#THE WAY SHE /HAS/ A FLAT STOMACH TOO SHE JUST. HAPPENS TO BE WEARING A LAYERED DRESS WITH A HIGH WAISTLINE SO YOU CANT SEE IT. HELP ME

[blueskittlesart]

This happened before BotW’s release as well (bc of like the “bump” the prayer dress causes) literally one of the big Zelda YouTubers made a video about it (not really believing it but it was still a video that was made) - it was weird then and even weirder now that we actually know Zelda is a teenager like come on

??????? absolutely convinced these people have never seen a woman before in their lives. woman whose stomach i cant immediately see and clock as flat = pregnant obviously. i am very intelligent

[pucksandpower]

Wagification

Max Verstappen x analyst!Reader

Summary: your job was slowly crushing your soul and stealing your sanity … until Max showed you the pleasure to be found in letting yourself be cherished and cared for (or in which a chronically overworked Sky Sports analyst becomes a WAG)

Monaco Grand Prix, 2025

You take a deep breath as you step out of the car, the Monaco sunshine bright and warm on your face. Max comes around and takes your hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze.

“You ready for this?” He asks, his eyes searching yours.

You nod, though your stomach is fluttering with nerves. It’s been nearly a year since you were last at a Grand Prix, and so much has changed. You glance down at the massive diamond on your left hand, still not quite used to seeing it there.

Max kisses your temple. “Don’t worry, I’ll be right by your side the whole time.”

Hand-in-hand, you make your way into the paddock. Immediately you’re assaulted by the familiar sights and sounds — mechanics yelling, engines revving, reporters gesturing to their cameras. It’s like you never left.

You keep your sunglasses on and your head down, hoping to avoid notice. The last thing you want is to be bombarded by your old coworkers. As a data analyst for Sky Sports F1, you knew everyone in the paddock. But you walked away from it all for Max and you aren’t sure what kind of reception awaits you now.

“Max! Max Verstappen!” You hear a female voice call out. You suppress a groan as you recognize it as belonging to Emma, one of the network’s top reporters. She hurries over, dictaphone in hand. “Max, can I get a quick interview for the pre-race show?”

“Sure,” Max says easily. He keeps holding your hand, drawing you forward. “Just make it quick, yeah?”

Emma nods, then seems to notice you for the first time. “I’m so sorry, I don’t mean to be rude. I’m Emma Walsh, with Sky Sports.” She sticks her hand out with a friendly smile.

You hesitate a second before shaking her hand. “Y/N,” you say simply, not offering your last name.

Emma’s eyes widen behind her glasses and she leans in for a closer look. “Wait a minute, I know you ...” Her jaw drops open. “Y/N Y/L/N? Is that you?”

You give a little shrug. “Yeah, it’s me.”

“Oh my god!” Emma practically shouts. “I can’t believe it! We all thought you fell off the face of the earth after you left Sky. What happened to you?”

Max slides an arm around your waist. “She fell for me,” he says with a grin.

Emma’s eyes bug out even more as she takes in your designer dress, heels, and rock on your finger. “You mean … you and Max ...”

You nod, feeling yourself blush. “About a year ago, yeah.”

“Wow.” Emma shakes her head in disbelief. “Just … wow. I mean, look at you! You look incredible!”

You smooth your hands self-consciously over your dress. Your style has certainly changed since your Sky Sports days of sensible pantsuits. As an analyst, you had lived in jeans, flats, and minimal makeup, your hair always pulled back in a simple ponytail. Now your hair falls in soft waves over your shoulders, and you’re wearing a floaty floral maxi dress and strappy heels. You went from broadcasting racing stats to being a WAG almost overnight.

“Thanks,” you say, your cheeks growing even warmer. “It’s really good to see you, Emma.”

“You too!” She grins. “I have so many questions, but I better let you go for now. Don’t want to keep the championship leader waiting.” She winks at Max. “We’ll catch up later, yeah? Drinks tonight to celebrate your return?”

“Sure, sounds good.” You smile, thankful she’s not pressing for more details now. Emma waves and heads off in search of her next interview.

Max keeps his arm around you as you continue through the paddock. “See, that wasn’t so bad,” he murmurs.

You let out a shaky laugh. “One down, about a hundred more to go.”

Over the next hour you run into what feels like every person you used to work with. They all react with similar shock at the former paddock nerd turned glamorous girlfriend of the reigning four-time World Champion.

You chat briefly with Will, who stutters over his words and goes bright red when you say hello. He had the biggest crush on you back when you worked together. Sarah can’t stop gushing over your ring. Tom tells you how weird it is not to see you hunched over a laptop crunching numbers.

The encounters leave you feeling drained, but also relieved. Your old coworkers seem genuinely happy for you, not resentful like you had worried. They don’t pry too much into how exactly you went from reporting race stats to ending up with Max Verstappen. That’s a story for another time.

Eventually you make it to the Red Bull garage, where you let out a long breath. “Phew, I survived.”

Max grins and pulls you close. “You were amazing. And you look beautiful, as always.” He nuzzles your neck.

You smile and loop your arms around his shoulders. “Have I mentioned how happy I am whenever I’m with you?”

“Mmm, maybe once or twice.” Max kisses you softly. “But feel free to keep reminding me.”

“Ahem.” Christian Horner clears his throat from behind you. “If you two can pause the PDA for a moment, we have a race to focus on.”

You spring apart, blushing furiously at being caught by Max’s team principal. Max just laughs and slings an arm around your shoulders.

“Lighten up, Christian. I’m allowed to kiss my fiancée.”

Christian shakes his head, but he’s fighting a smile. “Indeed you are. But perhaps when there aren’t cameras around?” He nods over your shoulder.

You turn to see several photographers zooming in, no doubt dying to get shots of the paddock’s newest it couple. You bury your face in Max’s shoulder.

“Ugh, no privacy anywhere,” you grumble.

Max kisses your hair. “It’s not so bad. Just part of the deal when you’re with me, remember?”

You smile up at him. “Very true. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

The day passes in a blur of activity. Max has various sponsor obligations and media commitments. You stick close by his side, learning how to avoid the cameras and deflect the constant questions about your relationship. Being the center of attention still feels strange, but you’re getting better at handling it.

During Max’s autograph session, you chat with some of the other drivers’ girlfriends and wives. They give you tips on dealing with the madness. You’re touched by how kind and welcoming they are.

“It takes some getting used to,” Alex Albon’s girlfriend, Lily, says. “But once you figure out how to focus on what really matters, the rest just becomes background noise.”

You nod. Your priority is Max. Everything else is just part of the ride.

***

One Year Ago

You sink down onto a stack of tires behind the Red Bull motorhome, finally letting the tears fall. This weekend in Barcelona has been a nightmare so far. Your team at Sky Sports is chronically understaffed, so you’ve been working 18 hour days analyzing data and prepping stats graphics.

You’re exhausted, frustrated, and seriously questioning your career choices.

On top of that, you just found out that your coworker and boyfriend Jamie has been cheating on you for months with one of the new junior reporters. You feel like such an idiot for not realizing it sooner.

You just need a few minutes to yourself to cry it out before plastering a smile back on and soldiering through the rest of the weekend. You hear footsteps approaching and quickly dab at your eyes with your sleeve, but it’s too late.

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to ...” The voice trails off awkwardly.

You glance up to see none other than Max Verstappen standing there, a look of concern on his face. Great. The last thing you need is Formula 1’s wunderkind catching you bawling behind the motorhome.

You scramble to your feet, trying to compose yourself. “Um, hi. No worries, I was just ...” You trail off, at a loss for how to explain.

Max steps closer, head tilted. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

His kindness makes the tears threaten again. You stare down at your scuffed sneakers, embarrassed.

“I’m fine, really. Just had a bad day. You know how it goes.” You force a weak laugh.

Max doesn’t seem convinced. “Here, come sit for a minute,” he says gently, guiding you back over to the stack of tires.

To your surprise, he sits down next to you in his designer jeans and Red Bull Racing hoodie like it’s no big deal. You would laugh if you weren’t still fighting more tears.

“I’m Max, by the way.” He smiles and holds out his hand.

You shake it weakly. “Yeah, I know. I mean, uh, I’m Y/N.” You blush. Smooth.

Max either doesn’t notice or is too polite to comment. “So Y/N, what has you so upset? Boyfriend troubles?” He raises an eyebrow knowingly.

You let out a watery chuckle. “Yeah, something like that. The idiot’s been cheating on me it turns out.” Saying it out loud makes the hurt swell back up.

Max shakes his head angrily. “What a dick. I don’t understand guys who treat girls like that. You deserve so much better, Y/N.”

The genuine outrage on your behalf makes you smile a bit through the tears. “Thanks, Max. I appreciate that.”

He nods. “Any guy would be lucky to have a girl as pretty and smart as you. This loser doesn’t know what he’s lost.”

Now you really can’t help blushing. You’re used to being called a lot of things — nerdy, awkward, obsessive about stats — but no one’s ever called you pretty before. Especially not a kind, cute, and famous race car driver.

You dip your head, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear self-consciously. “You’re very sweet to say that.”

Max bumps your shoulder with his. “Just calling it like I see it.”

You chat for a few more minutes about nothing in particular. Max is easy to talk to, and makes you laugh with funny stories about mishaps in the garage. By the time you hear your boss calling your name, you’ve almost forgotten about Jamie and your tear-stained face.

“Shit, I have to get back to work,” you say, standing quickly and grabbing your laptop bag. “Thanks for listening, Max. I really appreciate you taking the time.”

“Of course.” Max stands too, shoving his hands in his pockets. He seems reluctant to end the conversation. “Hey, maybe I’ll see you around again this weekend?”

You give him a curious look, wondering why he’d want to see you again after witnessing that mess of emotions. But he looks sincere. “Yeah, maybe! I’m around if you need any stats analysis or data work.” You tap your temple. “Numbers nerd, at your service.”

Max grins. “Good to know. Take care, Y/N.” With a little wave, he heads off, leaving you staring after him in surprise.

The rest of the day you keep replaying those moments with Max in your head, unable to focus. Why did he seem so interested in a frumpy data analyst having a meltdown? You can’t make sense of it.

By the time qualifying ends on Saturday, you’re practically dead on your feet. Your eyelids keep drooping as you pack up your equipment. Maybe you’ll just sleep under your desk tonight instead of walking all the way to the hotel.

“Long day, huh?”

You jerk awake to see Max leaning in the doorway of your makeshift office, thumbs hooked in his pockets. He looks annoyingly energetic and put together compared to your disheveled state.

“Uh, yeah.” You smooth your hair back,feeling self-conscious. Why does he have to catch you looking like such a mess yet again? “Just have about a million graphics to finish before tomorrow’s broadcast. The glamorous life of a data analyst,” you say wryly.

Max frowns. “They keep you here this late doing all the work yourself?”

You sigh, rubbing your grainy eyes beneath your glasses. “Unfortunately yes. We’re way understaffed, but it’s not like they’ll give us more budget to hire help.”

Max shakes his head. “That’s unacceptable. You deserve so much better than this.”

The kindness in his voice makes you suddenly emotional again. You bite your lip, willing yourself not to tear up at work twice in one day.

“Thanks, Max. I’ll be okay though, once I get some sleep ...” You know you don’t sound convincing.

Max appears to think for a moment, his brow furrowed. “You know what, enough of this. Come on.”

Before you can react, he takes your hand and gently tugs you to your feet.

“W-what? Where are we going?” You stammer, heartbeat quickening.

“We’re getting out of here. You’re clearly exhausted and need a break.” Max keeps hold of your hand as he leads you from the office.

“But-but my work … I have to finish-” Even as you protest, you let him continue pulling you along. A rebellious part of you is thrilled at this sudden adventure.

“It can wait. Right now, we’re getting some food and drinks in you so you actually have energy left for tomorrow.” Max winks at you as you exit the paddock into the cool night air. “Trust me.”

And despite barely knowing this man, you realize you do trust him. Max guides you around the corner to a lively tapas bar, chatting all the while about random topics to make you laugh. He seems genuinely interested in getting to know you.

Over shared plates of patatas bravas and fizzy cocktails, you find yourself opening up to Max in a way you never do with people you just met. But his kindness and openness make you feel comfortable. He tells you more about life as an F1 driver, the pressures and perks.

“It must be amazing getting to travel all over the world racing cars,” you muse after your second cocktail. “Like a dream.”

“Part of it is, yeah.” Max smiles wryly. “But it can also be lonely. Never really putting down roots anywhere. Hard to meet people outside the racing bubble, you know?”

You nod thoughtfully. Under the playboy racer exterior, it seems there’s a down-to-earth guy who just wants connection. On impulse, you cover his hand with yours and give it a squeeze.

“Well, you’ve got a friend here now if you ever need company at a race.”

Max turns his palm over to link his fingers through yours. “I was hoping you’d say that.” His smile is so warm and genuine, you feel your cheeks heat.

By the time you stumble back to your hotel, you’re laughing and chatting with Max like old friends. When you get to your door though, you blink blearily and sway on your feet — the long day and alcohol hitting you hard.

Max steadies you with a hand on your waist. “Whoa there. You gonna make it okay?”

You wave a hand drunkenly. “Oh yeah, totally fiiiine ...” Your balance wavers again. Okay, maybe not so fine.

Max bites his lip, seeming to have an internal debate. “Alright, slight change of plans. You’re in no state to be left alone right now.”

In one smooth motion he scoops you up bridal-style. You make a very dignified squeaking noise and clutch his shoulders.

“Max! What are you doing?”

“Making sure you’re safe for the night.” He grins down at you. “You can stay in my suite where I can keep an eye on you.”

“But … people will think ...” Even tipsy, you know spending the night in Max Verstappen’s hotel room is probably a bad idea.

“Let them think whatever. I’m being a gentleman, I promise.” The sincerity in his eyes melts your feeble protests. You really are in no state to be left alone.

You sigh and rest your head on his shoulder. “Okay fine, you win. But just for tonight!”

Max chuckles, carrying you towards the elevator. “Deal. We’ll get you sobered up and rested for tomorrow.”

You have vague impressions of a plush suite, being tucked into cool satin sheets and handed water and pills for your headache. Max brushes hair off your face with a lingering touch. “Get some sleep, Y/N. I’m right next door if you need me.”

His kindness brings tears to your eyes again, but happy ones this time. As you drift off surrounded by his scent, you think dazedly that maybe this race weekend hasn’t been so terrible after all.

In the morning, waking up in Max Verstappen’s hotel bed, you at first think it was all some crazy dream. Then the smell of brewing coffee draws you out to the living room, where Max stands in the kitchenette.

“Morning! I ordered us some breakfast.” He hands you a mug, smiling softly.

Daylight streaming through the windows makes last night’s events seem even more surreal. You feel suddenly shy as memories return. A part of you wishes you could stay here in this peaceful bubble with him forever, away from the outside world.

But reality calls, as you both have jobs to return to. Max convinces you to eat some food and take more pain meds before he walks you back to your own room to shower and change.

At your door he pulls you into a gentle hug. “Take care of yourself today, okay Y/N? And if you need another break or company again, you know where to find me.” He presses a featherlight kiss to your forehead that sends tingles through your entire body.

Somehow you make it through the day fueled by Max’s kindness and the smallest hope this could lead to more. You catch sight of him striding through the paddock, fans clamoring for his attention. His eyes always seem to find you though, lighting up with that warm smile.

After the race, you’re back in your makeshift office trying not to fall asleep at your desk before the last minutes of broadcasts. When you walk outside into the golden hour sunset though, Max is waiting for you.

“So, ready for round two at the tapas place to celebrate my win?” He bumps your shoulder playfully.

You grin up at him, this beautiful boy who inexplicably wants to spend all his free moments with you. “Definitely. Bring on the croquetas.”

Laughing together, you start making your way there. And though you don’t know what this budding connection will lead to, you’re ready to find out.

***

Nine Months Ago

You snuggle deeper into Max’s arms with a contented sigh, resting your head on his chest. The lights are dim and music plays softly in the background of his hotel suite. Rain patters against the windows, making it the perfect night to get cozy indoors.

Being wrapped up with Max like this, away from the chaos of the race weekend, has become your favorite place to be over the past few months. After that impulsive first night in Barcelona when he took care of you, you started spending more and more time together.

What began as a supportive friendship soon turned into dates, kisses, and eventually becoming official boyfriend and girlfriend. You still can’t believe that Max Verstappen, Formula 1 superstar, wants to be with a plain data analyst like yourself. But from the way he looks at you — like you’re the most captivating person in the world — you don’t doubt his sincerity.

“Have I told you lately how beautiful you are?” Max murmurs, trailing his fingers slowly up and down your arm.

You smile and nuzzle his neck. “Mmm, I think you mentioned it once or twice.”

His hands drift up to stroke your hair and you practically purr, eyes drifting shut. Max kisses the top of your head. “I mean it though, Y/N. Being with you makes me so happy.”

You lift your head to meet his lips in a soft kiss. “You make me happy too, Max. I-” You cut off with an enormous yawn that you fail to stifle in time.

Max chuckles. “Am I boring you over here?”

“No no,” you insist around another yawn. “I just can’t seem to keep my eyes open tonight.”

It’s true. As blissful as you feel cuddled up with Max, you’re utterly exhausted. This weekend has been nonstop work with little sleep. By the time you wrapped the Sky broadcasts up for the night, you could barely see straight.

Max brushes a strand of hair back from your face, his expression growing serious. “You’re completely worn out, schatje. I hate seeing you push yourself to the breaking point like this.”

You give him a tired smile. “It’s okay, really. I’m used to the long hours by now. Occupational hazard.” It comes out less convincingly than you intended.

Max’s frown deepens. He shifts around to face you, cradling your cheek in his palm. “But you shouldn’t have to be used to it, Y/N. Your bosses take advantage of your dedication. It’s not right.”

You bite your lip, not meeting his earnest gaze. Deep down you know he’s correct, but you don’t know what else to do. This career has been your life for years now.

Max gently turns your face back to his. “You deserve so much better. You keep giving everything to this job and they just keep demanding more. When’s the last time you took a real break?”

You look down, feeling the prickle of tears. You can’t even remember your last vacation or rest day. “It’s okay, really ...” you whisper half-heartedly.

“No, it’s not.” Max’s voice is firm but caring. He tips your chin up to meet his eyes. “I can’t stand seeing you being taken advantage of. It makes me want to take care of you properly, the way you should be.”

Your breath catches at the intensity in his gaze. Being taken care of and cherished so deeply is new for you. You don’t know how to respond.

Max seems to take your silence as uncertainty. “Just think about it, liefje. You could finally put yourself first and do what makes you happy instead of what makes Sky Sports happy.” He caresses your cheek with his thumb. “Doesn’t a break to rest and recover sound nice?”

You close your eyes with a shaky exhale, admitting to yourself just how badly you need it. Your health and mental wellbeing have been steadily declining under the relentless stress.

“It really does sound nice,” you whisper. A few tears leak out beneath your lashes.

Max kisses them away tenderly, holding you close. “Shh I know, baby. You’re burning yourself out trying to do the impossible. Anyone would be exhausted.”

You cling to him, sniffling. “But it’s my job, my career. I can’t just walk away ...” Even as you say it, the prospect doesn’t seem as scary as it once did. Not if you get to have this, being wrapped in Max’s love and care.

“You can walk away from anything that’s making you suffer. You’re so much more than this job. And you’ll never have to worry or want for anything ever again.” His tone drips with promise.

You lean back to search his face. “What do you mean?”

Max smiles and brushes his nose against yours. “I mean, I’ll take care of you. If you leave your job to focus on yourself and our relationship, you will want for nothing. I’ll make sure of it.”

Your eyes go wide. “You mean … quit working altogether and just … be with you full time?”

Max nods, still smiling. “It can be that simple if you want. No more crazy hours and stress. Just let me spoil you and give you the life you deserve. What do you say?”

Your pulse races as you imagine it. No more coming home at 2 am and collapsing, living off vending machine snacks. Instead you could be leisurely mornings with Max, seeing the world together, doing activities you actually enjoy instead of endless stats analysis ...

It sounds idyllic. But could you really just stop working and let Max support you? Would people judge you for it?

As if reading your mind, Max says “Ignore whatever anyone else might think. This is about what’s right for you and makes you happy. I’m sure of this, Y/N. Please trust me.”

His eyes radiate so much love and certainty. Slowly you nod, feeling a weight lift from your chest.

“Okay,” you whisper. “If you’re sure then … I trust you, Max.”

Joy spreads across his face. He kisses you deeply, pouring all his feelings into it. When he finally pulls back you’re both breathless.

“You won’t regret this, schatje. I’m going to take such good care of you from now on.” Max strokes your hair, eyes shining. “No more exhaustion and stress. Just being together and enjoying life. It will be amazing.”

You truly believe it as you drift off, safe in his arms. No more pressure to single-handedly carry Sky Sports’ data analysis. From now on, you can just be his … and find yourself again.

The next day you take a deep breath and knock on your boss’ door. Within minutes, you’ve quit your job and ended a years long chapter. It feels bittersweet but right as you box up your belongings from your little makeshift office. This time when tears prick your eyes, they’re from overwhelming relief.

Max is waiting to pick you up, greeting you with a spinning hug and long kiss. “I’m so proud of you. You’re going to be so much happier and healthier from now on, I just know it.”

You hug him tight, burying your face in his neck. “I already feel lighter. This was the right choice.”

And it truly is. As you jet off to a tropical island just the two of you that weekend, it feels like a new life.

The days pass in a dreamy haze — sleeping in, long massages, breakfast in bed courtesy of Max, sunset walks on the beach holding hands. He delights in pampering you with gifts, gourmet meals, and your every whim met often before you even speak it.

“I could get used to this,” you sigh contentedly as you lounge together in a cabana, sipping fruity cocktails.

Max smiles and nuzzles your neck. “That’s the idea. You’ll never lift a finger except when you want to from now on.”

It amazes you how he transforms from fierce competitor on the track to this caring, protective boyfriend behind closed doors. He seems to find his greatest happiness in making sure you’re thoroughly spoiled.

You do occasionally think of the drastic shift your life has taken. But any flicker of doubt is erased by Max’s love and devotion. He’s given you freedom from exhaustion and anxiety. You’ve never felt more adored.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you,” you whisper one night as you sway together on the balcony under the stars, your silk robe fluttering around you.

Max gazes at you like you hold the secrets of the universe. “You just had to be yourself, schatje. That’s all I’ll ever need.”

He takes your breath away with slow, passionate kisses until you meltingly agree to take things inside. Your first time together is everything you imagined and more.

Afterwards, lying entwined with Max stroking your hair, you have never felt more whole. You found in each other what you needed most — care, understanding, and unwavering love.

This blissful new life together has only just begun.

***

A Few Hours Ago

You hum to yourself as you flip through the designer outfits in your massive walk-in closet, selecting options for the upcoming race. This will be your first time attending a Grand Prix on Max’s arm and you want to look perfect.

As you sift through rows of Chanel, Dior, Valentino, and Prada, you feel a pair of familiar arms wrap around your waist.

“Need any help choosing?” Max asks, nuzzling your neck.

You lean back into him with a smile. “I was just trying to narrow it down. I want to look nice for your big weekend.”

Max turns you in his arms, one hand coming up to caress your cheek. “Schatje, you could show up in sweatpants and you’d still be the most beautiful woman there.”

You scrunch your nose. “But it’s Monaco! I need to look at least semi put-together.”

“It’s impossible for you to look anything but,” Max declares, stealing a quick kiss. “You always look perfect to me.”

You swat his chest but can’t help grinning. His constant compliments and admiration still give you flutters even after months together.

Taking your hand, Max comes to stand before the endless clothing options. “Okay, let’s see what we’re working with here.”

You pull out two of your favorites: a sleek black Balmain jumpsuit with a deep neckline and waist cutouts, and a shimmering floral Givenchy maxi dress.

“Ooh, these are both amazing,” Max says, fingering the luxe fabrics. “That jumpsuit would show off your sexy legs, but this fabric is so pretty with your skin tone ...”

You chew your bottom lip thoughtfully. “I’m torn too. What’s your vote?”

Max pretends to scrutinize them closely before breaking into a smile. “Well you know I love you in anything. Or nothing,” he adds with a wink.

You roll your eyes and swat him with a hanger. “Behave! I need actual fashion advice please.”

“Okay okay.” Max puts on an exaggerated serious expression. “The Givenchy dress is very classy and princess-like. But I love the way this Balmain hugs your curves.” To demonstrate, he traces a hand along the waist and down your side.

You shiver pleasantly at his touch. “Mmm, good point ...”

Max leans in close behind you, hands resting on your hips. “Imagine me peeling it off of you after my win.” He presses a kiss below your ear.

You melt back into him, tilting your head to give him better access to your neck. “Well when you put it that way ...”

“The dress would be pretty easy access too though.” Max slides his hands under the fabric across your thighs teasingly.

You gasp and swat him away again, laughing. “Okay stop distracting me! I really do need to pick.”

Max relents with a grin, holding up his hands in surrender. “Alright, you win. I officially vote for the dress. It’s sexy yet elegant, just like you.”

You smile and give him a peck on the lips. “Now, what about bags and shoes?”

You move through your endless options as Max offers his input. He has a surprising eye for fashion despite his own relaxed, sporty style.

“This one matches the best.” He selects a sleek black crocodile Birkin. “Classy and understated.”

You turn the bag over in your hands. “Ooh I forgot I had this one. Good call!”

After picking strappy heels to complete the look, you start browsing your jewelry selection.

“That’s a lot of shiny stuff,” Max remarks, eyes roving over the boxes of diamonds, emeralds, sapphires and more.

You arch an eyebrow. “Says the one who got carried away with the jewelry purchases ...”

Max just grins and pulls you close. “I want you to have it all. You deserve to be spoiled.” He captures your lips in a sweet kiss.

You hum happily against his mouth before pulling back. “Will you help me pick something?”

“Hmm let’s see ...” Max peruses the options before selecting an elegant diamond necklace. “Yeah, this one is perfect. Really complements the dress.”

He fastens it carefully around your neck, meeting your eyes in the mirror with a smile. His gaze trails down your body as you model the full outfit together.

“You look absolutely incredible, liefje. Every man in Monaco will be drooling over you.”

You turn to wrap your arms around his shoulders. “Well I only care about impressing one man.” You kiss the tip of his nose.

Max’s hands find your waist again, warm on your exposed skin. “Oh trust me, I am very impressed. And the second we’re alone after the race this outfit will be on the floor.”

You laugh as he nuzzles into your neck, nipping lightly. Somehow, you manage to fall more in love with Max every day.

You eventually disentangle, needing to actually get ready for the day ahead.

“What should I wear in the meantime?” You muse, fingers drifting over the designer options.

Before you can choose, Max comes up behind you and starts guiding a silk robe onto your shoulders.

“How about nothing at all? I’m enjoying this view already,” he murmurs against your skin as he wraps the sash loosely around your waist.

You lean back into him with a hum of pleasure. “Well if you insist ...”

Max takes your hand and leads you to the bed, laying you back against the pillows. He undoes the robe just enough to expose your body as he trails kisses everywhere. “Mmm yes, this is much better than any outfit.”

You run your fingers through his hair, arching into his touch. “What happened to getting ready for the race?” You breathe.

Max pauses his kisses just below your navel to flash a wicked grin up at you. “Race day can wait for a few more minutes. Right now I want to appreciate my gorgeous girl.”

You have zero arguments with that logic. With a happy sigh, you surrender to his skilled and eager mouth, letting all other concerns fade away. Everything else will have its turn — being worshiped by Max is the only thing on your schedule this morning.

Eventually though, you manage to dress and make your way to the circuit. As you ride through the streets together on the way, Max keeps an arm curled tightly around you.

“You know, despite the fancy clothes and jewelry, you’re still the same humble, kind-hearted woman I fell for,” Max says, kissing your temple. “All that other stuff just enhances your inner beauty.”

You smile and squeeze his hand as you lift your lips to meet his. “You always know just what to say.”

You keep your chin up and shoulders back as you step onto the harborside track that will soon be swarming with VIPs. With Max by your side, you have everything you need — now and always.

***

Monaco Grand Prix, 2025

The cheers of the crowd echo in your ears as you watch Max pass the chequered flag, securing his win. Your heart swells with pride and love as he pulls the car over to parc fermé and hops out, immediately searching for you on the other side of the barriers.

The second his eyes land on yours, his face lights up with that smile that melts you every time. He’s barely stepped out of the car before you launch yourself into his arms.

“You did it! I’m so proud of you,” you breathlessly exclaim.

Max laughs and pulls you closer. “I’m just happy to win it for you, liefje.”

Still holding you against his chest, he claims your mouth in a fierce celebratory kiss as the team and cameras swarm around. Your world narrows to just the feeling of his lips on yours, his race suit damp with sweat under your palms.

When you finally break for air, foreheads touching, Max murmurs “I love you so much. This one was for you.”

Your answering smile feels brighter than the Monaco sunshine. “I love you too. You were incredible today.”

The podium ceremony and interviews pass in a euphoric blur. Max keeps you tucked close to his side whenever he can, his arm firmly around your waist. He only has eyes for you despite the chaos surrounding him.

Finally escaping to the privacy of his driver’s room in the Red Bull motorhome, Max properly ravages you up against the door. The heady mix of victory and desire is intoxicating.

Much later, surrounded by empty champagne bottles with Max nuzzling lazy kisses across your bare shoulders, you hear a tentative knock.

“Decent?” Comes Emma’s teasing voice.

“Just a minute!” You call out, scrambling for your discarded dress.

Max pouts adorably as you wriggle back into it. “Do we have to go out? I’m enjoying having you all to myself ...”

You smile and kiss him sweetly. “Soon baby. But let’s celebrate with some friends first.”

Max sighs but nods, taking your hand as you go open the door. Emma’s eyebrows shoot up as she takes in your thoroughly debauched state, but she politely doesn’t comment.

“Y/N! There you are! Oh, and congrats on the win,” she says to Max before turning back to you. “We’re all heading to Jimmy’z for the afterparty. You have to come!”

You hesitate, glancing at Max. “Oh, actually we already have plans ...”

“Come on, it will be like old times! We can squeeze you both in, I’m sure,” Emma pleads. Your former colleagues are beckoned over — Tom, Will, Sarah, and others waving excitedly.

Their eager faces make you pause, but Max just chuckles and slides an arm around your waist. “No need for squeezing into crowded clubs. I’ve already reserved some VIP booths so we can party properly.” He winks down at you.

“Oh! Well in that case, we’ll see you there.” Emma looks impressed. The others chatter excitedly as they head off to get ready.

You grin up at Max, arms looped around his neck. “You’re the best, you know that?”

“Only the best for you, beautiful.” He kisses you softly before you head off hand-in-hand.

After making yourselves presentable again, you set out into the Monaco night. The Circuit de Monaco is still abuzz with energy, music and laughter pouring from every corner.

The line outside Jimmy’z stretches far down the block. But the bouncer immediately waves you through with a respectful “Mr. Verstappen, this way please.”

You exchange a smile with Max, who keeps you tucked close against his side. It still feels surreal being ushered into exclusive areas that once intimidated you. Now it’s your glamorous new normal.

“Y/N, you made it!” Emma jumps up and hugs you tight. She eyes your designer outfit and perfectly styled hair. “Damn, look at you! Got that WAG glow going on.”

You smooth your hands self-consciously over your dress. “Oh, thanks! Just trying to look the part, I guess.”

You chat and laugh with Emma and your former coworkers as music pulses around you. When the Go-Go dancer comes by with a tray of sparklers, you impulsively grab two, popping one in your mouth and handing the other to a wide-eyed Emma.

She fumbles to light hers, watching as you tilt your head back and laugh, little sparks showering your face.

“Girl, you are wild tonight!” Emma has to shout over the music. “I’ve never seen you like this.”

You just smile and rummage through your Birkin for lipstick to touch up, crossing and uncrossing your legs that sport sky-high Louboutins. Your time working 18 hour days hunched over a laptop feels like another lifetime.

Eventually needing a break from the noise, you head to the bar to refresh your drink. Emma joins you, peering at the menu.

“Damn, I can’t even pronounce half this stuff,” she laughs. “What are you thinking of getting?”

You scan the options. “Mmm, maybe the Dom Pérignon Rosé? Sounds nice.”

Emma shakes her head in disbelief. “You really have gone full glam. I don’t think I ever saw you drink anything but Heineken at the track.”

You scoff, “Well we didn’t exactly have champagne on offer in our part of the paddock.”

You smile politely as the bartender brings your drink over. Emma is still eyeing you curiously.

“What?” You ask, laughing under her scrutiny.

“Nothing, just ...” She waves a hand at you. “Look at you with the designer outfit, Birkin bag, $500 drinks … you’re a whole new woman!”

You take a sip of the bubbly pink liquid and just smile. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“No no, not at all!” Emma rushes to say. “You seem really happy. I’ve just never seen you like this before. You were always the practical, focused one. Now you look … fully embraced by the glitz.”

You lean against the bar, considering her words. She’s right — the old you never could’ve imagined fully embracing this lifestyle. But now you can’t imagine anything else.

“I am happier than I’ve ever been,” you tell her honestly. “With Max I’m free to enjoy life and not worry about anything. He takes care of it all.”

Emma raises her eyebrows. “So he just … pays for everything, and you live this champagne lifestyle together?”

You smile, fingering the enormous diamond on your left hand. “Basically, yes. And it’s as amazing as it sounds. I’ll never need to work or stress over bills or anything again.”

“Huh.” Emma takes a thoughtful sip of her own drink. “Don’t you ever miss the thrill of data crunching and racing strategy though?”

You consider it for a moment. The thought of long hours analyzing race stats and performance metrics makes your brain hurt.

“You know … I really don’t,” you realize. “I can barely even remember the programs and systems we used. And I like it that way.”

Emma nods slowly. You can tell she’s making an effort to be open-minded about your new life. Before she can respond, you feel the presence of someone behind you.

“There’s my beautiful girl,” Max murmurs, sliding his arms around your waist and nuzzling your neck. “This party is nowhere near as fun without you.”

You lean back into him happily. His passion and desire for you still give you the same flutters as that first night together in Barcelona. You doubt that will ever change.

Turning in his arms, you accept the kiss he gives you, not caring that Emma is still standing there. Let her see how crazy you are for each other.

When you pull back, Max smiles down at you like you’re the only person in the crowded club. “Dance with me?” He extends a hand, already gently pulling you towards the dancefloor.

You let him lead you away without a backwards glance. Emma can think what she wants, but she can’t possibly understand your relationship with Max. You know this is exactly where you’re meant to be.

Max hands you a fresh glass of champagne and keeps an arm curled around your waist as you sway together. The music and alcohol fill you with euphoria.

“Have I told you how stunning you look tonight?” Max murmurs in your ear, his breath hot on your skin.

You smile up at him coyly. “Feel free to keep reminding me.”

Max’s answering grin is sinful. His hands travel your body as you move together. “I plan to show you later just how irresistible I find you.”

The night flies by in a blur of dancing, drinks, and stolen kisses in the shadows with Max. Your former colleagues party into the early morning, but eventually stumble back to their hotels.

You and Max retreat back to your shared apartment just as dawn breaks over the horizon. As promised, your dress hits the floor immediately. He ravages you with hungry kisses, urging you higher and higher until you cry out his name again and again.

After, wrapped securely in his arms, you sigh in utter contentment. The smooth sheets feel divine against your skin and Max gently strokes your hair as you doze against his chest.

“So I take it you had fun?” He asks, a smile in his voice.

You lift your head to grin at him. “It was amazing. Although ...” You bite your lip coyly.

Max raises an eyebrow. “Although what, schatje?”

“Well, this part is still my favorite.” You punctuate your point by straddling his waist again, bending to kiss him deeply.

Max groans appreciatively against your mouth, hands grasping your hips. “Mmm mine too. In fact, I don’t think we’re done celebrating yet ...”

Your lips part in ecstasy and your nails rake down his back as he takes you right to the edge again and again. Finally collapsing in a tangle of sweaty limbs, you’re both completely spent and blissful. You curl into Max’s side, eyes drifting shut.

“I love you so much,” you murmur, the words slurring together.

Max kisses your hair, stroking your back. “I love you too, Y/N. Being with you is a dream.”

You slip into peaceful dreams still wrapped in each other. The glitz and glamour of F1 life is fun, but nothing compares to the private world you share with Max.

You’ll face the crowds and cameras again soon. But right now, lost in Max’s embrace, you have everything you need.

[rafeandonlyrafe]

baby shoes

words: 2.3k

warnings: 18+ only!, smut, best friend!rafe, childhood friends to lovers, pretty fluffy :), p in v sex, unprotected smut, breeding!, pregnancy kink?, no actual sex while pregnant but lots of like. bump descriptions?

rafe rolls his eyes as you let out a squeal, already knowing what is happening.

“oh. my. god.” you pick up the baby shoes off the shelf, a pair of sparkly flats with the cutest flower straps you've ever seen. “rafe, they're so tiny!”

you hold them up for him to look at as if he's never seen baby shoes before, despite you pointing them out to him every time you're out shopping together.

“yeah, real cute.” he says, keeping his voice completely monotone.

“rafe, don't be so sour.” you pout at him. your friendship is an unexpected one. started in kindergarten and has only grown closer since, your sweet nature in contrast to rafes hard exterior.

“y/n.” rafe sighs, taking the baby shoes from your hands as he sets them back on the shelf. “we look at baby shoes and onesies every time we go to target. i brought you here to buy you a pair of boots, let's go.”

rafe tries to usher you down the aisle. despite you also being a kook he refuses to let you (or, really, your parents credit card) pay for anything.

you nod and continue to the women's section when you cross by a pair of ugg boots made for toddlers and stop in your tracks. “raaaafe!” you coo.

--

look how cute this baby is rafey

“are you serious?” rafe questions reading your text message. “im laying right next to you.”

“too much work to roll over and show you.” you shrug, both scrolling on your phones, having just gotten back from a long day. so long rafe insisted you slept at his because it was closer. only one block closer, but you didn't argue. rafes bed is also yours, and yours his. you've always shared, no need to change now just because you're older.

“that baby isn't even that cute.” rafe huffs out.

you turn over now, rolling onto your stomach to glare at him. “rafe cameron, you are such a dick!”

“oh, so you'll roll over to yell at me?” rafe questions, a smile on his face. usually he wouldn't take shit from anyone, but you're not just anyone to him.

“yes because you deserve it asshole. that baby is adorable.”

“yours would be way cuter.” rafe grins, knowing how flustered you get talking about having a child of your own.

“okay, true.” 

--

“what the fuck is going on?” rafe questions, his mouth literally dropping as he walks in.

“oh my god!” you squeal. “you told me you were coming over at 2, you idiot!” 

rafe looks at the time on your alarm clock. 1:55. rafe may have not knocked before letting himself in, but he figured it was fine. 

“what are you wearing?”

“it's… it's a fake pregnancy belly. my friend carly who works with the school plays said they were getting rid of it bc it was getting old… and i asked to have it.” you shrug, your embarrassment melting away the longer you talk about it.

“why would you want that?” rafe questions.

“i just wanted to see what id look like.” you shrug, turning again to look at yourself in the mirror, running your hands over the tshirt stretching around the plastic material. “i think i look cute.”

rafes eyes are on the round swell of your belly. he thinks you look more than cute, he thinks you look so ravishing he wants to make that belly real right this second.

“gonna take a shower.” rafe makes a turn towards your bathroom before you can argue, saving himself by locking the door behind him.

-- 

“why are you in a mood?” rafe just entered your house but he can already tell from the look on your face that something has upset you.

“freaking kelsey is pregnant.” you spit her name out like it's an insult. she's been your sworn moral enemy ever since she “dated” rafe in the fourth grade and told him he had to choose between staying friends with you or dating her. he chose staying friends of course, but you've despised her anyways since.

“okay…” rafe waits for more reasoning to you being so upset.

“that should be me.” you whine, not ashamed as you throw a little tantrum, stomping your feet on the ground.

“it can be.” rafe shrugs.

“huh?” you question, plopping back on the couch behind you, waiting for rafe to join you for movie night.

“you're not a kid anymore, y/n. you're 21. have a baby if you want.” rafe simply states.

“i- who would i even have a baby with? im single.” you've been single a majority of your life. there were flings in high school, but no one that lasted.

what you don't know if rafe contributed heavily to those relationships ending. he had staked his claim on you, and no guy was worthy in his eyes.

“id help you raise a baby.” rafe says without really thinking, sitting down on the couch next to you, not flinching as you turn to place your feet on his lap, always wanting to stretch out and get comfortable.

“you would?”

“im with you all the time anyways.” rafe nods. “if you had a baby id basically be their dad anyways.”

“id want that.” you admit. “you're the only guy out there i trust enough to get me pregnant.” you're not really thinking about your words themselves as you press your fingers to your stomach, imagining it filled up with a baby, with rafes baby.

“alright, we gotta talk about something else.” rafe shifts on the couch, pushing your feet off his lap to turn himself slightly away from you.

“wait why?” you question, sitting forward.

“just… change the subject.” rafe takes a deep breath, trying to calm down the boner that is growing in his pants.

“no, tell me!” you move closer, which only makes rafe turn away more. “tell me, rafey!”

he's never kept anything from you, and shockingly you can't figure out why he's behaving like this now.

“jesus, stop!” rafe scooches away when you grab onto his arm, trying to get him to face you, to look at you.

“tell me!” you complain again.

“because im fucking hard okay!” rafe shouts, standing up from the couch. “it's getting me fucking hard thinking about getting you pregnant so change the fucking subject!”

you sit on the couch in shock, eyes wide open. you know you shouldn't, he's your best friend after all, but you find your eyes moving lower, and sure enough, the front of rafes pants and tented, cock pushing away from his body.

“i-i-” you stammer.

“you nothing. okay? we forget this happened. just stop talking about getting fucking pregnant and stop talking about me being the one to do it.”

“but i want it to be you.” you blink up at rafe, head suddenly clearing. you do want it or be rafe. he's the only one who should be waking up in the middle of the night with you when your baby cries. he's the one you want to experience every milestone with. he's the one you want filling you up over and over until your tummy starts to swell.

“we can't go back.” rafe says, his tone suddenly serious. “we can't go back to just friends.”

“i know.” it's all you need to say for rafe to surge forward, dropping his knees to the floor as he kisses you, mouth easily dominating yours. you let out a soft moan as his hands cup your jaw, keeping you close even though you press yourself into him, hands fisted in his shirt.

“let me have you.” rafe pants against your mouth. “i need you. let me fill you up.”

“yes.” you nod. “yes, please. take your clothes off.”

you don't care that you're in the middle of your living room, you immediately tug your shirt off over your head, bearing your breasts to him. rafe knew you never wore a bra when in your own home, but seeing your bare tits is still a shock.

he doesn't even take his shirt off despite you tugging at it, cupping your chest as he leans in, mouth wrapping around your nipple.

“oh my god!” you squeal, fisting your hands in rafes hair, holding him close to your body as his tongue flicks over your nipple, hardening it quickly.

“i… im sorry baby i need to get inside of you.” rafe feels crude, tugging at your shorts to pull them down your legs, tossing them away.

“i need you too.” there will be plenty of time now that you've admitted feelings for each other to take your time, to go slow and learn each other's bodies.

rafe stands up, looking down at you in just your underwear, eyes glassy with lust as he pulls his shirt off, followed by him tugging his pants down, finally getting your eyes off his face as your eyes move down. you reach forward, hand rubbing over rafes length, annoyed that the fabric of his underwear is not allowing you to see him properly.

“fuck, stop.” rafe takes a step back. “im supposed to cum in you. get you pregnant. you're gonna make me bust.”

you smile, flattered that your simple touch can cause him to almost lose it.

“where do you want me.” you whisper. you aren't a virgin but you certainly aren't as experienced as rafe. while you know he partakes in hookups at parties you don't attend, you were never interested in sleeping around just for the sake of sleeping around.

“just lay back, baby.” rafe let's out a huff as you turn from sitting on the couch to laying down, your breasts falling beautifully as you wait for him to make the next move. “let's get these off.” rafe pulls your underwear down, but you keep your legs together to hide yourself for a little longer.

rafe shucks his underwear off next, praying his throbbing erection doesn't cause him to cum the second he gets inside of you.

you let out a low moan just from the both of you being naked. “gonna kneel down. wrap your leg around me.” rafe helps position you, spreading your legs as his eyes take in your wet cunt, pretty and perfect as he wraps your knee around his hips as he sinks himself down, moving to drape his body over yours.

“ill go slow.” rafe says, hoping he can stay true to his word as he reaches down, running his cock briefly through your folds, obsessed with the way your expression changed into one of pure pleasure.

“okay, just at first.” you nod. you need slow to open you up, to stretch your walls to allow rafes size, but you dont want it to stay slow, needing to feel him pound into you, make a mess of your cunt.

rafe sinks in with a gasp as your tightness and warmth envelops him. “fuck.” he mutters out, eyes squeezing closed as he inserts himself until he’s fully buried inside you pussy.

“feels real good rafey.” you pout. “cant believe we didn’t do this sooner. could already have a baby by now.” “oh, im gonna give you plenty.” rafe bends down to kiss you, letting himself get lost in the kiss, focusing on your mouth against his to distract from his throbbing cock.

“move.” you gasp, starting to grind your hips. “move.”

its all rafe needs to start smashing his hips back and forth, rocking into you in a steady but fast motion, aiming every time to get his cock as deep inside of you as possible.

“yes, yes!” you squeal, hands gripping his shoulders. as good as rafe thrusting into you feels, you want his cum more than anything. you begin to squeeze your pussy around him every time he pulls out before thrusting back in, and you can tell from the way rafes mouth hangs open that he likes it.

“fuck, im already close, sorry.” rafe has never had a problem cumming too early with anyone else, but hes never been with you, his best friend who he’s been head over heels for since kindergarten, who is begging to have him put a baby in your womb.

“cum in me. please.” you don’t even care about your own orgasm. you don’t even want it, already feeling so overwhelmed from the way rafes cock swells inside of you.

your eyebrows raise when you realize what the warmth spreading inside of you is, never having let a man take you without a condom. you let out a moan to match rafes as he cums, flooding your insides as he grinds into you. 

you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him down onto you, not caring about the weight as you squeeze your cunt, milking any last drops out of him.

--

“oh my god, i’m gonna cry its so cute.” tears brim in your eyes as you look at your finished nursery, rafe having done the last of the decorations when you were napping, putting the final touches on.

“you're so cute.” he hums, wrapping his arms around you as he stands behind you, also looking over the room. 

“thank you. its perfect.” you sniffle.

“you’re perfect.” rafe has been overwhelming you with compliments lately, wanting to make sure that you know he is still very much attracted to you with your pregnant belly. “and beautiful. and hot. and sexy.” “oh, stop it.” you roll your eyes with a giggle, turning to face rafe.

“it would be inappropriate to have sex in our babies nursery, wouldn’t it?” despite the baby not even being here yet, rafe looks around the former guest bedroom and realizes that it simply wouldn’t be right.

“you’re not getting me on the floor anyways.” you press your hands to your stomach. seven months along with rafes baby.

“probably for the best.” rafe places his hand on your back, leading you out of the nursery and towards your bed. “wanna eat you out on our bed anyways, mamas.”

taglist: @drewstarkeyslut @forstarkey @f4ll-for-you @dilvcv @drudyslut @jjmaybankswifes-blog @rafescokenostril @jjsmarijuana @seeingstarks @angelofcigs @cece45450 @babygorewhore @vanessa-rafesgirl @michelleisheres-blog @outerbankspov @drewstarkeyswifehoe @cutielando @kamninaries @buckyswhxre @rafeinterlude @bellbottombaby @deeaardiary @rubixgsworld @wearemadeofstardust0 @leighbronk @starkeysheart @pradabambie @tobesolovelysstuff @alexiskirkland @rafestar @brioffthegrid @juniebugg @magicalyoura @cokepewpsii @mysticallystilinski @luvdella @aerangi @folklorsweet @soilderpoetandking @auryyz

[ellieluvr420]

wife Abby headcanons xoxo

-You met at a bar when your friend cancelled on you last minute, she offered to buy you a drink and you chatted at the bar until she invited you back to hers, this was back when you were 22 and she was 25 so her flat was more modest but still well decorated and clean. You both shared a bottle of wine and sat and spoke more for hours until you were both so drunk you started doing karaoke together by watching youtube videos on her TV, she invited you out to an actual karaoke bar as your second date and she only fell even more in love with you the more she saw you.

-I think she would work in corporate like a lawyer or investment banker or something so I think she would try and work from home as much as they would let her.

-She looks so funny when she works from home too because she wears work clothes on her top half for her zoom calls but then she would be wearing pj bottoms and her slippers on her bottom half.

-Such a victim of Apple's marketing, always insists she needs the newest phone or whatever they had brought out, she has the watch, the phone, an ipad, an imac, macbook pro, airpod pros and airpod max's. Literally everything they sell because she's actually a tech geek at heart.

"I totally need it."

"Give me one reason you need an iPad Abigail."

"...I don't know, it's just cool."

You roll your eyes at her but chuckle at her insistence as you press a small kiss to her pouty lips. She smiles at you and looks like a child on Christmas day as she orders her new toy.

-She would so wear the airpod max's while working out and i think she'd always have one of those gallon water bottles that she'd take everywhere with her.

"Babe please just let me buy you one, trust me it will make you drink so much more water."

"No it won't, do not waste your money seriously." She'd huff at your stubbornness and go and buy you one anyway.

-I think she would workout at night or during the day if she can fit it in which rarely happens because she enjoys her mornings with you where you guys cuddle and chat and have breakfast together before she goes to work or gets started in the home office

-Does majority of the cooking because she really enjoys it and is also a chef, like she whips up three course meals so regularly like its nothing.

-You try and make dinner together on the weekends which equates to her micromanaging you until she gets too stressed watching you mess up and does it herself while you sit on the counter entertaining her.

-She always goes to sleep as big spoon and always wakes up as little spoon, every night, without failure. Also loves to lay on your stomach with her arms around your waist, one of her fav cuddling positions.

-She's the kind of person to ignore and persevere through a cold until she literally passes out and will get mad at you when you have to force her to rest but once she's comfy and has accepted she's ill she's such a baby.

-She would be so good with kids and they would all love her too like when you would go to family gatherings together all the kids would always be glued to her pulling her every which way

-loves dogs and cats and wants two of each

-loves home date nights where you cook together and watch films or play games whether its board, video or card games. Once you bought a fake police file and tried to figure out who the murderer was, it ended in a huge argument because you couldn't agree on who it was, you were so annoyed you made her sleep on the sofa but in the middle of night she sauntered back into your room and climbs into bed cuddling into you.

"Sorry babe, you were right." She kisses your forehead and you smile as you both go to sleep happily, Abby had managed to find the answer online but she didn't tell you that you were in fact wrong, she would rather be in bed cuddling you than prove she was right.

-I think she would want 3 kids, preferably boy, girl, boy or vice versa but she would be happy with any kids.

-If/when kids come along she starts working from home primarily and you watch them grow together.

-She would eventually want to move away from the city where she lived for an easy commute to work to a beautiful house in the country with large fields behind a huge back garden where the dogs and cats, and ducks all play with the kids.

-She would love reading crime thriller books but she also has a guilty pleasure for romance and sometimes she'll sit in bed with you and read you parts of the books. Can imagine older Abby refusing to get reading glasses because that makes her officially old but she’s literally holding the book as far as it will go and squinting so hard and she still can’t read it, you eventually give in and read it to her which only motivates her to not get glasses more because this was a way better option.

-Loves Family Guy, American Dad, South Park, all those kind of shows but if you put on a drama she'll grumble and then be hooked.

"Oh my god, oh my god, are you fucking kidding me? Noooooooo." Abby yells at the screen as she watches the season 1 finale of vampire diaries with you, you had started rewatching it as it was nostalgic and she made fun of you so much until you forced her to watch the episode you were watching.

Like I could so see her watching greys anatomy and sobbing when there's a major character death

-Goes to get mani pedis with you and she'll always get her nails painted to match the colour of yours even when you'd pick super bright to mess with her she'd get it without batting an eye.

-Of course she gets along super well with all your friends and family, sometimes you think they love her more than you 😀

okay that's all I got for now but I will probs do way more once the series is finished :))

[vampiretendencies]

concept!! jj noticing you getting jealous over random girls talking to him and he reassures you and acts all lovey dovey 💭

noticeably, jj maybank is a sight for sore eyes. half the girls on kildare throw themselves at him, though he’s made it advantageously clear that he’s unavailable.

hell, the new intern at the local barber thought she had a chance merely because he left her a forsaken tip. since then she’s been giving him free haircuts in hopes that jj would at least acknowledge her existence.

naturally, jj doesn’t bat an eye at the poor girl. because his vision is set on his one and only.

his only message to those that made it their mission to wear at the seams of your relationship was, ‘look, i’ve finally fell in love and forgotten who you were.’

with that, you knew you truly didn’t have anything to worry about because the man is practically a lost dog on a leash, under your compulsion. that’s why you are nearly itching, trying to resist the temptation of jealously at its brink. it was supposed to be date night, with the location being the wreck for dinner, and as he’s at the bar trying to convince them he’s old enough for a glass of beer two girls swarm him like clockwork. it’s irritating the way one of their gently polished hands dust over his shoulder and the other is talking to him a little bit to close for your liking. chatting him up like he has no where to be.

it’s sickening that they’d take great lengths to earn nothing but an irresistible smile in the end. nothing more, nothing less.

“no luck on the beer baby, can you believe them— i mean i definitely look twenty one—“

“why were they talking to you?”

his pure features turn flat from that sudden interruption. even has his large hand letting go of your small one from across the table to adjust his hat as if he didn’t hear you correctly. you don’t mean for your face to turn downward, with an expression like you’d just smelled expired food— stomach churning and frown evident.

“them?!” he points their way, scoffing mixed with a chuckle in disbelief. the jealousy and envy are written on your forehead.

“yes them, who else?” you cross your arms, jj doesn’t appreciate the dismissal so he leaves from his side of the booth and squeezes into yours. a close as can be so you can’t avoid eye contact, whilst he’s trying to make things right.

“she’s heard that i work on cars here and there and asked if i could fix hers, her friend just happened to be there. nothing else, baby you know that.”

“has she also heard that you have girlfriend?

“mhm, she’s heard that m’fuckin crazy about my girl too.”

your irrationality is beneath you upon a grin trying to creep it’s way past, you really didn’t want to but it’s beckoned unfeasible around jj— he’s contagious.

“now go ahead bite my head off some more baby, i love it.”

he’d known true jealousy would be unavoidable, it took a lot for you to get here though— it’s always so painstakingly obvious how devout he is to you.

you shoved his chest a bit; playfully. whilst he pulled you into his lap with ease. peppering many kisses as he can between words. in public and all, whoever wants to stop and watch the show let them. up until your neck he feels the need to worsen the jealous trail by saying ‘get jealous more often, you looked so fucking hot pretty girl.’

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

The Hand That Feeds

Pairing: Ettore (High Life) x f!reader (physical attributes such as large breasts and alternative appearance described) Warnings: DEAD DOVE; DO NOT EAT. Mentions of child neglect, prostitution, substance abuse, death, murder. Dark and obsessive behaviour, attempted sexual assault, sub/dom dynamics, male masturbation, smut. Word count: ~3.7k

Summary: Ettore is used to having to take women by force - it's how he ended up on death row, and now a suicide mission in outer space. However, when a fellow crew member catches his eye and becomes the object of his twisted fantasies, he soon learns that the touch of a woman feels more satisfying when he's made to work for it. Based on this request.

Author's note: For @orcaunionleader. No tag list. Please follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications. Community labels are for cops.

Ettore screws his eyes shut. Strapped into the seat of the spaceship as it hurtles upwards, plunged suddenly into darkness when the lights fail, he feels trapped. It must have been twenty years, at least, since he has felt so vulnerable.

His earliest memory is sobbing as he is shut in the cupboard, the pitch blackness terrifying and too much to bear, but the sight of what he sees when he bursts out is so much worse.

The man on top of his mother, the noises they’re making, he feels strange, a combination of wanting to watch but also a churning in his tummy that makes him feel unwell. He retreats back into the dark, closing the door and hugs his knees to his chest until it all goes quiet again. 

Ettore soon learns it is better to enter a room head first - if he is able to see exactly what is happening then he knows quickly whether it’s safe to come out, or whether he needs to retreat. Not placing his entire body in the way reduces the likelihood of being grabbed, hit, shouted at.

There’s a different man each time, and every time they leave there’s always money on the bedside table of the small studio flat, and his mother is asleep. It’s then that he crawls into bed beside her, cuddling into her warmth, tracing his fingers over the marks that litter her inner elbow creases.

He doesn’t recall his mother ever having hugged him, when she is still like this is the only time he is able to get close to her, and he wraps his arms around her until the rumbling in his stomach gets too much to bear. He is always hungry.

His bare feet crunch against spilled Rice Krispies on the dirty kitchenette floor. Sometimes there is bread to eat, if he picks around the mold, sometimes there isn’t. He sees through the window that there is a place across the road that his mother goes to every few days. She always comes back with glass bottles that clink against each other in the plastic bag, but sometimes there is bread, and less often there are Rice Krispies. He likes those, though he often spills them.

The hunger pangs in his stomach grow so bad he begins to cry. His mother no longer feels warm when he cuddles against her. He is not sure when she last woke up, why she won’t wake up now. Maybe she is just really tired.

He can see the place where she goes to get food from the window, it is not very far, perhaps she’ll wake up by the time he gets back, and so he wanders out of the flat, not closing the door behind him, and walks across the road.

Ettore’s eyes light up the moment he sees the familiar blue box of Rice Krispies, clutching it tightly in both hands. It’s only then that he looks up into the horrified face of the woman standing over him, unable to comprehend why she’s looking at him like that, as she takes in the sight of the malnourished, barefoot child before her, wearing only a t-shirt and a dirty nappy.

There are a flurry of adults around him after that, and he’s taken to live somewhere else. He never sees his mother again. He hears the phrase “non verbal” used a lot, and learns that someone of his age should be able to speak. He doesn’t know how to, and so slowly he is taught how to communicate with words.

Even when Ettore has mastered the power of speech, he prefers not to use it. He finds watching people is far better than talking to them. Most people tend to talk a lot even when they have nothing to say. He prefers the quiet.

There are lots of other children his age at the facility he’s placed in, but slowly they leave, one by one, when adults come to look around. He never leaves though, he supposes it has something to do with the way he has overheard the staff describe his eyes as “haunted” and how strange it is that he has no interest in playing. Grown ups don’t want to share their homes with children that aren’t happy. Ettore doesn’t feel he has much at all to be happy about, when he curls his lips into a smile it feels strange against his face.

As Ettore grows older, he learns of what actually happened to him. His mother had been a heroin addict, she had prostituted herself to fund her habit, and he had been a victim of her extreme neglect. She had died of an overdose and he had laid beside her body for days, until his own hunger had gotten the better of him and he’d wandered into the local corner shop in search of food. He feels nothing upon finding this out, if anything he yearns for the simpler time of huddling against the warmth of his mother as she’d slept off her fix. No one will touch him now, he craves physical contact but doesn’t know how to ask for it.

He’s placed into a foster home when he’s a teenager, though it is a placement that’s short lived. The woman has a daughter, she’s a similar age to Ettore and he longs for her touch. He knows all too well from the way that she squirms under the intensity of his gaze and leaves the room whenever they are alone together that the feeling is not reciprocated.

To Ettore it does not matter. He always waited until his mother was asleep before cuddling her, he reasons that he can simply do the same here. And he does just that; waiting until night falls and the house is quiet, he sneaks into her room, laying down upon the bed beside her.

He breathes in deeply, a delicate floral scent filling his nostrils as he runs the tip of his nose over the softness of her hair. His fingertips creep beneath her pyjama top, and he exhales a shaky breath at how silky smooth her skin feels to touch.

It’s then that she wakes up and lets out a loud scream, he topples from the bed, startled by her outburst and her mother rushes into the room. That is Ettore’s first and only foster care placement, another term is now used to describe him; “maladaptive”.

But he takes away a valuable lesson from the situation - if he wishes to touch a woman then he needs to ensure she stays asleep.

He watches couples with resentment, knowing that no woman will ever kiss or caress him with any semblance of love, not willingly anyway. Women don’t want men that are haunted and maladaptive, but that’s fine with Ettore. If it’s not freely given then he knows precisely how to take it.

Ettore preys upon those that are fumbling with their keys in the lock as they try to return home, women under the influence who spend just a little too long on their phones while trying to get a cab, and the ones that walk hurriedly towards their cars in empty, darkened parking garages.

He moves slowly, carefully, his body only moving in sync with where his head is looking once he’s certain of the target he’s selected. He is unhurried in his movements, and so he goes utterly undetected until it’s too late.

It starts as simply knocking them out and then using their bodies however he sees fit, but it  rapidly escalates when he accidentally kills one of them, it happens twice more before he’s finally apprehended.

He doesn’t try to fight it, pleads guilty in court and is sent to prison. Even with good behaviour, his sentence is such that he’ll be elderly before he’s ever free. But any opportunity for eventual freedom is snuffed out when he gets into a scuffle with another prisoner.

Threats of solitary confinement hang heavily over him as he’s dragged away, and something inside of him snaps. He won’t go back to being locked away in the dark, he can’t. So he lashes out, and as he’s stomping upon the guard’s head he is reminded of the crunching of Rice Krispies beneath his feet from when he was a child.

The death penalty doesn’t exist within the United Kingdom’s judicial system, but he knows he’s being served a death sentence when he is given the news that he has been assigned to board a spaceship with other prisoners on a mission to extract alternative energy from a black hole. There is no coming back from that, he’s not foolish enough to believe otherwise, yet he readily accepts it. There is no other alternative for him, truthfully, there never has been.

When the lights eventually flicker back on and they are alerted they can unfasten their seatbelts, Ettore finally opens his eyes, looking at the prisoners that are seated around him. He’s surprised and intrigued to find there are women as well as men on board. He hasn’t encountered a woman since being sent to prison.

The scrubs they are given to wear are baggy and conceal much of their bodies, so to his disappointment he is unable to admire the feminine curves of the women on board - except one. She is shorter than he is, the remnants of a long since faded colour adorns the ends of her hair. Both her arms are full sleeved with tattoos. He wants to tear away her uniform and see what other artwork decorates her flesh. If he were a normal person, he’d strike up a conversation and ask, but Ettore is not one for words, so he simply stares, watching her every movement as a silent storm builds inside of him.

Though she is slenderly built, he can clearly see the way the baggy top half of her clothing curves over the ample swell of her breasts. His eyes linger there whenever he passes her in the corridor, picturing what it would be like to run his hands over them and squeeze their softness.

It’s these thoughts that are the cause of his every visit to The Box, the ship’s masturbatory aid. It’s used gratuitously by all crew mates, as sexual conduct between prisoners is prohibited on board, so he spills over his knuckles every chance he gets, imagining it’s inside of her. Would she claw at his shoulders and slap at him to get away, or simply lay still and take it?

Occasionally he deposits a sample into a plastic cup, taken away by Dibs, a supposed doctor on board who seems to be the main authority figure. She never fully explains what is to be done with his specimens, but once he has taken the reward he’s provided afterwards - usually a sedative - he cannot find it in himself to care.

He has heard whispers that she is conducting fertility experiments on the ship, attempting to artificially inseminate the female inmates. If that’s the case, he is thankful that his involvement is far less invasive than theirs must be, but ultimately it’s not his problem. He keeps to himself, ever watchful of those around him.

At least there is structure and routine; he goes to sleep and wakes up at the same time each day, participates in mandatory exercise regimes, eats regular meals and is assigned maintenance work duty.

Getting to know his own schedule means becoming familiar with other people’s, and that includes her’s. There is a sense of both excitement and comfort in knowing exactly where she is and exactly what she’s doing at all times.

The first time he encounters her coming out of the Box, he’s struck by how beautiful she is, pupils dilated, skin glowing with a light sheen of perspiration, her lips slightly parted as she attempts to calm her breathing. The heady aroma of her arousal lingers faintly as he goes in after her and he has never come harder in his life than he does on that day. He makes a point to go in after her every day after that.

If she were any other woman and these were any other circumstances, he’d have forced himself upon her by now, but they are in a confined space together and there’s no way for him to act upon his urges without there being almost immediate consequences for it. Every day it feels as though a coil inside of him is wound tighter, and every day he is left wondering if that will be the day when it finally snaps and he brings everything crashing down for both of them.

Despite his internalised conflict, she seems utterly unperplexed by him, which is confusing for Ettore. He is used to women regarding him with unease and disgust, so for her to be completely unphased by his presence is disarming. She is a criminal too though, he reasons, and for her to have been served what is effectively a death sentence she must have done something terrible. The thought makes her all the more alluring to him.

He is on cleaning duty today, tasked with scrubbing down the shower tiles. He enters the showers slowly, deliberately, unable to hear water running, so assumes that there’s no one in there.

But then he spots her, her hair wet and sticking to her bare shoulders, the tops of her breasts just about visible. She hasn’t seen him, yet. His eyes roam slowly over the greyscale body art that adorns her arms and thighs, wondering if there's more hidden beneath the towel that clings to her svelte figure. 

Absent-mindedly his fingers move over the triangular motif that's tattooed on his right forearm; though the scar is no longer visible he still feels the indentations of teeth. If he closes his eyes he still remembers the way that girl had fought, biting into his flesh as he'd wrapped his arm around her throat. He can never recall their faces, but he remembers the marks they left upon him - each one now covered by the same tattoo - a target so that he never forgets - a slash of a broken bottle against his bicep, acrylic nails gouging into his neck. They're never quite strong enough, though they fight to the end. He wonders if her ink serves the purpose of covering or reminding, what sinister deeds have led her down a path of such finality. He intends to find out.

Her head snaps up to look at him and he sucks in a harsh breath as she makes eye contact with him. She doesn’t scream or shy away, simply returns his unblinking stare and his fingers flex at his sides, mouth running dry as he considers whether he’ll need to silence her or not.

“Like what you see?” She whispers, letting the towel fall slowly away.

Ettore remains unblinking, though he feels shaken to his core on the inside. He drinks in the sight of her bare flesh, her full rounded breasts, the dip of her waist, her curvaceous hips, feeling his cock twitch in his scrubs.

What the fuck is she playing at?

“Fuckin’ cock tease,” he spits out, before turning and walking away to the Box.

He reaches his peak embarrassingly quickly, brow furrowed and jaw slack as sweat rolls down his temples.

Once the feeling of euphoria has worn off it is replaced by anger and confusion. Had she been trying to get him into trouble? Did she actually want him? Was she making a mockery of him?

His mood darkens at the thought and as his mind races after lights out that night, unable to find sleep. He slips out of his bunk and walks slowly, silently, along the corridor towards her cell.

He can see the outline of her body beneath the covers, and is suddenly unsure of what he came here to do. Torn between wanting to lunge for her, grab her by the throat and make her pay for her earlier indiscretion, or simply slip beneath the covers beside her and allow his hands to roam freely, he stands and does nothing, watching her.

“Come inside, if you want,” she calls out quietly to him in the darkness, making him startle, “bunkmates are all sleeping.”

Ettore hesitates, remaining rooted to the spot, unable to believe that a woman is actually inviting him into her space, that she wants to be near him.

“You gonna pussy out again like you did earlier?” She questions playfully.

He feels embarrassment flush his cheeks and allows it to propel him forward, over the threshold, into her space. He won’t let a woman get the better of him.

She shuffles back against the wall, lifting the blanket and patting the space beside her.

He hasn’t laid beside a woman since the night he was kicked out of his foster placement for getting into bed with the host’s teenage daughter, the only other times before that were when he huddled beside his passed out mother.

Ettore swallows thickly, not wanting to show weakness and quickly slips in beside her.

She smells of the ship’s standard issue soap, yet somehow on her flesh it has an utterly different scent, it’s sweet and intoxicating and has him longing to bury his face in the crook of her neck. He inhales deeply, feeling himself grow hard from her proximity and the warmth of her soft skin against his bare torso.

Apparently she feels it too, as she eagerly snakes a hand between them, palming at him through his shorts. 

A woman has never touched him like that before, not willingly. Usually he’s the one in control. It feels too much, too fast, bile rises in his throat and he jerks away from her, stalking silently back to his own cell, shame blooming hot and heavy in his chest as he feels tears burn beneath his eyelids.

What the fuck was that?

For the first time in Ettore’s life a woman had wanted to touch him, and he’d freaked out and run away. Does she not realise what he could do to her, what he’s capable of? He is supposed to inspire fear, not lust.

He wants to storm back to her cell and smash her head against the wall. She’s made him feel weak, inferior, yet despite that he can’t shake the feeling of her hand between his legs.

Unable to help himself, he waits for her as she exits the Box the next day, the telltale signs of her having just climaxed etched all over her features as she steps out. Her expression hardens when she sees him, rolling her eyes and side stepping him, until he grabs her wrist, stopping her from going anywhere.

“Let go of me, Ettore,” she says threateningly.

“How d’you know my name?” He asks, pulling her close so he can stare down into her eyes.

She smirks. “You’re not the only one that can skulk around the ship finding things out. Dibs left your file out the last time she had me up on the table, so I snooped. I know your name, your blood type, your sperm count–”

“Do you know what I’m serving time for?” He narrows his eyes as he asks this.

“No, I figure if we’re gonna explore whatever this is,” she gestures between them, “it’s better we don’t know that about each other.”

Ettore scoffs, quirking his lips as he eyes her carefully. “And what is this?”

She shrugs. “I dunno. Clearly you’re not comfortable letting me touch you…yet. So how about you touch me instead?”

He keeps a neutral expression, despite the surprise he feels once again that a woman would willingly let him touch her. “How would that work?”

“You’re about to use the Box, right? Take me in. Touch me while you touch yourself.”

Her words send an aching pulse straight to his balls and he nods, walking into the Box, not checking to see if she’s following. He knows she will be.

“Take it off, take it all off,” he orders quietly, gesturing to her clothes.

She pulls off her top and slips off her bottoms and his gaze rakes appreciatively over her form, only this time his hand slides into his trousers as he does so, his hand wrapping around his steadily hardening length.

Her lips are parted, eyes wide as she stares up at him, her breathing almost matching the intensity of his. Tentatively he leans down, inhaling her scent. The sweetness fills his nostrils and something inside of him snaps.

Pulling his erection free, he moves his fist over it in quick, aggressive strokes, biting at her pulsepoint, before moving his lips downwards towards her tits, pressing his face into their soft warmth, mouthing at them without restraint.

True to her word, she doesn’t touch him, keeping her hands balled into tight fists at her sides, though he can tell she is desperate to reach for him, her breaths erratic as she arches into his touch.

His stomach muscles contract, pressure building at the base of his spine as droplets of pre-cum help to guide his rapid, successive jerks of his cock.

Reaching between her legs, he groans at feeling how wet she is, a combination of her previous orgasm and how aroused she is from what’s currently happening between them.

He buries his face in her chest, sinking two fingers inside of her. There is no scratching, no slapping, no disassociating. She is soft and pliant against him, willing, and as often as he has fantasised about taking her by force, this feels better than anything he has ever experienced previously, better than anything he could have imagined.

As the pressure reaches its apex and he finally climaxes with a groan and a shudder, releasing white hot ropes of his seed across her lower belly, she reaches up with shaky, tentative hands to gently run her fingers through his hair.

“Good boy,” she coos, “did so well for me.”

He sighs, leaning over her, resting his head against the wall behind her. Next time he wants to sink inside of her, to feel what it’s like to be touched, wanted, needed. Because as haunted and maladapted as he is, as he opens his eyes and stares into hers he sees that she is too. Her darkness plays well with his, and in a cold and sterile environment Ettore has finally found the warmth he’s always craved.

[141goblin]

Hi people. I’ve been toying with the idea of writing a fanfic and I thought i’d put a feeler out there to see if people are interested in reading my silly little brain worms and thoughts. Word of warning, it’s little rusty and definitely still a work in progress. I don’t yet have a title or anything like that, but i wanna share (ok ok leave me alone)

Part one: Soft.

Reader described as plus-sized. Fem reader. Implied past abusive relationship.

John Price X Reader.

“Amelia, I said no!” I huff into the phone, getting increasingly frustrated at my best friend’s insistence. She had been going on and on about some big military party that her boyfriend was going to, and of course, because we’re basically attached at the hip, she ‘needs me there’.

“Oh, come onnnn! It’ll be fun! And who knows, we might finally find you a man for you to spend time with instead of you sitting in your apartment and watching reruns of gilmore girls twenty-four-seven.”

I huff and roll my eyes, grateful that she isn’t able to see me. Honestly, the thought of having to drag myself off of my couch and go through the motions of getting ready and attempting to doll myself up makes me feel physically ill. Truth be told, I haven’t left my apartment for weeks. Not since i had that god-awful night with my arsehole of an ex boyfriend.

My mind drifts back to that night, the time I spent getting ready and psyching myself up, all for me to get there and be completely disregarded and used. Like a piece of meat. He’d been blowing up my phone with messages ever since, insisting he was sorry, and that it won’t happen again, and he just got carried away. I hadn’t had the mental capacity to message him back.. My best friends voice pulls me back to reality.

“You’re coming. I’ll be at your flat in twenty minutes with pre drinks. Shower and shave.”

Before I get any chance to worm my way out of this ridiculous ordeal, she kisses me good-bye through the phone and hangs up. I throw my phone to the opposite end of the couch and groan into a pillow. Just when I was settled, watching gilmore girls for the umpteenth time, with a glass of wine and a bowl of crisps… Shit, maybe I do need to get out…

I down the rest of my glass of wine and wince at the taste. I make a mental note to stop being cheap and buying shit wine just because it’s cheaper. After all, it’s not like I can’t afford to buy nicer tasting wine. But truthfully, I don’t go to tescos at 8pm in my pyjamas and buy nice wine to be all sophisticated. I do it to buy cheap wine and get drunk while i watch gilmore girls and cry, wishing i had the same relationship with my mother that Lorelai and Rory have. It’s pitiful, and pathetic.

I huff and drag myself off of my couch and make my way into my bathroom to shower. Once undressed, i notice just how hairy my legs have gotten. But, is it really worth the effort, the sweating and red face just to have smooth legs? I brush off the thought and step into the hot shower. I do my usual: wash and condition my hair, wash my face and body, and then actually decide to shave my goddamn legs. It takes me the better part of fifteen minutes, but beauty is pain, as they say.

Just as i’m stepping out of the bathroom, wrapped in a towel that’s all too small to cover my stomach and wide thighs, my best friend makes herself known, clearly having used her spare key to let herself into my flat. Her face is all scrunched up in disgust at the state of the place and she’s begun to pick up my clothes that are strewn about the place, throwing them into the washing machine. I roll my eyes and make my way into my bedroom, and she follows. She has that shit-eating grin on her face that I know all too well. No doubt she’s going to make me squeeze into some tiny outfit in the hopes i’ll impress some random man and hopefully let him fuck my brains out. She’s highly mistaken.

Instead of a skimpy outfit, we compromise. I end up wearing a mid-length silk dress that has a risky slit up the leg, but not too high that it shows off my cellulite, one of my biggest insecurities. She does up my hair into a messy bun with a few curls framing my face and insists on me wearing her favourite red lipstick, telling me i’ll look ‘fuckable’, her words, not mine. After strapping some heels onto my feet I take one last look in the mirror, face slightly flushed from the two or three glasses of wine Amelia practically poured down my throat to loosen me up. I should feel beautiful, but I don’t. I can’t help but feel like a pig, wrapped in silk and smothered in ridiculous lipstick. Ready to be taken off to market and ridiculed by men that think it’s shameful to like a fat girl. My ex-boyfriend’s attitude and words from the duration of our relationship echoing around my head.

“They don’t see you like I do, babe. They don’t see your personality.”

“You’re wearing that?”

“Oh come on, babe. I was only looking at her. She’s a model, what do you expect?”

After a too long uber ride full of pep-talks by Amelia and discreetly drinking from the remnants of a bottle of wine, we’re standing outside of what can only be described as a fucking mansion. The type that has stairs leading up to its entrance that’s held up by beautifully structured pillars, the type of place i write about in my short stories. There are too many windows to count, most of them lit up by subtle golden glow, the soft buzz of music that’s able to be heart from outside, something soft and jazzy, like the type of music you’d hear in an old jazz bar in New York.

I’m too busy marvelling at the ‘fucking mansion’ in front of me when I hear the recognisable voice of Amelia’s boyfriend, Johnny. Johnny is the type of guy that can make any girl weak in the knees with his charming smile and sparkling blue eyes. He’s sweet and cheeky, but not my type.

“There you two are! Was beginning ‘ter think ‘yaes got lost.”

I give Johnny a polite smile and continue looking up at the grandeur of the building in-front of me while he gives Amelia a kiss and whispers something flirty in her ear. Johnny and Amelia are solid, and he’s good for her. Plus, he knows we come as a package deal, so he makes sure to make me feel included when I end up tagging along on their days out or evening drinks.

“Looking good, bonnie.” Johnny says to me, with a cheeky wink. Amelia laughs, her signature sweet giggle, and it’s clear why she turns heads everywhere we go.

I force a smile and hold back a self-deprecating remark.

“Thanks, Johnny.”

Amelia takes Johnny by the arm and leads her inside, making me follow like an awkward third wheel. I try my best not to feel like an idiot as i’m led into the main ballroom, where i assume the party is being held. Johnny leads us to the bar and buys the three of us a round of drinks. I try to insist that I can buy my own, but both he and Amelia dismiss it and i’m left with a blueberry Martini sitting in front of me at the bar.

After a few minutes of awkward small talk between the three of us, mixed in with too much PDA between Johnny and Amelia for my liking, Johnny leads Amelia off to meet some of his friends, leaving me alone at the bar. I hoist myself onto a barstool, arse spilling over the edge. Fuck sake, I think. People need to start inventing barstools that are fat-girl friendly. I ignore the buzz of chatter in the ballroom and down the rest of my blueberry martini, flagging down the bartender for another one.

I begin sipping on the fresh Martini and start looking back around the room. I can’t help but think this would be a perfect scene to write in one of my stories. A room packed full of rich people dressed in fancy suits and expensive dresses, where everyone pretends to be on their best behaviour.

After a few minutes of being alone at the bar, I make peace with the fact that I will likely be alone for most of the night while Amelia mingles with Johnny and his friends. It doesn’t bother me, per say, but something deep within my belly wishes that one, just once, I could be the one to turn heads, to capture the attention of a group of people with nothing but my appearance and laugh, to have people willing to talk to me and learn about me, without feeling like it’s out of pity.

I shrug to myself and take a few more sips of my martini and let my attention wander over to my best friend and her boyfriend, and his group of (presumably) military friends. Johnny must’ve noticed me sitting alone at the bar and felt pity for me because I see him making his way over, sporting his disarming smile. I smile back.

“What’s the matter, Lass? Not enjoying ‘yerself?”

He leans on the bar casually, and it’s clear he’s making an effort to make me feel included.

“I’m enjoying myself just fine, Johnny. You can go back to your mates and Amelia, don’t worry about me.”

He cocks a brow and flashes that cheeky grin.

“Not gonna join us?”

I shake my head and take another sip of my martini, waving a dismissive hand. I attempt to play it off with a joke.

“Doubt i’d fit in with your military mates.”

He scoffs and looks jokingly offended.

“Aye, come on, Bonnie. We don’t bite. I know Si looks like a scary fucker, but we’re a nice bunch. I swear.”

I laugh and take another sip. Johnny is a good guy, there’s no denying that, even if it does feel like he’s taking pity on his girlfriends fat, single friend that looks like she’d rather be anywhere but here.

Judging from the way he talks about ‘Si’, I make an assumption that he’s the one with the dirty-blonde hair, the one who’s built like a brick shit-house and looks like he could snap anyone in half with one hand.

Johnny points to one of the other lads, a typical pretty boy with striking brown eyes.

“That’s Gaz. He’s a good’un. Likes to flirt too much, but e’s harmless.”

I follow Johnny’s finger as he points to the third man. A man who’s wide, and fucking muscly, but looks like he has a soft layer of fat underneath that expensive suit of his.

“And that, that’s the Cap’n. The best of us all. Keeps us in check when we cause trouble. He won’t admit it, but he’s a softie at heart.”

My eyes stay on the wide man a little longer than the others. I see a smile under his well-groomed mutton chops and moustache that’s peppered with little greys here and there. His shoulders look like they’re about to burst out of his shirt at any given moment, and his hips are exactly the same. That’s all contrasted by his blue eyes, like a deep pool that women no doubt get lost in. The man’s a fucking contradiction. Too wide, Too soft.

Johnny’s voice snaps me back into the room, averting my eyes away from the man I know as ‘Captain’.

“Come on, Bonnie. Come say hello, mingle a little. We don’t bite.”

[peaches2217]

Summer Rain

AO3 link!

~~~

There’s nothing quite like falling ten feet to the ground and landing flat on one’s back to bring a person back into reality. When he came to, Mario’s first reaction was relief. Rest, finally. Everything burned. His throat, his lungs, his muscles, his stomach. His ears rang and his head spun and his vision created doubles of every last block and obstacle overhead, and at long last, he was free to simply lay in the grass and observe passively.

As with all good things, it didn't last.

Get up.

The all-too-familiar voice, maybe his own and maybe some divine call from the universe, repeated these words in his head, but he couldn’t make his muscles obey. He could hardly breathe; air returned to him in unsteady gasps, and with each one, his short-lived relief melted further and further into frustration.

Get up. Something gurgled in his throat that was neither air nor bile, and the taste of copper coated his tongue. Get up. How had he slipped? He’d run this training gauntlet hundreds of times, if not thousands, in the past weeks. Had he grown complacent? Get up. This was no time for complacency. No time for failure. Get up, get up, get up.

“Mario!” He registered the cry of his name the same way he registered the pain in his spine or the ache in his limbs or the muted yet near-constant growling of his gut: with little more than passing acknowledgement. He knew he was hurt. He knew he was hungry. He knew someone was calling out to him. He didn’t care. His only concern was get up, get up, get up, sit up, stand up, get back to training.

Get back to her.

“Mario?”

Just as soon as he’d pulled himself to his knees, dizziness overtook Mario, and he barely caught himself on his hands, his arms shaking from the effort to support his weight. Her voice. All it took was the ghost of her voice to sap his fight, drain the furor that fueled him, until he was empty, empty, empty.

She wasn’t— he knew she wasn’t— and yet she— she sounded so near—

“Oh, Mario,” Peach sighed, pressing a gloved hand to her cheek, “what am I going to do? If I have to sit through one more unproductive commission on import tax rates, I think I’m going to scream.”

Mario chuckled sympathetically. “So I’m guessing third time wasn’t the charm after all?”

“I thought surely the senators would be just as sick of all the arguing as I am by now. Sadly, I’m fairly certain they enjoy it.” Another sigh. “So a fourth commission has been scheduled for Thursday.”

Thursday. Mario wracked his head for upcoming happenings, possible excuses, any circumstance he could twist in her favor, and he found it in short order.

“Hmm… it sure is a shame you won’t be there for that meeting, Princess.”

Peach halted in her tracks, and Mario stopped alongside her, meeting her confusion with pointed nonchalance.

“I… won’t be?”

“You didn’t forget, did you? That play in Mushroom City you were invited to? That’s Thursday night, yeah?”

Peach shook her head. “Mario, I’d hardly call a letter written in crayon by a child begging me to attend their Kindergarten theatre production an ‘invitation.’ More of a… um…” A pause. The realization clicked into place, her bright eyes glowing ever brighter in the twilight, and she graced Mario with a sly, cheerful smile. “Well, how many children have the courage to write to the castle directly? It would be rude to turn such a thoughtful invitation down.”

“My thoughts exactly!” He nudged her side, winking up at her. “Now, I know you’d rather sit and listen to grouchy old Toads shout over each other all day, but we all have to make sacrifices sometimes, yeah?”

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown.” A very un-regal giggle slipped her lips, juvenile in its conniving yet ethereal all the same, and Mario couldn’t help but feel especially proud of himself. “So we’ll meet at the carriage hold Thursday at dawn, then? Plenty enough time to escape before Toadsworth catches on.”

Her proposal didn’t surprise him; it had become customary, after all, to act as her guard any time she ventured beyond the palace walls. This made her invitation no less sacred to him. “You can count on me, Princess.”

Peach took a moment to breathe in the fresh spring evening, exhale her worries, and as their walk resumed, her hand found his, small and light but present and real and warm. “Oh, Mario,” she laughed, “you’re my hero!”

You’re my hero…

Another rush of oxygen hit his brain, and she was gone once more. Memories of golden hair in the waning light of sunset were washed out in smudges of green and brown and red — his fingers digging into the earth, damp from a recent summer rain, a trickle of blood dripping from his bottom lip onto the backs of his hands.

Some hero he was. 

A familiar pressure welled within his chest, and he huffed in relief. Anger. It made his heart pump harder and brought his surroundings back into focus and flooded him with unbearable energy, and he was finally able to clamor to his feet, spitting blood so he could breathe properly. Turning towards the gauntlet’s nearest springboard, he wiped his sleeve over his mouth and let that rage consume him once more, let himself believe again that it wasn’t rage at all, but hope. Hope in its rawest, most painful form.

She was counting on him. He would bring her home. He would have pleasant evening walks in the gardens with her again, he would laugh with her over tea and cakes, he would ensure no similar misfortune ever befell her again. Maybe he would even tell her that he loved her, just so he could say he no longer held any secrets from her. And until that day came, he would train and train and train until no force, earthly or cosmic, could stand in his way.

How could you let this happen?

That fragile illusion of hope burst into flames, its fire coursing through Mario’s veins, but now that he was on his feet again, he made no further effort to fool himself. With a final, sharp breath, he lunged forward—

“Basta così!”

Something caught his left wrist, and the unexpected intrusion snuffed Mario’s fire, like water tossed on a blazing bed of coals. He clenched his jaw and smoldered uselessly for a moment, quivering with unspent energy, giving his captor a chance to free him without provocation. The grasp ensnaring him only tightened.

“Lasciami andare, Lu.” He kept his voice as steady as possible, deathly quiet and low, because he knew it would shake if he raised it any louder, and he couldn’t afford to be perceived as weak.

“No.” Luigi’s voice was equally unwavering. “I’ve let this go on long enough. You’re coming home.”

Mario scoffed. Oh, now his timid little brother was choosing to stand his ground. Now, of all times, for all purposes—! He lurched forward to free himself. He didn’t have time for such games.

Luigi moved with him easily, and before Mario could reestablish his footing, he was yanked backwards by the arm so hard that his vision went blurry and his legs briefly gave out beneath him.

But he didn’t have time to collapse. Luigi powered ahead, and Mario was forced to twist his body in the same direction and stumble along behind him, and by the time his surroundings stopped shifting they were well past the athletic center’s gate and into the streets of Toad Town.

What in the Eight Realms was going on? His brother was strong, but he was stronger. It should have been easy to pull free or at least anchor himself and force an impasse, but he wouldn’t slow down.

“Let me go, Luigi,” he repeated in their mother tongue, half so the dozens of Toads craning their stubby necks as he was dragged past couldn’t eavesdrop and half because his grasp on the English language was one of the first things to go when he was upset. 

“You really think I’m that useless?” Luigi didn’t even look over his shoulder as he responded in the same tongue, yet his voice pierced through the ambiance of the streets. “I don’t need a missing friend and a dead brother.”

Another white-hot burst of fury flared within Mario, and he tried once again to break free (once again, to no avail). Useless? A “missing friend”? A princess — their Princess! — was abducted by a notoriously homicidal warlord who promised to kill her and seize her kingdom by force unless he was met with unconditional surrender, and all his brother cared about was how he was perceived? How these events affected him?

Mario was the only living person with any chance of bringing her home safely, or at least alive. He’d devoted himself to that cause wholeheartedly and without hesitation. Fought and trained and redefined himself over the past two months while waiting for royal spies to figure out where she was actually being held. He’d never thought Luigi to be so selfish, that he’d stand in his way. That he’d sooner trade Peach’s life for his. Did she really mean that little to him? The very thought nauseated him. Or maybe those were hunger pangs.

They arrived at their shared cottage in short order, and Mario spit one last mouthful of blood into the grass before he could be dragged onto the porch and through the door. This wasn’t just selfish. This was betrayal of the highest order. 

Luigi all but tossed him inside, and only then did he let go. Mario seethed at his green-and-blue-clad back as he shut and locked the door, rubbing his wrist absentmindedly, stimulating the once-restricted blood flow. Betrayed by the last person he would ever have suspected. The one person who should have been supporting him, who he’d thought already was supporting him before today. He held his internal fire close at bay, ready to make his disappointment and disapproval clear, and with a heavy sigh, Luigi turned to face him—

“This isn’t your fault, Mario.”

Mario’s belligerence fizzled out. Where there was once fire, there was now ice, still and cold.

“...What?”

“This isn’t your fault.” Luigi enunciated each word carefully as he approached his older brother. “N-no one blames you for this except for you. So you’re not proving anything to anyone by torturing yourself, bro, okay?”

For a long moment, all Mario could do was gape in bewilderment. Not once since the Princess’ abduction had a word been uttered about blame. There was no need, he'd just as quickly assumed: anyone with two functioning brain cells knew exactly who was to blame, and verbalizing accusations wouldn’t get her home any faster, so he bore his cross with a heavy heart and his head held high. 

Even Luigi had never spoken up on the matter. Mario just assumed that meant he agreed. Why bother kicking someone that’s already down?

“I-I…” Mario swallowed. No. No, he was lying. Reality was sinking in and he was lying in a last-ditch effort to defend what hadn’t already been lost. He knew just as well as Mario that… and yet he…

Selfish. Selfish, selfish, selfish.

“I’m her guard, Luigi,” he finally answered, and unpleasant but ever-familiar heat rose once more within him, making his face and ears tingle. “It’s my job to protect her! Literally my job!”

“Yeah, during the day! But you’re acting like she was nabbed under your watch! You’re acting like everyone expects you to be on guard twenty-four-seven!” He drew closer to lay a hand on Mario’s left shoulder; what should have been comfortable and familiar instead felt foreign and cumbersome. “The truth is, you were exactly where you were supposed to be when it happened: in bed, conked out.”

A strike of lightning couldn’t have hit as hard as those words.

Mario jerked away from his brother’s touch, nostrils flared, breath coming to him far too quickly now. If he grit his teeth any tighter, he was certain they’d crack. Yes, he’d been asleep that night. He’d protected his Princess like always during the day and left her to fend for herself at sundown and he’d never forgive himself for it. So much for not kicking someone while they’re down.

“Thanks,” he huffed. “Very helpful reminder.”

“Mario, that’s not what—” Luigi sagged backwards, his eyes rolling to the ceiling in exasperation, as if he was the one who’d been slighted, and he cursed beneath his breath before refocusing. “She was never your sole responsibility. Everyone knows that but you. And no one wants to see you run yourself into the ground like this. Th-they trust you! They love you! Seeing how much guilt you're drowning in, seeing how badly you’re hurting, that hurts them, and—”

A deep, shaking breath. Mario tapped his foot impatiently, his fists clenched.

“A-and it hurts me too!" Luigi finally confessed. "Mario, you’re not the only victim here! How do you think I’ve been handling all of this?”

“Forget about that!” Mario fired back. “Just imagine what she’s going through! Can you think about something other than yourself for once and look at the bigger picture?!”

Alarms sounded deep in the recesses of his brain, warning signals, crying a mantra of Too far, too far, too far. He didn’t care. He couldn’t afford to care.

“She wouldn’t want this either! If she was here—”

That was the final straw. Putting words in the Princess’ mouth— what little patience or composure Mario still held, already stretched thin, snapped. 

“Well she’s not!” He stamped his foot like a child throwing a tantrum, grasping Luigi’s arm and forcing him to look directly into his eyes. “Don’t— don’t you dare tell me what she’d say or what she’d do! You don’t have that right! Because you’re not her, and she’s not…”

Mario blinked. Had… had Luigi always looked this tired? His eyes, normally so cheerful and blue, appeared dull and gray, wide with regret and brimming with unshed tears. And there were bags under those eyes too, and overgrown flyaways poking through his normally well-groomed mustache, and…

“...here.” All of his bravado, all of his energy, left him as he whispered that final word.

How long had it been since he’d fulfilled his role as the older brother? Peach was Luigi’s friend too. He was every bit as much Mario's responsibility as Peach was.

“I don’t need a missing friend and a dead brother.”

Only in the ensuing stillness did Mario realize how terribly he shook. He felt both weightless and impossibly leaden, cold and clammy, trembling not in outrage or determination, but something far meeker, far more pathetic: fear.

He was no hero. He was an idiot who’d failed someone he claimed to love and was desperate to make things right, no matter the personal cost. He was a useless brother that dealt with his own inadequacies by lashing out at those who cared for him most. He was nothing.

“Weegee…”

Luigi swallowed, taking a deep, slow breath before responding. “Martyring yourself isn’t the answer. I mean, think for a minute here. You can’t save her if you get yourself killed first.”

It overtook Mario again, a wave of unwelcome emotion, and his knees wobbled beneath him, threatening to buckle.

“Then… then what do you suggest I do? Huh? Clearly you have more answers than I do! So tell me what to do!”  He let go of Luigi’s arms to grasp his overall straps and pull him down, searching his face for those fabled answers. There was no spite in his words or his actions. He shouted at and jostled his brother not in anger, but in pure helplessness. “Tell me what to do!”

The uncertainty etched into Luigi’s face didn’t go away completely, but he buried it beneath something harder, more determined. He braced his gloved hands against Mario’s shoulders, grounding and steady.

“I’ll tell you exactly what you’re going to do,” he said, his voice low yet firm. “You’re going to sit right there on that couch, or on the floor, or wherever you feel like, and you’re gonna cry and scream and get all of this pent-up anger out of your system. And then — look at me, Mario, listen!” He jostled the elder brother back, shaking his shoulders. “Then you’re going to eat something. Okay?” He smiled then, the strain of it contorting his face into some pitiful mimicry of humor. “We can’t have you wasting away when the Princess sees you again, yeah? What would she say?”

Mario’s breath hitched in his throat, suddenly swollen shut.

What would she say? Maybe she would rush forward and cup his cheeks, demanding to know what happened and if he was alright, as if he was the one who had been swept away in the dead of night. Maybe she would be so exhausted and so weakened that she didn’t notice; maybe she would only have the strength to smile as he took her battered body into his arms, her face pale but her eyes vibrant. Maybe her gaze would be glassy and there would be nothing left to hold but an empty shell that had once been his best friend, her fate sealed the moment she’d chosen to place her trust in him.

Or maybe he would die long before he reached her. If only he could trust anyone else to save her, he would have been perfectly fine with that outcome. It was the least he deserved. But that would be far too easy, wouldn’t it? What would become of her then? What would become of Luigi?

He would be free of his suffering, and it would fall directly onto their shoulders instead.

How could you let this happen?

The breath trapped in his throat forced its way back out, some mix between a cough and a hiccup, and finally his knees gave out. He held on tighter and sunk his face into his twin’s shirt collar, and he tried to apologize, he tried to beg forgiveness, but the only sound he could produce was a breathless, almost primal whine.

“Ecco.” Luigi’s voice cracked yet remained soft as he sank to the ground with him, cradling his head close. “Sfogati. Ti sono vicino, fratello.”

Mario’s intended response came out once more as a whine. Ti voglio bene. Ho paura. Aiutami. Ti prego aiutami. Each effort to speak proved increasingly futile until he gave up entirely, surrendering to the wordless screams and sobs and tears his overworked, underfed body forced from him. And Luigi just held him, his fingers brushing through his hair as he fell apart.

Thunder rumbled distantly outside, heralding another summer rain.

~~~

“I’m sorry.”

By the time Mario was able to speak, he still didn’t have much to show for it; his voice was too hoarse to do anything but whisper, and the pounding ache in his head prevented him from doing even that very well.

Luigi shushed him, readjusting his head in his lap. “Just relax.”

“I don’t think you’re selfish,” he continued anyway, curling into himself tighter, soaking in as much of his brother’s body heat as he could. “Or useless.”

“I know you don’t.”

“I didn’t have any right to go off on you like that.”

“In your shoes, I doubt I’d be handling things much better.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And I forgive you. Now we’re even.”

This remark wasn’t quite enough to make Mario smile, but it did make him feel lighter, if only a bit. From his spot on the floor, he watched the rain patter against the living room window, dark and dreary and soothing. With the rain outside and Luigi’s fingers still combing through his curls, he felt properly sleepy for the first time in ages, a feeling far more pleasant than the exhaustion that had plagued him for eight, coming up on nine weeks.

Come to think of it, when was the last time he’d slept in his own bed? Most nights he’d find the nearest wall to slump against or a decent patch of grass to crash in when he couldn’t make his body cooperate any longer. And when was the last time he’d had a proper meal? Luigi had forced him to sit down and eat a packet of crackers a day or two ago, Toad brought him soup sometime last week and refused to leave until he downed at least half of it, but…

“Weegee?”

“Yeah?”

“I’m hungry.”

The hand in his hair stilled, and the response came after a few seconds of comfortable silence.

“Well duh. Of course you are.” His voice wavered, yet Mario could tell he was smiling. “What’d’ya want? We’ve got plenty enough to make anything. Don’t hold back.”

Mario hummed, closing his eyes. Making that choice on his own was a mental process he didn’t have the resources for. “Surprise me.”

Luigi vocalized his approval, but he didn’t move to stand quite yet. Instead, the hand in Mario’s hair found his own hand, and he gladly took it, permitting himself that comfort at least.

“Hey Mario? Can you… promise me something first?”

Mario nodded, a small and rapid movement of his head. He knew what was coming: Promise me you’ll eat everything I put in front of you. Promise me you’ll take a bath. Promise me you’ll get into clean clothes and sleep on a bed tonight. He was all too ready to agree. It was the least he owed his long-suffering brother.

“When you save the Princess… promise me you’ll come home too. Okay?”

Mario’s eyes snapped back open. The rain still fell against the window before him, steady and unending.

Easy enough to promise, at least in theory. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to make more pleasant memories with his friends, with his love, with his brother especially. There were so many adventures he still wanted to go on. So many things he wanted to see and do. But if worst came to worst, and he had to lay his life down to save Peach’s… he’d already made up his mind.

“This isn’t your fault.”

He took in a deep breath through his nostrils, exhaled it slowly through his lips. Luigi was strong and selfless. He’d had the strength to lie just so he could ease Mario’s woes. The least Mario could do was offer up a comforting lie of his own.

“Yeah.” He nodded again, and if maybe he held Luigi’s hand a bit too tightly, that was okay. “Yeah, I think I can promise that.”

[bookwormbynight]

bookworm-san, dear mutual. do you happen to have any more fem! light headcanons/thoughts? for healing, for the soul……… 😌

Darling. Gimme just a second to reread my posts on the AU and get my brain juices going again 🙏

(Also, fun fact: I do actually have my name in my lil bio bit lol! I don't think most people notice.)

Fem!Light during the Yotsuba Arc may have been more aggressive than canon Light about separating herself from a relationship with Misa, simply because it isn't assumed that "well, I'm the one who must have asked... I just can't figure out why" because that's not how her relationship dynamics work. She doesn't remember saying yes, she can't imagine why she would have said yes, Misa is clearly delusional and can fuck right off. Her aggression might be the only reason why Misa wouldn't white-knight his way into stopping the mutual lawlight murder attempt on their first "date" lmao. I can clearly imagine him trying to heroically interject and protect his girlfriend only for Light to shriek "fuck OFF Misa" so 'unfemininely' that it takes Misa a full fifteen minutes to reboot lmao.

This is me projecting because I'm a 100 pound girl with a-cups but I want Light to have small boobs (also canon Light has a flat ass anyway). Let me sexualize my body type for once, gimme that. Tiny lace bralettes, zero cleavage through a shirt neckline, barely a handful of titty and you can probably fit most of the boob in your mouth, but anybody who's interested in her either doesn't notice or actively likes it.

On a related note, average-ish height, like canon, so like 5'4 or 5'5, but small person. If that makes sense. I want people to be able to just pick her up with minimal effort because that means it would happen more often (I have friends who literally just throw me over their shoulders and walk away without asking me first) and she would fucking hate it and I think that's hilarious.

Flats-only girlie. Coward. Until L bullies her into heels for fetish purposes ONCE and Light has trouble walking and it makes her red-faced angry embarrassed which does NOT deter L in the slightest.

I think she'd wear her hair half-up half-down in a neat little clip in the back with bangs, it's very Professional and Pretty and intentionally chosen. She pigtail braids her hair at night Cinderella-style to keep it nice and L finds it annoying. The only time we would see it down in the canon timeline would be in solitary confinement, and the rain + foot scene and proceeding death scene (because that was immediately after).

For her death scene in particular, I think her hair would start up, as it usually is, but it would definitely have gone really askew and fallen out of the clip by the time she dies.

I really can't decide how exactly her relationship with Ryuk would change based on her perception of gender dynamics but I'm absolutely sure it would, whether or not we genderbend Ryuk as well. Idk, someone else help me flesh this one out bc it's all just a nebulous feeling in my head.

The daddy issues. Dude. The daddy issues would be so bad. Like, we already had "I desperately want my dad to think I live up to his expectations of me + dad is too busy with his job all the time to feel like a legit regular part of the family". Now imagine that combined with the fact that Soichiro just assumes Light has Woman Brain. "It's wonderful that you're top of your class and you're getting a degree, all capable women should go to college, but don't you think you should pick a less demanding career path so you won't have such a hard time having a family one day?? It's really sweet that you want to follow in my career path honey but I don't know if this job is good for girls like you". That scene with Namikawa would happen and L would praise her like canon and Soichiro's jaw would fucking drop. Ugh.

On a similar note I absolutely do not think Light would be able to stomach playing up the "I'm JUST a GIRL I CANT be KIRA 🥺🥺🥺" schtick even to draw some of the suspicion off of herself because canon Light already had such a hard time literally just not showing off and now add in fem! Light's inferiority complex. She would get so salty every single time people suggested it's not possible for her to be Kira ""even though I'm not"". The ONLY times she would be willing to play up the canon ditz act is when it makes her look a little careless, NEVER stupid.

[ghostaholics]

What if Ghost gets a neck injury while eating her out (because she sat on his face), and now he has to wear a neck brace because of it 😂😂😂

  He would have to come up with a credible story in order to explain to Soap or Price how he got his neck injury, meanwhile she is in tears for laughing so much.

(he's plotting his revenge against her, obviously)

I think it's more likely that he'd strain his neck from the most common position that we typically think about – on the bed, he's laying flat on his stomach in between your legs with his hands hooked around your thighs; it's not even the most ideal way to do it, just what's right there in front of him for ease of access. And he gets so into it that he develops a cramp in his neck, an annoying thing that radiates down between his shoulder blades – not that he cares too much, especially when he’s got his mouth on your cunt like this.

All that’s coming from him are these deep grunts and moans until he finally tells you to sit, to grab the headboard; ride his face (he’s not asking) because it’s easier and he’s still not fucking done with you.

But by then, it’s already too late. The damage is done. He’s going to need a brace for a few days, and he’s going to have to explain himself; the thing is, he definitely makes up a solid excuse, a super believable one that nobody would bat an eyelash at. Each of the TF members ask him if he’s alright and he gives a detailed account of exactly what happened – except he changes it depending on who’s he talking to.

“Got into it with some drug smugglers. One of em’ had the upper hand, popped me right in the neck.”

“Botched exfil. AQ-fucker rear-ended our bloody vehicle.”

“Helo was going down. Bad jump ‘n everything.”

He doesn't even need to do a whole revenge thing, though. Just waits until you’re coming down from having such a great time with yourself when he relays to you what he told Price, Soap, and Gaz – you’re having a huge goddamn laugh at his expense, until he says over his shoulder, "Alright, guess I won't be eating you out anymore, then."

To which you sober up immediately like you’ve been hit with a bucket of ice-water. “Well, now wait a minute—”

[helaelaemond]

Pairing:  Billy Washington x ex girlfriend!reader

Word count: 3.4k

Summary: direct follow-on from this chapter but can be read as a stand-alone. After hooking up with Billy at a party, despite having not seen him for years and years, and despite him being married with a kid, you have to decide to visit him. Porn with significant plot.

Part of It’s All For You Billy!verse - reader and Billy were childhood friends, and on the cusp of adulthood, they took their friendship to a deep and meaningful love. However, as the years went by, reader tried harder and harder to build a better life despite life pushing back, whilst Billy let it overwhelm him. Despite their good relationship, reader wanted more from life than what he could offer, and she took a job overseas that he couldn’t follow her to. In the years apart, he found Becky, and things got worse. Much worse. Cranstead happened two years ago now, and reader is back in London, ready to continue her better life.

Praise, penetrative sex

Content warning(s): infidelity, baby as a plot point, angst

Rating: E

Masterlist

Thank you to @arcielee for being so supportive and encouraging with this verse, without your interest and love for the story, I'd never have the motivation to write more!

Billy gave you his address last time you saw him, and his number. It's the first time in years that he's not had you blocked. It's only been three days since the party where you hooked up, and you can't get him out of your head. Something in you craves him, calls out to him. The memory of him makes your blood sing, makes your bones ache.

Yeah, he tells you. Becky's on the night shift, come over. You can meet the baby.

You live in Shoreditch now, an area teeming with tech start-ups, high-end boutiques, and almost criminal levels of gentrification. From a selfish point of view, it's nice. For the first time in your life, you actually feel like you have a chance at financial stability. So you slip onto the Northern line at Old Street. Seven stops take you well into south London, right under the river, and at Oval you get off. It's the height of summer, and the night is muggy. It would have been nice to wear a dress, but the tube is way too sticky to be comfortable with that, so you stick to shorts and a cotton shirt in a blue that matches his eyes.

That's why you bought it. For his eyes. It's silly, maybe, but it makes you feel close to him. To Billy Washington. Another woman's husband.

The walk from Oval to his flat on Cowley Road takes fifteen minutes. You struggle to not hurry there, but the last thing you want is to turn up sweaty and messy. God, no, it shouldn't matter what you look like. You're just going to see an old friend, nothing more! You're not about to ruin someone's marriage, or enable him to cheat on his wife. Not again, anyway.

It's pathetic how your heart is racing when you press the buzzer for flat three.

"Yeah?" comes the familiar voice through the intercom.

"It's me," you reply. Your voice cracks.

You can hear the smile in his. "Come on up."

The lift in the building is broken but that's alright, it's only one flight of stairs. He's waiting in the doorway of his flat for you, and there's a warm blush in his cheeks.

Your heart pounds in your chest.

"Hi," he says quietly.

"Hey."

After an awkward pause, he bends down and kisses your cheek. "You wanna come in?"

You think about saying something smart. But there's a lump in your throat that keeps you silent, and instead you just smile and nod, and follow him into his flat. The front door closes almost silently behind you.

"Cuppa?"

"Please."

Billy leads you into the little kitchen and pulls out two mugs from an overhead cupboard. With a jolt in your stomach, you realise you recognise one of them. It's a cream mug that has little sprigs of lavender painted over it. It's the mug you painted on one of your first dates with him, back when you were teenagers. He kept it.

"Milk, two sugars?" he asks quietly.

"No milk, no sugar," you answer with a smile.

"Wow." He grins and glances up at you. "Things really have changed, huh?"

Leaning against the counter, you look around the small room. The surfaces are clean but cluttered with bottles and plastic plates and snacks for the kid. Tea and coffee, too, and bread wrapped in plastic. Just general untidiness, signs of a lived-in place. The hob could do with a good scrub, you think. But with a baby, it must be hard to find the time.

"Here," he says, handing you the mug.

You take it, and your fingers brush his. Time stars and ends where your skin touches. "You kept it."

His lips twitch and he knows exactly to what you are referring. "You left it when you went away. Was one of the only things I couldn't bear to throw out."

Nodding slightly, you take a sip. The black tea is way too hot to drink and it makes you hiss slightly.

"C'mon, let's go sit down." Billy leads you into the living room that is full of baby item. The sofa is just about big enough for two, and next to the door, a gaming set up is covered with toys and a play mat - it looks like it hasn't been touched for weeks. The curtains are drawn against the night, with the lump of a long-disused guitar behind it. On the wall hangs a photo of a smiling couple on their wedding day.

You have a closer look. The bride is pretty, her hair piled up with a little tiara and flowing veil, and her dress is nice. It has a plunging neckline, but the stiff satin sleeves are long, and the flowing lines are modest. Next to her, Billy is smiling in a suit that doesn't quite fit right, with hair pushed back in a way that looks alien. It's difficult to recognise him.

"You look happy here," you remark. Doing your best to sound casual is a challenge.

"I dunno if I was."

You look over your shoulder at him questioningly.

"It was only a month after Cranstead. I guess... I guess taking that step made me feel in control, and that felt good."

"Is that what the other night was?" you ask. "Taking control?"

"Nah. That was losing it."

You fold your arms over your chest. God, it all feels so stupid now. Why did you come here? What more is there to say? You left and you promised you'd be back for him. And he didn't wait. That's the end of it. Your eyes go to the other pictures on the wall - a pregnant Becky with Billy's arms around her belly, the ultrasound photo. Their baby. Their child.

"You really are a dad, aren't you?" you say softly after a moment.

"Yeah."

"I mean, I knew you were, but... but I couldn't quite wrap my head around it, you know? It didn't seem... real."

"You wanna see him? He's asleep right now, but you can pop your head in."

You should say no. You shouldn't want to see another woman's baby, but... you're curious. Morbidly so. And so you nod.

"C'mon."

Next door to the living room is the one bedroom in the flat. The light from the hallway spills in. Most of the room is taken up by the double bed he shares with his wife, and the sight of it makes your chest ache. That's where he holds her, and that's where she touches him. That's where he fucks her. Maybe he fucks her on the sofa, too. He used to love fucking you on the sofa in your parents' house.

At the far side is a cot, shoved between the bed and the wall. It's really cramped in here. Glancing over at Billy, he nods in encouragement, and you pad over, and look down.

Fast asleep in the crib is Billy's baby. Just over a year old, he looks so peaceful sleeping there. His hair is soft and light, and it looks like he's at the age where his features are starting to come in. Beneath the layers of soft baby fat, his jaw looks long and sharp, just like Billy's.

"What colour are his eyes?" you ask softly.

"Still blue." Billy is suddenly very close behind you. His breath grazes your neck. "Starting to get darker, though. Think they'll be brown like Becky's."

"Hmm. He's beautiful."

"Yeah." And then, as if it's nothing at all, Billy hooks his chin over your shoulder, and his arms come around your waist. And he holds you. He holds you, as if no time has passed at all, as if nothing has changed. And together, you look down at his child. For a moment, if you try hard enough, you imagine it's one you have given him. Never before have you wanted children, but to have them with Billy wouldn't be so bad.

Billy whispers quietly against your ear. "C'mon, let's let him sleep."

Back in the living room, your tea has cooled enough to drink. You sit next to him on the sofa, your legs pulled underneath you, and your arm slung across the back of it until your hand is dangerously close to Billy's shoulders.

"So," he says to break the suddenly heavy silence. "Why did you wanna come here?"

"I..." To talk. To fuck. To beg you to leave your bitch wife and come home with me. "Just to catch up, I guess." No, she's not a bitch. She's just not me.

His face lights up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." His smile is infectious. "I guess I've got a lot to tell you."

"So tell me."

And just like that, it's the same as it always was. He listens like you're the only person in the world, like you're the most fascinating speaker, telling the most wondrous tale. You tell him what happened after you left - you left to go overseas as a holiday rep in the Med, and from there, you made your way up the ranks. After years of hard work, and a little bit of luck, you were offered a place in the contact centre as a manager, a huge step up in your career - and pay. Now, you can afford your own pretty large place in London. It's two bedrooms and overlooks a little park with huge windows and wooden floors.

"I told you I'd come back," you murmur after you've shared every detail of your life. Almost an hour has gone by.

"I know." He looks at you as he rests his head back against the sofa. "I just... I didn't believe it."

"What did I ever do to make you disbelieve me?"

"Nothing. You were always... great." He shifts slightly where he's sitting, and then suddenly his head meets your hand. Without even thinking, you card your fingers through his hair, and he sighs softly. "You've done something amazing with your life."

"So have you," you soothe. The pain in his voice tugs at your very soul - it is your job to make him feel better. That's always been your job, and how you love it so. "You have a life, Billy. A wife, and a son."

He snorts softly. "I love my kid, he's not a mistake. But..."

"But?"

"I think I'd be happier if I wasn't a father." He pauses, and closes his eyes. "I've never said that outloud before."

"Oh." Without even realising, you shift closer to him. Your knee ends up resting on his thigh. It's pathetic how even this little touch makes heat rush between your legs. "Well... it's very brave of you to admit. I think it's also impressive that you've recognised it in yourself."

"Two years of intense therapy has made me analyse everything I do," he says with a snort.

"Does it help?"

"Dunno. A bit. I guess." He looks at you, blue eyes piercing. "Makes me know exactly what I want."

"What do you want?"

"Right now?"

"Billy..."

His hand rests on your knee, and his thumb strokes your warm skin. "The other night wasn't a mistake for me. And I meant what I said?"

"When?"

He bites his lip. "When we were fucking. When I said I'm not letting you go. When I said I was yours. Did... did you mean what you said?"

"When?"

"When you promised not to leave again. When you said you belonged to me."

You swallow. "Billy, I... I meant that. But... but it's more complicated."

His beautiful eyes slowly fill with tears, round and shining in the dim light of the room. "I've made so many mistakes with you gone. Mistakes that... that got people killed. Nearly got me killed."

"But that also brought about life," you remind him softly. When a tear spills from his eye, you carefully wipe it away. "You've done so well for yourself, Billy. Don't cry, sweet boy."

He catches your hand and kisses your palm. His face is smoother than it was at the party - he's shaved carefully. The lips on your skin make your eyes close in bliss.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. "I'm so sorry I didn't wait."

"It's alright. I promise, it's alright. I can wait longer, I can."

"I can't," he answers. And then, he leans close, and his hand is on your waist, and his forehead is against your temple. It makes you shiver. "I need you in my life."

"I'm here," you soothe. But feeling him this close to you is making the world spin. You should push Becky's husband away, the baby's father away, but those people are fading into the background. Selfishness makes you forget them, and in their place is just Billy. Your Billy. "Leave her."

"I can't. Not with the baby."

"I'll wait til he's older."

"Can't wait that long. Need you. All of you."

"Billy..."

Turning your head is a mistake, because he kisses you then.

His lips are soft against yours. He tastes like tea, warm and familiar. The touch of his mouth on yours is so gentle, so perfect, it has you floating in the clouds. Even when his strong hands guide you into his lap, he is careful and gentle. Last time, you kissed in a flurry of need and passion. This is deeper. This isn't just your bodies crashing together.

This is your soul finding its home with his.

"We shouldn't," you murmur.

"I know," comes his reply. He tugs your lip between his, sucking gently, before dipping down to kiss your throat. "Tell me to stop."

"I..." When he finds the seam between your neck and your shoulder, you whine softly. "I can't."

You take turns touching and kissing. It is haze, this moment with him. A flurry of touches and caresses, each more loving than the last, until all clothes are discarded, and you are skin to skin. Last time, you had both been too hasty to undress. But now, it is as if you have all the time in the world.

"You are so beautiful," he whispers. In his lap, he looks down your body with as much reverence as how he listened to your words. Like you're a work of art. Like you were made in the heavens for him.

A warm hand cups the swell of your breast and he kisses your skin, nipping gently here and there. The other caresses your side as you bury your fingers back into his hair and scrape his scalp until he groans in delight. You grind slowly in his lap. Billy's pretty cock is caught between you and his stomach, and with the right tilt of your hips, you slip it between your folds and whimper when it grinds against your clit.

The hand on your side finds its way between your legs. "My pretty girl," he whispers against your breast. When his long fingers press against the lips of your pussy, he takes your nipple into his mouth. Suckling gently brings forth another soft noise of delight from you. He's so good with his mouth, and his fingers.

That's one thing you've always remembered fondly about him. He never went to fuck you right away, either with his cock or his hand. He understood, somehow, that there was no much more to it. And he understands that now, too. He takes his time stroking your cunt from top to bottom, running his fingers through your wet crevices, tracing the silken lines there. He teases your entrance and presses his fingertip against it until you writhe slightly in his lap. You clutch at his speckled back.

"Billy," you whisper. "That feels so nice."

"You feel so nice," comes his gentle reply. "You're so perfect."

"Mmm. No, I'm not."

His lips kiss their way up your chest and neck and cheek until they meet yours again. "Yeah," he argues lovingly. "Y'are."

Between your legs, you take his wet hand and together your grasp his cock. You lift up your hips, and as he holds his base, you guide his tip to the little dip between your thighs that leads to absolution.

As you sink down on him and feel him find home inside you, you moan softly.

"Breathe," he soothes. "Oh, my pretty girl. You're so relaxed for me, aren't you?"

It's impossible not to preen at his praise. You know it comes from his heart. He's always made you relaxed, even in the throes of passion. It's never been difficult for him to slip inside. Hot and slick, that's how you always greet him.

"Slowly," you tell him. Arms wrap around his neck, and its your turn now to kiss his throat, his ear, his jaw. Oh, his perfect jaw, so sharp. You run your nose through his hair and it smells like lavendar. Your scent. After all this time, he... he surrounds himself with memories of you. Oh, God.

"You set the pace," he murmurs in response. Large hands splay over the skin of your back ane they run up and down. As you steadily ride him, one hooks under your backside to help you. You whimper quietly in thanks against his ear. The moan he gives you in reply is needy. "Good girl," he praises. "Oh, you take me so well. You make me feel so good."

When your pace quickens, and the pleasure is sharper, you bury your face into his neck and tears spring into your eyes. "I know," he soothes. "I know, sweet girl. Just keep going, just like that."

"Oh, Billy," you sigh. His cock is everything you need - almost. But he knows that. He's always known that, from the very first time you were together at eighteen years old. "Please."

"Please, what?" he teases, as if he is clueless.

Biting your lip, you lean back in his arms and try not to laugh. "You know what I want."

Billy's sweet eyes roam your body, your breasts, your stomach, and come to settle where his cock disappears into you. "Oh, look at you. So good, taking me like it's nothing."

"Everything," you breathe. "Like you're everything."

"Oh," he answers softly. "So good with your words."

His praise renders you speechless. Instead of replying, you gently tug on his hair to make his head lift up and bring his gaze back to yours. "Please?" you ask again. All the while, you ride him at a steady pace.

He repeats his question. "Please, what?"

Having to answer him makes your cheeks flush. "Your hand, Billy."

"Say my name again," he teases, grinning.

You draw it out happily. "Billy."

"Oh, well done." His eyes stay fixed on yours as he brings his hand between your bodies and catches your clit between his knuckles. It's a gentle touch, not restrictive, and he lets you grind to catch a rhythm that works best for you.

He knows you. Every inch.

"You're heaven," he praises softly. "Tell me. Tell me what you want, my sweet girl."

"Just this," you manage to answer. "Just you."

"Shit" he breathes.

Sweet words are exchanged as you fuck on the little sofa in his little flat, hidden from the world, from his wife. It doesn't last long after that.

He comes buried inside of you, the taste of your name on his tongue. You follow soon after. Teeth marks are left in his shoulder after your orgasm makes you shake and almost white out, needing something to fill your mouth to stop you from shrieking and waking the baby.

Her baby.

Not yours. Not your husband.

Panting, you stay in Billy's lap. He strokes your damp back, and you caress his messy hair.

"Is this how it's gonna be?" you ask after a blissful silence that is filled only with your matched breathing. "Sneaking here while your wife's at work?"

"I dunno," he admits softly.

"She deserves better than that."

"Yeah."

"Maybe... maybe we can be friends," you suggest. Inside of you, his cock is still warm. You shift your hips slightly. He'll be hard again soon.

"We're not gonna be friends," he answers, and there is a smile in his words. "We were never just friends, even when we were."

"Then what?"

"I dunno. I dunno how to stay away from you."

"Then don't."

"Doesn't having an affair make us bad people?" you whisper against his ear. It makes him shiver.

"Yeah."

You close your eyes and press your forehead to the bite you've left. "Maybe we'll go to Hell."

He shrugs. "I'm starting to think Heaven is right here, right now, with you."

"I don't want to be a bad person. But I can't lose you again."

"We'll find a way. I promise. We will."

"Alright."

[black-and-yellow]

The Mind Electric - Loudspeaker AU

Hizashi Yamada gets a stern talking-to, because someone has to reel him in, and of course it would be Kayama.

~2.7k words Yes it's named after the Miracle Musical song, the vibes were just chefs kiss. Based on this comic.

Also on AO3 here

Yamada awoke with a start, eyes snapping open, expecting to see sunlight filling the room, but it was still almost entirely dark. He didn’t know what had woken him, he didn’t remember having a particularly horrifying dream – in fact, he couldn’t remember having dreamt at all. He moved a hand to his stomach, his skin burning hot against his fingers.

That was when his eyes caught a glimpse of something, a silhouette in front of the roof window, where the pale glow from street lights outside filtered pathetically through the thin cloth ‘curtains’ he’d stuck up to cover the smashed hole in the glass.

Clumsily, he pawed around for his glasses and found them on the floorboards by his mattress. He knocked over an empty takeout box as he did, sending disposable chopsticks and the remnants of some kind of cheap sauce spilling onto the floor.

When he’d pushed his glasses up onto his nose and his eyes adjusted to the light, he could see her.

At first his heart jumped, but he calmed himself, knowing there was a more realistic answer. He blew out a sigh, the short lived elation drowned out by disappointment.

“You’re in my head.”

Kayama looked down at him, her arms behind her back, standing there bathed in an unreal glow. Her face was only just visible, but Yamada could make out the whites of her eyes and the lenses of her glasses. She wore an off-the-shoulder sweater, something she’d wear around the house when she was off-duty. Warm and soft and baby pink.

“That’s right,” she said, voice flat and expressionless.

“So I’m dreaming?”

“Obviously.”

Yamada slowly pulled himself to his feet to step closer, gangly legs wobbling under the unsteady weight of himself. He could see her better, then; the dark mole under her left eye, her perfectly applied mascara, the faintest hint of smile lines at the corners of her mouth. Not a detail absent.

“I’m just how you picture your conscience,” she told him, and he sneered a bit, perhaps at himself. Don’t people usually dream about their teeth crumbling or something when they’re nervous? Why did she have to be here?

“So my conscience has Kayama’s face. What’s up with that?” he asked, although he knew the answer perfectly well.

“Oh, please,” she responded, in that short and fed up manner that she always used on him when he wore her patience too thin with his feigned stupidity shtick, “You respect her. You love her, you value her opinion, you need her to talk some sense into you. And you’ll listen to her. More than you’ll listen to yourself, at least.”

He narrowed his eyes, drew himself up to his full height. He hated being read like this, but he paused to remind himself that he was simply talking to himself, in an unconventional way.

“What do you even want?”

“You know full well what I want. I want you to stop all… this,” she threw her arms up at him, regarding him with a certain air of disgust, “This has all gone too far.”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re a danger to yourself. You’ve been a danger to yourself for years. But this…?” she slowly shook her head at him in a disapproving way, “You don’t even know what you’re doing any more, or why. You lost sight of yourself the moment you started to spite Aizawa.”

He internally cringed at hearing Aizawa’s name. Admittedly, there had been a switch flicked in his head for a while, but he couldn’t put his finger on when it happened. Maybe it was at the park, when Aizawa had knocked his teeth out, or when he hadn’t shown up to the bar. He’d even been intending to turn himself in at that point, racked with guilt at what he’d said to him. Aizawa’s words when they met up in the back alley rang in his head,

“What do you think Nemuri would say if she were here?”

And he’d justified it to himself since then. Nemuri would have understood, he’d told himself for weeks – months, even. She would be on his side, she’d respect his decision, she’d say ‘If you think this is for the best, I’m right behind you’. But now here she stood, even though it wasn’t really her, but it was what he really knew she’d do, and she was clearly angry with him. She regarded him with obvious disgust and just a hint of pity, like how you’d look at roadkill.

“You started taking a more active role in the vanguard squad. Every time you go out, you use more of your quirk. You like it,” she went on.

And he had to admit. He did like it. Working in close proximity with other heroes, as well as innocents he couldn’t risk hurting, he was constantly holding himself back. But here, he didn’t have to worry about it. When Shigaraki had questioned whether he was even worth keeping around, in his first few weeks with them, when he would mostly provide intel, he had insisted that his quirk could be a worthwhile asset to the PLF. Some of the other villains took him to a secluded area, far enough away from any patrols that might hear, and insisted he prove his claim. He stood on his own away from them, about the same distance the other heroes always kept behind him. He cranked up his bass, his volume, his reverb, his everything, to the point that he had to stop because Dabi started throwing up and the others were all clawing at their ears, but he could have kept going. He’d earned his place in the Vanguards, he’d sat up straighter since then, he kept an ongoing rumble in the back of his throat, and the rest of the squad generally kept their distance from him. And he liked it

That was the kind of respect he just didn’t get back at UA. Even when he’d lose it, Aizawa would always shoot a glare at him and his voice would be cut off and he’d look a fool to everyone. Nobody took him seriously, even when they knew what he could do in theory, like they knew that he was simply too pathetic to actually use it for anything except being irritating and the occasional stun attack, which they didn’t usually see anyway because he was mostly off to the sidelines. Maybe it was because he’d always been shadowed by the statures of the other heroes. Even Midnight could pick him up, and she would, just to be annoying, or embarrass him at parties.

“You’ve stopped caring who gets hurt,” Kayama carried on, then she jabbed a finger at him, inches away from his chest, purposefully not touching him, “All that’s in here is rage. You’re fuelled by it. Spite and rage.”

He’d always been angry, since he was a teen. He’d keep quiet when he was irked, but he never really calmed himself, he just put on a grin and simmered in it. If he started to boil over, Midnight would cool him down, telling him sternly to sit down and stop it. And he only did because it was her. And after she was gone, there was nobody to metaphorically take him off the heat. He could feel the stove growing hotter even now, even though it was her face, because he knew she was right.

“You can’t go back now, you’re like a cassette with all the tape unravelled. You’re all over the place. You’ve got your head in the PLF, your heart stuck in a past you could never have had back anyway, you’ve got your feet somewhere between home and Tartarus. I don’t even know where your backbone is. Oh, you just get so much worse, don’t you?”

He clenched his jaw, heat building in his chest. He could feel the nerve endings in his face twitching but he bit his tongue.

“What happens when you finally end up killing someone, Hizashi? You’re a natural disaster squeezed into a body that can hardly even keep a rein on it anymore. What happens when you get yourself killed?”

“STOP IT!” he snapped at her finally. His voice came out sharp and sudden like a crack of lightning, but Kayama didn’t even flinch, “If you’re in my head, why can’t you just- Just tell me I’m right! Just tell me what I want you to!” He stopped to breathe through bared, gritted teeth, the air coming in shakily and out again in shivers. Hot, angry tears pooled at the corners of his eyes and his entire form tensed.

Kayama closed her eyes and shook her head again, slow, solemn, disappointed. She remained entirely calm and collected.

“I don’t think you know what you want,” she said.

He balked, scoffing at the notion, throwing his head to the side, his arms falling back down limply, as if the very notion were ridiculous.

“I want… you know,” he started, then stopped. He looked back at her, his expression shifting from unbridled rage to indignant to confusion.

“I want… I…”

He hadn’t thought about it in a little while. At the outset, he knew exactly what he wanted. It seemed so simple. He bought his friends’ safety, he wanted to be the wall between Aizawa and death, he wanted to keep Eri swaddled in a blanket. He wanted the others to adore him. He wanted All Might to tell him how brave he was, because he was brave, wasn’t he? Giving up all he had, his radio show, his hero career, his dorm in Heights Alliance, his name in UA’s books, just to keep the people he cared about safe. How was that not brave? How could that be bad?

But that’s not what happened, it could never be that easy.

Aizawa didn’t thank him, his colleagues didn’t respect him, and his stomach churned with anger. Everything he ate tasted rotten, he got nosebleeds, his hands shook, his hair was streaked with grey, his head pounded every waking minute, the scar over his eye leaked and bled.

Then he only wanted to spite Aizawa, because wasn’t Aizawa oh so much worse than he was? Aizawa walked away from him after high school, Aizawa hated spending time with him outside of work, – and he hated how juvenile it made him sound, like he was yearning to play with his friend – but Aizawa refused to spar with him, even when he was hopping from foot to foot with his sleeves rolled up, urging him ‘come on, Sho! Come on, Sho! Fair fight, no speaker, no studs, come on!’ He’d just turn his head away and tell him, ‘what’s the point, Yamada?’ or ‘that’s enough, Yamada’. Just like he said when he’d tried to talk about Kayama. Aizawa didn’t let him mourn Kayama. And that was the catalyst to all of it, if he’d just been there. If he’d just listened. It would have been so easy, just to sit and listen and pat his shoulder, he didn’t even have to say anything, just don’t stop him. Then none of this would have happened. All of this was Aizawa’s fault. And there he was, back in UA, acting like nobody could have seen this coming, like butter wouldn’t melt in his mouth. He wanted to grab that man by his greasy unwashed jumpsuit and shake him back and forth until his brain rattled around in his skull like a maraca.

“I… want…”

Yamada hadn’t even noticed he was shaking violently, lurching back and forth as every new thought popped into his head and he found something new to be angry about, and linked them all together in his brain, and packaged them up with a pretty red ribbon.

Then he stopped, stood still for a moment, entirely pathetic, engulfed in Kayama’s shadow, then let his legs go out from underneath him, and fell to his knees.

“I want you back, Kayama. I want Aizawa back. I want to go home.”

She was completely silent, and so was he. But he knew she was there, and he could feel her icy blue eyes drilling into his spine and crawling about under his skin. The tears rolled down his cheeks and fell to the floor with little pitter patters in the silence. The silence just went on and on, dragging out for what felt like hours.

“KAYAMA!” he yelped, his whole situation dawning on him, looking up to her like a lost, scared child, eyes burning, “Just say something!” He raised his arms, still trembling, “Hold me! Just… please.”

“Yamada…” Her voice was calm and softer now, and sounded like it came from inside his own head, “Come on. Do you think that’s what she’d do? If she were here?”

He dropped his arms to his sides again and admitted defeat. There was no point arguing any longer. He knew Kayama better than this, no matter how much he’d tried to fool himself, he knew that she would never stand for any of this.

“You know her brutal honesty always kept you in check. Now you have to grow up and do it yourself.”

Yamada didn’t bother saying anything. He found the chest of drawers by the wall and managed to pull himself to his feet, trying to regain any sliver of his composure. Not that he really cared what Kayama saw him like, she’d known him since their UA days, she’d seen worse of him. And this wasn’t even her in the first place. But it was second best.

“The big fight tomorrow, in the city centre,” she went on when he’d stumbled back over to her, pouring with sweat, “You know the kids from UA are going to be there. That’s why it’s scheduled for right then and there. Because you’re the one who told Shigaraki. You know the schedules. How much danger do you think they’ll be in? How much danger were you planning for them to be in? You helped plan it, after all. You planned most of it. You never intended to stand on the sidelines…” she paused, “So. What are you going to do… Mic?”

It gave him a start, that name. It sounded so foreign. That dumb, obnoxious, pain in the neck DJ, peacock-ing about with his chest puffed out. Had that really been him?

He wrapped his arms around himself, thinner now than he had been, but if he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the polished floorboards of UA under his feet, smell the books and office chairs of the staff room, hear Aizawa taking homeroom with a lacklustre role call. He breathed out a sigh, putting the thought out of his mind. A past he could never get back.

“What can I do any more, Kayama?”

She sounded closer to him when she finally spoke, and when he opened his eyes, he found that she was.

“Figure it out.” She said. Not demanding, not bitterly. Not like she wanted to grab him by the nape of his neck and dangle him out the window.

Just kindly.

He took a step forward until he was directly in front of her, then slowly hung his head over her shoulder. He didn’t expect her to put her arms around him, and she didn’t, he knew better than to expect that, they didn’t touch, she was always just out of reach. He kept his arms by his side too, eyes shut tight. But they stood there for a minute without saying a word, and that was about the extent, he reckoned, of what he deserved.

“Yeah. I will,” he said, near whispering, “I promise, Nem.”

It felt as if she wasn’t there all of a sudden, and she wasn’t, because of course she wasn’t, she never had been. But Yamada still felt the tug in his heart when he opened his eyes and saw the room completely empty. Like it had been the entire time.

[dreamersbcll]

Sam has to watch Christina killing tara

“You missed my heart”

she got me good, i knew she would

——————————————————————————-

Sam doesn't know what happened.

That was a lie. She knew what would happen if she left. Through all the drugs and alcohol in her bloodstream, she knew all too well what would happen the minute she escaped the lion’s den.

Christina Carpenter was starving for something to sink her teeth into, and Tara was there, ripe for the taking.

And yet, Sam left. She escaped into the darkness on the eve of her eighteenth birthday and ran far, far away from the town that raised her. She escaped by the skin of her teeth, a permanent scowl etched on her lips, and never looked back.

Or at least she tried.

Somewhere around her twenty-first birthday, Sam could feel it there. A gnawing, aching pain in her stomach, a pus-filled that sat there and festered in her gut.

Guilt.

She knows well that her escapade into the night was just signing the death certificate for her little sister. It was the last chess move, the one that stopped the game of chicken she had been playing with her mother ever since Tara learned to walk.

Sam saw how her mother watched Tara. Predatory. Christina was constantly sizing up the small girl, drinking in her strengths, capitalizing on her weaknesses.

The difference between the sisters was simple, besides the height, of course. Sam was a Loomis. She knew how to fight, how to live on scraps, how to defend herself. Tara was a Carpenter; she knew how to run, how to hide. All would be well if their mother weren’t a combination of both.

Christina fell in love with Loomis first, after all. It was only a matter of time before she attacked the thing about herself that she hated the most—the Carpenter name.

Sam would kill her if Tara had let her. She was itching, always itching to take out the woman who stared down her little girl like she was wounded prey, ripe for the picking. Even while inebriated, Sam knew that she had to be ready for the fight that would eventually come.

And the fight did indeed come, later than Sam thought it would. It was the night of Tara’s sixteenth birthday; while Sam was lighting the candle of the little cupcake she bought at the grocery store where she worked, she received a text.

Tara: SOS. mom

It took Sam an hour flat to pull her car into the front yard of the home that she once lived in.

She flew out of the car, not even bothering to wear a seatbelt. In one hand, she clutched her phone, the other a rusty hammer she found in an old toolbox at work.

From outside, she could hear screaming. How none of the neighbors heard it was a mystery to her. But it didn't matter. Sam was here. And she was hungry for blood.

Sam threw open the front door, following the screaming to the kitchen. There, she saw a sight that would be forever burned into her mind: one that would keep her up at night, rip her awake from her sleep, screaming and clawing at the skin she lived within.

Christina had Tara pinned to the ground, bloody hands wrapped around her little sister’s throat, pressing down hard. Tara’s eyes were bloodshot, and her nails dug into Christina’s hands, clawing at the skin that took away her breath. Gasping and shaking, Tara was trying to fight back, black bruises blooming across her cheek, dried blood staining her nostrils.

The hammer in Sam’s hands shook, her body frozen in shock. She wasn’t sure what was worse- the fact that Tara couldn’t see Sam was here now or the way Christina looked up at Sam’s frozen body and grinned at her. As if she was sure that her firstborn would turn around and run away again and let the lion take down the prey it deserved.

But Sam had already promised herself that she would never run again. And that the hammer in her hands wasn’t going to leave without blood caked onto its cold steel.

Within seconds, Sam ripped Christina off of her sister and threw the woman across the floor, relishing in how she skittered across the tile like a loose penny. Sam reached down and pulled Tara up by her armpits, forcing the girl to her feet and shoving her down the hallway, leaving the girl to catch her breath on her own. Choking but alive, Tara stumbled away, her eyes shining with something close to relief and joy.

Satisfied that her sister was out of the way, Sam returned to her mother, teeth bared. Her mother was already up and on her feet, her eyes darkening at the sight of her vengeful firstborn. Christina’s eyes flitted down, briefly taking in the weapon in Sam’s hand.

“And so she returns,” the woman sneers, her voice cold.

Sam smiled a vast, unforgiving grin. “I heard you were missing a Loomis in your life. Too bad the first one died like a little bitch,” she retorted.

Her mother sneered. “Say hi to him, won’t you?”

And the two collided.

Luckily for Sam, dreams do come true. Sam did get to kill their mother. She took it slow. Each movement was drawn out, careful calculations to inflict the most pain. Dull thuds of a hammer could be heard, blood spattering the kitchen and skin of the daughter Christina Carpenter loathed. It was over in an hour. Two tops.

After her mother’s body finally hit the floor with a splat, Sam pulled away, breathing hard, admiring her work. If she weren’t so enamored with her bloodlust, she would’ve noticed her little sister creep back into the kitchen, gasping at the sight.

Shit.

Tara pressed herself against her big sister’s side, seemingly ignoring the blood that dripped down Sam’s forearms. Both sisters stood in silence, looking at the body that gave them life, now dead on their kitchen floor.

Sam wasn’t an idiot. She could feel Tara’s breaths picking up, the guilt of not being strong enough consuming her. The shame of losing another parent because she just wasn’t worth it.

Fuck that. Tara was always worth it to Sam, even if Sam ran away, too.

Sam glanced down at Tara, the adrenaline in her body fading as she saw the sadness in her little sister’s eyes. Her fingers twitched, one hand still grasping onto the bloody hammer. All she wanted to do was cup her little sister's face between her bloodstained hands and whisper,

We’re connected to her by pure coincidence. It’s by blood, but it’s all relative. She is not you. You are not her. I won’t let you become her. I promise.

Instead, Sam lays her free hand on Tara’s shoulder, ignoring how her girl flinches a bit at the action. She gently squeezes Tara’s shoulder and softly repeats the same chant repeatedly. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you. I’m here, I’m here now.”

“She’s dead,” Tara breathed, her voice cracking with emotion.

Wincing, Sam nods. Their mother was nothing but a crumpled corpse on their kitchen floor, her blood painting the tiles that still had the sisters' blood caked onto it. History repeating itself. Blood of the mother returning to her daughters.

But Sam couldn’t dwell on that now. Christina was dead. Tara was battered and bruised but alive. Sam was back. It was time for her to take her little girl away, far away, from this town and the blood they spilled in it.

Clearing her throat, Sam squeezed Tara’s shoulder particularly hard, forcing the girl to listen to her. “We’ve been in her fists ever since we were little kids. But we don’t owe her shit. Not anymore. Not ever again,” Sam paused, looking down at Tara’s stunned face.

Dropping the hammer to the ground, ignoring the dull thunk that echoed throughout the quiet house. She got down on one knee, cupping Tara’s face, pressing her forehead against her little sister’s.

Sam breathed in and out, her adrenaline fading. “She won’t ever touch you again.”

She pressed their foreheads together hard, trying to force that truth into Tara’s head. She knows her little sister. Sam knows that Tara is wondering, wondering what if Christina gets up and finishes the job? What if she comes alive before their eyes? The devil can’t die, can he?

Sam can see it all in her little girl’s eyes. And it kills her.

Tara swallowed hard, one hand shaking up to touch the ring of bruises strung across her throat. Sam winced at the action, her heart straining. If only she were quicker. Then maybe, just maybe, Tara wouldn’t have to witness the carnage that came after.

But it didn’t matter. Her little girl closed her eyes, her eyelids fluttering in quiet solace. Softly, Tara spoke, her voice still. “Promise?”

Sam breathed out, a little smile creeping across her face.

“I promise.”

[bronzeeditsx]

Maya le tissier fanfic part 1!

(sorry if there’s spelling mistakes Ive written most of this late at night)

20th July 2022

BREAKING NEWS Maya Le Tissier has joined Manchester united on a 3 year deal reports say.

You turn away from your phone to your team mates who have been discussing the rumours all week and now it has finally been confirmed.

“Can’t wait to meet her” Millie Turner said from across the room.

“She was hard to get past when we played Brighton”, Leah Galton replied.

The introduction of a new player is always exciting to have, but with her it seemed different.

You watched her enter the training ground already wearing the united training kit with a big smile on her face, a smile so contagious it lit up the whole room up, and she’d been here for 5 minutes, yet it felt it as if you knew her your whole life.

The way she shook your hand to greet you and looked into your eyes as if you were an old friend that haven’t seen each other in a long time, it just felt natural.

Millie Turner must have said something funny because she laughed as she was greeting her making her head slightly tilt backwards.

You couldn’t help but smile.

“What are you smiling at?”, Nikita joked poking your side.

“Nothing” You laughed shaking your head back at her.

-

A few weeks had past and Maya fitted in straight away, she was always working hard especially in the gym.

Just before the season starts the whole team decided we should go out altogether for a meal before the hard works starts.

It was a fancy restaurant that we were not used to and half the menu seemed pointless. You happened to sit next to Maya who gave you a smile as you were sitting down.

“That suit looks good on you”. Maya said as she ran her fingers so delicately on your shoulder feeling the fabric.

“Why thank you”, You replied feeling yourself start to blush. “Your dress is beautiful”. You said slightly positioning your body towards her.

“Maya what are you going to order?”, Katie asked from across the table.

This diverted her attention off you as she turned to Katie replying she’s going to order pasta.

In them few seconds you missed having her full attention on you which made you think, is there a chance you have some feelings towards her? No that can’t be the case you barely know her, she’s been here for 3 weeks and you’re already jumping to conclusions because she complimented you once, I am really down that bad you thought to yourself slightly shaking your head.

The night went on and before you knew it, it was already 2am due to the amount of drinks that were being ordered.

By that time there was an only a small group of us left.

“Ughh i can’t believe an uber is £30 just get back to my apartment” You sighed.

“I could give you a ride?” Maya replied with a smile, as she hasn’t had much to drink. (don’t be dirty minded😉)

“Are you sure?”. You replied slurring, regretting having them shots ella convinced you to drink.

“Of course” She replied with a smile.

“Thanks”.

“No problem”. She replied slightly stroking your back.

Once you got in the car you turned to look at maya who was rubbing her arms due to the cold winter air.

“You can wear my jacket if you like”, you asked her.

“No it’s ok”, she said smiling “your apartment is only 20 minutes away”.

“Ok, if you get hypothermia don’t blame me”.

“Woww”, she said laughing slightly pushing your shoulder.

You laughed with her.

The drive to her apartment seemed quicker than you hoped as you both listened to the radio almost at full volume.

You saw Maya glance to the side of you and she noticed you didn’t look so well, your arms were now folded onto your stomach and you looked out the window slightly turning away from her.

She quickly parked up just in front of your flat. “Are you ok?”. Maya asked worriedly.

“I think i’ve drank too much”, you chuckled wiping your forehead that was slightly sweating somehow even though it was freezing outside.

“Let’s get inside then”, she said quickly getting out her car and walking round to help you.

As you were about to enter your apartment building a group of guys walked past that you were familiar with.

“Look at the state of her”, one of them remarked and then they all started laughing.

“Hey, leave her alone”, Maya replied back angrily.

“Or what?”.

“Maya it’s ok”. You exclaimed.

Maya walked back up to the guy “I’m gonna sh-”

“Maya let’s go”, You interrupted, walking inside.

Maya sighed smirking at the guy, then slowly turned to follow you.

“Do them guys bother you a lot?”, Maya asked placing an arm around your shoulder as you walked to the lift.

“Sometimes…b-but not often”, you replied avoiding eye contact with her.

“You’re welcome to stay with me if they do”, maya said as you searched for your keys in your bag.

“Thanks, but it’s ok”, you said as you walked out the lift, to your door.

“Are you sure?”, She asked.

You didn’t reply as you did want to stay with her…but for the wrong reason.

-

Sorry this is so short for now i will continue this if you want me to :)

[hiddendreamsstuff]

A Day at the Beach... Part 1/3

(Okay so this is my first longer story so I hope you enjoy this first part. I am working on it part by part but wanna drop this first part to get your appetite going with some good ole beach smut which involves some sexy play on the beach between two very sexy women. It will lead to some great Baywatch style resus play in later parts. I am considering doing "alternate endings" with darker resus stuff but we will see when/if things come to me).

Samantha and Julia, or Sam and Jules as they have become known to friends, have been together for about six months. They are strongly attracted to each other and spend all their time together. One day, early in the beach season they decide to go a the beach at a large lake.

Sam has been a lifeguard for years and loves the water. The lake is her happy place. Everything about the beach just brings her peace so being there with Jules is a dream come true. She is about 5’8 with long, straight jet black hair, B cup breasts and tanned skin. She is wearing a stringy bikini showing off her flat tummy and sleeve tattoo on her left arm of flowers.

Jules, however, doesn’t love the very much beach, but she loves being with Sam so she agrees to go. Jules is 5’6 with medium length light reddish hair and C cup breasts. Her milky white skin tends to burn or get all freckled. Today she is wearing a sky blue halter neck bikini which can be unhooked in the back with a t-shirt over it. She feels very self conscious about her body even though she is objectively beautiful. She likes being in the water and tends to go in and not come out in order to be seen too much in her bathing suit.

When Sam and Jules get to the beach they pick a secluded spot at the end of the beach where they can have some privacy. This makes Jules feel a bit better about showing off her very beautiful body to Sam as no one else can get a close look. There is a lifeguard stand which has two women atop it, and a few people on the surrounding beach a little less than a quarter mile away. They can hear chatter and laughing in the light breeze happening on this unusually warm day. This eases Jules's anxiety a lot.

Jules, who is prone to sunburn asks Sam to help her put some lotion on her back. Sam is more than happy to do so as it gives her the chance to explore Jules's body right there in her favorite place. She slathers some lotion on her hands and gets to work as Jules sits with her back to her and is pulling her long hair out of the way for Sam to do her work. It feels nice for Jules to be touched in this way and she shudders a few times with pleasure when Sam gets close to the bathing suit lines. She turns her head around and kisses Sam deeply which makes them both smile and giggle while Sam continues putting sunblock on Jules's body reaching around front to her stomach and under her breasts.

Then Sam gets up and pushes Jules down onto the blanket and starts rubbing lotion on her front side which again makes them both giggle. Sam very slowly makes her way around the bikini lines of the breasts and walks her fingers up Jules's sternum to her lips. She then kisses her lips lightly cause a rush of pleasure in Jules' pelvis. Jules reaches up to Sam's breasts and caresses them while reaching her head up for a kiss which Sam denies with a laugh. Sam leans in and bites on Jules's lip turning them both on a bit more.

They continue this kind of play for a few minutes and switch positions so Sam can be lotioned up as well. While Jules is straddling her leg, Sam raises her leg up and Jules leans back onto it and feels a rush of pleasure go through her. She grabs Sam's breasts and lets out a satisfied moan which makes Sam even more turned on.

Now that they have fully covered the other with sunscreen from head to toe, the two decide to take their play out into the water where they are less visible. Immediately upon getting deep enough Sam pulls Jules towards her and runs her fingers along the bottom of Jules' bikini under the water. Jules gives a nod consenting to what is about to come next...

She is not disappointed when Sam's fingers make their way below the bikini line and rub gently on her clit. She moans with pleasure after becoming so wet and horny up on the beach. Sam continues and moves her mouth down to Jules' breasts and unhooks the back one handed to get the material out of the way to be able to suck her nipple. The rest of the bathing suit hangs around Jules's neck. Jules starts to come almost immediately and runs her fingers through Sam's soft luscious hair and pulls a bit as an orgasmic sound escapes her throat. Sam kisses her neck and sucks a bit until there is a red mark. Sam keeps rubbing until the orgasm becomes more intense and Jules lets out a groan that could be heard on the shore if anyone was there.

When she is done Jules looks deeply into Sam's eyes and whispers "I love you" for the first time. Sam smiles and kisses her on her nose and says "I love you too," passionately and pulls her in for a deep kiss with her fingers in her hair pulling it. "Now I'm gonna fuck you harder..." says Jules before pulling Sam closer to the shore. Sam is so turned on and cannot wait for what Jules is about to do to her. It's so exciting to see her girlfriend so confident. Now that their bodies are more exposed to the sun, Jules can see the light glisten off of the water droplets on Sam's skin.

Jules is feeling really assertive in her post orgasm bliss and expression of love. The two women are close enough to shore that they are able to stand on their knees and have their pelvis's exposed. Since its a lake there are not strong waves. Jules reaches down into Sam's bathing suit and with the other hand starts untying the strings that hold the other sides together. As they begin to come apart she pulls them off and throws them to shore. She buries her fingers deeper into Sam and kisses her deeply while running her other hand through her hair. Sam rocks herself against Jules' hand until she comes loudly with her head turned towards the sky... her sternum reaching upwards and into Jules' ready face to receive those beautiful mounds. Jules moves her hand to Sam's left breast and pinches the nipple through the material and then moves the material sideways to expose her breast fully.

They both fall over when a slightly larger wave comes in. They are practically at the shore. Jules pushes Sam down and moves her lips to her bare breast bites lightly at it as well, which drives Sam's lust to be more intense. She then moves down Sam's body, kissing her as she goes, before getting to her clit and starting to suck. She begins to moan louder and louder until she reaches climactic bliss.

Jules stops, smiling snuggly, and moves back up to Sam's upper body, which Sam uses as an opportunity to jump on top of Jules, straddling her, and begins gyrating back and forth on her thigh as she kisses her naked breasts. Jules pulls at Sam's hair as she comes again right there in the water.

They roll over and start making out and grabbing at each other's chests until they get tired and re-dress themselves. They head up to the blanket and Sam lays down flat. Jules puts her head on Sam's chest and listens to her heartbeat as they both fall asleep.

A while later, Sam wakes up and becomes disoriented. She is expecting to see Jules on her chest, or at least on the blanket. She sits up quickly and looks around. She doesn't see Jules anywhere on the beach. Then she looks in the water.....

To be continued....

[writingsofwesteros]

#haunting with lust

The Princess feels her mind grow hazy having the man so close to her, his touching burning her skin. She was still unwed and to be seen like this would be ruinous. And yet, all she wishes is to be pressed closer to him as she feels his hand on her thigh. She didn’t know when her robe had fallen off, but she cared little for the heavy fabric would separate her further from his warmth.

Warren grins as her body unconsciously begins to move closer to his. He was as tall as his true-born half brothers, and the Princess had to tilt her head to look into his eyes. He felt her shiver as they made eye contact, his hand on her thigh beginning to stroke the skin slowly. Soon, he begins to place kisses against her neck, just like in her dream. She trembles in his arms as he sucks on the skin at the junction of her neck and collarbones. She was clearly a maiden - so responsive and receptive to his ministrations. The loud gasp he gets when his fingers graze over her nipple are enough to get him hard in his breeches, feeling the way she pressed harder into him as her head tilted back. As he palms her breasts firmly, her gasps only grow louder. It’s the first whimper of “more” that has him pulling away.

Shushing the girl as she begins to whine at the loss of his touch, he brings her over to the chaise and sets her down. For a moment, she seems much more lucid but as his touch returns, her brain switches off. Warren pushes her upper body flat against the fabric as his hands greedily push her nightgown up around her waist. He had planned to tease her longer, but he knew her father often wandered around the castle at night (courtesy of his sister), and the Princess wasn’t being quiet as she mewled at his touch. Her mewls quickly turned to squeals as she felt his tongue on her, a long stripe being licked up her cunt. As he began to feast on her cunt, laving his tongue along her folds, the Strong bastard moved his grip to her hips and upper thighs to hold her still. The Princess writhed on the chaise as her orgasm began to build. Her own fingers had never brought her such pleasure, and instead she laid out moaning like a common whore as the man between her thighs began to push his tongue into her core. Her fingers dug into Warren’s hair as he ate her out, his face staying stuck to her cunt as her hips undulated against him. A firm squeeze to her breast and a pinch of her nipple was all it took for the Princess to reach her peak, her eyes rolling back as her first taste of real pleasure hit her, legs shaking as she squealed. The bastard between her legs continued to lick and thrust his tongue as his hands softly stroked along her waist and stomach reassuringly. He only pulled away once the girl stopped spasming and her hands began to push at his head, her oversensitivity overwhelming her.

Once the Princess’s mind began to focus again, she saw a scene just like the one in her dream. Warren’s face, slick with her arousal, as he smiled from in between her thighs. However this time, the ache in between her thighs was sated, her body floating on a cloud of pleasure. None of her dreams had ever felt this good, so surely this was real? When the Princess wakes up in her own bed in the morning though, she begins to question everything. Hadn’t she just been in the library? How did she get back here? The only thing that reassures her that her secret escapade was real was the small purple splotch on her neck and the smug grin that Warren wears as she locks eyes with him the next morning.

(Playing with two pretty Targaryen’s is just too good of an opportunity for the Rivers to miss)

!!!!!!!

The poor sweet girl is only growing more addictive to the pleasure she had experienced. She can hardly stop staring whenever Warren happens to be close to her, which if she was of sound mind, she would notice was all the time.

Still, Daemon tried to keep her close and it worked for a while but his own mind began to haze.

She would go to sleep with her fingers soaked between her thighs..but no climax reached as she sobbed into her dreams where he waited for her