#THE TROUSERS GAME IS STRONG

[paulic]

why does he have insanely good style when he’s not wearing photoshoot clothes? Mary feeding us Paul candids for Father’s Day, everyone say thank you Mary!!

[pitlanepeach]

The Long Way Home I Chapter Ten

Oscar Piastri x Harper Grace (OFC)

Summary — When Harper, a kind girl with a guarded heart, meets rising karting star Oscar Piastri at their English boarding school, sparks fly.

It only takes one silly moment of teenaged love for their lives to change forever.

Warnings — Teenage love, growing up together, falling in love, teen pregnancy, no explicit scenes when the characters are underaged (obviously??), strong language, manipulative parents, past death of a parent, dyscalculia, hardly any angst, slice-of-life basically!

Notes — Cricket Oscar I repeat Cricket Oscar! Also... you know that whole 'ten chapters per era' thing? Yeah, scratch that. I'm just going with the vibes. They have more story to tell than I thought! We're almost at the end of Boarding School era though. Almost.

Wattpad Link | Series Masterlist

The outfield shimmered under the kind of sun you could almost believe was nearly summer, not just the British version where your nose still ran but your calves were burning.

Harper was stretched across the cricket pavilion steps, blazer bundled under her head, school skirt hitched to mid-thigh. Her sleeves were rolled up, and her legs — bare, pale, with a fresh constellation of freckles — were aimed straight at the sky like solar panels.

"Do you think it's working?" She asked, squinting behind her sunglasses.

Jane, sat beside her with her knees up and a blue slushie in one hand, sniffed. "Your thighs still look like milk, but your knees might be caramelising slightly."

"Excellent," Harper muttered. "Just what every girl dreams of. Caramelised knees."

On the pitch below, the Year 11 and 12 boys were playing some kind of friendly cricket match, which was loosely organised and entirely chaotic.

Oscar, Sam, and Matt were all in full whites — jumpers on, shirts rolled at the sleeves, trousers already grass-stained and untucked. Oscar bowled like he was in the Ashes. Sam swung the bat like he was in a pub fight. Matt had no idea what he was doing, but his mum was a big donator to the sports department, so he was on every team they had.

Jane slurped her drink loudly. "How do they look fit in cricket whites? Like. That shouldn't be hot. But it is."

Harper hummed in agreement. "Oscar looks so good."

"I'd let Sam ruin my life," Jane said mildly, tilting her sunglasses down her nose to peer over them. "Just for the record."

"That's a given," said Alfie from behind them.

He was leaning against the pavilion rail with his arms crossed, sunglasses on, his tie slung around his neck like a scarf. He looked like a bouncer at a VIP tanning party, watching the crowd.

Harper smirked. "You alright there, security?"

"I'm good," he said, not moving. "Just enjoying the weather. And making sure no one ogles the royal bump or the goth queen over here for too long."

Jane fluttered her lashes. "Aw, Alfie. That's so sweet."

"Don't get used to it," he muttered, but didn't deny it.

Two Year 10s walked by, gawking a bit too long at Harper's stomach. Alfie flipped them off without looking away from the field.

"Fuckin' hell," he muttered. "It's like they've never seen a pregnant girl before. Weirdos."

Harper rolled her eyes. "Leave them alone, Alf. Our sex-ed programme here is awful."

On the pitch, Oscar had just clean bowled a year 12 twice his size. He didn't celebrate. Just walked back to his mark like a soldier reloading his gun.

Sam, meanwhile, had pulled off a sliding catch and promptly started peacocking like a West End actor. Matt attempted a cartwheel and fell flat on his face.

The girls howled with laughter.

"They're so stupid," Jane said, beaming.

"They're our stupid, though," Harper replied.

"And you're stuck with them forever," Alfie added, which made Harper laugh so hard she snorted.

Oscar looked up at the sound — squinting toward the pavilion — and smiled when he saw her, quick and quiet and just for her. He pushed his hair out of his eyes, waved once, then turned back to the game.

Jane sipped her slushie. "God, you two are cute."

"Shut up," Harper said, but she was still smiling.

The sun drifted a little lower. Somewhere in the background, the school bell rang for Sunday chapel — and nobody moved.

For a moment, just one, they weren't kids dealing with exams and babies and contracts and races and aristocratic uncles and tabloid magazines.

They were just fifteen and full of sugar, with sun warmed skin, watching the boys they liked pretend to be grown-ups in too-big uniforms and too-small egos.

It was perfect. Brief. Messy.

Life.

—

The boys came trudging up the slope from the pitch victorious — Sam with his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest, Matt skipping like he'd just won Eurovision, and Oscar... quiet, scuffed, a bit pink in the face and pretending he didn't notice Harper jogging down the last few steps to meet him.

"Oi, lovers!" Jane called, slapping her empty slushie cup onto Alfie's head. "We're going this way!"

Harper didn't care. She launched herself at Oscar, nearly knocking the water bottle out of his hand.

"You were so good," she said, wrapping her arms round his neck. "Seriously, I think I'm ovulating. I don't care that I already have a baby inside me."

"Jesus Christ," muttered Alfie, who had not asked to hear that.

Oscar went bright red. He kept his arms mostly around her waist but was clearly short-circuiting in front of his friends.

"Harps," he mumbled, shifting his grip awkwardly. "There's, like—people watching..."

"Let them watch," she said, planting a kiss on his cheek. "You're so fit."

Sam passed by, clapping Oscar on the shoulder. "You're a proper stallion, mate. Well done."

"I hate all of you," Oscar muttered, voice muffled by Harper's hair.

Jane high-fived Matt for literally no reason. "Good effort, you absolute weapon."

Matt beamed. "I caught a ball with my face."

"And still the girls love you," Jane sighed. "Life's unfair."

As they reached the top of the hill, the group slowed — sweat-stained boys dragging their jumpers over their heads, the girls walking barefoot across the hot pavement in socks.

Alfie rolled his eyes as Harper kissed Oscar on the neck. "Get a room."

"We've got a room," Harper said sweetly. "Yours. I sleep in it four nights a week."

Sam gagged. "Alright, alright — leave some dignity on the grass."

Oscar was flustered beyond speech. He kissed Harper's temple, quickly, like a reflex, then shoved his kit bag higher on his shoulder and marched ahead of them.

The rest of the group, of course, followed him, cackling like feral hyenas.

By the time they reached the dorm block, Oscar had nearly made it to the stairwell alone — but Harper caught his wrist and tugged him back.

"You alright?" She asked, quieter now.

He glanced around — no one right next to them, just the echo of stomping boots on the stairs.

Then he nodded. "Yeah."

"You sure?"

Oscar looked at her, eyes soft now that it was just them. "I don't mind the kissing. Just...not when Sam's narrating it."

Harper grinned. "Sorry. It's the hormones."

"Okay," he said, leaning in and kissing her properly this time — quick, but real. "I like when it's just us."

She smiled. "Me too."

"Also I think Sam might throw up if he ever wakes up when we're — you know."

"Sucks to suck." She said.

Oscar huffed a laugh.

They walked the rest of the way up together, quietly bickering over whose turn it was to nick KitKats from the vending machine and which bed they were claiming tonight.

Down the hall, someone yelled that Matt had thrown a sweaty sock at the fire alarm, because Jane was already in the process of burning her toast.

Harper smiled at Oscar.

Oscar smiled at Harper.

—

The classroom windows were cracked open, but the air still tasted like too many bodies in one place — biro ink, cheap deodorant, and GCSE anxiety.

Harper sat at the back, her copy of Macbeth balanced on top of a closed ring binder. She had a pen tucked behind one ear, a half-drunk bottle of Lucozade on the desk, and one hand pressed to the base of her spine like she could physically will the ache away.

Miss Freeman was rambling up front about ambition and power, pacing between the whiteboard and her desk with her usual furious energy. Her voice was sharp, quick — trying to cram five months' worth of content into five minutes, as if the sheer velocity of her teaching could force it into their heads.

"Harper," she called without turning, "what's Macbeth's fatal flaw?"

Harper blinked, sat up straighter. "Uh — ambition?"

"Good. Expand."

She swallowed. "He... wants power more than he wants to do the right thing. Even though he's full of doubt, he still goes through with it. Because he wants it too much."

Miss Freeman turned and pointed her marker like a sword. "Yes. Wanting something doesn't make you worthy of it. Write that down."

The room scratched with the sound of pens on paper.

Harper tried to focus — genuinely, she did — but her lower back was killing her. Not sharp pain, just that low, constant pressure, like someone had tied a sack of flour to her spine and told her to sit still with it.

She shifted slightly in her chair, trying to stretch out discreetly, but the movement drew a glance from the boy next to her — Toby something, always smelled like orange body spray and stale chewing gum.

He leaned slightly away, like she might suddenly explode.

"You alright?" He asked, face pinched.

Harper raised an eyebrow. "I'm fine."

He stared at her stomach like it had just started glowing.

"It's not catching, you know," she added dryly, turning back to her notes.

Toby flushed. "Didn't say it was."

"Didn't have to."

He said nothing after that, except to edge his chair a full six inches away.

Harper bit back a sigh, pressed her fingers harder into the knot at her back, and underlined the word ambition three times.

Across the room, she caught Jane's eye — Jane raised both eyebrows and mimed stabbing herself with her pen.

Harper smiled, barely, then went back to her book.

The clock ticked too slowly. The air buzzed. And the ache in her spine crept up just a little further.

—

The school nurse's office was too bright, too white. Fluorescent lights buzzing faintly overhead, sharp against Harper's already pounding head. She sat stiffly on the low cot near the radiator, both hands braced on either side of her bump. Her back hurt — a dull, dragging ache low in her spine that came and went like waves. Not agony, but not normal either.

She'd tried to ignore it in class. Kept her head down, revising and pretending the ache wasn't spreading like warm pressure across her belly. Until she couldn't anymore.

So she'd texted Oscar.

Can you come with me to the nurse? Not urgent just... a bit of pain.

He hadn't replied.

He'd shown up at the English classroom less than two minutes later, breathless, eyes wide.

Now he was sitting beside her, not saying much, hand closed tightly over hers. She could feel how tense he was in the way his thumb didn't move, how his leg bounced nervously even though he was trying not to fidget.

Mrs. Lyle, the school nurse, was kneeling by a cabinet, flipping through a stack of maternity leaflets she hadn't touched in probably two years. That's how long it'd been since the Haileybury baby.

"You said it's low back pain? Tightening?"

Harper nodded. "Sort of like... pulling. Like pressure. Not sharp, but weird."

Oscar's fingers tightened slightly around hers.

Mrs. Lyle stood and crossed to them, sitting down on the little stool by the cot. "Sounds like Braxton Hicks. You're about what — thirty weeks now?"

"Almost thirty-two," Oscar said, before Harper could answer.

Mrs. Lyle smiled softly. "Right. That makes sense, then. These start around now — practice contractions, essentially. Not actual labour, but your body's working out the muscles. Like rehearsal, in a way."

"But it hurt," Harper said, quietly. "I mean, not properly. But it felt like..."

"Something more serious?" The nurse finished for her, nodding. "It's normal to worry. It's good you came in."

Oscar looked down, jaw clenched. "So it's not — she's okay? The baby's okay?"

"Everything sounds textbook," Mrs. Lyle said calmly. "Nothing to panic about. She needs rest, hydration, and someone to carry her backpack for the rest of the day."

"Oscar always carries my bag." She said, automatically. Then she let out a breath, trying not to sag too visibly into Oscar's side. But he felt it anyway, leaned a little closer like it was instinct. His thumb finally moved, brushing against the edge of her knuckle. "I didn't know what to do," she said quietly.

"You scared me," he replied.

"I thought maybe it was real. Like — too early. I thought something was wrong."

"I know," he said. "I thought that too."

The nurse busied herself across the room, giving them quiet.

Oscar stared at the floor, then looked at her again. "I'm going to switch English periods. So I'm with you most of the day. Only class we'll have separate is Maths."

"Thanks." She whispered.

He reached up, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek, his hand lingering at her jaw. "I keep thinking I'm going to mess this up. Like there'll be a moment, and I won't know what to do, and you'll be hurting, and I'll just... freeze."

Harper turned toward him, forehead brushing his. "You didn't freeze, though. You ran out of class and came to get me."

"I got detention for it," he muttered.

"Worth it?"

"Obviously."

She smiled faintly, and for a second it almost didn't hurt anymore.

Mrs. Lyle came back with a bottle of water and some instructions about warning signs. Harper nodded through them, Oscar listening like it was life-or-death briefing.

Later, when they walked back toward the dorms together, Harper's bag slung over Oscar's shoulder and her hand in his hoodie pocket, she felt it again — the ache, the low pull in her back.

But she breathed through it. Didn't let herself panic.

Oscar stopped, watched her, gave her a minute.

And when she gave him a tiny little nod, they started walking again.

—

Oscar's pit garage was alive with movement — laptop screens glowing, air compressors hissing, the sharp scent of tyre rubber and brake dust thick in the air. The mechanics were everywhere, half-in and half-out of red team jackets, their radios clipped to belt loops, voices clipped and fast in the way only race days made necessary.

Harper sat on a crate in the back corner, half out of sight, a bottle of orange Lucozade in one hand and Oscar's helmet balanced beside her. She was wearing his old team fleece, zipped to the chin. Her legs ached from walking too much around the paddock that morning, and the baby — thirty-three weeks now, she kept reminding herself — was sitting weirdly on her spine. But none of that mattered.

She'd learned the names of all the engineers now. Matteo, who let her plug in tyre temp data to practice her number handling skills; Hugo, who always made her tea when it rained; and Ana, who'd secretly slipped her a granola bar the first time she nearly fainted from the garage heat.

They didn't look at her like she was a distraction.

They looked at her like she belonged.

"You're back early, Harps," Hugo said, passing her a stack of pit notes. "Track walk not worth the dust?"

She smiled faintly. "It was just Oscar doing that thing where he looks at gravel and pretends he understands how it affects his drive."

"Funny kid. Acting like he doesn't just drive like a lunatic every weekend and somehow make it work," Matteo added, grinning.

Harper smiled wider, adjusting the fleece over her bump. "We like lunatics."

There was the clatter of boots on metal and a burst of voices outside the canopy. Then Oscar pushed in through the side flap of the tent, tugging off his headset, face flushed and bright-eyed. His hair stuck up on one side, and he looked like he'd just run three miles.

He spotted her instantly.

"Harper—" His voice was breathless. He crossed the garage fast, past the prep bench, around the team radio desk, and knelt beside her like he couldn't get close enough fast enough. "Come here. Two seconds. Just—"

She blinked, startled, letting him pull her up by the hand and half-drag her toward the quiet side of the tent, near the stacks of spare slicks and a half-drunk bottle of Red Bull.

Oscar looked like he might combust.

She tilted her head. "You alright?"

He looked at her for a second like he was checking if it was real.

Then he said, "Prema wants me. For F3."

Her mouth parted.

"What?"

He nodded, quickly, still flushed, eyes almost glassy with adrenaline. "Just talked to Marco. They want me. Already. Like—next season. They said I'm tracking above expectations. They want to get me in the F3 car before the year's out. Testing. Maybe a free practice."

"Wait—wait, wait," Harper said, stepping in closer. "Oscar, are you—are you serious?"

"I think I'm going to cry or be sick," he said, but he was smiling, wide and unguarded.

She grabbed his face with both hands, stared at him like she was trying to press the words into his skin. "You're going to F3."

"Yeah."

"You're actually—"

"Yeah."

"Oh my God." She let out something between a laugh and a sob and kissed him. It wasn't a careful kiss. It was messy, hot with nerves, almost desperate — the kind of kiss that comes after months of half-holding your breath and hoping everything you're building doesn't slip through your fingers.

When they broke apart, Harper kept her forehead against his.

"You deserve this," she whispered. "You've worked so fucking hard, Osc. This isn't luck. This is you."

He didn't say anything at first. Just closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, they were clear and determined.

"I want it," he said. "I want it bad. But I'm scared that—"

"Don't," she said. "We'll make it work."

Someone called Oscar's name from the garage entrance.

He kissed her again, faster this time, and muttered, "Gotta go."

"Win this one," she said, still breathless.

"I will."

As he jogged back to his engineer, helmet under one arm, Harper stayed near the stack of tyres, heart hammering in time with the noise of the circuit starting to come alive beyond the paddock.

F3.

It wasn't just an idea anymore.

It was happening.

Step by step, formula by formula.

Her boyfriend was going to be a world champion one day.

And she'd be right next to him when it happened.

—

The computer lab always smelled like dust and old wires, the kind of cold room that was either boiling from server fans or freezing from the busted window. Today it was somewhere in between.

Harper sat in the corner by the window, legs tucked under her in the school's worst office chair, a hoodie tugged over her bump and a stubborn frown etched into her face.

"Line thirty-six," Matt said, leaning over her screen from the side. "You've got a missing semicolon."

She groaned and dropped her head to the desk.

"I hate JavaScript. I hate the entire concept of JavaScript. It's all chaos and no laws."

"You're learning React, which is basically JavaScript on crack."

"I chose this language because it was meant to be user-friendly."

Matt looked at her with wide eyes. "It's not. It lies."

Harper sat back up, cracking her knuckles. "Whatever. It's a project site, not a space launch. It just needs to work."

On her screen: a rough landing page — bold, accessible design, a mockup portfolio header, a contact form that mostly worked, and a bright pink font that she'd argued about with her teacher twice already.

The title read: Harper Grace Whiatt | Front-End Developer.

"You're not even doing this for class anymore, are you?" Matt asked, squinting at the layout.

"Nope," she said, popping her lips. "I've been attending this accredited course online, doing the certification stuff. Once I get my GCSEs out of the way and baby is born, I'm going to spend all my free time on it. Maybe go freelance. Build stuff."

Matt blinked. "Like... actual websites? For people?"

"Yeah," Harper said, tapping her space bar like it owed her money. "There's this girl I follow on Instagram — she's eighteen, self-taught, does Squarespace templates and Shopify setups, makes more than a junior lawyer. I figured, you know... it's smart. Futureproof."

She said it like a defence. Like she had to prove to everyone — to herself — that she wasn't going to be the story people had already decided for her.

"You don't have to," Matt said after a moment. "Prove anything. We already know you're clever. And, like. Kind of terrifying."

"Aw," Harper said. "You're sweet." Then she said . "Ever say that again and I'll launch this keyboard at your head."

Matt rolled his eyes, but grinned. "You're going to be good at it."

She looked back at the screen, the site stubby and full of placeholder text, but real. Hers.

"I want to build stuff people actually use," she said, softer now. "Not just pretty things. Useful ones. That don't assume you've got perfect eyesight or that you know where all the buttons are."

"Accessible design?" He asked, a little impressed.

Harper shrugged. "Bit ironic, right? Couldn't pass GCSE Maths if you paid me, but give me a CSS framework and I can make your entire checkout system retina-ready."

"You're the only person in this school who knows what 'retina-ready' means."

She grinned. "Maybe."

A message pinged on her screen — a Discord notification from a dev server she'd joined the week before. Someone had commented on her mock portfolio build: Nice typography choices. Would love to see more of your work.

She stared at it for a second.

Maybe this wasn't some pretend future. Maybe this was real.

Her world didn't have to shrink. It could shift. Change shape. But it didn't have to vanish.

Her laptop fan wheezed and clicked. She opened her browser, pulled up her GitHub, and started typing.

—

Oscar was lying flat on his bed, hair still wet from his post-training shower, eating Haribo one by one like they were sacred. Harper was on the floor cross-legged, MacBook balanced on her knees, pyjama sleeves pulled over her hands. Her bump curved gently under the fabric, resting against her thighs.

The screen glowed blue in the dim light.

"You're not allowed to look yet," she said, waving him off.

"It's going to be my website," Oscar muttered, tossing a Haribo into his mouth and missing.

Sam snorted from the other side of the room. "To be fair, you couldn't design a website if your life depended on it, Piastri. You'd just put a picture of your face and 'vroom' underneath."

Oscar threw a sock at him.

Harper kept typing.

They'd been working on it — quietly, between revision and races and everything else — for the last two weeks. He hadn't told anyone yet. Mark knew, obviously. And Alfie, by accident, when Harper asked if anyone had high-res images from Oscar's most recent F4 race.

They'd all gone to watch him from the grandstands like normal fans. Sam, Alfie, Jane, Matt — and obviously Harper. It'd been like a weird, fun little school trip.

Now the website was almost done.

"Okay," Harper said finally. "Try it."

Oscar leaned over and squinted at the screen. Then blinked.

The landing page was sharp and minimal, black background, bold white type. A full-width photo of him racing — visor down, car catching the light just right — stretched across the top.

OscarPiastri.com

"Whoa."

She kept scrolling for him. Stats. Race results. An embedded video reel Mark had helped them trim. A bio she'd bullied him into writing. Sponsor contact section. News feed. Instagram integration. All responsive. All accessible.

"You made this?" He said, eyebrows high.

She nodded. "Built from scratch. No Wix bullshit. I even set up the CMS so Mark can update the results and press stuff without breaking anything."

He just stared. "It's so... professional."

"I am professional."

Oscar looked properly impressed. Then a little overwhelmed. "You're literally fifteen."

"Sixteen in, like, nine weeks," she corrected, deadpan.

He reached for her, pulled her gently up onto the bed beside him, and kissed her temple.

"Thank you," he said, soft.

"'s nothing," she said, tucking herself under his arm. "I liked doing it. Made me feel like I'm... part of it."

"You are part of it."

She didn't say anything. Just closed the lid of her laptop and leaned against him.

Across the room, Sam looked up. "Wait. If you're building sites now... think you could make me one for my rap career?"

Harper didn't even blink. "No. I want nothing to do with that disaster."

Oscar laughed.

Sam sulked.

—

The early morning light filtered through the cracked dorm window, casting a pale glow on the cluttered room. Harper sat on the edge of her bed, fiddling nervously with the hem of her jumper. Oscar leaned against the doorframe, his arms crossed, eyes tired but trying to look calm.

"First one," Harper muttered, voice barely above a whisper.

Oscar shrugged, trying for casual. "Biology. Easy, yeah?"

She snorted. "You're joking. You've seen my biology notes."

He stepped closer, dropping his voice. "Hey, you've got this. We've done the revision, the late nights, the panic... now it's just another test."

Harper bit her lip. "I'm scared. What if I mess it up? What if I let everyone down?"

Oscar crouched down, grabbing her hands. "No one's expecting perfection. And what does a biology result matter anyway?"

She squeezed his hands, trying to hold onto that steady feeling. "Thanks, Osc."

He smiled, awkward and sincere. "We celebrate. Whatever happens."

She nodded, took a deep breath. "Okay. I think I'm ready."

He pulled her into a quick hug, warm and tight. "Go smash it."

NEXT CHAPTER

[lay-z]

Simon Riley is your nemesis.

cw/info: 18+ | time skip; cheating/infidelity; smut; angst; cussing; open ending

♰ [back to black | masterlist]

He’s here.

Standing on the opposite side of the field by himself under the old chestnut tree, his heavy gaze is glued to the lush grass of the soccer field. He looks slightly different than he did the last time you’d seen him a few weeks ago—a little more put together and somehow even bulkier. Strong.

He’s watching you, observing the way you walk over to the sideline, settling down next to the parents and waiting for the game to start while his heart is nearly bursting through his chest, sweaty palms stuffed into the pockets of his worn jeans.

Meanwhile, you could sense his presence before you could see him—you somehow always do—and after greeting the other parents currently present to watch their kids play, waiting for the game to start, you politely excuse yourself and make your way over to him.

It finally stopped raining three days ago, and now it’s a surprisingly warm and sunny April spring day; warm enough to wear one of your new dresses. Tommy, who turned five just last month, has a soccer match and while John is running errands with Annabelle, having a daddy–daughter day, you stayed to support your son.

The moment you start walking over to him, Simon straightens his broad shoulders; trying to keep his nerves at bay. He didn’t expect this to happen. You haven’t much as spared him a glance since your wedding.

He’s filled with tension, a mix of anticipation and trepidation building up in him as you approach, his eyes trailing over your curves, your new hairstyle, the way the sun dances off your dewy skin—

Bloody hell. You’re still the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid his eyes on.

He clears his throat, looking slightly awkward, as you come to a stop right in front of him.

“Hey,” he manages, a hint of uncertainty lacing his gruff tone, muffled by his mask.

“Hey,” you greet back, slightly less awkward as you take off your expensive pair of aviator sunglasses to get a better view of him.

Even in this weather, he dresses in thick jeans, combat boots and hoodies. His skull balaclava secured in place.

“If you wanna keep a low profile, I suggest leaving that bloody mask at home, Riley.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up in a half-smirk beneath the black cloth as he shrugs unapologetically. “Can't help it, pet,” he replies with a quiet chuckle, tucking his hands deeper into the pockets of his trousers.

It’s been some time since he’s seen you this up-close without any disturbance, and he uses the moment to study you closely, his gaze taking in every inch of you, lingering on the way your summer dress hugs your curves; how the colourful floral pattern on the crème-coloured fabric accentuates your complexion.

Seeing you dressed like this, all loose and free, makes his heart twist painfully in his chest. You’ve changed some since having your second child and his fingers itch to touch as his eyes flicker down to glance at you ample bosom.

For a brief moment, he wonders if you’re still breastfeeding.

“Mhm, sure.” You kiss your teeth appraisingly as you give him another once over before crossing your arms. “You came to watch Tommy play again.” It’s a statement, not a question, and you can't blame him for being here and trying to see his son grow up—albeit from the shadows.

You’ve been wondering how he knows when and where Tommy has his matches, he certainly didn’t ask John, but then again, it doesn’t surprise you at all that he keeps himself informed.

“That obvious, huh?” he mutters jokingly, lifting one corner of his mouth in a slight smirk. His gaze drifts off to the side, watching the kids running onto the field and warming up, their parents cheering them on. He knows Tommy is one of the fastest, never afraid of the ball, a bloody Liverpool fan—thanks to Price.

He lets out a quiet sigh as he looks back at you, his expression turning serious, but you caught that flicker of longing and sadness in his tawny eyes.

“I can’t stay long,” he adds, his voice low. “Just... jus’ wanted to see him, y’know?”

And despite everything, you can’t not worry about him.

Your stomach churns and you hug your arms around yourself tighter as you gaze up at him, squinting against the bright daylight without your sunglasses. John didn’t tell you about a new upcoming assignment, and the news don’t fail to piss you off.

“Where are you going?”

His gaze locks with yours, and even through the balaclava, you can see the slight frown on his face. Simon hesitates before answering, debating whether he should tell you the truth or not; he can tell that you don’t know about it yet. Finally, he heaves a heavy sigh and looks towards the field again, avoiding your gaze.

“Special Forces business,” he answers simply. “Can't say more than tha’.”

You let out an involuntary snort, a rather whimsical sound, before cupping your hand over your mouth and nose. “Sorry.” You make a dismissive small gesture with your other hand. “I just–”

Composing yourself again, you continue: “Uh, nevermind.”

You don’t want to mention John right now and how he usually always tells you where he’s going whether he’s allowed to or not.

However, Simon can practically read the thoughts running through your head, and another pang of guilt hits him.

“Listen…” he starts slowly, taking another careful step closer to you. “I–” he pauses, fighting the urge to reach out and touch your face, your arms, your hair. He wants to feel you again, to hold you, to pull you close, to be near you. It’s been years since he last held you—his woman.

Your lashes flutter as he murmurs your name and suddenly, the warm air around you seems to fizz with tension. Dangerous tension, but you stand your ground; refusing to flee despite knowing better.

“What?” you rasp, tipping your head back to gaze up at him with bright doe-eyes.

“Use your words, Simon.”

His heart is pounding in his chest at the sound of your voice saying his name so sweetly, at the way you look at him, eyes practically sparkling in the sunlight. He can almost feel the electricity crackling around you, and he feels like he might go insane from it. He steps even closer, practically towering over you now, chest to chest, invading your personal space. His dark eyes are fixed on your face, drinking in every feature like he’s never seen you before.

His throat feels dry when he swallows thickly, his voice is gruff, raw with the emotions he’s holding back as his words rumble from his chest: “You know what, pet.”

The wooden door to the storage room falls shut behind you with finality; the sound echoing through the empty club house building while everyone is outside, watching the soccer games on the fields, enjoying the nice weather.

You should feel utterly ashamed about this—how easy it was for him to coax you away from the herd of your flock like the big bad wolf he is—but you cannot bring yourself to think about anything else but him right this moment.

It’s dark and dusty and you can barely see him except his large silhouette, thought you sure can feel him—big hands, once so familiar, groping and roaming over your body with urgency while you’re slowly backed up against the nearest wall.

Your breath gets caught in your throat at the feel of his hands on you, at the way his body towers. His touch is rough, desperate, fingers digging roughly into your hips, your waist, and your thighs as he presses himself against you, pinning you against the chilly wall.

His forehead drops down to rest against yours, and his ragged breathing mixes with yours.

“God, I missed you,” he whispers gruffly, voice rough with need.

The words are stuck in your throat—I missed you, too,—but you swallow them down and focus on his presence instead, the here and now.

A brief indulgence, it’s what this is.

“Take your mask off.” Your hands are fisting into the front of his hoodie, torn between pulling him closer and pushing him away for good.

And yet, you find yourself standing on your tiptoes like a lovesick schoolgirl to nudge your nose against his clothed one: “Kiss me.”

Simon takes a shuddering breath, his fingers gripping your hips tightly over your dress, his body trembling with the effort to not lose himself in you, to not fully give in to the desire coursing through his veins like molten molasses, but your voice, the way your fingers curl into his hoodie, the way you ask him to kiss you—it’s his breaking point. He doesn’t hesitate a second as his mask hits the floor carelessly. Fuck, he’s missed this.

He cups your face with both hands and his lips crash onto yours. God, you taste just the same.

The kiss is rougher than anything, all teeth and tongue; both of you drowning in your shared passion. It’s been so long, too long, and that knowledge makes him kiss you even harder, his tongue pushing into your mouth with a possessive need while he cups your jaw and squeezes to make you open up wider. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place against the wall, while his body presses you into it, trapping you there.

It’s like a shockwave to your system as his lips connect with yours for the first time in years.

Shock and awe, because this isn’t supposed to feel this good, this bloody right, and you should put a stop to this, but his chapped lips mould as perfectly to yours as they used to; his tongue licking into your mouth so eagerly that it’s taking your breath away; tasting of cheap cigarettes and peppermint gum.

You can feel your pussy throb and slick up within seconds while he sighs into your mouth; toying and nipping at your lips as playfully and feral as ever.

And it’s a losing battle. Weak. Weak. Weak. Weak—

“I–fuck–” Holding his face steady in your hands while your breaths mingle and his forehead rests against yours, you can feel your brain short-circuit. “I need you.” I want you.

He’s drunk on you, on the taste, on the feel of you against him. Your ragged breaths, the feel of your fingertips, the little sounds spilling from your throat—it’s all driving him insane. His hand sneaks under your skirt, his calloused knuckles grazing your quivering inner thigh. So bloody soft.

Your words are his undoing, the ones he was never meant to hear again. He knows he doesn’t deserve this.

“You have me.” You bloody own me. The words come out guttural and raw, more of a growl than anything as his fingers dig into your flesh. A shuddering breath leaves your throat as the pads of his fingers slowly rub along your clothed slit, and he groans when he finds the cotton damp already.

Reaching out with a shaky hand, you cup his crotch in retaliation and feel a familiar bulge straining against his jeans, large and warm, and too big for your palm.

Simon lets out a deep, ragged grunt at your touch, his heart fluttering wildly in his chest as he feels your hand on him after so much time of neglect. He’s been outright starving for you, for the feel of your hands on him, the way your supple skin feels against his, and he grinds his shaft into your palm, his body trembling and his cock weeping into his boxers with need. His eyes are closed, and his forehead is still pressed against yours.

“Fuckin’ hell, I'm losin’ my bloody mind here, love.”

Cupping the back of his head with your free hand, you swiftly ruck up his hoodie and undo his belt before unzipping his jeans with your other hand. He doesn’t stop you, only breathes hard, and when you finally slip your hand inside and past his boxers, you slowly start stroking his throbbing cock, earning a deep exhale of relief from him.

There’s so much you want to say, but you keep biting your tongue and let your eyes fall shut as you touch and explore him, drinking in his reactions while you feel his thick shaft throb in your grasp.

Simon leans into you, his hips rocking instinctively into your hand as his cock twitches and leaks precum into your palm, the feel of your touch igniting a blazing fire within him. He’s been craving you so badly, his body aching for you. He’s drowning in the sensations, his brain short-circuiting as badly as yours.

Both his hands are roaming over your body under your dress skirt, exploring the curves he remembers so well, his lips leaving a trail of heated kisses on your neck.

“God, I–” he breaks off, his voice rough, “I’ve missed you so fuckin’ much.”

“Yeah,” you rasp, brows furrowed in a pained frown as you keep rubbing his length almost reverently, stroking back his smooth foreskin until he hisses at the sensation. “Me too.”

Simon can feel the heat pooling low in his gut at your touch, your quiet admission, and he fears he might finish in his boxers at this rate, his breathing coming out ragged and harsh. He presses his hard, muscled body against yours, pinning you to the wall as he buries his face in the crook of your neck; inhaling your scent, the familiar smell of your skin sending a wave of emotions through him.

“I need more.” He breathes against your throat, chapped lips dragging over sensitive skin, teeth grazing over your pulse point while his hands grope your plush thighs.

“Then take it.” It’s all you can reply as a myriad of emotions threatens to choke you.

And when you give him permission, you can feel the rough pads of his fingers teasingly caress over your upper thighs and hips before he pulls and slips your cotton panties off your legs while his face never leaves the crook of your neck; shaky breaths puffing against your flushed skin. He gropes your ass cheeks with a string of muttered curses and chuckles at your squeak of surprise, when he squeezes them hard enough to make your pussy lips spread.

You swat at his biceps with a soft hiss, but that only spurs him on, and he rucks your skirt up before gripping the backside of your thighs and lifting you up effortlessly to wrap around his hips as he pushes you up against the wall.

You’ve almost forgotten how playful and passionate you tow used to be with each other, and for a split second, an almost carefree smile ghosts over your lips.

There’s a tense moment, a brief pause, where he’s holding you there, his fingers stroking the flesh of your thighs as he rubs the sticky tip of his cock through your slick folds. He takes a deep breath through his nose, his lips pressing against your forehead, savouring the feel of you against him.

“You're so wet for me,” he murmurs, his voice gruff. “For me, right?” He sucks in a breath. “Say it.”

You let out a small whimper, a pathetic noise in the dark of this dusty storage room. It’s a surreal moment; teetering on a nightmare and yet you’re clinging on to it. To him.

“For you,” you obey softly. “All for you, Si.”

The nickname slips out and then his cock slides in without any trouble, like he’s never left, like he’s been stretching you out every night like he’s supposed to. You gasp and groan in unison and your spine arches at the intrusion; toes curling inside your ballerina shoes as he bottoms out while your whole body buzzes deliciously.

You’ve gotten more sensitive since the pregnancies, and for a split second, you worry he might not like what he’s feeling, but then he lets out the most wanton moan—loud enough for you to swiftly clamp your hand over his mouth to muffle it momentarily.

“Fuuuuck.”

He’s truly losing his mind now as it spins with the feeling of you around him, his eyes rolling back in pure bliss as he feels you silken walls ripple around his rock hard prick. He’s home. There’s no better way to describe it. He’s missed this, missed you, the way you move, the way you feel, the sounds you make. He has to take a deep, grounding breath, his grip on your thighs tightening as he tries to calm his racing heart. “I’ve dreamt about this.”

He’s possessed, desperate and hungry; needing to touch every inch of you, to touch every place he’s been craving and longing for so badly. His lips find yours again, his tongue driving deep into your mouth. It’s a possessive kiss, raw and hungry, and he can’t get enough of you, of the taste, of the way your body fits against his.

“Touch me,” he murmurs against your mouth.

Your legs wrap tighter around his waist while your dress is tucked under your armpits, keeping it out of the way. Your whole lower half is bared to the warm air inside the stuffy storage room, rear pressing against the cool wall as he starts thumbing your rapidly swelling clit while you moan into his mouth. His admission that he’s been dreaming about this, about you, makes your pussy clench and flutter around his thick shaft buried deep inside your sopping walls.

And then, you obey him as you drag your shaky hands over his buff chest, feeling the fabric of his black hoodie under your palms. He must be sweating bullets and your mouth waters at the thought of your tongue licking over pale, scarred skin—lapping up his salty taste.

When you cup his face tenderly, you lean in to capture his lips once more; deep and passionate, eagerly swallowing his low moans.

He can’t get enough of you, of the feel of your skin against his, of the taste of your lips on his own. His body responds instinctively, his hips starting to rock slowly, the movements rough and desperate, like he can’t get close and deep enough.

“Love ya,” he grunts, his words raw and ragged. “Been so goddamn cold without you.”

It’s a confession filled with pain and regret, the words spilling out before he can stop them. He’s vulnerable, he’s broken, and he’s desperate as he presses you against the wall, his body trembling with the effort to hold it together, to not let the emotions he’s been bottling up tightly swallow him whole.

“Need you,” he breathes against your lips, his voice rough and strained. “Need ya so damn bad, love.”

You bite your tongue in return, unwilling to reciprocate his love confession yet. He doesn’t deserve to know that you never stopped loving him; that you never quite stopped being his despite the name Price engraved on your golden wedding band—the bloody ring that seems to be searing the skin around your ring finger in reprimand.

In your lust-filled frenzy, you’re tempted to take it off and throw it into the darkest corner of the room.

“Then fuck me like you mean it,” you retort instead as you wrap your arms around his neck to stay close, to breathe with him. “Our son is outside playing soccer with his friends and I don’t have any fucking time for this.”

His eyes darken at your words, a low, primal groan escaping from his throat. He obeys, because he always has; because he’ll do anything you ask of him, because he still has no damn dignity when it comes to you.

Simon grips you more firmly, his blunt nails biting into your flesh as his hips start to snap upwards. “Like this, huh?” he snarls. “Want me to make ya feel me, love? Make ya feel how much I fuckin’ need ya, how goddamn much I missed ya?!”

“That right?” you manage to grunt, still holding his face as you keep your forehead pressed against his, sweat now starting to make your skins sticky.

He’s holding onto you, desperate to keep you close, to make you feel him, make you feel and remind you how much you’re his. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his hot breaths ghosting over your skin, and his words are almost a reverent prayer: missed you, missed you, fuckin’ missed you.

His fingers dig into your thighs, his grip tight and possessive, as his hips angle you towards him just a little bit better before he practically bounces you on his cock like a ragdoll; biceps bulging with the effort underneath his hoodie.

Soon enough, you can hear how embarrassingly wet you are while he pumps his hips and fucks you with deep, powerful strokes that leave you gasping and mewling for him.

“Fuck, baby,” you whine, lips brushing against his temple while his fingers dig into the plush fat of your ass.

Baby. It’s just one word, but it tears through him like a bolt of lightning. He loves you so goddamn much, he always did, and now, he’s drowning again, concrete weights pulling him under. He can hear the slick sounds of your body taking him so well, the way you whimper and whine against his ear. And he wants you to say it again, wants to hear that word spill from your lips again and again.

“Don’t call me tha’,” he grouses with a huff.

“You called me love,” you hiss in return, nipping at his cheekbone. “I’ll call you whatever the ah! f-fuck I want.”

He lets out a low growl at your defiant words, his powerful hips snapping into you with more purpose now; grunting and cheeks flushing at your comment, because you’ve always known how to get under his skin. He grips your thigh, pulling you down onto him rougher, his cock driving into you with determined, punishing thrusts.

“You,” he grits his teeth, “are goddamn infuriating.” Simon wants to shut you up, to make you focus on him, on the way you feel, on how good he makes you feel.

He wants you to say that you’ve missed him, that you’ve craved his touch, his presence. Something, anything to hint that you still love him, that you still need him.

The pleasure is almost unbearable and you go limp in his arms; too overwhelmed and too focused on your strange feelings at the same time. You can feel your orgasm readying to break you apart in his embrace, though you know Simon is right here, all too eager to catch you as soon as you fall.

As you bury your face in his neck to muffle your cries of pleasure, you suddenly feel your throat tighten and your eyes well up with fat tears.

Meanwhile, Simon can already feel you coming apart in his arms, can feel the way you tremble and clench around him. He knows the bloody signs; has studied them during his time with you. It’s everything he wants, everything he’s missed, and it almost undoes him. He clutches you close, one hand wrapping around the nape of your neck to hold you tight against him, and his movements become even more desperate, borderline frantic as the harsh sounds of skin slapping skin fills the small room.

Simon can feel the tears building up, too, feel the lump in his throat grow bigger until it nearly chokes him. He doesn’t quite know what cocktail of emotions he’s currently experiencing, but he’s too lost in it all to care. He’s struggling to contain himself; struggling to hold back his own sobs as he buries his face in your hair, his body shaking with the effort, his muscles tight. His whole body is taut with tension, getting lost in the way you’re making him feel.

He can’t hold back the words anymore; they come out in broken whispers against your skin: “I love you. God, I love you so fuckin’ much, I missed you, I love you, baby. I love you,” he utters like a mantra as his eyes squeeze shut, causing his tears to spill.

His words push you over the edge and rip you apart at your carefully mended seams, cracks and holes where he’s trying to sneak and settle in again.

And you’re too weak to deny him.

You cry out in pleasure and pain as you hold on to him; arms wrapping around his muscular neck tightly while your tears soak into the fabric of his hoodie, and you cream around his throbbing cock like your needy cunt has a mind of her own.

As if your body knows how to take him despite years of not having him; of being depraved from the man you love.

Simon can feel you, he can feel every inch of your body as it clenches and tightens around him, and it’s too much, too much, too goddamn much.

He can’t speak anymore, can’t do anything but cling to you, like you’re the only thing keeping him together. His hips are stuttering, losing their rhythm, and he’s so close, so damn close; trying to hold on, to savour this, but it’s too much, too much, and he’s breaking, he’s breaking, he’s breaking—

“Say it. God, baby, please jus’ say it,” he groans, begs, demands, his voice a ragged, desperate gasp. “Say you miss me. Tell me you miss me as much as I miss ya, love.”

You grit your teeth until your jaw aches, muffling your pathetic mewl as he fucks you to the brink of overstimulation. With your eyes squeezed shut, you whimper against his neck: “Come f'me, baby. Just, please... come–”

The sound of you, the words you’re panting into his neck—it’s not what he wants nor needs to hear, but he’s willing to take whatever you offer him, and it pushes him over the edge at last. Simon gasps out your name, his body shuddering, his vision going white. His balls draw up tight; his cock throbs violently as he fills you up with his needy load. He holds on to you, his bulky arms wrapped around you like a vice.

All spent, his body trembling, his head spinning, he keeps grinding his hips, desperate to keep his sensitive cock nestled against your womb. It’s intense, and yet he can’t stop the words that spill from his lips once more, as sincere as they are raw: “I love you. Oh, God, I love you. I missed you so much, loved you every day... every fuckin’ day.”

He’s losing himself completely, but he welcomes this madness if it means he gets to keep you at last. He can’t let you go, can’t bear to feel you slip away again.

He presses his forehead against yours, his breathing ragged, and his chest heaving with the exertion. With a hoarse, broken voice, he rasps out the words again, pleading, begging you: “Please... say you still love me.”

Your heart is thudding so harshly in your chest that you fear a cardiac arrest for a second while your brain is filled with cotton, only slowly processing the moment—what just happened, what you’ve done.

Slow tears are still running down your burning cheeks as you pull pack to gaze at him, sniffling softly, and in the semi-darkness of this random storage room, you can barely make out the shape of his features, the blackness of his eyes.

When you cup his cheek with one shaky hand, you feel wetness beneath the pad of your thumb, causing your breath to hitch and your heart to shatter as you realize that he’s crying, too—yet you can’t bring yourself to say it.

“Why... Why does that even matter, Simon?” you croak out. “This won’t happen again. It–It can’t.”

He can hear it in your voice, the way you’re already pulling away, already shutting him out again.

It’s like a knife to his wretched, rotten heart.

He tightens his arms around you, refusing to let you go, refusing to let you slip away, and refusing to pull his softening cock out of your warm, welcoming cunt. His eyes are dark, his expression fierce, even with the tears streaming down his rugged face.

“Because it matters,” he says his voice rough with emotion. “It matters, dammit!”

He pulls you closer against his chest, his grip so tight it’s borderline painful, like he's afraid that if he lets go of you, even just for a second, you’ll disappear into thin air like a rainbow bubble that gets popped, and he won’t let that happen—won’t let you slip through his fingers like drift sand.

His grip is unyielding, his body tense as he holds onto you tightly, keeping you pressed against the wall. His heart is pounding in his chest, his breathing ragged as he tries to control the maelstrom of emotions that are surging through him.

“Please,” he whispers, “Please don’t push me away again.”

Your nimble fingers tangle in his hair roughly while you caress your other hand over his broad back soothingly, and you feel the damp, heavy fabric of his hoodie as his sweat soaks through it.

It’s so hot in the room at this point and the weight of what you two have done is starting to push down on your chest, making it harder to breathe all of a sudden.

“I’m married to John,” you weep into his neck, nails digging into his skull. “We have a baby together now and Tommy... Tommy calls him daddy, Si–” Your voice cracks and you hold him tighter, trembling in his arms.

“And I can’t forget what you’ve done to me.” To us.

His heart is clenching painfully in his chest as he listens to the words you’re saying, each one a stab to his gut, though he can’t hold back his desperate response nor the fresh wave of tears spilling over and dripping onto your skin.

“I know,” he says, his voice thick with regret, with guilt. “I know, baby, but I regret it. Every day. Every fuckin’ day I regret it.”

He frantically blinks away his tears as he trembles against you, and he knows how pathetic he must be sounding right now, though he cannot bring himself to care.

“I’ve never stopped loving you. I will never fuckin’ stop lovin’ you.”

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[soapcloth]

CW: 18+ MDNI, voyeurism, noncon elements - dividers -> @/cafekitsune

You’ve just moved in and have only recently booked with the curtain installation company. Neighbour!soap would see you through your window and start spinning it into something it’s not.

No matter what, he’s gonna think it’s fate letting him peer into your little life like this. Something grander that brought both of you to this exact point on earth.

He might even be able to let himself instinctively spiral into the thought that you want him to look; big, rugged dreamboat like himself? What’s not to love, you’re just playing a game of mental chess to get him to notice you— he’s always preferred the direct approach when afforded the chance, but he’s happy to play with you if that’s what you want.

So he grunts and sweats away outdoors, finally paying some much-needed attention to the yard with the hopes that you’ll peer out and see how big and strong he is. He realizes he may have been a bit over the top only when you nonchalantly walk by the open window and pull the glass pane down. At least his yard is looking better than it ever has since his medical discharge?

He still remembers the taste of your baking in the little basket you had made for the neighbours on your first weekend in, hunts you down at the neighbourhood bake-off you had been urged to join in order to get some more— maybe finally inch towards closing that gap between you, had to happen at some point after all.

He’s worked his way into becoming a well-liked community pillar with his large personality and even bigger heart, so when he makes it clear that he had a favourite entry, others readily agree. Wants to run over there and cheer you up when he catches you telling one of the other entrants that you hardly feel like the win was earned.

He can hear you nervously asking about him— shy thing, you could have just asked him yourself. Keeps his distance, straining his ears to listen in on the glowing review over the low-ringing tinnitus— he’s a vet, he’s reliable, fun, handy— on top of his looks? he can’t possibly fathom why you seem on edge.

Surely nothing to do with the fact that you’ve caught him more than once with that thousand-yard stare peeping on you in your bathroom from his back porch, stocky hand palming his trousers.

The curtain installation guys couldn’t get here soon enough.

[yelenabemylova]

feels like a birthday - park seonghwa x fem!reader

summary: getting ready for seonghwa's birthday takes an unexpected turn when he's desperate to unwrap his favourite gift, 2.8k wc, 18+ mdni

warnings: dom!seonghwa, oral sex (f receiving), dirty talk, mentions of anxiety, choking/breathplay, possessiveness, praise, breastplay, slight manhandling

masterlist // latest hwa fic

“which one goes better with the heels?” you held up two necklaces, asking your boyfriend for advice. he glided across the room, adjusting the cuff of his white shirt. when he stood pressed up behind you, your breath hitched as you watched him in the mirror.

his hand made it's way from your hip, to your throat, gently applying pressure on either side, “i think this necklace looks the prettiest on you, sweetheart.” biting your lip to suppress a whimper, you tilted your head to the side as he kissed your neck, his nimble fingers dancing along the exposed skin of your thigh.

“no marks, we have to be at your party in an hour,” you reminded him. he inhaled deeply, intoxicated by the scent of your perfume, “but darling, you're going to look so beautiful in that dress. i need to make sure everyone knows you're mine.”

you giggle a little at his words, “baby, everyone already knows i’m yours.” he huffed into your shoulder, “they might try and steal you.” his statement made you laugh, causing him to pout.

cupping his face in your hands, you met his piercing gaze, “you, park seonghwa,” you kissed him quickly, “are the cutest-” kiss, “most handsome-” kiss, “perfect-” kiss, “boyfriend anyone could ever ask for. even if anyone else did try and ‘steal’ me,” you emphasised the word with air quotes, “i wouldn't want anyone but you.”

his eyes lit up as he listened to you, “not even-” you kissed him to quiet his protest. “no, my love. nobody,” you told him, your words soft and your gaze loving. “nobody?” he repeated. “not a single soul in the entire universe is more perfect to me than yours.”

seonghwa pressed his lips to yours gently, conveying his appreciation and love for you through the gesture. his hands settled on your waist, yours on his cheeks as he poured an ocean of affection into the kiss.

the two of you continued to get ready, exchanging kisses and compliments as you did so. when seonghwa had finished getting his shoes on, he sat at the bottom of the stairs waiting for you.

as you descended from the top of the staircase, seonghwa looked up from his phone, immediately forgetting about the game he was playing. his jaw immediately tightened, as did his trousers.

“back upstairs,” he spoke firmly. “what?” you asked him, a little confused, “do you not like the dress?”

“i said, back upstairs.”

it took you a second, but once you recognised his tone, you knew exactly what he meant. “we don't have time for that, seonghwa,” you began to slip on your heels, smirking to yourself at how riled up he was getting.

he waited for you to put your shoes on, before pushing you against the back of the door, his hand behind your head so as not to hurt you. he gently kissed the shell of your ear, whispering almost inaudibly, “is this okay? if you really do want to go to the party right now, the car is waiting for us outside, and i won't be mad. i promise.”

your heart fluttered at how seonghwa always made sure he had full consent before trying to initiate anything with you. you felt your ears burn red from the blush creeping up your neck, “yes, seonghwa, i want this. i promise.”

his strong hands slowly made their way down to your hips, gripping them tightly as he pulled you impossibly closer to him, kissing you with the hunger of a man starved. “hwa,” you squealed as he lifted you with ease, cradling you in his arms on his way up the stairs.

seonghwa pushed the door open with his side, laying you down on the bed. his hand gently cupped one of your breasts, causing you to throw your head back in pleasure. he seized the opportunity to litter your exposed throat with kisses, leaving the occasional bruise.

“we don't have-” you gasped as he sucked on your pulse point, “much time, my love.” he hummed against your neck, “it's my birthday, let me unwrap my gift,” he pouted. you giggled at his cliché phrase, slipping off your dress and gently tangling your fingers in his curly blonde locks, “i like your hair like this.”

his cheeks blushed a deep shade of crimson, reminding you of the endless bouquets of roses he always hand delivered to your door, even after you had been together for so long, “yeah?” you nodded, pressing a tender kiss to his forehead, “yeah, you look so pretty.”

a quiet whine left his throat at your words as he dropped his face into the crook of your neck, “how did i get so lucky to find someone like you?” he felt your skin beneath his flush with the heat of his romantic, yet vulnerable expression.

that was one of the things which drew you to seonghwa in the first place, his ability to be open and honest about his feelings with you. he adored that you valued this trait within him, and he slowly watched as you picked it up as your relationship progressed.

the silence that settled in the cool air wasn't uncomfortable by any means, just calm and still. a peaceful break from the day's commodities. though he enjoyed his birthday celebrations immensely, he couldn't help but need a moment to collect himself after his busy schedule.

you mindlessly played with his hair, not pushing him to finish what he started. rest was something you both valued, knowing that trying to function with low energy was never a good idea. but, when he ground his hips against yours, testing the waters, you knew that seonghwa was no longer interested in relaxing.

a quiet whimper fell from your lips as he shifted above you, getting better leverage to kiss you. the way he pressed his lips to yours, soft hands roaming your body, made you feel like you were both just two teenagers in love.

a particularly hard squeeze of your bare thigh made you gasp in surprise, seonghwa taking the opportunity to slip his tongue between your lips, licking the inside of your mouth and exploring every inch of it as though he was trying to commit every arch and crevice of it to memory. his thumb rubbed teasing circles along your inner thigh, creeping higher, and closer to where you needed him most.

“please,” you looked up at him, eyes pleading with him to do something, anything. “patience, jagiya,” he attached his plush lips to your collarbone, relishing in your moans as he lightly rubbed the wet spot of your panties.

he groaned, “baby, you're already soaked, and i've barely even touched you.” unable to wait any longer, you grabbed his wrist with your trembling hand, “all for you, hwa.” a deep growl rumbled through his chest, “all for me, my pretty girl,” his kisses trailed lower, marking your torso for as long as he could get away with.

“seonghwa,” your voice was laced with desperation and lust, driving the man hovering above your bra-clad chest utterly insane. he reached behind you, unclasping the garment and placing it on his desk chair, before attaching his lips to one of your nipples and sucking on it, the moans tumbling from your swollen lips spurring him on.

after giving both of your breasts an equal amount of attention, he slid himself down the bed a little bit, pressing soft kisses to the exposed skin of your legs, occasionally nipping at the skin. “please,” you begged, tugging his face closer to your aching core by his hair.

“please what, sweetheart?” he asked you innocently, batting his eyelashes. “seonghwa, please. i need you,” you were on the verge of tears from how badly you needed him to make you feel good. “shh, my darling. i know,” he gently pulled off your underwear, placing it neatly next to your bra, “i know.”

“fuck, seonghwa,” you whined, gripping his hair tightly as he buried his face inbetween your legs. he groaned as he felt you tug on his bleached hair, the vibrations causing your hips to buck further into his face. his nose bumped against your swollen clit, prompting a soft yelp to fall from your lips.

his long tongue licked a harsh stripe through your aching folds, bumping against your extremely sensitive bundle of nerves. he reached up to pin your hips to the mattress, his biceps flexing in his white shirt as he did so.

the slurping noises echoing throughout the room were embarrassingly loud, but seonghwa's endless enjoyment was always worth the slightly shameful feeling. you knew if you ever voiced such an insecurity to him, he would reassure you that he was obsessed with how wet you could get.

but for now, the sounds bounced around the edges of your subconscious mind, like the logo on a tv screen a dvd isn't playing. you began to think of other things you wondered were worth being self conscious over. you only reached as far as your body hair before seonghwa's voice pulled you out of your thoughts.

“shh, sweetheart. stop thinking, just clear that pretty little head of yours, and let me make you feel good,” he had noticed how quiet you'd gotten, your distant gaze recognisable to him as the one present when you let your mind wander.

the concern present on his face was akin to that of whenever he would watch you and wooyoung attempt nonsensical stunts together, causing a heavy feeling of guilt to settle deep in your chest, “i’m sorry, hwa.”

he sighed, coming up from between your legs to press a gentle kiss to your forehead, “there's no need to apologise, my love. just let me take care of my good girl.”

a soft whine tumbled from your slightly parted lips at the possessive intent of his words; which was saved only for times when seonghwa wanted to fully take control of the situation, allowing you to completely release your inhibitions.

your boyfriend captured your lips with his own in a passionate kiss, already observing the change in your demeanour. as you desperately clawed at the skin of his back, he groaned feeling the skin beneath your nails sting and tingle, the pressure making his trousers become even tighter.

seonghwa made his way back down your body, and quickly began eating you out again, intending to make you know how perfect he believed you to be. he held your thighs open with bruising force, definitely leaving marks where his fingertips dug into your soft skin.

your moans were louder now, and seonghwa was grinding into the bunched up blankets on the bed upon hearing his favourite sounds. he paid attention to what made you squirm, and repeated his actions again and again until you were gasping for air.

“hwa,” you whined, your grip on his hair like a vice, the tugging sensation causing his deep growls to vibrate directly through your core. his tongue dipped into your dripping hole with ease, thankful for his lack of gag reflex that allowed him to fuck you as deep as possible.

he noticed the way you fluttered around his tongue, squeezing his muscle to keep it inside of you. releasing your thighs from his hold, he reached up to hold your hand against your stomach, the added pressure causing your legs to shake around seonghwa's head.

his other hand moved to your neck, pulling his tongue out of your pussy for a brief second, “you gonna come for me, pretty girl?” the hand that lay on your stomach carefully reached down with his thumb to rub calculated circles around your clit, “you're doing so good, so well, and you're all mine.”

your hips moved wildly, and your already trembling thighs closed around his hand immediately. “want you to make a mess all over my face, okay?” he didn't give you time to answer him before he was back in his original position, tongue somehow deeper than before and his nose expertly positioned to stimulate your painfully swollen bundle of nerves.

knowing he couldn't keep this up for much longer as he couldn't breathe, his hand around your neck squeezed gently until the blood flowing to your brain was limited and your moans turned to short gasps and whimpers.

teetering on the edge of a mind-blowing orgasm, your hands flew up to seonghwa's hair to ground yourself, the groans that escaped his open mouth were what caused your thighs to trap his head between your legs with all of your strength, the coil that had been tightening in your lower stomach finally snapping.

just as both of you were ready to pass out from lack of oxygen, seonghwa removed his hand from your neck, feeling you go almost entirely limp beneath him. he cautiously parted your thighs that were encasing him in your warmth, taking a mental note of how much he loved the pressure and comfort.

he brushed some stray hairs out of your face, allowing you to catch his breath as he did the same. “jagiya?” he gently rubbed your hip, noticing the dark marks his fingertips left behind. you hummed, unable to form any words from how blissed out you felt.

“are you okay?” he asked you, worry laced within his tone. he wanted to make sure he didn't go too far, or hurt you. your weak nod and relaxed grin sent a rush of relief to course through his veins, glad you weren't in any noticeable pain or discomfort.

grabbing the bottle of water that sat on his bedside table, he carefully maneuvered you to sit up against his chest and drink until you weakly tapped his arm, signalling for him to lower it. “thank you, bunny,” you croaked out, your voice hoarse. “thank you, sweetheart.”

confused, you tilted your head backwards to look up at him, “what for?” he chuckled, kissing your forehead before moving your head back to a comfortable position, “for letting me make you feel good. you have no idea how rewarding it is for me.”

frowning, you became aware of the lack of hardness behind your back. a rush of fearful thoughts threatened to drown you as you worried seonghwa was no longer attracted to you or worse.

he was quick to notice your distant mind, your breathing picking up in speed almost imperceptibly. but nothing got by seonghwa, he would notice even the smallest things about you as though someone had circled them with a red marker and pointed directly at them.

wordlessly, he took your hand in his, his other unzipping his pants and pulling down his boxers slightly. the sight before you caused your jaw to drop as his cheeks and ears began to burn in embarrassment.

“you came just from eating me out?” you stared up at him in awe, trying to suppress your giggles. “you say just as if it isn't one of the hottest things i am privileged enough to bare witness to,” he hides his face in the crook of your neck, praying you wouldn't tell any of his friends.

you turned around so you could straddle him, delicately cupping his face in your hands, “please don't be embarrassed, my pretty boy. that might just be the hottest thing you've ever done.” he whined, covering his face with his hands, “i haven't done that since we were teenagers making out in the back of my car.”

“good thing for you is i still find it just as endearing as i did back then,” you kissed his forehead, avoiding the lower part of his face as it was still drenched in your wetness. he attempted to kiss you, but you leaned away, scrunching up your nose in faux disgust.

his gaze immediately hardened, his expression causing you to remember why they called it the ‘demon line’. he growled as he gripped your neck in his hand and pulled you into a searing kiss, his lips locking with yours perfectly. a quiet whine escaped your throat, and you noticed seonghwa getting hard again.

smirking, you jumped up off the bed, putting your dress back on and adjusting your hair in the mirror. seonghwa watched you from his place on the bed, contemplating getting himself off as he watched you reapply your lipstick, but he assumed you would have something much better in store for him.

what he wasn't expecting was you to be halfway out the door before turning around to look back at him, “come on, birthday boy. we've got a party to attend.”

please reblog, it really helps us authors!

[solarstranger]

omg your game sounds so fun!!!! may i submit for your consideration: shouto + offer

andie pants!!!! thank you for joining and for the versatile prompt. took me a while to decide how i wanted to go about the word offer, but ultimately settled with this after some thought. i hope the grown ass adults sitting behind me right now in the coffee shop didn't see the word sex on my google doc lmfao.

todoroki shouto + offer

c.w. minors dni. mentions of nsfw themes but nothing explicit. some cussing.

there were many things in your life that you could honestly say you are proud of.

your education. your passions. the amount of time and energy you’ve put into working on yourself and becoming a decent human being who tries to do something worthwhile with your life despite the strong gravitational pull your bed—and shouto—had on you every single morning without fail.

what isn’t one of them is the sheer number of hours you spend on your phone—scrolling through countless attention-span-killing reels—reels that are too damn funny or sexy or relatable for their, or your, own good. so much so that you wouldn’t have noticed the loud thump that resonated from your bathroom just now—drowning in a remix of justin bieber’s baby—if it weren’t for a pained hiss that could only come from your boyfriend’s mouth.

you shoot up at the sound—alarmed—head craned toward the source. “shouto?”

“…yeah?”

“you okay?”

“yeah,” he says again, the edge from earlier now making way for his usual soft-spokenness. “i’m alright. just—cut myself.”

at that, you hurriedly crawl out of bed, phone long forgotten on your newly washed sheets, before padding your way towards the smaller room. you didn’t know what you were expecting to see purely based on what he just said, but relief washes over you anyway when a seemingly okay shouto comes into view, a smidge of what looks like fresh blood staining the side of his chin.

he shoots you a sheepish look, razor in hand.

you shake your head, stepping slightly towards him and taking his jaw in your hand to examine the damage. “i thought i told you to be careful when shaving.”

“i was,” he claims, putting down the blade by the sink before placing his big hands on your hips where he once seriously, albeit drunkenly, insisted they belonged.

“well, you weren’t careful enough,” you quip, reaching for the overhead cabinet for a cotton pad and alcohol.

shouto doesn’t say anything to that, only watching you as you soak the material with disinfectant, quietly hissing once again when you turn back towards him to dab it on his small wound.

you try not to focus on how he’s staring at you the entire time.

or the fact that he’s kinda…sort of…topless right now.

“thank you, love,” he offers when you step back to throw the soiled fiber in the bin, and it takes everything within you not to playfully roll your eyes at the subtle yet somehow palpable lilt in his voice—the lilt that never fails to show up whenever he’s feeling affectionate.

particularly, when he feels affectionately babied by you.

“don’t start, sho,” you warn, peering at your reflection (partly to avoid his gaze or his abs) as you smooth down the invisible wrinkles on your burgundy dress. “you’re not even dressed, for fuck’s sake.”

“yeah, well, about that…”

you whip to look at him. “no.”

“wha—”

“we’re not bailing on your father, shouto.”

“who said we were bailing on him?”

“you think i don’t know how your propositions end up?” you shake your head, turning on your heel so you can march back to your shared bedroom.

“you know,” he’s trailing behind you now, dressed in nothing but his trousers, “you keep on using that word, but it’s incorrect. i’m nothing but subtle.”

“sure, big guy.”

“i’m serious,” he presses, circling your king-sized bed and planting himself right in front of you so that you’ve got no choice but to look at him.

“we’ll be quick,” shouto promises, a hint of a smile fighting to tug on his annoyingly—seemingly perpetually moisturized—lips.

you huff, before twisting back to stubbornly rummage through your purse. for what, you don’t know. “that’s what you always say.”

“and that’s how i always intend for things to go when i say that,” he alleges, leaning in to your side so he’s still all up in your face. “it’s just that…things usually don’t go as planned.”

at that, you can’t help but snort. “yet another reason why we shouldn’t have sex before we go.”

and when he doesn’t say anything, you finally give in and spare a glance at him, only to be met with a pouting shouto.

you frown. “don’t give me that look.”

if anything, shouto only pouts even more, although you can tell he’s trying hard not to grin.

you bristle.

“it’s working, isn’t it?”

"fucking—”

a/n. offer (v.) to put forward for consideration, to make oneself available. anywho, i'm still new to writing shouto, but if there's anything i learned about his characterization from you, andie, it's that he's a mischievous little shit deep down lmfao. i hope you enjoyed this <3

send me a character + word and i'll write a short drabble. ✍🏼

[lottinlover]

Pins & Sins | Kylian Mbappé

Summary: Bowling in Miami was meant to be a simple day off. But with Kylian, even a game turns into foreplay. Playful teasing turns possessive, and before long, you’re back in his hotel room, proving that for him, winning isn’t just about the scoreboard. It’s about claiming you, every way he knows how.

Tags: 18+, Smut with Feelings, Shamless Smut, Porn Without Plot, Public Teasing, Foreplay, Hotel Room Sex, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Quicke, Established Relationship, Possessive Behaviour, Kylian x Reader, Readers POV.

Word Count: 3500 ±

Author’s Note: Because Kylian posted a photo dump looking all sexy and hot. Thoughts spiralled, delusions diffused and fingers began typing. Here’s a quick and short Kylian x Reader that hopefully satisfies your cravings from those fine, FINE, photos.

Pins & Sins

The Miami afternoon barely seeps through the bowling alley windows, but the few creaks streak golden across the polished lanes. The air is filled with the muted clatter of pins and occasional bursts of laughter, the world reduced to soft music, sticky shoes, and the weight of small, ordinary joys.

Kylian steps forward, fluid and effortless. Even with the lingering illness coiling in his chest, he moves like there’s nothing in the world that could break him down. His cream knit polo hugs his arms just enough to reveal their sculpted hardness, veins twisting along his forearms as he lifts the ball, trousers draping low and loose on his hips. He exhales, bends his knees, releases. The ball glides down the lane with clean, vicious precision.

Strike.

Melissa cheers, clapping her hands above her head. Yaelle squeals, bouncing lightly on her heels. Billy gives a curt nod, lips twitching in quiet approval.

You watch him turn around, smile spreading wide and proud across his face. His eyes flicker to yours, glowing with boyish glee. 

God, he’s beautiful. 

In all his Dior neutrals, sun-tanned, deep brown skin aglow, hair brushed sharp and fluffed and forehead damp with leftover fever. The quiet ache of recovery remains in the heat of his cheeks, the sheen at his temples.

But he’s here. 

With you. 

Because he chose to be.

He catches you staring and his grin softens into something lazier, darker, “your turn,” he says.

You walk over and pick up a ball, fingers slipping into its weighty holes. Compared to the effortless grip in his large hands, it feels clumsy and oversized. You walk up to the lane, square your shoulders, swing back and release.

The ball veers off immediately, rolling into the gutter with a humiliating thunk.

Laughter erupts behind you, light and teasing. Heat blooms across your chest as you turn, catching Melissa’s sympathetic smile and Yaelle’s soft giggle. You shrug lightly, lips curling into a small, amused smirk. You’ve always been bad at bowling, it’s never embarrassed you. 

But that smirk on Kylian’s face, that infuriatingly gorgeous, cocky little twitch of his lips, dimples protruding, makes something tighten low in your belly. You want to wipe it off him, even though you find it insanely attractive. Even though you love when he looks at you like that. Teasing, amused, knowing exactly how he affects you.

“That was…” Kylian’s voice cuts through it all, low and amused, “tragic.”

You roll your eyes, shoulders tightening, “watch me next time.”

He’s already closing the distance before the sentence ends. His chest presses against your back, warm and unyielding. The smell of him, clean skin, musky Dior cologne, something sweet like vanilla and coconut from his lotion, wraps around you until the world shrinks down to his breath against your ear.

“I am watching,” he murmurs, voice coated in dark delight.

A shiver runs down your spine. He wraps his hand over yours, dwarfing it completely. His palm is hot, heavy, his long fingers veiny and strong as they adjust your grip on the ball. He does it slowly, deliberately, each movement designed to invade and claim. His other arm snakes around your waist to hold you steady, pressing you back into him.

You suck in a quiet, shaky breath when you feel him. Feel it. The soft, warm outline of his cock rests against your ass, thick even in its idleness. Your mind swims, body vibrating at the contact, the teasing promise of him already setting your nerves alight.

“Relax your wrist…” He whispers, lips brushing the shell of your ear, sending goosebumps rippling across your skin. His words rumble low, heavy with unspoken ownership. “…good girl.”

You swallow, throat tight, eyes fixed blankly at the pins ahead but seeing nothing except his reflection burned behind your eyelids. You feel his smile creep slow and dangerous against your neck, the silent knowledge that he feels your pulse flutter under your skin.

“Leave her alone, Monsieur Pro Athlete,” Melissa calls out from behind, her voice tinged with affectionate exasperation.

Kylian doesn’t move away, his grip only tightens, slightly, as he smirks, never peeling his body from yours. “I’m just helping her.” He yells back.

Yaelle giggles again. Billy flicks his gaze up from his phone, expression blank, but there’s a quiet knowing in his eyes before he looks away.

You inhale, chest lifting into his hold, bowling ball suddenly feeling impossibly heavy in your small hand. Heavy, round, dense with force, nothing compared to the weight of him pressed into your lower back, silent and throbbing with intent. The thought sears down your body like lightning, pooling molten between your thighs.

You blink hard, trying to focus. But he leans in closer, nose skimming down the line of your throat, his breath sinking into your skin like heat. You almost feel a kiss, his lips skating dangerously close to you.

“Go on,” he murmurs, voice dark with a smile. “Show me what you’ve got.”

With his hand still wrapped around yours, he guides your arm back, his other hand flattening over your stomach to hold you steady, pressing you back into the hardness of his body. You can feel every part of him. The flex of his chest as he adjusts your posture, the warm puff of his breath against your ear, the heavy, thick outline of his cock resting against your ass.

God, he makes it unbearable.

“I said relax your wrist… step forward as you release,” Kylian whispers, still oozing command, his lips grazing your earlobe, sending another shiver rippling down your spine.

You obey, body following his commands. The ball rolls down the lane in a straight line this time, clipping the standing pins and sending them clattering down in a victorious scatter.

A spare.

The cheers erupt behind you. Melissa clapping loudly, Yaelle squealing your name, Billy letting out a quiet approving hum. A small laugh bubbles out of your chest, pride mixing with dizzy relief. But before you can fully celebrate, his mouth is at your ear again, voice soaked in lazy, possessive delight.

“Good girl,” he purrs, low and intimate, only for you to hear. “Looks like you’re finally learning to take direction.”

“Oh, you’re being bad today.” You whisper back, sharing the same hunger in your eyes as his.

Still, pink flushes your cheeks, pooling under your skin in liquid waves as you turn away from his dark gaze and walk back towards the seats. He follows close behind. As you bend to sit, his hand is suddenly there, sliding under you, palm cupping your ass as you lower yourself onto him.

You gasp, eyes wide as they dart to his, your body stiffening at the sudden, filthy intimacy, then softening at the familiar touch. His smirk is slow and triumphant, eyes gleaming with dark amusement as his fingers squeeze, sinking into the soft flesh possessively.

Kylian leans in, his breath warm against your ear, voice a quiet rumble that curls low in your belly. “Careful, ma belle,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing against your inner thigh teasingly. “Winning turns me on… I might need to fuck my trophy later.”

Your breath hitches sharply, thighs clenching around nothing as his words sear through you, setting every nerve alight with frantic, desperate want.

Kylian pulls back casually, arm resting behind your seat now, expression lazy and innocent as if he hadn’t just promised to ruin you.

The last frame ends with a flick of his wrist and the thunderous collapse of pins. 

Another strike. 

Another perfect victory.

Kylian turns with that trademark grin, dimples settling deep into his cheeks. He lifts his hands, yelling for Melissa to capture a picture of him under the scoreboard. Melissa snorts with phone in hand, snapping a picture, Yaelle claps and cheers. Even Billy cracks a rare smile, shaking his head at the scoreboard glowing bright above the lanes.

KYKS – 139.

He walks over to you, chest still glowing with leftover exertion. His beige polo clings slightly to his collarbones, sweat darkening the delicate fabric. You hate how beautiful he looks like this. Flushed, loose, triumphant. 

“So proud of yourself, huh?” You tease, voice curling with fake annoyance.

“Always,” he murmurs, eyes roaming slowly over your navy sundress, lingering on the tight cinch around your waist and the way the neckline dips low against your collarbones, teasing your breast that sit pretty. “Winning’s in my blood.”

He leans in as he says it, whisper brushing your cheek, the low baritone of his voice vibrating deep into your bones. You swallow, eyes flicking up to meet his. The look he gives you is heavy, molten, his pupils blown wide with want.

The car ride back to the hotel is torture.

Miami’s heat melts into the windows, pink-orange light bleeding into the SUV’s leather interior. The AC is soft, scented faintly with vanilla and something musky that reminds you of his cologne. Melissa and Yaelle are giggling quietly in the back row, scrolling through photos from the day. Billy sits up front, attention half on the road, half on his phone.

Kylian sits beside you in the middle row, legs spread wide, chest rising and falling in a slow, controlled rhythm. His hand drapes heavy on your thigh, thumb tracing absentminded circles against your inner skin. The hem of your sundress rides up slightly, exposing the smooth stretch of your upper thigh to his touch.

He doesn’t look at you at first, eyes fixed out the tinted window at the palm trees swaying under the scorching Miami heat. But then his thumb drags higher and higher and higher, until it’s brushing the edge of your panties. You shift in your seat, biting back a gasp. His lips twitch, that dimple flashing briefly before his gaze finally flicks to yours.

“You were cute today,” he says softly, only for you to hear. The tone is dripping in honey but coated in harmless mockery. His eyes fall to your lips, then back up again, dark and gleaming. “Helpless.”

Your breath catches. Your chest tightens with want, skin prickling hot under the humid Miami air. But instead of shying away, you shift again, deliberately this time, turning slightly towards him. Your hand moves slowly, raking up his thigh, nails digging lightly into the soft beige fabric of his trousers, feeling the tense clench of muscle beneath.

He inhales sharply, a quiet hitch in his breath that makes your lips move into a small, knowing smile. Your fingers slide higher, bolder now, until your palm cups over his cock, feeling the heavy, warm outline of him through his trousers, soft still, but swelling quickly under your touch.

“Helpless, huh?” You murmur softly, your thumb stroking along his length with featherlight teasing, feeling him twitch beneath your touch. You lean closer, lips brushing his ear, your voice dipped in playful confidence. “Funny, because right now… you feel pretty fucking needy to me.”

His exhale is ragged, jaw clenching as his eyes darken, heavy with silent warning and lust. You keep your hand there, cupping him possessively as the car slows under the hotel’s grand entrance. Fans flashes flicker distantly outside the tinted windows, voices muffled by the closed doors.

He smirks then, slow and dangerous, eyes flicking down to your hand still gripping his cock. His own hand slides back to your thigh, squeezing hard enough to make you gasp quietly, heat exploding low in your belly.

“You’re driving me crazy in this cute dress,” he murmurs, voice low and guttural, heavy with promise. “I need you. Upstairs. Now.”

The lobby is quiet, cool, vibrating with marble echo. You stand beside him in the lift, the mirrored walls reflecting every angle. Like his broad shoulders towering beside you, your dress hugging every curve under the dim orange light. The seconds stretch, each floor number lighting up in silent sequence.

When the doors slide closed, he moves. Swift and unrelenting.

He presses you back against the lift wall, his body crowding yours until all you feel is him. His heat, his scent, the tension rolling off him in waves. One large hand grips your hip, fingers digging into your flesh possessively. The other snakes behind you, lifting up your dress and gripping your ass, squeezing hard enough to bruise.

His eyes are half-lidded, thick lashes kissing flushed cheekbones. Sweat from bowling still clings to his hairline, the coils tightening in the moisture. He leans down, lips ghosting over yours without touching.

“You want it?” He breathes, words lazy, soaked in dominance. His thumb brushes your bottom lip, smearing your gloss, smirking when your mouth falls open slightly in silent plea.

He rolls his hips into yours, and you feel it. God, you love it. The heavy, thick outline of his cock, pressing into your stomach, half-hard but promising. 

You nod, “I need it,” you mutter, biting down on your lip to swallow the whimper that wants to escape. Your knees feel weak. Your body hums with hot, feverish anticipation.

The lift dings open.

He pulls back, just enough to let cool air slip between your bodies. His smirk widens, eyes gleaming with silent victory. He takes your hand firmly in his, leading you out of the lift into the quiet corridor, not sparing you a single glance as he walks.

But his thumb rubs slow, deliberate circles against your wrist as he holds it, a silent foreshadowing of what’s to come.

The door clicks shut behind you, the quiet snick swallowed instantly by the thrum of your heart pounding in your ears. Before you can take a breath, he’s already there, all heat and mass and hunger, crowding you back against the door, palms slamming flat on either side of your head.

His eyes rake over you, dark and molten, jaw twitching with silent restraint. The polo stretches across his shoulders as his chest heaves, each breath heavy and deliberate, nostrils flaring as he takes you in.

You're flushed, from the heat maybe, from Kylian’s stare definitely. His gaze is intense, trembling, and your dress straps slipping off one shoulder, pupils blown wide with wanting.

“Turn around,” he murmurs, voice low and ragged.

You obey instantly, front pressing flat to the cool wood, the curve of your ass brushing against the front of his trousers. His hands snake around your waist, slipping up, fingers hooking under your sundress straps and dragging them down, exposing your breasts. They bounce, giggle and the cool hotel air hits them hard, perking your nipples 

A strangled gasp escapes your lips when his hands cup you, squeezing hard, thumbs brushing over your perked nipples with measured pressure. He pulls them, twirls, anything to stimulate and moans come from you. His mouth finds your neck next, open and hot, teeth scraping over your pulse before he sucks, slow and deep, marking you. You moan softly again, head falling back against his shoulder, allowing more space for his tongue to run rouge. 

“Fuck… Ky-Kylian…” You breathe, voice breaking on his name.

He growls at that, the sound vibrating through your skin and straight down to your pussy. One hand leaves your breast to shove his trousers down just enough to free his cock. You twist slightly, enough to catch sight of it. It’s thick, caramel macchiato type colourway, with a darkening gradient as it slopes closer to his balls. He’s leaking, the tip gleaming with precum and veins pulsing along the shaft.

Without thinking, driven by instinct and heat, you reach back to wrap your fingers around him. He hisses, forehead dropping to your shoulder, a gentle bite there as your grip tightens, thumb smearing his precum down his length. He twitches in your hand, impossibly hard, heavy and burning hot against your palm.

He turns your head more, captures your mouth in a bruising kiss. It’s deep, filthy, tongue curling into yours with dominance. He sucks your tongue into his mouth before biting down gently on your bottom lip, pulling back with a quiet groan.

“You gonna be a good girl for me?” He rasps, his free hand squeezing your throat lightly, forcing you to hold his gaze better.

“Anything for my winner,” you breathe, voice soaked in devotion and teasing pride, meeting his deep glare.

He groans, low and animalistic, the sound vibrating down your spine, “fuck… bend over the bed. Quick!”

He steps back, the weight of him no longer pressed against you, it leaves space for you to stumble forward, thighs trembling, knees weak with anticipation. The sundress pools around your waist, tits wild and free, panties clinging damp between your thighs. He follows you closely behind, a hunger in his breath. And as you kneel on all fours at the edge of the bed, you feel the brush of his fingers, rough and needy, as he slides your panties to the side, too lazy to undress you, too hungry to wait for his meal bare and open. Cool air hits your dripping pussy and you shiver, moaning softly.

He sinks to his knees behind you without a word, hands spreading your cheeks apart. His breath fans over your soaking folds, hot and heavy. And then his tongue is on you, bold and greedy, licking a long stripe from your dripping entrance up to your clit.

"You taste so fucking sweet," He moans, tongue circling your clit with tight route, with ruthless precision before sucking it all into his mouth.

“Fuck–Kylian,” you whimper, your hands clawing at the bed sheets, head dropping as he devours you like you're his favourite meal.

He groans into your pussy, loud and greedy, the vibrations shooting through your entire body. His tongue thrusts inside you, fucking you with wet, filthy sounds echoing in the quiet room, his fingers bruising into your ass as he holds you open for him.

When you’re trembling, hips bucking back into his face, he pulls away with a final, cruel flick of his tongue. You sob at the loss, knees almost giving out.

“Perk it up for,” he orders, voice dripping with command.

You obey, slanting down your chest, letting your arch perfect as your ass hovers high in the air for him to see your beauty in high definition. He stands, towering behind you, one hand fisting the base of his cock, spreading your slick along his length. He lines up, drags the heavy length of his cock along your entrance and taps. 

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Then without warning, he thrusts in deep, burying himself to the hilt in one brutal, delicious stroke.

Your scream tears through the air, muffled quickly as he wraps his hand over your mouth, leaning forward until his chest is pressed against your back, his cock pulsing inside you, stretching you wide and full.

“Shh… good girl. So fucking tight for me.” He groans into your ear, hips pulling back before he leans back and slams forward again with bone-shaking force. His other hand pushes aside your panties, placing it over the curve of your left cheek, freeing up more space for his cock to fully submerge into your wetness. 

Your vision blurs with tears of pleasure. Each thrust jerks you forward against the bed, his grip on your hip heated, keeping you in place as he fucks you with ruthless, unrelenting pace.

“Fuck me… fuck me,” you pant against his palm, each word broken by the slap of his hips against your ass.

He chuckles darkly, pulling your hair back so your vision tilts upside down, catching sight of his face. His brow furrowed, lips parted, sweat dripping down his temple, a crease of concentration between his brows, his tongue poking out slightly as he watches himself sink into you over and over again. He’s still fully dressed, trousers pooling at his ankle as he snaps into your. 

Harder each time. 

More angled.

“You like when I take you like this, huh?” He grits out, voice strained with effort and pleasure. “Can’t even bowl a ball but you take my cock so fucking well.”

His words send you spiralling. Your walls flutter around him, clenching impossibly tight as you feel it rising. Your eyes start to roll, the build up creeps and before you know it you’re hurling a loud moan. 

Your orgasm slams into you with violent, searing force. Your body convulses, hips stuttering, a broken moan ripping from your throat as your vision whites out. Your legs tremble barely mustering the strength to hold you up. 

Kylian feels you tighten around him, the rhythmic pulsing milking his cock. He groans low, deep, fucking you through your release before his thrusts grow sloppy. With a final, bruising snap of his hips, he buries himself deep, grinding as he spills inside you, hot and thick, filling you to the brim. He growls, riding his climax as you clench around him, the stimulation too dangerous to bare.

You collapse, arch faltering into the bed, chest heaving, thighs trembling uncontrollably. The pleasure leaves you hazy, dizzy, as if drugged by him and the Miami heat and the quiet intensity of his love disguised as possessiveness.

He stays inside you, leaning down to press his chest against your back. His hand fists your hair, tilting your head up again as his mouth finds yours in another messy kiss, the only way he likes it, sucking and mouthing at every inch of you. His tongue slides into your mouth, hot and heavy, tasting of you. He pulls back, a thin strand of spit connecting your tongues before it breaks, smearing across your lips.

He pulls his cock out slowly, a quiet groan escaping his lips as he watches his cum drip out of your swollen cunt.

“So pretty…” he breathes, voice thick with exhaustion and satisfaction. He strokes your hip gently where purple and red bruises bloom, the touch grounds you. “You did so good for me.”

You whimper softly, cheek pressed against the bed sheets, your body still shivering with aftershocks. Still slightly jerking from an explosion that set you ablaze. 

He lifts off you, standing now, tucking himself back into his briefs, then picking up his trousers, running a hand through his sweat-damp coils. He looks down at you with that victorious, lazy smirk, eyes half-lidded, chest still heaving. Different from the smirk from earlier on, this one is deeper, richer, with a purpose. 

As if fucking you rentlessly was always the win. 

“I’ve got training,” he murmurs, leaning down to press a kiss to the base of your spine. Then trailing back up, smirking at how your body reacts in a shaking pants, still trying to catch up with reality. “Rest up, ma belle. We’ll play again tonight.”

And with that, he turns away, leaving you fucked-out and trembling, the scent of him lingering thick and hot in the air as the Miami sunset glows orange behind the hotel curtains.

Bowling had only been foreplay in the end, a simple reminder that with Kylian, winning wasn’t just in his blood.

It was in the way he claimed you too. 

Every time. 

Every way.

[the-fiction-witch]

Bracken Bunny

Media - House Of The Dragon Character - Davos Blackwood Couple - Davos X Reader Reader - (OC) Lady Y/n Bracken Rating - Smut (Non Con) Word Count - 1503

Warnings - Blood, Non Consent, Kidnapping

I held my breath, keeping my lungs strong and stiff. My knees were deep in the thick, slimy mud but I kept my legs still so I didn’t sink or slide any more. My fingers trembled slightly as I held the string taut. I watched my line of sight as the rabbit nibbled at the grass and slowly popped up its head. So I released the string sending the arrow across the grass and striking the rabbit.

I hurried over, taking my arrow back and putting the rabbit into my bag with the few rabbits, birds and mushrooms I had gathered while hunting.

It wasn’t much, I hadn’t found much of anything all day. The rainy and damp days are likely sending most game away.

I slowly walked the border between Bracken and Blackwood land, looking for any game on our side. Often gritting my teeth if anything was on theirs, I wanted to take it but I didn’t want to give any excuse for a fight.

I stopped short as I saw a deer chewing on a tree, I quickly grabbed an arrow and used the border stone to rest my foot to keep me from sliding on the mud. I held my breath as I drew my bow and quickly let it go, but the deer jumped away and I missed.

“Shit.” I sighed,

I’m not letting it go, I hurried over the border and followed the deer as close as I could to see it but not spook it.

The deer once again stopped in the open Blackwood field to eat some grass, I made sure it couldn’t see me as I drew another arrow making sure to line it up perfectly holding my breath and keeping my arm straight.

Just as I was about to release the arrow, I felt the cold sting of a blade against my bare skin, the blade pressed against my neck, and the hot breath on my ear. “Drop the bow,”

“Or what?” I whispered,

“or drown in your own blood.” He warns, “Drop it. Now.”

I grit my teeth and put my bow down on the grass,

“Good, now… tell me, what is a little bracken babe doing on blackwood land?”

“Tea Party,” I spat back,

“Humm, you weren’t planning on striking down that deer were you darling? A Blackwood Deer on Blackwood Land.”

“It’s not a Blackwood Deer, it was on Bracken land when I-”

“And now it’s on Blackwood land making it a Blackwood Deer.” He interrupted, “So? Did you plan to shoot?”

“... Yes.”

He chuckled, “I could have your head for that,” he paused, “But… you have a rather pretty head,”

I gasped, “Let me go. Let me go I’ll go home.”

“Awww… no, it’s a little late for that my little Bracken,” He chuckled smugly, “You are going to stay right here with me,” He growled his tongue slipped from his lips to lick the lobe of my ear, his other hand came around me holding my hip sliding over my dresses damp fabric, he got handsy sliding across me with little regard like I was some whore from a blackwood brothel.

I squirmed but he just held me tighter pressing the blade closer to my skin so if I moved more than even a breath it would cut my skin, “Let me go,”

“Now why would I do that? I think you and I could enjoy ourselves out here.” He purred, as his hand getting braver and less considerate brushing his hand across almost all of me, “quiet the pretty little thing aren’t you?”

“Let me go!” I snapped,

“No, no, you’re going to let me have my fun. Or I’ll cut your head off. You’re choice.” He demanded, “Yes?”

I didn’t answer merely huffed knowing I had little choice in this matter,

“Good,” He praised as his hand cupped my breast through my dress,

I gritted my teeth to stop my violet insults at him, trying to think of a way of getting out of this,

“Hum… how did the brackens ever get a pretty little thing like you,” He growled as he took the blade from my neck but before I could even move he pressed his body completely against my back thrusting his hips into mine and forcing me to feel the stiff shaft below his trousers, his other hand came to cup my other breast, his hands squeezing and fondling me. “Usually all Bracken girls are wide horse-faced little shits who look like they got pummeled with a sword… but you,” He smirked, “You’re beautiful, and ever so pleasing to touch little bracken.” He praised, “Let's get a better look at you,”

“Don’t. You. Dare.” I warned,

“Ohh I would, I would dare darling,” He smiled in my ear as he grabbed the fabric of my dress and gave it a firm tug forcing the top of my dress down and exposing my breasts to the air,

I screamed and tried to squirm away but he held me too tight,

“Ohh yeah, a very pretty little bracken,” He growled cupping my bare breasts in his hands and squeezing them hard, “Maybe I should take you back to Raventree Hall with me,” He purred gliding his tongue across my cheek,

I didn’t answer, too busy trying to get out of his perverted grip,

“Would you like that? Should I drag my little Bracken home with me kicking and screaming? Throw her on my bed and fuck her cute little cunt?” He smirked one hand moving from my breast to force its way between my legs grabbing me through my dress,

“My father-”

“Like I give a shit about your father. Or any other Bracken, All I want right now is this.” He smirked squeezing me tighter, “And I am very tempted to steal it,”

“Let me go. Let me go right now, or I will scream so loud every man in Stone Hedge will come and-”

“And what?”

“And drag you to Stonehedge on the back of their horses, and hang you from the tower.”

He chuckled, “You can’t really blame me, look at you. On Blackwood land, with muddy knees, a soaking dress, with your tits out. How am I meant to resist you?” He began to twist on my nipple as it hardened from the cold air,

I screamed from the pain, but he didn’t care. His one hand squeezing my breast his fingers twisting and tugging on my nipple, his other hand between my legs stroking so hard his fingers moved between my folds through my dress, his hips rubbing against my back forcing me to feel his hard shaft,

“Fuck… I might not be able to wait, I might just need to bend you over in this field,” He growled,

But quickly while he was so distracted I grabbed my blade from my belt and turned quickly sliding on the mud and grass and slicing his cheek as I did,

“Ahh! You little fucker!” He grabbed my wrist and for the first time we made eye contact, His smile only grew as he realized who I was,

And I gulped, eyes wide and becoming breathless as I now knew… which blackwood he was. Davos Blackwood, Lord Blackwood’s violet, hot-headed son, and I instantly realized just how fucked I was.

“My, my, my… Looks like I don’t just have some pretty little Bracken girl in my arms,” He smirked squeezing my wrist until I was forced to drop my blade, “But I have the pretty little Lady Y/n Bracken in my arms,” He growled licking his lips, “Ohh yeah, you’re coming to Raventree with me little lady,” He smirked as he forced me back around and used my belt to restain my hands behind my back,

“No, I am not,” I demanded my voice shaky,

“Yes, you are, How ever could I pass up such an opportunity? To keep little lady Bracken as my prisoner. They’re gonna have to be very compliant to get their little lady back.” He smirked, “And in that time I… will get to make very good use of you,” He growled biting my neck, “And I’ll be sure you pay you back for that little cat scratch,”

“I swear you try and take me I will scream bloody murder the whole way to Raventree,”

“Will you now?” He chuckled, “Not if I do this,” He grabbed my ribbon choker necklace forcing it off me and before I could even protest he forced it between my lips and tied it behind my head gagging me and silencing me.

I screamed but it only came out as a muffled mess, I tried to squirm but the belt held me too tight, I had no choice, no option but to do as he demanded.

He forced my dress back up to hide my breasts and wrapped his cloak around me pulling the hood up so anyone we encountered wouldn’t know who I was, “Come on now my little Bracken Bunny, Let’s get you someplace comfy.” he smirked taking my blade and my bow as he forced me to walk with him. 

[fraugwinska]

all of these requests have been great! could i suggest Human Alastor/Unruly Reader? they have a little age gap where he’s in his thirties while they are in their early twenties. he puts them in their place by spanking them with his belt then fucking them? the daddy issues in me needs him to reprimand! 💛💛💛💛

Here you go, Anon ;> I hope you'll like your little #SlutSnack, as will all the Human!Alastor fans ;>

Lessons in Leather

"Say it again, sweetling."

He didn't give her time to get the words out, his leather belt whirring through the air with a whipping sizzle before it struck her already red cheeks again. The impact produced two sounds. The first one was a hard, sharp smack like a cracking whip as the leather hit her supple ass. The second noise came from the girl bent over his study as she cried out, mewling with pain and moaning from the pleasure alike at the force of the strike.

"I'm waiting, darling."

"I..", she whimpered, squirming as he looped the leather strap in between his hands, "I won't make a scene in front of your home ever again." She stayed obediently on the study desk, ass naked and wiggling. With his free left hand, he steadied her thighs and dug his strong fingers around her supple flesh. He spread her buttcheeks so that the tiny little entrance was spread open to his gaze, pink and tender with barely-used, delicate little muscles stretched into a virgin ring around that opening.

"And you will come only when I summon you. I will not be inconvenienced by a bratty child, will I?" He ran a finger, very carefully, along her rosebud. The skin there was hot, flushed and even damp with arousal and perspiration. It fluttered with need beneath his thumb, as if it was anxious, and his own cock throbbed within the confines of his breeches. A long time had passed since last he'd taken his pleasure so completely.

"I'm n-not...not a child."

He smiled darkly, at both the petulant tone of her voice as well as the fact that she had purposefully said it like that to provoke him. It was objectively on the borderline to outrageous, their little affair, Alastor knew it. She knew it too. But his sweet darling, more than ten years younger than him, had been persistent from the moment she met him in the little café where he always got his morning coffee. A new hire, a quick-witted, bratty little thing, with a sharp tongue and long, batting lashes. The younger fellas were all over her, but she only had eyes for him. And what started as a harmless flirt for the fresher batch of coffee soon became a dangerous game when she started appearing at his work and on his way home. Alastor was torn - she matched his own insanity in a beautifully twisted way, and even though he threaded dangerous ground when his eye was drawn by someone who proved to be this intrusive, given his nightly endeavors, he just didn't seem able to resist her.

"Running your mouth with attitude, my pretty, only means you need a harder spanking to get the message across, doesn't it? Very well then. No more little love-taps."

She swallowed as he let his belt slip onto the ground, his palm instead caressing her silken, creamy flesh, scattered with hot red streaks, and with an efficient little motion, he kicked her feet apart and pressed his hand on the arch of her back as he pulled his trousers open and released his painfully hard cock.

"You know the rules, sweetling. Good girls get fucked like good girls. And bad girls..." His voice was thick, deep and filled with lust as he rubbed his thumb against her unexplored hole until she was gasping and whimpering. "Bad girls get fucked here, darling."

His cock slid in between her cheeks and the moan that followed at the sheer vulgarity was long and loud and utterly delicious. His girl had been a virgin, and while he didn't take her the traditional way for a long time, he finally broke her in after the memorable tantrum she threw when she first came to his workplace. It was only fitting that her recent misbehavior, breaking the only other set boundary she unnervingly had pushed until today - following him to his home and disrupting his private space, including his nosey landlord - was treated the same way. Her little bottom was still untouched however, and the thought of the sensation of her tight, silken channel clenching and fluttering around his cock, squeezing him deliciously as he fucked her little asshole, was enough to drive him out of his mind with devious glee.

"Ala-Alastor!"

Slowly, teasingly he prodded her, working the tip of his cock into her tight, virgin entrance, lubricated nicely by both his thick precum and her dripping arousal. The puckered little rosebud resisted him for only a moment before her hole spread hesitantly to allow him entrance. He could see the strain as her ass was slowly but surely stretched around his girth, and he paused halfway in, enjoying the sensation of being buried inside of her, and the sight of her, shivering in embarrassment and lust.

"I've got you, sweetling." He murmured soothingly, stroking a hand up her back to grasp the long fall of her hair, pulling on it just enough that her back arched in the most delightful way. "Just relax, now. Show me you can be my good girl, just relax and take it, sweetheart."

His movements were slow and careful as he thrusted, and her little body shivered and jerked as he slowly began to fuck her in earnest. The girl was a wanton and cunning vixen hiding behind the facade of a naive bimbo of a girl, and she loved being fucked by him. Her brattish words failed her as her body betrayed her every time, responding so nicely to his lectures and punishments. Even now, her body was quick to adjust to the stretch and the friction of his cock as he took her ass, her hips moving and pushing back against him, greedy and almost demanding.

"That's it, pretty girl." Alastor rasped. "Look at you, taking my cock like a good girl. And good girls get to cum, don't they?"

"Y-yesss..." she moaned, his thrusts growing longer and deeper, and his cock swelling with the neediness and impatience in her tone. Alastor smiled wickedly, the fingers of his free hand reaching around her waist to dip into her swollen cunt, finding her wet and slick with her own juices, overripe, ready and waiting for his touch. He knew he'd make her cum soon enough, and the thought made his cock twitch in her ass as he started to circle her clit with strategic pressure, her breath coming out in stuttering gasps of his name as he worked her towards the precipice of her climax. But he also knew that just once wouldn't do. Alastor was nothing but a thorough teacher, and his little sweetling still had some lessons to learn.

[hollowwhisperings]

writing about hanfu: a guide

so! you have learned what "hanfu" is! congrats!

now i have to tell you, very politely, to forget the word "hanfu".

in most xianxia or historical chinese settings, where characters are assumed to be speaking in chinese, &/or have never been outside of china? all "fu" (clothing) is "hanfu" by default.

because most chinese people (mainland AND diasporic!) are han chinese and han chinese have been the ruling majority for pretty much all of china's history.

(primary exceptions are the mongolian-lead yuan dynasty & the manchu-lead ming dynasty but, in chinese fiction, it is always non-han chinese garments that are specified as such)

with this history in mind, it is almost always anachronistic to specify to chinese characters that something is chinese: the term "hanfu" was only invented when western dress became the assumed default!

so, when incorporating traditional chinese fashions in your english language work?

use descriptors such as "wide-" or "long-sleeved" when meaning these kinds of top garments

"frog-buttoned" or "wide-collared" when referencing manchu shirt styles (such as the modern qipao/cheongsam)

"trousers" is valid (if you're worried about being misunderstood, you can specify that they're "silk" or "wide-legged")

"robe" or "dress" for a single layer of full body hanfu; "robes" for multiple layers.

underwear is anachronistic pretty much everywhere, historically: historical dress uses an "inner layer" or "inner robe" for hygienic purposes. "shift" works too but is more associated with medieval european dress.

if looking up the history of sanitary napkins or loincloths feels daunting, you could sidestep the issue entirely with "undergarments".

"boots" or "slippers" for shoes (but you can also just say "shoes")

no one is wearing heels unless they're from a video game

"stockings" for socks

fabrics can be safely assumed to be "silk" (rich elite/inner layers of the middle-class); "cotton" or "linen" (commoners/inner layers/when exercising). you can also just say "cloth" or "fabric".

(other fabrics did exist historically, wool & hemp for example, but stereotypical hanfu moves like silk and most xianxia characters end up rich enough for it)

most closures will be tied, buttoned or belted. hooks are plausible and so are clasps. zippers do not exist.

(unless you're in a modern setting where characters are regular people buying off taobao)

generally speaking, you only need to use another language's terminology when there is no english equivalent or there is a strong cultural nuance that would be missed. the latter is only true of hanfu when worn IRL, in the modern era, by real people (typically at graduations or weddings).

for more specific terms and insights on traditional chinese dress (hanfu & otherwise), i recommend checking out @ziseviolet and other dedicated chinese-by-chinese fashion bloggers.

if you've been hesitant to write in a historical chinese setting, i hope this post has reassured you that you don't need to learn pinyin to do it. it's scary to write a culture you're unused to! these tips are chinese-specific but the same logic broadly applies to all non-eurocentred cultures.

(the big exception is the names of people and places: don't translate these into english until you have a REALLY strong justification for it. even then, don't treat machine translation a being a reliable source when it really isn't.)

i am but one person with approximate knowledge of many things: these tips can help ENG writers keep readers immersed in CN settings. that's all.

[littlelittlebear]

nervous young inhumans

hunger games au - mentor!ellie x reader

No one wins the Games out of pure skill, you need to make yourself entertaining-- give the people a story. And well? No one's ever romanced their mentor for that. Ellie Williams is an asshole, and the worst mentor you could ask for, but she’ll do.

femme!reader, butch!ellie, fake dating, enemies to lovers, slow burn to them, fastest burn in the west to everyone else. eventual smut chapters and chapters from now. gotta feed you geese somehow. borrowed some arcane characters because creative writing knows no bounds. reader's 18, ellie's 19

series masterlist

1. (2.9k words) a plan is made

The sleek train bulleted through the plains of Panem. The great, towering trees of District Seven that sheltered your entire life and perfumed your childhood with pine and oak moved further and further away. You clung to the skirt of your modest sundress desperately, as if you could wring some answers from it. It’s pink, not neon like the high heeled boots worn by the prissy capitolite, Salo, who announced your name on the gallows with a sickening yet indifferent satisfaction. No, pink like the blossoms on your favorite tree, or the blush of a newborn.

Reaped at 18, a single year before you were free from the Capitol’s claws. What a joke.

You never had tesserae, being a merchant girl working for the only nursery in all of Seven. Shocked doesn't begin to cover it.

“i don’t know what to do,” you sniffled, trying to keep tears at bay. When you and Sam secluded yourselves to the bay window, you couldn’t have missed the cameras bolted snugly, obvious and unafraid, on a tabletop nearby. You’ve heard it said all your life, every time you witnessed a Peacekeeper’s cruelty: don’t give them the satisfaction of your reaction.

Beside you, Sam gripped the knees of his trousers, palming them anxiously. He was well off too, working behind the counter of his family’s toy shop. How either of you drew the short straw is beyond you.

“I-I don’t…” he trails off, speechless, because no one knows what to do if you’ve been reaped.

Sam's the sweetest boy in town, never rowdy or crass, the way other town boys end up. He was bigger than all of them, real burly from chopping the wood needed for toys, but so harmless he's about as mighty as a butterfly. Sam's only a year younger than you, but in this moment you felt a strong urge to mother him. You imagined an empty toyshop counter, and recalled how his lovely brother, Henry, screamed so loudly when his name was read that a Peacekeeper knocked him on the head. The salt overflowed and stung, before running down your face, cameras be damned. You wrapped an arm around him as you cried and he desperately tried not to.

“Hey, s’what we’re here for.” Drawled a gruff voice, drawing nearer. Joel Miller won–he never calls it winning–the games when your mother was a child. He famously slaughtered the Careers and big competition on the second day. The Capitol tours him as a Panem-class warrior, and dresses him up in flashy gold and feathery helmets. In Seven, he’s completely different, he’s the humblest man around. You remember the day your mother told you just who Joel is. It had you so frightened of him, until he surprised you with a tiny bouquet of baby pink roses, saying: “I don’t hurt anyone no more, little one.”

While he never would've had to work again with his Games courtesy paycheck, he set up a music shop in town. He sells guitars and the like for considerably cheap. Joel crafts them himself, and teaches customers the basics while he’s at it for free. He taught you. He taught Sam. Joel Miller’s eyes are dark but kind. When you were little, your mother would tell you an ancient story of a magical world and its heroes of four siblings, and an all-powerful lion who “isn’t safe, but good.” Somehow, you pictured Joel as that fairytale lion.

You trust him immensely, you’re sure Sam does too. If he can teach you Blackbird–your favorite song from the old times–the first day you picked up a guitar, he can guide you through the Hunger Games.

District Six has enough victors that they can rotate who mentors, but Joel makes sure he’s on the job every year to impart his life saving, lethal knowledge. He isn’t safe, but he’s good.

He seats himself across from you, and hunkers over his spread legs. He smells so much like home, even in this sterilized train, it makes the tears speed up. “I’m not gonna ask you how you are, or tell you it’s gonna be alright, that’s a hunk of bullshit.”

You laugh, humorlessly. “Thank you, Joel.” Sam's still frozen up. Like it could thaw him, you rubbed his shoulders.

“Very welcome.” Said Joel. Sighing, he took a hand from you and Sam. “I can’t get you both out of there, but I can sure as hell prepare you, get you as far as you can–”

“You’re going to die slow, excruciating deaths.” Ellie Williams leaned against the door frame at the end of the room in a crinkled, blue button up that made her eyes burn bright. A high-tech cigar puffed between her lips. Her cold stare bore into Sam and Joel, but not you, you noticed.

“C’mon, El, what’s that good for.” Joel sighs, rubbing his face. Sam's leg shaking intensified, before he stormed off down the hallway. Ellie dodged the charge with her hands up in a mocking ‘surrender’.

Ellie Williams always had this devil may care attitude. She saunters around town, plowing through cigarettes–you guess she’s piping that electronic thing now because the train doesn’t allow it– while treating the staff of every shop like shit. She treats anyone she runs into like shit. You’ve never seen her in the nursery, she has no business in one, but stories from schoolmates tell you all about her. Plus, you’ve had a run in or two yourself. People say that, since her games five years ago, she became a Capitol sympathizer, and that she looks at Seven the way President Marlene does. As if we should be kept in cages for the good of her sensibilities. You’re not keen on really disliking anybody, but boy does it run strong for this girl. More likely, you just know how much she dislikes you, and without the slightest idea why. She gives you the stink eye plenty, and once blew her heinous smoke in your face when you asked her–politely–if she could step out of the way in a busy crowd.

As much as you hate it, she’s not wrong at all.

“She’s right.” You said softly. Ellie’s scarred eyebrow quirked. You see her actually take the time to look at you. “I’m not stupid. I’m not a killing machine, I sing to babies all damn day, I could never beat a Career, I–” you cut yourself off with a choked breath. “I couldn’t even beat Sam… if it came down to it.” Sam's plenty sweet, but you’re not close as can be. You know how close Henry and Sam are, and how Sam will stop at nothing to get back home to him. It could very well come down to that. “I’m going to die.”

Joel didn’t answer, maybe still sorting through your depressing resolve. District Seven is not known for hopeless tributes, you can’t imagine he’s heard something like this from his own kind before.

Humored, Ellie pulled up a chair and leans forward just like Joel. “What are you talking to us for then? Might as well let the inevitable happen.”

“Maybe I wanted to bask in your darling presence.” You quip back at her.

“Yeah, I’m too kind. What are you gonna do in there? Patty-cake em to death?” She glared, which you gave right back. This is the most you've spoken aside from the semi-frequent ‘Watch it’ you get from her after unfortunately bumping into each other.

“I’m not going to kill anybody–”

“Oh, grow up.”

An offended gasp leaves you as you stared each other down. You could tell she was trying to unnerve you, something mean and uncaring pulsed in her eyes, but you didn't back down. Stripped of any evidence of dislike, you stared at her with indifference. Like she were a bag in a window. Maybe she sensed it, because she scoffed and looked away. Williams - 0, You - 1.

Joel looked to between you, waiting for the tension to ebb. “I’ve heard from other…” he cringed, “victors that their tributes don’t always care to survive all the way, that they got some greater priority. Let us know–” at the ‘us’, Ellie rolled her eyes.

“I’m good, actually.” She said.

“Let us know,” He insists, “and we’ll try to get you what you need.”

You nodded, ignoring Ellie, and gathered your thoughts. While you never would’ve imagined actually being reaped, you have thought about what you’d do in the Games. Who hasn’t? “I want to last as long as I can, helping the others. The little ones, like the pair from Twelve and Six. I don’t want my death to be ugly, for the kids and my mother.” You tried to sound brave, but your balled up fists wouldn’t stop trembling.

A flash of softness appeared, then vanished on Ellie’s face. She didn’t expect that. She was ready to hear you plot your suicide, or lay out some plan to ‘live it up’ before your final days. She’s never heard of a tribute wanting to survive for her competition before. She decides that’s stupid. Her lip snarled.

“Have mercy,” She muttered under her breath, exasperated. “We’ve got a martyr, everybody.”

Joel ignored her, taking your request seriously. “Alright, Hon. We can do that. Just don’t bring up your plan during interviews. Admitting you're going in only to get folks along is a one way ticket to zero sponsors, and we don’t want you suffering in there.”

After a tense dinner with a frigid Sam, a soothing but unsure Joel, a relentless Salo, and a thankfully empty seat where Ellie was meant, you pulled your Capitol-issued pajamas on. They were a fine silk that peskily clung to your skin. You missed your cotton nightgowns. The bay window was long abandoned by you and Sam, Seven is too far away now that there’s no point. The shakes that buzzed through your veins seemingly every second were gone by now. You reached a strange peace– you were sure that’ll change in the arena, but any absence of the all-wracking anxious doom was welcome.

A knock rapped on your bedroom door, Joel’s shadow etched into the frosted glass.

“Evenin’,” He said, when you met him at the door. “I just wanted to say sorry about Ellie.” You were taken aback. Why would Joel mind what you think about her?

As you recalled, Ellie’s games were a little like Joel’s, but she came in as endearing, intelligent. As though she’d win the games by beating the other tributes in sudoku and a battle of fun facts. Then the countdown sounded off. Half the tributes died in the bloodbath, all at her hands. She was only fourteen. Her arena had this wild west theme that was unbelievably cheesy, even for the Capitol, so now they call her the Bandit Williams. You’ve always theorized that persona was made to explain Ellie’s jaded demeanor. Jaded’s barely the word.

“Don’t worry. I didn’t expect her to be of any help to begin with.” You said, softly. You weren’t even sure why she was mentoring this year. Was Marlene demanding more televised presence from her?

He sighed. “She can help… sometimes. I still would just like to ‘pologize for her. She don’t need to be–”

“A first degree ass?” You both chuckled. “You know… I don’t mind it so.”

His brow furrowed. “Really?”

You nodded. “Adds some normalcy, it’d feel like the end times are nigh if she came around cooing in our ears with hospitality.” You stopped yourself short. “I mean the end times are not-not nigh.” You cracked a smile.

“You’re a real riot, shit.” Amusement filled his face, before it was struck down in reminder of where you were; of what’s coming. You get it. You’ll miss him too, if death’s a place where you can miss people. He clears his face. “We didn’t get to talk earlier about how you’ll be in interviews.” He says, voice deeper and more serious.

Your breath deepened. Right. You’ve got to market yourself like a hot commodity. You felt more like hanging meat at a literal market. Joel lead you back to the meal table, a notebook and pen in hand.

Your name was written at the top of a page, with some notes below it you couldn't make out.

You fidgetted with the knees of your pajamas. “Right, do you think I can lean on the whole, um, “I’m just a sweet girl raising babies” sort of thing?” As you made the suggestion you realized how stupid it sounded. It’s likeable, sure, but who’s gonna bet on someone so un-ruthless? “Nevermind that.”

Joel clicks his teeth. “Hm. We need to make you more capable.” He rubs his beard. “Shit, no offense.”

You laugh it off. “None taken. I’m too soft for this.”

“Too soft…” Joel repeated, spacing out on the paper, on his notes. “You know, kid, when tributes don’t have an obvious edge in the Games to talk about, they create some kinda… plot.”

You nodded along, familiar with those tributes. Just last year was the District Eight pair who proclaimed to be life long nemesis. They had a fake brawl during interviews– catfighting publicity stunts and everything. The audience loved it, and the two had sponsor gifts coming in like the river during their games. “Me and Sam?”

Joel dismissed you with a hand. “Sam don’t need it. He’s strong, good lookin’, all he’ll gotta do is throw a wink, drop the toy shop background, and play up some buffed up farmboy story.”

“So who will my plot be with?” You chewed your lip in thought. “I feel like all the good stories are taken.”

He hummed. “The best one’s play off someone in the Games with you– at least someone in the Capitol.”

You cracked a joke. “Do I profess my love and lust for Caesar Flickerman?” You say, giggling a little. Joel looks at you like you’ve struck gold, his breath hitches. Your laughter dies. “I’m not doing that.”

“No, no. Course not.” His leg bounced, he stole a glance behind you. You followed his eyes, and landed on Ellie’s bedroom.

“Joel?” You asked in whisper, hoping he’s not thinking what you’re thinking.

“Ellie’s an attractive girl,” He began, carefully, with his hands held out like you were a spooked horse. “I ain’t even gonna entertain the thought of you saying you got a crush on me–”

You grimace, hard. Joel’s the closest thing to a true father you and other Seven kids had. You’d rather smooch Salo on his froggy mouth, but the thought makes you cringe harder.

He continued. “Ellie wouldn't have to do much, and she’d rather die than snitch. She’d take it like a champ, we can sort out her reaction another time. It’d rely on your acting abilities. She’s a real dick, but she’s not some Capitol wannabe, I know those rumors and they ain’t true. She’d still help you.”

His idea rolled in your brain. You ran a hand through your hair, your eyes squinted shut. Be professional, you tell yourself. You need to make it for the others.

While Ellie’s no fucking picnic, you trust Joel’s word, and you don’t want to gamble doing this with someone who isn’t from Seven. What’s a bitching or two from the Bandit Williams over a complete stranger? One who could eventually kill you and every other tribute, or some plastic Capitol snob? Everything about this is strange and horrible, any sense of home– even if it’s her– is a godsend.

“You’re going real hard on the pitch, Miller.” You muttered, bracing yourself for what you’re agreeing to. “Screw it. I’ll do it.” You looked up at him hopefully.

Joel gives an approving nod. “Good. It’ll make the world of difference.” He starts scribbling down something, on his notepad. “I’ve got some ideas about how you can bring it up,” He said, still writing. “But now, you need to get some rest. We’ll be arriving tomorrow afternoon.”

The next morning you awoke with pale stripes of noon sun in your eyes, and someone yelling.

“I’m not fucking doing it, Joel!” Ah. Maybe Ellie wasn’t as helpful as Joel talked her up to be. You pressed your ear to your door. “This ropes me right back in their game, I don’t wanna be a goddamn character for them to play with again!”

Your breathing sped, you never liked yelling. For a family running a nursery, it was ironic how spiteful and cruel their arguments could get. You were the type of child to keep the peace. Never by yelling back, but by soothing whoever instigated the fight or tearfully offering sweets so the yelling could stop. You huff at yourself, at the thought. How on God’s green earth are you going to get by in the arena? “--and I swear to God if they make me wear that stupid cowboy get up!”

You didn’t catch whatever Joel said back to her, all muffled and soft spoken, but it stopped her yelling altogether. You heard footsteps stomping nearer and quickly went to your bed. You couldn’t pretend to be asleep, but you wouldn’t stand being caught eavesdropping.

Ellie kicked your door open and marched to the center of your room in front of your bed, half-snarling like a bull with her arms crossed.

“Guess we’re doing this shit, babe.” She griped, words dripping with sarcasm.

You clutched your bedsheets. “I’m so–” You caught your apology by the reins. Know what? Fuck that. You were the one about to die, she was meant to help you. What’s she throwing a damn tantrum for? Your back straightened, your gaze hardened. You got out of bed and got nose to nose with her. She tensed up, eyes narrowed. At your closeness, her stance stuttered. Your chest swelled with pride. “Aren’t you glad, sweetheart?” You purred, then turned on your heel and marched on out for breakfast.

[1920sladydectective]

Best Friend's Mother Ch.5 5.4K

This is the penultimate chapter everybody!

Love you all, thanks for reading my things! Scroll back on this account or check AO3 for the full story! Not proofread I am tired.

Enjoy Enjoy Enjoy

<3

Considering the events of the previous evening, you should have anticipated a ridiculous morning. 

Yawning, with bleary eyes, you left your room and were confronted with a wall of wrapping paper where the top of the stairs should be. A tap to the shoulder, an antler covered Kino. 

“Mystic doorway,” He mumbles, “When Mel gets here we can smash through it and Mum will be waiting in a Santa hat,” 

“You’re kidding,” 

“Nope,” Mel added, appearing with hazy eyes. You were feeling it too. Port was brutal. 

You were permitted to do the honours. Ruining the barrier, you were met with large white footprints going down the stairs towards the living room, and Ambessa Medarda wearing a Santa hat, wolf top and tartan trousers. The others smiled fondly, the novelty long since gone, but your heart was trapped in a whimsical vice. Muffled and shocked, a giggle tumbled out. You had never experienced this. Ever. 

In the living room the most ridiculous show of presents lay under and around the tree, ornately wrapped with bows and ribbons. Your eyes couldn’t stay fixed on one thing, darting around madly till they settled on the mantelpiece

Four stockings, hand knitted, hung from the aged wood. The first three initials were obvious, but the addition of your own made your throat close oddly. You were so included here and it felt wrong, all things considered. You felt a strong hand squeeze your shoulder, a warm look in older eyes. 

“Seems you’ve all been good,” 

“Overdone it a bit this year, Mum,” Kino snorted, taking what was clearly his spot on the floor. 

“Shut up, boy,” 

Her touch grounded you, body relaxing as you saw the nibbled goodies and drained port. The carrots however, were intact. 

“Guess Rudolph was just fine,” Sarcasm oozed, as you munched off the end of the carrot. 

Mel smiled, pulling you roughly down next to her as you were handed your stockings. Your offer of carrot was rudely rejected and you waited with bated breath to take a peek. It was heavy, and lumpy, with a toblerone resting at the top. It was all your favourites and some things far too expensive to be stocking fillers in your mind. Lipstick, chocolates and a bottle of Rum. At the very bottom, resting sadly, was a Clementine. Kino had coal. 

“Why?” It was outraged, cheeks full of chocolate coins. 

“Perhaps Father Christmas didn’t appreciate you refusing to help me with the Games room remodel,” It was quiet, muffled by coffee. 

He threw the coal at Mel, and a brawl began. You just nibbled a piece of fudge. 

It was a slow and easy start, despite the family violence, and you sat talking with Mel as you had breakfast. The order, though different to your own, had been explained. Stockings, breakfast, gifts and then a family stroll. 

A full english was slapped in front of you and you grunted. 

“We normally save ourselves for the Christmas dinner in my house,”

“Foolish,” Ambessa said, beheading a sausage, “That makes your stomach shrink and reduces your appetite,” 

Well. Fuck you I guess. Full English then. 

Back in the sitting room, each person was handed a present. 

Mel gave hers out first, swirling holly and ivy concealing presents that were so her it made you laugh. A spa holiday, for the both of you, in January. Ambessa received a collection of fancy cooking utensils and Kino received a book of mazes. 

“This seems like a gift to yourself, Babe,” You smiled, flicking through all the treatments she’d bought, “Will I have any body left after it's cleaned and dissolved?”

“It’ll cleanse you of all your impurities,” Her gaze darted to an obvious place. 

“Gee, Thanks,” 

There was lots to get through and it seemed that they had refined patience with it that you did not possess. You had never seen this many gifts at once and wanted to eviscerate them to find the treasures beneath. Kino chucked another couple things each person’s way, some from Father Christmas, some from him. 

He’d only gone and bought you a real tiara. Rich people are so fucking stupid. It sat proudly on your head all the same, swarovski crystals catching the light of the tree. 

“Regal, your highness,” He bowed his head, eyes crinkled with joy. 

“Twat,”

Father Christmas had been generous indeed, showering you with books and clothes and trinkets. You were a bit overwhelmed, dazed fingers stroking over jumpers and shoes as the Medardas continued to rip into the mountain. A sea of wrapping paper rested over your legs, warm and shiny as Ambessa drank an unholy amount of Brandy for 11am on a Wednesday. 

She chucked you a lumpy package, this one actually from her rather than her fat old man counterpart. It was a stuffed toy, a book character Tigger from Winnie the Pooh to be exact. 

“What?” You said, eyes gleaming, fingers buried in fuzziness. 

“You mentioned it was your favourite childhood book,” Her lips smacked together, “And if you’re any of them it’s the hyperactive orange thing with an individuality complex,” 

Wow. How sweet. Fuck.

“Your hat’s falling off,” You muttered to push the warmth away, passing her the gifts you’d begrudgingly bought, “These are yours,”

Ambessa took the pile, eyes murky as you watched intently for her reaction. You still needed her to like them, to like you. Mel couldn’t expect you to fall out of love that quickly. 

A rough tear, paper crumpling to reveal a blu-ray DVD. Trading Places, of course. The smile she wore changed, lips twisting as if to contain something you couldn’t see. 

“My favourite,” Her tone was far away, perhaps as trapped in the memory as you became every time you entered that room. 

“Still don’t know what it’s about,” A lie, you watched it repeatedly on your laptop in October, half drunk and sobbing, “Sure it’s good,”

“We’ll watch it together sometime,” Dear god you hoped not. 

“Okay!” It was dismissive, that was all you had, “Next one!” 

The next one in question was a Lucky cat figure who looked suspiciously like Mina, paw waving up and down rhythmically. Her laugh filled the space, hard and strong, as the lookalike summoned the feline herself. 

“It is you, Little Demon,” Ambessa whispered, “She has gifted me a VooDoo doll,”

Kino snorted, snatching Mina and peppering her with kisses, “Ignore the witch, Fluff,” 

The last gift from you she reacted to silently, a heavy gulp in her throat. A little, hand carved statue of three wolves snuggled in one another, babes and mother ornately preserved. Her smile winded you, watery for but a moment. 

The rest of the presents passed in a blur, your pile growing seemingly higher and higher until you’d forgotten half of the things. One thing that managed to stand out was Kino’s ridiculous gift to Ambessa; apparently her 9th wolf shirt, this one covered in a howling wolf with the word ‘Alpha' in icy block lettering. 

She seemed, confusingly, to favour this above all other gifts as if it were a priceless relic. Mel, bundled in a new dressing gown from Damson Madder, seemed totally unsurprised. 

Thankfully, that heralded the end of the gifts, and you were all given twenty minutes to get dressed and ready for the walk. As they shuffled out of the living room, a calloused hand gripped your arm to keep you in place. Ambessa, brown envelope in hand, looked down at you. 

“Everything alright?” 

“This is your last gift, Dear,” The rough paper slipped into your hand, the other hand still holding your arm. 

Panic. Curiosity. A fluttering, harsh pull in your stomach. “What is it?”

“Open it,” She was earnest, no teasing, eyes softer than you’d ever seen. 

Doing as instructed, you pulled out several pieces of paper. Trade invoices. Heating, Foundational, Pipe, Roof, and some stuff you didn’t even understand. 

“It’ll be completed by the 6th,” Honeyed words, caring, daggers to your heart, “You deserve to enjoy this holiday, and your studies, without the burden of such things,”

You were stammering, eyes cloudy with salt water, as trembling fingers moved through each document. She’d solved years of problems with the flick of an ornate wrist, a trump card of good will she was giving up wielding in favour of giving you privacy. This was no bribe, there was no motive here that you could see, she had done it just because it would help you. 

Ambessa was feeling a tad dizzy. Indulgence in brandy and emotional niceties leaving her reeling. You had been perfect all morning, a cocktail of wonder and sarcasm that swirled her mind harder than any drink could. Each reaction a glance or gasp to be cherished, her chest warm as you ended up in a tidal wave of wrapping. Each moment in your presence seemed more tenuous, but she could not fight the need for her next fix. It was a cruel trick, one she deserved, the way you had seemed to curl around her spine and crush it with a grin. Each attempt to slot into Mel’s rules felt like the loss of a limb. She had lost this fight, in more ways than one. 

“Ambessa,” It was a croak, the very light of the sun caught in your eyes, “Thank you!”

“No quip about presumptive rich people?” She said, thumb stroking along your forearm, “No class conscious rant?”

A giggle, more silly than you wished, as your damp eyes rolled, “You’ve just saved my life, my childhood home, that’s what you bastards should be doing,” 

“Seems I’m learning yet another thing from you then,” 

An embrace, rushed and harsh, to prevent the kiss dancing across your lips. She was awful and perfect and you hated her. “I’m going to go get dressed,” 

She wished you wouldn’t leave, perhaps ever, to allow her to linger in the aftermath of Christmas morning when it was just you and the fire and tender, crushed skin on skin. The moment ended all the same, and she sat on her armchair with a loud grunt. 

The walk was nicer than you’d anticipated, Kino and Ambessa smashing snow at each other as Mel quietly spoke in your direction. Today had felt lighter with her, some tension drained by the closeness of the night before. She’d gotten angry again, called you a few names, and nuzzled into your arms. Her grievances came in waves, as did most of her thought processes, and you didn’t mind the repetitiveness for each time you gained a small chunk back. 

Which is why, as she told you about Jayce and Viktor’s new idea, you did not notice the solid mass flying towards your face. Kino stood, eyes wild, gathering another bundle. 

There was war after that, plain and simple. 

At quarter to two you stumbled back through the French doors, hair damp and lip quivering from cold as Ambessa tugged a triumphant Mel through the door. 

“You can’t contain me just because you lost,” She growled, pulling against her mother’s hold. 

You avoided the conflict, darting upstairs and diving into the hot shower with such urgency you still had your koala socks on. Fancy shampoo and conditioner pushed away the grime of the outside as your forehead lent against the cool tile. This Christmas, though only half way through, had rocked your world. Ambessa Medarda creating an almost dreamlike, unattainable level of Christmas magic seemed ridiculous. Though, you supposed, she had always been good with grandness and negligent of day to day. You hadn’t needed a summer affair to figure that out. That knowledge did nothing to banish her soft eyes from your mind, that silly bloody Santa hat frizzing up her greying curls, as she did the best thing she’d ever done for you. Fuck her. In every way. Dangerous Path. Cold water smacked you back to Christmas day. 

Rictus, sweet angel that he was, had prepared everything and left it in the fridges. All you four needed to manage was timing, and you overconfidently presumed that was a sure bet. None of you, it seemed, had factored in a shitfaced game of Cluedo. 

“It was Mustard, in the Library, with the pipe,” Kino spoke into a highball glass, whisky half his lifeblood at present. 

“You’re Mustard, you twat,” Mel smacked him in the head, crunching a handful of twiglets. 

Ambessa had long since given up engaging, lent against the sofa with a grin as she met your gaze. As an only child you were not used to any kind of bickering over board games, making this confusing and tiring in equal measure. A sparkling, unknown cocktail sat in a gin glass in front of you. Unbeknownst to you, it contained over five shots of alcohol, hidden by sweet tea and cranberry juice. You may not have known, but by God could you feel it. 

A thick smokey scent wafted towards you mid gulp and hazy eyes widened. 

“The turkey!” You and Mel cried, scrambling to rescue a half scorched bird. 

So, it wouldn’t be the juiciest Turkey Crown you’d ever eaten, but the rest of it was salvageable. Namely because you all camped out in the kitchen from that moment onward, checking every five minutes for slowly roasting carrots and stuffing on the off chance they burnt within seconds. 

Candles of ivory and emerald glittered along the table as you took your place next to Mel. Your minorly fucked up feast had been served, your blood alcohol level begging for some kind of mass to soak up the metric tonne of vodka you’d ingested. It was good, great even, and yet you felt an odd emptiness. You hadn’t missed your Dad yet, and here it came, hurtling like a freight train into your roast dinner. Pushing peas around your plate like a petulant child, you munched at your inner cheek instead. 

She shouldn’t care that you weren’t eating, you were an adult and could look after yourself. Didn’t stop her own chews from slowing to halt as she scanned you. Your mouth twitched, eyes pensive, she hated it. Her eyes managed to catch yours, echoing a question and a comfort in one, heart hammering as your shoulders visibly relaxed and you ate a potato. Good. That was good. 

She seemed to smell weakness in you like a shark trailing blood, though she wielded this knowledge in a nicer way now. You felt an odd puncture, perhaps a lung giving out, as she grinned at you and ate a stuffing ball. 

Mel was drawing noughts and crosses in her left over gravy, your fingers fighting an equal battle in which a stalemate was always reached. The game sort of became impossible to win if both participants were over five years old, but it made you smile all the same. 

5pm rolled around, and with it your Dad’s phone call. It was brief, impersonal and hollow until you reached the news about the house. He knew, of course, as it was his fucking house but you blubbered excitedly all the same. He praised you for making good connections and you frowned. God he always had to be a knob. The call ended quickly after that and you wandered into the Cinema, flopping on Mel. 

“Call go okay?” Her fingers stroked hair from your face. 

“He’s a penis,” 

“Bailey’s Hot chocolate?” She already had a large, reindeer covered mug to offer you, cream and marshmallows floating like little life rafts. 

Perhaps this was the best Christmas of your life, and perhaps that filled you with a gaping despair unlike anything you’d ever known. Ambessa collapsed next to you and Mel, pulling you in close. Always there, mending and mutilating your soul. 

“Well,” She kissed Mel’s crown, “How has the day been my little wolves?”

“Good, Mum,” A loud slurp, “Best in a long time,” 

“Best I’ve ever had,” You admitted, uneasy and grateful. 

Both Medarda women kissed your cheek, the tactical manoeuvre from both sides crushing you. 

“Thanks by the way,” It felt like too little a sentence, brain blurred. 

“You are most welcome, Dear,” Ambessa gave you more soft eyes and calm grins. What the fuck did Christmas do to her?

“Play a game of Uno?” Mel interjected, the food and fizz in her system making her fidgety. 

“No more games,” You whined, “Game brain is dead,” 

“What then?”

“Well, I say I want to watch the Polar Express,” She pulled a blanket over her knees, yelling for Kino. 

“He’s out cold, food coma,” You muttered. 

“Little shit, he avoids this film every year,” 

“He doesn’t like Tom Hanks, Mum,” 

“And that’s my problem, why?” 

“Because you’re asking him to watch a film starring Tom Hanks?” You snipped obnoxiously. 

Ambessa immediately withheld the Celebrations tin she had been offering, smacking your fingers to drop the Twix, “Sarcastic children don’t get mini chocolates,” 

Mel munched happily on a Mars bar, your title of golden child stolen. 

Christmas came to a close slowly, the day fluttering shut in time with your weary eyelids. Your room was piled with things, but only Tigger made it to your bed. His inquisitive eyes seemed to know exactly how you felt about his giver, and you had to shove his face into your shoulder. 

“Shut up,” You slurred, to an inanimate object like a normal person, “I’ve got a good thing going here, she won’t ruin it,”

“Sure she won’t,” Tigger answered. Fuck, okay you were already asleep. 

Boxing Day passed in a blur, as did the dateless, insignificant days that led to New Year’s Eve. The new, slippery dance continued. Mel watched your interactions with her mother less, shoulders settling slightly, though a sharpness remained when you weren’t looking. 

New Year’s Eve arrived, and with it Another Bloody Party (shocker). 

“How can you be surprised?” Mel muttered, tugging on your hair, “You said yourself this is all rich people do,” 

“It’s different living it Babe,” You grumbled, “It’s exhausting, how do you manage?”

“Oh, well I-”

“Oh that’s right, none of you have jobs,” 

The heat of the curling iron became intimately acquainted with your ear. Mel kissed it better, sarcastically, as she finished the curl. “I have a job,”

“Uh..no you don’t,”

“Well I will when uni’s over,” Mel muttered, “I’ll make a name for myself,” 

“Is that name Medarda?” You really needed to stop antagonising the person holding the hot rod of metal to your skull. 

One thing was different this time round and that was the host. The Kirammans hosted New Year’s annually apparently, the party larger than even Ambessa’s summer barbeque. Having not yet had the privilege of seeing a different large house, you experienced shock and awe anew. It was more regal than Ambessa’s home, ornate marbles mingling with old tiling. It felt sterner in a way, though its occupants were far from that. Like a scene in a film, limousines flooded in and out, showcasing tottering heels and tailored suits. 

“Now,” Ambessa’s voice was a whispered grumble, “Best behaviour, I don’t want you lot embarrassing me,” 

Your face contorted, as did theirs, “What?”

“I’m joking darlings,” She squeezed you all, “I don’t give a shit about these people,”

“Said that rather loud, Mum,” Kino quipped. 

“Intentional, sweet boy,” 

Newness danced in every corner, Cait ready to grab you and shove her into every decorated crevice of her house. Cassandra Kiramman was far more blunt about keeping your group out of the way than Ambessa, gifting a whole wing of the house to your antics. There stood possibly every person aged 20-26 that Caitlyn had ever looked at in her life. Your inner circle were lounging, glittery and already a bit pissed, around a fucking conversation pit sofa. An actual, real inbuilt one. Nothing mattered for the two hours or so, cocktails and canapes shoved down you as you listened to Ekko explaining some physics thing that made you feel like an Egyptian having their brain removed. 

A girl, tanned with glossy blonde hair, had been making eyes at you for the better part of an hour and you were beginning to crumble under the pressure. She was hot, sure, but she wasn't her. Though, another few glasses down, you realised that might be a good thing. 

“Talk to her,” Viktor whispered, poking you in the side with his cane. Jayce showed his enthusiastic agreement through a scotch egg, making himself choke. 

Your version of the heimlich manoeuvre was to smack him as Ekko did the actual heimlich, before swaying up to the pretty girl batting her lashes. 

To say she was bored would have been the understatement of the century for Ambessa. Cassandra was less prone to recreational drugs and sordid corners, leaving her to discuss carpet swatches with Jayce’s mother. She was a kind woman, entirely not to Ambessa’s taste and the removal of the youngsters meant she couldn’t bother you. Or watch you from across every damn room you existed in. There wasn’t enough Moet to drown out the drivel and by quarter to eleven she was slinking away to find her drunk children. 

Cadence, you had learned her name was, was an angel. Bubbly, bright and tipsy, she made for a fantastic conversation partner. It was lame to ponder how you hadn’t even considered anyone other than Ambessa romantically, so you let her touch your arm fondly and press herself into your side on the armchair. She studied psychology at Durham and would soon be going to America for a work placement. What’s the psychology of searching for your best friend’s mother in every crowded room, you wondered? She was talking your ear off when your eyes found the very woman in your mind. 

Ambessa did not feel angry. It was a slight twinge, too much carbonation, a high pitched thrum against her sternum. What a pretty little blonde, all cosied close and eating up all your attention. How lovely for you. This is what parties were for, a fantastic meet cute to tell the grandkids. Shut up. Your face was relaxed, glossy lips parted in an easy smile. It wasn’t the same as the smile she caused of course, less genuine, less involuntary. She could tell, there wasn’t the slightest twitch to your cheek, and your posture was distant, eyes elsewhere. Eyes on..oh. Eyes on her. A slow wave, pulling her smile from you as you attempted poorly to split focus. You looked sinful, lent against a leather armchair with smooth, soft legs crossed. Images flashed through Ambessa, her head between your thighs as your nails gripped the leather for dear life or you curled in her lap rambling as she peppered your face with lipsticked kisses. A half hearted swallow, her mind a desperate tailspin of lust, jealousy and the unnamed other. Her hand rose slightly, golden eyes drilling into you as a hand began to subtly call you over. 

Sharp, angry nails sliced into her wrist, killing the summons. 

Mel stood, a sickly smile on her face, crushing her mother’s wrist. 

“Hello, Dear,” Ambessa smiled, fighting the twitch of her brow, “Was coming looking for you little wolves,” 

“Can you come to the loo with me,” Mel said, tipsy slur in her voice, “These heels are fucking my ankles,” 

WIth a nod, taking most of her body weight, she wandered off to the bathroom with her daughter. It was dark blue, much like the kitchen and the library and the Kiramman child’s hair, causing a giggle from Ambessa. 

Once the heavy metal lock clinked shut, she lent against the door with her eyes averted. Several beats passed with no noise save their breath. 

“Are you going to piss or what child?” 

“What the fuck is your problem?” Sadness, fury, resentment all rolled into one. Her beautiful hair was a halo for her anger, body a brick wall of frustration. 

“Excuse me?” It was a scoff, muscled arms crossed, “Did I not help you here?”

“Why won’t you leave her alone, Mum,” Mel stood toe to toe with her, dark eyes blazing, “She’s listened and tried and is taking all the shit I give her, but you,” 

A lecture was coming, stormy and vicious, one Ambessa may not survive. Here she thought it was girly toilet bonding time. No, you had interloped into another part of her life. 

“You,” She repeated, “Continue on like she’s one of your little things, like I haven’t said anything at all,” 

“I resent that,” Ambessa said, frown on her lips, “I’ve been civil and supportive, but distant just like you asked,”

“Distant in the way the iceberg was to the Titanic,” Mel snapped, swaying slightly. “Do you want to destroy her? Destroy me?” 

“Mel, I-” 

“I gave you rules for a reason, and you just don’t give a shit, do you?” Her hands were waving about wildly now, “You can’t bear being told no, respecting boundaries, listening to others,” 

“I thought I was doing as you asked, Child,” Her words were thunderous, form shaking with a terror Mel could not see. She was too close for comfort, a dog sniffing a trail she did not want followed. 

“Bullshit!” Mel’s thoughts were a slurry, a piece of the puzzle missing, “You gaze at her in every room, you touch her whenever you can, you steal any time with her you can get and-”

“That is enough,” Her lungs were beginning to ache, palms sweaty, “I do not need to be lectured by you again over insecure, inflated claims,” 

“You don’t get to tell me to be quiet, Mother,” She spat, “Explain yours-” Oh. Oh. Everything stilled, the picture shifting till it clicked. She had all the pieces, of course she did, she’d just confused a middle piece for a harmless corner component. 

Ambessa’s relief at her daughter’s sudden silence was crushed like a nut between a novelty nutcracker. 

“You’re in love with her,” Check.

“I-” She had named it before even Ambessa could, damned insufferable child, always too clever for her own good, her resistance a very confirmation “How ridiculous,” And Mate. 

Mel’s body shook with mirth, “You fell in love with my best friend,” 

“You are drunk and far more stupid than I gave you credit for,” 

“So what if I am drunk,” Her movements were looser now, “I’m right and You’re scared,”

“I don’t get scared,”

“I would have agreed, twenty minutes ago, but now?” Mel’s eyes met the minute tremor in her mother’s hands. 

Ambessa’s hand grips the cold, golden lock, body turning away as she let out an angry grunt. 

A repetition, cold and grounding, halted her “You fell in love with my best friend”

It felt so lovely to hear, to know, to feel. Awful to examine, gutting her like a prize salmon. This was the worst evening of Ambessa Medarda’s life. She was at odds here, pulled in terrible directions. The horrible, sordid truth was undeniable, complicating a messy story by adding an Act Three twist of predictable but no less epic proportions. Her daughter’s eyes were steady and stern despite her sway, any battle she put forward dissolving into sparks against Mel’s measured smile. Vulnerability was the only way forward, resistance gone, a mother’s love twisting her tongue towards painful truths, “I-I didn’t plan to, darling,”

It fell on deaf ears, “And she is in love with you right back,” 

“Unfortunately,” Ambessa choked, body tight.

Mel sat precariously on the bathtub, pulling a miniature from between her boobs and downing it, “This simplifies things,” 

“It does?” 

A loud knock, and indistinct whining from behind the door. 

“Fuck off, There are twenty two toilets in this house” Mel shouted, flicking the empty bottle into the tiny bin, before turning back to her, “And yes, yes it does,”

“Do enlighten me,” She snarked, wondering if she could magically summon tequila from her own chest. 

“Love I can begrudgingly figure out, it matters,” Her teeth kissed her tongue, “But what do you offer her?”

“Sorry?” Words were precious currency to Ambessa at present, unable to grapple with the situation she had stumbled into.

“She makes you an infinitely better person, whilst assimilating to your lifestyle,” A heavy breath, “But you’re an older, emotionally impotent bitch with a history of ruining every romantic relationship you’ve ever been in,” 

Jesus fucking Christ. “Are you hazing me in the Kiramman’s bathroom about my eligibility?”

“Yes,” Mel quipped, “Someone has to, if you’re going to start dating,”

“I never said I have any intention of doing such a thing,” Ambessa growled, “She’s over twenty years my junior, and your friend,” 

A giggle, “You didn’t give a shit about either of those things when you were fucking her,”

“Well that’s,”

“Different, is it? Why?”

“This is ridiculous, I don’t have to listen to this,”

“You do, if you want to keep a relationship with me,”

“Are you going to lord that over my head for the rest of my life?” A crimson sneer deepened, “Isn’t it tiresome?”

“What’s tiresome is you being avoidant,” Mel glared at her, arms crossing, “Selfish? Manipulative? Common tools of the Medarda trade, but this cowardly denial is embarrassing,”

“I am not a coward,” It was a sudden burst, body rushing forward to meet hers.

“Prove it then, you idiot,” A nail stabbed into Ambessa’s chest, “Prove that it’s real, that you can offer her more than money and sex,” 

“But why?” Her mouth was dry, “What’s your goal here?”

“I want to see you happy,” She sighed, level gaze eating Ambessa’s soul, “The woman before me is entirely new, better than I thought possible, if it takes encouraging this to keep her then I’ll write your damn love notes for you,” 

“We are not having this conversation now,” Sense returned, sludgy and damp, dirtied by her emotions, “We will have it sober, at some point tomorrow,” 

“You’re not pushing this away,” The nail dug deeper, “It’s now or never, tell me why I should let you date my best friend,”

Ambessa’s mind was a dark red blanket of rage and panic, hand crushing around her daughter’s wrist, “What do you want from me?” 

“Say anything!”

“Like WHAT? Like I miss the weight of her on my chest as I sleep, the relief of knowing she’s safe,” She was shaking, a furious animal fighting against a certain fate, “Or th-that she makes me want to be the better version of myself that she sees, just to keep that smile on her stupid, soft fucking face,”

Mel’s hand moved upwards and reached out, a tender stroke on her mother’s cheek, “Perfect, Mum,” 

With that it seemed she had deemed the interaction over, leaving her stunned and rabid as she slipped out of the blue room in search of Jayce, or Viktor, or most likely both. 

You were struggling to socialise now, brain lagging against the alcohol and noise, longing for the quiet weed fuelled haze of the Medarda games room. Cadence had clocked your distant lack of interest before you did, wandering off and leaving you with a rambling Powder. Her and Ekko truly were a match made in heaven. It was nearly midnight and the party was so vibrant your eyes ached. 

Time to hide, time to be anti-social. Nobody to kiss, nobody you wanted to anyway. 

Confusing corridors, long and ornate, as you slipped under a secluded marble staircase. Deep, soothing breaths, the darker lighting a balm. 

Ambessa found that splashing her face with cold water was doing absolutely nothing. A dam she could not rebuild had burst and it was merciless, yearning for one thing and one thing alone. You were a siren, sent to kill her, sent to punish her. You were an angel, her salvation. Uncertain steps stormed out of the room, wandering aimlessly towards the party.

The countdown, though far away now, was as audible as if Vi was screaming in your ear. 

10

What an odd year to be seeing the back of, everything changed and everything the same. 

9

Glitter coated your skin as you made your resolution, firm and sure. 

8

You would move on from Ambessa Medarda, even if it killed you. She would not follow you into this new chapter. 

7

You emptied your champagne glass, peace settling in you. 

6

Ambessa flung the door open, hinges trembling, as she looked down the long corridor. 

5

Countdown time already? How long had she spent in that fucking bathroom?

4

The fabric of her trousers swished as she slipped towards the staircase, seeking a darker solace. 

3

A resolution, a stupid tradition, a propeller forward. She would tell you how she felt, even if it killed her. 

2

Shocked eyes lock, room spinning, dark alcove shielding them from reality.

1

Time slows. A war fought valiantly, lost to the hazy fog. Clashing, hungry, yearning lips. Red on smooth gloss. Hair tugged, breath stolen. 

Happy New Year!

[bullet-prooflove]

Daddy: Sammy Bryant x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989

Summary: An encounter at the beach leads the two of you to consider if it's time to fuck around and find out.

Companion piece to:

Good Boy - Sammy thinks you might just be ready to move on from your old partner.

Sammy misses the dog.

He really didn’t think he would considering Richter spent most of his time destroying Sammy’s place but here he is standing in his empty apartment after his shift, eating cereal for dinner, wishing he had something to come home to.  

Fuck it, he thinks setting the bowl down in the sink before picking up his keys. He wants to see the dog, and maybe, just maybe he wants to see you too.

There’s only one place you’ll be in an evening like this and that’s the beach. You like to head out there sometimes when the winds calm and the tourists aren’t around, catch a few waves before nightfall.

It’s soothing for the dog too apparently. Richter sits on the shore, guarding your beachbag, gnawing on the driftwood stick he’s collected along the way. Sammy takes a seat beside him, his palm smoothing over his fur as Richter raises his head in greeting before inching closer and placing the stick in Sammy’s lap. His teeth fasten on the opposite end when Sammy picks it up and he finds himself engaged in a game of tug-of-war he did not anticipate.

“I see you haven’t forgotten me huh?” He says as the dog, digs his paws into the sand and pulls.

“Nah Richter could never forget his daddy…”

Your voice carries over the sound of the ocean as you set the wet surfboard down beside him. His cock surges to attention because that word off your lips, it plays into something for him. He’s spent enough time on the streets to know what it means in the right situation.

He wonders if that’s something you’re into, if Sammy could be that for you. He has a strong protective instinct, he wouldn’t be in this job if he didn’t and that certainly plays out into the bedroom fitting right in to the role of ‘daddy’.

He looks up at you, the rays of the dying sun playing through the myriad of colours in your braided hair as you unzip the black wetsuit slowly. He’s seen you do it hundreds of times before but this feels different, more loaded.

The zipper parts revealing that black sports bra and soft skin he wants to get his mouth on. You glance over your shoulder at him as you slide it the rest of the way down along the curve of your back until it ends at the swell of your ass. He imagines gripping it hard, holding you against him as he fucks up into you.

He bites his lower lip as you continue your show, drawing the wetsuit down over that pretty peach, revealing the black compression shorts you're wearing underneath. They cling to you like a second skin, showing him every deviant line of your body that Sammy has ever fantasied about.

Beside him Richter huffs because he’s stopped playing the game but he can’t help it because he’s mesmerised. His cock strains in the confines of his trousers, his dick leaking as the head rubs against the seam of his underwear.

“You aren’t married anymore Sammy.” You remind him, pushing the neoprene down your toned thighs and he swallows hard at the thought of pressing his face between him, his tongue dragging over that pussy as your taste blossoms in his mouth. “This doesn’t have to be a look don’t touch situation if you don’t want it to be.”

He doesn’t know what to say because he was pretty sure right up until now that this whole crush he’d had on you was completely one sided.

“We fucked around enough don’t you think?” You say, placing your hands on your hips as you stand before him, like some radiant fucking goddess ready for him to get down on his knees and worship her. “Maybe it’s time we actually found out.”

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[hustlerose]

i really do believe full house is underrated in the balatro meta

it's really easy to fix your deck for it. even one or two strength cards and it becomes fairly consistent. much easier to draw than straight or 4oak, despite scoring just as well in the early game

unlike straights, you can copy your best cards without screwing yourself

you can also kinda bloat your deck without screwing yourself. more of your two chosen ranks = more good

i think it has the most joker synergies out of any hand? because it contains pair, two pair, and 3oak, almost every common jimbo is viable. this helps a lot in the early game

that's actually an important point, bc on higher stakes it's really hard to get good jokers than synergize with your build. by the midgame, no matter what jokers you end up with, you can probably make a full house build with them

spare trousers is the best scaling +mult joker in the game. it's on par with trading card + erosion, all on its own. if you can get earth cards consistently, it's easily enough chips and mult to carry you thru ante 7

strong in the early game. strong in the mid game. strong in the late game. versatile. easy to pilot. absolute cinema

[boofeine]

2 to 18+ – verkyeom

pairing: dokyem x fem reader x vernon

genre: smut

warnings: mdni, threesome, member x member moment, fingering, oral (f and m), multiple orgams, dirty talk, love triangle kinda type of situation, penetrative unprotected sex

a/n: uncommon ship, i guess, but happy 218 bros day ;D !

tags: @huen1ngk4i @aaniag @svteensworld @kooqitas @unlikelysublimekryptonite @kwannibalism @bewoyewo

"There's no answer" You say again.

"Of course, there is" Vernon replies.

There is not, you think again. You look to the men sit across your both sides, a whimsy grin on Vernon's face and curiosity and nervousness on Seokmin's innocent eyes; he's the one who could possibly be more affected by the unknown answer and still, he looks so excited. 'If You had to chose one of the two to fuck you alone, who would it be?' You try the thought again and still can't come up with one answer. Each of them has their own strong points, and it's almost funny how they complement each other. You can't have one alone. You need them both, together, that's how it is supposed to be.

"Okay, shirt off" Vernon's words cut off your line of thoughts, and you shake your head to yourself, thinking it's unfair since there's no right answer to the question, but you decide against fighting this fight, pulling your shirt up to your head and tossing it to the side, their eyes being meet up with no bra and perked nipples. When did you get this turned on? you think.

Vernon has just his boxers and socks on which it's a really funny sight. Seokmin has just his shirt off, and you think that should change, maybe you are going too easy on him today.

"Seokminie" You call, and he hums in your direction, looking at your face "Do you prefer when I suck you or when Vernon does?" You shoot, a little teasing grin crossing your lips as he glups dryly at your question.

To this day, you still don't know how Seokmin agreed and stayed to this dinamic of you three, outside the bedroom he doesn't look like someone who would be okay in some type of love triangle situation. But while on that, he's much more into it than you'd imagine.

He looks to Vernon and then back to you again "There's no answer" He steals yours. LIAR!

You arch a brow, and Vernon laughs, out loud and clear. "Short off" You demand, finally.

You still playing until the whine bottle is empty on the living room middle desk and your visions a little blurry, bodies heating up at how suddenly the game turned into some type of dirty talk. The outline of Seokmin's half hard cock is easily seem through his boxers, Vernon's is no longer seen as he sits naked and spread on the sofa.

You come over to him, taking a leg to his other side as you sit over his lap. He doesn't do anything, just stare at your form, just your panties on and an embarrassing wet spot on it. You spit on your palm, taking his base as you press your hands around it. He sighs, breaths heavening as you start to work on his length.

"Seokmin" You say, not spearing a glance, too occupied on admiring Vernon's lust as the other man comes closer to you both. "Fuck me or have me riding you?" You ask.

"I—" He starts.

"Don't answer" You say in a hurry before he finishes. "Trousers off" You demand, and he grins, obeying. His cock spreading free as he gasps in relief while it hits his core.

Vernon uner you finally takes a move, his hands sliding inside your panties, his fingers immediately met with your wet folds. "You're so fucking wet" He states and you moan, nodding furiously. He teases your entrance, sliding the wetness up to your clit, messaging slowly the muscle next. Your head goes back in pure bliss, your hands haulting on his length as your mind goes blank from how good it feels to be touched

You sigh, smiling, getting your head back up to look at Vernon staring at your body while he plays with your clit and Seokmin's working on his cock while he watches the nasty scene.

You pin the man's wrist, slowly pulling it out of your core before getting up. The men in front of you stare hungrily at the way you take down your panties, getting completely naked for them. Slowly walking back to your position, sitting on Vernon's lap again but with your back facing him this time, spreading your legs.

"Seokminie" you call, whinily "Can you get on your knees for me... please?" you say.

He groans, affected by the way you talk to him, coming to kneel in front of your legs. You carress his cheeks softly "Good boy" you add, before gripping his hair and pulling him into your core, legs resting on his shoulders and heels pressing on his back. You can feel his hot breath fanning on your center, and know he's out of it.

Seokmin licks a long stripe of your cunt, making his way up to suck your clit. "Fuck..." you inhale, your eyes rolling back as your head ends up rested on Vernon's shoulders.

You relax, spit and arousal dripping down your walls as he sucks and licks messily and hungrily. His tongue entering your walls, his perfectly shaped nose pocking your clit, it has you swearing and moaning under your breath.

If that wasn't already enough, Vernon starts to carresses your sides, going up slowly and teasingly "Is he doing good, baby?" He whispers on the nap of your ear, and you whimper, noding to him. "Hmm, I bet he is" he laughs lowly after saying that "You can't even talk, can you?" he teases some more. His palms finally reach your breast, unexpectedly pinching your nipples.

"Ah!" you hiss, your legs closing on Seokmin's head inside your legs as he grunts on you.

"There it is" Vernon adds. "Tell him how good it feels" He demands, his palms soothing your nipples this time instead.

"It– It feels so good" You try, sounding way too weak. Seokmin stops on his tracks, looking up at you with his mouth all wet by you and him, his eyes small and drunk from you. Your grip tightens on his hair by how perfect he looks like this in between your legs while Vernon lets wet kisses and licks on your neck and shoulders.

Seokmin is kissing your inner legs now, and just above your clit, teasing his way as your legs trembles and gets weak. "What about you cum for us, hm?" He says, looking up again.

"Yeah" You answer.

You watch as they both share a look as in awareness to ruin you, Seokmin's restless tongue back to your clit, Vernon's hands unstoppable gripping and pinching your boobs as his breath burns your neck skin with sucks and bites. You moan, grip tight on one's hair and other's arm as you feel close to collapsing. Your whole body starts shaking as you cum. You can feel and hear Seokmin humming as he rides your high, happily, drinking down your cum.

You're out of it when they pick you up and lay you on the sofa, they both watching you still shake a bit, cum slipping down your hole as they are back at bumping his lengths. They are both heated, breathing loudly and fast. Your eyes open, blicking back to reality when they share a look, locking eyes for a moment before crashing on each others mouth.

You wake up from your daze by the sound of their messy kissing and how they moan and grunt on each other's lips. You suddenly grow jealous, wanting your lips on them too, but you decide to stay just on looking, elbows going up to rest on the sofa cushion to watch it better.

They rest their foreheads on each other's and stay like that for a while before Vernon looks at Seokmin's eyes, a teasing smirk while going down on him. He grips his base, eyes on his when he sucks his cockhead. Seokmin falls down, sitting in the back of his thighs, moaning out the feeling of his warm mouth. Your mouth falls open, feeling yourself all horny again.

"Shit, Vernon!" Seokmin shoots when he starts to bob his head on his length, sometimes taking him to the back of your throat.

LIAR! You think again, grinning to yourself, you knew Seokmin would always prefer Vernon to suck him off and you're not a bit offended.

You bring your fingers to your clit again, feeling the sore walls but getting off at the sight in front of you anyway. Seokmin lets out a cicle of curses and moans, and you know he's close. Adding a second finger in, you ease your swollen pussy at the man cumming in front of you. He lets one last throaty moan, head back as he's cumming, inside Vernon's mouth. You look at him, and you can see him smiling even with his mouth full of his friend's cock. Vernon comes up again when he's finished, crashing on a kiss again while he brings his fist to bump Seokmin's length again, that whines for overstimulation, his cock not threatening to soften, staying at the half hard state to hard again. It's nasty and hot, makes you moan, fingers deep down your hole.

They both seem to remember you're in the room, spearing a glance while fisting each other. Seokmin motions with his fingers for you to come closer, "C'mere" He adds.

You slip out your fingers with a gasp before crawling yourself to them as they stop to watch, you come up with your knees pressed on the sofa, putting yourself in between them. You face Vernon, a look to his hard cock, tip red from being like this for so long, and then back to his face, you say "Doing so good for everyone, I think you deserve a reward, don't you?"

You push him on his chest, making him sit and rest on the cushion as you crawl over him again. Handing his base, you press it over your entrance, and he rolls his eyes just at it. You start to slowly go down on his length, his arms spread on the heardboard as he just enjoys.

"So fucking tight..." He moans out, your walls clenching around him until you bottoms down.

You both stay there out of breath for awhile, adjusting yourselves when Seokmin appears behind you. You can feel his cock hard pressing over your lower back, his hands sliding to your jaw, pulling your head back. He looks down at you, "Good girl" he praises and you gasp. He's the one to kiss you first, airy and needy, a sudden build inside you as you start to rock back and forth on Vernon's lap. He groans, handing your hips to help you ride him.

Seokmin slides his hand to your throat, adding pressure over it slightly, you almost scream, but the cut of air doesn't let it come out as loud as it should. He chockes you, letting soft kisses around your face to contrast with the harsh move, since you're unable to keep the kiss right now, feeling dumb what how good it feels.

"Shiiit, you keep clenching on me" Vernon's voice erupts to your ear as you whimper. He puts you in place as he starts to fuck you instead. You moan loudly, and Vernon does, too. Cursing under his breath when he pounds fast inside you. You feel the build on your lower belly, your lungs burning for air when Seokmin finally let go of your throat. "Fuck!" Vernon swears, feeling the way you relax on him, sliding out fast and cutting your high. You whine and shake as his cock twitches on his hands. "Fuck, Y-nie... let me cum in your mouth, please, please" He says, out of breath, trying his best not to burst yet.

"In all fours" Seokmin demands behind you, and you do so. Ass up on him and face down on Vernon's sensitive length.

You feel Seokmin palming your ass, spreading it open before sliding his length in at the same time you take Vernon's cock on your mouth. They both sigh, and you moan around his cock.

You bob your head a few times with hollow cheeks and he's already cumming, moaning your name. You drink the first lines of his hot cum, before sliding out with a suck, it makes a loud bop and more cumming is hitting your lips, nose, chin and neck. You hiss, still bumping him.

Seokmin is still fucking you from behind, his tip pocking your further spot everytime he hits you. skin slapping and it's all too much, your eyes start to water, and you can't seem to keep them open anymore. You call Seokmin's name and he grunts when you cum. He tries to ride you some more, his length sliding easy at the mix of your cum and arosal that won't stop coming. When he can't take it anymore, he slides out and cums on your ass, he presses himself until he's empty.

You are all out of breath and full of post orgams lust and exhaust. You slide your body to the side, resting it on the sofa, the same way Vernon is. Seokmin rests on the back on his thighs like before, feeling it numb from the positions, whimpering when he stretches his sore legs.

You start to feel their cum dry on your skin but your eyes too heavy for you to move. "I need a shower" you announce, sleepy and weak.

"You go first" Vernon says, angling his head to the side to look at you. "Go while we clean up everything here, then we can nap" he adds.

You nod, making your way to the bathroom with wobbly legs as you three laugh at it.

They clean everything up, from changing your sofa cover to putting your ruined one and your clothes to the wash machine while you clean yourself. Vernon goes shower after you and Seokmin after him. Once everything is neat, you find yourselves sleeping for the rest of the night.

[hawkinshorror94]

Can you write about a tav who's really shy and awkward and she tries to confess to astarion, karlach, Gale, and halsin (individually) but she freezes up and stutters out something stupid

This shouldn't have taken me as long as it did but here we are. Finished, Halsin's is a bit spicier than the rest because we all know how that he tells us that he is interested in the game

Gale

“It shouldn’t be this hard.” You thought to yourself as you sat outside your tent, a tome opened and long forgotten in your lap as your mind kept wandering to the wizard. He was giving you all the signs that he was interested, the weave, complementing your “musk”, literally saying that watching you fight aroused him. But yet here you were so terribly unsure of yourself as you sigh and toss the tome aside and decide to make your way over to his tent.

“Oh, what do I owe the pleasure?” Gale asked as you pull back his tent flap, he sits cross legged with a book in his lap. His position unknowingly mirrored yours before. 

“I came to talk.” You stutter out and you notice the slight upturn of his lips as you sit across from him. “How do you feel in me?” The second the words leave your mouth you kick yourself. “I mean about me, how do you feel about me?” A string of curses clutter  your brain as a blush floods your cheeks with crimson.

“Well, I haven’t quite found out what it feels like to be in you,” He smirks and takes your hands gently in his own larger ones “But as far as how I feel about you, I think you know. You’re kind, strong and ravishing. You give me life.” You breath out heavily through your nose as he says this glancing between his lips and your conjoined hands. 

“Can I kiss you?” You say quickly and he doesn’t answer, just pulls you into him smashing his lips against yours. Actions spoke louder than words anyway.

Karlach

“Soldier?” Karlach says as you walk up rubbing your hands against your trousers. Karlach had just gotten her second upgrade from Dammon and you really wanted to tell her how you felt, maybe even experiment with how hot she could get without burning up.

“Karlach, I’ve been thinking.” You start as she looks down at you with a grin.

“Oh dangerous.” She laughed quietly, why did she have to do that? Be so smooth and cool with her reactions while you were trembling under her gaze. Maybe that was part of being hell’s champion, being cool and collected when it mattered most. 

You froze under her gaze and she reached out a warm hand touching your elbow lightly to ground you, to thaw the words stuck on your tongue. 

“I really, really like you Karlach. And it’s okay if you don’t feel the same because your this super fucking hot barbarian.” You're a rambling dummy, you chide yourself internally and Karlach and laughs. Something warm and kind and it makes you feel a little better. 

“I really, really like you too, soldier.” She says in a giddy tone that warms your heart as she takes your hands in her own squeezing them (only a little too hard). She takes no time in showing you how well her new upgrade works either.

Halsin

“Say the words and I’m yours.” The words rang around in your skull like angry bees in a jar. Halsin had such a honeyed tongue that even those simple were enough to have you in absolute shambles. You scrub the skin with ferver with the sponge as you try to scrub Halsin’s voice from your head. You hear a rustling from the bushes, assuming it Scratch you go about your bathing. Scratch’s favorite activity was licking the water from their legs as they dried after a much needed bath. It was annoying to everyone but who was she to deny the dog the simple pleasures of life, even if that was soapy river water. 

“Just as nature intended.” A low hum and that honeyed voice made you drop the sponge and try to hide yourself and the blush that covered your face. “Don’t mind me, I just came down here to whittle.” Halsin chuckles sitting down on the sandy river bank pulling out a knife and a piece of wood.

“Halsin-” You stammer as you dip yourself into the dark water effectively hiding yourself from view. “Would you like to j-join me?” He chuckles as he looks down at the whittled duck in his hand before sitting it down. 

“I thought you’d never ask, my heart.”

Astarion

He is fang deep in her neck as a little soft moan escapes his throat. The sound you might make after you bite into something so sweet that you feel like you might have just experienced Elysium if only for a moment. One hand cradles your head and his fingers are scratching at your scalp and the over is at your hip and it all feels incredibly intimate except you're not even together.

It’s not that you don’t want that it’s the opposite, but you were too nervous to tell. His charismatic demeanor makes you shy away from a confession, but while he feeds he is different. Vulnerable and soft, at your mercy. 

“Astarion,” You nudge him gently. “I need to tell you s-something really important.” He hums against you knowing he is in fact listening. “I like you a lot and I’m sure you don’t feel the same.” You trail off not knowing what to say next because he has stopped drinking from your neck and he just hovers there for a moment. Then your field of vision is filled with him, blood dribbling down his chin. 

“And what would make you think that I don’t feel the same about you.” He murmurs his voice soft as he searches your face, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 

“Because I-I’m just me and you’re you.” Wow, smooth one, you think to yourself. 

“Oh darling, you’re more than just you.” He purrs as his lips break into a wide grin dipping his lips down to yours.