#Mail order glasses

[purplepints]

My eyesight is truly terrible. -12.5 with severe astigmatism, require prism, blah blah. My lenses alone cost hundreds of dollars and the thickness of the lenses limits which frames I can purchase. I should be in progressives soon which will just cost more money and Medicare/Medicaid doesn't pay for glasses.

Without my glasses, I can't see to read past my nose. My visual acuity is something like 20/1200, which means everything more than a couple of feet away is a big blurry shape. It's definitely disabiling.

I highly recommend looking into online options, even if you have an utterly shitastic prescription like mine. I couldn't get any through Pair, but Warby Parker was able to fill my prescription AND I got to try on 5 frames through the mail for free which was great. Even as one of more spendy online options, Warby Parker was cheaper for me with both frames and lenses, saving me a good $200+ overall compared to my last in-shop visit with an optometrist.

When you get your exam, don't forget to asking for the PD reading, the pupillary distance that measures the width between the center of your pupils! It will greatly help when ordering glasses online. If you don't have it, you can measure it yourself with a millimeter-showing ruler (US Americans) or search for "measure pupillary distance" and some apps and such will show up.

Here's a link to Warby Parker, which I used :

Made the mistake of bringing up that needing glasses is a disability on tiktok and people got real mad.

“You can fix it with glasses” yeah, cuz they’re a disability aid? But like, I still have to pay 160 bucks to use my own fucking eyes?

Like, by definition, if your eyes do not work without aid, you have a disability to see.

Having a disability doesn’t automatically put you in what people consider the “disabled” category, but that doesn’t change the fact that it is in fact, a disability.

[nfcomics]

SANDMAN UNIVERSE NIGHTMARE COUNTRY THE GLASS HOUSE no.5 (of 6) • cover art • Nick Robles [Oct 2023]

All hell breaks loose in San Francisco as the Corinthian, Thessaly, and Azazel struggle for domination and, ultimately, annihilation. But amidst all the chaos, Flynn crosses paths with yet another smiling man who might very well be the key to everything--the original King of Pain himself!

(W) James Tynion IV (A) Lisandro Estherren (CA) Nick Robles

[sspacegodd]

No joke. The glass "incense burners" suddenly disappeared for a while but were finally found again identifying as "glass straws."

[gemayame]

I often think about how I latched onto Yamino of all characters, but then again it's not that surprising. The most obvious reason being

That, and I must've liked the Yamino Detective Agency episode way more than I realized.

Then it pretty much just spiraled from there I guess

His theme sounds kinda sad and is only ever used once in the aforementioned Yamino episode :(

But like, this guy is such a lovable goofball most of the time, so it's almost ironic.

[captain-safetypants]

"You do not need to be spending $60 $600 on glasses !"

Also, Zenni is a good source for cheap, good-looking glasses. Note that if you have astigmatism, need bi- or tri-focals, have a really high prescription and need high index lenses to avoid Coke - bottle status, or haveother "not entirely standard" lens needs, the price goes up accordingly. Like I haven't found anywhere you can get $30 bifocals for my partner, or $30 high index frames for my ridiculously high prescription. BUT. Buying them online is still waaaayyyyy cheaper then the optical stores. Like the difference between $150 and $700.

can we talk about how literally 64% of people wear glasses, and yet we NEVER see them in movies/tv unless it's on some nerdy or uncool character? why do we adhere to such a weird beauty standard that subconsciously makes us feel bad for,, not being able to see???

[fozmeadows]

the older I get, the more the technological changes I've lived through as a millennial feel bizarre to me. we had computers in my primary school classroom; I first learned to type on a typewriter. I had a cellphone as a teenager, but still needed a physical train timetable. my parents listened to LP records when I was growing up; meanwhile, my childhood cassette tape collection became a CD collection, until I started downloading mp3s on kazaa over our 56k modem internet connection to play in winamp on my desktop computer, and now my laptop doesn't even have a disc tray. I used to save my word documents on floppy discs. I grew up using the rotary phone at my grandparents' house and our wall-connected landline; my mother's first cellphone was so big, we called it The Brick. I once took my desktop computer - monitor, tower and all - on the train to attend a LAN party at a friend's house where we had to connect to the internet with physical cables to play together, and where one friend's massive CRT monitor wouldn't fit on any available table. as kids, we used to make concertina caterpillars in class with the punctured and perforated paper strips that were left over whenever anything was printed on the room's dot matrix printer, which was outdated by the time I was in high school. VHS tapes became DVDs, and you could still rent both at the local video store when I was first married, but those shops all died out within the next six years. my facebook account predates the iphone camera - I used to carry around a separate digital camera and manually upload photos to the computer in order to post them; there are rolls of undeveloped film from my childhood still in envelopes from the chemist's in my childhood photo albums. I have a photo album from my wedding, but no physical albums of my child; by then, we were all posting online, and now that's a decade's worth of pictures I'd have to sort through manually in order to create one. there are video games I tell my son about but can't ever show him because the consoles they used to run on are all obsolete and the games were never remastered for the new ones that don't have the requisite backwards compatibility. I used to have a walkman for car trips as a kid; then I had a discman and a plastic hardshell case of CDs to carry around as a teenager; later, a friend gave my husband and I engraved matching ipods as a wedding present, and we used them both until they stopped working; now they're obsolete. today I texted my mother, who was born in 1950, a tiktok upload of an instructional video for girls from 1956 on how to look after their hair and nails and fold their clothes. my father was born four years after the invention of colour televison; he worked in radio and print journalism, and in the years before his health declined, even though he logically understood that newspapers existed online, he would clip out articles from the physical paper, put them in an envelope and mail them to me overseas if he wanted me to read them. and now I hold the world in a glass-faced rectangle, and I have access to everything and ownership of nothing, and everything I write online can potentially be wiped out at the drop of a hat by the ego of an idiot manchild billionaire. as a child, I wore a watch, but like most of my generation, I stopped when cellphones started telling us the time and they became redundant. now, my son wears a smartwatch so we can call him home from playing in the neighbourhood park, and there's a tanline on his wrist ike the one I haven't had since the age of fifteen. and I wonder: what will 2030 look like?

[bi-writes]

I think first make out session of Simon and his mail order bride happened because she wore sundress all day ~~ i'm a bit addicted to the way you writing Simon

mail-order bride

reader described as curvier/plus-sized 18+

simon has gotten away with a lot of things ever since he married you. he's kept a respectful distance; gentle touches, affectionate ones, sure, but it's been easy to brush off the itch in the back of his head ever since he scratched it just enough when he kissed you for the first time.

when the itch becomes too severe, he's been able to hide away for a little while; running it out of his system working out, shaking it off in the field, drinking so it quiets when he makes his way to the pub.

but it's gotten a lot harder lately to pretend he doesn't see you for what you are.

a pretty girl.

he tells you that you're pretty all the time. in the mornings when you're still waking up. sitting at the counter as you watch him make sandwiches for lunch. pushing the cart in the aisle at the market, picking out the right cuts of meat or seeing which crisps you both can enjoy for movie night. and you are pretty all those times, all the time, in fact, and you were pretty when he kissed you, too.

but fuck. you're also...you're also so fucking pretty.

simon kicks off his boots at the front door, holding a few paper bags in his hands from his trip to the store. the weather has been getting warmer, summer creeping by (his most dreaded season since it forces him to take off layers he'd rather keep), and you had been begging simon for some sweet icy treats and a water fountain for the cat (it'll keep her from drinking out of your water glasses, simon).

when he steps into the kitchen, you're coming in from the backyard, flowers in your hands that the neighbor must have given you.

and you're wearing the cutest little white and red sundress (and suddenly he doesn't hate summer so much anymore).

it's got a cherry pattern on it and puffy sleeves. the bodice hugs you until the middle, where it fans out in a pillowy skirt, stopping just above your knees. there's a soft bow tied around the back, but simon really can't help himself from his eyes that narrow in on your figure and how incredible you look with the sunlight behind you.

"hi, simon," you coo, and simon glares, fucking tease. he has an inkling you don't even know what you're doing to him, you can't, not with that sweet little smile and the way you rock onto your toes. you even tied your hair up with a bow, and simon can't help but feel like you're his little gift, all wrapped up just for him.

one he wants to pluck, unravel until you reveal whatever you've been hiding underneath it all--

"oh! look it! oh, simon!" you giggle, grabbing the bag from him when you see the box that pokes out of it. you pull out a sweet, red ice lolly, cherry-flavored, and you lean up on your toes to give simon a big, wet kiss on his cheek before sucking it into your mouth. "mmm...thank you...just what i needed, it's so warm today."

bloody fuckin' christ.

your tongue is so pink. it's sliding up the edge of it until you suck it back into your mouth, and simon lets out the shakiest breath. it's unlike him, and you turn to face him fully when you notice the way he's staring at you. he looks good today, dark denim jeans and a wrinkled white t-shirt that stretches around his big arms, and your eyes dart to his tattoo sleeve for just a moment before you smile back up at him.

"what?" you ask him gently. "you want some?"

instead of offering him his own lolly, you simply tilt yours in his direction. he huffs, letting out an irritated laugh before he leans forward a licks a fat stripe up the side of the cherry ice.

you smile a little as he does, and you don't even realize your gaze has dropped. you're eyeing the way his mouth moves, taking in the hinge of his jaw and the light stubble along it and the scar that stretches across his whole face that you kiss sometimes when he falls asleep before you.

he groans a little as he takes a bite of the lolly, and you seize at the sound, dropping the lolly into the sink on accident as you scramble to look up at him. you stare at each other, lidded brown eyes just piercing into your own. you're quiet for only a few more moments before you're throwing yourself at him.

he nearly slams you against the closest wall. your back hits it firmly, rattling the pictures that hang there, and you throw your arms around his neck as he kisses you feverishly. his hands slide down your waist to your lower back, and you stand on your toes, his palms cupping your ass before he picks you up with ease, guiding your plush thighs to wrap around his waist as he holds you there.

you don't know how long you kiss against the wall, but you're breathless when he pulls away. you chase him, kissing along his nose, his cheek, any of the skin that you can get, and simon grunts lowly, cradling the back of your neck.

"we shouldn't," he mutters.

"why not?" you whine, and he hisses, looking into your eyes, hungry, big man, struggling to keep himself away from you. but it isn't what you want, you want him to kiss you, you want more, more, more--

you stand back on your toes, pushing him backwards. simon follows you, his hands bunched around the skirt of your dress as you walk him further into the living room until the couch hits the back of his knees, and he sits with a heavy breath. you bend to go sit in his lap, and simon curses under his breath, leaning his head back against the couch as your cleavage crowds his line of sight.

"fuckin' christ, baby," simon says lowly, running a rough hand over his face. he grunts when you take a seat in his lap, stretching your knees to straddle him, and you cage him in with your arms as you guide his chin back down so you can kiss him. you slot your mouth over his, kissing him lazily, and when you press your chest against his, he breathes out heavily when he feels your pebbled nipples through your dress. "fuck--fuck, fuck--"

"not yet," you giggle between kisses, and simon groans audibly as he slips two big hands under your dress and grabs both sides of your ass, his fingertips slipping under the lace of your panties so he can get a warm feel of you. you sit yourself down deeper in his lap, and you pull away slowly when you feel him underneath you.

he blinks his eyes open slowly, and you tentatively sit a little more in his lap, your eyes widening a little when you feel him between your thighs.

holy fucking shit--

"jesus," you stutter, and he looks away from you, ears reddening, and you're quick to cup his cheeks to bring his eyes back to you. you smile a little, leaning in again, and you press your forehead to his before giving him the gentlest grind of your hips. "oh--simon--" you kiss him again, soft, whispering against his lips, "s-so...you're so--"

"mhm," he nods, and you move so your lips are against his ear, giving him a light kiss where his jaw and neck meet.

"i'd say you're too big for me," you sigh, closing your eyes, "but i'm a riley now." you giggle. "'n we can handle anything..can't we, simon?"

"shit--"

you squeak a little when he wraps a hand in your hair and tugs, pressing your pelvis to his as he ruts his hips up against yours. you kiss him hard, slipping your tongue into his mouth, and he chokes on his moans, big arms keeping you pressed to him as he pants into your mouth.

he stills, face a little scrunched up as he sits there with you. you keep kissing him lazily, exploring the way he tastes, licking over his teeth and bottom lip, up until he pushes you just that much away and groans in frustration.

your eyes open, and you giggle, and simon smooths his hands up the bodice of your dress, his eyes blown wide as he takes in how pretty you look in it. pretty little angel in his lap, a nice weight to ground him as he tries not to think about the mess he's made of himself.

"i assume you like the dress?" you ask, and when you laugh, simon can see the red on your tongue from the lolly. he knows if he kisses you again and sucks on your pretty tongue, you'll taste like that awful cherry, taste as sugar-sweet as you really are. simon leans back a little, propping you up on his thighs, shaking his head as he runs a big hand down his solid middle.

"well," simon mutters. "'aven't cum in my fuckin' pants since i was a bloody kid, so i'd say so."

"w-wha--! simon!"

you cover your eyes, overcome with shyness, with warmth, not believing really that anyone could you want that much. that anyone could really want you at all.

but when you laugh, he does, too.

[bunny-jpeg]

honey, i'm home!!, convict!simon r.- you were a bleeding heart, a softie. maybe that was why you took a photo of the flyer taped against the glass wall of a bus stop. it was advertising a service for people on the outside to communicate with convicts in prison. those who didn't have family on the outside. it broke your heart as you thought about it on your commute to work.

these poor people, all alone with anyone to keep them tethered to outside. it must be so isolating, so cold. you knew the risks and when you put in your information on the website, you didn't pay too much mind to the possibilities. you were surprised when you got an email back saying that they had found you a inmate to be a pen pal with.

simon riley - five year sentence for assaulting a police officer. he had no living family and was allowed to join the program due to good behavior during his time in prison. the mugshot of him made your eyes go wide. blond, a smattering of moles and freckles, alluring brown eyes (even in the horrid mugshot light), a crooked nose from multiple breakages and scars on his face.

if your jaw dropped at the sight of his photo imagine the surprise on his face when they gave him all your information. no photo though. but enough about you to pull the convict in. oh, you were beautiful. at least on paper you were.

ideal wife-y material. that made simon chub up in his jumpsuit. he didn't care what you looked like, by the first letter he was already calling you his wife to the likes of johnny. calling you missus riley by the time he had been exchanging letters with you for a month. he learned so much about you, and you became more endearing. you told him your favourite movies, that some flowers made you allergies act up, your love of animals. you even told him about the stuffed animal you 'rescued' from a puddle, washed it up and named it tulip who now sits on your desk at home. it was sweet, you were sweet.

simon near killed a man in a botched robbery and you were talking to him like it was a first date. mind you, over letters but simon loved them. you were advised not to send anything in the mail, your address was obscured with the service's address so simon couldn't find you once he got out. but, with the right words and promises, he had your full name, the location of your job and the address of your home. you were even sweet enough let him put it as his main address once he left prison. already the sweetest thing since honey.

but simon was a greedy man, asked for a few photos of you. while you were shy, he said to you, "wanna know what my girl looks like. wanna know how she looks so when i come home, i'm able to recognize her in any crowd." and you sent a few photos, and to simon's surprise. a suggestive one.

he could see a peek of your breasts and he realized he wanted to get his paws all over them. he wanted to leave pretty bruises on that tender flesh. mark what was his, that was what he learned in prison. in order to keep something he had to keep a tight grip on it. not even johnny saw the photos, you were for his eyes only.

you were nice enough to print them on good quality photo paper, and after that there was an increase in simon's good behavior. he had to get out as soon as possible to sink his achy cock in his missus. and when the day finally came and you came to pick him up. he already felt tight in his jeans.

and not that you were so innocent either, you had your hand on his thigh while you drove home. months of dirty talk over letters, the time simon basically wrote poetry about how he wanted to taste between your legs was still a favourite to read while you were all alone in your apartment. your hand between your legs, imagining a man like simon pleasing you in a way that made orgasm come quick.

your self pleasure was nothing compared to the feeling of simon against your skin. you barely got his scarce belongings into your flat before he was pressed up against your behind. his large, rough hand on your hip, which made your stomach leap. your core got warmer.

he then said to you, "aw, doll. that's not a way to greet your husband. been away for too long, need to feel her." and then dropped his duffel bag in favour of having you pressed up against the door of your flat with your shorts soon around your ankles.

"simon! ah!" you said as he held you by the shoulders against the door while he got his belt off and his cock out. five years without a hole to call home, but he got out of the pit with a little (future) wife to happily make up for loss time.

when he sank into you, it was a religious experience, "oh honey, i'm home." before he got both hands on your hips and his hips hit up against your ass. there was little time to get familiar, it was a deep seated want. simon rutted against you like a feral dog and the pleasure made you mind race and your knees wobble.

you two couldn't even get to the bedroom, not that simon cared. he'd happily have you over the hood of his car. you knew he didn't have any satisfactions from the outside. you were being good and being his connection to the outside world. it was only fair that he thanked you with all the orgasms he could wring out of you. he'd make sure that the third round was in your soft bed. but his thrusts were heavy and desperate and the uneven pace made your brain become flooded with pleasure.

you tried to find some kind of leverage against the door, but you were simply stuck against him. you were fucked against the wood door with your hips in your convict lover's hands. he may have smudged a little bit of the details of his crimes, but it was alright. you were such a forgiving soul that you let him into your life, into your home, into your womb. he couldn't remember if you still took the pill, but it was too late for that. not while your slick cunt drooled all over his balls.

why complain about a slice of heaven when it was dropped into his lap. he eventually wrapped both arms around your middle and fucked into you feverishly. he felt the excitement in his body as he moved against you. you felt amazing, there was a certain beauty to you as you took his cock was cemented that you were his. you'll have a ring on your finger and a fat belly by christmas. the thought made him twitch.

been too long since he had a homecooked meal, and while having your cunt grasp his cock. he knew that he'd be spoiled with his wife's cooking. if it was as warm as you pussy, maybe it'll reform him more than prison ever did.

after so many years without a touch of a woman, it felt nice. it felt great to work his cock into you. have you squished up against the door as he worked himself into you. breaking in his home, breaking in his wife. what more could he want. even gave that stomach of yours a sweet little pat.

be a good girl and give him a chunky riley baby by new year.

when you climaxed, you basically were limp in his arms and he pressed you further against the door for leverage. he purred to you, "that's it, that's is, doll. you're doing so good, fuck. been wantin' this for ages. good girl, good cunt. all for me. not gettin' into trouble while i was in, right? keepin' yourself for me."

you nodded, cheek pressed against the door as he continued to fuck you. your head felt dizzy. you didn't bother dating after you started your correspondence with simon. no point, he kept your happy. simon knew that loyalty was rewarded, so he did so by shoving every inch of his length inside of you an finishing straight into the back of your womb.

he groaned and gave you a few more thrusts before he pulled out. he patted you on the behind and kissed the back of your neck, "happy to be home, doll. our home. now why don't you show me around." and chuckled when you could barely string together a sentence. he pulled you up against his chest and near leaned over you to kiss you on the cheek, "look alive, sunshine. gotta show your husband his new home. except i think it might be too small. especially when the twins come." and it went in one ear and out the other, you dumbly nodded and simon did the right thing and fucked you over the coffee table until you came a second and third time. it's alright, he'll get a tour of his home by fucking you over every available surface. <3

a/n: happy near year, my dear bunnies <3

[yanderenightmare]

part one

TW: nsfw, dubcon, blackmail

fem reader

As promised, you receive the pictures in the mail while the payment is forwarded almost emmidiatly. You don’t know which makes you gawk more, the photos of you or the numbers.

You also get an email—an invitation. The photographer is asking you to dinner. Or, asking is putting it nicely—which he most certainly didn’t. It’s phrased like a notice from your boss—matter-of-factly, he’s picking you up at eight, wear something nice.

You think about declining, but then you think about your friend again and how you don’t want to cause her any trouble. A free dinner isn’t really all that bad, is it?

It’s worse, actually.

“You should have told me you didn’t have anything to wear. I would have lent you something,” is the first thing he says when you get in his car. He hadn’t opened the door for you or anything, just sat in the driver’s seat waiting.

And though your cheeks burn with embarrassment, you think you’re foolish for it. You hadn't really dressed to impress him, after all—something you might as well tell him, “Maybe I just didn’t feel like dressing up. You didn’t exactly leave a good impression last time we met, so I don’t believe I owe you anything.”

He scoffs with a grin—face turned towards the road as he starts driving. “You have a lot more bite without your friend.”

“She has too much respect for you.” You cross your arms and look out the window. 

“That’s for sure.” You hear him chuckle, but he doesn’t offer any more of a response. You’re glad to spend the rest of the drive in silence.

You feel underdressed at the restaurant. You hadn’t thought he’d take you somewhere so nice. Most of the other couples there are dressed as if for a gala, while you’re dressed as if you’re going to an office party.

He hasn’t tried too hard himself. But still, he fits in—fat watch on his wrist, kempt hair, neat shoes, dress trousers, and a silk shirt with one too many buttons undone—a nauseating skinny chain beneath the collar as well as the hint of a chest tattoo. You bet it’s one of those dumb tribal inks, probably with some mundane Japanese characters he doesn’t know the meaning of.

“Is this where you undermine all the models desperate for your recognition?” you sigh as you sit down.

“We haven't even gotten our menus, and you’re already causing a scene?” 

He’s the one who was rude the moment you got in the car. In fact, he was rude the minute you met him. “Might as well speed this along.”

He chuckles—his smile genuinely amused instead of angered the way you’d imagined—the way you’d remembered from last time when he sent girls crying. “You know, for a face like that, you have one hell of a tongue.”

He orders wine by the name with ease and swiftness before returning to what he was saying.

“I like that. Most models are dull, but not you.”

“I don’t agree. And I’m a model,” you snip, showing no interest in his flirting.

 “No? Didn’t you see the pictures?” Your attitude doesn’t seem to deter him—rather, it only seems to egg him further on. “I have them all mounted on my walls at home—you should come see.”

This makes you falter. Looking at him from across the table with rounded eyes. “On your walls?”

“Framed.” He smiles, finally having broken through—he only intends to take it further. Not that what he was saying wasn’t true. “I just couldn’t help myself. I consider it my best work.” 

The look on your face is something between disgusted and uncertain—speechless in a sense.

It makes him laugh again. “Does anything flatter you?”

The wine comes. He’s poured a glass for testing.

“Not when spoken by men like you.”

His grin grows as he swirls the liquid around, smelling it like a phony.

“That’s a shame,” he says before taking a sip. He nods to the waiter, and you’re poured a similar glass. Meanwhile, he looks at you. “I’d like to flatter you—I’d like to spoil you even. You seem like you deserve it.”

You sip your glass. “No need.”

“I’m not so sure about that. You currently work at a diner, right?”

You gaze at him from atop your glass, brows furrowing. “How do you—”

“I didn’t.” It’s a lie, of course, he’d searched you up and gone over every little detail he could find. “It’s clear from the looks of you—”

“Fuck you,” you snap, putting your glass down a bit too harshly, enough to make a little wine slip and spill.

He doesn’t mind it. “Oh, I want you to,” he says instead. “After I pay for dinner and drive you back. We can fuck right under my favorite portrait of you.”

You’re stunted by his crude words, but only for a second. “How about we skip dinner, and you go fuck yourself.” 

His smile doesn’t drop, even as you get up to leave. “Settle down, sweetheart.”

“Make me, jackass.” 

You’re on your way to go, but his next words have you halting. 

“Either you humor me, or I make sure your friend never models in the country again.”

You turn around to look at him. You don’t really know why you’re so surprised. The card he just pulled is the very reason you agreed to the dinner in the first place. But an incentive is very different from outright blackmail, and suppose you just hadn’t really believed he’d take it that far.

“It’s my impression you don’t want that,” he continues.

You sit back down. He tops your glass off.

“I could make her big, you know?” he offers while pouring for himself as well. “Really speed her career along—set her up for life. I’ll do the same for you, too, of course.” 

He swirls his wine, lifting it as if to make a toast.

“And all you gotta do is come back home with me.”

You don’t have the words.

“You won’t be disappointed,” he promises. “I’m good at it.” As if that’s your concern. “You’ll never want to fuck anyone else again.”

You hate how right he is. 

You’ve never cum sooner or harder before in your life, not with anyone else or on your own. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced—so good, you’re screaming—moaning out in echoes throughout his giant penthouse, bouncing off the marble floors into all unlocked rooms, creating a cacophony of your undeniable pleasure.

He’s on his knees beneath you as you lean with your back against the window overlooking the city, barely able to stand as he buries his face between your soft thighs, canting his chin up while lapping hard at your slit and clit. His hard stare set on your face and the way you throw your head back while cumming in his mouth—your hand tussled in his hair, yanking on it hard enough to make him growl.

Your legs and feet give you little support. It's his hands that keep you up as you slide further and further down the floor-to-ceiling window until you’re almost about ready to drop your weight completely.

But he’s made you come undone three times by then, and just can’t wait any longer. 

He’s spun you around before you know it, making you face the pretty lights of the city skyline—his mouth hot on the shell of your ear, “I told you so, didn’t I?”

Your breath fogs the glass with your panting—knees wobbly, only standing thanks to the thick arms he’s got supporting you, each with a tit in their hand, giving them rough squeezes as he starts pounding away at your womb—hard enough to make the city lights blend in with the stars. 

“You won’t wanna fuck anyone else again.”

♡ BNHA – Bakugou, Shigaraki, Dabi, Aizawa, Shinso, Overhaul ♡ JJK – Sukuna, Naoya, Toji ♡ HQ – Oikawa ♡ BLLK – Reo, Rin ♡ AOT – Levi ♡ DS – Akaza, Sanemi

♡ FEM x M INSERT masterlist ♡ GN x M INSERT masterlist

[motorsportbarbie13]

Aftermath - Chapter 4

When Lando leaves you heartbroken after you get tired of trying to make something out of nothing for far too long, Max steps in to help you pick up the pieces.

warnings: this chapter contains language and descriptions that illustrate abuse (mental and emotional). please don't engage with my work if you find any of the topics triggering. lando is, once again, an absolute asshole in this. i'd also like to point out that this is a character i am writing, i in no way am insinuating or implying the real lando is like this in any way. pairing: max verstappen x leclercsister!reader word count: 6k words (whoooooopsie!!)

(Extra special thank you to @lestapiastrisgirl for beta reading and entertaining my texting at 2am when plot inspo hits! 🤭🫶🏻)

Aftermath - Chapter 1 Aftermath - Chapter 2 Aftermath - Chapter 3 Master List

f1.gossip.source posted

1,384 likes liked by user349, lando, user000, and others f1.gossip.source Charles LeClerc was seen walking into Monaco's La Tavernetta Thursday evening with his girlfriend and little sister in tow. The three arrived together early in the evening and stayed for several hours tucked away from prying eyes a back room. Also in attendance at the impromptu dinner were Arthur and his partner Jade, brother Lorenzo and strangely enough, Daniel Ricciardo and Max Verstappen. user088 once again, @/missleclerc and max in the same place, without lando... >>>user8127 lando over here in the likes though. wonder if his invite got lost in the mail? user112 has ANYONE seen her and Lando together in the last few months??? Are they even still together???

The restaurant that Max picked out turns out to be one of your favorites.  La Tavernetta is a small, hole-in-the-wall Italian place that you’ve been coming to for years with your family where the owners know you by name and always greet you with a hug and freshly baked bread, straight from the oven. The place is small but cozy with the smell of onions and garlic hanging heavy in the air. As you weave your way though the closely situated tables, all covered in freshly starched white linen and silver flatware, photos of the large family that’s owned the place for generations stare down at you like sentries from another world. With candles dotting each table and the overhead lights turned down to a dim glow, the mood in the restaurant is calm and serene, an atmosphere that has your frayed nerves smoothing out around the jagged edges. It’s almost as if Max picked this place out with you in mind after the day you’d had. 

Your group tonight is big, something that you’re not used to anymore because of how isolated Lando’s kept you recently. Max had gone ahead to meet Daniel while you had gotten ready before Charles and Alex had stopped by the apartment to pick you up. Lorenzo, Jade and Arthur complete the group and meet you in front of the small building. By the time the group all tumbles into the private room the owner always sets aside for the LeClerc’s, you’ve found yourself seated near the corner of the table, nestled between Max on one side and Lorenzo at the head. 

Several of bottles of wine and appetizers are ordered the moment everyone is seated. Max catches up with his former teammate as you chat with your brother but when your favorite bottle of white is placed in front of you, he pours you a glass without even pulling his attention away from his friend. The way he’s attentive to you without being overtly showy about it has something twisting in your chest. 

“Thank you, Max.” You murmur before taking a sip of the wine, savoring the way the tang of the dry wine bursts across your tongue. 

Max turns to you then, eyes crinkling at the corners as he grins back at you. It settles something in him, seeing you lean back in your chair, allowing your body to relax in the warm back room of the small restaurant. Your body language is totally different than it was earlier in the day and Max is surprised to find himself reading you so well. He shouldn’t be, with how well he used to know you, pre-Lando. He could tell how you were feeling when you were younger just by a quick scan of your posture and it made his chest squeeze when he realized he was slowly getting that ability back. 

You allow yourself to be a little lost to the chatter to the room after everyone orders their dinners, the lively discussion between Charles and Daniel drowning out the anxiety that has started to creep up the back of your neck as the evening wears on. You had left your phone at home but the last time you had looked at it, Lando had started texting you again and they weren’t much nicer than anything he had sent you earlier in the day. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Max senses the tension growing in your body by the way your shoulders stiffen just the slightest. He’s determined to make sure you have a good night, he was the one who suggested this whole thing after all and he knew that you were probably thinking about what Lando was doing, spinning in circles when you didn’t answer him like he expected. 

“Do you remember that time you snuck out of your hotel room when Cha and I were racing in Italy?” Max asks in an attempt to distract you. He leans in, shoulder gently brushing your bare skin, simply so you can hear him better over the din of Charles and Arthur arguing. No ulterior motive whatsoever. 

Heat floods your cheeks, gasp flying from your lips as you laugh despite yourself. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!” You hiss indignantly, but there’s no venom in your tone. 

Max smirks at you over his gin and tonic, eyes sparkling with mischief. “I’m pretty sure you do. You snuck out of the hotel to hang out with us because Pascale grounded you for being sassy the day before.” 

“You two were always leaving me out and I was tired of it.” You sniff, smile teasing the corner of your mouth. 

“You took the bus across town by yourself!” Max laughs. 

“I was an independent child, what can I say?” 

“You were nine!” Max chuckles, unable to ignore the spark of fire that has lit into your eyes as you replay the memory in your head. Yep, he thinks, there’s the girl that had no fear and took no shit. She’s still in there. He didn’t break her.

 Rolling your eyes, you grin into your wine glass, enjoying the way Max’s gaze feel as they skate over your skin. “I managed, didn’t I? You guys didn’t question it when I just turned up at the track either, so really was it that surprising?” 

“You told us Maman forgave you and dropped you off in the carpark, Little Dove!” Charles scolds from his seat opposite you. “Of course we didn’t question you!” 

He’d been watching the interaction between you and Max since everyone sat down and he makes a mental note to thank the Dutch driver. The way he gently coaxes you out of your shell is something he hadn’t been able to do himself lately. He’d been surprised to watch Max be totally in tune with the way your mood shifted before he brought that story up, had been watching fearfully when he saw that flicker of anxiety settle over your features. But he hadn’t needed to step in because as quickly as Charles clocked it, so had Max and he’d stepped in before your own brother had even had a chance. 

“I’ll never forget the look on Pascale’s face when she spotted your little brown braids trailing behind us after the end of the practice sessions.” Max muses, taking a long sip of his drink. 

“I don’t think I’d ever seen her so angry.” Giggling, you nudge Max’s shoulder with your own. “And then you came to my defense, telling her how clever I was for figuring out the bus system in a country where I didn’t even speak the language.” 

“I mean, was I wrong? It was a rather impressive thing for you to pull off.” 

You preen at the compliment, leaning a bit further into the warmth of Max’s body. “No, no you’re right. I was an impressive child.” 

Max opens his mouth to say something about how you’re still impressive, not even attempting to hide the fact that he’s shamelessly flirting with you when the temperature of the room suddenly drops to just above freezing. The air goes still as someone clears their throat in the doorway of the small private room your group is tucked away in. 

The sound sends a chill down your spine and you drop your hand below the table, instinctively grasping at the warmth that’s pressed up against your knee. Max feels your fingers reach for his thigh, sucking in a breath at the sudden touch from you. His hand drops below the table, covering your hand with his without a second thought. 

From across the room, Lando grinds his molars together as he clocks the subtle movement from Max. He quickly recovers though, yanking that practiced good boyfriend mask right back into place. “Baby!” He says, a sigh of relief tumbling from his mouth. “I’m so glad I found you, I’ve been worried sick.” 

“How did you find us?” Jade wonders from her spot to his left.

 “Monaco is a small town, news travels fast.” He mumbles under his breath. Not even sparing Jade a glance, Lando crosses the room to grab a chair from the corner before plopping it down right between Lorenzo and yourself. 

There’s not much room in the corner of the small room and Lorenzo is forced to move over several inches to avoid being impaled by one of the chair legs Lando now sits on. Leaning over, Lando presses his lips directly to your cheek in an overt display of affection you’re simply not prepared for. Max’s blood boils at the way you flinch away from his touch and it takes every ounce of control he’s honed over the years of driving in F1 to keep from punching Lando outright. 

“I guess my invite got lost in the mail, huh?” His tone is light but you can sense the edge of anger in his voice with the way his words are just a touch too clipped. 

“We didn’t think you’d want to come after the texts you sent her earlier.” Max fires back, giving your hand a squeeze under the table. 

Beside him, Daniel shifts uncomfortably in his chair, glancing away. Tension crackles in the air, a live wire of electricity ready to explode at even the slightest spark.

“What kind text messages?” Arthur’s eyes go sharp at Max’s tone of voice. 

Lando waves a hand, dismissing Max’s comment. “I was worried about her, that’s all. I come home after a week away and all of her stuff is gone, treadmill, clothes, Peloton bike. Everything! No note? What was I supposed to think when she wouldn’t answer her phone?” 

Max doesn’t miss the challenge in Lando’s eyes and he takes a steadying breath. “Maybe you should have taken the hint that she was finally done with you?” He spits. 

Lando swallows hard, eyes going dark as he stares down his on-track rival. You can see the mask slipping and you know he’s almost at his tipping point. The room is silent around you, no one daring to push Lando further than Max has already done. “Well if that was the case, I would hope she’d be adult enough to talk to me first instead of just abandoning a three year long relationship.” 

“Lando, we can talk about this tomorrow.” You lean forward, blocking his line of sight to Max in hopes of quelling this pissing match the two men seem to have fallen into. “Now is not the time to do this.” You can sense the frayed rope of control that Lando is barely holding onto and desperately maneuver to diffuse the situation.

“I don’t think this should wait.” He says simply, dismissing your request with a wave of his hand. 

“And I think you should respect her wishes and discuss this later.” Max stands then, sending his chair scraping loudly against the wood floors beneath him.

Your eyes go wide when Lando stands too but Max is much taller than the British driver and you’re trapped in the middle. 

Oh fuck. 

It’s your turn to stand now, drawing strength from the way Jade and Alex are both looking at you from across the table. You can do this, you tell yourself as you put yourself in between Max and your ex-boyfriend. “Lando.” Your tone is surprisingly firm and Max nearly smirks. Yep, there’s that fire he knew you never lost. “Now is not the time. I’m trying to have a nice dinner with my friends. I will call you when I’m ready, alright?” 

Lando’s eyes bounce from yours to Max’s and then to Charles before finally flickering back to yours. You manage to hold his gaze despite everything in your body screaming to look away. From the set of your shoulders, Max can tell you’re not going to back down on this and the pride that surges in his chest catches him fully off guard. 

“Fine.” He huffs, knowing that tonight is a lost battle. “But this isn’t over.” He growls before shoving his chair back so hard it clatters against the wall. 

When Lando finally sweeps out of the room, you collapse into your chair, breathing a sigh of relief. You’re not entirely sure how you managed to finally stand up to Lando’s bullying because if this scene had gone done even just a day earlier, you’re fairly certain that it would have ended much differently. Max settles down in his chair again and is surprised to feel the warmth of your hand find his. He glances over at you, gaze meeting yours as the chatter around the table picks back up. There’s so much hanging between you in that moment that it’s almost suffocating. You mouth a quick ‘thank you’ as he nods in reply, his thick fingers tangling with yours underneath the white linen tablecloth as he gives you another reassuring squeeze. 

Across from you, Charles smirks into his wine as he watches the entire exchange before he turns his attention back to what Alex is telling him, comfortable enough knowing that you’re in good hands with Max. 

missleclerc posted

23,018 likes liked by maxverstappen1, charlesleclerc, mamanleclerc and others missleclerc its always a good night when no one throws a punch ;) mamanleclerc i quite like La Tavernetta, can we please not get the family permanently banned by throwing punches? why is this an accomplishment? user9382 lando in the likes of the gossip post, but not here. uhh... >>>user029 and no one throwing punches? was there tension at dinner??? maxverstappen1 for the record, i kept my hands to myself. for the most part, at least. >>>missleclerc MAX. >>>maxverstappen1 :) >>>user928 MAX EMILIAN VERSTAPPEN WHAT. DOES. THIS. MEAN. >>>user029 max being messy in the comments. i am HERE for it.

Lando goes radio silent after the night at the restaurant. An outsider might think it was just him respecting your wishes and think that he was doing it in an effort to give you the space you had asked for but they would be wrong. You knew better though. You knew what he was doing and you were determined not to fall into his trap again. You knew that Lando was giving you the silent treatment as punishment for making a fool of him in front of everyone. You knew and you while there was a haze of anxiety that hung around you for the first two days as you waited for him to grow tired of the punishment, eventually you settled down. 

There as a race the weekend after the dinner and most of your circle left Monaco for Austria. Everyone except you. You weren’t ready to go to a race yet, not with the knowledge that Lando would be there and you’d have to inevitably answer questions on why you weren’t splitting your time between Ferrari and McLaren like you usually did when you attended races. You also knew your resolve in resisting Lando was strong when he wasn’t physically near you but if you allowed yourself to get too close too quickly, you’d waver and allow him back in. You couldn’t do that to yourself. 

So instead of going to Austria like your brother had asked you, you stay at home and throw yourself into your work. You don’t have any shows coming up but there’s always demand for your art and since leaving Lando, you’ve felt more inspired than ever to dive into a new study. Landscapes have always been your favorite and your go-to but something in you feels pulled to do something different. You’ve always been heavily influenced by the impressionists but something feels too soft about them for the mood you’ve been in since standing up to Lando. Like you need to do something bolder, more out of your usual style and for the first few days that you’re alone in your studio, you spend most of your time experimenting. 

Eventually though, something starts to take shape. It’s Saturday afternoon when the inspiration accidentally hits you. Like most of your work, you don’t quite know what’s happening or where it’s going until you’re knee deep in a painting. The low hum of the engines playing on the TV you have set up in the small sitting room on one end of your studio serves as the perfect backdrop for your current inspiration. Half-way through Q2, you take a step back to study the canvas you had prepped earlier in the morning. The sketch that stares back at you has your head tilting to the side, observing it like it’s a foreign object that you didn’t just spend almost an hour sketching. 

It’s going to be bold you decide, splashes of navy and red and yellow are in order, colors that are totally outside your wheelhouse normally but you can tell this is going to evolve into a series that is totally different from anything you’ve ever painted before. 

You spend the rest of the afternoon working on it, locked away in your studio alone while Taylor Swift pours out of the speakers that you had insisted Charles and Arthur install for you when you first rented the space a few years ago. It feels like home here, more so than any place you’ve ever lived. There are paintings everywhere, some more completed than others. A large drafting table sits under the giant bay window that faces north, providing you with all day sunlight that is perfect for working in. A small seating area is tucked away in the corner near the kitchenette where you have a small electric kettle and microwave for those times you don’t want order out or go home to eat but need food. The floor is a light hardwood, contributing to the perfect light and airy ambiance you crave when you’re working. 

You work late into the night Saturday, completely forgetting to even glance at your phone or worry about what Lando was up to. It’s the first time in over a year that you’re not concerned about what might happen if you lose yourself to your painting and accidentally ignore him. The feeling is so freeing, so liberating, you almost don’t know what to do with yourself. You’re tempted to spend the night on the couch in your studio but know if Charles finds out, you’d have hell to pay so instead you call your mother on your way home to make sure you’re safe. 

Sunday is another day spent in your studio and you get there bright and early. Charles calls you first thing, just to check in and he’s pleased to hear the absence of anxiety in your voice. He breathes a sigh of relief when you tell him you’d already been up to work out and are on your way to spend another day painting, so many ideas popping up over night thanks to that one painting you’ve nearly finished. You refuse to tell him what it’s of though, you’re a bit superstitious when it comes to talking about your work before its finished. All you tell him is that it’s different from what you normally paint and you have an idea for an entirely new series based on this one painting. 

The race plays through your speakers and you constantly are checking the running order while you put the finishing touches on the painting you started the day before. Normally, it takes you longer to finish a piece like this but for some reason, the inspiration hit you and you find yourself moving at a pace that is wholly abnormal for you. By the time the race finishes and Max, Charles, and Oscar are celebrating on the podium, you’re putting the finishing touches on one of the boldest pieces of art you’ve ever created.

Monday is spent in the studio again, starting on a second piece. Something bold and red and even bigger than your last painting but just as out of the norm for you. You spend all day working on getting the sketch of the new piece on the large canvas and only break once the sun is hanging low in the sky. Your stomach rumbling and reminding you that you haven’t eaten since breakfast earlier in the day is the only thing that manages to pull you from your work. 

Someone holds the elevator for you when you finally make it back to your building as the sun begins to set over the water at your back and you jog to ensure they’re not waiting for you for too long. 

“Hey you.” A smooth, deep voice greets you the moment you step into the lift. 

“Max!” You’d give the Dutch driver a hug but your arms are currently occupied with a large bouquet of roses that had been delivered to your studio that morning. “Congratulations on the win yesterday! You drove so well.” 

Max takes matters into his own hands, pushes the button for your floor before slipping one arm around your shoulders in a casual show of affection. “Thanks, Dovie.” He grins down at you, unable to quell the flutter in his chest at the smile that dazzles up at him. “It was a good weekend, wasn’t it?” 

“From pole to P1? I think you could count that as successful, yes.” You chuckle, leaning into his frame a bit more than you normally would. You won’t admit it to anyone but you had missed Max while he’d been away. It feels entirely too soon to be having any sort of feelings for anyone, especially after what you’ve gone through with Lando recently, but you can’t help the undeniable chemistry you feel with your long-time friend. 

Max glances down at the large bouquet of roses cradled in your hands and lifts an eyebrow. “Roses?” 

You heave a sigh and roll your eyes, “Lando.” You say by way of explanation. “This is the fourth bouquet he’s sent since he left for Austria Thursday.” 

“But you hate roses.” Max says, rubbing at his stubbled chin with the palm of his hands. 

You’re surprised by Max’s words but he’s not wrong. “They’re not my favorite.” You admit, small smile playing on your lips.  

“Tulips are.” He says softly as the elevator dings and the doors slide open. “That engineer Charles set you up with when he was at Sauber brought you roses for your first date and you laughed in the hotel lobby afterwards. You said how you hated how cliche roses were and that tulips were prettier and lasted longer. Pink ones though, not red.” 

You stand there for a moment, stunned, blinking up at Max. The date with the Sauber mechanic had been years ago, before Charles had even been at Ferrari. You didn’t even remember Max being in the lobby with you when you had said that. 

Max’s cheeks heat as you stare up at him, eyes narrowed a touch and soft smile on your lips like you can’t quite wrap your head around what he’s just said. Maybe he’s said too much, admitted he’s been paying too much attention to you for too long. He second guesses his words, wondering if he’s taken it a step too far, pushed you too far out of your comfort zone. He’s desperate for you to say something, anything to confirm that you’re not freaking out. 

The elevator dings once again, protesting at being held for so long at one floor. “You must be exhausted.” You murmur as you step out of the elevator, looking back at him. “Do you want to come over for dinner tonight? I was going to make some salmon and veggies. Nothing fancy but I know I bought way too much.” 

Max rubs at the back of his neck, relief surging through him at your offer. “I would love to. Let me go change and I’ll bring down a bottle of wine?” 

“I’ll get everything in the oven.” You confirm before turning around and walking away, leaving Max staring after you, unsure of what the rest of the night is going to hold. 

“We could watch Drive to Survive.” You say with a smirk, tucking your feet underneath your legs as you settle down on the couch a few hours later. 

Max shoots you a look, wrinkling his nose. “Absolutely not.”

“I started the new season of Great British Baking Show the other night, I’m only up to bread week!” 

“So Saving Private Ryan is off the table?” Max jokes, plucking a green bean off of your plate before you can stab his hand with your fork. 

“Are you insane?” You laugh.

“Fine, British Baking Show it is, I guess.” 

“It’s The Great British Baking Show, Maxie.” 

Warmth blooms in Max’s chest at the nickname but he just rolls his eyes at you, watching while you flip through Netflix to turn the next episode on. A comfortable quiet settles over the living room then as you both eat the dinner you’d spent the last hour cooking. Max isn’t much of a cook so having a homemade meal that doesn’t come from his nutritionist is a treat, so he enjoys the salmon that you’ve seasoned to perfection. 

“How was your weekend?” Max asks after a few quiet moments. 

You turn to him, a bit caught off guard. You hate that your knee jerk reaction to the question is to compare it to what Lando would’ve done, which is not even bother to ask after your weekend at all. He did at first, of course. Lando had always been so attentive when you first started dating but like everything else in your relationship, slowly that attentive energy just stopped. You can’t help but wonder if that’s normal in long term relationships and maybe you had been asking for too much from your now ex-boyfriend. 

Shaking off the heavy thoughts, you smile back at Max instead. “Quiet but I got a lot of work done. I can’t remember the last time I spent so much time in my studio all at once.” 

“That’s good, anything special you’re working on.” 

You smirk, “I started a few new pieces. Finished one that I think turned out really good and got started on a second. I don’t usually finish pieces so quickly but I felt…” You pause, searching for the right word that doesn’t sound too cliche. “Inspired.” 

Cliche it is. 

“Can I see?” Max knows how protective you are over your art and knows he’s pushing his luck but as he looks at you settled on the other side of the couch from him, curled up and shoulders relaxed he thinks you might just let him in. 

“You can see the second one.” You say vaguely, not wanting to show anyone the one that took you most of the weekend to complete.  

Max narrows his eyes as he watches you place your finished plate on the coffee table in front of you. Plate discarded, you reach for your phone where it sits next to you on the arm of the couch before scooting over so you’re closer to Max. Your sudden closeness sets Max’s teeth on edge as the scent of your perfume washes over him. At first it smells like warm vanilla but there’s a back note of something spicy that he can’t quite identify but whatever it is, the scent fits you perfectly. 

Your arm presses up against his side as you lean over, passing over your phone where you have your photo gallery already pulled up. Max finds it difficult to concentrate on what you’re showing him at first, the scent of your perfume mixing with the warmth of your breath he can feel dust over his skin you’re so close. He’s not sure if you’re doing it on purpose but he thinks you might be trying to kill him when you lean into him even more, flipping through the gallery casually. 

“It’s not like anything I’ve done before.” Your silky voice yanks him out of his spiral and his eyes snap up to yours before quickly dropping back down to your phone. The painting in front of him is spectacular, vivid reds and yellow practically jumping off the canvas at him.

 “The phone doesn’t do it quite enough justice, I know, but you get the idea.” The nerves in your stomach have your voice wavering as you realize you care more about what Max thinks about how well you’ve captured your brother’s Ferrari coming in for a pit stop. 

“It’s…” Max reaches for the correct word to describe how impressed he is. “Dovie, it’s a masterpiece.” 

The flattery has a crimson blush creeping across your cheeks and you’re incredibly thankful for the golden twilight that keeps your living room fairly dim around you. “I mean, I don’t know if I’d go that far.” 

“Well I would. Has Charles seen it?” 

You shake your head as you watch Max zoom in on the painting to see the details better. Usually watching people observe your artwork for the first time is an exercise in wrecked nerves and anxiety but you find yourself strangely calm as Max continues to study the painting. 

As your phone is still in Max’s hands, a phone call flashes across the screen causing your heart to stutter to a near complete stop. 

LANDO CALLING 

Fuck. 

He’d left you alone for so long you had began to get a bit too comfortable, a bit to relaxed with the fact that maybe, just maybe, he’d given up on getting you back. You should have known better. 

“You don’t have to answer.” Max murmurs, noting that you don’t make attempt to move back to where you were sitting before you had shown him your painting. 

“Maybe if I do, he’ll finally leave me alone.” 

Both of you know that’s not even a possibility. 

“I’ll leave if you want me to.” He offers but you shake your head. 

“Please stay.” 

Max nods, watching as you draw your legs up towards your chin, tucking yourself up into a ball. He sucks in a breath when you lean further into his side for a bit of strength though. 

“Hi Lando.” You answer, your eyes darting away from Max’s. 

“Took you long enough to answer.” His voice is rough and angry, sending a shiver down your spine. Max can hear his voice clearly despite it not even being on speaker. “Had to make sure your date was out of earshot before you picked up, huh?” 

You sigh, not wanting to entertain the jealousy tonight but something sticks in your ribs at the fact that Max is over and you’re practically cuddled up on the couch with him. It’s almost like Lando can sense that you’re busy with someone else. Brushing away the guilt that you know is misplaced, you shake your head as if he could see you. “No, I was just watching tv and didn’t notice you were calling.” 

Lando hums as if he doesn’t believe you but lets it go. “Are you done throwing your tantrum yet? I just got back from Austria and you’re still not home. What do I have to do to get you to come back to me?” 

“I thought I made myself clear by moving all of my stuff out, Lan.” Beside you, Max shifts uncomfortably. He wants to be there to support you but he doesn’t know if he would be able to sit by and listen to you two get back together, not after the extra time he’s been spending with you lately. He knows he’s getting ahead of himself, hoping that you feel that spark that is undeniable between you, but he can’t help it. 

“Since when are you so confident with your choices, love?” His voice is taunting, as if Lando knows how easily you waver when it comes to him. 

“Don’t call me love.” You snap and Max finds himself reaching for your hand that’s resting on your knee.

“Oh, I like this new attitude you’ve got going on. A side effect from spending so much time with Jade and Alexandra I guess.” 

“Lando.” You sigh, suddenly exhausted by this entire conversation. “What do you want?” 

“I want us to sit down and have a discussion like two adults about what I have to do to get you back.” 

“I’m not coming home, Lando. We’re not getting back together.” 

Max hates the wash of relief that crashes over him at your words. Why is he rooting for your heart to break? He knows you love Lando still, despite how poorly he treats you. He doesn’t get it, not really, but he knows you do and he understands how hard it is to love someone who you shouldn’t. 

“So you’re really just going to throw away three years without even so much as a discussion?” He presses and Max finds himself leaning forward, hanging on your response. 

“I will meet with you in public to discuss whatever you want, but we are not getting back together, am I clear?” 

“In public?” He scoffs and Max’s stomach twists at the antagonizing tone of his voice. “So you can get more attention from this? I’m already getting eaten alive on socials over this, why the fuck should I allow you more good will from the public?” 

“Lando, if you’re getting backlash from how you’ve treated me lately, that’s not my problem. Maybe you need to do some self reflection.” You’re so tired now and so done with talking to this full grown man so carefully. He’s exhausting and you’re about at your breaking point. 

“This is your fucking fault!” He explodes before catching himself, almost like he realizes how far he’s pushed you. A sigh blusters over the line as you wait patiently for Lando to get himself under control. “Please, just come home and we can figure out how to move forward from this.” 

“No.” You say firmly. “I will meet you in public if you want but that’s all I’m prepared to do right now.” 

Max tries not to allow the anxiety to take over at the last two words of your sentence. 

“Fucking hell woman, why are you so difficult?” Lando shouts, forcing you to hold the phone several inches away from your ear. 

“Alright, we’re done here. If you want to have a civil conversation later, we can but I’m done Lando. Good bye.” 

Without even waiting for him to answer, you stab at the ‘end’ button on your phone and toss it on the coffee table where it clatters loudly against the wood. 

Max is quiet, unsure of what you need from him in that moment but he fights the shock that reverberates throughout his body when you lean back against the couch, settling your head in on his shoulder. He recovers quickly though, slipping his arm around your shoulders. 

“I’m sorry you had to be there for that.” You whisper, idly wondering why Max always seems to be around when Lando pulls his shit. 

“You did so well handling that, schat. I’m proud of you.” With his free hand, Max reaches down and pulls your legs over his lap so you’re a little less balled up like a tightly wound ball of wire. 

“He’s so exhausting.” Is your reply and you just shake your head, trying hard to ignore the way your body responds to having Max’s hands on your legs. It’s a jarring juxtaposition, the way you feel when you’re talking to Lando compared to how Max makes you feel and it makes you nervous. 

“Are you going to hear him out?” Max asks carefully, fingers toying with the soft fabric of your sweatpants. 

You shrug, “I said I would but I don’t know what he could say to get me to change my mind.” 

It takes every ounce of tightly wound up control that Max possess not to heave a sigh at your words and he hates himself for the predatory way it makes him feel. “He’s no good for you, Dovie.” 

All you can do is nod, a wave of exhaustion suddenly sweeping over you. Max sees it, the way your eyes flutter shut for a moment longer than they should and adjusts his hold on your legs. “Hey, we don’t have to talk about it anymore, okay? Let’s just watch the rest of this show and take a break.” 

Pulling your legs out of Max’s lap, you readjust yourself so you’re once again leaning into him, the warmth of his body settling the frayed nerves that Lando’s caused to go jagged once again. “Thanks Max.” Is your only response right before your eyes shutter closed, allowing the exhaustion pull you under. 

missleclerc posted

23,498 likes liked by charlesleclerc, maxverstappen1, mamanleclerc, and others missleclerc weekend snippets alexandrasaintmleux missed you this weekend pretty girl! >>>missleclerc i know! hoping i'll feel up to a race soon tho user928 the ferrari painting!!! omg!!! (liked by author) maxverstappen1 hope you like the replacement flowers, dovie. can't wait to see that other painting in person... >>>user9388 uhhhh... >>>user111 lando nowhere to be seen and then we get THIS??? Replacement flowers??? >>>user443 what in the grid love triangle is going on here? user928 your studio space is an absolute dream!!!

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[nfcomics]

SANDMAN UNIVERSE NIGHTMARE COUNTRY THE GLASS HOUSE no.2 (of 6) • cover art • Michael Walsh [May 2023]

[sspacegodd]

With just a little bit of work, you can transform these glass straws into workable meth pipes at home!

And if you're a crackhead, don't worry! The glass straw industry has you covered.

[moonstruckme]

Please Mr. Postman

summary: it's your first day at a new job, and the postman who comes by your office is especially friendly

cw: just fluff honestly, passed on opportunities to talk about post worker uniform shorts (sorry, won't happen again)

postman!James x fem!reader ♡ 732 words

A friendly tap on the glass startles you out of your stolen moment of meditation. You tear your face away from its hiding place in your hands to find a mail carrier peering at the large, darkened window of your office, shading his eyes to see in. You hasten and hit the button to unlock the door before he can. 

Your office setup sort of makes you feel like a fish in a tank, or a zoo animal in a glassed-in enclosure. You’ve been itchy with the discomfort of being seen all day. You take a moment to straighten the row of pens on your empty desk as the postman’s voice booms in the entryway around the corner. 

“Margaret, I never thought I’d see the day! Slipping on the job, tsk, tsk—” He fits his dolly through the doorway of your office with a practiced maneuver, stopping short when he sees you. “Oh. You’re not Margaret.” 

You shoot him a small, sheepish, please-don’t-be-mad-at-me smile (you’ve had lots of practice with it already this morning). “I’m new.” 

“You are!” he says, like this is the discovery of his day. “What’s your name, lovely? I’m James.” 

You tell him yours, itching for a pen to write his name down with. You’ve had to learn so many, but James strikes you already as someone who remembers names and you’d hate to forget his. He has a bright smile that pokes dimples into sun-kissed cheeks and the sort of warm voice which threatens more smiles to come. He’s handsome, muscular limbs making his uniform fit tightly around his biceps and quads and brown eyes made large behind thick glasses. 

“Margaret’s moved into accounting,” you tell him. “I’m replacing her, today’s my first day.” 

James nods sagely. “Well, you look well prepared for it. Got all your pens in order” —your cheeks warm at his notice— “and you look very smart.” The warmth worsens. Your toes ache inside your stiff new shoes. “I’m sure you’re making a great impression.” 

“Thanks,” you say, voice softening self-consciously. “I hope so.” 

“Oh, don’t worry.” He waves you off, leaning his hip against your desk. “Everyone here seems very nice. I mean, I’ve mostly spoken to Margaret, but still. How are you finding it?” 

“Um.” You glance towards the door that leads to the rest of the office as though your boss is standing with her ear pressed to it. “It’s nice, so far, yeah. The coffee in the break room is good, so.” 

James’ laugh is loud and lively, echoing in the small space. It makes you smile; you don’t think you’ve said anything so funny as to earn such a sound. 

“Well, that’s the best you can hope for, isn’t it?” he asks. “Good coffee to keep trudging through. And it is only your first day, you can’t likely make an estimate of the whole place just yet.” 

“Exactly,” you say, relieved. 

“Is this the sort of thing you want to do? Work here, I mean?” 

“Oh.” The question catches you off guard. It’s more than the weak small talk you’ve made with the other delivery people who’ve come by today, but there’s an earnestness in James’ face that says he really wants to know. “Yeah, it is. I mean, maybe not here” —you gesture to your unadorned fishbowl of an office— “but in this field, yeah. I’d like to stay here if I can.” 

He grins. “I’m sure they’ll be thrilled to have you, lovely. Well,” he heads for the stack of boxes against the wall, “I don’t want to keep you. This might take me two trips, but don’t mind me coming in and out, alright?” 

“Oh.” You watch him load six boxes expertly onto the dolly, biceps flexing slightly as he tilts it back onto the wheels. “Do you want any help?” 

The grin James flashes you sends a funny tingle down your spine. “You’re sweet. Thanks, I’ve got it. Just unlock the door for me on my way back in, yeah?” You do keep an eye on the door this time. You offer again to help when he comes back, but James only makes a comment about your work clothes being too nice to get dirt on and waves you away with an easy smile. You find yourself watching his truck rumble out of the parking lot with a light, fluttery feeling in your stomach.

[covenofagatha]

alright alright i’m thinking dub!con modern/nonmagic au.. into something rough and/or bondage. we love the age gap. i’m leaving a lot of holes lmfao i will talk shop if you want specifics baby

finally finished omg

hope everyone enjoys

title is from Chains by Nick Jonas cause why not

Chains for your love

When you're house sitting for your neighbors Agatha and Rio, you decide to throw a party and they are not happy when they find out

Word count: 3400

Warnings: dubcon, smut, rough sex, bondage (handcuffs), vibrators, fingering, spanking, choking, threesome, might be missing one or two sorry if so, age gap (all legal)

Your neighbors would kill you if they found out what you were doing right now. 

Agatha and Rio, the couple next door, had asked you to house sit for them while they were on vacation to Cabo for a week as a favor to your mom. 

You had just graduated from high school and she said, and you quote, “you need to get your lazy butt off the couch and do something with your life or so help me.” 

So when Agatha mentioned to her that they were leaving for a while, your mom had thrown you under the bus. 

You didn’t know much about your neighbors, only that they were two smoking hot older women who were kind of crazy. You had also barely ever interacted with them, always at school or doing homework when they came over to have lunch with your mom. 

Agatha is about ten years older than her wife, with long dark curly hair and piercing blue eyes. Her fashion sense is always on point and her veiny hands do things to you. 

Rio, while pale and a brunette as well, is tall and lean, and very intense. Her hazel eyes bore into you whenever you’d come downstairs to get a glass of water, like she knew something that you didn’t. When she looks at you like that, you can’t help but squirm and wonder if you did something wrong. And yet, for some reason, you find it hot.

All you had to do while they were gone was stop by, water their plants, collect their mail, and make sure their house was in order. 

Which you did, perfectly, you might add. 

It just so happened that on the last night of house sitting, you were supposed to go to a party at your friend’s house to celebrate the end of senior year, but her parents came home early so she needed to move it. 

And you had the brilliant idea to use the giant, empty house at your disposal. 

Cue the music, lights, and drinks. 

“This is so nice of your neighbors to let us use their house!” Your best friend Wanda yells at you. 

You laugh, pretending not to have heard her over the bass, because they certainly did not. 

In fact, you think, you think they would be quite opposed to it. 

Agatha and Rio were quiet people; they didn’t like mess, especially in their house.

And this here, with Jimmy Woo throwing up in the bathroom and Natasha Romanoff knocking over a bottle of beer on the ground and two people making out in the pool, was as messy as it could get. 

You’re on your second wine cooler, feeling it start to hit, and you stumble around the living room, trying to assess the damage before the party is even over. 

It may have gotten more out of hand than you were intending it to. When you had told your mom what you were doing, you had mentioned having a few people over for pizza, and she had said that if it got out of hand, or if she heard about even one thing being out of place when Agatha and Rio got back, she would, and you quote, “ground your butt until you graduated from college.” 

You almost pointed out the irony of her wanting you to do something, but the moment you were going to, she threatened to not let you do anything for the next four years, but decided against it. 

“Here!” A bottle of beer is pressed into your hand and you turn to find Darcy Lewis standing there. Even though you shouldn’t, you take a swig and Wanda leaves to go find her boyfriend. “Cool party!” 

“Thanks!” You shout back and she giggles before taking your hand and leading you into the kitchen, where it’s a little quieter. You haven’t talked to Darcy that much, but she was in two of your classes and you know she’s going to MIT. 

“Got any summer plans?” She asks but she slurs the words. You laugh like it’s the funniest thing ever. “What?” 

You point at her, almost doubling over. “You’re so drunk!” 

She looks scandalized for a second, raises her hand to fix her glasses, and then becomes hysterical too. “So are you!” 

The next thing you know, Darcy and you are kissing. 

You’re not sure who started it, but her mouth is against yours and your tongue is in her mouth. 

You pull back, there’s some eye contact, and then the two of you crack up again and she goes outside to the patio. 

Drunken makeout accomplished and your head sufficiently spinning from the two and a half drinks now, you make it a mission to start cleaning up. 

You’ve collected half a trash bag full of cans when people start pouring out of the house, telling you to “stay in touch!” and “have fun at college!” and then it’s just you in the house. 

There’s still a lot to clean up, but you’re tired and sloshed, so you set an alarm on your phone for six in the morning so you can get up and tidy up the rest before Agatha and Rio get home. 

You pass out on the couch immediately. 

Which turns out to be a huge mistake, because when you finally wake up in the morning, your neighbors are sitting in the chairs across from the coffee table, both wearing matching displeased looks. 

You shoot up, scrambling into a sitting position, heart pounding. “What–” You furiously tap your phone to find out why the alarm didn’t go off, but it doesn’t turn on. 

Of course it died. 

Rio chuckles, leaning back and crossing a leg over the other, amused with your panic. “Care to explain what happened here last night, doll?” 

Your cheeks redden and you try to think of something that won’t get you in trouble because it seems like you are fucked. “I had some friends over,” you say, and it sounds pathetic even to your ears.

Agatha tuts and rests her elbows on her knees. “‘Some friends?’ Angel, have you seen what our house looks like?” 

You gulp and take a look around, dread sinking deeper into your stomach. The pieces of glass that no one picked up. All the cans and bottles you missed. A sweatshirt thrown onto the floor. Pizza crusts and plates scattered across the furniture. 

“I was going to clean it up, I swear,” you say, your throat suddenly really dry. 

“Oh, and,” Rio says, so cheerful for no reason. You can only imagine what she’s going to say, but she takes out her phone and taps the screen. You raise an eyebrow and she turns it to you. 

At first, you’re not really sure what you’re looking at, but then it becomes clear. 

It’s a recording of you and Darcy making out in their kitchen, the angle from somewhere on the counter. 

You lurch back on the couch. “You were spying on me?” You hiss, feeling violated.

Agatha rolls her eyes and scoffs. “Please, darling, this is our house, we can do whatever we want in it. Plus, we weren’t sure if we could trust such an immature, young thing like you and clearly, we couldn’t.” 

The jab about your age makes you angry. “I’m not that young and I’m not immature!” You say indignantly. 

“Making out like a slut with the first girl who gives you attention while drunk at a lame high school party?” Rio taunts, standing up and sliding next to you on the couch. You feel the pit in your stomach grow when Agatha does the same on the other side. You’re not sure who to look at. “Seems like something a childish brat would do.” 

“And now, we think there should be consequences,” Agatha coos, hand coming to brush a piece of your hair back behind your ear. Fear spikes through your veins. 

“Please don’t tell my mom! She can’t find out about this, I’ll be in so much trouble,” you beg and Agatha smirks. You jump when you feel Rio’s hand touch your thigh and you freeze when it slides up to the hem of your short skirt.

“So you don’t want us to tell your mom,” Rio muses, toying with the edge of the fabric. You have to bite back a moan and it becomes hard to breathe. “I guess that means we’ll have to punish you some other way for creating such a mess.” 

“What did you–” You have to stop to swallow roughly. “What did you have in mind?” 

Agatha hums lowly. “We need to make sure you learn your lesson, no matter how hard we have to beat it into you.” You whimper and pray that neither of them heard it. 

But of course they did.

Rio snickers and cups your pussy, all the air being punched out of your lungs. “God, she’s dripping, Aggie,” she says and your face burns hotter than it ever has. 

You shake your head, denying how much you actually want this, and try to clamp your legs close, but Agatha pries one open and Rio moves her fingers up and down your clothed slit. 

“We can always go next door and tell your mom,” Agatha warns and that’s all it takes to convince you. You turn to Rio, wrap your arms around her, and pull her in for a kiss. 

Immediately, Agatha yanks you back by your hair and Rio slaps you across the face. It’s not hard enough to seriously hurt, but the sting makes you gasp. 

“Bedroom, now,” Agatha barks and practically drags you off the couch and up the stairs, Rio practically cackling while she follows. 

You’re thrown onto the bed in the room that you may have snooped through a few times this week. Enough times to find all of their toys in their bedside drawer and imagine the women using them on each other. 

The same nightstand where Rio is heading toward now. You watch her saunter over, lips parting, but Agatha roughly grabs your chin and forces your mouth open with her thumb. 

“Don’t look at her,” she growls and leans down to whisper in your ear, “If you ever want us to stop, say purple.” 

The second you nod, she spits directly into your mouth. A strangled moan leaves your throat and Agatha slides two fingers inside your mouth to spread her saliva all over your tongue. You gag around them as she pushes them deeper and you feel tears pricking your eyes. She scrapes her nails against your tongue and you roll it up to flick at her fingers, not missing the way she bites her lip. 

And then she flips you over so your stomach is on the bed, hikes your skirt over your ass, and spanks you. The impact reverberates through your body and the sound echoes throughout the room.

“Fuck,” you gasp.

“A young thing like you shouldn’t be using such dirty language,” Agatha tsks and slaps you again. “That’s for kissing that whore in our kitchen.” 

Again. 

“That’s for leaving a mess all over our house.” 

Again. 

“That’s for proving us wrong when we thought we could trust you.” 

Again. 

“That’s for making us punish you the second we get back from our lovely vacation.” 

Again. 

“And that is for teasing us all those times at your house when you’d come downstairs dressed in barely anything. It’s like you wanted us to notice how desperate you were for us,” she snaps. 

You’ve dissolved into a moaning, sniveling puddle on their bed but the thought that you’ve been unknowingly turning this couple on makes you even hotter inside. 

Agatha reaches down to the crotch of your underwear and laughs meanly. “God, you’re so fucking wet, did being spanked like a slut turn you on?”

While you consider yourself a proud person, there’s absolutely no pride in the way you nod your head so hard it hurts. 

She tears your panties off and shoves two fingers in you without preamble. A loud sound rips out of your mouth and your body rocks forward with the force. She fucks you with a brutal pace and it’s exactly what you need, but then she pulls out and slaps you harder than before on the ass. You groan, absorbing the hit, and you feel yourself clench around nothing. 

You need her fingers back inside you, but she turns you back over and you prop yourself up on your elbows. 

Rio comes back into view with two pairs of fluffy handcuffs and a few other toys. “Get against the headboard,” she orders and you scramble to obey. She hands one pair to Agatha and they both make quick work of chaining one cuff to your wrist and the other to the bedside post. You give an experimental tug of both hands and while you can wiggle your arms and wrists comfortably, there’s no getting out. 

The two women come back around the bed to face you and you squirm under their direct attention. 

“What do you think we should do with our naughty little plaything?” Rio asks, tongue pushing against the inside of her cheek, eyes lighting up with possibilities. 

They fall into these roles so well and you can only imagine what it’s like when the two of them have sex. 

“I think we should fuck her until she can’t take anymore and she’s begging for us to stop,” Agatha muses with a smirk. Your breath catches at her idea. 

“I think the slut likes that sound of that,” Rio says and Agatha nods in agreement. “Maybe we hold the vibrator against her until she cries. What do you think, doll?” She raises an eyebrow at you. 

“Whatever you want, please just touch me,” you beg. 

Agatha bends over to run a finger up your thigh, watching how you shake. “Be careful what you wish for, angel.” She crawls onto the bed so she’s kneeling in front of you and once again, pushes two fingers forcefully into your dripping pussy. She’s not gentle at all, curling her fingers and scraping her nails against your insides, but it’s perfect. 

You struggle against the handcuffs, wishing you could touch her, but Rio tuts, takes off her pants and underwear, and moves to straddle your stomach, blocking Agatha partially from your view. 

Your breath hitches as she pulls up the crop top from the party last night and lowers her wet cunt onto your abs and lightly grinds. Her head falls back and you think you could cum from the feeling of her against you like that.

And then she starts moving faster just as Agatha does, her fingers filling you and fucking you just how you need it, and Rio’s right hand comes to clasp around your throat. You throb around Agatha’s fingers and you had no idea that would be such a turn on for you. 

Agatha’s thumb presses down so hard on your clit that it almost hurts while she keeps her merciless pace and your hips start to buck against her fingers. Rio squeezes harder and the lightheadedness you feel only drags you closer to the edge. Her nails dig into your skin and you think you might die from how good it feels. 

“Are you going to cum for us?” Agatha asks from behind the woman riding your stomach faster. 

“Yes,” you manage to choke out, seeing Rio’s delighted face on top of you. 

And then Agatha pulls her fingers out of you and you whine loudly, only for her to slap your pussy hard. 

You can hear the wetness. 

And then you can hear buzzing. 

Agatha presses something against your clit and you almost jump out of your skin. 

It’s the vibrator and you’re guessing she turned it up to one of the highest settings. It’s so intense on you and you can’t help but cry out as it sends you straight into an orgasm. Being breathless from Rio’s hand around your throat only increases the pleasure and you’ve never felt anything like that before.

You expect some relief from the assault on your clit but it never comes. Agatha holds it against you while Rio slips a finger down to her own pussy to get more direct stimulation where she needs. The woman on top of you is beginning to fall apart and it only heightens your own sensitivity. 

The vibrations have your hips rolling and you quickly cum again, and this time, you try to close your legs or scooch up the bed to get it off, but Agatha doesn’t let you. 

She rakes her nails on your leg and then you feel her roughly bite your inner thigh. You gasp and your hips buck up, almost throwing Rio off. 

Rio finally takes her hand off your throat and bends down over you so she can suck marks into your collarbones as well. 

Both their mouths on you and the vibrations still on your clit throw you right over the edge again. 

This time, Agatha does move it away from you and you can finally breathe.

But not for long, because Agatha slides a finger back inside your sopping cunt and lazily fucks you. Rio’s panting on top of you and she finally buckles with pleasure as she cums for the first time. It’s the hottest thing ever, the way she tosses her head back and seizes up, small sounds falling out of her mouth.

Once Rio comes down from her high, she gets off you, smirking at the glistening wetness on your stomach. You gape down at them as she joins Agatha to watch her fuck you. 

And then your mouth falls open and your eyes roll back in your head when Rio pushes a finger into you too. 

Fuck. 

You have both of them inside you. 

They move in sync, dragging their fingers out and thrusting back into you at the same time, and you groan loudly. 

“How does it feel, angel?” Agatha says, voice thick and low. 

“Feels so good,” you babble, sweat breaking out on your forehead as you raise your hips to meet them. 

“Does our little slut need to cum over both our fingers?” Rio taunts. 

Your head falls to the side, blissed out with the feeling of them both curling and pressing on that spot inside you that you can rarely get to on your own. Your stomach is almost cramping and your arms are aching from pulling so hard on the cuffs. “Yes, please, fuck, wanna cum, so close.” 

And then they pull out of you at the same time like they planned it and you clench needily around nothing, your hips still undulating. 

“Wait, what, why?” You wail and they start laughing at you. “No, no, come on, please.” You pull at your restraints like that will do anything and Agatha harshly slaps the inside of your thigh where she bit you earlier, and it makes you jump. 

“Stop being a greedy little slut,” she scolds. Rio walks over and unlocks the handcuffs from you so you can sit up. “You already came twice. Maybe you’ll think twice about using our house for an orgy next time.” 

“It wasn’t an orgy!” You protest and Rio rolls her eyes and grabs your jaw roughly. 

“We don’t care if it was your fucking church group,” she snarls. “You made a mess and hopefully you’ve learned your lesson.” 

You slouch, still feeling desperate. You can still feel both their hands in you, twisting and fucking you so well, and you don’t think you’re bound to forget that anytime soon. 

“Well, angel, did you learn your lesson?” Agatha presses and you petulantly nod. 

Not exactly beating their young and immature allegations anytime soon. Who cares though. 

“You better get home before your mom starts to worry and thinks we’re torturing you,” Rio says, playful glint in her eye.

“Cause that would be so far from the truth,” you mutter and Agatha swats your leg again. 

“Get out of here,” she says. “Maybe next time we go out of town, we can see if you were actually paying attention.” 

All you know is that next time they leave, you’re going to throw an even bigger party. 

[deerboybreeder]

LONG fucking fantasy below the cut whoops. Tw for rape, drugging and stalking ♥️

I move to a small town in the middle of nowhere to completely restart my life. The community is small and tight knit, but thankfully extremely accepting, so me being trans is a non issue! Or at least, people have the decency to not say anything about it to my face. I feel welcomed in this town, though I spend a lot of my time improving the patch of land I moved onto and less talking to residents, even though I've met nearly everyone.

I start getting letters in the mail, complimenting me in sweet, flowery language. It makes me feel special, but there's no return address, so I can't write back. But over time, the letters get more possessive. Once, the letter describes my body fairly graphically, in all the most complimenting ways, but it's clear they saw me working shirtless in my garden, tits free to the wind. My land is huge and fenced in, someone would have to have jumped my fence and gotten very close without my noticing to see me doing that.

I start spending a little less time at home and more time in town, hoping to make some connections to keep my mind off my "secret admirer", who started recently describing how beautiful and motherly of a man I would make swollen with his baby. I don't tell anyone about it, embarrassed by the content, and the fact that despite the obvious escalation, it makes me wet to think about all this attention. I'm not beloved by the town, but I make a few good friends.

One day, a year to the day I moved into town, a package shows up at my door. Its from my secret admirer, a very small bottle of wine with a letter attached. Praising all my accomplishments this year, in detail, in order. Singing my praises and wishing for even more in the upcoming year. Against my better judgement, I accept, and take the wine inside.

I generally am a lightweight when it comes to alcohol- I learned that recently, out with friends at the local bar. One had bought me a drink and I needed help home afterwards, and the friend that bought me the round felt so badly about my state he walked me home himself. But I had nothing else to do that day, so I poured myself a glass anyway.

I don't drink often, so I didn't recognize right away that something was wrong. Didn't notice that I was fading in and out of consciousness on the couch until one moment I was watching a documentary on wilderness survival, and the next it was about space travel. My body was heavy, I could barely move, so the couch would have to do that night.

I almost chalked it up to overindulgence when my front door opened.

It was a small town- I had no reason to lock my door. Even my secret admirer hadn't made mention of wanting to break in, just lamented that they couldn't work up the courage to approach me first. But apparently, this was how they chose to do it.

I yelled, a slurred and disoriented thing. Time was runny, and I didn't even have time to process running before they were on me. A mask, sunglasses and a ball cap obscured my attackers face, hair seeming meticulously tucked into the cap to further obscure their identity.

I tried to struggle, but I'm small and they're much bigger- not to mention the wine that I realize must've been drugged. They shush me, clearly altering their voice so I wouldn't know who they are- small town, after all.

They pull up my shirt, tangling me in it and covering my face so I can't see them. Everything is running together, and at some point they've taken my pants off too, Im lying naked before them. Everything narrows down to sensations that run together. A mouth sucking on my nipple, my attackers hands running reverently down my body. They're murmuring words I can't understand because my head is swimming from the spiked drink. Their fingers find my wet and waiting slit, and they thumb over my tdick, and despite myself I make a strangled noise.

Then, I am aware of their cock at my entrance, and I get another burst of fighting, but it's useless. They shush me, kissing the side of my face through the fabric of the shirt around my face, and promise to be gentle as they push themself into my dripping cunt. They moan openly into my ear, muffled by the shirt, and start playing with my tits while they rape me.

Everything is blurry, I keep slipping in and out of consciousness, only to wake up and find that they're still fucking me. They whisper praises, saying they wish they'd done this a year ago when I first moved in, how much of a tease I was working in my garden shirtless or changing in front of the window. How we were going to be so happy together, how excited they were to realize I had a womb they could fill. How they'd start with one, but they knew I would look heavenly round and heavy with their baby for the rest of my life.

I don't know how much time passed, them using my pliant body like a cocksleeve. They were mostly true about being gentle, aside from the bruising on my hips where they held me down. They came against my waiting cervix at least once, but it all ran together for me. After cumming inside me, they gently rubbed my stomach over my womb, scratching the trail of dark hair that sprouted over the year taking testosterone.

I wanted to cry, but they stayed inside me growing soft for a while, gently fondling me or kissing my body. Eventually, I blacked out entirely.

The next morning I couldn't pretend it was a dream- I was left tangled up in my clothes, though a blanket from my room was draped over me and my TV turned off. My cunt was sore and I had the world's worst hangover. I stumbled to the shower and tried not to throw up.

I didn't want to be alone, so after my chickens were fed I went down to the friends house who helped me home that night. He had been so kind, and we'd started getting close. He had even dismissed a mutual friend making a joke about taking advantage of me the night he helped me home- he'd just helped me to my bed and left. I could trust him.

He knew something was off the moment he saw me, and ushered me inside. He got me water from his fridge, and sat down with me to let me talk.

I told him everything. First about the rape that night, then elaborating to the stalker in tears. He looked horrified, and let me sob in his arms. He was so kind to me, so good to me. I told him I didn't want to be alone. He offered to move in with me for a little while, to make sure nothing else happened. I agreed immediately, and he started packing up his things right that second.

His time spent moved in was nice. I got up early for my chickens and garden, but somehow he was always up earlier, making me coffee and breakfast. Some days he even watered my plants for me, just to be kind. He was sweet, always there to support me. He slept on the couch with no complaints, and even held me close when a noise outside had me convinced the stalker was going to break down the now locked door and rape me again.

The admirers notes slowed. They first were promises of coming back again, to see my "beautiful fertile body" up close again. Then threats when my friend moved in. Then nothing. I thought the nightmare was over.

I had chalked up the throwing up to a traumatic response and the drugs working their way out of my system. When it continued I didn't think much of it. Attributed the weight gain to my friend fussing over me and making sure I ate well. But the slightly round look of my stomach unsettled me, so I bit the bullet and took a pregnancy test.

Positive.

I was in hysterics when I saw the lines, and my friend ran into the room asking if I was hurt. I just shook my head and showed him the test, and he took me into his arms. We both know by this point it was too late to abort in the state this town was in, and travel costs put it out of the question if I could go out of state to have it done.

My friend assured me that it would be alright. That he'd help me through this. That he'd even help me raise the baby if I didn't want to be a single father.

Maybe it was the pregnancy hormones, maybe it was the kindness he'd shown me this past month or two. Maybe it was the way he looked up at me, having knelt down in front of me to make his promise of support. But I kissed him. I had fallen in love with this man, who'd taken care of me in my time of greatest need. And with the way he kissed me back, he'd fallen for me too.

It was like a switch was flipped, like he had been holding back this entire time. I invited him into my bed, and every night his hands were on me. I loved the way he felt, so happy to have someone else touch me after what happened. Every touch was adoring and reverent, he made me feel like a prince. Id beg him to cum deep inside me and breed me, and he'd get a look in his eyes when he pounded my cunt. It helped me pretend it was his baby growing inside me, especially when he'd put his hand on my growing stomach protectively.

Our relationship moved quickly. We were dating for only three months when he proposed to me, but it felt like three years. Gladly I accepted, and it took only two months to set up the wedding. He handled everything, insistent I just relax because he didn't want to stress out the baby. I was heavily pregnant at our wedding, and I heard a few murmurs about it being a shotgun wedding. I let them gossip- I hadn't told anyone about my attack, and I didn't care if they thought we were just getting married because I got knocked up. My husband and I knew the truth.

Those final few months were hard, but my wonderful husband took such good care of me. Doted on me hand and foot, took care of the chickens entirely, and with winter setting in soon I didn't need to tend the garden at all. This loving wonderful man cared for me through every stage of this unwanted pregnancy and turned it into the start of a beautiful life. It was like a scene out of a romance novel.

My labor was hard, but he was there through it all. Fussing over me and ensuring I got the best care. It hurts beyond words, the baby huge and heavy, but I managed. A sweet baby girl.

He was overjoyed. The next two months spent in a sleepy newborn haze, of course. But he was always there, at my side. He cooked dinner, kept the house tidy, watched the baby as I tended the chickens, our main income aside from a few residuals from some old novel he wrote years ago. He didn't even ask for sex, knowing I was healing, even if I wanted to regardless of doctors orders. But we waited.

The anniversary of the attack came and went, and he held me through my sobs. Reminded me that even if the experience was horrible, we had our beautiful daughter, and our beautiful relationship, because of it. And he was right. I was able to leave it behind.

As time wore on, he continued to be an amazing husband. Attentive in daily life, wonderful to our child, and absolutely fantastic in bed.

Nights spent after the baby was sleeping entwined in each other. His cock buried to the hilt in my needy cunt, his mouth on my heavy milky tits. Some nights, id let him take Polaroid photos of me impaled on his cock, or sucking him off, or stroking my tdick as his cum leaked out of me. I never saw where he kept them, but the idea that my body was so important to him he kept photos around made me feel good and loved. I never needed to ask with him, he somehow always knew what I needed, and I was often marked with hickies along my body from him. He said he was claiming every part of me.

A few months into summer, I felt off again. This time I didn't wait, and took a pregnancy test right away. Positive again. We weren't trying explicitly, but we weren't preventing it either, especially not with how I begged him to breed me every night. I told him, and he was overjoyed. I felt like I was in a fairy tale.

We decided to turn his old stuff into a playroom, since the nursery itself was small. I set to work on it in the mornings, while he was making breakfast. It was a lot to take down and move, so it took a while. While emptying his desk to have him move it to storage, I found a little cardboard box. Curious, I opened it up.

At first I thought it was the dirty photos he had taken of me. The idea of him alone in his study, fucking his hand to these photos when working late on a new story made me shiver. But then, under those photos were more. Candid shots of me out with friends, even before the baby. I hadn't gotten out much after the baby came, not like I went much of anywhere after the attack. These photos were old.

Then, the ones from my home. In through the windows while I was changing. My shirtless working in my garden. Me reaching for a gift wrapped bottle of wine.

With shaking hands, I set the box down. My husband, unbeknownst to me, had come up behind me. He wrapped his arms tightly around me, in a way hours ago I would find protective but now felt like a vice grip.

"What's the matter, love?" He asked, as he placed a hand over my womb, once again full of his child. "I told you we were meant to be. That you would look beautiful heavy with my baby for the rest of your life. I know you think so too. Why else would you beg me to breed that fertile, beautiful body of yours again? Just as I said before. If it weren't for that night, we wouldn't have our daughter, or our marriage. I just wish I'd done it sooner."

[shewroteaworld]

How He Made You Feel

Pairing: Jake Peralta x Reader

Premise: Right before the first sleepover of your romantic relationship, Jake puts a high school teacher behind bars for attempted sexual assault. The case brings up some difficult high school memories for you.

Warnings: mentions of sexual assault, mentions of sexual harassment, downplaying of sexual harassment

Word count: approx. 2,500

A/N: I'm back! Let me know in the comments if you want more Jake Peralta fics. (I'm not sure there's an audience for it.) Hope you enjoy! <3

Jake Peralta is the king of cinnamon buns. Eating the ones you bake, that is. 

“This is like heaven on my tongue!” He moans. He licks some cream cheese frosting off the top. “Babe, these are seriously amazing.”

Your back relaxes. “Thanks, Jakey.”

Right after your shift at the 99th precinct, you zipped to your apartment to chill before the first sleepover of your romantic relationship (no pressure). Rather than chillaxing, your anxiety sparked, and kneading dough became the outlet. Your in-a-pinch cinnamon buns never fail to soothe your soul or anyone’s taste buds. Now that you’re in his kitchen, you’re grateful for the baking conniption. Jake’s indulgence gives you a moment to ground.

As he gulps down another bite, his eyebrow quirks. “Jakey?” He flashes that cheeky grin you love to hate.

Your face warms. “I never said that.”

“Nope! No take backs! It’s on the record!”

You scoff. “Aren’t you a little young for hearing loss?” 

“Hey!” He pokes the edge of your forced frown. “You said it, and you know it, and it was adorable.”

Your heart beats in your ears. “You liked it?” 

Jake’s eyes soften. “Yeah, I liked it.” He smirks mischievously. “And you’re getting all mushy on me.”

You roll your eyes. “Oh, please, Peralta.” 

“I’ve got you wrapped around my finger.” He pokes your side.

You jerk away. “You don’t, and you know it.”

“If you say so! But I know what cutesy-nickname territory means.”

The buzz of his phone spares you from his ribbing. “Our DoorDash is here. I’m going to pick it up downstairs.” Jake slips on his slides.

“Kay. Thanks.”

He leans over his kitchen chair to kiss your cheek. “Course. BRB.”

Jake rushes out his apartment door. In his absence, you observe his place: the mopped kitchen tile, his clean olive green couch, his stash of beginner recipe books tucked on a shelf above a kitchen counter. When you first transferred to the 99, you couldn’t imagine Peralta had an inkling of an organized domestic in him. 

Your tan trench coat hangs next to his leather NYPD jacket on the coat rack in the hall. Your heart palpitates. That was the first stitch of your domestic lives being sewn together. You wring your hands.

Jake doesn’t care about stains. You’ll eat Indian take-out from the container while watching some corny comedy he loves and you bemoan on his bare sofa. You tidy the kitchen table anyway.

The wave of anxiety begins to crest as you straighten junk mail from random magazines and political campaigns. You brush crumbs off the new placemats you forced on him through Office Secret Santa. (Weave placements are a recipe for soup-spill disasters.) You leave the manila files of cases he’s working on untouched off to the side.

You pour two tall glasses of water.  So what if you ordered drinks? Jake’s bloodstream will become half orange soda if someone doesn’t counteract his addiction.

Just as you’re setting the glasses down, there’s a knock on the door.

You jump. Your hand jerks, sending a manila folder flying to the floor, its confidential contents scattering behind the island on impact. Shit. 

“Forgot my keys, babe!” Jake calls.

“Coming!” 

Upon opening the door, a smiley Jake awaits you, holding a white cardboard box to his chest. The mouth watering aromas wafting from it don’t calm your cortisol levels. 

His head tilts. “Why the long face?”

You step aside. “When you knocked, I jumped and slapped one of your files off the kitchen table. I’m sorry.”

His brow furrows. “It’s no problem.” He says, as if he doesn’t understand why you’re on edge. 

“Everything spilled out.” You elaborate. Though you wouldn’t describe Jake as neat, he’s particular. Though the order of his files and notes are Greek to everyone else, it makes sense to him. He hates when someone “tidies” it without his permission.

Jake walks towards the kitchen. “Yeah, on the floor, not another dimension. It’s okay. Besides, it doesn’t need to be in any specific order– I closed that case today. I’m returning everything to the file room first thing.”

You trail behind him. “Did you close while I was uptown with Boyle?”

“Yep.” He plops the takeout box on the table. He kneels down to gather the rogue papers. “While you were out gathering evidence, I was cracking the code on this creep.”

Your eyebrows knit. “Sexual assault case?” You sort your take out into categories: his, hers, and shared. 

Jake taps a stack of papers straight against a countertop. “Attempted.  And he was a fucking high school teacher. Luckily, it was all on security cam. Easy win.”

The styrofoam carton of lamb samosas trembles in your hand. “That’s upsetting.”

“Majorly. Sadly, he’ll probably get off easy. I mean it was attempted. Not that it should’ve been full-on assault or that what happened isn’t terrible–”

“I understand what you mean, Jake.” You assure. It’s how sex crimes go. 

You open your potato samosa carton. “These are the bomb dot com,” you say. It’s an easy lay up for him.

“That ass is the bomb dot com!” Your chest loosens at the change of topic.

You shoot Jake a glare. He puts his hands up. 

He picks up the last of stray papers as you grab plates and utensils.  When he’s done, he grabs the drink holder, your Pineapple Fanta and your pink lemonade each tucked in a cardboard slot. “Let’s go sit, m’lady.”

You reach for the drink holder with your free hand, but he twists his torso away. He nods towards the living room. “Relax. Pick a show. Remote’s on the coffee table.”

When Jake joins you on the couch, you immediately reach for your potato samosas.

“You weren’t kidding when you said those were your favorite.” Jake chuckles.

“Absolutely not. Try the lamb. They should be in the center– that’s the shared column.”

Jake affectionately rolls his eyes. “You treat life like an Excel spreadsheet.”

“Someone has to.” The cold condensation on your small pink lemonade chills your hand. “Hopefully, a detective would.”

He grabs his chest as if you struck him. “Your passive aggression is a stab to my heart!”

You pop open the container of jasmine rice. “What subject did that teacher teach?” You ask.

“The creeper?”

“Mhmm.”

Jake opens a container of chicken saagwala. “History.”

You hum disappointedly. “History teachers were always the coolest. Especially the male ones.” You stab your plastic fork into the rice and reach for the curry. 

“Now I wish I slept less in history class.” Jake remarks. 

You stare blankly at the coffee table as you spoon your (hopefully) extra spicy curry onto your plate. 

The couch sighs as Jake sinks back into the cushions, his left arm stretching to lay behind you on the sofa’s back. “Such a scumbag. The girl was barely legal–could’ve been one of his own students. To make matters worse, she looked 16.”

In your head, you count your breaths. You zone in on the white grains of rice you’re absentmindedly pushing into your curry sauce. 

You see your high school hallway. You remember the misery, the pressure. Mr. Johnston.

“You listening to me, babe?”

He taps your calf with the tip of his slide. You flinch.

“Sorry,” he says. Didn’t mean to startle you.” 

“That’s alright.”

In your peripheral vision, he leans forward. “You okay?”

You nod. “I’m great.” You click on his TV. “Just got a bit lost in my thoughts for a second.”

You feel Jake studying your side profile.

You click on Netflix. “Let’s do something lighthearted.” You drop down to his My List. Thankfully, you don’t have to search long to find something passable. 

“This one okay?” You ask. “I’ve been wanting to watch this too.”

“More than okay.”

The strings of the production company’s opening music fill the living room. You fiddle with your fork. Queasiness bites at you.

You need to shake this. This was your first sleepover with Jake. Don’t ruin this experience for yourself. It was so long ago. Nothing happened. It was uncomfortable, but you were alright. It was nowhere close to what that victim experienced. You’re fine. Is your asthma acting up?

You rest your plate on the coffee table. “Keep watching. I need the restroom real quick.”

You speed walk across the apartment to his bathroom, locking the door behind you. You turn the faucet to screeching cold. You dip your head into the basin and splash ice water in your face.

Your lungs gasp open from shock. Your brain drops back into your body. 

Everything’s safe. You’re okay. Tonight will be great. Don’t let some creep going to trial rattle you like this and ruin the evening.

You find a clean towel in a drawer and dry your face. After taking a detour to his bathroom to toss it in his hamper, you take three final deep breaths, your hand over your heart.

You’re fine. Nothing’s happening.

You return to the couch with a soft smile. “Sorry, Jake.” 

“No problem. You okay?” He asks again.

You hate lying to him. “Yeah, I just had to pee.” 

The movie snaps back to action. Though you didn’t ask, he paused for you. As the film unfurls, as predicted, you poke fun at the plot and Jake ardently defends it. The banter warms you, but the knot in the pit of your stomach refuses to unfurl.

Once your plate is clean, you lay your head on Jake’s shoulder. As the leading actress does something you don’t register, Jake’s laughter ripples through your hollow chest. 

It was so long ago. Nothing happened. It was uncomfortable, but you survived it. He never touched you. It was so long ago. He must be retired by now. It wasn’t your fault. There was nothing to be your fault. Nothing criminal happened. Nothing. It was so–

“(Y/N).”

You gasp. You snap up straight. The movie’s been paused. 

“Sorry, I couldn’t get your attention.” Jake says gently. 

Your heart sinks. “It’s…I’m just in my head.” You roughly run a hand through your hair. “So sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize. What’s wrong?”

“It doesn’t matter.” You stare at your knees.

Jake intertwines his fingers with yours. “It’s definitely substantial for you to be distracted like this.” He squeezes your hand. “I’m here.”

You smile sadly. “I don’t want to bring the vibe down.”

“Acquiring (Y/N) lore rivals catching bad guys as my favorite thing to do. Telling me about your feelings could never bring the vibe down. ”

A courteous dismissal gets tangled in your throat. Is that really what you want to say? 

Your free hand fiddles with the end of your hair. “I really don’t know how to talk about this.”

“Take all the time you need.”

You force a deep breath. “Your case threw me off.”

His eyebrows knit. “The teacher–creep one?”

You nod. “The teacher…you said he harassed a young woman who looked 16.”

He nods.

“It reminds me of an experience I had in high school when I was 17.”

His thumb strokes the back of your hand. “How so?” He asks gently.

“There was… this science teacher– Mr. Johnston. One semester, I had to walk by his classroom everyday. I had to walk from my homeroom on the opposite end of the school, so sometimes I would get there right after the bell rang. When I was alone, he would always offer to walk me to class…even though it was only a couple doors down from his.”

Jake nods. 

“He said he was trying to make sure I didn’t get in trouble for tardiness…but he never told my teacher he walked me. And he did it even after he knew I wouldn’t get in trouble and that I was only going two doors down from his classroom.”

“That’s definitely weird.”

“He also used to do this weird thing where he would walk right behind me…I think it was supposed to be copying my walk to tease me. One day, he came up super close behind me– close enough to smell my perfume. All I could think about was how close to my ass he was.”

Anger cuts through Jake’s expression. “Did anyone see this?” 

“Some other teachers did. They didn’t see anything wrong with it…they laughed it off everytime. I guess they saw it as a harmless joke. But, it made me really uncomfortable. Everyday I would pray that he wouldn’t say hi to me or be weird and would just let me walk to class. I figured maybe I was crazy, making something out of nothing, but it just felt wrong. At the time, I tried to block it out, I had other stressors to deal with…but right after I graduated, I reflected on it and other stories I heard about him…and I was creeped out.”

“(Y/N), I’m so sorry. Did you ever report this?”

“I confided in another teacher about it, but I never formally reported anything. I don’t know if he ever talked to his colleague about his behavior. Plus, I didn't think there was anything concrete to report.” You sigh. “It felt so wrong. I remember being so afraid of being alone in a room with him…he was a co-advisor for some extracurriculars I was a part of. There, he was always completely indifferent towards me but in those hallways in the morning…”

“With less people.” Jake notes. “And colleagues who didn’t take his behavior seriously.” 

You nod. 

“(Y/N), I’m so, so sorry. That isn’t okay.”

“I’m still not really sure if anything did happen to me. He didn’t touch me….he just…”

Jake shakes his head. “Followed you down hallways and got close to your body. That’s not okay.” He squeezes your hand again. “How did it make you feel?”

“Violated.” You admit.

Jake nods. “That’s what matters. How he made you feel matters. I’m so sorry that happened to you.”

Tears well in your eyes. “Thanks, Jake.”

Jake offers you a tissue. “Do you know what ever happened to that teacher?”

You wipe your eyes. “I believe he retired…not 100% sure.”

His face hardens. “I can track him down if you like.”

“No, Jake…there’s nothing to report. No evidence. Just a dead-end case of “he said she said” from over 10 years ago. Even if I reported it earlier, I doubt anything could have happened.”

Jake groans. “This sucks. I’m sorry for what you went through. No one should feel uncomfortable with a teacher at school. Jesus, every time I think I get what women go through, I learn it’s worse than I imagined. I’m so, so sorry.”

You dab your eyes. “Thank you for not belittling what happened to me. It’s great to have someone like you...you don't downplay what I feel."

He kisses your nose. “It’s part of my boyfriend duties; it’s what I’m here for.”

You press a tender kiss to his lips. “Thank you for being a safe space to talk.”

He returns the peck. “Forever and always.”

Jake Peralta is a goofball. He can be messy– both literally and figuratively. But at the core of it all was a mensch’s heart.