ice pack onto the surface. “Alright, then I guess we will see.” —  The garage was absolute chaos. Team members shouted and high-fived, celebrating an incredible recovery drive. Lando had fought his way through the field with surgical precision, finishing in a stunning P5. The relief and joy in the room were palpable.

Lando barged into the garage, his race suit unzipped to his waist, hair a wild mess from pulling off his helmet. He was grinning ear to ear, waving a bottle of champagne in the air.

“P5, baby!” he shouted, and the room erupted in cheers again.

You were standing with Max and a few others when he spotted you. “Oi, don’t act like you’re not impressed,” he called, pointing at you with the neck of the champagne bottle.

You crossed your arms, pretending to look unimpressed. “P5? Meh, could’ve been P4 if you’d overtaken Gasly one lap earlier.”

Lando strode over, uncorking the bottle with a loud pop and spraying it wildly, catching you and a few nearby engineers in the crossfire. You shrieked, laughing as the cold champagne hit your face and jacket.

“Alright, alright!” you yelled, holding up your hands. “You win, Norris! P5 is pretty damn good!”

“Damn right it is,” he said, grinning as he took a swig straight from the bottle, still dripping champagne. “You doubted me for a second, didn’t you?”

“Never,” you replied, swiping the bottle from his hand and taking a sip yourself.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly amused. “That’s mine.”

“Not anymore,” you quipped, handing it back to him with a smirk.

The atmosphere was electric, the team chanting and laughing around you both. It wasn’t long before the post-race interviews started pulling people away, but Lando lingered for a moment.

“Hey,” he said, leaning in so you could hear him over the noise. “Thanks for, you know, earlier. Couldn’t have done it without your support.”

You glanced at him, surprised at the sudden sincerity in his voice. “What are you thanking me for? You’re the one who clawed your way back.”

He gave a small shrug, “Yeah, but you’re always there. Even when I’m a proper idiot.”

You rolled your eyes, though your smile betrayed you. “You’re always a proper idiot.”

He laughed, holding up the champagne bottle. “Guess it works for me.”

“I guess it does.”

tl: @ash88-yep @lewishamiltonismybf @harrysdimple05 @lex2205 @il0vereadingstuff @martygraciesversion381 @joannaln4 @obxstiles

[wandering-pirate]

Headcannon: controlling jimmy like your evil little dog. Is he lowkey a psychopath? Yes. Will he do literally anything for you? Also yes

a/n: To the lovely anon who sent this, mwah, chef's kiss🤌🏻 you’ve unleashed something unholy. be warned tho, this entire thing? no thoughts, no logic, just pure, unfiltered degeneracy for our co-pilot (sometimes you just gotta let the intrusive thoughts write the headcanon, y’know?)

So enjoy the ride—you sicko. (cause girl, same.)

Jimmy x Reader

Jimmy Zane is one peculiar man, and somehow, he became your boyfriend. How'd that happen? You better blame your slasher-film obsession as a kid.

Your Human Guard Dog

The man acts like you're gonna get snatched from him 24/7. Imagine being in public with him. Scaring some, unnerving many.

Some guy accidentally brushes past you, and Jimmy’s already stepping up with a cold smirk

“Apologize. Or don't. Been looking for an excuse today.”

You have to grab and drag him away (not helping that the man's built like log) before he ruins a face for the second time this month. “Baby, please, we’re here for snacks.”

But the moment you give him a subtle signal, tho? Oh, it's game over.

Some creep starts chatting you up with a repulsive smile, and Jimmy doesn’t even raise his voice when he appears behind you. Just leans in, looking them dead in the eye:

“You wanna keep those teeth or should I start counting them out.”

You casually mentioned being annoyed at your co-worker for being too yappy and Jimmy?

Yeah, already halfway out the door

“Say no more, princess.”

Physically stopping him was impossible and you wagered with the pervert, all night letting off his steam through you

Your Unhinged Yes-Man

After the restaurant's reception was rude on your friends' night out. You texted him

“Ugh, I’d love to see this place burn to the ground.”

No replies from him, but 5 minutes later, you nearly drenched your friends with the wine you're drinking when you saw him outside, holding a can of gasoline

One time, you complained about someone’s annoying laugh. Jimmy didn’t say anything, just calmly glanced your way with that familiar glint in his eyes.

“Don’t even think about it,”

“What? I didn’t say anything, love.”

Later that night, he casually asked

“How much do you hate that laugh? Want me to rip their throat out? No more ha-ha’s ever again.”

“STOP TRYING TO SOLVE EVERYTHING WITH VIOLENCE!”

The man's pride was more hurt than his face when the pillow landed, you paid for it tho ;)

Your Deranged Liaison

Want something without spending a dime? You can get it by the magic effect of compliments!

"Oh, I love your jacket!" Boom, appeared in your closet the next day, suspiciously smelling like someone else’s perfume

"That scarf’s so cute!" Already folded on your pillow the week after, and you’re 90% sure you saw a TikTok about it missing

“Jimmy, why is there a name tag stitched into this shirt?”

“Souvenirs are better with backstories.”

"Is-- is this blood?"

You finally confront Jimmy: “Isn’t this… someone else’s?”

He just shrugs, smiling sweetly (unnervingly wide) “Not anymore.”

[e1dritchjackal0pe]

𝔎𝔢𝔢𝔭 𝔐𝔢 𝔄𝔴𝔞𝔨𝔢

Summary: Exhausted by the wild antics of the boys, you decide to have a night inside. You weren't really expecting for Paul and Marko insisting to join you, but perhaps, you should have expected what happens next.

Warnings: 18+ content MDI, fem reader, oral sex (f!receiving), threesome. Paul calls reader "mama" once, but it's in a casual way not the kinky kind. Paul has a praise kink. A dash of dom Marko. They're three all dating, so naturally a little m/m.

Notes: 7.9k words. Paul and Marko eat you out at the same time - that's really the plot. Divider by @sisterlucifergraphics. Not proofread.

For the first time in days, it's finally peaceful. Usually there's a constant barrage of noise echoing off of the walls of the cave: the chaotic hollers and yelps from the boys, the laughter and raised voices bouncing back and forth in a near constant stream of conversation, a pour of music rising from the boombox - and there is music playing right now, but fortunately, you had managed to convince Paul to play it at a more respectable level. 

He had initially pouted, groaning and grumbling under his breath as though you were torturing him. But he had relented anyway, tuning the vocals of Vince Neil down in a level that doesn't bounce from the stone in an ear-splitting current. You didn't miss the way he had glared at you from over his shoulder as he did it though, staring at you like you'd committed an unforgivable offence. Always such a drama queen. 

You would feel a little bad if he wasn't always charged at Mach speed anyway. It could do him some good to calm down and take things slow every once in a while, and honestly, you're exhausted. The boys are always set at a breakneck pace, regularly tearing they're way up the boardwalk or prowling over the beaches to race their bikes or to snatch up night surfers for a quick meal. There's always something with them. Parties out by the ocean or band performances by the boardwalk. 

You haven't had a peaceful night inside in forever. Even more, you haven't had any time with just the three of you in even longer. The group is constantly joined at the hip, as loyal and feral as pack of strays. Permanently banded together as though they're a single soul split into separate bodies. You admire the tenacity of their bond, how close they are, how they've remained together throughout all of the years they've been alive. But you also can't deny that you often wish that you could get Marko and Paul alone every once in a while. That it could just be the three of you instead of you having to share them with David and Dwayne, and even Santa Carla itself. 

As dramatic as it sounds, there are times where it seems as though the town is a mistress in its own right, constantly pulling your two boys from you with the temptation of excitement and blood. Luring them with the thrill of flashing lights and violence, and like sailors to a siren song they'd always obey the call. 

That's why it had shocked you a bit when they both had elected to join you in returning home after you were all done feeding. The buzz and exhilaration of the hunt had settled. The screams of the tourists having died out, the pitiful wet gurgles of their choking having faded once their hearts had finally stalled, rendered useless without the blood in their veins. Usually the boys are all hopped up after a successful feeding, determined to go out on the town and cause some kind of trouble on the energy induced by the highs they're all riding. 

But when you had announced that you were going to settle in for the night, it had completely surprised you when both Marko and Paul had stepped around the corpses littering the ground to join your side, Paul already reaching for your arm to tug you towards his bike. 

David and Dwayne had taken it in stride, relenting without any complaints or efforts to persuade them, wolf whistling and clapping with salacious smirks on their faces while Marko and Paul lead you back to the motorcycles that had all been parked behind the cover of a sand dune. The two of them of course responded in kind, returning the dirty grins with juvenile laughter. Paul couldn't have helped not to make some kind of obscene gesture, circling his pointer and thumb together to thrust a finger through it. That had earned him a slap to the chest but the demented cackle he had let out as he pulled you over to his bike let you know that he hadn't minded in the slightest. 

Despite all of the initial dirty jokes, the three of you had settled into a relaxed silence, simply basking in each other's company. Marko had occupied himself on the old, tattered couch tucked against the far wall of the cave. His coat is off, draped over his lap as he threads a new patch onto one of its sleeves. A badge depicting a demonic skull resembling the style of a traditional tattoo. He had torn it off of the jacket of his victim's body after he'd drained the man of his blood, smiling down at him while his chest had shaken in a death rattle, waving the patch in the air as though he was gloating over winning a trophy. 

He's always trying to add new pieces to his coat. It's become a wearable collage at this point, different materials and patches sewn onto it almost religiously. But as chaotic as it looks, there's a method to his madness and he's extremely picky with what actually makes it onto the jacket. He has an entire stack of them stored in a milk crate, the ones that weren't approved, collected over time. There's probably sixty years' worth of patches and scraps of fabric saved away in there. 

You've asked him to make additions to your jacket and that's almost turned out to be a mistake because somehow, he's even more of a perfectionist with yours, scouring over materials with a dedication that's a little concerning. You're pretty sure that he's started targeting people just based on the clothes and accessories they're wearing, all so that he can steal them from their corpses like some kind of demented racoon. 

You love watching him work. He always gets that concentrated furrow between his eyebrows, a studious crease pressing them close as he focuses on whatever has caught his attention with an iron focus. It doesn't matter what it is. If he's tuning up his bike or working on another painting, he tackles it with devoted levels of detail and attention that leaves you in awe. Even now, you can't help but to peer at him from over the edge of the book in your hands, staring past the yellowed, dog-eared pages to admire the way he scrutinizes the coat in his lap, threading another loop through the fabric with practiced fingers. 

He's always so pretty. So much so, that just the sight of him all the across the other side of the dilapidated space is enough to be a distraction. And it doesn't help that Paul has situated himself so close to you either. It didn't take him long to climb himself onto your bed, almost forcefully making room for himself on the old mattress so that he could flop his body beside you in an ungraceful heap. 

The unimpressed look you had given him was scathing, but he hadn't noticed it with the way that his focus had zeroed in on the random assortment of books scattered out across the bed. Paul isn't much of a reader at the best of times. The only thing that he's probably ever cracked open is a porn magazine - maybe a Rolling Stone issue if you're being generous. Getting him to stay still for more than fifteen minutes at a time is a feat all in itself, so it's more than a little surprising that he hasn't so much as twitched in the stretch of minutes that's passed by. 

Now that you think of it, he's been suspiciously quiet so far. It's a little disturbing. 

You pause in your reading again, losing your place for the second time tonight, but you can't help but to be a little curious. And just when you're about to glance over at him, you hear it. A light, almost deranged sounding giggle that pitches into the air before skipping into an unattractive snort. And then a voice is pitching up high, garish and mockingly feminine: "His manhood pulsed hotly in my hand, engorged and raging in his arousal and I couldn't help but to respond in kind, my breasts heaving as I drew in a shaking mewl. I've never done anything like this before, a sensible lady like me, but God, did I want him!" 

The expression that crosses your face is probably one of confusion, if not outright disgust, and your bewilderment has you all but dropping your book onto your lap as you pin him down with a stare. He doesn't spare you so much as a glance, too engrossed in whatever he's holding in his hands. It's then that you notice just what has caught his attention, and of course that's what he had gone for out of the entire pile spread out on the bed. 

Based on the art of the paperback cover displaying some windswept, longhaired heroine in a big, vintage dress and the shirtless, muscled up rogue who has her drawn into his arms, it's safe to say that it's some trashy bodice ripper. "Forbidden Destiny" the title declares in an elegant golden font.  

You completely forgot that you even grabbed it honestly. In the past month you've taken advantage of the little exchange box posted outside of the public library, showing up every few nights or so to see if anyone might have left something interesting. You don't have much luck most of the time. It's usually cookbooks and DIY guides that get left behind, but every once in a while, you strike gold and get a good horror novel. Maybe a fantasy story if you're fortunate enough. But this week - no such luck. 

It was desperation or maybe indifference when you had grabbed that bodice ripper. You didn't think much of it at all. To the point that you had forgotten it existed in the first place, but now you're actually regretting having brought it home. There's almost a twisted kind of glee on his face as he eagerly flips to the next page, eyes glittering in the amber glow of the candlelight, and it almost makes him look like some perverted creature. 

"I didn't know our girl was such a degenerate," he remarks, and the delight in his voice is more than apparent. Marko doesn't respond outright, but you hear him snicker quietly from his place on the couch, and it has Paul's smile growing even more. His eyebrows perk up like he's impressed. "Some of this shit is actually pretty graphic. 'His fingers traced my glistening petals, nudging like he might finally penetrate me, and I could not contain my moans any longer. i just wanted him to finally give me what I wanted - what we both wanted.' "

He finally takes his attention off of the pages, and now that it's on you, you can't help but to feel a little embarrassed. Heat flushes through you at the weight of his stare, self-consciousness prickling at your cheeks even though you know there really isn't reason to feel any shame at all. It's just some dumb book - one that you haven't even read. Not that it would really matter if you had. 

The lopsided grin that pulls at his lips is salacious. "You know, if you're trying to get off babe, all you have to do is ask." 

That has you rolling your eyes, something like a scoff huffing from your throat as you grip the now forgotten mystery novel in your hands a little tighter. "Yeah, cause if I need to get off that's definitely what I'd use." 

"There's no reason to lie," he teases, shuffling forward to sit up. "There ain't any shame in it. I am a little surprised about the pirate thing though, I didn't know Black Beard got you hot." 

You can't help but nudge yourself from where you've been reclined against the assortment of pillows, using the short burst of momentum to shove at him. It doesn't do anything other than make him laugh and raise an arm up in a weak defense against the persistent bat of your hand. He holds up the paperback up to his face, threading his thumb through the pages to mark his spot so that he can freely admire the cover. He tilts it to you then like he wants you to look, but the mischief in his expression lets you know that it's going to be nothing but more mockery before he can even speak. 

"Now that I'm looking, me and him kinda look alike." He waves the book a little like he's trying to bait a cat with a toy. You want to snatch it out of his hands, but you can tell that he's still too on guard, watching you out of his peripheral vision. 

You try to act nonchalant, relaxing your shoulders and feigning interest as you dare to creep closer, leaning in under the guise of scrutinizing the front of the novel. Even as you coast your vision over the book you can't deny that there is actually somewhat of a resemblance between him and the blonde love interest on the cover. It would be uncanny if the man depicted by saturated paint strokes looked just a few years younger and his hair was more stylized and less wavy. 

"Wow, you're right," you agree. You loll your head on your shoulder, gazing up at him from the corner of your eyes with an indifferent shrug. "His abs are better though." 

You wish you could have taken a picture of the expression on his face. His head jerks around in your direction so sharply that it's a wonder he doesn't sprain something; eyes wide as though you've slapped him. That's all the surprise you need to be able to snatch the book from his hands, tugging it out from his grip with a pleased smile despite the betrayal burning in his gaze. You don't hesitate when you hurtle the novel across the length of your bed, sending it clearing past the gauzy curtains enclosing the mattress to land somewhere on the other side of the cave with an echoing clatter. 

There's no time to gloat though because he's on you in a blur. Barreling you over with his weight to pin you down amongst the cushions and blankets. You can't help the squeal that escapes you, puffs of laughter bubbling from your lungs as he shoves his face into your neck like he might maul you. 

"Marko!" you call, nudging helplessly at Paul's chest while you try to peek past his shoulder, searching desperately for the other man across the room. "Help, he's gonna crush me." 

He hardly spares you more than a glance when he looks up from the coat he's still meticulously working on, completely unbothered by your current predicament, but the fires flickering around the dim of the cave seem to highlight the mirth reflecting in his eyes. They're both sadists. 

"You look like you have it handled," he answers. 

"Are you kidding me?" You snap, trying your best to contort your body out from beneath Paul, but his grip is like metal. Unwavering and heavy, shoving you down in place. "You're both assholes." 

"Hey, there's no reason to get mean," Paul chides. But there isn't any hurt in his voice, only that cocky edge that never fails to drive you up a wall whenever he's in the mood to taunt you. He nips at your neck like he's reprimanding you, but the dull sting only makes you squirm, hips twitching for an entirely different reason now. He pulls back from the junction of your shoulder. The grin that perks at his lips becomes just a little salacious, a familiar hunger flickering to life in the glint of his eyes.

"You're the one being mean, actually," you counter. "I was enjoying myself in peace and you had to go and ruin it." 

His face shifts into a pout. A display of false sympathy and guilt, but the smoky edge that his tone takes burns something hot along your spine. "My poor baby, how can I make it up to you?" 

It's embarrassing how easily he can flip a switch inside of you with nothing more than a simple look. It's even worse that you know he can tell; he can feel it in the way that your hips squirm a little, how your lungs inhale sharply to gulp down air that you don't need anymore - a useless reflex that only gives you away now. A slip in your poker face that you've been trying to train yourself out of but have been failing terrible at. Dwayne's told you that it's a good thing. It keeps the appearance of still being alive, of being human. A good camouflage while hunting or associating among people, but he doesn't have to two perverts trying to exploit his every movement. 

It's no secret that Marko's and Paul's appetites are a little robust. It's like they're constantly starved - for each other. For you. You don't think you've ever felt so wanted before. So loved and cherished. They treat you like you're vital, as necessary as the blood in their veins, like they could die if they go without your touch for too long. It always has fireworks sparking under your skin, affection and devotion blossoming in the center of your chest like the warmth of a summer sun. 

You crave them too, just as desperately. Sometimes it feels as though the strength of it could tear you apart. Heat coils inside of you, aching dully between your thighs. And he's determined to make it worse, leaning down to nip softly at your lips, drawing you into a slow, teasing kiss. It's easy to fall into it. You can keep your hands from reaching up to cradle to sides of his face, curling your fingers to scratch you nails through his hair in the way that he likes. 

He pulls away just enough to speak against your lips, pecking softly between his words as though he can't resist. "Let me kiss it better?" 

He watches you with so much intensity that it makes you feel entirely possessed. Tucked away and consumed by the weight of his stare. It's enough to have your body coming alive beneath him, nerves simmering and muscles pulling taut with anticipation. But just under all of it is some stubborn, invading layer of exhaustion, creeping in like a cold draft. You want him so badly that it's like you're choked by it, but it's unignorable that you're also just tired. 

You keep up with all of the boys and their whirlwind lifestyle fairly well. You can manage the insane pace they're always set at with just as much passion, but almost like clockwork, it does catch up to you. And you're long overdue for an uneventful night in. Just a moment to relax and exist without anything wild to fill the silence, like shrieks of terror or the metallic growl of motorcycle engines tearing up the beach. And sex with Paul is rarely ever soft or gentle. It's tongue and teeth, desperate hands, and scratches left behind on flesh from greedy claws. 

You love his passion. You adore how starved he is for you, and you know you'll never grow bored of it, but unfortunately your body likes to turn against you. Demanding peace over the raw desire aching in the base of your stomach. 

The smile you give him is mournful. You're a little disappointed with yourself, frustration prickling over your skin. There's a sigh in your voice when you speak, and you smooth your fingers along his nape in some kind of apology. "I'm sorry Paul, I'm just really tired tonight. I don't think I have it in me for anything crazy." 

A part of you inwardly cringes, half anticipating the sight of visible disappointment to cross his face. But you forget that this is Paul - your Paul, and his expression softens a little. Admiring you openly with the devotion of an acolyte appreciating their god. And yet something almost smug makes its way into his eyes, glinting and cocky while he smiles as though you've stroked his ego somehow. "Have we been wearing you out, mama?" 

Of course that's where his mind goes. But it doesn't annoy you at all. It only has a small laugh leaving you, your chest puffing with an amused breath while you resist the urge to roll your eyes at him again. 

"Need to relax a little, hmn?" He hums quietly, nudging his nose on yours to draw your attention fully back onto him. He smooths a hand over your hip, sweeping his fingers down to toy with the edge of your sleep shorts, stroking in gentle caresses that leave warmth behind in their wake. "Let me help you out then -" he places another kiss to your lips - "you just gotta lay here and look pretty. Let me do all the work." 

He's already scooting down, almost absentmindedly shoving some of books over the side of the bed as he makes his descent. Slipping slow over your body to trail the shape of his mouth over you. Skimming them over the material of your old T shirt to brush them over the swell of your breasts. He nuzzles at your chest, peeking up at you just as he sticks his tongue out at one of your nipples through the barrier of your top, tracing it in a tight circle before taking it fully into his mouth.  It has your back arching, body contorting to press yourself deeper into the press of his tongue. You can feel the edge of his teeth close over your nipple, dulled only a little by the thin fabric of your shirt, but it hardly does anything to lessen the sting. You can't find any desire to complain or object. The weariness that's haunted you all day is still there, but it's muted, watered down by the heat flowing through your limbs. 

That silent question is still there in his eyes, hanging over the both of you while he removes himself from your breast to trail down to your sternum. The old you would feel a little guilty, letting him take over without really getting anything in return, but you know Paul well enough to know that he'll always jump at the opportunity to eat you out. You don't think you've ever met a guy as eager as him to go down on someone. When you'd first met him, you had imagined that he would be the exact opposite. The kind of guy to drag someone into a dirty bathroom for some quick head only to leave after he's gotten off, but you couldn't have been further from the truth. 

It's like he's always anxious to have either you or Marko in his mouth. He would spend hours down between your thighs if you let him. And sometimes you have, the minutes blurring into hours until you're sure that the sun is bleeding over the ocean outside in gold and blush, until your body has gone pliant and useless. The promise of that has you nodding, reaching down to your hips to try and tug down your shorts, but his hands stop you, slipping over yours to pry the waistband from your fingers to take them into his own. 

His tongue lashes over your lower stomach, just above your shorts as he shifts them down over the shape of your hips. You lift your waist as best as you can, helping him in moving the clothing down over your thighs and past the length of your legs. He throws them to the side carelessly, the billowing curtains blocking off your bed are the only thing that keeps them from flying past the edge and onto the dusty stone floor below. 

"No panties?" he teases, looking up at you from his place between your thighs, settling himself until his stomach is flat against your mattress. 

"Shut up," you snap without any real bite. 

In your defense, you're running a little low on clean clothes. You're definitely due for a trip down to the twenty-four-hour laundromat, but you honestly don't have it in you right now to spend the next three and a half hours sitting in some uncomfortable plastic chair, under too bright fluorescents while you wait for the cycles to finish. It has to be your least favorite part of your week and you've been holding it off with a sense of dread. 

He chuckles against the plush of your inner thigh, tracing over the sensitive skin with the plush of his mouth and wet drag of his tongue. He looks stunning like this, wild hair brushing over your body, sketched in shades of gold, his skin casted in a heated amber from the burn barrels blazing around the worn corners of the room. The light somehow makes his eyes equally as dark, blending the soft blue into a shade that almost seems black. It makes his stare heavy, gliding you over like a physical weight that seems to press you deeper into the plush support of the mattress. 

His hands are gentle, smoothing over your waist and down to your knees in caresses that has your muscles going lax. He takes advantage of it, using your pliability to spread your legs wide, keeping them splayed open by the width of his shoulders. You can feel his impatience in the firm press of his fingers, gripping at your flesh with a barely restrained greed. You fully expect for him to smother his face between your legs like he usually does, but he remains where he is, trailing kisses and teasing bites behind with his mouth, leaving stars burning across your skin. 

His nose glides down close to where you need him most, pooling fire in your stomach when he sucks the tender skin between the junction of your hips between his teeth. You can't stop your hips from twitching, rolling up to chase after the feeling. Trying to entice him into giving you what you want, but he doesn't take the hint - ignores it, more like - and licks a path across the plush of your inner thigh. 

A whine pitches from your throat, a pathetic imitation of his name that only makes him laugh lowly. He grins up at you, an almost cruel looking smirk. There's something calculating in his eyes, sharp and glittering. It has a thrill skipping up your spine, shuddering lightly up your ribcage, working out a silent gasp. 

"Need something?" he asks, all condescending and cheeky. 

"Paul," you groan. You can't keep the frustration out of your voice, and of course, his smile only seems to grow at the sound of it. 

He hums questioningly under his breath, too caught up in sweeping his mouth over you now that he's started again, nuzzling close to your cunt like he might actually give you the relief you want. His tongue darts out, tracing close to your lips, scraping his teeth over the tender skin with the promise of finally dipping his tongue into you, but it doesn't happen. "C'mon baby, you know what I need to hear." 

And you do know what he wants, but for some reason you voice remains stubbornly trapped inside of your throat. Lodged there by his teasing. You know he wants this just as much as you do despite his stalling, drawing this out for his own pleasure. It's always a little entertaining getting back at him in small ways like this, even if it tortures you too. 

You can practically see the moment that the realization of your game registers in his head, reflecting in his eyes in a kind of clarity that's both frustrated and excited. 

"Make her ask for it." 

Both you and Paul turn your attention over to the other side of the room, looking past a gap in the veil cloaking your bed to see Marko. He's still sitting in his spot on the ragged couch, perched casually on the tattered cushions while he finishes tying off the thread in his hands. He isn't even looking at the two of you, fully concentrated on his task, but the tone that he had used was firm, leaving no room for argument or refusal. 

Something about it makes your body thrum. You clench around nothing, hips twitching just the slightest and it forces you to be aware of how wet you've become, smearing a little across your inner thighs. It's like he can tell; he probably can smell it in the air, heady and honeyed, and it's only then that he bothers giving you an almost bored glance. But despite his nonchalance, you can see the intensity showing through it. A heavy kind of hunger piercing through his gaze that locks you in place. 

His stare shifts to Paul then, something unspoken passing between the two of them. "She knows how to ask for what she wants." 

When Paul turns his attention back onto you there's a wild grin on his face, as though Marko's order has given him the permission that he needs. He loves to tease and toy with the both of you, but ultimately, it's Marko who really truly calls the shots. It's almost shocking how he manages to coax obedience out of the both of you, but especially Paul, being the erratic adrenaline junkie that he is; a slave to impulse and the most hedonistic parts of himself.  

It had surprised you the first time when Marko had easily wielded control over him, taking him over with a collected effortlessness that left you a little breathless. He's quiet and unassuming in his authority. Though maybe you should have guessed by the fiendish look in his eyes that he would be the one calling the shots. But now you all work like a group of muscles in a body coming together to create a singular organism; Marko often using Paul like a vessel to give everyone what they need. 

"Tell me what you want, sweetheart," Paul says sweetly. Almost mumbling it against your skin as he breathes the scent of you in, smothering his face just above your cunt. "Let me take care of you." 

Any other time you would have put up more of a fight. Would have resisted and taunted to light a fire in the both of them, but regardless of all of the excitement, you can't ignore that distant fatigue that still weighs in your bones. You're still exhausted, that hasn't changed, and maybe this once you can finally swallow down your pride just long enough to get what you want. 

"Please, Paul." Your back arches a little off of the bed, your fingers curl into the covers, gripping onto the soft linen. "I'll be good for you, I promise." 

"There you go. Wasn't so hard, was it?" 

You don't have any time to be annoyed because he's spreading you open with his thumbs and leaning forward to lick a long stripe up the length of your cunt, briefly dipping his tongue inside of you to brush it up and circle the point of it around your clit. You would have bowed off of the bed if not for the hands that he moves to secure around your hips in an iron clad grip, fingers threatening to bruise flesh. He chases after the suppressed rock of your waist, moving himself to follow the sway of your body, determined to gulp you down. 

Your head lolls back into the support of your pillows, falling back against the plush and silk. The support of them keeps your head propped up, so even with it rolled you can still see him from the bottom of your vision as you stare unseeingly at the shadowed ceiling. You can vaguely see the shape of your hands reaching down to thread through his hair, combing inside of the strands that are somehow both soft and textured from the products worked into it. 

A pleased noise rumbles from his chest when your nails scratch over his scalp. A dull wave of pleasure ebbs over you but you still notice how his own hips grind into the mattress, dragging over the blankets to try and chase after his own high. He's always like this, getting off on other people's bliss, feeling it as though it's his own. It always turns you on, how desperate he is to please you and Marko, seeking out your pleasure as though he can't live without it. As though he feeds off of it. 

You know that he's craving the sound of your voice, sucking on your clit and tracing you with his tongue to work breathless moans out of you and you find it hard to deny him. "So good, Paul. Just like that - don't stop." You massage your fingertips across his head, and you aren't disappointed when he practically turns into mush under your palms, all pliant and needy. Practically dropping his face into your cunt, grinding his nose over your clit. If he still needed to breathe, you're positive that he would have suffocated by now, but he keeps his face buried in you. 

It's blurring over you already. Draping over your body with the warmth of a heated blanket. But the breeze brought into the cave is cool with the ocean, tinged with salt and chilled like satin. All of it fogs your brain over, slipping between your ears like a perfumed smoke. It's dizzying, languid. You barely notice when both of his hand's slink underneath the arms that you still have stretched to claw at his hair, working under the hem of your shirt, traveling up until he's able to cup both of your breasts. 

The temperature of the ring on his right hand is shocking, forcing your body to writhe into his touch. His fingers stretch, kneading the shape of chest, plucking at your nipples in a way that has a dull sting sparking over your nerves. It's so gluttonous, how he has your entire body splayed out beneath him. Taken over by his mouth, his hands. It makes you feel trapped in the best way possible. Caught and admired, pinned beneath him as though he's trying to show you worship. 

But you're the one speaking his name as though it's a prayer, muttering it brokenly in quiet breaths. You're so caught up in it that the weight of the bed shifting is a surprise. The press of a mouth closing over yours swallows the ragged gasp that leaves your lungs, tasting the sound of Paul's name on your tongue and taking it for themselves. 

You didn't realize you had closed your eyes at all, but you don't have to open them to know that it's Marko who's kissing you. You can smell it in the subtle spice of his cologne, feel the leather of the glove that cradles the side of your face as he draws you into a starved kiss. There's something lazy about it despite the passion in it; his tongue tracing along your bottom lip before he dips it into your mouth. 

You can't do much to reciprocate. Not with how Paul is still eating you out, nuzzling himself into you and groaning into your cunt almost raggedly. It makes you a little clumsy, even as you try hard to concentrate on the pace Marko's set with his mouth. But he doesn't seem to be bothered by your sudden lack of skill in the slightest. 

He pulls back only after a long moment, biting softly at the plush of your mouth, still holding the edge of your jaw in his hand to make you look at him. His eyes rove over your face, taking in your kiss swollen lips, the glossed over sheen in your eyes, the rise and fall of your chest as it heaves in wild pants. He glides the point of his nose over your cheek like he might just kiss you there, leaning his body close over yours while he caresses your chin with his thumb. 

"Is he making you feel good?" But it probably isn't really a question. Not with the taunting edge seeping through his voice, but you're already too far gone to care. You find yourself nodding as best as you can, a strangled cry leaving you when Paul sucks hard. Groaning into your cunt, shaking his face a little to smear you over the skin around his mouth. 

It's filthy. You can hear the wet smacks from Paul's tongue, the sound of your moans and gasps resonating from the walls of the sunken hotel and back into your ears, pitching over the new track that blares out from the boom box in steady melody. It's vulgar but somehow entirely intimate to be caught up here in the mouths and hands of both of your lovers. Hidden away in some private place that's been carved out for you, a womb in the earth that was violently created to shield you all from the dangers and prying eyes of the outside world. A home made in a telluric tomb.

You wouldn't trade this for anything. Not for mortality, not to feel the soothing warmth of the sunlight on your skin again. With the promise of eternity stretching out in front of you, it's in moments like these that you could stay within forever. Private little moments shared just between the three of you; it's some of the times that you keep close and hold dear. 

"It feels so good, Marko." Your hips thrust upward, chest rising harshly as Paul rolls his fingers over both of your nipples. It has heat pooling in your gut like someone's continuously dropping hot wax there. "He's so good, I don't want it to stop. Please don't make him stop." 

 The smile on his face is both patient and satisfied, and you can clearly read the temptation to refuse you glimmering in his eyes. It has you removing one of your hands from Paul's hair, and you don't miss the almost distressed noise he lets out at the loss. But you're desperate to sway Marko, clutching at his shoulder like the touch might properly convince him. 

The mirth on his face is a little mean. Impish in a way. He removes his attention from you to turn it to the man between your legs. "What do you think, Paul?" he asks, still stroking his thumb over your jaw. "Think we should let her cum?" 

A small thrum of worry trickles through you but when you glance down it's immediately snuffed out. Paul looks like a mess. Probably more wrecked than you are somehow. It's like he's drunk, eyes a little glazed over and there's a damp sheen smearing over his mouth and the point of his nose. It almost glitters in the faint traces of light flickering around the room, making him messy and vulgar; his hair more unkempt than usual from the hold that you have on it. Most of his face is obscured, hidden as he drags his tongue over your cunt, but the expression that he wears is clear. It's content - peaceful, almost as though he can't imagine being anywhere else. 

He doesn't even bother pulling back to answer, nodding while his face is still smothered against you, and when he speaks it comes out all slurred and lazy. "Yeah, think she deserves it." He comes up just enough to be heard a little clearer, placing a soft kiss to your clit. "She's been so sweet dealin' with us for the past few days. Let's take the edge off a bit for her." 

They share another one of those looks again. Completely silent and yet somehow entirely understanding. You wonder if they're communicating to each other in their heads, blocking you off from a conversation that they don't want you to hear. The smiles they share seems like an answer all on its own. 

Marko is shifting away from you then, sitting himself up to move down beside Paul who he reaches for. Sinking his hand in beside yours, threading his fingers through his wild hair to force his head off of your cunt. You can't help but to admire the shades of gold and the shadows that ripple across Marko's stomach, the stretch of skin peeking out between the short cut of his shirt and the hang of jeans around his waist. 

They're both gorgeous and when they both lean in towards each other, meeting over your body to catch each other in a bruising kiss it makes you feel as though you've been lit on fire. The way they go at it is sloppy. Almost animalistic. They groan into each other's mouths, Marko's tongue slipping out to lick up the taste of you just as Paul removes one of his hands from your breast, reaching it up to take Marko by the throat. 

Just the sight of it has you moaning, impatiently grinding your hips up to try and draw their attention. Thankfully it works and their lips break apart with a wet smack as they turn their heads to look at you. 

"Don't worry, we didn't forget about you," Paul promises. He leans forward to take you back into his mouth, but Marko stops him by the grip he has on his hair, making both of your groan out in frustration. 

"She knows what to do." 

You could roll your eyes honestly, but somehow you manage to restrain yourself. He'd drag this out for hours if you show any signs of defiance. On any other night you would have liked the challenge, but right now you just want to enjoy it. To bask in the sensation of both of them on your skin. It has whatever fight you might have still had lurking around inside of you dying out. 

"Need you both. Want you both to eat me out." You catch something like a warning burn through Marko's stare and it has you spitting out a string of pleases under your breath.  

That seems to be enough for them - most notably Paul, who manages to wrangle himself free from the grip on his hair and latches his mouth onto you like he's starved for it. It has you squirming, body twisting from the abruptness of it, but it doesn't take long for you to go lax again, becoming pliant under the strokes of his tongue. 

Marko's palm flattens over your abdomen, shoving your back down flat across the mattress to keep you from possibly squirming. Trapping you beneath the both of them. He settles down beside you, curling himself over your lower stomach and hip to settle himself between your thighs. Your vision is mostly blocked by his body, but you can feel him nudging Paul out of the way so that he can close his mouth over your clit. 

It's a good thing that he has you pinned because the sensation of two tongues sweeping over your cunt has you jolting. The sound that leaves you is gutted, a ragged sob that trembles its way out of your ribcage. 

"Oh, fuck," you moan. When your spine bends it's almost painful, pulling into a mean arch despite the weight of Marko forcing you down and the hold that Paul has on your hips. Your fingers lash out across the bed, clawing through the sheets as though it might save you. 

This isn't the first time that they've had you like this, but you're never fully prepared for it. Somehow it always feels more intense than the last. As though you've been submerged in coils of heat and thrashing water; left to sink in the depths of it and drown. Not even the pressure of them on you is enough to keep you present. The pleasure ripping through your veins is almost vicious, coiling and molten in the pit of your stomach.

Their tongues glide over you, messy and wet, sounding sloppy when they occasionally meet in a crude imitation of a kiss. The oxygen pulled into your lungs skips in a strangled gasp. Their hands are all over you. Paul is still toying with one of your nipples, his arm crushed between both you and Marko's bodies, but he doesn't seem to mind in the slightest. 

It's pure hedonism. It's like they're everywhere. Sweeping over your body, over your legs, your chest, inside of your mind, they're scent pooling in your lungs. It has pleasure boiling in between your hips. Your orgasm already building up to be something devastating.  

It's like they're trying to make out on your cunt, lips occasionally meeting in between licks and sucks. Paul's tongue trails down to your entrance, dipping inside to fuck itself inside of you just as Marko's mouth closes around your clit. It has you shouting out again. A sharp whine piercing out through the balmy atmosphere of the cave as a brutal wave of ecstasy crests over you, warm and deep with the promise of something that's going to leave you shambles. 

You're almost greedy for that destruction, grinding yourself into their mouths as best as you can. Chasing after the bliss that threatens to eat you up in a fiery rapture. You didn't even realize that you've been begging the entire time. Squeezing out pitiful pleads as they continue to strip you apart with the drag of their tongues. It's building up at a pace that you can hardly track. Simmering and smoldering like something boiling, flooding your limbs with white-hot heat that has your toes curling. 

You know they can feel all of your tells, how your body is drawing up tight, the change in your breathing, the small shift in your tone. They're relentless is tipping you over that edge, groaning into your cunt as they drag their tongues over it, nipping softly with their teeth. All it takes is for the stroke of Paul's tongue again, the combined suction Marko's lips sealing around your clit and then you're gone. 

The world seems to lose tangibility when you cum. The bed under you vanished and the weight of their bodies disappears. It's only pleasure. Tearing its way through your body, coasting along your nerves, making your muscles seize like you're being electrocuted. 

And they make sure to pull you through all of it. Working their mouths over you until the bliss bleeds into something almost painful. It's only then they pull away, letting you catch your breath and reorient yourself through the high clouding your skull. When you hear the sound of light groaning and the wet sound of lips meeting it's easy to tell what they're doing. 

You manage to crack your eyes open, staring down at the both of them as they make out. Hunger and their shared lust suspended over them like the fumes of a drug. You remain like that for what might be a few minutes. Content to watch as they kiss, their hands sweeping off of your body to reach for each other, desperate and starved. 

You feel satiated. Floating and fuzzy. Finally relaxed after days of living on the edge. It would be so easy to pass out and let sleep take you under, but then you feel a palm smoothing up the length of your leg, drawing your attention back down between your legs. They're both looking at you as they kiss, nipping at each other with their teeth as though they're tempted to draw blood. There's a fervor in their eyes that you know well, ravenous and burning. Waiting for something to be consumed. 

"What do you think?" Paul hardly breaks the kiss to speak, his words almost blurring on Marko's mouth. "Think we can get one more out of her?" 

Marko doesn't have to reply at all. You can already see the answer clearly in his eyes. 

"I think we can get more than just one." 

[schlatt-love-bot]

yuck! part 1.5 - schlatt x reader

So, as I went to begin writing part 2 of Yuck!, I realized I had written a whole one-shot about being friends with benefits with Schlatt and literally included zero smut…it’s unacceptable. Here’s a little smut to hold you all over before I continue and complete part 2 :) 

NOTE: For the purpose of this part, the reader is female and goes by she/her. I know in the original part I left it rather gender neutral…I just haven’t really written much smut that’s not from a feminine perspective, it’s what I’m most comfortable with! Hope you enjoy :) 

IF YOU ARE A MINOR, DO NOT CONTINUE READING! NSFW CONTENT!

The car ride to the cabin was tensely silent. You could tell by Schlatt’s lack of small talk as you drove through the mountain scenery that he was truly thinking hard about something—what exactly, though, you weren’t sure of. You had your hand lazily placed on the center console, and every so often Schlatt would take one hand off the wheel and give it a light pat, signalling to you that he was okay, just deep in his own thoughts. Bored, you began to look him up and down, thinking about all of the things you could get yourself into once you had gotten to the secluded cabin. As your gears got to turning…why did you have to wait that long to get things started? 

You reached your hand over the console and into his space, your fingers lightly grazing up and down his thigh, ever so slowly making your way towards his groin. You saw his eyes begin to widen, never leaving the road, though, as a rosy blush began to creep from his ears across the rest of his face. 

“Woah, what’s this bright idea, toots? I’m drivin’ ‘ere…need to concentrate…” He grumbled, feeling as you began to put more pressure on his semi-hardened member, causing you to giggle at his flustered state. 

“Mmm, well we’re getting really close to the cabin…and I don’t know how much longer I can keep my hands off you, Schlatt…” You said coyly, gazing up towards him with hunger in your eyes. He scoffed, continuing his steady watching of the road in front of him.

“Yeah, yeah…sweetheart, the more impatient you’re gonna be…the worse off it’ll be for you later…” His voice became strained the longer you kept your fingers on his now-hardened member, groaning at your touch. Giggling, you looked up, seeing the cabin slowly coming into view. 

“Fine, fine…you’re lucky we’re close to the cabin, otherwise I would’ve sucked you off while you were driving…” Your voice trailed off, as you sat back in your seat, looking out the window. You heard him sigh as he continued to drive, leaving you in a bit of confusion. What was this attitude for? He normally would never decline your advances, especially when it was in a…risqué location. 

Pulling out front, Schlatt put his car into park, not saying a word as he unbuckled his seatbelt, grabbed his phone, and made his way out of the car and to the trunk, where you had kept your bags. Stepping out of the car yourself, the cool winter air nipped at your skin, leaving you with more goosebumps than Schlatt had been giving your lately, walking to the trunk to grab your own bag when it was snatched out from your hands. 

“Hey!”

”Listen, toots…you may have been a brat on the way up ‘ere…but you’re lucky I’m still a gentleman. Not lettin’ you carry this in there, let’s get inside…” He grumbled, throwing your bag over his shoulder as he picked up his own, heading towards the door of the cabin. You sighed, quietly following behind, following him into the cabin. It was still rather cold inside, the wood fire stove not being on yet caused the inside of the cabin to feel closer in temperature to the winter weather outside. You gently placed a hand on Schlatt’s shoulder, walking in front of him to grab your bag. 

“Here…let me take these to our rooms…do you mind startin’ up the heater? It’s cold in here…” You voice trembled slightly due to the chill you were feeling, as Schlatt handed you the bags. 

“No problem…don’t need sweetcheeks to get frost bitten, right?” He chuckled, heading over to the wood stove to see how much firewood was there, and how much he would need to add to kindle the fire. You retreated up the stairs to find two separate bedrooms–even though the two of you were frequently sleeping with one another, you still slept in separate beds, unless the fun times tuckered you both out so much that you felt the need to sleep immediately. Those softer moments, waking up in Schlatt’s arms after a long, tireless night were the moments you found yourself craving, needing his touch in softer, more loving moments, rather than just the sexual ones. You sighed, opting to give Schlatt the larger room, placing his bag down on his bed as you made your way across the hall to put your bag down in your own room. Peering over the banister, you could see a dim flame coming from the heater, realizing he was able to start the fire quickly. Heading back to the entryway, you took your heavy winter coat off, feeling the semi-cool air beginning to prick at your skin as the room hadn’t gotten all the way warm yet. Walking closer, you watched him as he began shoving more firewood in, the flames ever so slowly becoming larger. 

“Nice work, big guy…” Your voice trailed off as you reclined on the couch, eyes watching him like a hawk. He slowly turned to face you, shrugging his own jacket off his shoulders as he eyed you up and down, immediately spotting your lack of a bra through such a tight shirt. 

“Toots…what the fuck are you doin’...” His voice got darker, deeper with lust as he placed his jacket down on the couch beside you, towering over top of you. Arching your back, you began to play coy, needing his touch after a long, desperate car ride. 

“Mmm, don’t know what you’re talking about…” His hands quickly latched to your hips, swiftly picking you up and placing you down on top of his lap as he sat on the couch in front of the fire. 

“You…you know exactly what you’re doin’...such a little brat…teasin’ the whole ride here, sittin’ here looking all perfect with that tight top on…” His words grumbled in your ear as his hands snaked their way up your sides and under your breasts, squeezing lightly. You let out a small yelp of pleasure, causing Schlatt to smile, knowing you were about to become undone with pleasure. 

“Name…name me one good reason why I should fuck you right now, sweetheart. You’ve been playin’ real dirty…really teasin’ me, testin’ me, here..” He growled, nipping at your earlobe as his hands began to massage your chest through your shirt, making you groan—you needed his touch on your bare skin, not like this. 

“Mmm, please…I’ve been as good as I could be…need to feel your touch…” You groaned, pressing yourself lower into his lap, snaking your own hands behind his neck and to his hair, giving him a light tug. He smirked at your neediness, feeling you begin to melt into putty in his hands.

“Use your words, darlin’...tell me…” 

“Fuck…need your hands…on my skin…all over…please…” You panted, through your hooded eyes you could see Schlatt’s shiteating grin begin to widen. He tugged at the hem of your shirt, slowly peeling it off your now-sweaty body, due to a combination of need for him and the intense heat of the fire besides you both. Leaning down, you connected your lips to his, swiping your tongue across his bottom lip before slipping it in as he began to laugh at your state. He gripped at your bare back, soaking in the moment.

“Look at you…at these. Perfect. Fuckin’ perfect..” He growled, leaving a trail of sloppy kisses and bites down your jawline and neck to your breasts, peppering the surrounding sensitive skin with sloppy wet kisses before looking up at you once again. 

“Words, princess…” 

“Mmm, fuck…Schlatt…please…” You groaned, head thrown back in pleasure.

“Please, what…? Words…” He ordered, hovering above your peaked nipples. 

“Mm, suck them, please….pleasure…needed…” You managed to get out before pulling his hair with one hand, forcing a connection between his mouth and your breast. He began going to town, lightly tugging on your fleshy mounds with his teeth, feeling the warmth between your legs beginning to grow in his lap. 

“Shit!! So…so fucking good…” You moaned, fingers tightening your grip on his flowing locks. You felt him hum against your breast, sending chills up your spine. 

“What now, toots?” He panted, looking down at the marks he’s now left painted all over your chest. Your groan spoke of levels of dissatisfaction, missing the warmth he was providing your body.

“Fuck…shit…need you…need you in me…” You begged, grabbing at his wrist to force his hand to your waistband. He snapped his hand back, laughing at how badly you needed his touch. 

“Now, now…you know better…nice and slow, toots..” He said, ever so slowly unbuttoning your jeans before beginning to peel them off of you. You lifted yourself as needed, connecting your own mouth to his neck to pepper him with kisses and hickies as he worked to unclothe you. He growled, pulling at your hair to separate you from his neck. 

“Nu-uh, you know better, princess…no touching, no kissing unless I say so. Got it?” He said, not giving you a chance to respond before his fingers began sliding around your slick folds, laughing as he felt how wet and pathetic you already were for him. 

“So wet already, hmm? How long have you been this needy for me?” He groaned in your ear, sounds of his fingers in your slick filling the air around you.

“Fuck…since…since we were at the apartment…talkin’ about coming here…” You groaned, burying your head in his neck. He let out a laugh, realizing just how long you were waiting for this.

“Mmm, maybe you were more patient than I thought, toots…” His fingers finally connect to your sensitive clit, causing your mouth to pour out a string of obscenities. He smiled at the sight, knowing just how close to fully coming you were. He drew soft, quick circles on the sensitive nub while leaving your neck with more kisses and bites, truly putting your senses to work overtime. 

“Schlatt..fuck! Feels….so..so good…let me cum?” You whined, managing to ask for permission before your release. It was something that the two of you had eventually added to your ‘friends with benefits’ contract a year ago, when Schlatt was growing frustrated with the amount of times you’d come without him. 

“Wait…wait a little longer. Can’t be coming without me…” He groaned, bringing his fingers to his lips to get a taste of your juices he had oh so missed. Your eyes never left his as he sucked his fingers dry, finally taking his hands down to his lap to undo his jeans, sliding them down slightly until his already-hardened member slapped up at his stomach. You let out a groan of desire, licking your lips before looking back at him. 

“Stroke me off, princess. I need to…need to get as close as you are…” He ordered, taking your hand and placing it on his shaft, hissing at the sudden connection. You hungrily nodded your head, stroking your hand up and down, using your fingertips to slide his precum down the rest of his shaft like lube to quicken your pace. Feeling your fingers on the redden tip of his dick made him hiss once more, throwing his head back. 

“Shit, (Y/N)...don’t know how you do this so well…so good…” He moaned, hands tugging at your hair. You knew the quicker you got him to his edge, the sooner he would fuck the living daylights out of you, and with that, you quickened your strokes. Once he began to buck his hips involuntarily towards your hand, he grabbed your wrist, signalling you to stop. Without a word, he lifted your hips, gently placing yourself back on top of him, lining his tip up with your entrance. 

“Words…use your words…” He growled, making eye contact with you, hungrier than he has ever been. 

“Fuck me! Fuck the shit out of me..” You groaned, as he began to sink your hips down on his length before you finished your sentence. Your moans came out together, as you began to arch your back as you bounced on his lap, his hands tightly grasping at your hips. 

“So good…such a good girl…bouncin’ on my cock like the little slut you are…” He groaned, bucking his hips up as he used his hands to forcibly bounce you even harder down on him. Your overwhelmed senses became too much, unable to voice your pleasure in cohesive statements. 

“Shit…shit..Schlatt…gonna…cum…” You managed to get out, fingers once again laced in his hair, tugging in ecstasy. 

“Hold tight, princess…not yet…” He said, snaking a hand back down to your folds to play with your clit once again. You moaned at the touch, totally losing control of all your senses. Seeing how completely at his mercy you were, his edge was coming near. 

“Come with me, toots….cum…” He groaned, his last few bucks getting sloppy as he felt his cock twitch within you, seed spilling into your pussy. Feeling full, the pressure finally tore open through your body, moaning like you never had before as your juices began to flow around his cock, spilling onto his thighs. Despite hitting your highs together, he still bounced you up and down for a few more moments on his lap, before disconnecting you from him, still sitting on your lap as he placed his forehead on yours. 

“You did so good, princess. So needy…” He managed to say, still catching his breathe. You mumbled, still unable to find your words.

“Thank you….thank you..” You meekly said, giving him a quick kiss on the lips. After a few moments of recollecting yourselves, you gave him a knowing look. 

“So…what other part of the cabin should we break in, now…?” 

“Mmm, you tease…I like that idea…let’s figure it out…” He growled, snaking your legs around his waist, heading for the spacious kitchen bar with a large window view of the woods outside your cabin. This was going to be a nice, long trip…

[ylangelegy]

my lovely !!!! congrats on 1 million followers 💝🎉✨ although u deserve a billion 🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️ i’m here to submit a📱 bc i’m dying to hear some more about ‘blindsided’ pls 🤲

char, my light! u make this godforsaken site worth it and i love u oh so dearly ୨ৎ i am forever a u/pochaccoups fan 🙂‍↕️

📱 office worker!wonwoo x reader, based on blindsided (fic + text imagines). part of my follower milestone celebration. mdni, 18+ content. word count: 700.

Wonwoo has fucked you in every imaginable corner of your office.

He knows he should probably be guilty. He’s a model employee, after all. Perfect performance evaluations and all that. 

But he just can’t bring himself to care, not when he’s got you bent over the copy machine after hours. He doesn’t think of ethics or rules when he’s eating you out in one of the bathroom stalls or when the two of you steal away to the supply closet for a quickie.  

He’s certainly not thinking of it now as the two of you christen his new office room. 

Graduating from a cubicle was no small feat. At least that’s what you sweetly told him before sinking to your knees and unbuckling his belt. Wonwoo has a fistful of your hair in one hand while the other clutches the corner of his desk, white-knuckled in its grip. 

He hasn’t had this room for more than two days and he’s already risking it all for some head. Maybe he should— 

The tip of his cock hits the back of your throat, and whatever he was thinking of doing is as good as gone. 

“Fuck,” he huffs, his fingers tightening around the strands of your hair. “You’re— ah— going to get me in trouble.” 

You hum in response, unrepentant in your debauchery. You merely continue to suck him off like your life depends on it. The only thing Wonwoo can do is keep an eye on the door and hope, pray, that nobody needs him for the next ten minutes or so. 

When Wonwoo’s gaze flicks to you underneath his desk, he’s done for.

Maybe it’s the tears edging at your lashes, the way you’re trying so hard to take in every inch of him in your mouth. Maybe it’s how you look underneath his grasp, how you’re pliant and perfect and on your goddamn knees. 

Maybe he’s always just been weak for you. There’s that, too. 

Either way, Wonwoo finishes with a strangled groan. His hand that had been clutching the desk goes to cover his mouth in a futile attempt to bite back the sound. You lap up every drop of his seed in the way that drives him absolutely crazy, the way that makes him want to shoot his cum down your throat for days on end. 

His chest heaves as you shuffle out from underneath the desk, a coy grin tugging at your lips. You throw a quick glance at the door before draping yourself across Wonwoo’s lap, your skirt riding up as you bracket yourself across his thighs. 

Wonwoo’s hands instinctively find purchase at your waist. He lets out a low hiss when he feels just how wet you are, the evidence of your arousal seeping through your underwear and on to his pant leg. 

“Can’t do this,” he breathes out, his denial weak in the way his fingers slide up your blouse. “We have to stop.” 

He’s given you this bullshit excuse enough times that you know he doesn’t really mean it. A part of him does this time, he likes to think, and you must know that, too, because you lean forward until your chests are pressed together.

“Don’t worry.” You give a playful nip at his earlobe. “I’ll be gone in two weeks.” 

“What?” he sputters, his eyes widening behind his glasses. 

He tries to gently pull you away from him, but you don’t budge. Your head instead falls into the crook of his neck as you giggle breathlessly. 

“Got poached. Same position as yours,” you inform him. “Our company’s non-compete clause is pretty shitty, so I think I’m going to get away with it.” 

On one hand, Wonwoo is grateful. Your move would solve a number of issues, from conflict of interest to his never-ending war with morality. And— maybe, just maybe— he could graduate from friends with benefits to something more. Something real. 

But it also meant— 

Your teeth scraping his pulse point drags him out of his thoughts. Wonwoo’s grip on you tightens. You and your stupid habit of leaving marks right before ruining him. 

“What do you say, Jeon?” you tease. “One more for the road, yeah?” 

[godmadeaterribleerror]

Chapter 2 - Under My Skin

Series Masterlist - Main Masterlist

Author's Note: If you're mad at me for getting any lore or myths wrong through this story, consider that Supernatural themselves cannot track their own lore, and I'm doing my goddamn best.

Chapter title from Akaska Sad by Rina Sawayama

Word Count: 15.7k

Chapter Summary/Warnings: Dean and John take on an odd, difficult case, and you try—and fail—to avoid them. Usual warnings.

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, enemies to friends to lovers, canon divergence, slow burn, angst, fluff, monster of the week.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 3

Read on A03!

Lately, Dean’s life was fucking lonely. It was made of long car rides where Dad wouldn’t speak to him, countless cases where he felt almost useless, and restless nights where he’d get up to use the bathroom, look at the couch, and feel a little piece of him die again when Sam wasn’t there.

Every town looked the same. Every girl did too. He didn’t try to talk to them—he never had—but there was still something in him that was so furiously lonely, he was burning through chicks night by night in a desperate plea that they’d offer him something. Sometimes they’d talk to him, and that would become enough. He was never really all that interested—they all had the same voice and same words and same boring, apple pie lives that Dean would never get to be a part of—but it carried him over until the next one. Until he and Dad got the monster, left town, and nobody there would have to spare Dean a thought for the rest of their lives.

He tried to make them remember. He poured all he had to spare into the sex, and making it good enough that maybe—when each woman was married with kids and some sort of boring office job—they’d still use the memory of him to get off. They might not remember his name, or his voice, or his face, but they’d remember how he made them feel. And that did a little more to curb the loneliness. The pit like feeling of uselessness.

But sometimes he’d strike out, and be forced to wake up on an empty, stiff motel mattress. Dad would already be gone—getting coffee or working there leads or just fucking sick of Dean not being Sam—and it would only be Dean in the whole world. And that wasn’t enough. It couldn’t just be Dean. It’s never supposed to just be Dean. When it’s just him, everything gets too loud and too quiet and so hot, but also massive and empty and cold. Corners are shaper and knives are duller and colors are all muted, because only Dean can see them and he doesn’t deserve to. 

And when that happened, sometimes he’d grab his phone and consider calling Sammy. He’d stare at the number—hidden from Dad with a fake contact, just in case—and allow his thumb to hover over the call button, but never press it. He couldn’t. He’d have no way to get to California, Sam probably wouldn’t want to see him, and Dad would freakin’ kill him for even considering it. Dean couldn’t even say Sam’s damn name without Dad’s jaw ticking and an unsettling tension falling over the room.

So Dean stayed lonely. He worked every case lonely, found every bed lonely, and woke every morning lonely. 

But he wasn’t lonely in his dreams. It didn’t matter why he wasn’t, but he wasn’t. That, at the very least, was something Dean could count on. When he slept, he’d never be lonely, because-

It didn’t matter. They were just dreams, and dreams didn’t mean shit. Even it had been the same person starring in them every night—the same beautiful, twisted salvation to the pit that had formed inside of Dean, that he loathed and craved and couldn’t figure out how to get rid of—for the past year, Dean wasn’t some crystals and tea leaves chick who was going to try and find meaning in his freakin’ dreams.

This lady seemed to be, though. She was dressed like she belonged at Woodstock, there were dreamcatchers and random dried plants all over her house, and she kept trying to offer Dean a palm reading. Telling him his aura was strong. That didn’t fucking mean anything, because that shit wasn’t real, and Dean should know. His whole life was figuring out what things were real, and what was fake.

This magic, witchy bullshit was fake. 

The ghost haunting Woodstock Chick’s house was very real.

“You know,” Woodstock frowned at Dean and Dad from across the table. “I’m a little surprised you’re listening to me.”

Dad shrugged. “Well, ma’am it’s routine to investigate complaints. It ain’t our job to judge, just hear what you’ve got for us. Now, we’ve got the objects flyin’ around-“

“It’s just,” Woodstock let out a breathy laugh, shaking her head slightly. “I’ve been filing these complaints for weeks, and all I’ve gotten is made fun of by my neighbors. Then, suddenly, you’re taking me seriously? Sending three officers to talk to me-“

Dean cleared his throat, shooting Dad a weary look. “Sorry, did you say three?”

“Yeah. You two, plus the one yesterday. Young woman, with the rings and lip gloss. She was gorgeous, good skin and hair, bright aura, just like yours.” she smiled at Dean as she continued. “She kind of looked like a,” Woodstock frowned, tilting her head. “Like a cat.”

Dad scowled. “A cat.”

Woodstock nodded. “You know, just like how he,” she nodded at Dean, and he frowned. “Looks like a puppy. It not about their faces, it’s about their energy-“

“And you’re saying this chick had the energy of a cat?” Dean asked, not allowing himself to dwell on the puppy thing. He had too much shit to worry about already. “Ma’am, we-“

“We’re takin’ your complaints seriously, ma’am.” Dad’s voice was firm over Dean’s, and Dean felt a cringe of shame in his chest. “Now, tell us about the lights, and we’ll let you keep goin’ with your day.”

Woodstock continued, Dad asking more careful, smart questions as Dean sat in silence, and the lady’s problem was pretty obviously a ghost. Kind of a douchebag of a ghost, but just a ghost. The hard part was just gonna be figuring out who it was, because Woodstock was insisting nobody had ever died in this house, that she had no dead relatives, and that she’d never even killed anyone.

That last question did get them kicked out, though.

“We ain’t accusin’ you of anything, ma’am.” Dad remained in the threshold of Woodstock’s door, holding the angry woman’s gaze. “It’s a just part of our report-”

Woodstock let out a dry laugh. “Nice try, officer, I don’t know what you’re trying to pull, but I do know that’s a lie. If you come back, come back with a warrant, or-“ Woodstock paused, looking between Dean and Dad. “Send Officer Brown. She was nicer, and didn’t ask me stupid questions.”

The door slammed, Dad groaned—running a hand over his face before stomping back to the Impala—and Dean was frozen in place as Woodstock’s words rang a loud, clean, golden bell in his brain. When Dad shouted at him to haul ass he managed to move, but barely. Everything was far away, because things that were supposed to be trapped in dreams were starting to follow Dean into the real world. They weren’t supposed to. Dean had promised himself he’d keep Her trapped down, where he never had to think about her until sleep dragged Her back to the surface of his brain.

And that hadn’t really been working. Sometimes he’d smell fruity perfume on a woman, and She’d flash in front of his eyes. Sometimes he’d have some random girl next to him or over him or under him, and they’d moan, and it would sound like a siren. The worst was when someone would look at him and a tiny, traitorous asshole voice would whisper She’d look at you better. She’d be better. You’re a piece of shit, Dean Winchester, because She’d been the freakin’ best and you left her.

He hadn’t left Her. He’d escaped her. Outsmarted whatever bullshit she’d been trying to pull on him, whatever scam She’d been running. And it didn’t fucking matter that his brain was clinging onto every piece of Her he’d gotten to see that day—that the bells were made of Her beautiful voice saying Brown’s a cop—because she’d probably stopped hunting. Realized it wasn’t the fun little rush She thought it was and crawled back home to her fancy, stupid life. 

But She’d told him she’d been hunting since she was fifteen.

That had probably been a lie too.

It hadn’t sounded like a lie. 

Well, maybe She’d just been an awesome liar. 

Dean needed to snap the hell out of it. He’d tread down this path countless times, the voice—it seemed to live in his chest, a little to the right of his heart—trying to work out what that whole thing had been, and a good reason for Dean to track Her down and ask if She’d felt it too. 

But She’d been playing him, and he never wanted to see Her drop-dead gorgeous face again. It didn’t matter what he’d felt, because Dad was right. It had probably been some sort of trick, made of all those pretty lies and words She’d been using on him. So Dean didn’t mention to Dad that Brown had been one of Her aliases, because he wasn’t supposed to remember anything about Her. Dad was seething in the driver’s seat—grumbling about lone, stupid hunters interfering in their case—but She wasn’t here, probably, so it didn’t matter anyway.

Another three days passed, and they still couldn’t figure out who the ghost was. Everyone Woodstock knew was clean—and claimed she was too—and everyone in this town died of old age like a bunch of freaking suckers, so they had nothing. This ghost couldn’t chill the fuck out, Woodstock had been telling anyone who would listen about how it had started to throw plates at her head—how she didn’t feel safe—so Dad had them on rotating watches. Keeping an eye on the house from the forest in case Woodstock started screaming while the other kept working it, searching for just one goddamn idea of who the ghost could be.

They hadn’t figured out who the other hunter was, either, but Dean was growing more and more certain it might be Her. He could’ve sworn he saw a flash of perfectly styled shiny hair on the street. He was either going batshit crazy, or he’d heard Her voice in a corner store while he was buying aftershave. And a feeling like gravity had reformed in his eyes, bringing his attention to shadows that might be Her and making his every nerve flare when he smelled something sweet. Most of all, he’d been in the motel parking lot a handful of times and felt it. That odd, light feeling that had surrounded him when he’d met Her, making it so easy to breathe he’d been certain he’d been doing it wrong before. That he’d started to do it wrong again, after She’d left. It had felt so good and been so impossibly to duplicate—Dean had really tried to, as well, in body after body after body—but it was back like a fucking asteroid, crashing into him and obliterating everything he’d thought had been right.

But he hadn’t told Dad. To start, Dad would look at him like he was a fucking idiot, and ask if Dean had watched a chick flick while drinking one too many beers. Then Dean would mumble no, and Dad would roll his eyes and tell him to get his shit together, because they had a job to do.

Dean could’ve told Sammy. He would’ve listened, made a little fun of Dean, and then started to ask a bunch of  questions about what made Dean think it was Her. Maybe Sam would have found an explanation about how the vampire baby made men go crazy or something. Maybe She’d been a monster, and Sam would figure out what kind the moment Dean explained it.

But Sam wasn’t here, and Dean didn’t have any real evidence. He hadn’t seen that fancy car She’d been driving, and when he’d very casually asked the front desk of their motel—the only one if town—if anyone with Her name was in a room he’d gotten a no, but she’d probably be in a real hotel. With good water pressure and room service and little shampoo bottles that she didn’t need. 

She hadn’t been in a fancy hotel last year. But that had probably just been another part of the scam.

So he didn’t tell Dad. Dean just took his shifts to watch Woodstock, worked the case, and fucking prayed they’d wrap this up and he could forget the whole thing. Dad would find something soon, they’d gank the ghost, and it would be done. 

Dad had even said he had a new lead, when they’d swapped the watch. Dean had dropped off the car and gotten orders to stay here until Dad got back, to call only if it was an absolute emergency, and to message if he thought of anything new. 

He’d been trying to. Dad was off working the lead, and Dean really wanted to help, but no matter how long leaned against the trees—watching Woodstock’s house and frowning into the air—he couldn’t think of shit. His brain felt numb, because this was freaking boring, and none of it made sense. It was just a ghost, it shouldn’t be this hard. Shit, with another hunter on the case, the asshole should’ve been ash days ago. Maybe it had been Her, and she’d realized they were in town, and She’d left. Been worried they’d try to turn her in for her bullshit, even though She had no way to know they’d figured her out. 

Maybe She hadn’t wanted to see Dean. Which shouldn’t bother him at all, but the thought made his stomach turn and heart split down the center. He didn’t get it. It shouldn’t hurt, because he sure as hell didn’t want to see Her. He was looking everywhere for Her, but he didn’t want to see Her. He didn’t. He didn’t-

He did. He could. That was fucking Her. Walking up the steps of Woodstock’s house with a large bag, knocking on the door and being welcomed in with a warm smile Woodstock hadn’t offered Dad or Dean. 

She looked hot. Dean wasn’t sure it was possible for Her not to—She’d even looked sexy covered in blood—but she’d somehow gotten hotter. She wasn’t wearing that horrible jacket anymore, but well-fitting, casual clothing that She moved so easily in. Clothing that suited Her, that She looked comfortable in, that Dean wanted to touch to see what fabric She liked. It would tell him more about Her, about what she deemed suitable for herself, what she enjoyed, what she wanted. And if She allowed him close enough, maybe Dean could rip it off Her body-

Fuck. It was happening again. Dean had just looked at Her and she’d dragged him under some sort of trance. The feeling had returned in full force, like an inevitable kind of cancer over his brain that Dean didn’t know how to cure. Part of him didn’t even want to cure it—it felt right and natural and filled up that pit with a shifting light that was shaped like Her—but he had to. He was useless like this. Useless to the hunt, useless to himself, useless to Dad. Dad would smack him on the head and tell him to get a goddamn grip, because a girl wasn’t worth falling down for. Dean’s job wasn’t staring at pretty things and trying to make sense of them, it was creating ash and spilling blood. He was a solider, not a prince who was going to save the damsel. 

And She wasn’t a damsel. She was a bitch. The prettiest, funniest, smartest bitch Dean had ever met, who seemed like Cinderella but was really a stepsister. Dean didn’t need Her, and he shouldn’t be sparing Her a single thought at all. He should just text Dad that She was the other hunter, that She seemed tight with Woodstock, and that She’d been in the house for a long time.

A really long time. 

Too long. It had been almost an hour since She’d disappeared off the porch, and unless she was there for a sleepover, she should’ve been out by now. Maybe the ghost had gotten the jump on Her and Woodstock. Maybe Dean had to go in and save Her, not because it was Her, but because that was his job. And maybe She’d thank him, and kiss him because She was so grateful he’d put his grudge aside to save her life, and it would be awesome and She’d taste like sugar and be soft under his hands-

“Dean Winchester.” 

He nearly leapt out of his goddamn skin, spinning around with wide-eyes and clenched fists that couldn’t seem to remember how to fly and land square in Her pretty, mocking face. She was standing barely three feet away, Her arms crossed and brows raised, her bag nowhere in sight.

“Fucking hell, Princess.“ The nickname slipped out of him without thought, because She really did look like royalty. He knew why that was now—easy to look smoking hot and fancy when you had the money for it—but it didn’t change the fact. Her lips were glossy, her eyes seemed to shimmer with that pretty color that washed over his dreams, that causal clothing really did look like it was made to touch Her, and Dean couldn’t believe he was jealous of a fabric-

“What are you doing here.” Her voice still had that haunting, angel-like quality, but it was flat. Bored. Almost dead.

He gave Her a smirk, and he wasn’t sure why it hurt that She barely even blinked back. “Funny, I was just about to ask you the same thing. What could a bitch like you be doing in a place like this?“

Her eyes narrowed, and Dean could’ve sworn She curled a little into her body. “I asked first.”

Dean shrugged. “I asked louder.”

“I- You know what? I don’t care.” She stood a little taller, her voice somehow growing colder. “Whatever you’re up to, stop. This is my hunt. I got here first, I’m handling it, and you’re only going to slow me down.”

Dean let out a dry, humorless laugh. “Ghosts aren’t really gonna respect dibs, sweetheart.”

Her eyes flashed with something Dean didn’t really understand. “They don’t, but I’m not that worried about it, De. Like I said, I’m handling it.”

He glared at Her, ignoring how something in his chest was humming, trying to get Her to call him De over and over again forever. “Sorry,” he drawled Her name, leaning forward and trying not to think about how she didn’t flinch away. How he could smell that same, fruity perfume and sugar from before. “I guess we’ll just have to let the better hunter win.”

She raised Her chin, holding his gaze. “I’m warning you, Winchester. Leave.“

He chuckled. “I’m good, Princess. Think I’ll pass, but trying to warn me was cute-”

“Listen to me.” She hissed, leaning close enough that Dean could pick out every small bump on Her face, isolate every color in Her eyes. “I’m not asking. Go back to Sam and John, tell them you figured it out and it’s done, and get the fuck out of my way.”

Something brittle snapped in Dean’s spine, his jaw clenching as the words pushed out of him like vomit. “Sam’s not with us. He left.”

He didn’t know why the fuck he’d tell Her that. She wouldn’t care. She seemed to hate Dean as much as he hated Her—probably bitter he’d got the up on Her, didn’t want him to mess with whatever scam she was trying to pull on Woodstock—and She’d met Sam twice. He shouldn’t have told Her that, because Dad hated even talking about it. Hell, Bobby barely knew about it. It was family business, and She wasn’t family, and that perfume had to be some sort of pheromone because it was making Dean a freaking dumbass-

“Is he okay?”

Dean blinked at Her, and her expression wasn’t soft, but it wasn’t empty. She didn’t seem like a statue anymore, and whatever was behind Her eyes looked real. Just as real as it had been last year, like there was a whole universe inside of Her that Dean had wanted to explore. To find out what She was made of, and if it was as similar to heaven as it seemed.

It wasn’t. Dean knew that, in his working brain—rather than his heart that stretched for Her and his dick that ached for Her to be just a little closer—She wasn’t heaven. She was temptation in a beautiful form, determined to make Dean weak and pathetic and soft, everything he couldn’t allow himself to be. But he still told Her the truth. His voice lower and without any venom, his body tensed slightly, his brain spinning as the strange look in Her eyes seemed to glow, dragging the words out of him. 

“He’s fine. Off at college. Decided he didn’t want-“ Dean cut himself off with a small shake of his head. He wouldn’t be that weak or dumb, exposing a gap in his armor she’d use to make him crumble to his knees. “He was done hunting. Wanted a normal life.”

She was just looking at him. Scanning over him carefully, holding one of Her own hands and just fucking staring, like Dean might be an illusion or his words might be a lie, and She was trying to look for evidence of it.

“That sucks.” She finally said, and it sounded so real. Like She might actually give a shit that Dean was lonely. That Sam had left him. “Sorry.”

 “I don’t need your pity, sweetheart-“

“I don’t pity you.” She snapped, Her features growing harsh once more. “I’m saying that fucking sucks, I know you cared about him. I’m apologizing because it’s probably complicated and messy and not all that fun to deal with.”

Dean scowled, something raw snapping along his heartstrings. “I’m doing just fine, Princess. I’ve got my dad, and Sammy’s safe in California. He’s still my brother, and it’s not like he’s fucking dead. So I’m good.”

She raised her brows, an amusement that made Dean’s gut boil written over Her face. “Yeah, you really sound it.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Watch it-“

“Or what.” She hissed, leaning forward until Dean was almost drowning in Her. “You gonna run to John and tell him that the little moroi bitch is bullying you? That you need to hurry up on the hunt, because you can’t stand that I’m going to get this thing all by my fucking self-“

“All by-“ Dean stared at Her. “You’re still hunting alone?”

Her face twisted, her words hushed and furious. “That is none of your fucking business-“

“It is if you’re going to get yourself killed-“ 

She snorted. “Shut the fuck up. Don’t pretend like you give a shit about me-“

“I give a shit if you end up monster chow.” Dean sneered, pretending something wasn’t cracking along his ribs at the certain, settled hatred in Her voice. “The job is saving people, not choosing who. You try and jump in front of that ghost, I’ll stop you-“

“Please,” She scoffed, narrowing her eyes. “I’d like to see you fucking try.”

Dean’s breathing was ragged. His heart was violent in his chest, and his hands were curled at his side, and She was so fucking infuriating. Dean shouldn’t give a shit about Her, but his skin felt like it was being flayed at the thought of Her in danger or pain, and She shouldn’t sound like she was wounded by being the little moroi bitch, because She was, and Dean wanted to grab Her by the neck and slam his lips to Her’s-

“Stay out of my way, Winchester.” She hissed, still so close, and looking so warm and soft, and Dean was so close to figuring out what the hell that fruit was-

She was gone. She leaned back in a rough, sharp movement—like Dean was a magnet and She was only just strong enough to pull herself away—and just walked away. 

He might be stuck here forever—on the edge of the woods outside Woodstock’s haunted house—his body trying to cling to her and his brain trying to erase Her forever. It was something he’d been trying to do for a year, something he’d never managed, and something that was made so much more difficult by the fact that She looked back. That their eyes met one last time, and it was like lightning through his blood.

He would have chased Her in Dad hadn’t called right then. He spent the next two days trying to convince himself he wouldn’t have, but it was a fucking lie. He wasn’t sure what he would have done when he caught Her, but he would’ve chased Her. Rushed after Her and asked why had She lied, why did She look like she wanted to punch Dean when She’d been the one to hurt him, if She had looked back because she could feel it too. Feel the gravity, feel the drug, feel the storm that threatened to consume Dean in Her name. Ask if She dreamt of him, ask if She saw him in shadows, ask if She was a monster and beg her to set him free.

But he hadn’t chased after Her. So it didn’t matter. Dad had picked Dean up—long after She’d been gone, Dean still rooted in place, his head still spinning—and he hadn’t seen Her since, so it didn’t matter. Maybe She’d left. Maybe She’d just skipped town, and Dean would never see her again.

That shouldn’t feel horrible. It should be relieving, the idea that he’d won. That he’d gotten the hunt, gotten Her away from him, gotten a justification for why he hadn’t told Dad he’d seen Her. It would mean that She was gone, and Dean could pretend that had never happened at all. But it still felt like fucking shit, and Dean couldn’t figure out how to stop it. It ate away at his brain as the days blurred together, and they hit dead end after dead end. She remained at least out of sight, Dean still didn’t tell Dad that She’d ever been in town, and the hauntings just fucking stopped. No more lights, no more temperature drops, no more screaming Woodstock. 

It couldn’t have been Her. There were no graveyard disturbances, She hadn’t entered the house since their conversation, and it wasn’t like the EMF was gone. On the second day of no activity they’d had broken into Woodstock’s house, checked to see if it was gone, and it wasn’t. It had just stopped haunting.

Dad was losing his mind. He was barely speaking to Dean, shooting down all his ideas, and mostly just reading book after book and grumbling that it didn’t make any goddamn sense. Ghosts just didn’t stop, they still didn’t know who the hell the son of a bitch was, and they couldn’t leave until this thing was dealt with.

Dean suggested drinks—the motel room was starting to feel like a cage, they both needed it, and maybe the answer would be one or two bottles deep—and Dad had grunted an agreement. It was a small victory, but a victory all the same. Maybe Dean could find a woman there to distract from this disaster, distract him from Her-

He didn’t need to be distracted from Her. There was nothing to distract from. Dean might be dreaming about Her still—dreams where he did grab Her and kiss her, She fell to her knees and he went right down with Her, and it was fucking awesome—but She wasn’t anywhere real around him, so it didn’t matter. Every shadow on the darkened street was shaped like Her, but shadows weren’t real. That gravity in Dean’s chest was trying pull and pry Dean open so She could take a look, but that was just an emotion, and Dean wasn’t about to be some sort of pussy about his feelings. The whole bar seemed to smell like that strange fucking fruit and sugar, but Dean could just be losing his mind. The woman in the booth looked exactly like Her, and sat with her knees tucked up like she did, and was wearing the same shirt-

Shit.

“Dad, I don’t feel great, maybe we could-“

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me.”

Dean felt the blood drain from his face. Dad had seen Her. His face was drawn in a scowl, the glare he used during hunts was furrowing at his brow, and there was a glint in his eyes that set everything on edge.

He was fucked. She was going to tell Dad they’d run into each other, Dad would fucking murder him for not mentioning it, and She’d just fuck off and get herself killed with the ghost. Dean didn’t know why that last one felt just as terrifying as Dad’s wrath, but it might actually be worse. Dad wouldn’t actually kill him. He’d get yelled at and probably banned from driving for a month, but Dad would never hurt him. 

Dad would hurt Her. He was already stalking over to Her booth—She hadn’t even looked up, which didn’t increase Dean’s faith in Her lone hunting abilities—with white-knuckled fists that would have probably collided with Her face if she wasn’t a chick. Dean barely ran after him in time for them to reach the booth, to stop at Dad’s side right as he slammed his hand on the table.

She flinched slightly as she looked up, and the air around them became wired and electric.

“What the hell are you doin’ here, girl.” Dad lowered himself down to Her eye level as he spat the words out. “Ain’t no way you’re in town just by fuckin’ coincidence.”

She huffed a dry laugh, holding Dad’s gaze as she answered. “Not a coincidence. Just me, having the worst luck in the world.” Her attention finally turned to Dean, he felt alive, and Her words remained just as flat as before. “Hiya, Deano. You look like shit.” She looked back to Dad, her pretty lips curling into a smirk. “You both look like shit.”

“You think you’re smart-“

She snorted, cutting Dad off with a bored grin. “I am smart. Sit down, you’re drawing attention.”

She waved a loose hand around the bar, and She was right. People were wide eyed, watching them nervously, and they didn’t need that. Attention was bad in this line of business. It was downright dangerous. And Dad knew that, so he gave Dean a curt nod to listen to Her, and slid into the booth once Dean was settled across from Her. 

It was a little freaking insane, how She only got prettier. How in the low, golden light of the bar she seemed to have a halo around Her head. But it wasn’t real. Nothing about Her was real, and Dean would have to remember that. Dad was real, was looking at Her like she’d tried to key the Impala, and Dean needed to figure out where that hatred for Her had gone and bring it back. Convince Her to skip town—because She’d get in the way, not because the idea of Her being thrown across a room by a spirit made him sick—and cover his own ass, because he was still in danger of Her snitching on him. 

But She was hardly looking at him. Her attention was divided between Dad, her own hands, and the neon red, cherry and ice and paper umbrella drink in front of Her-

“Are you drinking a fucking Shirley Temple?” Dean spoke before he could stop himself, and She shot him a glare.

“You got a problem with that, Winchester?”

“Nah,” Dean shrugged, a smirk tugging at his lips. “I just didn’t know you were that much a prissy little princess-“

“They’re good drinks, dick.” She snapped. “It’s called having fun. Something you two buttheads,” She gestured between Dean and Dad. “Clearly know nothing about.”

Dean learned forward, bracing his elbows on the table. “I know plenty about having fun, sweetheart. Some might call me a master at it.“

She snorted. It was freaking adorable. “Some might call you a manwhore-“

“Watch yourself, girl.” Dad snapped, and Dean’s whole body tightened. Everything was rigid from the fury on Dad’s face—all directed at Her, all sick in Dean’s stomach—and raw from Her words. 

Manwhore. She wasn’t wrong, and he’d been called a lot worse, but it still stung like a freaking hornet along the cavity of his chest. There was no way for Her to know that, unless Dean’s whole face just screamed lonely. Lonely fucking trash to be used up and forgotten. It didn’t. He was so goddamn careful to ensure it didn’t. Even Dad didn’t know the extent of that pit, so it was impossible for Her to, and why did it feel like She’d just punched him in the gut-

“Listen to me,” Dad hissed Her full name, and it was a low threat that snapped Dean back into his body. “Skip town. This is our case, and we don’t need some fancy brat gettin’ in our way.”

She glanced at Dean, and he almost didn’t catch the small frown on Her face. It was fleeting—barely a flash on Her gorgeous features—but strong. Reaching all the way to Her eyes and filling them with an emotion Dean didn’t understand.

But then it was gone. And when She looked back to Dad her face was in bored and taunting once more. 

“I’m hate to break it to you, buddy, but ghosts don’t care about dibs.” Her lips curled into a smirk, and this was it. She was going to rat Dean out, he was dead-

“Lucky for you,” She picked up Her drink and leaned back in her seat. “It’s not a ghost. So maybe if you ask it really nicely, it’ll refuse to be killed by anyone but you.”

Dad scowled. “What the hell are you talkin’ about, girl. This ain’t another moroi thing, this is a fuckin’ ghost-“

“It’s not.” She grinned at them from around Her straw, and shit She had nice lips. They were a little puckered, Dean could still remember how soft they’d been, and they’d probably look even better wrapped around Dean’s-

“Whatever game you’re playin’,” Dad hissed at Her, snapping Dean out of his thoughts. “Cut the shit and say what you mean.”

She hummed, still wearing a bright, mocking grin. “You think it’s a ghost.”

“It is a ghost,” Dean muttered, watching Her carefully. “You’re not stupid, Princess, EMF plus random flying plates equals evil Casper.”

“That’s true.” She dropped Her empty glass on the table, leaning toward with a shrug. “But it’s still not a ghost.”

“You heard Dean, girl, it’s a ghost, plain and goddamn simple.”

“Have you seen it?” 

Dean glanced at Dad, and he’d bet a lot of money that their expressions were identical in pure freaking confusion.

“We don’t have time,” Dad grunted, his voice low and edged. “For fucking riddles. You-“

“It’s not a riddle.” She raised her brows, picking a cherry out of the glass. “Have either of you actually seen your alleged ghost? Did Maggie Rose tell you she saw it?”

Maggie Rose. Woodstock. The woman who would’ve definitely seen the ghost by now.

And who hadn’t mentioned it a single goddamn time.

“I’m guessing you haven’t found remains either.” She hummed, picking the cherry off the stem with Her teeth. “And you’ve been looking for who the ghost could be, but you’re not finding anything. You’ve been looking in the wrong place. Poltergeist’s don’t have to haunt the places where they died, and they often have little to no connection with their victims.”

Dad’s eyes narrowed. “This thing ain’t nearly violent enough to be a poltergeist-“

“That’s because it’s been getting enough attention so far. Maggie’s been screaming about it, and it’s found that satisfying enough.” She spun the stem between two fingers, looking between Dad And Dean with a triumphant grin. “Poltergeist.”

Dean was pretty sure Dad was going to leap across the table and strangle Her. His jaw was clenched, his body stiff at Dean’s side, and his words—when he finally spoke—were pushed through his teeth. 

“Dean.” He grunted, not looking away from Her. “I have to make a call to your uncle. Deal with her.”

“Yes, sir.” Dean nodded, and Dad slid out of the booth without another word. Leaving Dean.

But not alone.

Dean blinked at Her. Dad was gone, and She hadn’t mentioned that they’d seen each other before. Shit, She hadn’t even mentioned Sam, and his obvious absence. Dad would just chalk that up to Her being a bitch, but Dean was clinging to it. She should’ve said it. She had every reason to. But She fucking hadn’t, and some part of Dean was desperate to know why. To know if it was because the idea of him in trouble made Her feel like her skin was being ripped to shreds. It felt like that for Dean, whenever he was reminded that She hunted alone. Whenever a memory of Her covered in blood flashed through his brain. 

And he could still feel it. Feel the electricity in the air that was so different than before. It was charged and tense, but in a way that made Dean feel like he was breathing. He could feel things that didn’t make sense, but they were right. She was right. Across the table, running Her hands over her calves and watching Dean like he might try to take a bite of Her, She still felt like she could fit against him like another piece. 

“You’re not going to deal with me.”

Dean frowned at Her. She wasn’t meeting his gaze, poking the paper umbrella around the glass. “What?”

“What your dad said,” She muttered. “He told you to deal with me. You won’t.”

“What makes you think that?”

She finally looked at him. Really looked at him, for the first time since last year. On the curb She’d seen him, but not looked at him. Not like before. Not like that. Where Dean felt like She was seeing right into the pit—how empty and fucking pathetically worthless he was—and filling it up with something peaceful and silver and molten in his gut, like a melted star lighting him up from the inside. He wished it was real. Dean wished, more than almost fucking anything, that he didn’t know that this was part of Her scam or game. That She was looking at him like that because he made Her feel stripped and raw too. Because She saw something in him she wanted, and just kept digging for more without fear of him breaking Her.

But he also wished he wasn’t so fucking lonely that he could care about that. That he could get a hold over himself and just deal with Her. That She wasn’t giving him a strangely soft smile, and he wasn’t caving from how it made his heart freaking glow like a night-light. 

“Because,” She said, like it was simple. Like Dean should just know what she meant. “You won’t.”

“I might.” He leaned forward, holding Her eyes on his as he smirked. “You’re putting yourself in danger, Princess. Dealing with you would be the responsible thing to do.”

“Really.” Her voice was dry, disbelieving. “How would you deal with me, Dean Winchester?”

God, She was trying to kill him. She was looking at him like that, and there was a smug smirk on Her full lips, and Dean had spent the last year hating Her but now all he could think about was how the universe that existed in Her eyes, and how he wanted to see every inch of it. Bare skin and brilliant eyes that had been phantoms in is sleep, now real and touchable. He had a million ways he’d like to deal with Her, and all of them started with those blinding fucking eyes. Rolling back in Her head and fluttering under him and sparkling on his. Her voice saying his name like it was more than just a breath, like it was the blood in Her veins-

“I’m afraid that’s top secret, Princess.” Dean dragged himself together to shoot Her a wink, and he could’ve sworn she flushed. “But I’ll tell you if you give me that answer you owe me.”

She gave him a strange look. “We were even.”

Dean shook his head. “You had asked me two questions. I only asked you one.”

There was a small, frowning pout on Her lips, and Dean realized She might be trying to work out if he was lying. He wasn’t. That conversation lived in the corners of his brain all the goddamn time, he couldn’t forget it if he tried. And he had. He’d bet his life that he was right. She’d asked him two questions about Dad and Sam, called him De, and his whole brain had short-circuited. He’d only realized on the drive back, and he’d been planning to use that to try and get Her to do the game again, but-

But She’d been tricking him. A con-woman and spoiled bitch who had been planning to use him. He’d seen the evidence. He knew that’s what was real. That between them, Dean wasn’t the liar.

He should care about that more. He should stand up and leave, or threaten Her to get the hell out of Dad’s way, or at least stop fucking smiling at Her. But She’d nodded, dropping Her knees down to lean closer, and he was drugged on Her voice and smell and face.

And he stayed.

“Fine.” She said, and Dean felt a thrill-like rush through his body. She was so pretty. “Go.”

He didn’t have a question ready. He hadn’t really expected Her to agree. But She had, and now he was staring at Her, trying to find something. Anything at all that didn’t make him look like a gaping dumbass, lost in Her eyes and high on her smell. He should ask everything he’d wanted to scream at Her on the street, and throw in a shout of why the hell didn’t you tell my dad I knew you were here. It didn’t make any goddamn sense that She hadn’t, and Dean needed to know why. That’s what he should ask. He should just freaking ask why.

“Where are you staying?”

Son of a bitch. That wasn’t what he’d meant to ask, now She was staring at him like he was some kind of creep or asshole, and Dean had to figure out how the hell he could justify asking that.

“For the case,” he added quickly, his voice drained of most of the artificial, cocky arrogance he prided himself on. “Ya’ know. In case we need to find you.”

“You won’t.” She said, Her finger running over that scar on her palm. “This is my case-“

“Yeah, and you’ve got it handled.” Dean drawled, raising his brows. “You gonna answer the question?”

She sighed. “Same motel you’re at. Down the road.”

He shook his head. “No, I haven’t seen your car-“

“You remember my car?” 

He felt a little heat rush to his face, only worsened by how there was a little, dancing light in Her eyes that was trying to draw him into Her, as if he was only a moth and she was the freaking sun. And of course he remembered that car. It was Her car. He’d felt something seize in his chest every time he’d seen one like it for the last year. 

“I like cars,” Dean grumbled—hoping She wouldn’t see it for the half-lie it was—and a small smile pulled at her lips. It looked a little too real.

“Like your dad’s.” She nodded, starting to fish ice cubes out of Her glass. “The Impala.”

It was Dean’s turn to grin. “You remember my car?”

She definitely flushed that time. “Yeah,” She mumbled. “It’s memorable. Shut up and answer my question.”

Dean raised his brows, remained silents, and tried to bait Her into saying it again. It worked.

“You’re such a-“ She cut herself off with a sigh and roll of Her eyes. “How would you deal with me.”

“I’m so glad you asked,” Dean drawled Her name, feeling his grin overtake his face, every bit of his confidence returning—stronger than before—as She swallowed under his gaze. “I’d deal with you however you’d like.”

She blinked at him, and he was certain Her voice was higher than before. “I don’t, um, I-“ She glanced down at his lips, Her tongue poking out between her teeth. Dean wanted to bite it. “What?”

“However you tell me to,” he winked, and She looked like he’d shot her. Good. “I’ll deal with you. My question is how?”

“How-“

“How would you like me to deal with you, Princess?” 

Dean was pushing it. Shit, he didn’t even know what he was saying anymore, or why he couldn’t bring himself to sneer at Her, or mock her, or deal with her the way Dad had definitely meant. But he did know that Her eyes were wide and blown out, and Her lips looked soft, and he wanted to know if could get Her to be speechless. To gape at him all needy and dumb, so he could show Her exactly what fire She’d been playing with. That he wouldn’t roll over like a puppy, that whatever spell She’d cast on him—whatever aphrodisiac she’d been using—Dean might not be immune, but he could give better than he got. Maybe he’d get Her to bend enough that She’d admit what she’d been doing last year, and Dean would forgive Her because he didn’t know how not to. Because She was like tattoo on his brain that he didn’t want to get rid of.

Maybe he’d get to keep Her.

Maybe they could start over.

“I…” She trailed off, and Dean wanted to smash his lips to Her slack, open ones and start over. She was still gaping at him with a wide, open expression, and fuck he wanted to start over so bad. Against every bit of willpower and intelligence he had, Dean wanted to give into this strange instinct and start over.

“C’mon.” He drawled Her name, shooting her a wink. “Use some words.”

She glared at him, something hot flashing in Her eyes. “Pass. Ask me a different question.”

Dean scoffed under, dropping his voice to under his breath. “Who’s not fun now-“

“I heard that.”

“Course you did.” He rolled his eyes. “Fine, party pooper. What do you like?” 

She blinked at him. "What do I like?"

"Like you said, sweetheart, I like cars." Dean said, trying to make his words sound casual. Like he wasn't desperate to learn everything about Her that she'd offer. "What's your thing?"

"My thing." She said slowly, still looking at Dean like he was insane. "That I like."

He nodded, watching Her carefully, and she frowned into the air as she continued. 

"I don't know. Books? Movies and music?"

Dean gave Her an amused, flat look. "C'mon, you can gimme more than that-"

"No, I can't." She snapped. She was really hot when she snapped. "Movies and music is my answer, Winchester, deal with it."

Dean drawled Her name. “Everyone likes movies and music-“ 

“That doesn’t make it any less important to me.” She said, narrowing her eyes. “How would you like it if I said everyone drives cars-“ 

Dean scoffed. “They don’t drive them like I do, Princess-“ 

“And you don’t watch movies and listen to music like I do, Deano.” 

He chuckled, raising his hands in surrender. “Alright. Point proven.” He titled his head at Her. “What’s your favorite movie?” 

She laughed. A real laugh, and it sounded like music and rain and a soft summer breeze that shot right into Dean’s blood like a drug. “It’s my question, De. But nice try.”

He grinned at Her, clicking his tongue. "Bossy-"

"Shut up." She tilted her head at him, and Dean just grinned. "What's your favorite movie?"

"Untouchables." He said with a shrug. "Your turn."

She just looked at him with a small, teasing grin, and Dean realized she was waiting for him to repeat the question.

He chuckled, shaking his head. "Fine, sweetheart. What's your favorite movie?"

Her face split into a wide, full grin, and God, he was fucked. Nothing in the world seemed to matter more than that smile, and the way it made him feel like he was circling the sun, crashing down to Earth in a ball of fire, and turning to steam as She swallowed him in her gravity. He really didn't give a shit if it was real. Maybe Dean could get himself to be bloody and bright enough to match Her, and she'd feel this too. She'd feel this, and stay, and offer an explanation about last year. An explanation that would prove it wasn't all that bad, and that She was just as fucking empty as Dean was, and he'd fill Her up-

Fuck, he couldn't think that. Not right now, when She looked like that—beautiful in a way that might be deadly—and was smiling at him, and he couldn't get a damn grip and just hate Her. He wasn't supposed to be crashing back up into Her. Dad would be so freaking disappointed that Dean was dumb enough to fall for this act again.

But he was. His jeans felt tight, he couldn't stop grinning at Her, and that siren-like voice kept Dean in her orbit, with absolutely no desire to leave.

She had a million favorite movies. And She hadn't been lying. She watched movies differently than Dean did. Differently that anyone did. He'd never heard anyone use so many big art words in a row, followed by about twenty, very creative swears at a speed he could only describe as frantic. Like if She didn't get Dean to understand exactly why Indiana Jones was the perfect adventure movie, why chick flicks had irreplaceable cultural value, and sitcoms could be the best medium of television, the world might end.

And it should be reminding him that they weren't the same. That Dean was trapped in the mud—he'd been born here, he'd die here, and he belonged here—because it was the only place for things like him. Gut covered weapons, made of rust that would crumble to dust before they made it out alive. And She was just visiting. Using the mud to make Her feel alive or important until she could return to a world of people with ivory and marble who all spoke like this. She was using Dean to do the same, maybe more. Maybe worse. Maybe trying to pry him open and steal what little he had inside him. 

But, son of a bitch, She could have it. He'd stay right here with Her for a million freaking years, just as long as She kept smiling and rambling and giggling at Dean's small jokes between Her breathes. Maybe he could take that bite out of Her. Taste sugar and fruit and whatever else he was starting crave. He could take Her flesh and blood and call it even for what She’d done, because She was still so pretty, and Dean felt like he could be valuable under Her bright attention.

He’d repay Her for that bite by offering himself. He'd be that smeared, dulled weapon for Her. He shouldn't be. Dad would kill him. But he wanted to be. He wanted to stay here forever. And when the waitress came over—with plastic tits and syrupy words—he didn't even fully realize until She cleared her throat and jerked her head to the side. Even then he just frowned at Her, a drunken trance of her voice and smile still clouding his attention, because what the hell could possibly be more interesting—more important—than listening to Her talk?

Then the waitress leaned down, almost blocking Her from view, and Dean frowned.

"What?" His voice was irritated, impatient, but he didn't really care. He needed think lady to freaking move, before She somehow vanished like a dream through Dean's fingers, and he was alone again.

"You want anythin' to drink, handsome? The waitress asked, and Dean nodded. He could use a beer—it might help dull the raging wildfire inside him, trying to tear him between his hatred of what he knew She was and the raw, feral instinct to latch onto Her and never let go—and Her glass was almost out of ice cubes. If he got Her another glass, he could keep Her here just a little longer. As long as he could.

"Beer for me," he raised two fingers, pointing between Her and himself. "Virgin Shirley Temple for the lady."

The waitress blinked at him for a second, but got the message. Dean had Her. He didn't need to company of another pretty face, because none of them could be prettier that Her's. Shit, it wasn't even a fair comparison. Leaving this booth for anything—leaving Her for anything—would be like trading a burger for a fucking salad. Insane and pointless.

When the waitress finally moved, She was gaping at him, her words suddenly soft. Almost nervous. 

"You, um-" She shook her head slightly. "Thanks."

Dean shrugged. "Not a big deal, you blew through that fancy girl drink in like a second anyway-"

"No, that's not-" She frowned at him, and Dean realized she was touching that scar again. "You remembered. That I don't drink."

"Oh." Dean stared at Her, his tongue almost glued into his mouth, his brain a little warm and soft from Her almost vulnerable gaze. "Yeah."

They were just staring at each other, and all Dean could manage to do was clear his throat, scratch the back of his neck, and force himself to speak. 

"You, uh," he swallowed, fidgeting with the cuff of his jacket. "Never mentioned why."

"Why-"

"You don't drink."

"I'm not twenty-one yet, Winchester, I don't think I-" She cut herself off, leaning a little away from Dean with a small frown. He waited, the silence resuming for a long, heavy second that sat and froze in Dean's lungs. She wasn't looking at him anymore, twisting a ring on Her finger, and when She spoke again, her voice had dropped to a mumble. "I want a clear head. It's safer."

"Safer?"

"For our job." She curled a little into herself, like Dean was trying to peel her apart. "I mean, I can't really afford to get drunk. It could end, uh, badly."

Something became sharp over Dean's skin. That wasn't it. It wasn't a lie, but Dean could read it all over Her—he wasn't sure how, but he could—that there was more to it. But that's not why there was a sore prickle rooted in his muscles. 

"Because you hunt alone."

She nodded, bringing Her knees up to her chest, and the ache worsened. 

"You could drink." He muttered, leaning back with a slight slam of his hand on the table. "If you'd hunt with a partner."

She sighed. "I'm not going to hunt with a partner-"

"Why?"

He'd snapped. He hadn't meant to, but the ache moved to his mouth and he needed Her to understand. To get that hunting alone was fucking dangerous, and would get Her killed, and he cared about that so goddamn much for no real reason. He shouldn't care. But the thought of Her covered in blood make his gut twist and his heart burn in his chest, so She needed to get it. Now.

She narrowed her eyes, finally looking at him. "Why what."

"Why won't you hunt with a partner." He grumbled, holding Her gaze. "What would make that so fucking bad, sweetheart?"

"Because, as I've told you all week, I don't need to.” Her words were firm, dropped to a hushed sneer. "Anyone else would get in my way."

"I haven't even seen you since the freaking house," Dean said Her name with a low huff. "How could that be getting in the way-"

"I'd be fucking babysitting." She hissed. "I don't need a bunch of assholes tell me what to do, how to fight, how to kill something, how to-"

"Be safe?" Dean cut Her off with a sneer. "Not act like you're too good for anyone else?"

"I never said that, you asshole." She was starting to hug herself, and Dean felt ill, but he wouldn't be the one to break. "I am not too good, I just refuse to be a little hunter fuck-doll beating bag."

Dean blinked. "What?”

She sighed in flat, unamused disbelief. "Hunter's don't have great track records with women. I mean, be fucking real, dude. It wouldn't be the monster's that kill me."

"You," he shook his head. "That's- There are assholes out there everywhere, that doesn't mean you just roll over and accept death-"

"So what should I do?" She raised Her brows. "Be your partner? Be you and your father's little fucking toy until one of you puts a bullet-"

She cut herself off, and Dean gaped at Her, fire crawling over his veins.

"I-" She swallowed, and Dean wished he didn't give a fuck how She suddenly seemed so small. "I'm-"

"Do you seriously believe," Dean muttered, unsure if the fire in his voice was for himself, Dad, or how She looked like a wounded animal. "That we'd- Shit, are you fucking kidding me-"

"It's- I-"

"Save it," He snapped. "We are not killers or fucking savage trash-"

"That's not-"

"You listen to me, Princess-"

"No! I just-" She sounded panicked. Cornered. "I’m sorry, I didn't mean it like that, it's complicated-"

He scoffed. "Not that complicated, sweetheart, you think I'm just as bad as that shit we hunt-"

"No I don't-"

"You do," he hissed Her name. "Drop the act. And, just so we're clear, I'd never hurt you-"

She laughed, shaking Her head. "You can't be fucking serious. That’s-“ She tensed, her face twisting slightly as she scratched at Her skin. "You don't get to tell me what I should and shouldn't do, Winchester. You don't get to act like you give a fuck if I hunt alone."

Dean's hand curled into a fist. "Nobody should hunt alone, it's, fuck, it's stupid-"

"I am not stupid-"

Dean huffed a dry laugh. "I got that, Princess. But you know what? I think," he leaned forward, letting the words fall out of his mouth before he could think about them. Before he could stop them. "That you're just too much of a crazy bitch to have anyone stick around."

It was silent, and She was just staring at him, her features moving through a million emotions that Dean couldn't understand. He'd won. She looked like he'd taken a knife right to Her heart, and she wasn't fighting back, so he'd won. And he couldn't fucking breathe. He felt sick, and faint, and freaking awful-

"Choke on my dick, Winchester.” She snapped, but there was something weaker in Her voice. Something that told Dean he’d hit on something fragile. That he was a piece of fucking shit that went for the killing blow because he couldn't help it. Because he was the very fucking, lower-than-the-sewers trash She'd just accused him of being-

He opened his mouth to say something, anything, to take it back or say they'd both gone too far, and he felt like shit and still wanted—despite literally everything—to start over. To at least ask Her to tell him the truth, to at least tell Her how hating her like this made him feel wrong-

But She was gone. She'd left the booth and stomped out the door before Dean could even make a sound, and he just goddamn sat there. She wouldn't come back, but he was still just sitting there. Dad was probably waiting for him, ready to demand a reason why he'd taken so long, but Dean still just sat there. Shit, they might have a poltergeist to deal with, but Dean wasn't freaking moving.

What finally got him was the waitress, making her way back to the table and saying some snide comment about his girlfriend not appreciating him. Dean didn't even spare the woman a look as he shot up, shoved past her, and marched out into the parking lot to find Dad and get the hell out of here. If Dad asked, Dean would say he'd taken care of it. Not of Her—She'd looked like he'd torn Her to shreds with his teeth—but the situation. She'd probably be gone by morning, not wanting to be anywhere near two mud and gut covered hunters. Near Dean.

Dad was still on the phone when Dean saw the Impala. Sitting in the front seat with a frown, the windows rolled down to combat the flat heat of air, speaking in a low, gruff voice to whoever was on the other end of the line.

"I don't care," he was muttering as Dean approached, his voice carried on the wind. "I can get the asshole no problem, Bobby, the poltergeist ain't my issue."

It was a poltergeist. If Bobby said it was a poltergeist, it was a poltergeist. She'd been right. And as Dean got closer, Dad obviously couldn't see him in the shadows, so he should probably say something to alert Dad that he was here

"Obviously it's the fuckin' girl." Dad snapped, and Dean froze. "Shit, she just shows up again? On another weird fuckin' case, bein' right about what it is, sinkin' her claws into Dean-"

Dad stopped talking—Bobby was probably saying something Dean couldn't hear—and Dean's breathing was shallow. He shouldn't be eavesdropping. Dad would kill him, and he just shouldn't. He trusted Dad, and if this wasn't something Dad wanted to hear, it wasn't something he had to hear. But She hadn't sunken Her claws into him. She'd just scratched him over his brain and scarred him, but Dad couldn't see that. She just haunted him, and drove him mad, and made him want to-

"She's the one Dean's obsessed with."

Dean frowned. He was not obsessed with Her. 

"She's a hunter alright. That moroi case me and the boys worked-" There was a small pause. "Yeah, moroi. Freakin' nasty little vampire baby shits. She-" Dad huffed, and Dean could hear the muffled sound of Bobby's voice. It sounded urgent. 

Then Dad said Her full name into the speaker, and Dean could hear his frown. "You heard of her, Bobby?"

Bobby must have said no—there was no reason for him to know Her—but whatever he did say made Dad's hands grip the wheel with white knuckles.

"The hell you mean you have to go- Bobby-" John groaned, the click of his phone being closed snapping through the air and Dean swallowed. The call was over. Time to pretend he wasn’t a piece of fucking shit that had been invading Dad's privacy.

Dean moved out of the shadows and opened the car door, Dad barely waiting for him to be seated before he started talking.

"We got a poltergeist." He grunted, turning on the engine. "Let's go."

Dean blinked. "Go? Like, now?"

"Damn right, now." Dad shot him a raised brow. "Why, you fuckin' waiting for somethin'-"

"No, sir." Dean shook his head, and Dad nodded, still watching him carefully.

"You take care of the girl?"

"Uh, yeah." Dean hated that the words tasted rotten in his mouth. "She's gone."

Dad nodded. "Remember, son. No pair of tits are worth more-"

"Then family." Dean finished. He'd heard that sentence enough to recite it in his sleep. It didn't matter. She didn't matter. Dean felt like a fucking asshole, but She didn't matter. "I know, Dad."

"Good." Dad muttered, pulling out of the lot. "Let's kill this fuckin' poltergeist and get the hell out of here."

—————————

Bobby doesn't know you're here. He thinks you're in Louisiana still, dealing with the kelpie.

You're not. You're in Illinois. Trying something on a poltergeist.

You'll tell him when you get home. Explain that you'd just wanted to test your ghost ritual again, and if you'd told that him before, he would've snapped that testing that stuff was dangerous, and the thing had already worked once, so there wasn't any goddamn reason to risk it again. 

And he was right. The rituals and spell and curses that had started to come to you in the dead of night—when it was just you and the White in the world, and the darkness became consuming—weren’t exactly safe to test on hunts. Not because of the rituals themselves, but because of the exposure. The danger of using magic where you could be discovered by another hunter. But you had to test them. You didn't know where they were coming from or how to stop them, but they always worked. You wake up and know that, if you said all these words and mixed these things together, you could make a veil between dead spirits and the living. A barrier that didn't kill the ghosts, but stopped them. A blockade that could be torn down, but bought you plenty of time and minimized any casualties. 

It was why Bobby wasn't stopping you. He insisted you stay far away from other hunters, and update him after every test to make sure you hadn't blown yourself up or worse, but he wasn't trying to hold you back. Convince you to just drown in the darkness until it eroded the White, and you lost control forever. But he still wouldn't be happy about the second test. And you could've justified it by pointing out that this was actually a poltergeist, so you'd had to figure out how to alter the ritual, but then you saw the Winchester's Impala in your motel parking lot. 

Which meant this it would be stupid to keep working the case. It meant you were in danger, because they were probably hunting the same poltergeist you were trying to do magical experiments on. 

Worse, it meant Dean was here.

And you're going to fucking scream.

He'd never left your brain. You haven't stopped moving, you never stop moving, but Dean has followed you everywhere. Into your head every second, still circling around his handsome face and pretty face and beautiful smile. Into the darkness when it started to slip out of you, fueled by an echo of unworthy and sick, edged with the phantom feeling of his body at your side.

He was in countless, lonely motel beds where you looked to the side and expected him to be there. He was on the curb when you were covered in grime and monster guts, and you looked up to find the shadow above you only a shadow. He was in your bag, because you’d never thrown out his shirt. It didn’t smell like him anymore—he was there too, in wet grass in the spring and the spice of cheap aftershave on a man in a bar—but you were still holding onto it. Holding onto Dean.

You weren’t sure what could make you let go. You’d even started to fish for information about him from Bobby with careful questions about the Winchesters. What they usually hunted, so you could avoid them. What Sam and Dean were like, in case you ever ran into them, so you’d know what to expect. If they always hunted with John, or if they ever went off on their own. Bobby would always give you a strange look and a short answer—whatever they ran into, they’re good boys in the same shit situation as every other hunter, and John never let them hunt alone—but you’d pieced more from what you already knew. Sam hated hunting, and Dean loved it, their relationship with John was complicated—you could’ve gotten that one yourself—and Dean was what Bobby called eager with women.

He slept around. He’d probably been trying to sleep with you, and given up when he realized that you weren’t easy. That you were tired and rough and so, so angry all the time. That you might be beautiful, but the same was a thunderstorm is beautiful. The same was a statue is beautiful.

Something you shouldn’t touch. Something you shouldn’t try to hold, even for a night.

Something that wasn’t worth Dean Winchester time. Something he’d seen, turned away from, and then left you. He’d left you because he’d seen you for what you were, and he hadn’t wanted anything from you in the first place, but he’d still fucking left you. And you hated him for that, because you’d been ready to offer him whatever he wanted. Against all reason and logic and caution, you’d wanted him more than you could describe. 

And against all your willpower, you couldn’t let go of him. Because you’d seen the Impala in the parking lot—the one you’d been searching for on every highway, in every small town and city—and the force of Dean is here had hit you like a hurricane. Everything had felt so fucking big, and you couldn’t hold onto the darkness in your body as your breathing became heavy and you attempted to keep yourself together. Nails digging into your skin as the wind howled through your room, the peeled paint on the walls cowering from you as your attention became vigilant, everything crashing back down into you when you bit down, and a lightbulb shattered across the room.

You’d avoided him. You’d hidden in crowds on the street when you saw him, and ducked behind shelves when he entered the corner store. You’d kept your shades angled so you could see the parking lot, and pushed down the way the White howled at the sight of him coming and going. You’d planned to handle the hunt in silence, and then just go.

The house owner was a sweet hippy who agreed to let you do the ritual when you told her she had the aura of a swan. You’d give it a few days after to ensure the barrier could hold, get rid of the poltergeist for good, and then leave without the Winchester’s ever even knowing you were here.

Then you’d seen Dean in the woods, and you couldn’t resist talking to him. He’d seen you anyway, so there wasn’t anything left to lose. And he’d still been so pretty, and your knees still felt weak, and the White still whined for him no matter how much of a dick he was being. It was insufferable, you’d left with darkness eating at your blood, and you’d looked back. You couldn’t stop looking back. Every time you had run on the street you’d turned around to see if he was frowning in adorable confusion around the busy sidewalks. When he was in the parking lot you’d checked to see if he was still pretty, even though you knew he would be. Of course he would be. He was an asshole like that. 

You’d looked back outside of the poltergeist house because you had to. You had to see if he was real or just another flickering dream, and you couldn’t resist the desire to see him—staring at you on the street and suffocating you with that same smell from last year—one more time. It’s why you hadn’t skipped town right after. It’s why you’d stayed so long in the bar. You just fucking had to. You could fight against his winks and grins and smooth words, making you smile when you hated him, making you laugh when you should’ve been running. It had seemed—for whatever strange reason—that Dean hadn’t told John you were here, but he definitely knew now, and you were certainly in very real danger. But Dean had carved you open again, and you’d stayed in that stupid booth until he’d given you a good reason to leave.

And it was a great reason. It would’ve been kinder to shoot you in the temple than say that. At least he would’ve killed you, and you wouldn’t have had to wage this war in your body. The war between your hatred of him, and how you want to go back. He’s such a fucking asshole, but you still want to turn around and go back. To ask him why he left, why he cares, how he seems to know your every raw nerve and if he's still feels this too. If he felt it before. 

You don't really want to know that last one. Because if he felt it before, that means he felt it and left. That he can feel it now and hates you for it. 

Because he does hate you. If it wasn't in his words, it was all over his face. How he’d laughed like you were just a silly little girl. How he’d looked right into you like he could see the darkness. How he’d grinned at you like a wolf, like he wanted to rip you apart. He sees what you are, and he despises it.

And you were fine with that. You despise him. He was an arrogant, smug, dickish, charming, controlling, annoying, handsome, caring, selfish, funny, sexy, adorable, funny, strong, sweet-

God fucking damnit. He was an asshole. He'd left you, he hated you, and you wouldn't fall for the cowboy-in-shining-leather thing again. You were going to take care of this poltergeist now, and leave town right after. Dean and John could be here another week trying to figure out if it was even dead for all you cared. You just had to go. Before this all got worse.

You've barely parked when your phone starts to buzz. You don’t look at the contact when you decline it—you don’t have the time—but then it just starts buzzing again. 

It’s Bobby.

You still don’t answer. If he’s in danger, he wouldn’t call you. If it’s an urgent question, he can handle it himself. If it’s a non-urgent question, he can wait for this to be done. If he was dying-

You almost pick up the phone. The thought flashes through your brain, a small stone grows in your throat, and you reach for the phone with a frantic movement. You’re about the dial him back when the first message comes through, and you sigh in relief.

You better call me back now, kid, we need to talk.

Not dying. Can be dealt with later. You’ll call him back when you’re done, because this will be quick, and you’ll get through it. You always do.

You’d convinced the homeowner to get out of town for a few days, to stay with her sister until you were done. The purification ritual was in the trunk of your latest stolen car—you’d meddled with the ingredients, giving it an extra kick—and this would be quick. 

There’s no blur as you start. You’re alert for your barrier to break—keeping in iron poker in your hands—but there’s no disturbance, so you just go through the motions. The basement is finished in five minutes, the first floor in ten, and you’ve only got two bags left when glass shatters downstairs, and the blur starts to cloud your head. Something cracked in the ritual, maybe because you’re almost done, but now you have to fight-

“Dean, you got the guns?”

You freeze as John Winchester’s voice sounds from down the stairs, and everything becomes too sharp. There’s a creaking sound from downstairs, the darkness is starting to spread up your spine and over the white popcorn ceilings of the house, you’re fucked, and the White is reaching out to-

“I got it, Dad, but I thought poltergeists-“

“Son of a bitch wants attention.” John snaps over Dean, and you might crush the bag in your hand. “We’re gonna give him some until he shows himself, and we find the asshole’s remains and burn them.”

This is bad. That’s not how poltergeists work at all—you’re a little shocked John thinks it is—and they’re going to fuck up your barrier, and you can’t tell them they’ll fuck up the barrier or John will turn one of those guns on you-

“Is the hippy chick home?” Dean asks, snapping you out of your panic as the White howls inside you. “I can deal with her while you take care of-“

“No need. Car ain’t in the driveway.” There’s a pause, and you can hear them shuffling downstairs. “Plus I know how you deal with the vics, Dean. We don’t need that right now.”

Something’s bitter in your mouth that has no right to be there, and no right to vanish at Dean’s grumbled words.

“I didn’t mean it like that, Dad-“

“I don’t care how you meant it. Focus up so we can get this shit done.”

There’s another few muffled sounds, an unmistakable click of a gun, and you’re moving before you think better of it. 

“Stop!” You’re almost shrieking—dropping the poker and shoving your last two bags into your pockets as you run down the stairs—and barely stop your body from colliding with Dean’s in the entrance hallway.

“What the fuckin’ hell are you doin’?!“ John’s roar makes you flinch, his rifle aimed right at your head. You take a stumbling step back as darkness wraps around your hands and your heart kicks into a rapid, frantic rhythm you can hear in your ears. John can see you. He’s going to kill you. You going to die, and they’ll burn your body, and shit you never called Bobby but the darkness is going to burst out of you and John’s going to kill you-

A hand steadies you by your shoulders, grass and spice and leather ease the darkness down, and you wish you didn’t relax into the warmth of behind you, that the pretty, rolling voice a little over your head didn’t soothe your panic.

“Woah, Dad, it’s just-“ Dean says your name, and John scoffs, not lowering his gun.

“I know who it is, Dean, that ain’t my issue.” John’s eyes narrow on you, hatred painted all over his face. It’s worse than Dean’s somehow. There’s something pure about it, like John didn’t have to look into you to see what an atrocity you are. He just senses it. “Why the fuck are you here, girl.”

“I’m hunting my poltergeist.” You snap, forcing your voice to sound angry and not terrified, your face to be a mask of annoyed and not painted in dread. “What possible other reason could I have.”

“Could be looking at real estate.” Dean mumbles with a shrug, and he’s still touching you. You can’t help but glance back as you jerk away from him, and the expression on his face is unreadable. Guarded but cautious, like when he’d watched you and John snap at each other in the booth. Like he’s waiting for a bomb to go off. “I hear this is a good neighborhood.”

You give him a flat look. “This house is haunted.”

He shoots you a wink, clearly fueled by you not just ignoring him. “Won’t once we’re done with it-“

“Once I’m done with it.” You narrow your eyes at him. “This is my hunt, Winchester. I was here first.”

“Poltergeists don’t respect dibs, Princess.” Dean snaps. “And you don’t even have a freakin’ gun.”

“I don’t need a gun-“

Dean lets out a dry, shouting laugh. “I take back what I said earlier, you are stupid if you’re about to try and kill this thing without a freakin’ gun-“

“You’re stupid if you think I’m just going to let you fuck this up-“

“We’re saving your ass from getting whacked by a poltergeist, some gratitude might be nice-“

“You’re getting in my fucking way-“

“You’re-“

“Enough!” John’s shouts over Dean, and you both freeze. You hadn’t realized you’d been shouting, or how close Dean had gotten. You can see his every freckle, every shade of green in his eyes, how his lips are slightly parted so his breath fans over your face-

“I don’t want you two talkin’ unless it’s telling me where the poltergeist is.” John hisses, and you force your body away from Dean’s. “We’re killin’ this thing right fuckin’ now, got it?”

Dean nods, bowing his head slightly, and you just glare at John. All you have to do is get upstairs place the last two bags, and you’ll be fine. If agreeing to work with them does that, you’ll do it.

You split up. John goes to the basement, Dean takes the first floor, you rush upstairs. The bags are in your pants, and you’re so close, but John and Dean are waving around guns and talking about ganking the poltergeist, and it can definitely fucking hear them. The paintings shake on the walls as the temperature drops, and it’s trying break through. You get the first bag just as the lights begin to flicker, and you sprint down the hall to the last wall. Just one more and it will be done, and you can leave-

“Fuck-“ Dean shouts right as you reach the spot, and your blood goes cold. “Dad! It’s on me- shit-“ 

Then he roars your name, and you’re moving before you can think. Grabbing the poker, half-falling down the stairs, and reaching Dean just as his gun is yanked out of his hands by nothing at all. His eyes widen as they meet your, his mouth opens to say something and-

“Dean!” You can barely hear your own scream as he flies across the room, his head knocking on the counter. 

His body slumps, and you’re not in a blur. This is a rush. Everything is wide around you, there’s an airy chill in your lungs, and the darkness is pouring out of you as the lights grow too bright and the windows bang on a windless night. The darkness starts to ignite over your hands—a phantom flame you’re not sure is real, burning and stinging at your skin—you whirl around, and, on instinct alone, shove the air. There’s a high, shrill, horrible sound of pain as the air goes up in flames, and then it all comes down. The room grows warm, the house goes quiet, and the darkness returns to you without a fight.

And Dean’s still slumped on the floor. 

“Dean!” You fall to your knees at his side—rolling his face to the side, grabbing his hand to take a pulse—and only notice John as he silently joins you, taking Dean’s face between his hands with a set jaw. 

You don’t know how long he’s been there.

You don’t know what he saw.

“What the hell-“

“Poltergeist.” You whisper, watching John examine Dean’s head. “Threw him across the room.”

John scowls. “You just let this shit happen-“

“I didn’t- I got the asshole.” You hiss, clawing at the skin near your nail until it stings. “House purification ritual, which I was already doing before! Nothing would’ve happened at all if you didn’t jump in with fucking guns-“

“Just-“ John raises his hand, and you fall silent. You’re still holding Dean’s hand. You don’t let it go.

“He’s okay.” You mumble, mostly for yourself. Mostly to fight the bile in your throat at the sight of him, sweaty and pale, not bleeding but moving, eyes fluttering but not waking up. “He’s gonna be okay.”

You almost miss John’s strange look. You almost forget about the axe over your head, and how he might know what you are. All you can really think about is Dean. You barely hear John order you to stay here while he grabs the car, and it feels a little pointless. You would’ve stayed here no matter what. 

He’s groaning. Dean keeping making low noises of pain, and his hand keeps flexing in yours, but he’s breathing. Shallow breathes, but he’s breathing. And he’ll be okay. He has to be okay. It’s just a Poltergeist, not even a strong one, and he’s young and strong, and he’ll be okay. Your breathing has become a little uneven, and you can feel the White rioting and bellowing inside you as he shudders slightly, but he’ll be okay. You won’t let him not be. He feels clammy when you press your hand to his brow—your fingers brush his hair, and it’s soft, and that’s not important but you’re going to think about it for a million years—so you shrug off your own jacket and toss it over his body. He’s still holding onto you, so you don’t drop his hand. When John gets back you loop his arm over your shoulders, your own arm around his waist, and haul his dead-weight up until John grabs the other side. 

When you reach the Impala—you working in silence with John to slide him carefully into the backseat—he clings to you. John drops his arm and it shoots over your stomach, his head falling onto your chest as he makes another low grunt of pain. And there’s such little color on his face, and he’s still shuddering when you move the jacket back over him, and you could fix this. You’ve never healed anyone before, but you could. You can feel the darkness moving into the tips of your fingers and over your heart as Dean takes a stuttered breath, and you have to-

“Get out.”

You look up and find that John has walked around the car and opened your door. “I-“

“Leave.” John grunts, not even sparing you glance as he speaks. “Now.”

You shake your head, and it’s a weak movement. There’s that feral instinct of survive still in your bones, but it’s not bigger than Dean. Nothing’s bigger than Dean. “No, I-“

“I ain’t askin’-“

“It’s not up to you-“

“My car. My rules.” John’s words sound pushed through his teeth. “Out.”

“I,” you swallow, glancing back down to Dean. “I could help-“

“You’ve done enough.“

“I could fix him!” You shout, and your sounds pleading. You feel like you’re pleading. It’s pathetic, and you don’t care because Dean makes a low, strained noise and you feel like you’re choking. “I could-“

“Listen to me very fuckin’ closely.” John sneers your full name, finally lowering down to meet your gaze. “The out of my fuckin’ car, and stay the hell away from my son. I don’t need you fixin’ him, because he’s not broken, and if he was the last thing he needs is some high horse brat making him weak.”

There’s a high ringing in your ears, and your voice is soft. “I-“

“He’d be fine if you hadn’t interfered with our work.” John snaps. “You’re out of your little pond, girl, and if I ever see you distractin’ Dean or fuckin’ with his brain again, I’ll put a bullet in yours. Got it?”

You nod, something vast and numb spreading over your chest as you carefully climb out of the car—making sure not to disturb Dean, or make his head worse—and leave John without another word. But you look back. You can’t help yourself from turning and watching the Impala pull away, from digging your nails into your skin as you cling to yourself until their headlights vanish around a corner. 

You’re already packed. Everything’s in your car—clothing, tools, books, makeup and hygiene products, first aid kit—and you could just drive out of town, but you don’t. You toss the last purification ritual bag into the truck, sit behind the wheel, just stare into the darkness.

You need to call Bobby. You need to go. John wouldn’t kill you with an injured Dean to care for, but he’d seen. He had to have seen. And not leaving now would be a death sentence. 

But you just sit in the car. Sit in the cancerous darkness that’s alight in your body, the image of Dean’s pained features burned into your eyes, flashing in front of you whenever you blink. All that boiling hatred for Dean is gone. Evaporated into thin air, leaving you ill and pained and empty. John was right. You hadn’t been fast enough, and Dean got hurt. Your barrier against the poltergeist made it violent, and Dean got hurt. You’re the sick one. It’s why he left to begin with. 

He was better for it. He didn’t need you—no one needed you—and John’s threat hadn’t been empty, so you need to drive away and never look back.

And yet you end up in the motel parking lot. Hunched in your seat as you wait for just a little proof that Dean’s okay. That you hadn’t held him and shattered him, like he’d shattered you. You’re there until the sun breaks the sky, until it’s beating over your head and you have to crack the windows. 

You’re there when your phone starts to ring, and you realize you’d forgotten to call Bobby.

You’ve barely picked up when he starts shouting, and you flinch away from the speaker. 

He uses your full name. First, middle, and Singer. He only uses your full name when he’s proud of you, or furious. And this feels more like the latter. You’re in trouble.

“You wanna tell me,” he hisses. “Why John fuckin’ Winchester knows who you are?”

“I, uh-” You swallow, twisting a ring with your thumb. “I don’t-“

“And I ain’t gonna buy your bullshit, kid, that shit doesn’t work on me.”

You sigh. “Bobby, look-“

“No, you look. I didn’t teach you to be a goddamn idjit dumbass,” he snaps your name, and you curl a little further into your seat. “You know what he’d do to ya’. Shit, what are you plannin’ on doin’ if you have a slip? If he sees that hoodoo shit happen?”

“Um, he might have already seen it.”

There’s silence on the other end for a long second, then a low, “What.”

“We just finished a poltergeist case.” You mumble, hoping he’s too angry to catch onto the why are you on a poltergeist case part. “And it attacked Dean. And I killed it.”

Bobby says your name slowly. “How the hell did ya’ kill a-“

“With my hands. I just, um, burned it.” You take a long breath. “And I think John saw.”

“And he just let ya’ off the fuckin’ hook-“

“Dean got hurt.” You whisper, and the words sting your tongue. “He was focused on that.”

“Balls.” Bobby mutters, and you can picture the frown on his face. “Well, you’re outta there now, we can-“

“No.” You sigh. “I can’t go, I have to-“ You cut yourself off, because it sounds stupid in your head. You do not have to make sure Dean’s okay. He hates you, everything logical in your brain says that you should be remembering how to hate him any time soon, and he’s not yours tocare about. John made that clear with his threat. Dean made it clear by leaving. But you’re still in the parking lot. And you still have to make sure Dean’s okay.

Bobby says your name through the phone, his voice slow. “You gonna tell me what happened last year. On that moroi hunt.”

“I ran into the Winchesters-“

“I ain’t slow, kid, I worked that part out. What happened that made you call me and flop around the house like a widowed fish for a week.”

You bring your knees up to your chest, shaking your head. “It’s… I can’t-“

“What if I ask if that was Dean’s shirt.” Bobby grunts. “That you were wearin’.”

“Yeah.” You drop your head back on the seat, letting out a heavy exhale. “It-“ 

You freeze, watching Dean finally step outside like he’s been summoned. He’s walking slowly, but walking, and he seems really okay, and he’s looking around the parking lot with a frown-‘

Shit.

You drop down in your seat, out of the view of the parking lot, and pray he didn’t see you.

“Bobby, I gotta-“

“You ain’t goin’ anywhere, we still got some shit to sort out-“

“I’ll come right home.” You keep your voice hushed, in case it could carry on the wind. “And you can yell at me there.”

Bobby sighs. “I wasn’t gonna yell-“

“Yeah you were-“

“No-“

“Lying is a sin, Bobby.” You smile, carefully pulling the car keys out of your jacket. “You’re not a very good role model-“

“Well, I’m gonna fuckin’ yell at ‘ya now!” He snaps, but you can hear the slight amusement in his voice. “Get home quick, and we’ll deal with this. John don’t know you’re with me, and unless Dean needs a week after your hunt-“

“I think he’s fine.” You mumble, craning your head up to see Dean gone from the lot. “I’ll be safe at home.”

“Not if I kill ya’ for pullin’ this shit on an old man.” Bobby grunts, and you grin he falls silent, a long moment of static before- “You okay, kiddo?”

“I’m okay.” You mumble, and you’re not, but you will be. You always are. “And I’m really sorry for-“

“Apologizin’ ain’t gonna help us,” Bobby mutters. “Get home, and keep outta trouble till we sort this.”

You nod. “I will.”

You’ll try. Dean’s still pulling at you in your chest and consuming your head, but you’ll try. If only for Bobby’s sanity, you’ll really try.

You’ll pretend you don’t stay in the lot for a minute longer to watch Dean walk back to his room, that you don’t glance back at the room as you drive away, and you’ll keep yourself away of trouble. 

Away from Dean.

End Note: I’d say this story is about to be John vs Bobby on who’s a better dad, but that would be like making a mouse (John) fight a dragon (Bobby).

Thank you so so so much for reading!! If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

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