#Race Vs Road | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

skzdarlings · 9 months ago

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bets and situations ; skz ; minho x reader

original ask: requested by anonymous: minho and “is that how you usually get out of these situations? by fucking your way out of them?” please

pairing: lee minho/reader content info: rivals to lovers. street racing. stubborn!reader. placing bets, betting sex (still explicit consent), fucking vs making love. outdoor sex. sex on a car. explicit sexual content. word count: 3400 words.

masterlist. part of the valentine’s day stories series. credit to prompts. requests are closed.

enjoy! <3

Sure, you are a little insufferable.

But Lee Minho is worse.

He carries himself with an elitist pomposity, like he is above the other drivers just because he once raced professionally. Trophies or not, he is out here with the rest of you, illegally racing cars down desert roads, placing bets in the dead of night.

You were content until this fucker came along. Lee Minho and the stupid pretty face that won him fan clubs and brand deals. Ugh. You hate him for having that life and for giving it up when it is a fantasy for you. The world of professional racing is notoriously hostile to women. You admit there is a tinge of bitterness on your side of every interaction, but he goads you like an asshole.

He arrives with his usual entourage. A couple of them are racers, though not professionals, and a couple just spectate and mind his vehicle. He has a nice car, almost as pretty as him.

You whistle as he approaches. He looks at you with his usual exasperation, delicate features pinched with annoyance. His hair was a vibrant red in his racing days, quite the act of showmanship, but it’s a natural dark brown now, framing his mean, stupid, handsome face.

“Hey, pretty boy,” you say. “Finally gonna grow a pair and race me?”

His scowl turns to a bitchy little sneer. He laughs sarcastically.

“Not worth the mileage,” he says. He shoulders past you, his leather jacket against your denim. “Winning against a little girl does nothing for my massive ego.” He says this with a sarcastic flourish, mocking your derision of him.

You know the comment is a deliberately cheap shot. Unfortunately, in reality, Minho is the least chauvinist racer you have ever met, treating the women here with the same basic dignity as the men.

It’s just you he hates, because you hate him too. It was inevitable. You were hostile when first meeting. You challenged him to a few too many personal races. You were a sore loser and even worse winner. What started as an effort to prove something spiralled into a rivalry.

You won the last couple races. You gloated a little too hard and now he is refusing to race you again.

“Sure,” you say. “Sounds to me like you’re scared to lose for the third time in a row.”

He just keeps walking, ignoring you, which is so much more infuriating than when he snaps back.

You decide to keep your distance tonight. If you continue to agitate yourself, you are going to develop a stress aneurysm. So you keep to your own group, race your own races, and collect your own winnings.

But, ugh.

He is right there.

Just in the corner of your eye, just skirting the periphery of your space, just breathing the same night air. When you are looking at him, he captivates you. When you look away, he is like an impossible itch, begging for your attention again. You constantly catch him looking at you too, which does not help matters.

By the end of the night, you feel like a live wire, all electricity and unbound energy. Not a single race has satisfied you. You won three of four, making way more money than you lost, but it is not enough. It is never enough. You already know how good you are. You know you can beat most of these guys blindfolded.

Your only perfect match is Lee Minho. The only victory that matters is that one.

As the crowd disperses and everyone departs, you march towards him. He is saying goodbye to his crewmates, his back to you, but his buddy cracks a grin when he sees you coming. He smacks Minho on the shoulder before turning away.

Minho turns around with a befuddled look on his face. When he sees you, it slackens to that unamused vexation. He pockets his hands in his leather jacket and slouches against his car. He shakes his head as you stomp up to him.

“One race,” you say.

“No,” he replies, without missing a beat.

“Why not?”

“Because I said so,” is his insufferable reply.

“That’s not an answer,” you say.

“That’s too bad.” He gives you a final shrug then turns, opening his car door, preparing to leave.

“Wait,” you say.

You heart is racing. Somehow, you feel like tonight is different from every other night. Maybe it is the perfect crispness on the breeze, the remarkably clear sky, or maybe just the way those jeans seem to hug his thighs. Stupid hottie. You will have him and his attention. You will get the better of him, one way or another. It was all leading to this.

“One race,” you say. “A bet worth the mileage.”

“I don’t need your money,” he says.

“I’m not offering money,” you reply.

Finally, he closes the car door. He sighs, a very loud and dramatic sigh, like you are the biggest inconvenience on earth.

“What are you offering?” he says, facing you. The disinterest in his tone is betrayed by the curious sweep of his gaze, an up-and-down perusal like he expects to find his prize somewhere on your body.

Oh.

You feel flushed inside, realizing that it exactly what he is thinking. Looking at you with a hungry, lecherous gaze, anticipating you are about to offer up yourself as a potential prize.

It makes your heart stutter and your lips do the same, your next words all tangled up on your tongue. It did not even occur to you to offer such a thing. You hate him, so of course you would never think about him that way. But now that he is looking at you like that, his expression coloured with interest and suggestion, you find yourself too shocked to even parse your feelings.

The only thing that is obvious, abundantly obvious, is the punch of heat in your gut. No, lower. Heat that curls up inside you and makes you second guess. Heat that is curious about the look in his eye.

Then you shake your head. You resist the urge to smack him for throwing you off. You were in control and now you are flustered.

“Not me,” you snap.

His eyes, which have made their way down your whole body, follow the same path up. He meets your gaze eventually. Then he says nothing, because he is the worst, and just lifts an eyebrow at you.

“My car,” you say, with no-nonsense finality. “I bet my car.”

He blinks at you. Long, slow blinks like a cat. It takes him a second to find a sentence.

“Your car,” he says. He tilts his head and squints, looking at you with scrutiny, like he is trying to see through your ploy. “And what do you want if you win?”

“Admit I’m the better driver once and for all,” you say. The words feel a little foolish leaving your mouth. You have been chasing the high of that confession, aggravated every time he dodged it, but saying it out loud makes you feel needy. You clear your throat and stand straight like you are unbothered. “That’s all I want,” you say.

He rubs a hand across his jaw, laughs incredulously, then swings his arms out at his sides.

“Fine,” he says.

By now, everyone else has gone. It is just you and him under the streetlights, the long empty road stretched across the dunes ahead. You stare at one another, like there is no road and no sky, no world at all outside each other. It is intense and all-consuming.

You hold out a hand. He takes it and yanks you closer to him.

“I would have told you that for free,” he says. “Since it’s the truth. You just had to ask.”

Now it is your turn to blink, looking at him with shock. You would have been less stupefied if he called you a tirade of rude names, or tried to weave doubts in your mind. Instead, he smiles at you, and it is not half as smarmy as usual. He drops your hand and turns away, leaving you gawking at the air as he ducks into his car.

He honks the horn, snapping you to attention.

The heat rushes back in a hurry. You swallow, then walk to your car on suddenly shaky legs.

He wins.

Of course he wins.

You were distracted by his parting words. You and him are so closely matched in skill that a fleeting weakness is all it takes for one to overtake the other. You were faring well at the start, but his engine revved and your attention strayed. Your prize was somewhat nullified by his confession, your behaviour embarrassing in hindsight. You bet your car. What were you thinking?

You weren’t. And it was all his fault.

Your car skids to a screaming halt just seconds after him. You smack the steering wheel with frustration.

Maybe I should have just bet my body, you think to yourself, a thought that has you shivering from something other than adrenaline. Thoughts like that are not like you. And Lee Minho is the last man on earth you could ever want. Even though he is simultaneously the only man you want, or at least the only one with an opinion that matters, the only man whose attention you ever want. He is always the highlight of your night.

Oh god, you think with a nervous twist in your gut, I like that arrogant loser.

Facing him is hard and it has nothing to do with losing your car.

He is not gloating because he is not the type. He is just leaning against his vehicle with his arms crossed, watching your nerves and passion get the better of you. He does not flinch when you get right in his face, huffing from exertion.

“Do-over,” you say.

“Absolutely not,” he replies.

“You got in my head on purpose.”

“I can only do that if you let me in,” he says, looking smug.

“One more race,” you insist.

“You have nothing left to bet.”

“Me,” you blurt. “I bet myself.”

You feel some satisfaction at the flicker of surprise that creases his brow, but then he is just staring and blinking again. Your heart still thinks it is in a race, stampeding so far ahead that your whole body is awash with heat.

“You,” he finally says. His tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip, then he tilts his head in that studious way. “What does that mean?”

You feel so hot it is making you a little woozy. It’s just aftershocks from the race, you tell yourself, even though that heat comes from somewhere much more intimate.

You cross your arms stubbornly. You look away. You even stomp your foot.

“You know what I fucking mean,” you snap.

“Is that how you usually get out of these situations?” he asks in a teasing tone. “By fucking your way out of them?”

You refuse to answer. You arms are still crossed, your face still turned.

He touches your chin, a painfully delicate touch. Whenever you do fuck someone, it is hard and fast, like everything else you enjoy. Your greatest rival should be touching you with the roughest touch of all, but it is the very opposite. It is a suggestion of a touch, little more than a caress as he turns your face to his. You swallow until the intense focus of his sharp eyes.

“I don’t fuck like that,” he says. He bats his pretty eyelashes while smirking like a devil. “I don’t have to make bets. I make love to people because they want it. Sorry.” He rolls his eyes and turns away, wiggling his fingers in a sarcastic good-bye wave as he slides into his driver seat. “You can keep your car. I don’t want or need it. Good night.”

You put yourself between the door and car, stopping him from closing it. He looks at you, eyes narrowed more intensely.

“Now, now,” he says.

“I’m a big girl,” you snap. “I don’t need you protecting my honour. I wouldn’t offer to let you fuck me if I didn’t mean it.”

He stares at you, contemplative behind those dark eyes. He has just returned your vehicle so you have no reason to make another bet, other than to prove the veracity of your previous offer: that you do want to fuck him, even if you don’t want to admit it.

“I told you that you can keep your car,” he says.

You are amazed smoke is not blowing out of your ears, considering how hot your face feels.

“I heard you,” you say.

He gets out of the car slowly, holding your gaze the entire time. You take a step back.

Then he walks at you, which forces you to take another backwards step. Step by step across the tarmac. The breeze tousles a bit of his hair, but nothing stops his stride and his eyes never leave yours.

You find it difficult to catch your breath. Garnering this man’s undivided attention has been your only goal for months, and the reality of it is heady. He is intoxicating.

It seems the feeling is reciprocated, given how he looks at you, which just makes you stumble in your backwards trek. He catches your wrist, tugging you upright, yanking you closer. You collide with his chest, disoriented from so little.

“So,” he says. “If you win, we fuck. And if I win, we make love. Is that correct?”

“Whatever, there’s no difference,” you say. You are instinctively combative when flustered, redirecting the source of your embarrassment to confrontation.

It seemingly works. His attention diverts and he says, “Yes, there is.”

“No, there isn’t.”

“Yes, there—” He stops himself from retaliating with the same childish rejoinder. He props his hands on his hips, shaking his head at himself as he stares up at the stars.

Eventually he huffs, rakes his teeth over his bottom lip, then looks at you.

“Fine,” he says. “We’ll race.”

Your heart is already revving like an engine. You take another couple steps back to smirk at him triumphantly. You walk right into your car, that smug face dropping in surprise. It gives him the opportunity to crowd you against it, planting his hands on either side of your head. You hold your breath.

“You have to pass my test first,” he says.

“Excuse me!” Your own incredulity resounds. You smack his chest but he does not move.

“It’s just two questions,” he says. “You’re a smart girl. You’ll figure it out.”

He is tormenting you. You hate him. You hope he never stops.

“Fine,” you snap. His smirk makes your whole belly swoop with anticipation.

“Good,” he says, then stands back.

You hold his stare, refusing to show any weakness. At least you can catch your breath in the space between you.

Then he says, “Get on your knees.”

Your legs are already shaky – from nerves, from the dwindling adrenaline of your race. There are a lot of reasons your knees buckle. Plenty of explanations for why you do not hesitate, sinking to your knees right there on the road.

Your gaze drops, flustered by his demand and your response. You look at his shoes, all black, well-worn, scuffing the tarmac as he steps towards you.

“Now tell me,” he says, then gathers a fistful of your hair and yanks your head back. He meets your gaze as he says, “Is this fucking or making love?”

Then his fingers are in your mouth. You let him in without any hesitation, like your whole body is instinctively attuned to his. His grip is firm, his fingers relentless, undoubtedly fucking your mouth with the sloppy, mean thrust you would expect from an enemy. Still, it feels good, unbelievably so, your mouth wet and hot and his fingers sliding over your tongue, the soft suction of your lips making his eyes blaze and his throat bob as he swallows.

When he slides out, a trail of spit connects his fingers to your lips. Your lips quiver with a shuddering breath.

“Well?” he says.

You swallow, but eventually manage a weak, “Fucking.”

“Good,” he says, grinning that wicked grin. “That’s one out of two. How about this one?”

He drops to his knees. You are face-to-face now, kneeling on the road in the dead of night. There are no witnesses to this scene except maybe the stars, the clear night revealing all your secrets.

His face is as open, his expression suddenly so devastatingly soft and vulnerable. Your breath stutters before he even moves. He cups your cheeks with both hands and draws you to him.

Your eyes close when your lips touch. He strokes his thumbs across your cheeks and licks into your mouth with decadent slowness, like he wants to savour every second of your taste. Your mouths move together like they were made for each other, never racing too far ahead. A perfect give-and-take.

When he stops, you feel dizzy and bereft, but only for a second. He cups your jaw and tilts your face just so, then his fingers are parting your tender lips and the taste of him is on your tongue once more. Your eyes close and you moan thoughtlessly, bobbing your head to the gentle rhythm he sets.

“This,” he says in a feathery-light voice.

You shiver as he slowly withdraws his fingers. He wipes his thumb across your lips to clean you. You let him cup your chin and tilt your face, this time so he can look you in the eye.

“Tell me what we’re doing,” he says.

The suggestion makes you throb. You are hot and aching when you admit, “Making love.”

“Good,” he says, then pecks your lips before rolling onto the balls of his feet and shooting upright. “Now we can race.”

It is a perfect draw.

You are both distracted. When you slam on the brakes in the same place at the same moment, it is with a singular purpose in mind.

Doors slam. You meet in the space between your vehicles.

“I won,” you say, just to be argumentative.

He is shrugging out of his jacket. It his the ground. He does not break his stride, already going for his belt. Your knees nearly buckle again.

“Fine,” he replies. “Then get over here. I’m fucking you on the hood of my car.”

Fucking you is exactly what he does. It is not making love. He strips you methodically, your jacket and shirt and bra. Your jeans get shoved down past your knees and he bends you over the hood, still warm from the purring engine. You are hot and frantic, cheek pressed to the hood of your rival’s car while he works you open and shoves himself inside you.

You make a sharp sound then a low moan, hands plastered to the hot hood. He fucks you like he races you, without holding anything back because he knows you can take him.

It feels as primal as a race, the animal instinct that conquers you in a rush of adrenaline. It is your singular focus, the steady thud of him inside you. You do not care about appearances, about seeming ridiculous, meeting every thrust and moan with your own. He sounds good and feels better, your bodies in harmony, chasing each other to the finish line.

He yanks you up, your back arching as he turns your head for a kiss. It puts you over, clenching hard around him, setting him off. He makes a soft sound then groans with pleasure. He stays there for a minute, both of you breathing hard.

“I want you to keep your car,” he finally speaks, “because I need you to come back tomorrow and race me again.”

You gasp when his hand moves between your legs, working you up again, slowly but surely.

“Because next time I’ll win,” he says. “You sounded so good getting fucked. I want to see your face when you come on my cock again and again from making love.”

“Won’t happen,” you say, even while your on the cusp of doing just that.

“Mm,” he says, then laughs that light, evil laugh as you come all over his hand. He kisses the side of your head and says, “Wanna bet?”

#lee know x reader #lee know smut #lee minho x reader #lee minho smut #skz x reader #skz smut #stray kids x reader #skz x you #lee know x you #lee minho x you #valentinesdaystories

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bon2bonn · 10 months ago

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Media Menace

22!F1 grid X female!driver!reader

Words count : 1.5k

* just Some of the fans favourite moments of Y/N being the media menace she is ✨.

It was as a normal interview with Seb standing in the media pin , being asked about the drivers and the line up so far , he listened carefully before he answered " well , I think we have a solid lineup so far, each have their own unique driving style and that makes it more interesting to see and to compete with on track , they surly matured from where they started and........" What the fans didn't expect was when the camera zoomed in on the back of the pin , where some of the drivers were seen carrying a wiggling Charles trying to escape their hold as they marched on , being led by Y/N , who was chanting " to the pit ! , to the pit! " hand raised with a water bottle in it , her media officer could be seen standing at the back facepalming as she watched her driver walking away unfazed by the cameras following them .

••

*Crack-heads leader 🪄.

They paused as they came across Fernando , who was being interviewed close by and asked her something while pointing at Charles, she answered back and he nods at her , raising his own water bottle in a cheer , letting them go on their way with Charles seemingly pleading to be let down but no one dared to help him as the rest of the grid and media officers watched in amusement as they disappeared out of frame , the camera zoomed out and turned back to Seb as he finished his answer , blissfully unaware of the chaos behind him .

•••••••••••••••••••

* The road to Silverstone fistfight! , choose your fighter ! MV#33 Vs LH#44 🥊💪🏻.

She sat between Max and Lewis, bored out of her mind and fed up with their pity low-key shit talk by both drivers along with her team's principal and the media exaggerating the rivalry between them three , ignoring the reporters trying to bait her with their twisted questions as yet again she got stuck in the crossfire.

One reporter asked "what's your input on the ongoing feud ? " she let out a sigh at the repeated question for the millionth time this weekend alone , answering with a shrug " I don't know mate , I just work here " . Another one asked " what do you think of this ongoing rivalry, and do you think it'll last and how today's results will effect tomorrow's race ? " She answered nonchalantly " I sure hope it wouldn't affect tomorrow's race for I'm starting between them " giving them both a pointed look as if warning them , both looked away trying to maintain a stoic face listening as she went on answering , ignoring her officer who kept waving their hands at her from the back to cut it out " and as for if it'll last I honestly think today's quali could've been a fist fight, you know , end it there and move on with their day but no one is ballsy enough to arrange it , so here we are " leaving the reporters with a hanging jaws and taken back looks along with the driver's media officers as she leaned back into her chair waiting patiently for the next question .

•••••••••••••••••••••

* "Bitch! , I'm out!" .

Being seated in another post-race conference with Seb and Lewis after scoring P2 after a breathtaking battle against Seb, both Seb and her were beyond exhausted from pushing eachother to the limit but they enjoyed how they kept eachother at the tip of their toes , same as the fans who were at the edge of their seats anticipating who'd cross the finish line first between these two , and the final lap was proof of it , but she made sure to secure herself the position by one tenth of a second ahead of Sebastian who made sure to congratulate her first , everyone was pleased with the race results, well, everyone but the reporters who kept slipping backhanded remarks starting from the post-race interview up untill the actual press conference where they kept asking whether she considered another career or if she ever consider an early retirement , she got bored as another one asked why she still held on to the F1 career instead on Turning to other fields os sports , she gave him a fed up look " I just wake up everyday and decide that I want to make my life harder , why choose something else easier while I can make myself miserable here with you lot asking me the same question in hopes I'd give a different answers?" That got them to shut down for a while before another one asked the same , again.

Before either Seb or Lewis could shut them for their way or choice of questions she took the mic with no hesitation addressing the reporter who asked her for the third time when she'll take the retirement decision " look , and listen carefully cause I'm going to say it once , and I won't be repeating myself . when I Y/N L/N finally decide to retire from F1 my statement would be " Bitch, I'm out " nothing more , and definitely nothing less , so untill I myself say I am retiring I won't entertain this question anymore, and I advise you along with everyone else to do the exact same thing . next question please ! " Leaning back with a leg crossed over her knee as she waited for the next question . And It'd be save to say no one dared to poke at her with such assumptions after that answer , and earning herself the Bear nickname.

•••••••••••••••••••••••

* Toto's karma .

She rolled her head back distractedly looking up at the sky as she had to sit again through one of the team's interviews with her and Lewis both stuck with Toto as he went on and on about the teams competing against Red Bull and their chances this season and his opinion on drivers etc ...., she looked at the side , waving at some of the fans who walked by and shouted for her attention, sending them hearts and making faces before she was brought back by the host asking them three " speaking of the Red Bulls and the on going rivalry , who can you say is your favourite driver " Toto answered before any of his driver's could do, in a dismissing tone " in Red Bull? , I can't say there's anyone one I can name " . she however smirked as she shared a side look with her teammate before she answered ignoring Toto's pointed look giving him a wide tight lipped syndical smile " Oh! , but I know one I could name , you might be very familiar with him after all " the host eagerly look at her waiting for her answer " my favourite Red Bull bull driver is Toto Christian Wolff " Lewis tried to hold back his laugh as she kept smiling smugly at the said man , who looked away at the mention of his name with his eyes clenched in a grimace , wondering what have he ever done in his past life to get her as a karma/driver . The host stuttered before changing the topic , asking the drivers about their upcoming summer breaks and holidays .

••••••••••••••••••••••

* lando's downfall (literally) .

She stood in the media pit doing an interview with one of her favourite reporters , answering swiftly as the reporter gave her questions she actually enjoyed for once , not the diet and ignorant questions as if she barely knew anything about the sport , let alone drive . Her interview was going well , too well if she could say , because not long after she was halfway through answering her question , a gremlin decided to poke her for the fun of it. Having finished his interview already he turned to her to fill the time before his next interview , and boy would he regret it .

She kept swating his hands away and smacking him in attempt to finish her interview in peace , but no , he didn't pay her any mind untill he was called away . She glared at his smug face as he successfully annoyed her for the day , then she looked at the reporter with a wide sweet smile as she said " he'll regret it , trust me " nodding along as the reporter laughed nervously at her not knowing how to react , but that turned into shock as the driver excused herself for a moment.

she went around the pit sneaking up behind the McLaren driver, giving a thumps up to the reporter who looked at the camera with wide eyes before back at her , only to witness as she swept her foot in a kick aimed at the back of lando's knees, causing him to gasp as his feet gave up on him and he fell face first on the ground mid interview . She dusted her hands in accomplishment as she made her way back to the interview , asking as she smiled innocently " so , where were we?"

#weathering your storm #wys #f1 x driver!reader #f1 x female!reader #f1 x female driver #22!f1 grid x reader #f1 grid x reader #lewis hamilton x driver!reader #Fernando Alonso x driver!reader #sebastian vettel x driver!reader #charles leclerc x driver!reader #lando norris x driver!reader #toto wolff x female!driver #max verstappen x driver!reader #f1 x female reader #driver!reader #female!driver #f1 x reader

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astrophileous · 1 year ago

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A little fluffy piece of reader who normally takes her coffee black vs Spencer having a ton of sugar in his? The two of them getting their drinks mixed up and almost spitting it out at the pure amount/lack of sugar? 🤭

OMG I was actually planning to include a similar scene in one of my upcoming oneshots, but you know whattt!!! I'll write them again here anyway bcs it's such a cute concept 🥰

Warning(s): gn!reader but reader wears lipgloss, profanities, fixation over lips, bashful spencer bcs he's my babygirl <3

This blurb was written as a part of the "Zara's Birthday Bash and Road to 1K" celebration.

Zara's Birthday Bash and Road to 1K Masterlist / Criminal Minds Masterlist

"What the fuck?"

Spencer strode over just in time to see you spitting something out into the kitchenette sink. There was no concealing the disgust on your face as you eyed the cup in your grasp suspiciously.

"Hey." Spencer's voice tore through the air in a shaky ball of nerves. It sounded meek amidst the buzzing busyness of the BAU bullpen, yet still, you snapped your head up as soon as the single syllable left his mouth.

Your eyes instantly melted when they flickered towards his face.

"I think our drinks got switched," Spencer added, a little louder this time.

Your gaze played a tennis match between the identical cups in both your hand and Spencer's. The grimace you rewarded him in the next second was possibly the cutest thing Spencer had seen in the past few months.

"This is yours? That explains so much. Ever heard of diabetes, Dr. Reid?" you joked as the two of you returned each cup to its rightful owner. "What the hell is in that, anyway?"

"Um, coffee?"

"Right." You rolled your eyes. "I may know practically nothing compared to you, Doctor, but I know for a fact that was not coffee. Tell me, how many sugar canes had to be chopped down to satisfy your abominable preference of sweetness?"

"It's not that bad."

"Not that bad? Do you even know what real coffee tastes like?"

Before he could produce a reply, you suddenly thrust the cup of coffee in your hand right in front of Spencer's nose. The man staggered rearwards until his back met the wall with a thud.

"What are you doing?"

"Try it," you said sheepishly.

"What?"

"Try the goddamn coffee, Reid."

Spencer didn't actually need to try the goddamn coffee. After all, he knew your order like the back of his hand: iced americano with an extra shot of espresso, maybe one pump of syrup if you were feeling adventurous. He could already imagine how revolting the drink would taste.

But as you continued to peer at him behind your lashes, eyes twinkling with mischief and lips glossy from your favorite cherry lipgloss—the limited edition one that you had proudly boasted about in front of the entire team—Spencer could feel his IQ depleting in a rapid descension. He accepted the cup without a word and took a courageous sip.

"Well?" you questioned expectantly.

"Please don't force me to do anything like that, ever again."

Laughter exploded deep from within your chest when Spencer shoved the coffee back into your awaiting hand. He didn't have a lot of time to mull over the nauseating bitterness, however. Not when you proceeded to wrap your own lips around the lid—the same one he was just drinking from—and downed a generous sip.

Spencer averted his gaze away.

"Hey." JJ peeked into the pantry area, unaware of the rush of blood and inner turmoil that Spender was battling. The blonde waved the file in her hand before gesturing at the conference room. "We've got a case. Hotch wants everyone in five."

You skittered away after JJ's announcement, leaving Spencer dumbfounded and pathetically bothered by the image of your enticing lips. He followed after your footsteps, leading himself towards the conference room where the rest of his team was gathering. He drank a large sip from his own coffee to calm his racing heart, unaware of the reddish stain in the shape of your lips marking the area around the lid of his cup.

For the rest of that day, Spencer could taste traces of cherry on the tip of his tongue.

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vorfreudevortex · 1 month ago

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4. breathe

a street racer!ino takuma x f!reader fic

redline masterlist // previous: chapter 3 // next: chapter 5

warnings // 6.3k words - swearing, alcohol, smoking, reckless driving (duh), all characters in college or recently graduated, mount hakone's details are not accurate for the sake of the story so pls don't try to clown me for it, descriptions of blood (cut from glass) mdni - small smut scene in a car (towards the end), fingering, handjob, clit stimulation, nipple stimulation, praise, nipple play, dry humping, multiple orgasms, petnames, whiny ino who's kinda obsessed with you lmao

if you can spot the ford vs. ferrari reference, i'll marry you rn

the vibes for chapter four

⋆｡ﾟ��︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆ ｡ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆

the next morning you’re pouncing on suguru’s bed, anxious to get him awake and back to the mountain. “go back to sleep,” he groans, burying himself deeper beneath the blankets. his face is barely visible beneath his bedhead, and his morning voice is deep and hoarse.

“please, sugu?” you pull out his childhood nickname in your softest, sweetest voice. he just huffs.

“call toru or ken. i’ll meet you out there later.”

“how much later?”

“dunno…” he’s already drifting back to sleep.

fine, then. after breakfast with your papa, you group facetime the boys. ken answers right away and immediately asks if everything is alright, already awake and dressed. toru answers on the last ring from bed, obviously woken up by his blaring phone. his white hair lays flat against his forehead and eye boogers hang from his long lashes.

“what do you want…” he hisses with a pouty frown. unlike suguru, satoru’s morning voice is light and whiny.

“ew, toru! your eye boogies are huge!” you laugh. you see the corners of kento’s lips twitch up as well.

“i’ve got something even bigger,” satoru’s mind works in mysterious ways.

“oh my god, you pervert—”

“—truly disgusting behavior,” kento adds.

“i was calling to tell you to meet me at mount hakone right away, but i’m rethinking it since i don’t wanna catch chlamydia from potential contact with you.”

“wow— okay, first of all, i don’t have any diseases,” satoru rolls his eyes. “and it’s not like suguru would let me anywhere near you in the first place—”

“—as he should,” kento frowns.

“get out of bed or i’m telling him you said that!”

“tell him what? i didn’t say anything,” satoru scoffs.

“i’ll tell him what you insinuated—”

“—okay, relax,” he interrupts with a huff. “i’m getting dressed right now.”

✰✰✰✰✰

you end up spending the entire day tearing through the pass, anxious to keep shaving down your time and memorize each remaining detail of the roads. it’s completely empty when you first arrive, except for kento leaning against the back fender of his car waiting for you. he very thoroughly checks your motor and brakes for you before agreeing to ride along during your first turn.

“would you like me to keep an eye on the handbrake for you?”

“nah, i got it,” you respond, pulling the helmet over your head. you don’t want to wear it but you know that kento will say something if you don’t. “just time me, please.”

he gives you gentle advice and reminders during the 8.5 miles, you make sure to soak up every word. kento might not race anymore, but he can read a road and engine better than anyone else, aside from your brother. he can still keep up with suguru and satoru if he chooses to.

8:40:22 — just one second slower than inumaki.

satoru rolls in by the time you’re ready for your second turn. he lazily slouches in the passenger seat but reaches up to grip the door handle when you shoot off the starting line.

“where’d you learn to drive so aggressively?” he asks. “there’s no way you picked this up from me.”

“maybe i did,” your voice is slightly muffled beneath the roaring motor and the cushioned helmet. “i’m trying to concentrate, please stop talking.”

you tear your helmet off and kento pulls you out of the car — 8:40:52.

“how did i manage to go slower that time?!” you whine.

“don’t worry too much about it,” kento reassures. he notices your trembling frame, adrenaline pumping viciously through your veins from the drives. “take a break now.”

by the time suguru arrives with gas and lunch, you’re itching to go again. he makes satoru race beside you so you can get more comfortable with another car on the road. on your 5th time back, a few others including okkotsu, inumaki, takuma and his team are parked on the shoulder. he wears his rough demeanor now, shoulders hunched and missing a smile. it’s completely different from the giddy attitude he had with you at the skate park. but his back straightens when he spots you, unable to hide the lively look in his eyes.

“what’s all this?” takuma’s playful voice rings out as he approaches the phantoms with his friends in tow.

“clutch got a new ride,” satoru sings, placing a hand on each of your shoulders as you sheepishly smile. “and it’s twice as fast as yours.”

“i don’t doubt it,” he smiles, and lets his eyes fall on you. you can feel both kento and suguru’s sharp glares in the back of your head.

“damn, these are some nice wheels,” choso comments as he crouches down to get a better look at them.

“this wide body kit was installed well,” todo nods. megumi just stands silently with his hands in his pockets beside takuma, letting his eyes rake over your silvia. he doesn’t have to say anything for you to know he approves.

“what do you need, ino?” your brother asks.

“just came to talk with gojo and run a few before the race tonight,” takuma shrugs.

“then go somewhere else and do it,” suguru waves him off. “my sister runs first.”

“are you’re racing tonight?” takuma’s eyes widen as they land back on you. “who?”

“toge inumaki,” your brother answers you before you can. in suguru’s mind, takuma does not need to be talking to his sister directly. “the one who just pulled up in the s13.”

“ah, he’s not too bad. i’ve seen him around,” he glances across the way at him and okkotsu, who watch your conversation and wait for you from afar. takuma turns back to you with another sweet smile. “good luck tonight, clutch! i know you’ll do—”

“—get the fuck out of here, ino.”

your face is bright red when takuma walks away. suguru angrily mutters something about the the inappropriate use of your nickname before lighting a cigarette, and kento looks away when you meet his gaze. you don’t dare say a word. for an unknown reason, in the depths of your brain, you like when takuma's cheekiness riles up your brother.

“fucking prick,” suguru mumbles through puffs of smoke, before putting the helmet back in your hands. “put this on and go before he comes over here again.”

✰✰✰✰✰

takuma ino: i see why u been busy this past week

you: i’m so sorry, i’ve barely been on my phone

takuma ino: don’t even worry bout it :) it was worth the wait ur silvia looks sick af takuma ino: ur gonna kick ass tonight too i just know it!!

you: i’m sososososo nervous you: do you think you’ll beat toru tonight?

takuma ino: no doubt about it takuma ino: are u still down to go out tonight after? for ur bday?

you: yes!! i already have my outfit picked out!!

takuma ino: i can’t wait.. i know ur gonna look so pretty takuma ino: u better not bail if u don’t win ur race

you: i won’t!

takuma ino: good i’ve missed u :) good luck tonight pretty

you: good luck kuma!!

✰✰✰✰✰

you sit back on your hands with your knees bent up, letting the cool road attempt to ease the boiling blood in your veins. your toes wiggle in your white converse, and your nails pick at ashphalt. shoko sits beside you, puffing on a cigarette, letting you sneak a hit or two when suguru isn’t looking to help calm your nerves. the chattering crowd and booming subwoofers on the shoulders are nothing more than a murmur in your ears, you’re too anxious to focus on anything except your upcoming race.

“you’ll do great,” shoko smiles. “i heard that people are betting for you.”

“really? betting on me?”

“uh huh. the streets say that there’s no way you’re slower.” even if shoko’s just making it up to make you feel better, it’s working.

you’ve spotted takuma and the shadows a couple times. his face is stern, he doesn’t even look at anyone else. the phantoms are bent over your engine, feet on top of the starting line. kento checks, double checks, triple checks everything while suguru nosily watches over his shoulder, ensuring he doesn’t miss anything. he knows he won’t. satoru yaps about everything and nothing at all. he’s not nervous for his race with ino, he’s raced him a handful of times before. he’s both won and lost, and tonight there’s money on the line.

suguru helps you to your feet when inumaki’s headlights come over the hill, but you don’t hear any of the words coming out of his mouth. your mind is far away. inumaki parks beside you, the nose of the car placed just before the starting line. he’s right on time.

inumaki doesn’t wear his mask tonight. the floodlights reveal his flushed, tattooed cheeks as he steps out of his car. the boys start talking with okkotsu, and inumaki points to you before holding his palms face down in front of him with a gentle shake.

“am i… nervous?” you question, and he nods.

“uh, yeah… i’m pretty nervous,” your voice shakes. he points to himself, then holds up two fingers. me too. his slender fingers fly gracefully in the air through his dumbed-down version of sign language for you. you will do great!

“you, too!” you smile, and your stomach starts to flip in on itself as the boys finish helping okkotsu check over inumaki’s engine. you’ll be off any minute now. kento closes inumaki’s hood with a loud wham and the boys close in around you.

suguru looks nice tonight, with the top half his hair pulled up in a neat bun, black jeans, and a deep purple oversized hoodie over a plain white shirt. he comes over and picks a piece of lint from the fabric of your top before brushing his fingers through your hair, silently calming your tension with ease.

“ready?” suguru asks.

“ready,” you smile, holding your hand out for inumaki to shake. he graciously accepts it with a wide grin and a polite bow. you settle in the silvia, all four of the group hanging their heads in through the windows.

“we talked to okkotsu,” satoru chirps. “they won’t do anything stupid.”

“relax, girl. you’re gonna do great,” shoko says.

“remember to breathe,” kento reminds. “drive safely.”

“put this on and do not take it off,” suguru pushes the helmet into the car as the others leave. he pecks your cheek before you pull it over your hair. “as long as you do the same thing you’ve been doing, you’ll win.”

“i’m nervous, nii-chan.”

“you have nothing to be nervous about,” he fastens the chin strap, pulling twice to check. “listen to what your gut is telling you, don’t try to fight it.”

“which marker will you be at again?” your shaky fingers fumble with the seatbelt.

“mile 4,” suguru’s voice is smooth and light, the solidity you need right now. your mind whirs as he helps you with the harness, tugging another two times. “ken’s at 2 and toru’s at 3 so we can be here when you get back, don’t worry.”

“what if something goes wrong?” every possible concern you've had is now bubbling out, you can’t quiet it.

“sshhh,” suguru hushes. “that’s what your radio is for. keep it tuned to what ken set it on and use the walkie-talkie in your console if you need help. your phone won’t work well out there. you’re gonna be just fine.”

you nod under the helmet and turn the ignition. you shift uncomfortably in your seat as it comes to life, humming and purring under the hood.

“listen to me,” he turns your head to face him. “you’re gonna do great. you’re faster than inumaki. you’ll win, no doubt about it. drive just like i taught you, okay?”

“okay.”

“i’m proud of you, clutch. drive safe. i love you.”

“i love you, too.”

with a handsome grin, he taps the side of the door and leaves. you look to your left, inumaki smiles at you through his window and holds up a sign. good luck. you return the gesture with a trembling hand. the flag girl takes her place between the cars. your heart pounds relentlessly. you spot takuma and his team, they made sure to park close. takuma waves with a warm smile, and you return it since the boys have disappeared into the mountain, unable to see the forbidden interaction.

the flag girl raises her arms. your sweating hands grip and release around the wheel, over and over again. just feel it. your feet press into the pedals. your tires spin. she throws her arms down. without a hesitation, the brake is released. the silvia lurches forward, finally free to run. your cloudy mind completely clears as you tear through the straight. inumaki is right by your side as your approach the first turn.

downshift. brake. you slow down first. inumaki starts to lead. damn it. breathe. the rear tires lose traction, you feel it.

turn, turn, turn— feather, feather, feather— not too much, not too little.

you both shoot out of the corner, the nose of the car practically touching inumaki’s back fender. breathe. focus.

“mile 1, inumaki in the lead,” okkotsu’s voice barely registers in your ears. do it again, better this time. you veer beside him.

downshift. brake. inumaki slows first. do you take him over? do you wait? kento’s warning echoes through your hazy thoughts… you’ll wait this time, you’ll be safe.

you slow as well, he’s still ahead. downshift. brake. feel. breathe. both cars’ tires scream into the night, their sounds almost harmonizing.

turn. feather. the gauge violently redlines, trembling on the dash. it’s exactly where it should be. it’s better than last time. breathe.

your roaring silvia and inumaki’s s13 enter a small patch of straight highway. this is your chance. throwing it back into gear, you attempt to push your way ahead of inumaki. he tries to chase you. the third turn, the hairpin, flies towards you. it’s too fast, you feel it. slow it down. brake. breathe.

“mile 2, inumaki in the lead,” kento’s voice calls out through your radio, you barely notice his blurry silhouette as you fly by him.

icy air blasts from the vents. your hair is crammed and damp under the helmet, but your bare arms have a shield of goosebumps. your trembling hand grips the shifter, the leather wet from your sweaty palms. breathe.

hard brake. downshift. brake. it’s coming. it’s coming. not quite… it doesn’t feel right… almost—

now.

you clamp your fist around the handbrake, yanking it towards you in one swift, smooth motion. the familiar feeling of the rear tires locking up surges through the car and into your bones. rubber screeches and the motor sings as it redlines. the back end swings around, almost farther ahead than the nose, but not quite.

just like your contorting body on takuma’s skateboard, the car teeters on the edge of losing control. unlike that balmy evening with your hands clamped to his soft shirt, tonight your hands are clammy around the stiff steering wheel.

and unlike the skateboard, letting the car slip away from your control is simply not an option.

you’re practically weightless, floating through the air like a haunting ghost, and you’re once again addicted to the feeling. breathe, just one more split second of bliss to savor—

“clutch leads into mile 3!” satoru’s giddy voice fills your ears. focus— you didn’t even notice how you had squeezed between the guardrails and inumaki’s wide drift to slip in front.

turn, feather. handbrake down, upshift. breathe.

you glance down at the dashboard and gauges. everything kento and papa taught you about them looks exactly how they should. the silvia craves more, you feel it. you do, too. inumaki is only a few feet behind you, but you’re gradually gaining more and more on him. you're winning, it sends another rush of thrill through your bones.

with one hand, you flip open the center console and snatch the walkie-talkie. a finger fumbles around on the side of your helmet until it finds the button. the visor pops up, letting cool air hit your burning face. your palm is back on the gear shifter with your thumb and pointer holding the ‘talk’ button against it, a beep rings out— everyone will hear your next words.

“suguru!” you call.

“clutch?! what’s wrong?” his voice crackles back to you over the radio.

“nothing’s wrong,” you can’t help but belly laugh, your mind dizzy with adrenaline and happiness.

“what?!”

“watch me, sugu!” you smile. “watch this steeze!”

you know takuma heard you, copying his goofy slang from that blissful night at the skate park, and you can imagine his smooth laugh ringing out around the other listeners so clearly in your mind.

you throw the radio to the floor of the passenger seat and fly into the next hairpin, mimicking your previous actions exactly. you let each rumble and veer of the car lead your timing and intuition. inumaki is a whole car length behind you now, both cars smoking past your brother and out of the drift.

“mile 4, clutch in the lead,” suguru says. “you stress me out, little shithead.”

and for some reason unknown to you, the world suddenly grows quiet.

your muscles relax, your mind empties. inumaki’s threatening headlights in your rearview mirror no longer lingers in your thoughts. the uncomfortable touch of the sweaty hair stuck to your forehead disappears. the echo of your uneven breaths under the thick helmet turn steady.

you take a deep breath, tasting the burning rubber and wafts of exhaust as you inhale. the machine around you becomes weightless.

you feel it.

you are simply just driving now, a body moving through time and space—

it feels so good.

✰✰✰✰✰

you’re not really sure what happened after that. but at the same time, you somehow remember every detail so vividly. since the moment everything clicked after that last hairpin, you’ve been in a drugless, dreaming daze.

you know that you won— 8:29:41— an incredible 11 seconds faster than your most recent pass through hakone. you were 2 full car lengths ahead of inumaki as you passed over the finish line.

you know that suguru was at your door as soon as you yanked the silvia in park, pulling you out and ripping off the helmet, smiling and laughing with utter pride. inumaki’s hands had waved excitedly in front of him before he hugged you with a smile that made his tattoo tightly stretch over his red cheeks.

you know that kento had shown you another rare grin with teeth, and satoru had once again thrown you over his shoulder. you had seen takuma’s huge smile between the faces of the excited crowd around you.

you failed to notice the brooding onlookers that stayed on the shoulder.

you were still catching your breath when satoru and takuma took off into the mountains, and you remember that takuma had won by just a few feet. it left satoru pissed and pouting, and about ¥30,000 poorer than he came. there was no fight this time.

suguru didn’t seem to mind when you told him you were going out again this weekend, he was going to the bar with the boys anyways. so when you got home, you pulled a black, off-the-shoulder mini dress over your buzzing body before fixing your hair and makeup. you knew you’d regret wearing thigh-high stockings and uncomfortable, black platform heels when you took off in your mustang, deciding to leave the silvia to rest in the garage.

the underground felt like it was empty with every bit of your attention focused on takuma. he had literally melted when he saw you, he knew he wouldn’t be able to keep his eyes off you all night. megumi, yuji, choso, and aoi were nowhere to be seen as you danced with takuma, shot after shot and song after song, still reeling from both your victories.

there was never a moment takuma let your body sway against his without a searing touch on your skin— the glaring red eyes from across the room needed to know you were with him and him only.

you know at one point, you were back in the shadows’ booth, utterly drunk and sat between takuma’s thighs. you remember his hand around your waist and a finger just under the hem of your thin black stockings. you remember the way his intoxicated breathe felt in your ear and the way it sent chills down your spine when he had mumbled, “we should go, it’s too loud in here.”

“go where?” you had asked.

“anywhere but here.”

✰✰✰✰✰

the daze is suddenly over as you find yourself underneath takuma ino in the backseat of his car.

you can barely see a thing around you in the dark, empty corner of the parking garage, but you can feel everything as his calloused hands roam your body and thighs, which hook around his waist, as he grasps at the soft fabric of your dress.

you hold his face in your hands, teeth and noses clicking and bumping as you attack each other’s lips. your fingers travel to his soft, brown hair and lightly tug when he meets his tongue with yours. the taste of vodka, tobacco, and your own sweet lip gloss mix between your mouths.

takuma’s hips come down to meet yours, the cool metal of his belt and the rough, black material of his jeans grind against your core so deliciously that you can’t help but let out a small gasp. he grips your thigh as the other hand gently cradles your nape upwards, exposing your neck and jaw for him to plant hot, wet kisses on as your eyes close with a flutter. it’s really not fair how the hard length beneath his jeans continues to roll into you, the pressure of it shooting desperate need through your bones.

"you're so fucking beautiful," takuma pants against your skin. "you know that, right?"

the rising temperature of the car and your melding bodies leaves you both breathless as takuma sits up to tear off his shirt. every coherent thought he has left in his brain vanishes when he finally registers the scene below him— your messy hair and lidded eyes staring at his toned figure, your swollen lips and heaving chest.

"oh," takuma damn near chokes on his own spit when he sees that your dress has bunched up just above your hips from his groping, legs spread around him to reveal cherry red panties against the straining tent below his belt. he’s completely losing it—

“my shoes…” you finally manage to say.

“what?” he thickly swallows. “o-oh, yeah. your shoes.” he lifts your legs and does his best, tipsy job to fumble open the buckles of your heels. your dress lifts higher, and takuma prays you don’t notice the pink tinge on his cheeks as your shoes fall to the floor of the car.

“fuck, you’re so pretty,” he breathes, returning his lips to yours. he just can’t stop himself from grinding into you repeatedly as he grows more desperate to ease the ache in his jeans. “is this okay?” one hand finds your breast, the other slides beneath the hem of your dress to the bare skin of your waist.

as soon as you nod he’s back to your mouth while your fingertips roam his shoulders and back. a thumb rolls over your covered nipple right as he rolls into your core, the angle and pressure just right enough to make you gasp again.

“m-more, please?” you ask so sweetly, takuma knows he could never deny you.

“more?” he begins to pull the top of your dress down. “like this?”

“yeah… please?”

takuma squeezes your hardened nipple and the fat of your hip at the same time, earning another sharp gasp from you. he smiles at that, eager as hell to learn every sign and signal of your body. he plants another wet kiss on your collarbone before hovering his lips over your other breast, letting the heat of his breath tease it for just a moment.

“can i—”

“—yes.” you pant, and his tongue is wrapped around your bud immediately. the insistence of his hips against yours combined with pulling tugs and sucking lips on your tits has your fingers tightening in his hair and back arching up, and the first candied moan finally escapes from your throat.

god help him— takuma swears he could cum in his pants just from the sound of it alone. he can’t believe he’s managed to get you here, splayed out so erotically underneath him in the backseat of his car, lucky enough to be the one to make you produce such a beautiful noise. he doesn’t dare stop his movements, savoring the privilege of having his own tongue swirling over your nipples just to hear you sing again.

it only takes a few minutes until takuma is drunk off your gasps and moans, drunker than he was before, and you’re starting to writhe under him. he plays with the band of your panties as your thighs squeeze around his waist.

“kuma, if you keep going,” you pant. “i’ll… oh, i’m gonna…”

“you want me to stop?”

“no, more.”

“more where?” a hand comes to rest on top of your pelvis, a finger dangerously close to where you need it most as he asks for permission. you nod frantically. takuma rests a thumb over your panties at the peak of your aching clit, “here?”

“y-yes, please,” you moan. your back arches and all muscles tense as he presses gentle circles into your bud. he groans around the nipple under his tongue when he finally feels for himself just how wet he’s made your lingerie.

takuma still can’t control his desperate grinds as he’s hunched over you, the only thing separating his twitching length and your burning cunt being your clothing and his thumb. his teeth softly clamp around the peak of your breast and you call out his name, sending him spiraling.

“oh— kuma!”

“cum for me,” he pleads, dark and needy brown eyes boring straight into yours. “please, pretty? i want to see you cum for me.”

you clench around nothing at his words, making takuma groan as you pull harshly on his hair and clamp your eyes shut. "please please please, just for me," he prattles helplessly.

you suck in a sharp breathe and let your head fall back into the soft seat. it’s silent for a moment as your entire body tightens into the peak of your orgasm. it has to be the most beautiful thing takuma’s ever seen. you start to fall over the edge, crying out in pure pleasure as your legs shake at the lightning that courses through you.

“fuuuck, baby,” takuma moans at the sight of you, not daring to stop his ministrations for a single moment to extend your orgasm as long as he can. he’s utterly addicted, he wants to see it over and over and over again. you wish you could say something, anything, but the burning fire rooting from your clit takes over all your senses. “so pretty, so so so fucking pretty.”

your chest heaves beneath his as you choke and gasp. “breathe, baby,” takuma softly reminds you, moving his lips to your tingling neck. you whimper and pant as you come down, takuma’s slamming his mouth back onto yours. “so beautiful,” he mindlessly mumbles against your lips. “thank you, baby. so good, so pretty.”

a playful giggle is the first thing to leave your mouth when your body settles. “what are you laughing at?” takuma smiles, he can’t help but chuckle along with you. you both feel light and airy, bright red blushes smear across your cheeks.

“i just…” you blink repeatedly with a sheepish smile, clearing through the lustful haze in your eyes to try and look at the boy above you. “i’m not very experienced, and that was, um, kind of… my best?”

“your best?” takuma looks at you with wide eyes. “i can do better.”

“…show me?”

takuma’s face flickers with an unrecognizable look. you playfully shriek when he pulls you up by the waist to straddle over his lap. his muscular thighs are spread apart across the backseat and your sensitive core meets his jeans once again.

“much better,” he grins, kneading the fat of your thighs. he looks down at your stockings with parted lips and darting eyes— his touch feels heavenly. “these are… dangerous.”

“you can take them off, if you want,” you mumble shyly, hooking your arms around his neck and pulling yourself closer into his bare chest.

“no, no, no. they stay on.” he prefers to be buried with the image of you over him like this, cheeks flushed and enticing eyes.

“okay, kuma,” you laugh. “whatever you want.”

“whatever i want?” his middle finger finds the path back to your soaking clit, gently pressing for permission. “what about what you want?”

“i want…” your eyes dart down his sculpted chest and abs, and over the soft chestnut happy trail that disappears beneath his jeans. you thought you had reined your head back in place, but the thought of that path of hair leading straight to takuma’s throbbing length suddenly has you fumbling mindlessly with his belt buckle. “fingers,” you blurt, remembering he had asked you a question. “i want your fingers.”

takuma doesn’t waste any time attaching his lips to yours, circling your soaking heat once again. you tear open takuma’s button and zipper, revealing just a peek of the angry red tip that hides beneath the waistband of his boxers. he lets out a beautiful, deep groan that reverberates down your throat when you palm him over the fabric.

“i need to,” he tugs at the edge of your underwear, pleading for entrance. "i need it, please?" the second you nod he’s pulling them to the side, both of you whining at the touch of his long fingers spreading the slick up your drooling cunt. you shudder against his chest, the pleasure being tenfold what it was over your lingerie. the sensitivity of your clit leaving you clenching and tense.

“f-fuck,” takuma whines when you reach past his boxers and squeeze your soft fist around his raging cockhead. you’re grinding desperately against the palm of his hand, he pushes a finger past that first ring of resistance and into your gummy walls. you moan and pant as he pumps steadily, relishing how your pussy squeezes and clenches around him.

“kuma!” you squeal as he easily pushes a second finger in your squelching cunt, curling into a spot that has your vision blurring. his head drops to plant wet, open-mouth kisses to your throat. you cradle his head against your chest as you swipe over the slit of his head, making him jerk with a whimper as his gushing precum coats your digits.

you’d be embarrassed that your second peak was already approaching after just minutes of his obsessive attack on your pussy if it didn’t feel so fucking good. the inhibition of your brother finding out about your whereabouts has completely vanished. any hesitation you had of takuma’s rumored wrongdoings is completely forgotten as you fist his long, pretty cock…

“shit,” he pants, atrociously enamored by a thin streak of your slick that appears from under your dress and trickles down your thigh until it soaks into the material of your stockings. “you’re so so good to me, too good for me, baby.”

the grip around his dick has him going ballistic, he knows he could cum immediately as long as it’s your voice asking him to. if angels are real, he thinks they’d sound like your sloshing cunt around his fingers and your saccharine moans in his ear.

“i’m gonna—” you gasp, snapping takuma out of his trance. “k-kumaaa…”

“you gonna cum again for me, pretty?” his cock twitches in your palm at the thought of it, this time around his nimble fingers. you subconsciously start pumping him faster, your numbed body so desperate for more of him.

“yes, i’m sorry!” you whimper, almost ashamed. takuma clenches his jaw with a sharp groan when you swipe against a particularly sensitive area near his leaking head, his own peak rapidly nearing. the perfume on your bare chest makes him even dizzier, he’s nipping at your breasts without thought.

“you’re gonna make c-cum, too.” good god, he’s obsessed with you. takuma can’t be bothered to care about how his pathetic whining and stuttering sounds to you. “cum for me. p-please, pretty?”

you’re a fucking mess straddled over takuma, a fistful of his shaggy hair in one hand as you’re veins start to run hot. you tremble as you start to peak once more, messily rolling your hips harder into the palm that he’s been grinding so delectably into your clit. takuma isn’t any better, jutting and jerking his cock farther into your hand. words pour out of his throat, babbling and groaning your name.

“oh, fuck— fuck, you’re so good to me, baby. cum with me, please? please… sh-shit, i—” takuma throws his head back and digs his nails into the fat of your hip as his pretty length spews hot ribbons of white over his clenching stomach. the sounds of his hoarse moans repeating your name, thanking you, and his fingers curled tight against your squelching walls is enough to send you over the edge right after.

you cum with a sharp cry, eyes rolling back into your head as takuma’s whining, drunk voice praises you through your orgasm. “breathe, pretty girl,” he reminds as you’re once again gasping for air. “good girl, that’s it. god, you look so pretty cumming on my fingers like this…”

takuma gifts you with gentle, slow circles over your nub to come down with, holding you close against him as he presses loving kisses over your jaw and neck. completely pussydrunk, he can’t get himself to shut up as he continues to stream out a steady flow of compliments and praises for you.

it’s when the car is quiet, except for both your panting, when you realize your phone is vibrating incessantly. abandoned at some point on the floor of takuma’s car along with your shoes, suguru’s name lights up the screen.

“shit…” you breathe.

sugu: lmk when you’re otw home please sugu: everything ok? sugu: 1 missed call sugu: text me back soon ok? wanna make sure you’re safe

toru: text ur brother back dumbass. he’s tweaking out in the bar rn lmao

sugu: clutch sugu: 1 missed call

ken: your brother is worried about you, it’s very late. you should give him a call when you see this.

sugu: i’m getting worried, did something happen?? sugu: call me back asap please sugu: 1 missed call

your heart drops. suguru texting or calling you a few times to make sure you’re okay is nothing new, but satoru and kento reaching out worries you.

“kuma, i’m sorry. i need to get home,” you apologize.

“can you stay just a few more minutes, please?” those big brown eyes of his are so hard to say no to.

“i’m so sorry, suguru’s freaking out. i… don’t want him coming to find me,” takuma must see the stress in your expression, because his pleading eyes disappear as his thumbs rub comforting circles around your waist.

“don’t feel bad, i get it,” he smiles. “we’ll get you home safe and sound for him.”

✰✰✰✰✰

you keep the shop lights off as you park your mustang. you’ve already probably woken up the entire neighborhood with your car, you don’t need to blind them as well. the cold linoleum floor of the garage feels nice on your socked feet as you walk with your heels in your hand to the door that leads to the kitchen, barely visible.

suguru will be waiting for you in your room, but you know he’ll simply help you into bed and tell you to get some sleep instead of reprimanding you, despite his concerning texts. that’s what he always does.

your cheeks still feel hot and your knees weak from your time in takuma’s backseat, but your mind is disoriented and giddy. his handsome smile and sweet moans are still fresh in your mind, you can still feel his warm touch over the skin of your waist and hips. you know you’re a mess right now; eye bags, tousled hair, smeared makeup, and your socks falling halfway down your legs… but you can’t seem to care.

there’s a small crunch, and the sole of your foot screams out in pain. you stumble backwards in the dark as you bite your lip against the searing feeling until you can turn on the flashlight of your phone. the bottom of your foot drips bright red blood onto the clean, ashy grey tiles.

you’re nothing except confused at the smalls shards of glass lodged in your foot. the light of your phone pans to the floor before you, covered in more glittering glass, and up to the driver’s door of the car in front of you.

it’s your silvia. you stare in disbelief as you realize the driver’s side window is completely gone, blue and green shining fragments covering the seat you raced in just hours ago. the passenger window is shattered but intact, with a singular bullet hole through the center. you scramble to the kitchen door, heart beating out of your chest and blood smearing your path. as soon as you grab hold of the knob, it flies open on its own.

“where the hell have you been? it’s 4 in the fucking morning!”

it’s suguru, shirtless and barefoot from being in bed. he looks disheveled with fretful and bloodshot eyes, his ebony hair frizzy and flat. he had obviously just been woken up from the sound of the garage door creaking open through the house.

“what’s going on, clutch?” he demands, grabbing your arm to pull you inside. but you’re unable to form words, tears streaming down your cheeks as you resist him. you fumble desperately at the wall for the shop lights, the fluorescent blinding you both when they snap on. the horrifying sight of your car makes you gasp, clutching onto suguru as you take in the scene.

“oh my fucking god,” suguru has never woken up faster. “get in the house. now.”

⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆ ｡ﾟ☁︎｡ ⋆｡ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡ ⋆

redline masterlist // previous: chapter 3 // next: chapter 5

ongoing tag list // @stillnotherapy @rieamena @magiamad0ka @mawhoreagaa

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contemplatingoutlander · 6 months ago

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How to cover an abnormal presidential race

Could the media coverage adhere closer to reality? Hard questions must be asked.

Jennifer Rubin offers a much needed road map as to how journalists should be covering an election between a politician who upholds democratic values (Biden) vs. a politician who is determined to undermine the Constitution and create a dictatorship (Trump). I wish mainstream journalists would follow her advice. Below are some excerpts, but you can use the gift🎁link to read the entire article.

The United States has never had an election in which: a felon runs for president on a major party ticket; a presidential candidate lays out a detailed plan for authoritarian rule; an entire party gaslights the public (e.g., claiming the president was behind their candidate’s state prosecution; pretending they won the last election); and, prominent leaders of one party signal they will not accept an adverse outcome in the next election. Yet, the coverage of the 2024 campaign is remarkably anodyne, if not oblivious, to the unprecedented nature of this election and its implications. [...] How could the coverage stick more closely to reality? Obsession with early polling that inevitably becomes meaningless after big events such as Trump’s conviction (stuff happens!) and that cannot yet gauge who is likely to vote should go by the wayside — or at least come with caveats and not drive coverage. What would be informative: A minute or two of unedited video showing Trump’s rambling, incoherent and deranged rants. Rather than merely “fact check” the nonsense blizzard, reports can explore the unprecedented nature of his rhetoric, illustrate the deterioration in his thinking and speech, and discuss how an obviously irrational and unhinged leader casts a spell over his devoted following. The media also can refuse to entertain laughable MAGA spin, such as claiming that Trump’s conviction will help him win the election.... When such incidents pop up, informative journalism would examine what else MAGA forces lie about (e.g., crowd size) and how authoritarians depend on creating a false aura of invincibility. When supposedly normal Republican officials parrot Trump’s obvious falsehoods and baseless accusations, interviewers must come prepared to debunk them. Republicans cannot be allowed to slide past hard questions about their election denial, false data points, baseless attacks on the courts and hypocrisy (the law and order party?). Treating Republicans as innocent bystanders in the democracy train wreck distorts reality. And instead of endless harping on President Biden’s age, some honest comparison between the disjointed, frightful interview responses from Trump and the detailed, policy-laden answers from Biden in Time magazine’s two interviews might illuminate the obvious disparity in acuity....There is simply no comparison between Biden, who talks in detail about policy, and Trump, who cannot get through a Newsmax(!) interview without sounding nuts. Likewise, treating Hunter Biden’s case (having nothing to do with the president) as though it were as significant as Trump’s criminal conviction betrays a lack of perspective and a hunger for clicks. Insisting this poses a problem or embarrassment for Biden amounts to amplifying MAGA spin. Finally, given voters’ misunderstanding of the economy, news outlets should focus on the results of Biden’s policies and the likely effect of his opponent’s shockingly inflationary plan. Focusing on the gap between public opinion and economic reality (to which coverage contributes) unwittingly reveals the media’s own shortcomings in educating voters. [emphasis added]

#journalism #coverage of the 2024 election #trump #gop #this is not a normal election #responsible journalism int he age of trump #jennifer rubin #the washington post #gift link

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scribbleboxfox · 6 days ago

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The Long Road Home has updated!

[LINK TO CHAPTER]

Fic info below the cut.

Chapters: 73/?

Fandom:Red vs. Blue

Rating: Mature

Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death

Relationships: Agent Carolina/Vanessa Kimball, Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons, Franklin Delano Donut/Frank “Doc” DuFresne, Katie Jensen/Charles Palomo, Siris / Megan, Lavernius Tucker/Agent Washington

Characters: Agent Washington (Red vs. Blue), Agent Carolina (Red vs. Blue), Dick Simmons, Sarge (Red vs. Blue), Franklin Delano Donut, Lopez (Red vs. Blue), Dexter Grif, Frank “Doc” DuFresne, Lavernius Tucker, Michael J. Caboose, All the other AI’s, Vanessa Kimball, Epsilon, Donald Doyle, John Elizabeth Andersmith, Katie Jensen, Antoine Bitters, Charles Palomo, Matthews, Emily Grey, Original Characters, Felix | Isaac Gates, Locus | Samuel Ortez, Siris | Mason Wu, Megan Wu, Four Seven Niner, Malcolm Hargove, Kaikaina Grif | Sister

Additional Tags: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Psychological Trauma, Fluff and Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Dissociation, PTSD, Depression, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Panic Attacks, Frisbee Murder (don’t ask), Attempted Murder, Space Battles, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Platonic Slow-Burn, Mental Instability, Flashbacks, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Healthy Coping Mechanisms, Platonic Relationships, Russian Roulette, Creepy-Ass Villains, Canon-Typical Violence, Major Character Injury, Redemption, So Many Space Dads, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Torture, Found Family, i take the canon and i put it in a box, and then i put that box into another box, then i mail it to myself, and when it arrives, i SMASH IT WITH A HAMMER, Canon Divergence, post s13

Summary: With The Staff of Charon a smoking-yet-functional speck on the horizon, and the threat of an active weapons system on one of Chorus’ moons, the fight is far from over. While Locus is no longer a threat, another one of Hargrove’s former lackeys waits for the Reds and Blues as they race to stop the weapons system from coming online. Does she really want to help them? Or is she hiding a more sinister motive? And why is she so interested in Locus?!

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insipid-drivel · 5 months ago

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What's the general range of endurance for a horse doing the job(s) it's good at? Like, how long can a racing breed sprint/gallop before you start risking injury? Can a Clydesdale pull a plow all day, or do you need to get as much done as you can in the morning? Etc.

It really depends on how intense the work is on the horse's body, as well as the size, age, and breed of the horse itself, and the rider's observations on when the horse is visibly showing signs of exhaustion. A lot of these calls are dependent upon the owner of the horse to make, because it is very possible to command a horse to work itself to death without even intending to. (I know, this isn't a very helpful answer, but it's very hard to answer questions like these with exact details since we're talking about animals and not machines)

Race horses are usually lightweight breeds like Thoroughbreds or Arabian Horses, and were never bred for doing Hard Farm Labor like pulling a plow or working like makeshift tractors on a farm, will often run until their hearts give out if their rider lets them or makes them, especially if the horse has been literally pent up with no opportunities to run around for themselves in a while, or is extremely stressed.

Race horses especially can get so enthusiastic about racing that they develop mental health issues if they don't get to run and gallop frequently. Healthy running horses, like messenger horses, could handle keeping an even pace on a well-maintained road for hundreds of miles, so long as the rider gave the horse opportunities to slow down, cool off, rehydrate (hydration is a big factor, because horses sweat the way people do, and can die of heatstroke or heat exhaustion like we can), and get at least a few hours of rest before continuing to travel. If the terrain is rougher than a well-maintained horse path, then a horse could struggle and tire much sooner, and may even need the rider to get off their backs and walk with them until they hit easier terrain to avoid injury/overtiring the animal.

A Clydesdale or Shire Horse, which are in the family known as Draft Horses, are better at very strength-demanding, slow work (think cardio vs. weight training in humans; professional weight lifters have very different physiques, skill sets, and exercise/diet needs compared to a competitive sprinter), like pulling a plow, and it was often left up to the handler of the horse to judge when their horses are starting to get too tired and need a break. Horses pant, sweat, and generally show a lot of the same symptoms humans do when they're overheated and risking heat exhaustion or stress-based exhaustion. Horses that are given more rest-times tend to stay working longer in their lives than horses that are consistently overworked; again, like professional athletes. Professional athletes retire very young because of the intensity of their athletic life aging their bodies prematurely and making them more vulnerable to injury. The same applies to horses.

For pasture that's already been tilled and cleared of obstacles like buried rocks in the past, a working horse could probably do most of the morning/afternoon pulling a plow through "easy" soil and terrain as long as it's not too hot out (heat is a major cause of stress-related death in work horses), receive break-times to drink water and cool down, regular hoof checks (a sharp object penetrating a horse's foot can very easily result in a horse's death, so a major part of horse care is keeping their hooves clean). However, most farms that could afford draft horses instead of oxen would often own multiple to switch out when one or more of their horses got too tired during the day. Oxen were often the bulldozers-of-choice around most farms for such intense work like plowing rough soil (eg soil will a lot of stones in the way or a ton of clay), and generally did the jobs better than horses at a much lower cost per ox. Draft horses were incorporated into a lot of farming during the Victorian Era in particular as a sign of wealth and affluence on a farm, rather than actually employing the best animal for the job they needed to do. Oxen still tend to be better at a lot of farming-related work, but the horse breeding industry very much pushed the ox-training industry nearly to into extinction in the West.

Seeing draft horses doing the work that oxen used to do is more a product of showing off your wealth as a farmer than actually having the ideal animal for the job that needs doing, and so class perception and classism plays a large part in where and when you see horses doing the jobs that heartier animals like oxen are better suited for. Historically, a lot of farmers would sacrifice the utility and durability of oxen for the flashiness of draft horses, just like how today you'll find more specialized farming equipment on wealthier farms vs. cheaper, still-good-at-what-it-does-but-not-having-a-popular-brand-name equipment you'd find on a family farm.

So... realizing this reply is running incredibly long, the answer is: It depends on the setting, situation, the horse(s), and the care and responsibility of the owner/handler in addressing symptoms of exhaustion in the animal(s). On a cool, breezy day, a draft horse could work most of the morning and part of the afternoon, especially if the work they're being asked to do is fairly low-impact for them (again, depending on the job you're asking it to do and whether it's just one animal or multiple, how quickly a horse becomes exhausted is heavily influenced by outside factors), but may overheat and need to stop by mid-morning on a really hot, sunny day. That's the tricky thing about working with animals: They don't come with exact guarantees for how much mileage or power they can put out every day, and are vulnerable to health and environmental factors when it comes to how hard they can work and how long.

#long post #asks #horses

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nonbinarypirat · 3 months ago

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Okay, I’ve been collecting my thoughts on the many-ears demon race and their subservient stance in the Netherworld. And I think this is a perfect time to make a post since chapter 361 just came out and we are getting the main conflict of the arch: conservative older generation vs progressive younger generation. Plus also the fact that the forming country and school still isn’t stable and all that. Spoilers for chapter 361!

So it’s becoming more and more clear that the main conflict will be changing the minds of the older more fearful generation of the many-ears race. Which makes perfect sense, a newer kid comes into this area with ideas of making them equals (something they have never been in their race’s history from what we know) and with the help of one of their own, starts influencing the minds of their children. Obviously the elders would be scared and want to shut this down. It looks like the many-ears can’t remember or see a past or future where they didn’t have this class system in place and the idea of it shifting could very much lead to pain and suffering. It kind of reminds me of the civil rights movement in America, like sure it lead to the many laws that protect marginalized people today, but it came at the cost of many injuries/deaths, fights, and years of activism. The road isn’t an easy one and similarly to the movement, many people didn’t see a point. There’s a few mindsets that you can fall into for this, either you don’t believe change is possible or you do believe it is possible but ultimately would not be worth pursuing because of the consequences. It seems like most fall into the “it’s not possible” with maybe some believing that even if it could change, why change something that has works for generations. The elder in particular seems to believe the second one, that maybe life could be better for them but refuses to change anything on a chance.

It’s understandable why they wouldn’t want change to happen, especially at the expense of their children. But at the same time, younger generations are typically the ones who are less willing to stick to the status quo (queue high school musical) and engage in activism. That’s why student activism is so prevalent, you become aware of new cultures, ideas, and history and are less willing to settle with what’s “worked.” Think about the recent college activism for Palestine or the student walkouts in Florida against the “don’t say gay” bill. A few examples of a much larger trend. However, as you get older you are less willing to see things change, you become compliant and many ways, complicit. Things that seemed like there wasn’t an issue or shouldn’t be an issue are now being questioned and that forces you to question your whole system. And many don’t want to confront that.

In the case for the many-ears, they have survived off of honing their hearing skill to careers that would best benefit from having superb hearing. However, what about many-ears who don’t have incredible hearing like Nova or you simply don’t want the jobs you are trained for like the children in chapter 360. What happens if someone wants to be a florist like the Monmo-chan that doesn’t require good hearing to succeed? If you base your value on your hearing alone, does someone who doesn’t want to base their worth on that lesser in their society? Are they seen as misguided, helpless, or even traitor to your race? It seems chapter 361 confirms that fear. If you don’t have great hearing, you do not have value or worth. And sure, we can argue that he was just saying that to get him to quit teaching the students, but no matter what, his statements were ableist. There’s no other way to slice it. He literally told Nova he has no value in their society because he doesn’t have the many-ears hearing skill. He may be able to hear like most other demons, but in reference to the many-ears, he has a disability that makes him “worthless” in their eyes.

I think another thing I find interesting is that they believe (probably based on a fact(s) of some kind) that they are weak. Weak in body and weak in magic. First, weak in body is something that we can, for the most part, can agree about because of their stature. They are very small compared to most demons and this easily makes them prey to many other demons. But why do they believe that not training your strength and combat isn’t at least worth pursing? Same for magic. Right now we haven’t seen much evidence this is true since we have only seen Nova sucessfully do magic, but let’s say this is true. Does learning some easy or basic spells not seem worth it? On some part the lack physical and magical prowess seems to be innate in the many-ears, but I believe a larger issue is them internalizing this perceived weakness and deciding it’s not worth learning to better themselves. We know that there does exist spells that doesn’t require much magic from Momonoki’s flashback when she was a newbie teacher. Demons come in many shapes and sizes, including magic. This wouldn’t be a new issue that there exists a demon who has small magic reserves (like Kirio for instance). There has to be more spells that exist that you can use if you fall into this category. And just because someone is smaller doesn’t mean that can’t learn how to fight or train athletically. Sure you may not be as strong as other demons, but you can always learn how to use a weapon. At the very least, learning the theory could protect them if nothing else.

At this point, it seems like the many-ears are just shooting themselves in the foot because they’d rather not even try to learn another skill that could benefit them in the future. Sure the jack of all trades may be the master of none, but as the end of the saying goes, it’s still better than the master of one. This really feels like home schooling verses public school debate too. Like sure, the school that the love trio made isn’t perfect by any means, but it provides them with a more well rounded education that doesn’t just focus on the one. The elder talks about how mastering magic isn’t guaranteed, but couldn’t we say the same with their hearing? Just because others have succeeded doesn’t mean the children are bound to accomplish greatness just because of their hearing. You can’t ever know that.

Children are full of potential and as a teacher you are supposed to give them a plethora of chances to do new things and learn new skills. By stifling them, you essentially are saying they don’t have any other potential to grow. And as a future teacher, it really makes me mad to see that their parents don’t also see their children’s potential. Not to mention that even if you are good at something, it doesn’t mean you are destined to be happy. In fact, I think many of the skills we have are better left as hobbies or something you do for fun. Making a career out of every little skill you’ve honed makes it just that, a job. And maybe not a fun one. They are just repeating a cycle that makes everyone miserable but “works” not for their children’s benefit but for their own because well, at least they are “safe.” Idk, I’d rather be happy but that’s just me.

This is also not to say that the many-ears’ issues are all created by them, clearly other demons are also to blame for this problem. A broken system doesn’t just sprout from no where, it is created by years of oppression and oppressive thinking. What demon wouldn’t take advantage of a race that seems powerless without the strength of the powerful? It creates a back and forth systemic issue that works in theory but is broken if you even think about it for two seconds. The many-ears cannot base their entire worth on their hearing, it just causes unaddressed pain and self worth problems. And not to mention, while it may be working out for them now, it isn’t sustainable. What if at some point demons decide they no longer want to rely on the many ears and start training others for the jobs they are known for? What if a disease or virus spreads that attaches their hearing? What if a large majority of them get hurt or injured, damaging their ears? Not to mention, on a small scale everyone can be disabled in their life time. If you become disabled with your hearing, you wouldn’t be able to fall back on anything. Because you based your entire existence on being able to hear well.

Ultimately, I think this is why it needs to be Nova or Nova in the future that needs to rule the many-ears because he’s living proof that your hearing not only doesn’t define you, but also that the system is built off ableist ideals. Nova should be seen as less valuable because he was born without excellent hearing, especially when he clearly loves and cares for his people. Change is built off the backs of not those in power but by those who’s been suppressed, who want to see change for themselves and for others like them. I hope Nova can see his own value even if his people don’t right now

#nova you are beautiful I’m sorry they don’t see it yet #but they will baby boy #you deserve better #mairimashita! iruma kun #welcome to demon school iruma kun #m!ik #mairuma #mairimashita iruma kun spoilers #nova Iruma #iruma suzuki #me overanalyzing characters #character analysis #overcoming societal norms #abliesm

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