#Steady Diet of Nothing

[guerrilla-operator]

Fugazi // Latin Roots

Tracing your father's footsteps In your mother's shoes Going up and over And across all your Latin roots

[napunk-history]

Fugazi

Steady Diet Of Nothing (1991)

[closetofcuriosities]

FUGAZI x MOSQUITOHEAD BOOTLEG TEE

[pisshandkerchief]

I NEED A FEMME SO BAD ‼️‼️‼️‼️ I'M GONNA DIE ‼️‼️‼️‼️

[wildmansters]

Made a meme for every time this 28 year old I know makes dramatic posts about aging.

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Twenty-One

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — Order is everything. Her habits aren’t quirks, they’re survival techniques. And only three people in the world have permission to touch her: Mom, Dad, Fernando.

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, stress + anxiety, strong language, lots of big brother max

Notes — I'm making a moodboard for their apartment as we speak.

Want to be added to the taglist? Let me know! — Peach x

Chapter 21 (Italy—Sochi)

The hotel room was still dark, the light being kept out by the heavy curtains, when he slipped back inside after his morning run with Jon.

She was exactly where he’d left her; curled up on the bed, her knees tucked under her chin, arms wrapped tight around herself. Like she was trying to fold herself down to nothing.

Lando kicked off his shoes without a word. He climbed onto the bed fully dressed, crawling up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his forehead to the curve of her spine. His body was warm, grounding.

“I’m here, baby,” he whispered, voice barely more than a breath. “You’re okay. I’m okay.”

She exhaled, shaky and thin, and Lando tightened his arms around her, one hand splaying wide across her stomach, the other slipping under her hoodie to find the bare skin of her hip. Skin to skin. Just breathing together for a while.

She didn’t say anything. 

Time blurred, slow and syrupy around them. When she finally rolled over to face him, he shifted back just enough to meet her eyes. She pressed her hand to his chest, right over his heart, feeling the steady rhythm of it. Real and alive.

“I hate this part,” she muttered, voice rough from disuse.

Lando smiled. That quiet, steady smile he only ever gave her. "I know, baby,” he said, voice low but sure. “But it matters, yeah? It’s part of you, so we take care of it. No questions."

Her throat went tight, but she nodded anyway.

Then, almost shyly, he shifted, reaching for something under the bed. "I was gonna show you after media day," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, a little sheepish. "But... maybe now’s better."

She blinked, caught off guard, as he pulled his helmet out and held it out to her.

At first glance, it looked the same; the familiar colours, the design she knew better than the back of her own hand. Green and blue, his logo on the side. 

But as she tilted it in her hands, the light caught something new, tucked just beneath the visor line, subtle but unmistakable.

A tiny, hand-drawn ‘Amelia’. Barely visible unless you knew where to look.

Her breath hitched.

“I, uh...” Lando’s voice cracked a little, and he gave a helpless little shrug. “Wanted you with me. Even when I’m out there alone.”

Amelia pressed her lips together, hard. She could already taste the salt of her own tears.

She traced the tiny letter with a fingertip, reverent. “You’re not allowed to crash anymore,” she said thickly, trying for a smile.

He gave a breath of a laugh, forehead dropping to hers. “Deal.”

They lay like that for a long time. He puts the helmet back on the floor. She closes her eyes and lets herself feel it — Safe. Together.

— 

Lando followed a strict diet plan.

That plan did not involve pancakes, especially not the kind drowning in syrup and butter.

Amelia, on the other hand, followed no such diet, and all she wanted was a towering stack of them. Golden, fluffy, dripping with syrup, maybe even a pat of melting butter sliding down the sides.

She sat at the little table in their hotel suite, staring at Lando with a deepening frown, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth.

Was it rude?

Cruel, even?

To crave his favourite breakfast food right in front of him, knowing he couldn’t have any? 

He caught her staring, raised an eyebrow. “What’s up?”

She hesitated, dragging her spoon around the rim of her empty coffee cup. “I really want pancakes,” she mumbled.

A beat. Then Lando laughed, soft and disbelieving, reaching across the table to tug at her sleeve. “Get them then, babe. I don’t mind.”

She shook her head a little too quickly. “No. You can’t have any. Feels mean.”

His smile faltered, confusion creasing his brow. “Amelia, it’s not mean. I swear. I’m fine.”

But she still looked miserable, like she was stuck in a fight with herself she couldn’t win. Her hands twisted in the hem of her hoodie, and her chest rose in a tight, frustrated breath she couldn’t seem to let go.

Lando’s heart ached at the sight of her, working herself up over something as silly as pancakes.

He stood up, coming around the table, crouching down in front of her. His hands found hers, stilling their nervous fidgeting.

“Alright,” he said gently. “No pancakes. Let’s go get smoothies instead before we head to the track. Just me and you.”

She nodded wetly, blinking hard. “Okay.”

“Good girl,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. “Go get dressed. I’ll call the concierge service.”

—

At the track, she was still holding her berry smoothie, tight between both hands, when she wandered into Max’s garage.

Max turned to look at her, a familiar gruffness to his expression, but something softer beneath it. In his hands, he was holding a takeout box.

“Your boyfriend thinks I’m a breakfast service now,” he said, deadpan, lifting the box a little. The scent of pancakes hit her almost immediately. Warm. Sweet. Comforting.

Amelia blinked. “He— what?”

Max huffed a quiet laugh, not sounding mad at all. “Told me you wanted pancakes. Said if he couldn’t get them for you himself, he’d get me to do it.” He shoved the box at her, almost awkwardly. “Here. Before they get cold.”

Amelia blinked down at the box, then back up at Max.

She opened it carefully, the smell of syrup and butter blooming up to meet her. Her throat tightened again, but this time for a completely different reason.

Max caught the wobbly look on her face and groaned. “Don’t cry,” he said, gruffly. “It’s just pancakes, meisje.”

She laughed, watery and embarrassed, and Max rolled his eyes like it was all terribly inconvenient for him, but he nudged a stool toward her with his foot anyway.

“Sit,” he ordered. “Eat.” When she hesitated, he gave her a look. The one he usually reserved for the engineers when they said something particularly stupid over the radio. “I didn’t carry them all the way through the paddock for you to just stare at them.”

She giggled, sliding onto the stool, picking up the fork tucked into the side of the box. She took a bite, chewing obediently under Max’s piercing watch.

Only then did he seem to relax, folding his arms across his chest.

There was a long moment where neither of them said anything. Just the low background noise of the garage coming to life, the clatter of tyre trolleys and the buzz of chatter. Finally, Amelia set the fork down, wiping at her mouth with the back of her hand.

“I’m not just crying over pancakes, you know,” she said quietly, not quite looking at him.

Max tilted his head, like he already knew but wasn’t going to make her say it unless she wanted to.

She sniffed.

“It’s just...” Amelia tugged at the sleeve of her jacket, her voice low and strained. “After Lando’s crash, and yours, and…” She trailed off, pressing her lips together, trying to make the words line up properly in her head before they left her mouth. “I don’t believe in luck.” Her tone was almost reverent in its certainty, like she was reciting a law. “It’s not real. It’s just a human attempt to impose meaning on random variables. A way to feel like we have control when we don’t.” She sucked in a breath, fiddling with the hem of her sleeve again. “But even knowing that... it still feels like we’re running out of it.”

Max was quiet for a beat.

Then he sighed and knocked his elbow gently against her arm. “You’re allowed to be anxious. After everything.”

She gave him a weak smile.

“I feel weak,” she admitted.

“You’re not,” Max said immediately, firm enough that she almost believed it. “You care. That’s not weak.” He shoved his hands into his pockets, glancing around like he didn’t want to make a big deal of it. “We’re all a little fucked up about it, Amelia. You just show it more. That’s not an awful thing.”

She blinked hard, willing herself not to cry again.

“Eat your pancakes,” Max added, gruff again. “Otherwise I’m telling Lando you’re wasting his favourite food, and then he’ll be the one crying.”

Amelia laughed, properly this time, and picked up the fork again.

Max looked pleased with himself in that deeply annoying older brother way.

— 

Amelia sat cross-legged on a bench in the paddock, arms folded as she watched Lando and Daniel make fools of themselves in front of the McLaren social media intern. They were filming some ridiculous challenge; Lando was pretending to dodge invisible obstacles, flailing around in his usual dramatic style while Daniel egged him on.

It didn’t take long before her dad appeared next to her, raising an eyebrow as he looked over at the two drivers. “What are they doing?” He asked. 

Amelia glanced up at him. “Pretending to be professional athletes.”

Zak shook his head with a quiet laugh and leaned back against the bench. His eyes softened as he looked at her. “How’s the move going?”

She shrugged. “Good. Slow. We’ve got the keys, so the place is ours, but back-to-back races make it difficult to find time to actually get there and sort everything out.”

He nodded, listening intently. “You had the decorators in?”

Amelia gave him a quick nod. “Yeah. And the furniture’s all set up. It’s ready to move in, but… I don’t know. I feel like I’m going to want to move some things around, you know? Maybe air it out before we spend the first night there.”

“Hows the rent?” Zak asked, his voice taking on that dad-like curiosity.

Amelia blinked. “Rent?”

Her dad looked at her like she’d lost her mind. “Yeah, honey. I was going to ask if you needed any help—”

She cut him off with a small, exasperated laugh. “No. No rent. Lando bought it.”

Zak froze, blinking at her like he hadn’t quite heard right. “Wait, what?”

Amelia gave him a look, more confused than anything. She was sure she hadn’t mumbled. “I said, Lando bought it.”

“I heard you.” Zak’s voice shifted, a sudden tension in his expression. “Did you… did you split it?”

Amelia let out a short laugh, shaking her head. “As if. I paid for breakfast the other day and he properly went off at me. He hates it when I spend my money. He knows that I have money — Max pays me really well, but it doesn’t seem to matter.” She shrugged. 

Her dad let out a long breath. “Well… I’m happy for you, honey. I’m glad you’ve found a place to call your own, even if you’re gonna be living in a different country.”

She nudged him with her shoulder. “You can visit. And we’ll still be at the same races most of the year anyway.”

Zak glanced back at her, eyes flickering between Lando and her. “I didn’t realise it was this serious between you two,” he said quietly. “I mean, I know Lando has money, but… buying an apartment? That’s...”

Amelia met his eyes with a gentle, knowing smile. “Yeah, it’s serious, Dad. It has been a while now, almost two years.” 

Her dad’s expression softened, though the anxiety in his face lingered. “I just want to make sure you’re both okay. That’s all.”

“We’ll be fine. You don’t need to worry about us. We’ve got this handled.”

“Yeah, well… I’m still your dad.” He pulled her into a side hug, his voice softening. “Just make sure he takes care of you.”

“He does,” she replied simply.

“Good.” He nodded, then winced as his drivers collided in a heap on the ground. “Jesus.”

Amelia made a face. “He’s getting better at the whole ‘responsible adult’ thing. This... this is just a relapse.”

Her dad chuckled. “If you say so. Just—promise me one thing.”

“What?” She blinked at him, curious.

“Don’t elope. You’re both,” he winced. ”Way too young to get married.” 

She paused, the thought of Lando giving her a ring, of wearing a silky white dress, of saying ‘I do,’ and being his in every way, even in the eyes of the law, flashing in her mind. No more waiting for permission to visit him in medical. “Okay. Sure.” She said. 

— 

Max was pacing back and forth in the motorhome, the floor creaking slightly with each heavy step as he muttered to himself. His hands were clenched into fists, and his jaw was tight with frustration. Amelia sat at the small table, quietly watching him. 

She knew him well enough to understand that this was just his way of processing things. He needed to burn through the fury before he could think clearly again.

“—can’t believe him,” Max grumbled, stopping momentarily and running a hand through his hair. “He’s such a hypocrite. Acting like he’s the only one who can race, like he’s the only one who understands the rulebook; as though I haven’t studied it front-to-back every year since I joined this sport.”

Amelia reached for her tablet, pulling up their strategy sheets. 

“Just because he’s been around longer, he thinks he can say whatever he wants and get away with it. Ridiculous,” Max continued, his voice rising a little. He threw his hands in the air, making a frustrated noise. “I’m done letting him get away with it.”

Amelia didn’t look up from her screen, though she was still listening. 

Max continued to rant, his voice growing softer but still tinged with that simmering anger. He was still venting about Lewis and the press conference, repeating things he’d already said. It was the same thing, over and over, but Amelia didn’t let it distract her. She was focused. 

Finally, Max stopped in his tracks and stared at her, eyes narrowed. “You’re not even listening, are you?”

Amelia blinked, surprised by the question, her attention snapping back to him. “Of course I am. You’re still complaining about Lewis, right?”

Max snorted, a sound somewhere between disbelief and amusement. “You’re unbelievable.”

Amelia gave him a half-smile. “You just needed to get it out,” she said, shrugging. “You’ll be fine.”

“You always say that,” Max muttered, his voice softer now, tinged with a quiet frustration. “But it just... gets to me sometimes, you know? He knows exactly how to get under my skin.”

“I know,” Amelia replied, her voice low and steady. “Mind games.”

Max rubbed the back of his neck. “It feels like he’s trying to bait me every time we cross paths. It’s like... I can’t win. He knows how to push all the right buttons.”

Amelia nodded, her eyes flicking back to the tablet as she continued to mentally calculate the tire strategies. “I get it. He’s good at it, and it’s easy to let it get to you.”

Max exhaled through his nose, running his hand through his hair. “It’s just... it makes me so angry.”

She looked up at him then, her gaze steady, almost sympathetic. “I know. But you’re not going to beat him by doing something stupid. You’ll beat him by doing what you do best—racing.”

Max paused, processing her words. For a moment, he seemed to calm down, his anger losing some of its heat as he absorbed her advice. 

He gave a small nod, the fire in his eyes shifting toward something she couldn’t quite place. “Right. Racing.”

Amelia stared at him, trying to work out what that new intensity in his gaze meant. It was different; darker, sharper. More focused.

And it didn’t look friendly.

She frowned, but before she could ask, Max turned his back to her, grabbing a bottle of water and opening it with a sharp twist.

— 

Amelia stood quietly at the edge of the F2 podium celebrations, her eyes focused on Oscar as he soaked in the victory, the Australian flag draped behind him. 

Oscar’s attention flicked over to her, and a small smile passed between them. He waved briefly, and she waved back. 

—

“That’s what happens when you don’t leave the space.”

Amelia’s jaw was clenched so tight it ached as she stared at the broadcast. Her eyes flicked to Jos, who stood behind her, just as pissed.

“Idiot.” One of the mechanics spat from the corner of the garage.

Amelia’s eyes flicked to him. Without hesitation, she snapped, “Hey. Shut up. Lewis turned in on him. What was he supposed to do? You want to talk shit, do it somewhere else.”

The mechanic blinked, caught off guard by the uncharacteristic sharpness of her voice, before he stormed off, muttering under his breath.

She turned back to the screen, chest tight with anger, fists clenched at her sides. 

Jos moved to stand beside her. “He was angry before the race.” 

Amelia shook her head, trying to convince herself. “He wouldn’t have done that on purpose.” But even she could hear the uncertainty in her voice.

Jos tutted in frustration. “I’ll talk to him. You will, too.” He gestured angrily at the replay of the incident. “Preventable. Doesn’t matter what anyone says. Today, he could’ve scored points, but now he won’t even see the flag. Idiot.”

Amelia’s gaze stayed fixed on the screen. Lewis’ car had been pinned under Max’s, and she couldn’t help but feel a brief flicker of concern for him, wondering if he was alright. But that thought quickly shifted as her mind refocused on Max.

She knew he had been aware of the situation; he was a numbers guy, a good strategist. Max would’ve seen Lewis coming out of the pits, on an arguably better strategy and known.

Advantage Hamilton. 

— 

In the end, Amelia celebrated McLaren’s 1-2 finish as if it were her own. Her ear defenders muffled the roar of the crowd, but she could feel the energy pulsing through the air.

During the Australian national anthem, Lando caught her eye and winked. Her smile was so wide it hurt, but she didn’t care.

Max, suitably chastised, stood a few steps behind her like a loyal guard dog, his presence a steady anchor as she cheered and shouted beneath the podium. Daniel, Lando, and Valtteri were drenched in champagne, spraying each other as the crowd erupted in cheers.

Her dad was a few meters ahead, his pride and excitement palpable. He was beaming, radiating pure thrill at this unexpected result.

Amelia turned to Max once the boys disappeared behind the podium. “Take me to him?” she asked, her voice full of quiet excitement.

Max gave her a curt nod, his hand sliding around her waist to pull her close. Without hesitation, he carved a path through the crowd of competing teams and loud tifosi. 

— 

With a week off between Italy and Russia, it was finally time for them to head back to Monaco.

Walking into the apartment felt... off. It was their home, technically, but it was still so unfamiliar. The walls were too quiet, the space too pristine — a show house rather than a home. 

After an hour of restless pacing, Amelia couldn't stand it anymore. She had to make it hers. She started moving things around, adjusting the placement of Lando’s trophy case, taking all her soft furnishings out of the still-packed moving boxes and draping them over the furniture. She fluffed cushions, rearranged the rug, and shifted the vases on the coffee table, making it all feel more... real. More them.

Lando stood by, a soft, patient smile on his face, letting her direct him with quiet instructions as she floated around, making little adjustments. She caught glimpses of him while she worked, seeing how relaxed he looked. He didn’t mind this, didn’t mind how much it mattered to her.

They went to a furniture store next, the kind with well-worn chairs and tables with character. They found a patio set for their balcony, just big enough for the two of them to sit outside in the mornings, watching the world go by. It was perfect. 

Later, they found the bakery, a tiny place just a five-minute walk from their building. The smell of their fresh pastries wafted all the way to their balcony. They served panini at lunch.

Amelia made sure to carve out a walking route that she felt safe doing alone in the mornings when Lando couldn’t be with her. It was a small thing, but it mattered. The little streets, the way the sun reflected off the harbour, the quiet hum of the morning.

Late in the afternoon, Charles FaceTimed Lando, laughing loudly because he could see them from his window. They looked up just in time to see him hanging halfway out of it, waving enthusiastically. He wa grinning from ear to ear.

"Oi, what are you doing, spying on us?" Lando called up, his voice teasing. Charles only waved harder, an exaggerated motion.

“He looks ridiculous,” Amelia said. She still waved back. 

“We are truly neighbours!” Charles celebrated.

Later, they drove across town to Max’s place for dinner. The familiar, comfortable rhythm of the evening soothed Amelia, who sank into the couch, letting Max’s cats climb all over her. She pet them absently, laughing as they curled up, purring loudly. She showered them with kisses, not caring how ridiculous she looked.

Lando watched from the other side of the room, his arms crossed, his expression a mix of mock annoyance and genuine jealousy. He pointed to one of the cats sprawled across her lap, then to himself. "Seriously?" He said. 

Max didn’t miss a beat. "Pathetic," he judged. 

— 

Sochi was… painful.

Lando had been on top form all weekend. He was leading the race with a perfect drive, fluid, controlled, his tire management a thing of beauty. This wasn’t just a win in the making. It was his win. Every corner, every straight, he owned it. 

Then rain appeared on the radar, and Amelia’s heart clenched. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the pit tracker, every second ticking by as she silently pleaded with the McLaren crew to bring Lando in. If they called him in before the others, he’d have a huge advantage. He’d be the only one with proper grip on the track, a chance to pull away while the rest struggled. It was a strategy that could’ve sealed the win.

But they didn’t.

Lando stayed out. He held his lead. And then the rain came down harder.

She watched, helpless, as he aquaplaned two laps from the end of the race. Her stomach dropped. Every muscle in her body tensed, as if trying to reach out and stop the inevitable. The track seemed to swallow him whole as he slid, losing traction, losing everything. First place to seventh in the blink of an eye.

She closed her eyes, the sting of frustration searing through her. She wanted to scream, to tear something apart, anything to dissipate the ache gnawing at her chest.

And then Lewis crossed the line in first place. His 100th victory.

The statistic felt empty to Amelia. It didn’t matter. Not when it came at the cost of Lando’s maiden victory. 

— 

Lando was pacing, hands running through his hair with barely concealed frustration. His words were a jumble of self-recriminations, and Amelia could barely keep up with them.

“I should’ve found a dry spot. I should’ve seen it, felt it. I was right there, so close. God, I—” He stopped mid-sentence, shaking his head, his breath coming in short bursts as if the weight of the race, the rain, and his mistake were all too much.

Amelia was sitting on the couch, watching him with a mixture of patience and concern. “Lando,” she started, her voice sharp enough to cut through the tension. He didn’t stop pacing, but he did glance over at her. “It was the perfect drive. Perfect tire management. You led for most of the race. It wasn’t you who messed this up.”

He scoffed, throwing his hands up in frustration. “It was me. I had it in the bag, and then— that stupid fucking corner—”

“Stop saying that,” Amelia interrupted, standing up now. “We’ve been through this. You made the call with what you had in the moment. There’s nothing more you could’ve done.”

He shot her a look, and there was a bitter bite to his words. “I don’t need a pep talk, Amelia. I need to figure out what I did wrong.”

She took a deep breath, trying to keep her own frustration in check. “I’m not giving you a pep talk.”

He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. At this point, all I care about is winning. I need it, Amelia. Daniel got it in Monza, why—” He choked on the words, frustration so thick he couldn’t even talk through it. 

Amelia crossed the room, standing in front of him. “It wasn’t your fault.”

For a moment, his anger flared, his eyes flashing with it, his body tense. “It should’ve been my time. It’s always so damn close, and I can’t—”

She cut him off again, her voice much quieter now, almost a whisper. “You don’t need to do this. You were that close. And you will be again. But right now, I need you to stop beating yourself up. It's not going to help you, and it doesn’t change anything.”

He stared at her, chest rising and falling with each breath, his anger slowly dimming. And then he sighed, the weight of his frustration deflating like a balloon. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, voice softening. “I know you’re right. I just… I wanted it so badly, baby.”

Amelia stepped closer, touching his arm gently. “I know. And I’m sorry too,” she said, looking up at him with a hint of vulnerability in her eyes. “That you lost it.”

He nodded, swallowing the lump in his throat. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.” He pulled her into a quick, tight hug, pressing his face against her hair for a moment. “I’ll get it next time. I swear.”

She kissed his neck. “I know.” 

NEXT CHAPTER

[hannibals-favourite-meal]

.⋆｡What I Cannot Give You｡⋆.

Steve Rogers x plus size reader

After sleeping with your boyfriend for the second time, you find out that he’s never cum with you- but his ex says that he always did with her

Warnings: smut, angst, insecurities, feelings of inadequacy, misunderstanding, inability to finish (on Steve’s end), ooc!Sharon, mentions of diets, comfort

WC: 2.3k

Minors DNI

Library- @hannibals-favourite-meal-library

“Alright, what’s going on?” Numbly, you looked up from your cold cup of tea to meet the piercing green eyes of your best friend. Natasha was almost glaring at you as she stood with her hands on her slim hips, quite obviously having been watching you for some time.

You swallowed thickly. “Nothing, nothing’s wrong.” Her scowl deepened.

“That’s not what I asked now was it?” Your stomach flipped and you squeezed the teacup even tighter. “But now that you’ve said that, what’s wrong? And don’t you dare lie to me, I’ll know.” 

You should’ve known that Nat would spot your unease from a mile away, you should’ve just stayed in your room. But the need for food and a distraction from your thoughts had been too great of a temptation. Your vision blurred with tears as you pitifully shook your head. 

Suddenly, all the exasperation was gone from her expression and she was kneeling before you, one hand on your knee, the other on the arm of the couch. “Hey, hey don’t cry.” You whimpered loudly, now unable to stop the onslaught of emotions.

“It- it’s fine. Everything’s fine.” With a free hand, you furiously wiped away the fat tears that were now rolling down your full cheeks. Natasha sighed heavily and pulled the cup from you, placing it on the coffee table behind her.

“Was it that commercial about the cat and the raccoon again?” She teased though her tone still held some strain of wariness. 

“No.” You groaned tearfully, making Nat smile warmly at you.

“Then it can’t be so bad can it?” Moving gracefully, she plopped down on the couch cushion next to you, taking your shaking hands into her steady ones. “Did something happen with Steve?” The watery look you gave her in return was all the answer she needed.

“Stevie!” You cried, your head tossed back in pleasure. It was overwhelming, overpowering, it was everything. The man above you groaned as you tightened around him once more, practically strangling his cock with the force of your orgasm.

Your nails scraped down his muscular back, leaving behind bright red lines that would disappear before dawn even broke the horizon. “Feels so good!” Your sobs echoed through the room along with the wet slapping of skin as his hips met yours.

Blonde hair brushed against your nose as Steve buried his face into your neck, lathering your burning skin with even hotter kisses. “That’s it doll, one more time for me please.” And as the fat head of his cock hit that spongy bundle of nerves inside you, you obliged him. Though less powerful than your previous three, your soft body still tensed with ecstasy and your mind went hazy.

“Good girl, my good girl.” Steve muttered softly, laying one last gentle peck to your shoulder before he pulled himself away from you. “Did you have a good time?”

You rolled your eyes with a smile. “I can’t feel anything below my hips, does that answer your question?” He chuckled and kissed the tip of your nose.

“Alright, no need to be smart about it.” As gently as he could manage, Steve sat back on his haunches and slowly pulled out of you. You whined at the sudden emptiness of your cunt and the soreness that came along from having his massively thick length inside of you.

But there was no other sensation after that, no telltale feeling of cum inside of you or drying on your thick thighs. Furrowing your eyebrows, you looked at your boyfriend. “Did you finish?” The question came out more shaky than you intended but Steve seemingly didn’t notice.

“No but you did and that’s all that matters.” He dismissed as he stood up from the mattress. You sat up on your elbows, not done with the conversation just yet.

“That’s the second time it’s happened and we’ve only had sex twice.” You pointed out but Steve just sighed.

“It’s fine, it happens sometimes. I’m just happy that you felt good. That’s more than enough for me. Now stay there so I can clean you up.” And as he walked to the attached bathroom, your heart sank and a pit began to grow in your stomach.

“Stevie.” You started but quickly stopped as his blue eyes bore into you. Rage oozed from them like lava, stunning you into silence.

“That’s enough. I told you it’s fine, I won’t be having this conversation again.” With tensed shoulders and clenched fists, he left the room leaving you lost and feeling far more empty than ever before.

“Okay so he didn’t finish but you did. I see no problem with that, it would be the opposite for most guys.” Nat shrugged, a lean arm around your shoulders as she continued to comfort you despite her apparently dismissal of the whole thing.

You huffed, now more frustrated than distraught. “That’s not the point.” You tried to yank away but she held strong, easily pinning you back down onto the couch.

“Then what is?” She implored.

“That I’m not enough for him!” You cried. “That I’m not pretty enough or good enough in bed to even get him to cum! There has to be something wrong with me and he’ll figure that out soon enough and leave me.” Fear and sadness filled your heart as you spilled out your deepest fears to your best friend who was now stunned unto silence.

“He’ll find someone better, just like everyone else did.” You bit down on your lip as more tears rose to the surface. 

“Pcholka-“ She started but was quickly interrupted by another person strutting into the communal living area.

Sharon Carter, the very personification of everything that you wished you could be, was smirking devilishly as she strolled past you and Natasha, apparently heading for the kitchen. You held your breath as she gracefully walked by, her high heels (which weren’t needed for her job) clacked against the expensive flooring. 

“Don’t mind me ladies, just getting myself a protein shake. This new diet is a killer I tell ya but it’s so worth it.” Her smirk made you shrink into yourself but Natasha’s firm grip kept you from escaping. 

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room as Sharon flitted about the kitchen. Until she finally began her walk back out. You breathed a sigh of relief as she passed by the couch once more but right as she reached the door frame, she turned back and made eye-contact with you.

“Oh Steve always finished with me.” Your eyes went wide with shock. Sure there had been rumours that your boyfriend and the CIA agent had been involved but nothing more ever came out of it so you always just dismissed it as office gossip, until now. “Every. Time.” She said, rubbing even more salt in your already wounded ego.

“No one fucking asked you Sharon. In fact, why are you even here, weren’t you reassigned because of your fuckup in Bosnia?” Natasha snarled, her eyes narrowing on the other agent. She twisted her body around, giving you the opportunity to rip from her grasp and make a run for it.

Nat called out your name but all you could focus on was the way that Sharon smirked at you, her bright eyes alight with an evil plan and you wouldn’t be sticking around to watch it play out, not when you knew that she would be successful.

——————

Being the completely understanding and perfect boyfriend he was, Steve could be easily avoided with a simple text that you weren’t feeling well and needed some alone time. He would always ask if you needed anything and you could tell that he was curious as to why you weren’t letting him come take care of you but he respected you too much to pry any deeper.

Natasha hadn’t been so easy to avoid but your stubbornness won out over hers so she had left you alone, just like you wanted. It was easier being alone with your thoughts than having her try to convince you that what you were feeling was stupid and a total misunderstanding.

Groaning, you threw your phone across the bed. The screen was still bright with the Cosmopolitan article about ’10 Tips and Tricks to Make Him Go Crazy For You’, all of which seemed very expensive in the case of toys and lingerie or positions that you were not nearly flexible enough to pull off.

Maybe it was hopeless, you already knew that you weren’t good enough for him so what did it matter if you couldn’t get him off. You were barely even together in the first place, it wasn’t as if you were already in love with him and breaking up would devastate you.

You rolled over onto your side and curled into the pillow that miraculously still smelt like him, squeezing it tightly to your chest. This feeling was familiar, the drop of your stomach, the stutter of your heart like you were at the precipice of a cliff and unable to stop moving forward. 

And all you could think about was the disgust and the anger in Steve’s eyes that night. It was like in that moment he also figured out how one-sided the relationship was and he hated you for it.

“Doll, I know you’re in there.” Your body snapped up, your muscles pulled taut with anxiety. “You don’t have to open the door, I just want to know if you’re ok. Nat said you were having a tough time.” 

“I’m fine Steve, just having a moment.” You tried to dismiss but the dry crack of your voice had him opening your door and slipping inside. 

In the dim light of your bedroom, Steve’s figure was imposing, his sheer size creating a void in the space. Your heartbeat pounded loudly in your ears as he gently shut the door behind him. “You only ever call me Steve when something’s wrong.” His steps were featherlight as he cautiously crept closer.

“Steve-“ 

“See, there it is again. I’m your Stevie not Steve.” He whined playfully, making a ghost of a smile dance across your lips. The mattress dipped under the weight of one of his hands as he planted it by your wide hips, giving you enough space to be respectful but close enough that you could feel the heat of his skin through your pyjamas.

He leaned closer as if going in for a kiss but you stopped him with a hand to his strong chest. He paused for barely a second before he pulled your hand away and brought it up to his lips. “Do you want to talk about it?”

Your eyes dropped to your lap, you could guess what was coming next. ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ or ‘I just think we’re better off as friends’. But instead of the breakup you thought was going to happen, Steve hooked a finger under your chin and guided your gaze back to him.

“Is this about the other night? I told you that you didn’t have to worry about that.” He tutted as his thumb gently caressed your jaw. You hesitated nuzzling into his touch, still too hurt to want that comfort.

“But why would you even be with me if I can’t make you feel good?” As soon as the words slipped from your mouth, you regretted them. Steve’s expression turned stormy and suddenly, his grip became tighter until your jaw ached from the force of it.

You could see the way the vein in his neck twitched as an angry flush crawled up his cheeks. You knew he wanted to yell, to lash out at you but he quickly swallowed down his anger, taking a deep breath before he spoke again.

“You do make me feel good. You make me feel amazing, both in and out of the bedroom. You’re gorgeous doll, and smart and funny and caring. I’m with you because of that, not because I want to just get off. I get pleasure from your pleasure.” He cooed, leaning forward to rest his forehead against your own.

His breath fanned across your lips as his other hand finally cupped your hip beneath your oversized shirt. “Sharon told me that you always finished with her.” You whispered, your fingers curling into the compression shirt he wore.

His pecs rippled with your touch, his heartbeat strong beneath your palms. “I can’t cum, doll. Or at least I can’t anymore.” Taking a shaky breath, he continued.

“I don’t think I’ve cum since before the serum.” His voice was soft, ashamed. His broad shoulders dropped as he finally admitted the truth. “It did something to me that no one has been able to figure out yet but we’re getting closer.”

“But Sharon-“

“I faked it with her. Every time.” At your puzzled expression, Steve smiled softly. “I always wore condoms so she couldn’t tell and besides, it was only a couple times before you were even around. I haven’t thought about her since the moment you walked into the tower on your first day.”

Only now did you melt into his hold, letting him pull you closer as he endeavoured to comfort you. “You’re all I want, all I need. I promise.” 

“Really?” You whispered, your lips drawing closer to his. The corners of his eyes scrunched as he smiled back at you.

“Really. As long as you don’t mind that I can’t fill you up with my cum, mark you from the inside out.” He growled playfully. Heat rushed to your cheeks at the dirty talk, your mind now filled with images of just that.

“Stevie!” You yelped but was cut off by his lips pressing against yours. Your heart skipped a beat as he held you tighter, the kiss quickly becoming far more passionate.

“That’s my good girl.” 

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[sheepispink]

by popular demand.... another angst no comfort fic. enjoy <3

SUPER SOLDIER!reader x lt ghost

you're just a freak of nature, an inhumane person with no morals and the higherups love to sing praises of your work. he hates it, and so he breaks you, albeit not quite in the way he thought it would happen

PART TWO Series Masterlist

AO3 VER

--------------

A born and bred weapon, that’s how they described you, the perfect asset crafted only for war. It was all you knew, your entire purpose and your only being. Not many know how you came to be, nor do they care much, just aware that no matter how hard they try, you will always be better than them. Your sight is honed to catch the twitch of a lip, ears listening for the wind passing the wrong way and your hands? They’re primed for the perfect kill, fast reflexes that could catch the smallest fly between your fingertips– a tested and proven fact. You were everything the military dreamed of, the perfect person, tested to beat every flaw on the battlefield. Paraded around to the superiors, praised for your skills by every colonel as they scrutinised you down to the way you fix your helmet.

And what better of a person to test you with than Ghost, the ever elusive and stoic wall, known to be feared on the battlefield just for his mask? 

When you were assigned to him three months ago, he had a vague idea of what to expect, assuming you to be like any other rookie he’s dealt with during his time as a lieutenant. Only likely stronger and probably cockier. So he stepped towards the car, eyes narrowing as he saw you being escorted in.. handcuffs. “What’s all of that for?” He raises a brow, and you only look between him and the man escorting you, oddly expressive with your wide eyes and bright face. Nothing like what the super soldier program described. “Just precautions, sir.” The soldier replies, passing Ghost the keys before climbing back into the truck once more. 

“You’re Lieutenant Ghost? You sure do fit the description..”

 He certainly did not expect your lips to quirk upwards like that, something akin to amusement on your face as you run your eyes up and down his form. For someone trained for war, you sure aren’t trained in respect.  He tugs on your handcuffs, forcing you to stumble into a walk beside him as he turns toward base, not bothering to entertain your clear attitude any longer. “That’s Lieutenant to you, and it’d do you good to think before you speak.” Surprisingly, you only laugh that off, and he hates it, used to rookies bending under his whim, especially stuck-up ones like you.

 Mornings start early, the second he wakes, so do you, although you head to the gym first whilst he goes to breakfast— you’re too proud to show your face, he thinks, and they probably have you on some special diet. When he finally joins you in the gym, it’s an hour later, and you still haven’t broken your morning run, keeping a steady pace. He doesn't bother speaking, and you don't wait for him to ask, walking over for your usual spar. It’s the usual every day, the way he doesn't let you get a single move in, constantly blocking off any move from you. He says it’s just for training, scoffs when you can’t push yourself back up even if you've told him that you’ve been designed for speed more than strength. You don’t complain; in some weird robotic way, you always pick yourself back up and carry on going.

This continues for the next few months; every mission he only feels his gut twist and turn as you kill without a second thought, his training only making you a better soldier and not a struggling mess like anyone else would be. It’s worse when you walk up to him, head tilted in expectancy. Your face is  young, unlike your eyes, but you have a body too young to contain a killer. Every time he looks at you, he sees a rookie soldier, because that’s what your age usually is–it’s what you should’ve been. All he can really feel is disgust though, especially the inhumane way you smile after a job well done. How can you find joy in the copper smell that remains after you exit a room? How can you stand there and take any order dealt? It’s unnatural, and it makes him sick to think about.

“That’s enough.” He says firmly, heavy boots entering the room you had just cleared by yourself. He initially wasn’t sure on letting you do it on your own, but the scene of the bodies piled by your feet is proof enough of your capability. “So? Did I do well?” It sickens him how your lips begin to curve upwards, waiting for some sort of praise, some affirmation that he promised himself he’d never give, especially to you. “This was unnecessary.” He scoffs, pulling a knife out of a dead man’s throat and tossing it back to you, eyes raking over your bloodied form— never your own crimson. “You’re a mess.” He takes his radio, clicking the button as he gives the all clear and the rescued hostages start filing through, escorted by British soldiers. They all stare, right at you, their eyes piercing into your skin.

“It’s cold..” You murmur as you’re pushed outside, the cold air tingling your skin as he scoffs, crossing his arms firmly over his chest. He doesn't look too entertained, at least he looks grumpier than usual but at least he’s quieter than the usual times he’s angry with you. “Well, maybe if you could control yourself the hostages wouldn't crap themselves when they saw you.” He can't believe how you can just give him that oblivious look— he knows you’re not stupid, so why do you even try to act that way? 

“Ghost?” He forces down the urge to roll his eyes up at you, half expecting you to ask for a damn heater at this point because of the torturous weather. He bets the higher ups would get mad at him if he ever tried duct taping your mouth, but the thought is tempting nonetheless. “What?”

“It’s my birthday this Saturday.” You begin, still staring at him from your position against the opposite wall. A helicopter whirrs nearby, slowly approaching for exfil. “Captain said I could have some time to celebrate.” 

“So?” He nearly scoffs right then and there, looking at you with a raised brow. What? Are you trying to show off all your perks of being the best there is? He wouldn't be surprised if you had a mountain of gifts, or even given a medal for something. He doesn't know why you bother hiding it, he sees your shiny uniform every mission; he doesn't need a reminder of the favour you hold. Knowing you, they’d give you the whole weekend off while he still had paperwork to fill in.

“I was wondering if you’d come. The Captain said you’d be free.” He rolls his eyes, and lets out a long sigh, of course Price left him to babysit this devil on his off hours. He wouldn't be half surprised if he walked into your ‘party’ to see you receive some freakish torture device— it seemed like a gift you’d want. Likewise, he doubts it’s his scene anyway, with a bunch of soldiers likely hanging around wherever you plan to hold it.

“Sure, whatever kid, I’ll come.”

He reaches for a radio as the announcement of exfil echoes through, and you follow behind him as he leads you out of the building, only stopping when you step towards the helicopter. “You don't come in the helicopter, kid. Got a whole truck there for you.” Another soldier comes, leaving Ghost to walk away from you whilst you’re roughly pulled back, pushed into the back of a truck where you’re handcuffed in, left to the darkness to ride the journey alone. 

He lets out a long sigh as he sits down finally, tired out of his mind, and now he has to deal with you even longer than he should.

————-

Saturday. You wake up early, five am. The gym is the first stop; you’re not allowed to eat until you earn the right. There’s no sparring on weekends, so you do a couple of exercises to make up for it, even if you’re not feeling as good as usual. It never matters.

Mess hall. The same table, the same breakfast— like clockwork you sit down at exactly seven am, the tray scraping against something. It’s a piece of paper, as always. You’ve stopped paying mind to it anymore, deciding it’s not best to waste any moment of your short-lived time on the insults scribbled across it. The porridge is cold, the chef behind the counter had swatted your scratched hands away before serving it for you, leaving a large gap at the top of the bowl. Fruit; it doesn't taste as good when you get the last apple, but it provides good nutrients for you and some sugars. Water; you’re not allowed coffee often because too much could damage you. That's what the scientists always instructed you anyway.

Whispers echo around the hall as you sit on your own, menial conversations occurring on the table behind you, others laughing near the door. There’s never another chair on this table, especially when you’re sitting here already. A few lower rank soldiers ogle you from a nearby table, probably the same age as you if not older. Their eyes consume with jealousy and, as you step up to place the tray away, you don't miss the hard bread thrown at your back. The paper falls into the bin too, along with the apple seeds.

It’s still not time yet, only fifteen minutes past nine, so you head down to the track to work on improving your time, just like you do every day. Two hours are spent before it’s almost lunchtime and only now do you decide to shower, slipping into the communal area. You place your things into the locker, a few soldiers giving you sharp stares because of the marks across your back, the pin pricks and slices through the flesh. When you return from your shower, you find your clothes have been tossed across the floor, your shoes shoved into one of the toilets. Never a trace of the culprit though, and never caught in your sight.

Before you go to lunch, you sit outside and scrub your shoes down, using an old rag to clean off the muck that was purposefully placed on it, not that it’s particularly much cleaner afterwards. You arrive to lunch late, or well later than the expected time, but it’s always the usual for you. There aren't many options left, and the chef glares at you saying the soldiers over there already grabbed your share for you—why are you being greedy? Don't you get enough? The first time you walked over to the soldiers and asked for your share, but this time you decided not to, wanting to keep your clothes clean today. So you take a bottle of water and some fruit, walking back outside again.

It’s quiet out here, a nice respite from the many soldiers that bustle around the corridors, and you bite into your fruit quietly. It’s still cold, albeit a lot warmer than the other day— British weather had a tendency to never be quite predictable. A fox creeps out the bushes, one eye shut, and it’s limp evident as it sniffs around for anything of use. You had heard it's cries in the early hours of the morning, though you have no idea what may have attacked it. You lay your palm out, the banana peeled, and it steps forward, hesitant before taking half with a snap of its jaw. Laying down the rest, it starts to eat more, and you smile at the sight.

Unfortunately it’s immediately startled by a booming voice, one that you recognise as part of the taskforce— Sergeant Soap Mactavish You’ve never met him before, but you know who he is, just like the rest of the taskforce. They always pass by the corner of your eye, never meeting you head on. It’s almost like some sort of curse is placed upon you. You watch from your spot behind the tree, eyes peeking past as the four of them walk out of base and towards a car, your lieutenant, and the captain included. Maybe they were going out to lunch or something. Glancing down at your watch, the time is twelve fifty, and you silently come to the conclusion that they’ll only be out for a bit, hopefully coming back soon.

It’s two o clock, and you’re sitting in your room. The captain told you on Tuesday that you could have only two hours off for your birthday plans, which roughly gave you enough time to probably watch a movie with Ghost. He did say he’d try to make it as well, but he was a busy man so you had reassured him that it was quite alright since you’d have the lieutenant anyway. Since yesterday, you hadn’t thought much about what you could watch with the Lieutenant, but you’d eventually decided to watch whatever he liked, seeing as you could count on one hand all the movies you’ve seen. Thankfully, the captain told you last Sunday he'd organise some snacks for you, and maybe even a cake if you were good for the rest of the week, so right now was a waiting game.

A long one.

You reassured yourself at two thirty that they were likely just running late, even peeking out into the hallway a few times in case they couldn't find your room for whatever reason. By two fifty you were confused, and it was safe to say by three twenty you were feeling hopeless. But still, you knew they likely had a reason, they must. So you walk down the corridor, your feet unsteady for once, and head back into the main building, looking around rather frantically compared to your usual stature. 

What you didn't expect was to hear laughter dance down the corridor, instantly making you peek around the wall. It’s Soap and Gaz, holding a bunch of drinks in their hands, and they walk, chuckling to themselves. You could ask them, but something stops you, a weird feeling that stabs at your gut, and instead you hide behind the pillar, listening. 

“Today’s gonna be good– I mean drinks, nachos, and pizza? I’m gonna be stuffed.” Gaz laughs, the bottles in his hands clinking against each other as he adjusts them.

“Get ye own nachos, they’re mine.” Soap returns, elbowing the other lightly, and they both snicker, knowing Soap’s appetite. “Hey, didn’t Price say he had to organise something for that kid? Y'know, the super soldier Ghost works with.”

“He probably handled it already, otherwise he wouldn’t have stayed to grab the food with Ghost. But shouldn’t Ghost be going?”

Before he can respond, Ghost’s gruff voice rips out into the corridor, pizza boxes stacked high in his hands. “Hurry up, the games are gonna bloody start. They’ll survive with someone else.”

Who? There’s no ‘someone else’, there never has been, he knows that— you think he knows that. You thought he knew you; you thought you were doing good. Your feet stumble as you turn around and head down the opposing corridor, not sure when you placed your hands over your ears to protect them from anything more. It’s the first time in years you’ve felt your eyes water, something inside you snapping in a way that shouldn't, that can't, and you’re terrified by this revelation. You’re no longer a super soldier, no longer the best around, no longer the one they parade around— you’re another failed experiment.

—————

PART TWO Series Masterlist

buy me a kofi :)

[toyourheartandback]

TORNADO WARNINGS

luke castellan x reader

you have to prove you are not on luke’s side

word count: 634

warnings: swear words, mention of sex, implied manipulation and some slightly toxic luke

a/n: in honor of me singing this song live just some weeks ago in milan! skinny dipping part two is on its way, i swear on my mama

every tuesday, after hours spent toiling in the strawberry fields, you found yourself in the same room of the big house. the air was always thick with the scent of old books and wood polish and the maroon armchair you sat in was stiff, lumpy, and far too familiar. across from you, mr. d lounged with his usual disinterest, but his eyes watched you too carefully to be fooling anyone. beside him, chiron sat with a deepening frown, the lines on his face etched with something between concern and suspicion. they always asked you the same questions.

“did you ever see him again?” the wine god drawled, tapping his fingers idly against his diet coke can. his tone was casual, but you knew they didn’t trust you. if they did, you wouldn’t be here week after week. you met his gaze, steadying your breath. “i never saw him,” you said. “and we never kissed.”

of course, you were never on the seesaw at the park just outside thalia’s tree with luke castellan that one night, talking about your feelings like the world hadn’t just fallen apart because of him. he never held you in his arms when you were cold, whispering sweet nothings while ignoring the chaos his betrayal had unleashed. you never laughed with him, remembering how the stoll brothers once covered the hermes’ cabin in toilet paper and glitter, leaving a mess that took days for you to clean. and you definitely didn’t cry together when you realized nothing will ever be the same again.

because none of that happened. at least, somewhere in your mind, you think that if you can convince them enough, maybe even convince yourself, than maybe he never existed. and maybe it would hurt just a little less.

it was so easy to quickly get back on your rhythm when you were with luke. you always ended up stumbling into each other without missing a step, like you weren’t supposed to be on opposite sides. logically sleeping with your enemy during wartime should be the last thing on your mind, but you wanted him there. it was the only way you could still have him.

you wanted to forget about the boy who was trying to destroy the only home you ever had. but instead, you obsessed over him and his sharp words every hour of the week. sometimes you wish you kept some of your feelings in the basement, buried in the back of your heart, because then maybe it would’ve been easier to say no to him. if you loved him less, you would never have become his little pawn, spying on camp half-blood.

you stopped calling him out about his nonsense plan everytime he got too close to camp, probably starting to feel guilty about it. “baby,” luke would murmur, brushing his thumb over you cheek. “we’re doing this for us” then he would kiss you, rough and possessive, until your head spun and your mind went blessedly blank for a few seconds, before crashing back into the tornado it always was.

luke castellan was driving you crazy. maybe that’s why they held you there every week with the god of madness himself. desperately lying and carefully tricking dionysus, just as you’d been taught by the prodigal son of hermes himself. “i’m over that son of a bitch” you said this time, your voice flat and detached. and while chiron was scolding you about the language, mr. d didn’t move or blink. his purple eyes stayed locked on you, burning into your skin like they could peel back every layer and dig into the truth. he was definitely onto you.

[voidsuites]

i want your time (don’t ask me questions)

“SORRY… just give me a sec,” the blond man above you huffs, muscular arms on both sides of your head as he keeps himself propped above you. he adjusts on his elbows with a small grunt, eyes narrowed in enough frustration to create that familiar little crease between his brows. “one second, i promise.”

he’s making you— your body, really— wait. not intentionally, of course, but it’s happening regardless. there’s been a handful of moments in art’s life where his body’s put him in this kind of position; freezing under pressure when he needs it to perform.

it’d happened the night he’d asked tashi to be his coach— she’d said yes, they’d gone back to her hotel room, things had gotten heavy— but of course he’d got caught up in his head and things hadn’t… risen to the occasion. they’d gotten there eventually with tashi’s encouragement, but it’s just humiliating that it’d happened then— and now it’s happening again.

tashi had always been able to coax it out of art with her no-nonsense outlook, and before her it’d been patrick and his devil-may-care attitude. they both knew how to read him in their own unique ways, whatever needed to get done to get art where he needed to be and to get things over the finish line.

so maybe he’s still figuring things out— figuring you out. where you fit in into all of this… whatever role you’re meant to play in the twisted process of getting art out of his own head. are you going to coach him up or goad him into oblivion?

“i’m sorry,” he hisses again, and with another grunt he drops to the mattress beside you and lays flat on his back. it takes all of the strength within him not to just fist his fingers into his hair and pull it out in clumps. “fuck.”

he can’t bear to look at you; you’re probably looking at him like he’s some broken thing that you hadn’t signed up for when you agreed to go steady. you’re younger— younger than he’d normally go for considering he’s got lily and the tabloids are always looking for a reason to follow him around— but you’re an angel and he’s been awful with saying no to the things he can’t have now that he’s retired and single.

long gone are the days of “earning” breaks from trainings and longing looks at the things not on his diet plan (no more need to sneak fries from lily’s happy meals) but what good is having the freedom to do and have what he wants when he can’t even get it up?

you’d signed up for art donaldson, not some middle-aged guy who can’t get it together and make his partner feel just as good as they do with him. what good was his body if it couldn’t perform? he couldn’t be there for patrick, couldn’t continue playing for tashi—

art stands in a huff and pulls the waistband of his briefs up over his hips before his hands rest on his hips. he starts pacing the length of the bed, but not without looking your way guiltily while you pull the bedsheets up over yourself and make his stomach plunge. damnit, donaldson.

“i-it’s not you,” he reasons, because it’s the truth, “it’s me. i can’t get out of my damn head—”

“art,” you try and cut in, but he’s not having it. not when he’s like this. “art, babe, what’s wrong—”

oh, god… here we go again. stop asking questions. “nothing, just give me a second—”

“— art, hold on—” stop prying, stop trying to find a way in—

“— this happens sometimes. i promise it’s not you—”

“art.” he barely has time to protest again when your hand clamps around his wrist, nor does he try to. your eyes have gone wide as they plead for him to make sense; to put words to thoughts and actions to those words. “… baby. talk to me.”

and he melts, broad shoulders sagging before he drops back to the mattress. it should be worrisome to see a man like him practically cave in on himself when he lays back on the mattress, but it’s the rare side of art donaldson that the media doesn’t get a glimpse of. here in this moment, he’s less of the unshakable tennis mogul the public knows him for and more of the mortal man desperate for comfort that lies beneath.

“will you… will you hold me?” art asks eventually, swallowing tightly when he looks over in your direction again. you’d think he’d asked for the impossible with the way he holds himself; hunched shoulders, downcast eyes, and blunt nails digging into the heels of his palms. “please?”

he doesn’t know how you’ll react— if you’ll laugh at such a request, scoff and look at him with disdain— but none of that comes. instead, you scoot his way and let your arms wind around him and your chin settle into the crook of his shoulder.

“i can do that,” you whisper. gentle fingers trace the skin of his side, over the dips and grooves of his ribs. “whatever you need— whatever you want.”

he swallows again, ignoring the guilt in his chest as he nods. “okay.” he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t waiting for the “but” to leave you; waiting for the other shoe to fall in return for your patience… but it doesn’t. it’s not going to. maybe that’s where you fit into all of this: being the unwavering support that allows him to bend even when it goes against all expectation.

his calloused fingers curl around your own after another stroke over his torso, and slowly but surely he brings them to his lips to press a kiss over your knuckles. “i love you.”

if he can’t show it to you by following you blindly for years on end or by winning you endless slam titles to prove it, maybe the words are enough. maybe they can be enough, this time.

and maybe he can be enough too. no more tennis to eat up all his time (even if he misses it on occasion) just the things that are important and matter. lily, the foundation, you… and everything else he’ll keep himself open to.

“i love you too.” art’s sure his sigh of relief doesn’t go unnoticed by you, considering the early hour and the air of silence that accompanies it in moments like this. you shift closer and��

… oh. there we go. a snort leaves the blond as he shakes his head, glancing down briefly before he turns to you with that boyish grin of his.

“… were you still up for another round?”

[dippindaz]

Could I request a comfort Eddie X reader where it’s thundering and he knows reader doesn’t like thunderstorms so he invited reader over for a stormy night sleepover?

Of course you can!! This prompt is cute 🥺 Eddie's comfort and fluff ahead :)

The sky had been threatening to open up all day, dark clouds rolling in like an ominous warning. You had watched the weather more than you cared to admit, each update confirming the inevitable: thunderstorms, lasting well into the night.

Eddie must have caught on at some point—he always did. You hadn’t told him about your dislike for thunderstorms directly, but he’d noticed the way you tensed up when thunder rumbled in the distance, the way you clutched your sleeves when the sky turned gray. So when your phone rang that evening, you weren’t surprised to hear his voice on the other end.

“What are you doing tonight?” he asked, his voice light but with a knowing edge.

“Um… hiding under a blanket and pretending the storm doesn’t exist?”

Eddie chuckled. “That’s a solid plan, but I’ve got a better one. Sleepover at mine. We can watch dumb movies, eat junk food, and I promise to keep the scary noises at bay.”

You hesitated for only a second before agreeing. Staying alone during a thunderstorm sounded awful. Staying with Eddie, though? That sounded kind of perfect.

By the time you got to the trailer, the first drops of rain had begun to fall, cool and light against your skin. Eddie greeted you at the door, his usual grin in place as he pulled you inside. "Welcome to your storm shelter," he announced, sweeping an arm toward his living room, which he had clearly prepared just for you.

A blanket fort covered most of the space, pillows stacked underneath like a plush nest. His collection of movies was spread out on the floor, along with an assortment of snacks that definitely weren’t part of a balanced diet. The lights were dim, and his guitar rested nearby, as if he’d been planning on playing for you.

“Eddie…” You turned to him, touched by the effort.

He shrugged like it was nothing. "I just figured, if you’re gonna be freaked out by the storm, you might as well be comfy while doing it."

Before you could say anything else, a loud clap of thunder shook the trailer. Instinctively, you flinched, and Eddie was there in an instant, draping an arm around you and steering you toward the blanket fort.

"Okay, movie time!" he declared, plopping down and pulling you with him. "You get to pick—horror or something ridiculously stupid?"

You shot him a look. "Why would I want to watch a horror movie during a thunderstorm?"

Eddie laughed. "Good point. Dumb comedy it is." He grabbed a tape and shoved it into the VCR before settling beside you, close enough that your arms brushed.

As the movie started, you sank deeper into the nest of blankets, grateful for the warmth—both from them and from Eddie’s presence beside you. The storm outside raged on, raindrops drumming against the trailer’s roof in a steady rhythm. Every so often, a flash of lightning illuminated the small space, followed closely by a rumble of thunder.

Eddie, in true Eddie fashion, was completely unfazed.

“You know,” he mused, reaching for a handful of popcorn, “if you think about it, thunderstorms are basically nature’s way of putting on a metal concert. Big, dramatic drum solos, crazy lighting effects—Mother Nature’s got style.”

You scoffed, nudging him with your knee. “That’s one way to look at it.”

“I’m just saying,” he continued, shoving popcorn into his mouth, “if you replace the thunder with an electric guitar, it’d be kind of badass.”

You rolled your eyes, but you had to admit, the way he talked about it made the storm seem a little less terrifying. A particularly loud crack of thunder boomed, and before you could react, Eddie’s arm was around your shoulders, tugging you against him.

“There,” he said, squeezing you lightly. “See? No storm can get you if I’m here.”

Your heart fluttered. It was such an Eddie thing to say—bold, dramatic, but somehow incredibly reassuring. You let yourself lean into him, resting your head against his shoulder.

"You think you could take on a storm?" you questioned with a chuckle.

Eddie scoffed, puffing out his chest dramatically. “Please. If this storm had any sense, it’d be scared of me.”

You raised an eyebrow, amused. “Oh yeah?”

“Hell yeah,” he said, nodding confidently. “I’d just walk outside, point at the sky, and be like, ‘Listen here, pal—I run this town.’ And boom, thunderstorm over.” He clapped his hands together for effect.

You laughed, the sound muffled against his shoulder. “I don’t think that’s how the weather works.”

“That’s because you’ve never seen me in action,” he shot back, grinning. “I’m telling you, I could totally fight a storm. I’d dodge lightning like a badass, throw hands with a tornado if I had to.”

You tilted your head up to look at him. “And what about the rain?”

Eddie smirked. “Oh, the rain respects me. It wouldn’t dare mess up my hair.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling. “So basically, you’re saying you’re a weather god?”

“Exactly.” He leaned in slightly, voice dropping to a dramatic whisper. “Eddie Munson: Master of Storms.”

Another loud boom of thunder rattled the trailer, and despite the ridiculous conversation, you still jumped. Eddie’s expression softened in an instant. He pulled you in tighter, his hand rubbing small, absentminded circles against your arm.

“This movie sucks,” you murmured after a few minutes, shifting slightly to get more comfortable.

Eddie gasped, scandalized. “Excuse you, this is a classic.”

“It’s literally just people falling over and making dumb faces.”

“Exactly! Peak cinema.” He gestured at the screen, where the main character had just slipped on a banana peel for the third time. “Tell me that’s not comedy gold.”

You shook your head, but you were smiling.

Another flash of lightning brightened the room, followed immediately by a thunderclap so loud it rattled the trailer. Without thinking, you grabbed onto Eddie’s shirt, clutching the fabric as your eyes squeezed shut. You barely had time to be embarrassed before he shifted, wrapping both arms around you and pulling you closer.

“Hey, hey,” he murmured, his voice softer now. “I got you.”

You let out a shaky breath, trying to ignore the heat creeping up your face. His hand rubbed soothing circles on your back, and it was such a simple, comforting gesture that you felt yourself relax despite the storm outside.

“Y’know, if it helps, I can start dramatically reciting poetry to distract you,” Eddie offered.

You snorted, tilting your head to look at him. “You know poetry?”

“Of course! I’m a man of many talents.” He cleared his throat, then dramatically placed a hand over his heart. “‘Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate—’”

You burst out laughing, the tension in your chest loosening. “You sound like you’re auditioning for Romeo and Juliet.”

“Please, I’d make a killer Romeo.” He turned to you with an exaggerated smolder. “O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?”

“Oh my God, stop,” you groaned, covering your face.

Eddie cackled, pleased with himself. “Admit it, you’d pay good money to see me in tights.”

You peeked at him through your fingers. “I’d pay good money to not see that.”

He gasped, feigning betrayal. “How dare you.”

Another loud crash of thunder shook the trailer, and Eddie immediately dropped the theatrics. Without hesitation, he pulled you even closer, until you were practically curled against his chest.

His voice was quieter now, gentle. “You doing okay?”

You nodded, feeling oddly safe here, wrapped in his arms, his warmth anchoring you against the chaos outside.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “I think I am.”

For a few moments, neither of you spoke. The storm outside carried on, but it didn’t seem so scary anymore. Not with Eddie beside you, holding you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Good,” he whispered, resting his chin lightly against the top of your head. “You’re safe here.”

[valorascult]

⭐️ RESET ⭐️

——————

- delete contacts you no longer speak to, old notes on phone, playlists you no longer listen to. 📱

- unsubscribe from podcasts, channels, music, remove apps & accounts that you no longer absorb. (replace these things with content the person you’re becoming would consume) 🎵🤍

- go through your wardrobe & create a donate, sell, & keep pile. don’t keep things you haven’t worn in months. before purchasing something, ask yourself if you’ll use it more than 5 times. for every item you bring in, 2-3 items should leave. 👚👙👟

- start adjusting your diet to fit your personal goals. remember that slow motion is better than no motion + discipline is necessary. don’t force yourself to get healthy / fit in one week this is a steady win - avoid burnout. writing your goals every week helps. ✍🏼🍳🍎🫐🥑

- practice detachment. i don’t mean from emotions & becoming ‘stoic’ but from materialistic objects, remove yourself from labels, become nothing so that you may become something. detach yourself from people that no longer serve you, stop dwelling on the past; there is only ‘right now’. detach yourself from the future, it is not promised & only creates anxious emotions. 🧠🫀🦶🏼

- learn to become comfortable with the uncomfortable. train yourself with breath work. I recommend pranayama, morning & night. I used to be anxious about anything that is ‘new’ until I started simply breathing properly & quieting my mind first thing when I wake up, I swear by it. 💆🏼‍♀️

- journal morning & night. track your mental + emotional patterns. write down why you feel a certain way & if you don’t know why, break it down instead of looking at the bigger picture. 📓

I could list more but I will end it here. There are levels to a reset. (lvl 1)

[hederasgarden]

How do you think ATJ characters would be with a Chubby!reader? I have some ideas and I'd love to hear yours! -🍒 anon

Aside from maybe Tom Ryder, it seems like most of his characters would be open to a plus-size girl. However, I do think there are two characters in particular who would definitely prefer it.

Warning, the following touches on body image and self-esteem issues, dieting, and Tom being gross. This is definitely not an exhausting list of things discussed below. There is also smut and extreme fluff. Thanks @ryebecca for looking this over.

You cannot tell me this man doesn’t go feral for some thick thighs, a soft belly, and full breasts. He’s a big guy himself, and he’d definitely appreciate a chubby girl, especially since your softness contrasts so beautifully with how rough and hard his world could be. Seeing you in yoga pants would be a revelation. The second you’re easing into the downward dog pose, Sergei's pouncing on you, more than happy to have you right there on the floor, sweaty and hot.

I definitely think he’d be the type to build your confidence with slow, steady praise that’s genuine and comforting. He also wouldn’t let you talk down about yourself, not even for a second. Every time you'd start to doubt or criticize your body, Sergei would shut it down firmly. He’d shower you with compliments, making sure you never forget how beautiful you are in his eyes. It wouldn’t be just about physical looks either.

He’d constantly be touching you, whether it's a soft caress as he passes you in the kitchen or something more deliberate as he guides you to lay back on the bed for him, his hands are always on your body. I think he’d love having you ride him so he could see everything he loves about your beautiful body and he knows it would help you get more comfortable and confident. And when it comes to eating you out, he wants you to leg lock him in the danger zone so he can drown in your cunt. He’s got big shoulders, perfectly able to accommodate your thick thighs.

One of his favorite things is after sex when you’re still naked and your soft form is pressing against his. He loves to wrap that muscular arm around your soft belly and bask in your full figure.

Listen, I have nothing but VIBES and my past experience, but I feel it in my bones that Ives specifically loves a chubby girl. To quote @clairewritesandrambles , “He looks like he’d love to meet a shy girl who thinks she can’t be wanted that way and turn her into a confident little freak.”

He would love to eat you out from behind. In fact, why would he want it any other way? It's either doggy style so he can enjoy your thick thighs and hips or cowgirl so he can see everything else. I also feel like he’d appreciate one of those boudoir books from his girl where she’s wearing sexy lingerie and embracing her body with confidence. He doesn’t need porn, just that book and a few minutes alone.

As for the others….

I think what really catches his attention is your personality. Whether you're the sweet, demure type, shocked by his vulgar mouth and squirming under his intense advances, or you're quick to throw it right back at him, matching each sharp retort with one of your own, refusing to give him an inch unless he earns it, he's smitten.

Once he's with you, Tangerine would definitely be the type to teach you how to dress to flatter your curves, making sure you see just how sexy you really are. He’d love to fuck you in front of a mirror and wouldn’t let you come until you agreed with him about just how good you looked.

If you even think about ordering a salad or something less than your usual favorite when you're out and about, he'd be annoyed.

"Oh, come on, luv," he snaps, snatching the menu out of your hands. He turns to the waiter, pinning him with an intense look. "She'll have the pasta carbonara. Extra garlic bread." He lets out an exaggerated huff, shaking his head at you. "A salad? Fuck off."

If he thought someone had implied you needed to be on a diet, he'd be furious. "A diet?" he repeats, leaning over the table, his blue eyes flashing with lethal intent. "Someone say somethin’ to you?"

I’m sure a lot of his desires are shaped by the societal expectations of the time and I believe they did appreciate wide hips and a fuller chest back then. So, I’m sure Friedrich would admire those features on you. But honestly, I think he’d be even more taken with your gentle nature, your proper and demure behavior. He’d want to know that you were intelligent, well-read, and capable of being a gracious hostess and a loving, attentive mother to his children.

But I certainly don’t think he’d be disappointed by your soft belly and all that flesh to devour once he had a chance to see everything on the wedding night.

Honestly, he seems the type to like a chubby girl every once and a while, but would just be so fucking awful about it. If you’re into degradation it might be a good time, but not even how good he looks in this movie would make me want to spend the night with him. I feel like he’d just talk a lot about himself and whatever weird protein drink he lives off of. The sex would be great but he’d just be out of pocket the whole time.