#and as we have been over i do not have one of those

[madamechrissy]

Blueberry Yum Yum

The art in this banner is from my AMAZING moot @sweetlandspos who makes the most delicious Kuna art ahhh! go follow her <3

pairings - Fratboy Plug Sukuna x Nerdy stoner reader

summary You decide to ask your plug, Ryomen Sukuna for a hook up - but can he match your freak!? Just a fun ass oneshot about falling for your hot ass plug - he won't give you free weed though! :') WC- 11k

warnings - college AU, explicit sex, oral ( m and f receiving) Sukuna whimpering, reader is a nerdy lil freaakkk, weed smoking, jealousy, Sukuna talking shit, p in v sex - with and without protection, cum swallowing (both) tummy bulges, back shots, Kuna has piercings hehe, aftercare, Sukuna being a little yandere tbh

Comments/rbs so appreciated if you enjoyy - also I hit 18k followers the other day, I wanted to thank you all so muchhh for following me! :')

"What if we like... had sex?" Sukuna starts coughing up the thick smoke of his purple haze, wondering if it's fucking laced with something as you sit there, blunt in your hand and your legs crossed, casually smoking it as if you brought up the fucking weather.

"The fuck did you say!?" He demands after he catches his breath, you inhale your blunt now, you're by far his nerdiest client, you shocked him when you asked to buy from him the first time.

You scream good girl, certified Velma from Scooby-Doo - annoying  'actually - jinkies' nerd. The two of you even hanging out was a fucking anomaly, a mathlete and a frat boy, one he didn't try to figure out. He enjoyed selling weed to you and smoking with you, hearing your stupidly intelligent thoughts, he enjoyed looking at you too. Sure you were fucking gorgeous in that soft, sweet way.

So what the fuck was this!?

"It's been a while," you murmur, handing him the blunt back now, he takes a huge rip, coughing again as you speak. "If I'm not really your type it's cool."

"If you're... you... I..."

"Shit, it's fine. Calm down. Just was thinking it'd be fun." He keeps staring at you, mouth wide open, and you sigh, rolling your eyes. "Dude it's fine don't freak out. Forget it."

"Forget it? The fuck?" He's glaring ruby eyes at you, while you take a wad of money out of your little black backpack, decorated with anime pins all over and a ridiculous amount of keychains.

"Here," you hand him the cash, fingers brushing for a moment while he just stares. "Shit, I made it weird."

"Yeah you fucking did. Who just says that?" He glares right at you, thin brows low over his narrowed eyes, those sooty pink lashes too fucking pretty and long, god you're jealous of them!? Are they so pretty because you're baked?

"Sukuna, you've fucked like half the girls I know, I have heard you're pretty good at it." He blinks again at that, a rare blush to his cheeks, not fitting his cocky persona while you put out the blunt, letting it smoke against the tray. "Here's the money. Thanks again."

You turn, and he grips your wrist, pausing you, it feels way too good. Not only has it been way too long, Sukuna was fucking hot, every time he got too close you felt that heat, you literally clenched when he just brushed a big hand across your shoulder to grab something. And your boyfriend broke up with you six months ago, you thought maybe it would be fun to fuck him, Sukuna is sexy as fuck and chill. Now you want to disappear, clearly reading the room wrong as usual. 

You suck at that.

"You wanna fuck me? What, like... some friends with benefits? Or one time shit?" He stands, hovering so fucking tall, you turn and look at him, blazed whites of his eyes red, you swallow nervously, eyeing the tattoos on his chest in that thin white wifebeater that's just unfair to wear around you while you're ovulating, you can see his nipple piercings through it, and it's doing too much.

"I thought like once, if we liked it sure we could do it more. If we're both single and... get along... plus you're hot."

"Yeah I am." He grins and you roll your eyes.

"You know... never mind."

"Wait brat, shit." You sigh, looking up at him now, as he turns you to him, his cock twitching just looking at your dilated eyes behind thick glasses, your parted lips. His fingers brush against the softness of your sweater, watching your nipples press against the material.

"It's cool if you don't want to. Like I am chill about it  promise." He fingers the edge of your sweater, blitzed off his ass wondering if you're some fucking dream for a moment. But he feels the heat of your skin as his fingers slip up your waist.

"Think you can keep up with me, huh brat?" He murmurs then, snarky with his smirk. You step closer, your finger drifting up his hard chest.

"The question is if you can keep up with me, Sukuna." He scoffs at that, raising a brow that has two little barbells - eyebrows shouldn’t be so sexy, but then Ryomen Sukuna just is sexy, everything about him from his tattoos and piercings, to his ridiculously strong body. His height, his face… his eyes.

It’s no wonder girls do flock to him.

“Me, keep up with you?” He’s chuckling now, sitting on the couch, legs spread wide, impossibly cocky as he eyes you, acting like his heart isn’t racing when you set down your bag. “You won’t get any free weed from it.”

“I don’t want free weed, and you’re kind of an ass.” He chuckles again, when you sink to your knees however he falters, vermillion lips parted, you unbuckle him and look right under your glasses at him then, smiling just a bit.

Are you… cocky too!?

Sukuna hasn’t ever had this happen, someone just smiling as they unbuckle him with ease, he’s sure though when you see his cock you’ll pause. He’s a solid ten inches and thick as fuck, even if you’re some dick sucking pro, you’re gonna give pause. Your eyes widen then, licking your lower lip, making him ache to kiss you.

What are these corny ass thoughts!? He’s scowling at them, irritated that you on your knees has him, Sukuna, nervous!? Since when is he nervous about shit- and when you’re revealing him, and he doesn’t even help you tug down his black silky boxers, you let out a little whine that almost ends him. His hand enwraps in your hair, and your eyes meet his again.

Why are they so pretty? Why is he thinking that instead of being excited to get a blow job, as usual? You’re running your finger over his tip, making his hips jerk just a bit, moaning softly. “Are you sensitive, Sukuna?”

“Am I… you’re a brat, ya know that?” He glares as you giggle, acting like his cock isn’t way too fucking big, and you’re figuring out if you’ll be able to walk after this. “Stop teasing and show me what you got, running that pretty mouth huh?”

His thumb brushes the plump lower lip, you stroke him then, looking right at him as the rough pad of his thumb caresses soft lips, calloused from years of football but so gentle over little teeth indentations on your skin. You swallow, a little nervous suddenly, before taking a breath and leaning forward, pink tongue lapping at the precum already oozing from his slit.

Sukuna whimpers when you do.

You think you imagine it, this giant man whimpering, but as you lap again at his reddened tip, your hand slipping down his thick length, he does it again, quieter, hand pulling your hair so hard tears prick your eyes. The sight is so sexy you can’t take it, taking more of his thick tip deep in your mouth then, looking up as you suck him, your glasses fogging up from your breath.

“Oh, fuck…” He shakes it off, biting back another pathetic whimper as you start sucking hard then, he’s acting like he’s controlling your movements but he’s just pulling your hair, watching as you make more and more of his cock disappear. “Can you take more, brat?”

“Sure can,” you taunt, pulling back with a suctioned pop, but he is intimidating. But damned if you would back down from a challenge. You have next to no gag reflex, but you’ve never had a cock this big to contend with. You start sucking him deeper, head bobbing, the sounds of your saliva and his cock fucking your mouth lewd in Sukuna’s apartment.

The sight of him losing it as you suck his cock deeper in your throat, until he’s burning and stretching it with his thrusts is far too attractive, you can’t help but clench your thighs, grinding on nothing for friction watching him. His red eyes are bright, pupils shrunk to pinpoints as he fucks into your throat, the mix of need and the weed making you even wetter.

Whatever strain this was, it was making you unreasonably horny.

“That’s it, suck me deeper if you can,” he taunts softly, hips bucking up as he cups your face almost gently, fucking your throat so deep, feeling it tighten as you reach down and play with yourself under your skirt. “Fuck, fuck, fuuckk…”

You’re swallowing all you can, relaxing your throat as you find your clit, moaning then and vibrating right around his cock as he fucks your face. Your hair falls, and he uses one hand to hold it into a ponytail, letting out the weak little whine again while you slide two little fingers in your slick hole, aching for his cock inside you - even if you couldn’t walk the next day.

You’re thinking of how perfect all the ridges and veins would feel while you keep fingering yourself, tears pricking your eyes, glasses so fogged you can hardly see. He’s so close to cumming from just a few minutes of your mouth it’s pathetic, he yanks you off him then, looking down and seeing your hand between your thighs.

“What’re you-” You’re slipping your panties off eagerly then, straddling him and making his breath catch when you grind on his cock. “Let me touch you, fuck…”

“Don’t need it.” He glares ruby eyes at your audacity- he’ll be damned if he doesn’t get to touch your body, your tits that are enticing him with every breath, that soppy little pussy.

“Well I do, fuck you’re slutty, huh?” You ignore him, focusing on how good his hot, heavy cock feels between your slit, whining out when he yanks down your sweater, revealing your lacy bra.

“Fuck me, please,” he huffs at that, revealing a pretty breast and moaning, thumb brushing over your pretty nipple, making you whine. “Ah!”

“Let me take my time, shit,” he mumbles, sucking your nipple into his mouth then, your hands entangle in spiky pink locks, feeling the softness of his hair as his other hand grips your ass under your skirt, dragging you over his cock. “This soaked, how? Haven’t touched you.”

“Touched myself,” he glares again, sucking your other nipple, having both your perfect breasts out for his mouth, while his hands sink into your hips, grinding that cock against your clit then, watching your head fall back. “Mnh!”

“You touched yourself, sucking me got you that excited?” He taunts, only for you to reach down, stroking his cock again, watching the blush on his cheeks as you move it up and down, twisting your fist just so. “Fuck…”

“Condoms?” You whisper, he nods, tapping your hip real quick for you to get off him. When he’s back with a gold magnum from the drawer, you’re straddling him again, but he’s lifting you up, sinking two of his fingers in your cunt now, and you whine out at the stretch. “Ah!”

“God, you’re tight… fuck…” He groans as his fingers curl inside your slick, gummy walls, gripping him so good, watching your eyes roll back into your skull. “Think you can take this cock, really?”

“Y-yes, I c-can…” he chuckles, shaking his head and hitting your spongy spot now, making your cunt gush down his fingers as you cry out.

“Cum f’me first,” he murmurs - he would never let a girl not cum before he gets his cock in her. He’d love to eat you out but you’re not giving him many chances to do shit. He’d love to kiss you, but he’s leaning back watching you fall apart for him, nodding just a bit when he curls them just right in your hole, gasping. “That’s it, can’t help yourself can you, slutty little brat?”

You should be offended, but you’re shattering for his thick fingers, gushing as the orgasm smacks you, rushing all over your body until you’re making a mess, the sound loud and echoing as he groans. Watching you cum, intense as he stares, something you’re not used to - gasping out when he sucks your juices off his fingers, moaning while he cheeks hollow.

He’s tasting you.

The sight has you faltering for a moment, cunt pulsing from aftershocks as you watch him, hearing his moan, when he hands you the gold wrapper. “Fuck, you taste that good?”

“It could be the weed,” you tease, breathless. He chuckles a bit, leaning forward, pressing a kiss on your lips, unsure of what you were okay with. But you meet his lips, and that’s when Sukuna almost cums then and there, he’s never felt whatever the fuck that is. “Mmm, your lips are so soft.”

“Surprise you?” He teases, but you nod a bit, a rough man with plush lips so soft they’re pillowy is surprising. “Take what you want, brat.”

God he’s fine as fuck.

You’re hiding your nerves when you tear open the packet, slipping it over his huge cock, did it get bigger, harder somehow!? Even the magnum barely stretches over him as you roll it down his shaft slowly, watching his sooty pink lashes flutter as you do. His lips kiss yours again, and you taste yourself on his lips, when his tongue slips into your mouth.

A mix of weed and your juices, along with something sweet - whatever flavor Sukuna is.

It’s too intimate then, yeah you’ve last fucked your boyfriend, but you’re not inexperienced either with hook ups or a friend with benefits. You’re choosy, but you’ve done this - but for whatever reason your heart races as he lets you take what you want, as his tongue ring clicks against your teeth, and you picture how good it’d feel everywhere, your tummy tightening.

The scent of the weed still smoking out in that ash tray mixes with his cologne, heady and dizzying, your glasses get so fogged you take them off, earning his chuckle as he pulls them off, sitting them on the table. “You blind now?”

“Literally… I can still see you though.” You whisper, it makes his heart race, seeing your eyes without them for the first time, he cups your face as you rub his latex covered tip on your soppy cunt.

“Pretty fucking eyes, shit,” he curses then, seeing them grow lidded, as your tight little hole starts sucking him in.

“Fuck…”

You both whisper it at the same time, as you sink down on his cock, bit by bit, and he can’t help his moan, loud as his hands move to grip your skirt, yanking it up and using it to pull you down. Your gasp fills his ears with the squelching of your greedy, slutty little cunt sinking more and more on him, and he can’t help but think if he was raw he’d already have busted.

That would be so fucking embarassing, he is Ryomen Sukuna!

He thanks god for the layer, but it still feels far too good, your cunt so tight, gripping him as you move your hips, rolling them in a way no woman should know how to do. He’s pausing you when you do it again, glaring. “You know how to ride cock that fucking good?”

“Show me what you got, Sukuna,” you whisper, acting like his cock wasn’t burning with that stretch, like you weren’t on the edge. He glares now, picking your hips up with those huge fucking hands, slamming you until he’s against your cervix now, watching with a mean grin as you scream out. “Oh my g-god!”

“Ride it now, huh pretty little slut?” He whispers, repeating it again, hands leaving marks on your ass as his fingers sink into the fat of it. “Where’s all that talk?”

You glare, shoving his back against his soft leather couch, moving your hips again and eliciting that whimper, making you smile. “You whimpering, Sukuna?”

“Oh I’ll fuck your vocal chords up next time, swear to - mmm…” he’s crying out again as your fingers grip his soft shirt, and you glide up and down his cock again. “Fucking brat.”

“Mmhmm, can you handle it?” You’re gliding up and down his cock, watching him fall apart even with your blurry ass vision you see it, how handsome he is, feeling his strength as his hands wrap your waist, and he bites his lower lip, brows drawing together as you hit just that spot in your cervix. “Mnh!”

Sukuna groans, kissing down your collar bone, your tits bounce as you work him, and he’s worried you were fucking right, how can he hold back his cum when your cunt is gripping him like that!? He’s lifting you up, slamming you back down hard, you scream out, your nails pressing into his shoulders, and he does it again, again, harder inside you, until you fucking drool.

“That’s it, can’t talk shit stuffed full of this cock, huh?” You don’t talk shit back, your eyes are rolled back as he fucks his hips up into you, holding you right up in the goddamn air damn near and using you like a little fuck toy. “That’s it, gonna cum aren’t you?”

You answer that when he slams hard and hits your cervix again, reaching down to find your clit with the rough pad of his thumb. “Sukuna!”

God, you crying out his name fucks him up, when he rolls it, feeling how soaked you are, making a mess down his thighs and yours, dripping with how much wetness is pouring. “That’s it, can’t help yourself,”

He’s pressing too perfectly, hitting that spot in you again when his tip drags along your slick walls, and you’re screaming out, the orgasm so hard it’s blinding, you’re trembling in his hold while he watches you, moaning at the sight. Your scream is ridiculous when he pulls back his thumb, sucking more of you off him before bottoming out inside you as much as he can.

“Ah! Sukuna…” You cum so hard you have tears of overstimulation, two little ones falling, just making you hotter. Sukuna groans, fucking up into you again and again, wrapping his arms around you as he moves you, and your cries are caught by his lips. “Mmm!”

“Mmm,” he’s lost inside you then, your little body moved where he wants you, your lips parted in screams that he drinks. Sukuna’s close, so fucking close, slowing his thrusts then and looking at you, saliva hanging from between your joined lips when they fall apart. “Fuck you’re pretty.”

“I a-am?” You whisper, confused and fucked out. Sukuna didn’t seem the sweet words type of guy, he swallows, adam's apple bobbing as he pulses inside you, making you whine out again.

“Shut up,” he scowls, you blink and giggle breathlessly then, trying to roll your hips only for him to smack the fuck out of your ass. “No more of that, I’m about to…”

“Cum.” You whisper, rolling them and earning another smack, loud and stinging your skin, just making you more desperate. “Cum for me, Sukuna.”

“Brat.” He huffs, sinking his sharp teeth into your neck, making you gasp out at the sharp tearing of your delicate skin, when you feel him fuck into you hard, his thick cock ruining your cunt, while he’s teeth hurt so bad you’re cumming from the fucking pain.

You shouldn’t have talked shit.

He’s way too big for it all, smacks of skin louder when he uses you, moves you, all you can do is gasp and cling to him, while he’s busting inside that condom finally, slowing as he moans right in your fucking ear. You’re clinging to his back, nails pressing in, screaming out as he pulses so deep, rocking you on his cock himself now, tongue slipping up the curve of your neck as he busts.

He’s never cum like that.

He can’t see for a fucking second, biting back that whine as he nips at your ear, barbell flicking against it, and he feels your aftershocks milking him, picturing filling that cunt up so full then. The thought makes him leak more and more cum inside the barrier he wants to rip the fuck off, groaning out as he hears your little whimper, as he feels you trembling under his hands as the run across your skin.

He wants you all naked, spread for him, hands slipping over curves he only got to see bits of. Wants to see that pretty cunt spread wide for him, shit he felt it - how does it look? How would it look pouring out cum for him? He’s kissing you again, rocking you on him, still hard inside your tight walls, which keep quivering around him, until he pulls back, looking at your fucked out face.

Holy fuck. - It’s all you can think in your head, mouth opening and shutting, when he smirks up at you.

“Think I kept up with you huh?”

“Shit…” You just take a breath, smiling a bit then. “I took it easy on you.”

“What now?” He glares again as you giggle, easing off him, hissing at how sore you are. “Acting like you can even walk after that?”

“I can walk f-fine.” Your thighs are aching, trembling when you stubbornly stand, blushing as you look at the cum spurted into his condom, so much of it too, it makes your throat go dry, wanting to swallow him up next time -

Next time - Would he want one?

You shouldn’t care, but you feel it, the nagging need again that shouldn’t exist, when you grab your glasses, putting them back on and bringing him even more clearly into your vision. He stands up then, walking over and throwing the condom out, wincing as he touches himself, so sensitive and still throbbing, while he watches you slip your panties back on.

“No free weed huh?” You tease, he chuckles then, shaking his head - as if you didn’t suck dick so good he wouldn’t buy you a fucking rock if you wanted to do that every day.

“No way,” he teases back, you brush back your messy hair, giggling a bit when he comes back, buttoning his pants. “Want me to fix your hair? Looks like shit.”

“You are a dick!” He smirks again, but you nod, and he grabs a brush, a flat black one with a wide handle. “You don’t have to.”

“I fucked it up, might as well fix it,” his voice is husky then, he turns you around, slowly running it through the tangles he’d caused, and something feels way too easy, too perfect. Your head falls back a bit, eyes fluttering shut, he’s sweeter than you thought he’d be, that’s all.

Right?

He’s methodically running it through your hair slowly, until it’s much closer to where it was when you walked in, and for a moment you feel so vulnerable, sucking his dick and riding him was intimate, but this feels even moreso. Aftercare is not something you’re crazy familiar with, you were always one to dart out of wherever you were after sex.

But you don’t really want to leave.

You’ll blame the weed and his huge cock, for your mind turning to mush, when he starts braiding your hair. “Sukuna, what are you up to?”

“Shut it, think it’ll look good on you,” he huffs, running his fingers through your strands now. He’d braided hair a ton during endless football events where the cheerleaders joined in, a lot of the football guys were actually pretty good at that and even curling hair.

Your hair is silky and gently falling through his fingers as they card through it, until he holds out a hand for a ponytail. You take one of the few off your wrist when he finishes his work, slipping it over your shoulder. You touch it gently, feeling far too many emotions hitting your throat then at the sweet gesture from an outwardly rough and brash man.

“Does it look cute back there?” You tease, looking up at him, and he clears his throat then.

“I’d love to see how you look from the back,” his husky words are met with a tug on your braid, you bite back a gasp at how good it feels - when his doorbell rings, making him grimace. “Yeah what?”

“Sukuna, open up,” he hears Satoru’s pouty voice, making him sigh, and you step away now, hastily grabbing your back, looking at him. Your little braid is tempting him to no end, to yank it, to bend you over the couch, so much he can hardly fucking stand it.

He’d always found you pretty, but it’s like he can’t get his eyes off you after it, after kissing you.

The fuck is in this weed!?

“Sukuna!”

“God, hold on.” He sighs and walks over, opening the door while you grab your lighter, decorated with some nerdy anime guy you seem to be obsessed with. He’s on the back of your car and on your bag, he noticed.

Sukuna looked better than any anime guy, surely.

Satoru and Suguru are at the door now, holding up baggies of weed, bright blue and green nugs that look way too pretty and fluffy, when their eyes catch sight of you behind them. “Heyy, it’s the hot nerd.” Satoru teases, earning your eye roll.

“Oh whatever,” they laugh as they walk in, Suguru carrying a case of beer. It was the summer after college, but they used to all live in a huge frat house together, now they’ve all moved into this insanely fancy apartment together - you could fit your entire dorm in their living room - as they moved on to their Master’s degree. You were an underclassmen, still a Senior in college.

You remember them all very well, but they’re all pretty annoying. Honestly, Sukuna at least seems to be a little more mature than them, but not by much. He’s taking a beer out of the case, as they plop themselves down, Suguru puts the rest of the twelve pack in Sukuna’s fridge, Satoru busts out the rolling tray and eyes you with insane blue eyes.

“Wanna smoke, sweets?” He asks, and you shake your head with a little smile.

“I already have, and still have to drive back to the dorm,” they laugh again.

“Shit those suck, though I hear there’s a big party at the old frat house this weekend,” Satoru murmurs, handing Sukuna the blunt to finish rolling. When his stupidly long pink tongue laps at the seam of it, your tummy clenches, eyes unable to remove themselves. “You coming, nerdy girl?”

“I don’t know, not really my thing. And should you be calling me nerdy, when you’re wearing Lucemon on your shirt?” Satoru glares, and Suguru and Sukuna snort in laughter.

“You know who that is? Damn, you just got even hotter.” He smirks and earns another eye roll, they chuckle but Sukuna’s jaw tenses.

He does not like someone flirting with you.

Holy fuck did your mouth work a number on him like that!?

“Uh huh, I might go, I don't know. Um…” You turn to Sukuna now, tilting you head back to look up at him. “Thanks for…”

What do you say - thanks for the dick?

Thanks for kissing you, braiding your hair, making you cum?

“Um… the smoke, I appreciate it,” you murmur, not wanting to just blurt everything out in front of his friends. He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck, biceps tensing and bunching, you see your crescent nail prints in his skin then.

It makes you ache to see the visible proof.

This was a dumb fucking idea. When you thought of fucking him, you figured it’d be great, it’d be fun, but you didn’t anticipate whatever feeling this was, the one where you didn’t even wanna leave. This wasn’t how you were - you can chalk it up to the breakup, chalk it up to the weed, to the huge - at least ten inch - cock that has currently fucked you stupid…

Yeah, chalk it up to that.

“Thanks for,” Sukuna trails off now too, seeing the evidence of his teeth against your lower lip, swollen from brutal kisses. His cock is back on hard when he also notices how your sweater is hanging off a shoulder, and there are marks along your pretty collar bone from his suction, damn near making him feral as he thinks of it. “Coming over.”

“Yes, of course um… bye you all.” They wave as you rush out, leaning against the door and exhaling now, trying to collect your breath as you hear them murmur.

“Do you like her or something?” Suguru’s voice is muffled, but you hear it, and you can’t help but act like some spy, listening when you shouldn’t for the answer.

Did Sukuna…

“She’s cool, we hang out I guess.” Is his gruff answer, and you hear the echo of laughter. “Drop it, so what’s up with this party?”

You sigh, stepping away, sitting in your car for a moment too long, looking up at the window of Sukuna’s apartment for a moment, wondering if you made it all fucking weird now. You wouldn’t say you two were ‘friends’ but you were cool with each other, and now you were listening if he liked you - as if you’re silently listening on the phone with a friend in middle school or something.

You shake it off and head home, ignoring the gnawing feeling, shifting in your seat at how sore you are, you really talked more shit than you should have, you need a good hot bath after taking him.

Sukuna shuts the blinds, having looked at you as you walked, just to make sure you were good. “You hit it, huh?”

“Shut up, Suguru.” They’re snorting as the smoke fills the room.

The three of them usually share all the details of their encounters, but he sure the fuck wasn’t sharing anything about you - how you are probably the best thing he’s ever felt wrapped around him. How you sucked him stupid - got him whimpering!? - yeah, no fucking way he admitted that to anyone.

*****

It’s been a week since you last talked to Sukuna, and during that week you’re absolutely mortified by the amount of times you thought about texting or messaging him on his IG. Much, much worse, after you looked at some of his gym posts before bed, you woke up the next morning cumming thinking about your fucking plug and his huge cock inside you, fuck it was embarassing.

You wanna message him now even, but he hasn’t written you, and you don’t wanna be the girl who mentions - let’s hook up - then gets clingy. That’s just not you, and it’s not fair, you’d brought it up and it wasn’t like he asked to hook up with you. When your friends bring up going to a DnD match tonight - instead of going to that frat party, nine times out of ten you’d go for the DnD.

You don’t dig parties, and the DnD group has primo weed too.

Sukuna supplied for all of them after all.

But you instead find yourself dying to go to the party tonight - you may even find yourself buying a whole outfit. Like some goofy, corny ass 90‘s movie where the nerdy girl gets hot with a dress, except you sure the fuck weren’t taking your glasses off for that moment, since you’re damn near blind without them.

When Sukuna took off your glasses though?

God.

Snap out of it?!

You may or may not have freaked the fuck out when he hearted your instagram story before the party, biting your lip and giggling way too fucking much. You don’t even take pictures for shit, but you were feeling cute, and that just cinches it in your mind - you want to see him again and not for some weed. You just…

Want to see him.

Plug Sukuna - Hey brat, you coming to the party or doing nerd shit?

You roll your eyes a bit, ignoring the butterflies in your tummy at how excited you are to have him messaging you.

You - Do I look like I’m going to DnD?

Sukuna flushes, looking at your insta story for the twentieth time, surrounded by girls wearing literally next to nothing, coming up to him as he sits on the couch alone - shit Sukuna never did at parties. He was the life of the party usually, beer pong champion, the one making sure everyone had the best smoke or really anything they asked for.

But all he can think of is seeing you again, and he wishes it was just your pussy and not that he misses your cute little laugh - how you snort just a bit - how you push those glasses up your nose. How excited you get as you’re trying to convince him to watch your cartoons - sorry, anime - and how you take a hit from that blunt, just a bit of your glittery gloss on the tip.

He’s got one rolled up right now in the middle of a party with music blaring, mixing with the conversation and laughter of so many people, dying to share the blunt with you, to talk to you - he wanted to hit you up so many times, but he sure didn’t wanna be the dude who got pussy whipped in one encounter. You mentioned casual, one time maybe more- but the two of you hadn’t spoken since.

Sukuna was used to women blowing up his phone, begging for it again, even now he has women coming to sit on his lap, which usually is par for the course, but he just doesn’t find much excitement in it. He happens to have one on his right thigh right now, when he watches you walk into the room - and Instagram didn’t even do you justice.

You look so fucking cute, sexy little pleated skirt and a black top that shows that his marks on your pretty breasts faded - they’re just begging for more on them. He swallows nervously, god why is he nervous, it irritates him!? But he is, as your eyes meet his, and of course dart to the girl on his lap, you give him a little wave and smile, and he curses as you turn away and talk to someone then.

Sukuna unceremoniously shoves the girl off his lap, he can’t say he feels bad about it either, as he heads straight toward you, hearing one of the underclassmen gushing and simping over you. You’re just staring with a brow raised, unimpressed at the fumbling man, when he walks over smoothly with a blunt, holding it out.

“Wanna smoke, brat?” You look at him now, he’s unfairly hot and shirtless basically, unless you wanna call that black silk open kimono a top. You can see those nipple piercings, a fucking belly button ring leading to a light happy trail that makes your brain short circuit.

You hadn’t seen him shirtless, even sucking him.

“We were talking - oh, it’s Sukuna, shit! Sorry…” the boy learns fast, backing up and stuttering when Sukuna glares at him. “Catch you later?”

“Sure,” you sigh, taking the blunt from Sukuna’s fingers now, yours brushing against his softly. “I gotta pay for this?”

“Nah,” fuck he was a dick huh? He always is, but for a moment he feels bad, even though you’re teasing with a little smile, holding the blunt up for a light. Sukuna immediately busts his out, bright orange flame igniting the tip, watching the cherry brighten as you puff on it. “It’s blueberry.”

You inhale it like a fucking pro, when don’t you? Heavy, thick smoke falling out of your mouth then getting sucked back into your mouth. You look so good doing it, handing it to him without even a cough, just exhaling it back out, a smile on those pretty lips of yours. He pauses, unsure of even what to say, as he puts it to his lips, and your eyes drift lower.

Your thoughts are filthy as his, his tattoos curve with his body in a way that’s just slutty actually, black thick lines that aren’t fair honestly. Your body remembers him far too well, when he snatches up two drinks as you two walk over to a quieter part of the party, past a sea of bodies that eye the two of you. You take it gratefully, then wince as the liquor hits your tongue.

“Lightweight.” Sukuna teases, earning a playful shove from you, but your hand pauses on bare skin, watching his rippling, cut abdomen tense as you do.

Fuck.

Your pussy is pulsing from touching his skin, ugh it’s annoying. You know he hasn’t asked you to come over, so you shouldn’t be thinking this badly about him, but how can you not? The memories flit through your mind, his big hands that now hold a blunt and a red solo cup, and how they touched you.

“You look…” He pauses, wanting to say dumb fucking words.

Beautiful.

You do look beautiful.

Your eyes lock up with his, and he’s just sputtering like a fucking idiot, as if he’s never talked to a woman, he notices the shimmery shadow you’ve brushed across your lid as he looks down at you, so small compared to him. Sukuna towered over everyone, he was used to it, but something about it makes him want to pick you up, carry you somewhere and devour you.

Watch his cock in your tummy bulge.

“I look what?” Your whisper breaks his racing brain, he sips his drink and sighs now, clearing his throat and putting on a smirk.

“Hot.”

You blink a bit at that. “Hot?”

“Yeah, hot.” He curses himself internally.

“Thanks,” you trail off, it was nice you guess, but you supposed Sukuna said that to every girl, including the ones on his lap as you walked in. And you really hate that it made you sick to see it, off one time fucking him. “You look good too.”

“I always do.” You roll your eyes and laugh a bit, the sound making him ache, when his name’s being chanted by the pong table.

“You’re being summoned, Sukuna.” You tease, inhaling his blunt and stepping closer, so close he inhales your scent, driving him fucking insane.

It takes so much to save face and not drop to his knees and beg you to just allow him to lick your entire body. And he would, fuck, if you let him.

What is wrong with him.

It didn’t help he’d jerked it to you this morning, and every morning, since you’re clearly some succubus hitting all his dreams and making him wake up leaking pre.

“You good?” You ask softly, he clears his throat then, glaring at the men waving him over.

“Yeah, catch you after I wipe the floor with them?” He teases, and you nod, just a bit disappointed, but it wasn’t like you were close to Sukuna suddenly.

You were just…

A buyer, and he was your plug. A plug you had literally propositioned, seduced. Him being friendly was sweeter than he even needed to be. You put a hand on his shoulder then, feeling the weed hitting - mixing with the drink in your system, but when you touch him again it’s something else.

“Of course, I’ll be here for probably an hour or so, I don’t know too many people here.”

“Tch won’t be three minutes they’ll all be shitfaced and losers.” You laugh at that, but it’s forced, a little awkward.

The party goes on, and every time Sukuna wants to find you, you’re hidden, when he does see you, someone’s in his fucking way. Like everything and anything is blocking his way - why does he know everyone? Right now he doesn’t wanna fucking catch up, or talk, he just wants to talk to you.

He’s standing with Suguru and Satoru, as the three of them are sipping on drinks, and he sees you again finally, emerging from one of the bathrooms, but before he can think, there are three dudes talking to you. His jaw clenches at the sight of it, and he can’t keep excusing it to good sex, or wanting to hit again, it just doesn’t feel the same.

Sukuna can’t stand seeing you getting hit on, he’s glaring right at those men, sure he’s only fucked you once - but that’s enough to make him lose his shit. Suguru and Satoru are trying to get his attention, waving the blunt at him as he scowls over at the pretentious assholes talking to you. Your eyes catch his, you’re clearly unused to the attention it seems, a blush on your cheeks.

Or you like those losers.

Sukuna has been dying to fuck you again, but not just that - been dying to talk to you again, smoke you out, he didn’t say all he wanted to that day. Was it just a one time thing for you? He didn’t even get to drink your pretty pussy, didn’t get to hit it from the back, fuck he has so many positions he wants to do with you, he wants to-

“Earth to Sukuna.” Satoru says, and he clears his throat, taking a hit of the blunt and letting it fill his lungs.

“Yeah?” He grumbles, and their gazes go in your direction.

“You really like the cute little nerd, huh?” Satoru teases, earning Sukuna’s glare.

“Shit, you’re down bad bro.” Suguru chuckles, taking the blunt from Sukuna’s fingers then.

“Shut the fuck up. Just… we hooked up and…” He trails off again, and his friends chuckle, nudging each other.

“So you did, called it. And how was that, is the nerd freaky?” Satoru asks, sipping his solo red cup, and Sukuna scowls right at his best friends.

“None of your fucking business.”

“Oh shit, real bad,” Suguru says then, coughing as he takes his hit.

“Learn to take a real hit, and shut up. Not telling either of you shit.”

“We share everything, that means…” Satoru takes the blunt between his lips now, inhaling and smirking as Sukuna finds one of the men practically dragging your awkward ass to the dance floor.

You are awkward, hot and pretty as you are, you can’t dance for shit, at some point making a really awkward move Sukuna can only describe as shaking dice in your hands. “Is she… doing…”

Suguru trails off, as Sukuna laughs a bit at you. “Some interesting dance move she learned in DND maybe.” Sukuna murmurs, and he’s almost okay with it, you seem to have no interest, until the guy drags you by your hips against him.

That’s it.

“Shit… we strapping up for a fight?” Suguru asks, and Satoru grins, batshit psycho as always.

“I’m down to fight.”

“I don’t need your help,” he scoffs and stomps right over to you, where you’re being grinded on against, snatching the dude’s wrist up quickly. “She’s not enjoying herself.”

“What bro?” He’s clearly wasted, when Sukuna’s grip tightens he winces. “Shit, is it your girl or something?”

“Go sober up and dance with yourself.” He shoves at him now, and you blink in confusion. You hadn’t known how to dance really, you figured you would try, him grabbing you was creepy, but you figured you’d get him off you in a moment, when a giant, tall ass Sukuna had practically tossed the kid off.

You can’t help but feel it more, that tightening in your tummy, when his angry red eyes flit down to you. “Sukuna…”

“You weren’t enjoying that, were you?” He demands, speaking through his teeth damn near.

“Um… huh?” Are you just really high?

Is Sukuna… jealous?

“C’mon,” he tugs at your wrist now, and you follow him, so confused, yet fucking thrilled by his big hand on your wrist, in a way that concerns feminism you want him to literally throw you over his shoulder. “Short ass legs can’t keep up.”

“We’re not all giants over six four!?” You huff as he keeps tugging, and you yank back weakly, who wouldn’t be weak in that hold? “What’s up with you? You’re acting super fucking weird.”

“Am I?” He laughs, yanking you in his old room - no one has occupied it yet it seems, it was for the head of the frat and they probably haven’t appointed one yet.

“Sukuna, you’re acting… jealous?” You whisper, he scowls down at you, locking the door to one of the rooms then, arm on the other side of you as he is pressing you against the door, making you gasp.

“You didn’t like them, those guys, did you?” He whispers angrily, you blink a bit, biting your lower lip, he tugs it out from under your teeth. “Did you?”

“Would you be mad if I did? Aren’t me and you just… hooking up?” You murmur, earning a deeper glare, as your heart races.

“Once. We hooked up once, brat.”

“Once. You didn’t want more, right?”

“You didn’t want more.”

“Says who!?”

“You never messaged me… you…” He trails off, cursing now, and the two of you just stare at each other, your breasts rising and falling with your breaths, as Sukuna’s hands tighten on your face now, cupping it tightly. “Did you just want it once?”

“What do you think?” You answer back, hand slipping over his bare chest now, and then he slams his lips on yours, tongue ring clicking against the roof of your mouth when it dives inside, huge hands cupping your face even tighter. You whine into his lips, body aching. “So do you want more than once?”

“The fuck do you think?” He takes your hand, putting it right on his cock, throbbing and hard, you brush your hand against it, earning his moan.

“Then say you want it again.” You’re taunting him, nerdy fucking brat, he scowls as he tilts your chin up.

“You talk a lot of shit. Think it’s time to get all your attention focused on me now, huh?”

“How you gonna do that - ah!” Sukuna’s on his fucking knees in front of you, making you tremble, breaths coming so fast you cant function, when he lifts up your skirt, looking up at you with dilated eyes almost black, fingering the fishnet stockings you’re wearing - they have no right looking that good on your thighs. “Sukuna?”

“Hold your fucking skirt up, brat. Now.” You blink again, lost at the giant man slipping your panties down your thighs, moaning when your pussy is in his face. “Fuck, knew it would be pretty but… fuck you for it being that pretty.”

“Fuck me for it!? What’re you even doing down there!” You’re yanking at his hair, and he chuckles now, lapping his tongue along your inner thigh, watching as your pussy drools out.

“What do you think I’m doing? Gonna lick every thought of anyone from your pretty fucking head,” he whispers, kissing your inner thigh again, you gasp. “Haven’t you been eaten out?”

“I have, just… you… you do that?” He chuckles, shaking his head as he looks under those pink lashes at you.

“Of course I do, ya didn’t give me a chance last time, jumping my dick like a slutty little brat.”

“You- oh!” You’re gonna talk shit, but when Ryomen Sukuna licks up your slit then, tongue ring flicking on your clit, you lose any words. “Mnh!”

You almost say you love him from one fucking lick, one wicked stripe of his wet, hot tongue between your lips.

“Nothing smart to say, brat?” He whispers, breath hot against your cunt while he holds your folds open with his thick fingers. You can’t respond, you arch your hips now, resting your shoulders back against the door, silently pleading for more. Sukuna moans softly, flicking his tongue again. “How about you be nice, say please?”

“Please,” you let out breathlessly, and Sukuna buries his fucking face against your cunt then, drowning himself in your sweet taste, your heat, while he listens to your moans mixing with the blaring music of the party, just an echo, his heart racing in his ears as your cunt gushes down him, messy as fuck. “S’kuna mnh!”

You can’t even say his name he muses, palming his erection over his pants, he can hardly stand it, he’d tasted you before off his fingers but this was more intense, the sweetness pouring as he tries to catch it. He looks up at you, your head falling forward, feels you trembling, while you crumple that skirt in one hand, the other balancing on his shoulder.

Sukuna’s tongue slots itself into your eager hole, already pulsing around the wet muscle, curling up wickedly and hitting your spot with that fucking barbell, you scream out hoarsely, head slamming the door as he does. He has you cumming with two more flicks, as his nose bumps right against your engorged, twitchy little clit, your whines and grinding hips urging him on, drawing that orgasm out.

You’re shivering, hips bucking up to fuck his face, wanton and fucking insane how you work them, greedy, pulling at his hair now. “Sukuna!”

“Mmh, you’re so easy f’me, huh?” you want to talk shit, but his tongue flicks and swirls your clit, as your thigh brushes the soft silk of his kimono, and you can’t take it, how fucking good it feels. “Say it, and I’ll let you cum again.”

“Easy… ah!” He’s moaning now, sucking your clit into his hot mouth, vibrating it with his own moans, your skirt falls so he shoves it back up, but your hands have entangled in his pink hair, while he’s devouring all the juices pouring from your slutty little hole, all over his handsome face. “S’Kuna…”

“Can’t even say my name, huh?” He murmurs, pulling back, his face coated in you, the sight should be embarrassing, but instead it’s so sexy you whine out, he smirks - having you whimper this time, when he stands, you wobble. “Can’t stand up brat?”

“Fuck… shut up…” he’s taunting you, but he’s right, he has to wrap an arm around your hips, bending low and running his two fingers up your sensitive slit, watching as your eyes roll back, feeling you tremble in his hold. “Kuna…”

“Not my name, tch.” You’re delirious when he’s pumped his fingers deep, curling in your quivering walls. “Take them off. Now, get on the bed.”

You are not one to take orders, you scowl at first, but when he’s slid two of his fingers in your mouth, and has a thigh between yours, you’re grinding on it, desperate, soaking his pants now. He’s kissing you again, before pulling back, turning you around and unzipping the back of your skirt.

“Do I have to undress you, brat? Where’s all the shit talking? Keeping up with your freak, hmm?” He’s taunting you even as his hands shake, when your skirt slips down, and your head falls back, whining out. “You don’t talk shit when you cum, is that when your pretty mouth shuts?”

“Shut my mouth, Sukuna.” He groans, kissing down across the side of your neck, tugging your top down, then up over your head, turning you as the skirt pools around your heels. He is stunned when he sees your body, swallowing nervously, tracing the swell of your breasts, the nip of your waist, the jut of your hips in wonder.

You’re nervous, him seeing you fully, but his eyes are bright rubies when they hungrily make their way up your face. Your hands slip to his body, slipping off the black kimono, revealing his body fully, so sculpted it’s ridiculous, you lean forward, kissing along a tattoo on his chest, over a thick pectoral muscle, and he huffs, hand entangling in your hair.

“You’re fucking…” he doesn’t know how to say it, fuck.

He’s never said that.

“Hot?” You tease, kissing lower, unbuckling his belt as you do. “You’re gorgeous, fuck…”

“Me? Tch.” You nod, and he sighs now, swallowing a bit, tilting your chin up and making you pull away from kissing across his tattoos. “You’re beautiful, brat, okay?”

“I am?” You blink a bit, and he sighs, nodding, jaw tensing so hard there’s a vein popping out. “Oh Sukuna… thank you…”

“Shut up.” You blink in confusion at him, but he’s already picked you up, your arms wrap his strong neck, as his huge hands hold you. “Don’t fucking dance with anyone.”

“Like… tonight?” You ask curiously, he snorts, shaking his head and carrying you over to a huge bed, one he used to sleep in, sitting you on it and brushing your hair back.

“Like not at all.” Your blush decorates your cheeks, as you bite your lower lip.

“Do you like me, Sukuna?” Your question makes him laugh, a huge tattooed hand cupping the side of your face and leaning down.

“Do I like you?” You nod then, suddenly shy for running it like you do, and he sighs, brushing your hair back as you tug at his pants, going to stroke his cock and eliciting that soft whimper of his that wrecks you. “Yes, I like you… alot. Okay!?”

“You sound so mad about it.” You tease, stroking him slowly, over those veins that wrap his pretty, heavy cock, and he sighs, snatching your hand now.

“And you, brat, huh? Do you like me, baby?” He whispers, flipping you around, your ass arching up and out, two fingers slipping back inside your hole, stretching you out, making your head fall back as you arch for more.

“Y-yes, I do, ngh!” He pauses then, cock slapping your ass so fucking heavy, precum drizzling across your ass cheeks, dancing messy on your skin.

“Shit, you like me?” His surprised words hit even your horny ass, high ass brain, you look back, getting up on your knees, reaching a hand back around to him now, he leans forward, sighing, cupping you under your chin.

“Yes, I really do. I thought… maybe you didn’t?” He shakes his head, he’s not sure the word ‘like’ covers what he feels, but for now it’ll suffice. “As more than a friend?”

“I don’t do that to friends,” he murmurs, kissing you again, fingers running along your slit. “Don’t bury my face in my friends.”

“Then… more than that?” He nods a bit, and you melt, pressing back against him as he wraps his strong arms around you. “I’d like that too - I’d also like your cock in me.”

“Cock hungry brat, can’t have a fucking moment, huh?” You giggle, and the sound wrecks him, he’s kissing you again, tip sliding on your folds. “Wanna fuck you raw, wanna cum inside you.”

“So do it…” Your answer to his insane statements is to get in the perfect arch for him, he moans as you do.

“Fuck, you sure?” You nod, hands clinging to the blankets while you soak his tip, gushing down in a soppy, squelching mess to the bed. “I’m not going easy on you this time, slutty cunt can take it huh?”

“I won’t go easy either, gonna have you whimper - ah!” Sukuna’s slid inside your cunt in a deep stroke, and without the condom you feel every fucking bit of his cock, from that fat, musroomed tip, to every vein in your slick, gummy walls. “Sukuna!”

“Fuck, loosen up,” he huffs, smacking on your ass cheek, you gasp as he groans, trying not to cum while you grip him so tight. “Now, brat.”

“I c-can’t, shit… ah!” You’re shaking as he slips out, then back inside, feeling so fucking delicious in your cunt you moan, glasses falling right off your face as he fucks into you harder now, slamming and bullying his thick cock deep inside you, so full you feel like you’re splitting apart, still wearing those heels and thigh highs, the sight of them right under your ass taking him the fuck out.

“Fuck, feel you, gonna remember my shape, aren’t you?” He huffs, as he fucks inside you, leaning over you now, hand on the mattress, gripping the blankets right next to you, veins raising from the back of his tattooed hands while his leaky tip drools on your cervix. You gasp out, whining when he stuffs you, his other hand cupping under your chin. “Asked you a question.”

“Conceited,” you huff, only earning him slamming inside your cunt, you’re blinded when he does, gasping out, ass arching for more of his brutal thrusts while he gives you the most wicked backshots, the sounds of skin slapping echoing and filling your ears, the party long since faded. “F-fuck, ah!”

“Like me, huh? She doesn’t like me, she loves me, doesn’t she?” He’s whispering in your ear, you weakly nod, you’re not typically submissive, but for him you want to be, when he rolls his hips up just so and hits your spot, you scream out at it. “Say it.”

“No… mnh!” He flips you then, right before you’re about to cum, making you whine, picking your thigh up and pulling it high, your heel and stockings ripped off, one by one, until your legs are bare, and the heel of your foot is against his chest. Like this, him hovering over you, cock prodding your soppy entrance, it’s way too intimate.

Like wasn’t a good enough term.

Fucked up over him was better.

“Wanna watch me fuck your guts up, huh? Bet you haven’t had that have you, cock ruin your fucking insides?” He’s possessive, feral as he looks down, you’ve put your glasses on all askew, he tenderly fixes them before tilting your chin down to watch your cunt make his cock disappear. “God…”

He can’t take it, how sexy it is to see the bulge slowly form as he shoves his thick ten inches as much as he can, between your puffy lips, while you watch him, lips parted, glasses slipping back down your nose again, covered with a sheen of sweat. “Oh…”

You’re watching it, the bulge, ridiculous as he fucks into you so slow, leaning over you and making your leg press up higher, a hand on the back of your thigh, he eyes your face again, as he slips in deeper, till he’s stuffed you far too full. You’re struggling to take him at this angle, deeper, slower strokes, fucking you up with every single one, your eyes going crossed then.

“Wanna see your pretty eyes,” he murmurs, taking them off, setting them aside and leaning low over you now. “Can you see me, blind little brat?”

“Y-yes. Yes.” He kisses you again, while he’s bending you in half, fucking you so deep you feel him everywhere, your stomach, fuck your throat, all of it, he’s ruining your cunt until she will just know his shape and you can’t say you mind, not when he slams hard, and you feel your body tense. “Kuna, please…”

“What, brat, need to cum?” He whispers, saliva breaking apart in a thin, gossamer string as the filthy sounds of his cock wrecking your squelching cunt fill the room. “Say please, huh?”

“Please, mnh! Kuna, please,” Sukuna reaches down, like he already knows your body after two fuck sessions, finding your twitchy little clit and leaning up, rubbing little circles and angling his hips just so, your orgasm hits you so hard, already sensitive from his tongue, his mouth, those fingers.

“That’s it, cum all on me, make a fuckin’ mess,” he murmurs, but in his head he’s already mad with one thought.

His.

You weren’t dancing or talking or smoking with another dude, ever the fuck again - he knows enough people, he can make sure of it too, watching your eyes roll back, that mouth in a slutty O as your cunt starts milking him then. He sucks in a breath, now laying his heavy weight on you, mean strokes hitting so hard and deep the smacks keep echoing as you’re so fucking full.

“Slutty hole wants all my cum, huh? Should I fill you the fuck up, have you drip me the rest of this fucking party?” Sukuna’s eyes are so dark with his blown out pupils, all you can see is black with red rings around them, as he grips your hip bruising. “Can’t even talk? That pathetic huh? Thought I had to match your freak, brat.”

“Mnh…” You wanna talk back but he’s fucking you from one orgasm into another, and all you can manage is a - ‘cum in me’ - which pushes him over the edge.

“Yeah, can you take all this cum, baby?”

Baby.

It’s echoing - Sukuna, your plug, the most popular dude there is, is sweet talking you and rolling his hips. One moment it’s ‘fucking slutty cunt, feel her’ the next it’s - ‘so pretty, look at you’. The mix of filthy, nasty words and sweet whispers, and brutal strokes that ruin your cunt and tender caresses is too much, he’s too much, you can’t formulate words, a girl who's never at a loss for them.

“I c-can take it,” you whisper finally, eyes locking, and then he moans, lifting your thighs up high, shoving them until they’re flushed with your breasts, smushed as his weight presses on your thighs, and he starts fucking his veiny, slick cock harder and harder.

“Yeah? Beg for it, huh?” you bite your lip, glaring. “Beg for me to fill this perfect little cunt, be the only one to.”

“P-possessive… psycho…” he’s chuckling, like he’s really fucking lost it, slamming in one more time. “Beg m-me, huh?”

“Fuck,” he’s done with your ass, you’re literally so annoying, but he also is fucking loving it, your attitude even as he has you bent and folded in half. “Tiny little cunt, bet she can’t.”

“I can, f-fuck… just… cum in me- stop talking and - ah!” He’s done when you demand it like that, when your nails press into his biceps, his head falls back as he feels his release, so much cum, despite jerking it all week it’s been building up, waiting for you. “Sukuna!”

“God, feel her, milking every bit, greedy, slutty,” he murmurs, kissing you over and over, barbell massaging your tongue, his huge hands slipping your thighs down as his ropes of white cum paint your walls. “Fuck…”

“Mnh…” You’re weak, head falling to the side for his kisses, thighs shaking violently when he moves again. “Sukuna!”

“Mmm, never wanna fucking leave your pussy, god.” He keeps kissing and slowly pumping, your nails tear into his back, and he loves it, groaning, hoping you leave your marks as he sucks on the base of your neck, lapping up sweat off your skin.

“You cum so much, holy…” He pulls back, grinning as he leans up, kissing your lips sweetly for just a moment, then glaring.

“You’re my girlfriend now, got it?”

You giggle, breathless, brushing a lock of his pink hair back. “Am I now? Not even gonna ask me?”

His brows lower, ruby eyes narrowing. “Nope. I do have a question…”

“Hmm?”

“Wanna smoke?” You grin, nodding, and Sukuna dips, for a moment you panic, but he’s soon back with water bottles and his bag of weed, while you’re in the bathroom cleaning up. He comes behind you in the mirror, wrapping an arm under your breasts and groaning. “God, look at you.”

You turn, leaning up as he leans down, kissing you again, soon the two of you are lounging in the bed, half dressed and laughing, as he inhales the blunt and turns to his side, studying you seriously for a moment, everything feels so comfy and perfect with him, heady. “What is it?”

“Just… you’re really pretty covered in me.” He murmurs, you flush, eyeing the marks on your thighs, your breasts, taking the blunt from his fingers and inhaling it into your mouth, gesturing for him.

He leans forward, and you blow the smoke into his mouth, he lets it fill his lungs and moans, big hands gripping the narrow of your waist, thumbs brushing under the swells of your breasts. He sucks in the smoke now, exhaling, when he takes the blunt again, sighing, brushing your hair back with his free hand.

“You’re still not getting free weed, you know.”

You scoff, glaring as he grins wide. “You are a jerk!”

“Just saying, you gotta pay. Maybe a small discount.”

“A discount!? You just came inside me.” He laughs now, husky with his smirk, laying back on his arm, bent under his head, inhaling again.

“Hmm, yeah I did, didn’t I? Okay, a good discount.”

“Psh!” You shove at his big body, when he pins you down, sighing and slipping up your skirt.

“Tch, fucked her up, huh?” He leans down, pressing bites, sharp along your thighs, you gasp out, feeling dizzy and weak, cunt throbbing from him still. “She’s wasting all that cum.”

“Wasting, what- oh fuck.” He’s got two fingers shoving his sticky cum back in your abused hole, inhaling the blunt and blowing the smoke right on your clit then, you’re arching your back, hips bucking up. “What the… mnh…”

He sucks his fingers, handing you the blunt, you’re blushing as he makes his way back between your thighs. You inhale the blunt now, letting it hit deep as Ryomen Sukuna’s tongue ring collects the milky white cum oozing from your cunt now.

“Hmm,” you earn a glare when you decide to put your glasses on his face. “You look hot, imagine - Nerd Kuna. Ow!”

Sukuna bites your clit, the glasses looking far too sexy on him, and watches you giggle, making his heart race. “Only nerd here is you.”

“Mnh, Sukuna…” He’s lapping at you more and more, the clicking and squishing of your cunt as he cleans up the mess he’s made, all while your glasses on his face are fogging up.

He puts out your blunt, back inside you, spitting his cum and yours in your mouth, tongues swapping it so messy together, big hand wrapped around your throat, bringing you with him to cum over and over, and you realize that night, in your fifth or so round - You think you might just be in love with your plug.

I had wayyy too much fun, hope you all enjoyed ittt hehe

@teddiiursula @helpmeimbored @sukubusss @lizatonix @kitchen-cryptid @yenayaps @all-with-angel @take-metothe-moon @quackingcrow420 @notsaelty @urlocalsucc @deadasssmut @fauxxfacade @blitziwitch @lvc-lv @niamhssecretlibrary @hiccupberries @yamadramallamaqueen @din-is-a-real-mando @sagegotthesauce @sadrna @saitamaswifey @beabamboo @akirawhore @coralbae @midnightry @ehlaaa @yuaisen @sapphireillusions @rosieandthethorns @sofi4dsam @choerryp1e @hunbun-posts @melotter @hellish4ever @smoooootie @anacod @jkslvsnella @bunbun444 @toffeebrat @ehcilhc @dizzylmwahh @emochosoluvr @tyyqqaaa @mimiluvzu2 @gojoscumslut @bakery-angel @blackbeauties102

[sonicpridecorner]

Hello everyone! Welcome to the Sonic Pride Corner!🌈✨

We're very excited to announce the Sonic Pride Corner project, a blog run by queer Sonic the Hedgehog fans with the purpose of celebrating the LGBTQIA+ community within the StH fandom!

We are making this post not only to announce our presence as a blog, but also to announce that we will be opening Sonic character Pride Month requests on the 29th of May, 2025! You will be able to request whatever StH characters you want, with one or more LGBTQIA+ headcanon(s) of your choice, and our team of over 20 mods will make it reality! (Through our art, of course.) More info as well as request/blog rules have been provided under the cut! For those of you interested in participating in the project with your own art and/or writing, we will also be running a Sonic Pride Week event taking place from June 23rd through June 27th! Keep an eye on our blog for updates on this, as we will be making a separate post with information on it! Edit: You can now find the post with more info here!

Our Sonic Pride Month Requests

Information

Our inbox is currently open for blog and event related questions ONLY. Requests will open on May 29th, 2025. Any request sent before this date will be deleted. Additionally, requests will close on June 23rd, 2025.

You will be able to request any Sonic the Hedgehog character(s) you'd like, along with one or more LGBTQIA+ headcanons you'd like to see them drawn with! You may also request ships for us to draw, but please specify that you want them to be depicted as a ship (you may also specify romantic or QPR if you'd like) and make sure to include LGBTQIA+ headcanons for any characters involved!

Examples of requests we'd be happy to draw:

"Can you draw Sonic with a trans flag scarf and an aroace pin?"

"Could you please draw Amy in lesbian flag colors?"

"May I see Knuckles x Shadow, with them holding a bi flag together?"

Once we start receiving requests, we will be working on them on a First Come, First Serve basis-- however, every mod's workflow is different, and some asks may end up getting answered faster than others purely because of this. That being said, the earlier you send your request in, the more likely we will be able to make art for it!

Due to the FCFS nature of this event, we ask that you limit your requests to only one or two to let other people have a fair chance at their requests being drawn, and only make another request when your initial requests have been answered.

While we are accepting requests before Pride Month begins, we will not actually be answering them until June 1st. Along those lines, although we are closing our requests on June 23rd, we will continue to answer requests until the end of the month (provided that we still have requests to draw by that time). Please keep this in mind!

Blog Rules

This is not a space for discourse, politics, competition or bigotry, nor do we condone the harassment of any individual for any reason.

We do not accept nor condone sexual, proship or explicit requests. You will be ignored.

We have the right to refuse any ask for any reason. You are not guaranteed a reply. Please be considerate as we all have our own lives and this is purely a passion project.

This blog is meant to celebrate the LGBTQIA+ Sonic community first and foremost, and while ships are allowed, they are not the focus of our project. We'd be very grateful to receive requests that are not of that nature.

Please do not request OC / AU related content.

Please do not spam the inbox nor ask for anything overly complicated. Do not ask for revisions on drawn requests either.

Do not request a specific mod draw for your request, nor state whom you do not wish to answer. You may ask for mods directly if it is normal conversation/questions. Additionally, do not ask us invasive questions.

We are more than happy to answer any questions you may have and promote your work if it is within our guidelines. However, we do not accept post submissions or images for safety reasons, so please either tag us or link the desired post.

All posts are organized by the tagging system. Please do not feel discouraged if you see someone already asked for something, a different mod might be excited to draw that too!

You can also find these rules on our pinned post.

dividers via cafekitsune

[my-castles-crumbling]

apartment - @wolfstarmicrofic - word count: 362

Remus had been panicking for months about it. Because he was who he was, he’d probably only allowed himself about a week of blissful happiness with Sirius before he’d started thinking about it, actually: what about after Hogwarts?

Sure, things were amazing now. They were like out of some silly Muggle romcom. He’d never been so happy, felt so loved or accepted. But that was precisely the problem. Because he was Remus Lupin, and he didn’t get those things.

So he started obsessing over it. What would they do after they graduated? When they were apart, and Remus wasn’t able to hold down a job or pay for a place to live because of his Furry Little Problem? Would Sirius finally realize how thoroughly out of Remus’s league he was?

Until one day, the shorter boy was chattering away while getting ready for class, fixing his long hair just right, while Remus sat on his bed, half-reading a book, half-gazing at his boyfriend in content awe.

“.....and when I buy us an apartment after graduation we can–”

“What?” Remus interrupted, completely distracted from his reading now.

Sirius froze and turned, his hair forgotten. “Erm. A flat? For you and I? Shit, Moons, I probably shouldn’t have just assumed, but–”

“You want to move in together?” he almost demanded, so shocked he forgot to act normally.

Sirius smiled awkwardly. “‘Course. If that’s what you want. I know it’s early and all, but we’ve been living together for seven years so it’s not like it’s new.”

“You know I can’t pay, right? I can’t…” Remus trailed off, desperate to make sure Sirius knew but unsure how to articulate the likelihood of him being financially secure.

“I didn’t go through the hell of being in my family for nothing, Moons. You know my Uncle left me enough to get by for years, and I want you there with me,” Sirius said with a soft grin. “You’ll be there with me, yeah?”

Delirious joy and relief flooded through Remus, and he couldn’t get off the bed fast enough. Stumbling to pull Sirius into a kiss, he murmured into the shorter boy’s lips. “Of course, baby. Always.”

[universefcb]

can u do a lando x reader where she gets along well this his family and he cant help admire her and think about marriage and stuff like that. thank youu <3

WHAT IF IT WAS 4EVER?,LANDO NORRIS.

→ Summary: You went to spend a lazy Sunday at his parents' house with his family.

→ Warning: Mention of Reader. Fluff. Romance.

→ Author's note: Please make me more requests from him! I love writing about him.

And sorry if there are mistakes, English is not my language.I hope this is what you asked for!

The Norris house smelled of lavender, fresh coffee, and baking banana bread. It was one of those lazy, overcast Sundays when everyone wore sweatshirts and spoke softly so as not to break the spell of comfortable silence.

Lando sat on the edge of the kitchen table, his long legs stretched out in front of him, watching a scene that had been repeating itself for a few weeks, but it seemed like the kind of routine he wanted to have forever.

She.

In the kitchen with her mother, laughing easily as she cut fruit, grabbed too many cups at once, and stole spoonfuls of raw cake batter. She got along so well with everyone—as if she had grown up there, as if she already knew the exact places for the cutlery, the favorite smell of his sister's tea, his father's silly jokes.

“Do you think she’ll accept?” Flo’s quiet voice brought him back to reality. She was standing next to him, drinking a cappuccino.

“Accept what?”

“You.” Flo raised an eyebrow. “With that silly look on your face, you’re going to propose to her tomorrow.”

Lando let out a muffled laugh, but inside… she was right.

He looked again.

She wasn’t just beautiful. She was warm, she was light. She was “stay in bed for five more minutes”; she was the kind of hug that could calm any storm. She had a way of smiling that made people stop talking just to keep looking.

And the scariest thing?

She liked his family. She really did. It wasn't an effort, it wasn't out of politeness. It was genuine.

When his mother mentioned the old dress from her youth, she asked to see it. When his father mentioned old cars, she asked. When Cisca teased Lando, she laughed knowingly. Everything with her was natural. Nothing forced.

Later, when lunch was over and everyone was sprawled on the couch with dessert plates on their laps, she laid her head on Lando's shoulder and began to play with his fingers.

“Your family is wonderful,” she said softly, so that only he could hear.

Lando swallowed hard. His heart was beating faster than on a starting grid.

“You are wonderful,” he replied.

She smiled against his skin. But then she straightened up, sitting back down.

“You seem strange. Are you okay?”

“Okay.” He ran a hand over his face. “I’m just… trying to figure out how I ended up here. On this couch. With you. Feeling like… this is it.”

“What is this?”

He looked into her eyes, and even though he was afraid of appearing too intense, he didn't hold back.

“That’s it. Me, you, my family. The sound of the rain outside. You making tea for my mother, playing with my sister. Me wanting time to stop. That’s it.”

She didn't say anything for a few seconds. But she took his hand and squeezed it tightly.

“I feel it too. And if it comforts you, it also scares you a little.”

Lando smiled, a shy smile, different from the ones he gave to photographers or on podiums. It was that smile that only she knew. The real one.

“It’s not fear of failure,” he confessed. “It’s fear of not being enough. You…you are so many things.”

She laughed, looking at him with that sparkle in her eyes that made everything seem easy.

“So we do it together. And you’ll see: what you take from life... is this.”

When everyone went to sleep and only the two of them were left in the room with the movie paused and the lights dimmed, she dozed off with her legs over his. Lando didn't have the heart to wake her up. He stayed there, running his hand through her hair, watching her serene and sleepy expression.

And it was in that moment — simple, calm, without anything extraordinary — that he knew for sure.

It wasn't the highest podium he wanted to reach.

It was her.

That was it.

It was all that.

And if he ever had the courage, he would tell her that he thought about asking for her hand right there, with her hair spread out on his lap and the muffled sound of the rain through the window.

But for now, Lando was content to kiss her forehead and promise, with all his heart:

“I will make you happy. Every Sunday. Forever, if you let me.”

Taglist: @paucubarsisimp @nngkay @meganesanchez @htpssgavi @merinottt @luvvpedri @moonvr @joaosnovia @httpsdana @ilovebarcaaaa @p4uul0vr @pedricando @barcapix @owala6789

[gay-jewish-bucky]

#his hand reaching out just before the ice takes over #it kills me every time 🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺🥺 #just thinking of how scared and confused and alone he must have been all those years #which did he dread the most #the agony of the chair #or being locked back into that box #never knowing for sure if they'd let him out again #it's not like they take the time to explain what they're going to do with him #now is it #they just toss him in and drag him out and he doesn't get a say in it either way #who's to say that one of these days they won't find a better more obedient puppet than him and just #pull the plug on him while he's asleep in that thing #shoot him where he stands #he'd never even know #.....why do i do this to myself wtf

@rillils i must share this so we all suffer together

Who the hell is Bucky?

[pitlanepeach]

Radio Silence | Chapter Thirty-Four

Lando Norris x Amelia Brown (OFC)

Series Masterlist

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

Then Lando Norris happens.

One moment. One line crossed. No going back.

Warnings — Autistic!OFC, autistic breakdown on page, racing accidents (Las Vegas 2023), domestic fluff, slight (?) cliffhanger

Notes — Another longggg one! Hope you love it.

2023 (Las Vegas)

It was one of those overcast afternoons where the sky couldn’t decide if it wanted to rain or not. The light through the huge windows was grey and flat, and the air inside the rented house-slash-shoot-location had that odd, sterile warmth that came from too many camera batteries and ring lights and people trying to look casual for content.

The house itself was the kind of place you couldn’t quite imagine anyone actually living in — all clean lines, brushed steel, and exposed concrete. There were too many stairs. Too many echoey corners. And absolutely no soft lighting. It had been chosen for aesthetics, not comfort.

Amelia sat curled in the corner of the oversized leather sofa, knees tucked under her, one hand gripping her iPad, the other fidgeting absently with the drawstring of a hoodie that had somehow ended up in her lap. She hadn’t asked for it. Someone had draped it over her when she sat down, and now it was hers, apparently. That was fine. She liked the weight of it.

Her focus, however, was fixed entirely on her screen. The Vegas GP loomed ahead — a race full of unknowns, simulations stacked high with red flags and conditional parameters that changed every time she blinked. The track was new, the surface barely tested, the layout odd and inconsistent. Every variable gave her brain another reason to loop. And loop. And loop.

She was halfway through calculating braking loads based on preliminary corner speeds when Lando wandered past, all soft socks and too-long limbs, dragging one arm into a puffer jacket he wasn’t really planning to zip. He slowed when he saw her, smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“You gonna wear that for a photo?” He asked, nodding at the hoodie.

Amelia didn’t look up. “No.”

He paused in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “You sure? You’d look cute.”

She blinked once, then met his eyes. “I’m not in the mood for cute. I’m calculating brake performance for a track we have literally never raced on before. There are so many variables. I’m stressed.”

Across the room, Max Fewtrell barked a laugh, his voice echoing faintly as he adjusted a light stand. “That’s the most Amelia sentence I’ve ever heard. Like, ever.”

Pietra, seated on the floor nearby in flared jeans and a cloud-soft crewneck, turned toward Amelia with a gentle smile. She had a scrunchie looped around her wrist and two bracelets Amelia had given her after a layover in Japan. “You can do both,” Pietra said warmly. “Be cute and stressed.”

Amelia looked at her, expression softening around the eyes. “Honestly, I just want to stay sat down.”

“Okay,” Pietra said, and leaned sideways to gently press her shoulder against Amelia’s. “Then we’ll sit. Together.”

Amelia didn’t say thank you. But she didn’t move away, either.

Lando reappeared a moment later with a bottle of water in one hand and a small protein bar in the other. He plopped onto the armrest beside her, knees brushing hers. His eyes flicked to the hoodie.

“You know that one’s technically mine.”

“I don’t care,” Amelia said without looking up.

He grinned. “I figured.” He nudged her ankle gently with his socked foot. “Still think it’d look better on you anyway.”

“That’s not difficult,” she replied, tugging the cuff of the hoodie over her hand. Then, after a pause, she added flatly, “That was a joke.”

Max dropped into a nearby chair, flinging one leg over the side with practiced drama. “Just one picture of you, Amelia? Come on, people would love it. Bit of behind-the-scenes. The fans adore when you’re in anything.”

Amelia didn’t even blink. “No thank you.”

Lando snorted into his water bottle. Pietra let out a warm laugh. “Stop bothering her, Max. Lando does enough of that.”

“Oi,” Lando said, mock-affronted. “Leave me out of this.”

“You’re both bothering me,” Amelia replied, perfectly even. “I’m trying to work. I already hate the Vegas track.”

He turned his full attention to her now, brows lifting. “Why? We haven’t even been yet.”

“Because it’s new!” she burst out, sharper than she meant to. The volume bounced off the walls. She winced immediately, ducking her head into her shoulder. Her voice dropped low, controlled. “Because it’s new and we haven’t raced it before and that means no past data to lean on. That means sim work based on theoretical grip levels. That means error margins get wider. And that means I have to prepare twice as hard with half as much certainty.”

There was a pause.

“...Fair enough,” Lando said gently.

“I hate guessing,” she mumbled.

“No one likes guessing,” Pietra offered.

Amelia gave a small nod. “I like control. I like knowing.”

Max opened his mouth like he was about to tease her, then caught the subtle tension in her shoulders and wisely shut it again.

Lando tapped the top of her tablet lightly with one finger. “Well. You’ll figure it out, baby. You always do.”

She glanced up at him. “Because it’s my job.”

“And because you’re brilliant.”

She didn’t respond, but the corner of her mouth ticked upward.

“Are you wearing that to dinner later?” Pietra asked, gesturing to the hoodie.

Amelia looked down at it, then back at her. “Yes. I don’t want to change. I’m comfortable.”

Pietra smiled. “Good. I’ll wear mine too. We’ll match.”

“Accidentally?”

“Deliberately.”

Amelia considered that. “Okay. But only if we sit near the window.”

Pietra beamed. “Done.”

Lando looked between them, then leaned back on his hands. “You’ve replaced me.”

Amelia didn’t even blink. “I only want to kiss you.”

He made a thoughtful face. “Alright. I’ll allow it.”

Max rolled his eyes. “You’re both so weird.”

“I’m autistic,” Amelia said plainly.

“You’re the weird one,” Pietra added to Max.

“Rude,” Max said.

Lando grinned. “You’re still in love with us.”

“Terrible.”

Outside, the sky finally made up its mind — light rain pattering against the windows in slow, scattered streaks.

Inside, Amelia tucked the hoodie tighter around her, legs still folded, checklist still glowing on the iPad in her lap. Her head leaned lightly against Pietra’s shoulder now, and Lando’s hand rested on her shin — grounding, present, always within reach.

They’d survive Vegas. They would.

Amelia exhaled through her nose. “I need a backup plan for the Sector 2 hairpin.”

“You’ll come up with one,” Lando said, completely sure.

And she would.

Because she always did.

—

The sim suite smelled faintly of coffee and carpet glue.

It was making Amelia feel violently ill.

It was well past nine in the evening, and the McLaren Technology Centre was mostly dark — lights dimmed, staff dispersed, and only the low hum of servers and quiet keystrokes from the strategy team still working in the next room. On the main screen, a full layout of the Las Vegas circuit was overlaid with predictive data. Telemetry lines in orange and blue flickered in real time, charting Oscar’s run.

Inside the sim rig, Oscar exhaled sharply and let the steering wheel go slack as the run ended.

“Turn ten still feels off,” he said, voice crackling slightly through the headset. “Rear snaps too easily on downshift. It’s like— I don’t know. It just unloads.”

Amelia stood beside the sim rig, arms crossed tightly over her chest. She didn’t look at Oscar as she replied. She was looking at the data instead. “We’re too aggressive with the engine braking into the apex,” she said. “You’re already on a mid-bite diff setting. I can pull back the torque map slightly — see if we can stabilise it.”

Oscar lifted his visor and blinked into the low lighting. “We tried that earlier though.”

“That was with a higher track temp sim,” one of the strategy engineers chimed in from his desk.

Amelia nodded. “This time we’re modelling it colder. Night session, cooler surface, lower grip. It’s a different profile now.”

Oscar gave her a skeptical look. “You think it’ll make the difference?”

“I don’t know,” she said flatly. “We run tests. And I wait for the results.”

He frowned at her. “You’re stressed.”

“I’m not stressed,” Amelia replied. “I’m tired. And annoyed. This track is stupid.”

The strategist behind her snorted into his water bottle. “That’s the technical term, is it?”

“Yes,” she said, deadpan. “Stupid.”

Oscar raised a hand in surrender. “Okay, okay. No argument from me.”

Amelia stepped forward and typed something into the control console. “I’ll load the next setup with the revised map and a minor front wing tweak. You’ll run sectors two and three only.”

Oscar nodded, settling back into the seat. “Short run. Got it.”

“Not just short,” Amelia added. “Precision. I want minimal steering corrections. No overcommitting. If we’re going to adjust setup for the race, I need to see your clean line.”

Behind her, Lando’s voice chimed in from the doorway, “someone’s feeling bossy tonight.”

Amelia didn’t turn around. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

“I’m just here to observe,” Lando said, stepping in with a smoothie and a faint smirk. “Oscar’s face is funny when he gets told off for oversteering.”

Oscar flipped him off without lifting his head.

Amelia keyed in the updated run. “I don’t care what his face does. I care about what the car does.”

Lando walked over, watching the screen over her shoulder. “What’s the target delta?”

“Half a second gain from his last run if the balance correction holds.”

Lando let out a low whistle. “Ambitious.”

“It’s not,” Amelia replied. “It’s necessary.”

There was a pause.

“You doing okay, baby?” He asked, a bit more gently now.

“I will be fine,” she said. “After Vegas is over and no one asks me to model tyre deg on untested tarmac again.”

Oscar cleared his throat from the rig. “Not to interrupt, but—uh—ready when you are.”

“Go ahead,” Amelia said, refocusing instantly. “Cold tyres, revised torque, short sector two and three run. Confirm.”

“Confirmed,” Oscar replied.

The sim kicked back into life. Virtual Vegas, all garish lights and overblown spectacle, unfurled across the screen. Oscar’s car dove into sector two with smoother transitions, noticeably fewer corrections in the corners.

“Better,” Amelia muttered, half to herself.

Oscar’s voice came through again. “Still doesn’t feel natural, but it’s drivable now.”

“We don’t need natural,” she said. “We need consistency.”

Oscar snorted. “You should get that put on a mug.”

“I did,” Lando added from behind her. Sarcastically. “It’s in our kitchen. Pink ceramic. Very cute.”

Amelia didn’t respond to that. She was too busy watching the data smooth out. Torque delivery flattened. Brake pressure stayed linear. The car made it through turn ten without any hint of snap.

Finally, she let out a breath. “Alright. That’s something we can build on.”

Oscar coasted to a stop in the sim. “You going to sleep tonight?”

“No,” Amelia said plainly. “I’m going to write a full report for Andrea and then run sector modelling for Sunday. Maybe tomorrow I’ll sleep.”

Lando moved closer, brushing his hand against hers lightly. “You’ll sleep. I’ll make sure of it.”

Amelia didn’t argue, but she didn’t confirm either.

Instead, she turned back to the engineers. “We’ll do a full load run tomorrow, weather sim in two parts. I’ll rework the wing config tonight.”

Oscar pulled off his gloves. “Do we ever do anything the easy way?”

“No,” Amelia said simply. “But if we want to win, we’re going to have to do it the hard way.”

Lando smiled at that. “Now that should go on a mug.”

—

The Woking flat was dark except for the glow of Amelia’s laptop screen and the soft blue hue of the night bleeding in through the curtains.

Lando had been asleep for the last hour. Or at least, he’d been pretending to be—chest rising slow and steady under the covers, one arm thrown across the pillow she’d vacated earlier. He hadn’t moved, even when she’d shifted to the desk by the window and started typing furiously with only a desk lamp and the stars for company.

She’d barely noticed how stiff her back had become. Her legs were tucked beneath her again, one sock half-rolled, posture twisted into something unnatural. Her fingers moved with focused speed, mapping Oscar’s sector performance against a projected tyre wear curve.

“Amelia,” Lando said, voice rough from sleep but still gentle. “Baby. Come back to bed.”

She didn’t look up. “I’m almost done.”

“You’ve been almost done for forty minutes.”

“That’s because I keep finding new things to optimise,” she replied, tapping a key with just a little too much force. “The grip model’s still off in sector three. I think the sim is overcompensating for the surface temp. If Oscar brakes, he’s going to overshoot.”

Lando sat up, rubbing a hand over his face. “You know you’re going to fix it all tomorrow anyway, right? It doesn’t all need to happen tonight.”

“It does,” she said immediately. “It does, because it’s unpredictable, and if I don’t account for everything now, I’ll be scrambling when I’m supposed to be thinking clearly. And I hate scrambling.”

He rolled out of bed with a sleepy grunt and crossed the room to her, quiet and barefoot on the plush carpet. When he reached her, he leaned against the edge of the desk, arms folded, watching her for a long moment. Not judging. Just… taking her in.

“You’re spiralling,” he said simply.

“No, I’m working.”

“Amelia.”

That one word, soft and firm and Lando-shaped, made her pause.

She didn’t meet his eyes, but her hands stilled over the keyboard. Her mouth was set in a thin line. Tired. Frustrated.

“I don’t know how to switch it off,” she admitted, barely above a whisper. “Not when I know I haven’t solved the problem.”

“I know,” he said, and gently reached to brush a lock of hair from her cheek. “But right now the problem is that you’re running on fumes, and if you don’t rest, you’re not going to solve anything.”

“But—”

“You’ll still be brilliant in the morning. I promise.”

She swallowed, jaw tense. “I hate how much I care. I hate that it makes me feel—” She clenched one hand into a fist. “Like I’m chasing something I can never quite catch. Because there’s always something else to fix.”

“I know,” Lando said again. “But you’re allowed to rest without fixing everything first. That doesn’t make you less good at your job. It just makes you human, yeah?”

Amelia looked at him finally. Her eyes were glassy, but not tearful. Just full — with pressure, with effort, with the weight of wanting to be the best and feeling like she had to prove it constantly.

He reached down and took her hand in his.

“Come to bed,” he said gently. “I’ll lie awake with you if your brain won’t shut up. We can talk about strategy, or nothing at all. But I want you with me.”

Amelia hesitated. Then closed her laptop with a soft click.

“Okay,” she said, voice a little hollow from the sudden shift in momentum. “Okay, I’ll try.”

Lando squeezed her hand and led her back toward the bed. She climbed in beside him, limbs slow and uncertain, like she wasn’t sure how to be still. He wrapped an arm around her and pressed a kiss to the back of her shoulder.

“You’re allowed to rest,” he whispered. “You’re allowed to exist outside of your job.”

She let out a long, shaky breath. “I know.”

“Say it like you believe it.”

“I’m allowed to rest,” she repeated, curling into him. “Even if I haven’t fixed everything.”

He smiled against her skin. “Good girl.”

Amelia relaxed by inches, not all at once, never that, but her breath began to slow, her hands stopped fidgeting, and the tension in her shoulders faded as his warmth soaked into her.

It was enough.

—

Amelia stirred slowly, the weight of Lando’s arm still draped across her waist, his breathing deep and even behind her.

Her brain came online before her eyes opened. The first thought was always a race.

Telemetry. Overnight sim data. Updated Vegas surface temps. Sector three.

She kept her eyes shut. Just for a moment longer.

Her hand reached, automatically, half-blind, toward the bedside table. She found her phone and lit the screen — brightness low, eyes squinting. There was a new email flagged from McLaren strategy. An attachment from the sim team. A message from Oscar. Just a quick one.

Brake marker change in T11? Feel like it’s off. Can we run it again?

Her thumb hovered over the reply button.

Then a low, sleepy voice rumbled behind her ear. “If you answer that, I’m going to bite you.”

She stilled.

Lando’s voice was rough with sleep, his face still half buried in her hair, but his grip on her waist tightened just slightly — enough to ground her, enough to keep her in the moment.

“I wasn’t going to answer,” she said softly. “I was just checking—”

“You were doing the exact thing we talked about,” he said, not unkindly. “Waking up and not even giving yourself ten minutes to take care of yourself before you start thinking about everyone else.”

She blinked. Her screen dimmed and went black. She let the phone fall gently back onto the bed.

Lando pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade. “Thank you.”

“I really wasn’t going to do anything,” she murmured again, not sure why she was defending it. “I just needed to know what’s going on. So I could stop thinking about it.”

“I get that.” He kissed the back of her neck this time, a little firmer. “But I also know you. One look turns into an hour of work. You don’t know how to stop unless someone physically pins you down.”

She rolled onto her back to look at him. His hair was flattened on one side. His eyes were sleepy but open now, watching her like she was something fragile he was determined not to drop.

“I just don’t want to miss something important,” she said. “Vegas is proving to be a nightmare.”

“We’ll be fine. You’ll be better than fine.”

“You can’t guarantee that.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I can guarantee that if you burn yourself out now, you won’t be able to fix the problems when they actually matter.”

Her lips twisted into something half-smile, half-grimace. “That’s annoying because it’s true.”

“Mm.” He nuzzled her hairline. “I like you when you’re being all smart-pants Amelia,” Lando said, pulling her closer again. “But I like it better when you’re well-rested.”

She sighed and let herself relax, her head falling against his chest. She could feel his heartbeat — steady and calm — the opposite of her usual thrum of anxious energy.

He tapped her hip. “Tell you what. You stay here, in bed, with me for fifteen more minutes. Then I’ll get up and bring you your laptop, your iPad, three highlighters and whatever else you need. Deal?”

She closed her eyes. Thought about saying no. Thought about Vegas. Then she nodded.

“Deal.”

Lando smiled against her temple. “My girl.”

—

Las Vegas

Amelia found herself blinking too fast at the way the skyline shimmered. There was no charm, there was only overstimulation. Neon screamed from every building; engines echoed off concrete; something in the air smelled like fried sugar.

Her stomach turned.

As they moved through the paddock, she turned sharply to her dad, who was walking beside her, and asked, "Can I do a track walk later? I need to see the surface in person. Kerb structure, cambers. The sim doesn’t replicate the actual feel, not at night."

Zak gave her a careful look, then a sigh that told her the answer before he said it. “Honey… I’m sorry. They’re limiting access this weekend. Safety regulations, plus a logistical headache with all the road closures. Sorry, kiddo."

She stopped walking entirely. “What do you mean? That’s ridiculous. My understanding of this track is directly tied to driver performance.”

“I know that,” Zak said, placating. “But it’s out of my hands. FIA’s ruling.”

Amelia blinked. Hard. Her jaw set. Her brain scrambled to make the logic work — and couldn’t. The denial didn’t make sense from a safety standpoint or a performance one, and worse, it was illogical and personal.

She threw both hands out in disbelief. “Are you kidding me right now? What kind of regulatory framework tells the people making car decisions that they can’t assess the track in person?”

Zak ran a hand down his face. “I know. Believe me, I tried. I even—”

“No, this is absurd,” Amelia went on, ignoring the curious glances of passing engineers and team staff. “I’m being told to rely on visual models and telemetry estimates on a track that doesn’t exist on any previous calendar. Dad.”

That word slipped out sharp and unimpressed.

Zak winced. “You’re mad at the wrong person.”

Amelia exhaled through her nose and folded her arms. “I’m mad at everyone.”

Lando, a few steps ahead, doubled back when he realised she wasn’t beside him anymore. “Everything okay?”

“She’s not allowed to walk the track,” Zak supplied.

Lando’s brows rose. “Why not?”

“Ask the FIA,” Amelia muttered, rocking slightly on her heels, clearly overstimulated and trying not to explode about it.

Lando gave a low whistle, stepping up beside her. “That’s proper stupid.”

“Thank you,” Amelia said, voice clipped.

Lando’s hand slid to the small of her back. Just the lightest pressure. She leaned into it instinctively, grounding herself.

“You’ll be fine,” he murmured. “You’ve been simulating this track for two months. You probably know it better than anyone else already.”

Amelia didn’t answer right away. She looked out at the chaos of the strip behind the paddock fencing, then back at the rows of garages, the closed doors, the high fences. She chewed the inside of her cheek.

Zak, softer now, said, “Hey. Don’t give this the power to make you wobble, alright? You’ve got this!”

Her face didn’t soften, but her posture did, just slightly. She nodded, tight and short.

Then, “If Oscar crashes because I misjudge Turn 12 apex grip, I’m going to email the FIA and tell them to eat gravel.”

Lando grinned. “There she is. My beautiful, terrifying wife.”

“I’m serious.”

“I know.” He leaned in to kiss the side of her head and whispered, “Now stop worrying so much.”

—

The media room was lit like a game show. Two stools, a camera crew, a backdrop with the McLaren logo, and a table of whiteboards and markers.

Oscar looked mildly bored. Lando looked amused. Amelia looked like she’s been forced to be there (she had).

A social media coordinator beamed behind the camera. “Okay, welcome to a special edition of 'Who Knows Her Best!'  We’ve got our race engineer Amelia here, and joining us are her driver, Oscar Piastri—”

Oscar gave an awkward little wave.

“—and her husband, Lando Norris!”

Lando winked at the camera.

Amelia stared dead ahead. “You have ten minutes. I have things to do.”

“Great! First question—What’s Amelia’s favourite food?”

Lando started writing instantly.

Oscar hesitated. “Does coffee count?”

Amelia frowned. “No. You don’t chew coffee.”

He groaned and scrawled something anyway.

“Alright—reveal!”

Lando flipped his board: Marco’s Italian Marinara Pizza Oscar’s board: …Toast?

Amelia pursed her lips. “Lando’s right.”

Oscar muttered, “She eats toast every morning.”

“I eat it because it's efficient, not because it brings me joy,” she replied.

Next question.

“Okay—what’s Amelia’s biggest pet peeve?”

Oscar didn’t hesitate.

Lando paused and narrowed his eyes. “Only one?”

They flipped.

Oscar: Inefficiency Lando: People breathing loudly near her

Amelia blinked. “Both are right. I can’t put one above the other.”

Lando smirked. “So I get half a point?”

“We didn’t agree on half points.” She huffed.

Oscar stifled a laugh.

The coordinator laughed nervously. “Alright! Final question: What’s her idea of a perfect day off?”

The boys scribbled.

Reveal:

Oscar: A quiet room, iPad fully charged, noise-canceling headphones Lando: No phones. No noise. Me, her, somewhere nobody can find us.

Amelia looked at both answers, then spoke flatly.

“Oscar’s is my ideal race-weekend. Lando’s is correct for a non-race-weekend.”

Lando grinned. “Boom.”

Oscar sighed. “I should’ve said that.”

“You were just guessing.” She shrugged.

The social media manager clapped. “Well! Looks like… Lando wins!"

Amelia stood. “Great. I’m going back to run a qualifying simulation now.”

She left frame without saying goodbye.

Oscar and Lando both laughed as the camera faded to the McLaren logo.

—

The McLaren garage buzzed with the low hum of machinery and murmured radio checks. Engineers moved with purpose, but Amelia sat on the edge of Oscar’s workstation, unusually still, arms folded tightly across her chest.

Oscar was halfway into his race suit, glancing at her between sips from his bottle.

“You’re staring at me,” he said, trying to make it light.

“I’m thinking,” she replied flatly.

He waited. She didn’t elaborate.

A beat passed.

Then, in that clipped, low tone of hers, “Track’s colder than ideal. Grip will suck the first stint. You’ll want to push, but don’t chase the feeling if it’s not there. Let it come to you.”

He nodded, tightening his gloves. “Copy.”

“Stay out of traffic, especially Sector 2. If someone impedes you, don’t get emotional about it. Just report and reset.”

Oscar studied her. “You okay?”

“I’m briefing you.”

“…Right.”

She unfolded her arms slowly, like the motion took effort. Her jaw was tense. The usual snap in her delivery was duller, like she was wading through fog and didn’t want to show it.

“You don’t need to prove anything to anyone today,” she said finally, without meeting his eyes. “Not to me. Not to the paddock. Just get the data. Clean session. That’s the win.”

Oscar hesitated. “You sure you’re alright?”

She finally looked at him. Her expression didn’t shift, but there was something behind her eyes—tired, maybe. Not physically. He couldn’t tell.

“Focus on your job, Oscar.”

A long pause.

“Alright,” he said softly. “Let’s do it, then.”

He turned to leave for the car, but her hand briefly touched his forearm.

It was the first time she’d done that all season.

“You’ve got this,” she said.

And then she was gone; disappearing behind a headset and a screen, shutting the world out with precision.

Oscar didn’t say anything.

But when he climbed into the car and pulled his belts tight, his shoulders were a little squarer. His breathing calmer.

—

The TV feed cut to chaos. Red flag. Marshals sprinted onto the track. Carlos’s Ferrari was being craned away. Oscar hadn’t even managed to leave the garage yet.

Amelia stood at the pit wall, arms crossed, headset still on. She hadn’t blinked in fifteen seconds.

Her dad appeared behind her, phone in hand, expression a blend of irritation and corporate damage control.

“What happened?” He asked.

“Drain cover came loose,” she said flatly. “Sainz drove over it at 320. Floor’s completely destroyed.”

Zak frowned. “Seriously?”

“Yes. The cover wasn’t welded properly. Obvious risk. They didn’t check.”

He looked at the monitor. “Are we running Oscar?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She turned her head slowly toward him. “Because there’s a hole in the track.”

Zak didn’t respond.

She continued. “Sending a car out now is negligent. I already told Race Control we won’t participate until they give a structural inspection report. I won’t risk Oscar’s chassis because someone forgot a torque wrench.”

Zak sighed. “Okay.”

Behind them, mechanics hovered awkwardly, unsure whether to continue prep or stand down. Amelia tapped her headset.

“FP1 is over,” she said, voice clipped. “Go back to base. Check Lando’s floor and cooling ducts for debris. Full diagnostic.”

Oscar walked up, half-suited, helmet under his arm. “What’s going on?”

She looked at him. “You’re not going out. Drain cover came off. Session’s red-flagged.”

“That’s it?”

“It could’ve killed someone,” she said. “So yes. That’s it.”

He blinked. “Right.”

She turned to walk back toward her workstation.

Zak called after her. “Don’t be angry!”

She stopped. Looked over her shoulder. “I’m not. Anger won’t fix the track.” Then, after a beat, she said, “But I think someone should be fired.”

And she walked off to find her husband.

—

The lights along the Strip hadn’t dimmed, but everything else had gone strangely quiet.

It was well past midnight. The garage, usually crackling with anticipation before a session, felt more like a waiting room. Too many people moving too carefully, voices lowered like something had been interrupted. Amelia stood at the pit wall, headset already pinching slightly against her temple, her fingers motionless over the trackpad. Waiting.

She hadn’t said much in the last hour. Not out of some dramatic mood, she just didn’t feel like filling the air with worthless commentary.

When the green light finally blinked on at the end of the pit lane, there wasn’t relief. Just exasperation.

She keyed her mic, steady. “Box out. Let’s see how everything feels.”

Oscar responded immediately. “Copy.”

The car pulled away, the hum of the engine disappearing into the neon distance. She stared after it a beat too long.

They hadn’t run in FP1. None of the planned setup work mattered anymore, this was just about salvaging time, collecting data.

But now, every drain cover was now a threat. Just another thing to add to her list of concerns.

Amelia’s eyes flicked to the screen, watching Oscar’s telemetry as if she could will the suspension to stay intact through every straight.

Two chairs down, her dad made some offhand joke about this being “the most expensive late-night go-kart session ever,” and she smiled with half her face, but didn’t turn.

The data streamed in. Amelia’s brain parsed it automatically, throttle traces, brake pressures, steering angles, but the usual focus wasn’t clicking the same way tonight. She pressed the mic button. “Feeling okay with the grip?” She asked.

“Better than expected,” Oscar replied. “Still a bit green, but manageable.”

“Copy that. Let’s try Mode 7 next lap.”

A beat passed.

“You alright?”

She blinked. The question had come in over a private channel. Just him. “Yeah,” she said. “Just having to watch everything twice. Sorry if I sound a bit distracted.”

She didn’t add that the neon lights were starting to feel like they were flickering behind her eyes, or that the pressure in her chest hadn’t really gone away since the FP1 red flag. Or that the silence before the sessions had settled into her bones in a way that didn’t feel temporary.

But none of that mattered. Not tonight. He had 90 minutes, and they had to make every single one of them count.

She shuffled on her hair, opened the sector comparison window, and let out a quiet breath. “Let’s go hunting, ducky.”

—

Amelia sat on the edge of a low bench, her headset off, fingers tapping absently on the worn fabric of her skirt. Oscar slid next to her, helmet still under one arm, face flushed from the heat of the track.

“You did well out there,” she told him.

Oscar smiled, the kind that barely touched his eyes. “You sure? It felt like I was half driving with one eye on every drain cover.”

She let out a soft, humourless chuckle. “Yeah, well, that’s what we get for racing on a casino parking lot.”

He glanced at her, watching for the flicker of something beneath her calm. “You okay?”

Her eyes caught his. “I’m fine. Just... processing. You know how it is.”

He nodded slowly. “Yeah. If you need to step back or—”

“No.” She shook her head, almost imperceptibly. “No. I’m fine.”

Oscar leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “Roll on tomorrow, eh?”

“Yeah.” She sighed. “Tomorrow.”

—

Oscar and Lando stood by the side of the track, away from the chatter and TV cameras, sharing a rare moment of quiet.

“She’s different,” Oscar said, voice low, like sharing a secret. “Not in a bad way. Just... more quiet, more serious. Even when she talks, it’s like she’s somewhere else.”

Lando nodded, eyes scanning the pit lane as if he could spot the cause in the distance. “Yeah. Noticed. You think she’s pushing herself too hard?”

Oscar shrugged. “Maybe. I’ll keep an eye on her. Don’t want to be that guy who notices too late.”

“Good call,” Lando said, clapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll try to get it out of her tonight, but I appreciate it.”

Oscar smiled, half relieved. “Anytime, mate.”

—

The lobby’s glare hit Amelia like a punch, each flicker of neon and burst of laughter hammering against the fragile calm she’d been clinging to all weekend. Every unfamiliar voice seemed to multiply, overlapping into a chaotic storm behind her eyes. Her skin prickled, nerves sparking in every inch of her body. She tried to focus on the steady rhythm of her own breath, but it felt shallow, too fast.

The weekend had been a relentless tide of changes — the new track layout, unexpected strategies, the flood of questions from media she barely had energy to endure. Everyone expected her to be sharp, ready, unflappable. But inside, her mind was scrambling to process it all, the sensory overload making everything worse.

She could feel the walls closing in, the pressure building behind her ribcage, tightening like a vice.

Just breathe. But the breath didn’t come easy. Her hands clenched at her sides, fingers trembling.

She tried to steady herself, a practiced smile pressed onto her face for the reception staff, for Lando, for Oscar. But it was too much. Too loud. Too unpredictable.

The floodgate broke.

Her vision blurred, chest tightening until it felt like the air itself was betraying her. She didn’t want to cry. She didn’t want anyone to see this unraveling — but she couldn’t hold it in anymore.

Lando’s voice cut through the haze — soft, patient, familiar.

“Hey, baby. Let’s go over here.”

His touch was a lifeline, grounding her in the chaos. She stumbled toward him, every shaky breath breaking as the raw exhaustion spilled out.

She wanted to explain, to scream ‘this isn’t weakness!’ but the words caught in her throat.

Lando didn’t say a thing. He just reached out, firm and steady, pressing his hand gently but insistently into the small of her back. A solid, grounding pressure that said, I’m here. I’ve got you.

She leaned into it, breath ragged, heart racing, muscles trembling. His warmth was steady beneath her — an anchor.

Her hands found his arms, clinging like an octopus, desperate for the hold that would stop the spinning. She didn’t have the words to ask for help, but the silent understanding in his touch was enough.

Without a word, Lando lifted her effortlessly, as if she weighed nothing at all, cradling her close against his chest.

The noise of the lobby faded into background white noise as he carried her through it, the solid rhythm of his steps matching the slow crawl of her ragged breathing.

They moved past the glare of the lights, past the curious eyes, straight back to the safety of their room — where she could finally just be.

—

The shower ran hot, steam swirling thick and heavy in the small bathroom. Amelia sat on the cold tile floor, knees drawn up, fingers tightening around her stim toy, the familiar texture a welcome relief. The water hammered down, relentless and fierce and perfect.

Behind the fogged glass, Lando crouched, silent and steady. His presence wasn’t words or pressure, just steady warmth, a solid anchor in the swirling storm she couldn’t always control. His hand rested lightly on the tub’s edge, close enough that if she reached out, she’d find him there.

She didn’t say anything. Didn’t need to. His calm, wordless support let her unravel at her own pace, gave her permission to sink low and find the fragments of herself again. The tight coil inside loosened, breath slowing, muscles softening.

When she finally reached out, she wrapped her fingers around his wrist, and exhaled a slow, quiet breath.

—

The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. Amelia lay on her side, knees tucked in, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it might swallow her whole. The bed creaked softly as Lando shifted beside her.

After a long pause, his hand found hers in the dark. “You doing alright, baby?” He asked, voice low but steady.

She hesitated before answering. “No. Not really. Today was... too much. Like everything was spinning, but I was stuck in place.”

Lando squeezed her fingers gently, patient. “You’ve been on edge since we landed.”

A small nod, tight with tension. “Since the plane, yeah. I felt sick the entire flight. And then here—everything just kept coming at me. Noise, people, changes. I thought I could handle it, but it kept building.”

He kept his hand in hers, steady and warm. “Nobody had enjoyed the weekend so far, baby. I promise you, you’re not alone there.”

Amelia finally turned her head to look at him, eyes searching. “I don’t want to sound weak. Or like I’m complaining.”

Lando shook his head, a soft smile breaking through. “You’re the last person that anyone would think was weak.”

Her shoulders relaxed a little, a breath she didn’t realise she’d been holding escaping in a quiet sigh. “I’ve just felt physically sick with nerves since we left England. It’s like the whole weekend’s hanging over me, and I don’t know how to handle it.”

“Hey,” he said gently, fingers fluttering over her cheek and eyelids, “We’ll get through it together. We handle tomorrow, then we handle race day, and then we get to go home.”

She gave a small, wry smile. “I might lose it completely if it wasn’t for you.”

Lando chuckled softly. “Wouldn’t let that happen, would I?”

They stayed like that for a while, fingers entwined, silence wrapping around them like a shield.

“I hate feeling like I’m not in control.”

“I know, baby. And I’m sorry I can’t take that feeling away.”

She blinked back the hint of tears, voice softer now. “Thanks for being here.”

He brushed a loose strand of hair from her face. “Always.”

—

The morning light spilled gently through the curtains, softening the edges of the hotel room. Amelia was curled up in bed, the duvet pulled just below her chin. Lando balanced a tray with two plates of eggs, toast, and steaming coffee, trying not to spill as he settled it on the bedside table.

Oscar sat on the edge of the bed, knees tucked under him, already half-entwined in the quiet comfort of the morning. This wasn’t their first breakfast like this; the three of them, an unspoken little routine born out of long weekends and unpredictable schedules.

Lando grinned as he handed Amelia her coffee. “Here you go. Not too sweet, I promise.”

She gave a small, tired smile, reaching out to take it. “Better than last time.”

Oscar, perched close by, reached for a piece of toast and grinned back at her. “Glad I don’t like coffee. I’m just here for the food.”

Amelia raised an eyebrow, sipping. “You remind me of a stray cat sometimes.”

Oscar laughed, warm and easy. “I weirdly don’t mind that comparison.”

Lando shot Amelia a fond look across the bed.

“So, what’s the plan today?” Oscar asked, munching thoughtfully.

Lando shrugged, “Take it slow. FP3 later and then Quali, obviously, but nothing crazy this morning.”

Amelia leaned back into the pillows, her voice quiet but steady. “I might go and buy some Epsom salts. Write some strategy notes in the bath.”

Oscar nodded, eyes kind. “Sounds relaxing”

She glanced at Lando, who gave her a small, encouraging smile. “Hope so,” she said simply.

Oscar reached out and ruffled Lando’s hair. “Christ, mate. You could do with a haircut.”

Lando scoffed, showing him away. “Fuck off. Says you, mister swoop.”

Amelia pursed her lips and hid her smile behind her mug.

—

The gift shop was a small, cluttered oasis of weirdness and nostalgia tucked inside the hotel lobby. Amelia was scanning the shelves with practiced efficiency, eyes locked on the little jars of bath salts.

Lando and Oscar were already browsing the second aisle.

Lando held up a neon cowboy hat. “Mate, how can you say no to this?”

Oscar was inspecting a glittery, oversized keychain shaped like a slot machine. “It’s got lights and sounds. Look.” He pressed a button and the keychain erupted with flashing colours and a cacophony of jingles. “Jackpot! I’m rich.”

Amelia sighed, pushing her sunglasses up the bridge of her nose. “Guys, don’t start. I just want some bath stuff.”

Oscar grinned, undeterred. “But we’re just doing cultural research.”

Lando plopped the cowboy hat on his head sideways and attempted a drawl. “Y’all ready for the rodeo?”

Amelia gave him a flat look. “Great look, husband.”

Oscar laughed and reached for a novelty plastic cactus, pretending it was a microphone. “Welcome to the Las Vegas Gift Show! I’m your host, Cactus Carl.”

Lando, clearly in his element, grabbed a toy rattlesnake and slithered it along the floor toward Amelia’s feet. “Don’t step on the snake! It’s venomous.”

Amelia stepped back, raising an eyebrow, but a faint smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “Right. Venomous and ridiculous.”

Finally, she found what she was looking for; a small, unassuming jar of lavender bath salts with a label promising relaxation. She grabbed it, turning to the boys.

“Alright, I’m done.”

Lando tilted his hat back and gave her a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am. Mission accomplished.”

Oscar picked up another keychain. “Hey, look at this one! It’s a limited edition.”

Amelia sighed tiredly.

—

Less than an hour later, the hotel bathroom was filled with the soft scent of lavender from the bath salts Amelia had chosen. The water was just the right temperature, warm enough to ease the tension knotted deep in her shoulders but not scalding. She sank down slowly, letting the heat seep in, her fingers tracing the ripples on the surface.

Outside the bathroom door, Lando and Oscar sat cross-legged on the floor, leaning against the wall with laptops balanced on their knees. Their voices were low, careful not to break the fragile calm Amelia was clinging to.

“So, the long straight,” Oscar said quietly. “Telemetry showed some unusual brake pressure spikes on your last run.” He said to Lando.

Lando nodded, flicking through the data. “Yeah, I noticed that too. Maybe the surface temperature was throwing off the balance?”

Amelia sighed, eyes closed. “Probably. Felt off the whole session.” She added, only having to speak a little louder than usual to be heard through the ajar door.

Oscar glanced toward the door. “You want us to try something different for FP3?”

She let her fingers trail in the water, thoughtful. “Maybe adjust front brake bias… just a bit.”

Lando nodded. “I’ll write it down.”

There was a pause, the only sound the gentle dripping from the faucet. Amelia opened her eyes a crack. “Thanks for this.”

Oscar grinned. “You asked for company and telemetry. We deliver.”

Lando chuckled. “Yeah, we’ve got nowhere better to be, baby.”

She let herself smile, a quiet warmth spreading beyond the bathwater. In this little bubble of steam and soft voices, the chaos felt a little less relentless.

—

FP3 was more than just practice—it was a chance to claw back control after yesterday’s chaos, and Amelia was feeling the weight of it.

Oscar was in the car, revving the engine, while her headset buzzed with team chatter. The track was unforgiving today, hotter, more demanding, but Amelia’s eyes stayed locked on the timing screen. She flicked through sector times, braking points, tire temps—all the little details she’d been obsessing over for days.

Her gut still fluttered, nerves stubborn beneath the surface, but she pushed it aside. This wasn’t the place for doubts. She spoke into the comms, “brake bias -0.3 for the next run. Watch rear temps.”

Her radio crackled, Oscar’s voice clipped but focused. “Got it. Feels different already.”

She nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “Keep the feedback coming.”

A few laps later, she caught a subtle improvement in the data—sector two times shaving off milliseconds. Not perfect, but progress. The day wasn’t going to beat her.

By the end of FP3, the sun was blazing, sweat damp on her brow. Amelia’s mind was a swirl of analysis, but beneath it all was something steadier—quiet confidence, the kind that comes after pushing through the noise.

When Oscar pulled into the pits, she let herself exhale. One step closer.

—

Qualifying came in the blink of an eye and Amelia’s eyes were glued to the screen, every pixel of telemetry, every split second on the sector times drilled into her mind.

Oscar’s car cut through the track, precise and aggressive, pushing the limits. Amelia’s fingers tapped lightly on the desk—not from nerves, but calculation, running through every variable in her head. She caught the slight twitch in the rear suspension, the tiny loss of rear grip in sector two. Adjustments would be needed. Not a disaster, but enough to make a difference.

Will was nearby, watching too, but Amelia barely noticed him.

Oscar crossed the line, a clean lap, but not quite the best. Amelia’s brow furrowed. “Sector three’s where he’s losing time. Let’s tweak the brake bias for the final run.”

Will leaned over, quiet but warm. “You think he’s got it?”

She didn’t look away from the screen. “I don't know. He needs the car to behave like it’s supposed to.”

The final moments stretched taut, then Oscar’s second run flashed up. Faster, cleaner. Still not enough to get out of Q1. Her jaw clenched. 

Fuck. 

—

[Twitter Feed – #protectamelia]

@/f1fanatic123:

just saw that vid of amelia having a full autistic meltdown in the hotel lobby in vegas last night… why don’t you weirdos shut the hell up and disappear into a hole and leave the fucking girl alone omfg

@/raceengineerlvr:

people spreading that clip with zero context? big yikes. amelia is freaking brilliant and deserves respect. stop the ableism.

@/landosupportr:

if anyone can handle this insane pressure it’s amelia. lando’s lucky af to have her, and honestly? so are we. back off.

@/keepitrealf1: autistic, blunt, iconic. amelia’s meltdown is just her being human—get over your toxic asses.

@/f1momlife: as a parent to a neurodivergent kiddo, this blatant ableism online is disgusting. show some empathy. #protectamelia

@/oscarp443:

oscar’s team isn’t complete without amelia. her meltdown shows how much she cares. toxic ‘fans’ need to check themselves

@/nocapf1:

y’all acting like sharing a meltdown is funny or weak. nahhhhhhhh, that’s ableism 101. have some respect or just stay offline ????

@/disabledandproud:

this is EXACTLY why autistic ppl get unfair hate. stop weaponising someone’s mental health moments for clicks. grow up.

@/f1_truthteller:

seeing the clips blow up and ppl twisting it into jokes? pure ableist nonsense. end of.

—

[Instagram – McLaren Official Story]

Video clip of Amelia working intently in the garage, captioned:

"Focused, fierce, and the backbone of the papaya team."

—

[Reddit – r/formula1]

Post Title:

“Can we talk about the video of Amelia Norris? The backlash is unreal and uncalled for.”

Top comment:

“It’s easy to forget these people are human. Amelia’s dedication is clear, and the meltdown just shows how much she gives. This fandom can be toxic. Let’s be better.”

—

Amelia sat rigid, fingers barely twitching on the edge of the conference table. The room felt too bright, too loud—like a spotlight had been slammed onto her without warning. She watched her dad pace. His voice was steady but tight, every word laced with frustration.

“How did we let this happen? The video should’ve been reported immediately.”

She caught Lando’s fists clenching behind her, his jaw set hard. He wasn’t shouting—he didn’t need to. The anger radiated off him like heat, a shield she wanted to lean into.

Oscar was quieter than usual, but his eyes, sharp and steady, burned with the same quiet fury.

They all thought they were defending her.

But inside Amelia, it felt like a thousand static whispers; people’s opinions buzzing at the edge of her brain, overwhelming and unrelenting. She wasn’t weak. She was tired. The energy it took to smile, to explain, to pretend like none of this was a breach of her life felt like a lead weight pressing down on her chest.

The PR team rambled about damage control and messaging, but Amelia barely heard them. Her thoughts slipped away from the room, spinning cold and sharp.

She looked up, met her dads expectant gaze.

Her voice was flat, stripped of any theatrics. “Yeah, it sucked having it put out there. But I’m not going to make a scene about it. I can handle it.”

They waited, as if that was supposed to be reassuring. She knew what they wanted: a show of vulnerability, maybe some anger.

Instead, she smiled inwardly.

She pulled her phone out, thumb hovering. Then, with a quiet kind of defiance, she pulled up a new tweet.

Autism affects 1 in 36 people. Awareness beats stigma.

Also, I married Lando Norris and you didn’t. Suck it.

[Link to autism awareness resource]

She hit send.

Lando’s laugh was the first sound to break the tension. Her dad let out a short, grudging chuckle. Oscar’s eyes flickered with something like pride.

—

[DTS Outtake Clip]

Will Buxton

“Yeah, so… that clip of Amelia, it really went viral, didn’t it? I’m sure she must have thought her weekend couldn’t get any tougher after that moment. But then Sunday came…”

—

Amelia caught Lando just before he stepped into the car. The hum of the track buzzed behind them, but for a beat, it was just them.

She leaned up on her tiptoes and kissed him. “Good luck. Be safe. Drive fast.”

He smiled, eyes bright with that fierce fire she loved. “Always, baby.”

She turned and headed to the pit wall, heart steady but fierce — ready.

—

The roar of the crowd swallowed the pre-race tension whole as the lights blinked out, one by one. Oscar launched perfectly—an instinct honed from endless hours tracking telemetry and analysing every millisecond. He surged forward, slicing through the tight corners of the Las Vegas street circuit with brutal precision.

Amelia’s eyes locked on the screens, her fingers dancing over the buttons and dials at the pit wall. Every lap was a heartbeat, every split time a breath held. She was the calm centre for Oscar’s storm.

“Sector one clean, good pace,” she told him over the radio, voice even but focused.

“Copy. Tires feeling good,” came Oscar’s crisp reply.

She allowed herself a brief, tiny exhale. This was what she lived for, the rhythm of the race, the flow of strategy, the challenge.

But then, amid the relentless thrum of engines and tires gripping asphalt, the radio sparked. A sudden crackle, then Lando’s voice—strained, quick.

“Car’s sliding—shit—oh fucking—”

The pit wall fell silent except for the crackling radio. Amelia’s chest tightened. The word ‘crash’ hovered unspoken but undeniable in the space between sounds.

Her fingers froze. Her eyes darted to the live feed on the screen; Lando’s McLaren spinning wildly, slamming into the barriers.

Time fractured.

The noise dimmed, the crowd’s roar now a distant wave crashing against the edges of her mind.

“Lando’s out,” the comms guy said quietly beside her. “Full safety car. Medical car dispatched.”

She blinked rapidly, trying to swallow the sudden lump forming in her throat. Breathe. Focus.

She had to focus.

Oscar was still out there, still racing.

She shook her head slightly as if clearing fog. “Oscar, you’re clear. Keep the pace, watch brake temps—”

“I’m ok.” Lando reported, but his voice was tight — like he’d been winded.

Amelia’s voice cracked, and she hated herself for it. Hated how much it betrayed her insides.

Oscar’s voice came steady, but she could hear the surprise, the tension. “Shit. That was Lando?”

“Yeah,” she said before she could stop herself. “He’s… he’s climbing out of the car. He’s okay.”

She stole a glance at the live feed showing Lando being helped out, walking with a medic, shaking his head like he was fine. But she knew—knew the physical toll, the adrenaline masking the pain, the shock that would hit later.

She frantically grabbed for her golf ball — she always kept it beneath the monitors, and squeezed it. Grounding herself.

“Focus on the race, ducky. I’m here. We’ve got this.”

Oscar’s voice softened, “You sure?”

She swallowed hard again. “I’m sure.”

Every lap was a razor’s edge now. Amelia ran through data, strategic calls, tire management; but her mind kept drifting back to that crash, to Lando’s face on the screen, the unspoken “what if.”

The pit lane buzzed, the crew working, the team breathing with her through Oscar’s race, but she was somewhere else too.

She bit back a dry sob and pressed on. “Sector two clean. Let’s push on the next lap. You can get Sainz.”

Oscar’s voice returned with renewed fire. “Copy. Let’s make it count.”

She nodded, though no one could see.

And yet.

There was the ache.

The race carried on, unforgiving.

—

The monitor in front of her flickered with telemetry, lap times, sector splits—Oscar’s heartbeat in digital form. She had to be here. Had to be present.

Her fingers danced a quiet rhythm on the edge of the pit-wall console—a practiced stim to keep the rising panic locked behind a steel door in her mind. The world had already cracked around her today.

“Sector three’s slower by two tenths, watch the tyre temps,” she said, voice clipped, tight. Her gaze never left the screen, even as the chaos inside her threatened to seep out. The noise outside, the shouted team radio chatter, the flashing pit boards, it all blurred into one sharp focus: Oscar.

The world had been unpredictable all weekend. The unexpected video circulating. The judgment from people who didn’t know. Lando spinning out and hitting the wall. But here, in this moment, Amelia was the engineer, the strategist. The calm in the storm.

She clenched the golf ball in her palm, fingers twisting the soft silicone shapes until the ridges bit into her skin just enough to bring her back. The tears she hadn’t let herself shed yet pooled behind her eyes, but she swallowed them down. Not now. Not now.

Her radio crackled to life, “Oscar, focus on exit at turn seven, keep it smooth; tyres need managing.”

And then, after what felt like a lifetime of silence, she sensed him before she saw him. A warmth settling over her. Lando, standing just behind her, his chin resting lightly on her shoulder. No words.

His arms wound around her waist and he squeezed. Tight and warm and perfect.

The sharp edge of panic softened in that quiet pressure. It was like a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding for hours finally escaped. The knot in her chest loosened.

She kept her eyes on the screen, voice steady but softer now, “Push on the next lap, Oscar. You’ve got this.”

The relief didn’t break her focus. Instead, it sharpened it, gave her the strength to keep Oscar moving forward through the pack.

But just for one brief moment, the whole world faded away, leaving just the hum of the race, the steady pulse of the monitor, and the quiet heartbeat pressing against her back.

—

Amelia sat at the small kitchen table, absently stirring her coffee, her mind half on the morning briefing notes she’d reviewed earlier.

She wasn’t in the mood to think much, really. Too many things buzzing in her head—the weekend, the viral video fallout, the constant undercurrent of stress that never quite left her.

Then, for no particular reason, her hand drifted to her phone, and she opened the calendar app. That’s when it hit her. 

The date she’d been quietly expecting had come and gone.

No sign.

A slow, quiet realisation settled in her gut. She hadn’t missed a period in years. 

She blinked, staring at the screen. No big dramatic wave of panic. No sudden flood of excitement either. Just… a plain, blunt acknowledgment.

Oh.

“Okay,” she muttered to herself quietly, voice flat but certain. “Should probably tell Lando.”

She stood and walked to the living room, pulling out her phone again.

iMessage — 13:03pm

Amelia (Wifey 4 lifey)

My period is 3 weeks late.

--

She slid the phone onto the table, fingers lingering on the edge for a moment. Missing a period wasn’t a crisis, just a mildly inconvenient fact.

She glanced out the window at the bustling street below. Monaco was doing its usual thing, people rushing, cars honking, life barreling forward.

Amelia took another sip of coffee and muttered under her breath, “Well, that’s new.”

Then, with all the casual decisiveness of someone deciding what to have for lunch, she shoved the thought aside and got back to work.

NEXT CHAPTER

[norristeria]

Oddity¹ ! LN04

PAIRING 𝄡 Lando Norris x Oscar's PA! FemReader, Oscar Piastri x PA! FemReader ( platonic )

SUMMARY 𝄡 Though Oscar's teammate is the strangest man you've ever met, you cannot help but find this oddity charming.

IN THIS CHAPTER... Desperate for a job, you apply to be a personal assistant for a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports.’ It's harder than it looks, but only because your new employer is dead set on being a pain in the ass. And what's the deal with his new teammate?

TAGS 𝄡 Angst. Fluff.

WORDCOUNT 𝄡 6k.

NOTE 𝄡 Everyone loved the pairing, so I wrote the series⏤it's as simple as that. What do we think? Not much Lando in this chapter but Oscar and Reader's subplot has my entire heart! I tweaked the chronology a bit because I can. ( not edited. if you see a typo⏤no, you didn't. ) <33

For a better experience, read this story in light mode! ( use of black writing on transparent background )

likes, comments, reblogs are much appreciated!

━━━━ ❦ Chapter II.

‘Mark Webber’ sounded like an important name, enough to have its gold plaque hanging on a solid oak door.

The man who opened it matched that image—serene and proud, the kind of man that had known glory, however small, in the past. Mark Webber's charisma was undeniable, yes, but the expectation that lit up his face as he extended a hand toward you, the need for recognition clearly visible in his eyes, made him so painfully human that your shoulders relaxed.

He may have been the manager of your future client—a ‘one-of-a-kind young talent in motorsports' according to the job description—but he was still a man, and you knew how to deal with those. Had been doing it for years during your bachelor’s degree and, later on, your master’s in business administration and management. Those so-called “sons of” or “self-made men” proliferated in Harvard, waiting for one thing only: for you to recognize them without ever needing to introduce themselves.

But because you desperately needed this job and hadn’t gone through three interviews for nothing, you swallowed your pride, smiled, and extended your hand.

“Mr. Webber, it’s an honour to meet you.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss L/N. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m afraid time is not on our side right now. I do hope you had a moment to look over the contract HR sent you.”

He led you to his office, cluttered with paperwork. You winced at the chaos, resisting the urge to bring order to the madness. Instead, you sat down, crossed your legs, and pulled the employment contract from your folder.

Your very own Holy Grail.

“Here’s my copy. Initialled and signed.”

You had shed a few tears as you slid the pen across the page—a strange blend of relief and frustration. One of those emotions only fate itself could concoct. Because you had not planned this. Not at all. For years, you had envisioned yourself as a talent agent, maybe a manager at a publicly traded company—but certainly not the personal assistant to one Oscar Piastri, whose name you hadn’t even known three weeks earlier.

When life gives you lemons, learn to make lemonade or suffer their bitterness, your grandmother used to say.

You had chosen your side quickly, picked the lemons yourself, pressed them, sweetened the juice, and learned to savour the taste. You who had never liked citrus fruits had now convinced yourself to see in that pale yellow flesh a sign of future success, of stability.

How many lemon trees would you need to harvest before your parents got used to the sourness?

Watching their prodigy of a daughter become a ‘rich man’s servant’, after paying for five years at Harvard, was a truth they struggled to swallow—a sourness lodged in the throat, leaving behind the bitter tang of defeat.

When you had graduated summa cum laude, your parents had imagined you’d be drowning in job offers. But reality hit hard. Brutally hard. Intelligence alone wasn’t enough. The world’s best companies didn’t hire without connections, and you had none.

The first disillusionment in life stings like nothing else.

So, you had to swallow your pride, lower your standards, and look elsewhere. Anything, really—anything but unemployment and long days spent contemplating the wreckage of your ambitions.

Anything but failure.

The job description had arrived in your inbox amid hundreds of others. That night, you had drunk two glasses of red wine—maybe more—your cheeks streaked with mascara and the remnants of your frustration. You had received two rejections that very morning. Overqualified, they had said.

Bullshit, you replied. They just didn’t want to pay you what your degrees were worth.

For months now, you had been suffering—stuck in this purgatory. Too qualified for some roles, not enough for others. The adjectives varied, but the outcome remained the same. You barely needed to read the emails anymore. You knew the words by heart.

After reviewing your profile, and despite its many strengths, we have decided not to move forward with your application.

It was with those words echoing in your mind that you clicked on the job offer. Personal Assistant. Your eyes widened at the jaw-dropping salary and the list of benefits.

“What the actual fuck?” you mumbled.

Suddenly sobered, you sat up straight and read the required qualifications eagerly, a flicker of hope warming your chest for the first time in weeks. The words were generic—experience, organisation, management, flexibility—but you welcomed their familiarity.

Your internship with one of New York’s top CEOs—the one your classmates had mocked, claiming “it wasn’t a real internship with real responsibilities”—was finally proving useful.

You took another long sip of wine and hastily drafted a cover letter, attached your resumé, and submitted them via the designated portal.

The next day, you received an email with an interview date.

A month later, you found yourself in the heart of London, ready to sign your first real contract—no matter what your parents thought on the matter.

You blinked away the sound of their voices. You wouldn’t let a few bitter scraps of lemon zest ruin what was beginning to look like a stroke of fate. Instead, you watched Mr. Webber sign the contract. With each initial written on the paper, you felt a weight lift from your shoulders.

That’s it, you thought. I have a job.

Yes, being a personal assistant wasn’t the career you had dreamt of; yes, you were overqualified—but it was still a job. And a well-paid one. Probably better than a quarter of your former classmates now working as marketing consultants.

Mark Webber capped his pen and smiled at you.

“Well then, welcome aboard.”

You couldn’t suppress the laugh of pure relief that shook your shoulders as you tucked the signed contract back into the folder.

Webber rummaged through the chaos on his desk and pulled from its depths a rectangular white box, which he slid across to you. A brand-new iPhone 14.

“Here’s your work phone. I’ve already inserted the SIM card. I don’t know if you’ve worked with this kind of setup before, but it’s a bit different from a regular iPhone—more secure, more restricted. Oh, and I almost forgot the most important part: HR should send you an email within the next couple of days with information you need to have, including Oscar’s number.”

“Of course.”

“You’ll meet him soon enough. I’d like the two of you to feel comfortable around each other as soon as possible. It’s his first season as a full-time driver and his first time working with a personal assistant. I want everything to go smoothly.”

“Naturally.”

Mark Webber sank back into his chair, eyes fixed on you. You held his gaze. He smiled.

“I’ve got a good feeling about you. I had it the moment I saw your CV.”

“I won’t let you down,” you promised.

Just like Mark—who had insisted you call him that—had said, the meeting with Oscar came swiftly. An email arrived in your inbox four days after your interviews, listing a time and an address.

Six days later, as winter tightened its grip on England with sharp winds and grey skies, you wandered through the deserted streets of Hertford for several minutes before stumbling upon a building that looked quintessentially British—red brick walls, single-hung white windows—the kind your grandparents had once lived in. It was unremarkable, to the point that you wondered if you had typed in the wrong address in Maps. Didn’t Formula 1 drivers earn outrageous salaries?

A gust of wind stung your cheeks. You pulled your coat tighter around you and pressed the doorbell labeled “O. Piastri.” The ink on the name was nearly washed away, chased by the rain and all the other pleasantries of English weather. Mother Nature herself seemed determined to guard his anonymity.

“You can come up. Third floor, last door on the left.”

Mark’s voice crackled through the intercom, as though his client had no voice of his own. Your mind wandered: would he sound the same, or had his years in England worn away his accent, like the ink on his doorbell?

Apartment 3B’s door appeared sooner than you expected, leaving you no time to steel yourself. This was a decisive moment. If Oscar Piastri didn’t like you—if he deemed you unfit for any reason—they would terminate your probationary period, and you would be cast back into the labyrinth of professional limbo.

I just need him to like me. Simple enough, right?

As you adjusted the collar of your sweater, the door opened to reveal Mark. He greeted you with a nod and stepped aside. You didn’t spare a glance for the apartment. Instead, your eyes fell immediately on the young man seated at the table. Your gazes locked.

You gulped.

You had read Oscar Piastri’s Wikipedia page, of course. Before you became an assistant, you had been a student, and if there was one thing you had mastered during that time, it was research. You had stuck only to the facts, never clicking on the suggested videos or press interviews—resolute in forming your own impression.

“Hello. I’m Y/N, pleased to meet you.”

“Oscar.”

Your handshake offered little reassurance, nor did the driver’s impassive expression. You swallowed again and instinctively hugged your notebook to your chest before taking a seat opposite him.

You listened half-heartedly as Mark launched into a stream of benign, reassuring remarks—an overview of your role you had already read over multiple times. Realizing you wouldn’t need to speak, you let yourself drift from the monologue and instead studied the boy you would be working for, scanning his impassive face for any hint on your potential dynamic.

Like many, you had seen The Devil Wears Prada, and while you were aware you weren’t going to work for Vogue, Formula 1 seemed every bit as cutthroat as the fashion world—catfights and sabotage didn’t seem far-fetched in a microcosm so thoroughly built by and for men.

“So, that’s everything,” Mark concluded. “Any questions?”

Oscar shook his head. You mirrored the gesture.

You both shook hands again, before you left Hertford with a new file in your handbag and a knot in your stomach.

December faded; January dawned, bringing with it a new year and its obligations. You moved to Hertford, into a small townhouse not far from Oscar’s apartment, though you never found the courage to cross the neighborhood that separated you.

Instead, you improvised a home office on your dining table, where you set up your laptop and phone—devices you would stare at for hours, waiting for the screen to light up, though it never did despite the messages you had sent Oscar.

Would you like me to order a coffee for your video call with Zak Brown?

Do you need anything specific before your trip to Monaco?

When are you planning to leave for Australia? I’ll book the tickets.

You always left your ringer on, even through the night. Just in case he calls, you told yourself. But it never came. No calls. No messages. No requests. Just silence—heavy—and that infuriating “seen” icon.

At least Mark had the decency to keep you in the loop regarding Oscar’s upcoming obligations. The driver himself had all but vanished. His absence brewed a storm of emotions in you.

First doubt. Then anger.

Did Oscar think you incompetent? Did he consider himself above you?

You lasted a week before you snapped. One week of avoidance. One week of “seen.” One week of voicemails.

You retreated from your desk to your bed, turned off your ringer, and replaced calls and messages with emails—though those, too, went unanswered.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: London–Australia Flight / Dec 14, 10:30

Dear Oscar,

Please find attached your outbound ticket to Melbourne, departing from London Gatwick on Dec 14 at 10:30 AM. A taxi has been booked to pick you up at 7:00 AM.

Let me know your preferred return date, and I’ll handle the booking promptly.

P.S. Don’t forget your Zoom meeting with Mr. Ellis Woodward from McLaren HR on Dec 18 at 9:30 AM London time (6:30 PM Melbourne time). Here's once again the link: https://zoom.us/j/814553

Wishing you happy holidays.

Kind regards, Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: Flight_OPiastri_LGWMEL_1412.pdf]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Offlane B.V. Meeting

Oscar,

Offlane would like to schedule a video call to discuss your website’s new branding. Mark emphasized that it should be handled before the New Year. Please let me know your availability.

Attached are the proposed designs for your review.

Regards,

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: OSCARPIASTRI_FINAL_1224.zip]

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Schedule & Meeting Change / Dec 30–Jan 5

Please find attached your schedule for the week. I’ve managed to free up Dec 31 to Jan 2.

Note that your meeting with Thomas Rogers from McLaren’s comms department has been moved from 7:30 PM to 8:30 PM (Melbourne time).

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

[Attachment: Schedule_OP_06120125.pdf]

“I don’t understand why you hired me if Oscar flat-out refuses my help," you said one day, matter-of-factly. “He won’t even answer my emails.”

On your MacBook screen, Mark sighed. The sound crackled harshly in your ears. You grimaced, but quickly composed yourself, afraid he’d take the gesture personally, before turning the volume down and glancing around.

You had chosen this café for its peace. The barista was humming a familiar tune as he prepared lattes, and the only other customer was far too engrossed in her novel to care about you.

You found comfort in this silence. It was unlike the one at home—less oppressive, more soothing.

Your latte, sweetened with vanilla syrup, was going cold. Yet even masked by sugar, you couldn’t get rid of the bitterness that had seeped into all your meals.

Lately, the lemons life gave you were either underripe or rotten. Oscar Piastri had spoiled the lemonade recipe you had spent years perfecting. You had forgotten its tangy sweetness and were now biting into the bitter rind of failure.

“Oscar is... a guarded young man,” Mark replied after a suffocating pause. “That mess with Alpine and his contract didn’t help. From his perspective, you could betray him just like they did. McLaren are the only one he trusts right now. I think that’s why he’s counting on their PR assistant for now.”

You frowned. The statement stung more than you cared to admit. Mark must have sensed it, because he quickly added: “But don’t worry—I’ll speak to him. Things will improve. Whether he likes it or not, he needs an assistant. I’ve made that clear. Everything’s about to speed up come late January, and I want him focused on racing.”

“Then why didn’t you ask McLaren to hire someone if he trusts them so much?” you asked, your tongue thick with resentment.

“Because a contract is just that. A contract. It expires and no one knows what tomorrow will bring. I want him to trust someone outside of that system. And if that means we pay your salary ourselves, so be it. It’s worth it. Loyalty is rare in this sport. I want to give it a chance to bloom without any influence.”

You nodded, but a lump had settled in your throat. Guilt. On your parents’ advice, you had begun quietly looking for other jobs.

You can’t go on like this, they’d told you. You deserve respect. And painful as it was to admit—they were right.

“I understand,” you finally said. “And I understand his trust issues. God knows I’ve been betrayed more than once during internships. I don’t blame him for that. But I’d appreciate it if he at least acknowledged my emails.”

“I’ll speak to him,” Mark repeated. “In the meantime, keep doing your job. I see every email you send, and I want to commend you—not just for your efficiency and initiative, but for your professionalism despite Oscar’s behaviour. Your efforts are not in vain.”

You didn’t know what to say, so you simply nodded. It was hard to accept praise when the one person you were meant to work for gave you no recognition at all.

“I have to go. McLaren call in five minutes. Keep it up—I’ll handle Oscar.”

Your tired and discouraged face stared back at you on the black screen. You sighed, took a sip of cold coffee, and began typing a new email.

From: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > To: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: Quad Lock

Oscar,

As Mark and your new McLaren PR assistant may have informed you, Quad Lock (an Australian brand for sports phone mounts) is interested in sponsoring you in 2023.

They’re only available on Thursday, January 16 at 10:30 AM, but you’re scheduled for a padel session then. Would you prefer I reschedule, or can you make yourself available?

Y/N L/N y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com

That evening, you nearly choked on your red wine when your phone buzzed. You immediately recognized the sound—your inbox—and tapped the notification with a trembling finger.

"What the fuck?"

From: Oscar PIASTRI < oscar.piastri@mclaren.uk > To: Y/N L/N < y/n.l/n@oscarpiastri.com > CC: Mark WEBBER < mark.webber@oscarpiastri.com > Subject: RE: Quad Lock

Jan 16 works. Cancel padel.

Oscar

You ended up staring at the screen for far too long. Since when did a simple email affect you so deeply? You had studied at Harvard, for God’s sake. Interned at prestigious firms. Yet here you were—shaken by a curt reply from a bull-headed driver.

If your parents could see you now, they’d sigh.

You typed a reply, erased it, retyped the same one, changed a word, fixed a typo, then—uncertain—rewrote it altogether.

Then deleted it again.

And finally typed: “Thanks, I’ll inform them.”

You tossed your phone across the bed and drained your wine in one big gulp.

You didn’t know what to make of the sudden shift, but one thing was certain: you could count on Mark. And there was nothing more reassuring than not feeling alone in your corner.

You longed for the sense of excitement that had animated you when you had signed your contract in this very office, just a few weeks ago. The golden plaque on the door still bore Mark’s name but it no longer gleamed as it had that first day. It appeared dull now—faded, even.

He had summoned you to discuss Oscar’s upcoming first days with McLaren, and the logistical arrangements it would require.

Upon your arrival, the secretary had promptly informed you that the Australian would be running late. Something about a meeting “too important to be cut short.”

So, you had sat down in one of the waiting room chairs and begun flipping through your notebook to review the brief Mark had sent two days prior. But muffled voices soon broke your concentration.

You looked up. The office door stood slightly ajar.

You immediately recognized Mark’s voice. Another, deeper and more assertive, kept interrupting him.

Oscar.

Eyes wide, you gently closed your notebook and placed it on the seat beside you before moving closer to the door.

“This can’t go on,” said Mark. “Besides your blatant lack of professionalism, you're making things harder for yourself on purpose.”

“I don’t need an assistant.”

They’re talking about me, you realized.

You swallowed hard and leaned in.

“And I’m telling you that you do. You’re stepping into the big leagues, Oscar. That means four times the responsibilities, four times the meetings. Your little Google Calendar might’ve worked in F2 and in 2022, but that’s no longer the case. You need someone.”

“That’s why you’re here.”

“I’m here to help you negotiate contracts, not book your flights or your hair appointments. I have enough on my plate as it is, and you do too. You’re literally starting at McLaren in two weeks!”

“Maybe,” he conceded. “But why Y/N?”

 “Why not?”

“I’ve read her résumé. She doesn’t belong here,” he spat.

You recoiled. The words stung, not just because of what he said, but how he said it. You had expected indifference from Oscar, but never cruelty.

“You can complain all you want,” Mark replied coolly. “It won’t change a damn thing. She is your assistant—and given the excellent work she’s done despite your shitty attitude, she will remain as such. So get used to seeing her around.”

“Whatever,” Oscar muttered.

Silence followed, then soft but steady footsteps.

Your stomach twisted. You scrambled back to your seat, notebook now trembling in your damp hands. Your heartbeat was so loud you could feel it pounding in your temples.

Oscar soon appeared in the doorway. His dark eyes immediately found yours. You froze, gaze fixed on a blurry sentence, your heart in your throat.

Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him stop. His stare scorched the right side of your face. Your cheeks burned—whether from fury or adrenaline, you couldn’t say. Perhaps both.

After what felt like an eternity, the driver turned and walked away. Without a word. As always.

He didn’t even have the decency to say it to my face, you thought.

Something inside you cracked at that realization—the last stronghold of patience, the final tower of understanding.

Rage surged through your veins and turned your chest into a battlefield. Amid the carnage, a voice pierced your armour. You looked up and saw Mark, one hand on the door handle.

“Are you coming?”

You followed him into the office mechanically, sat down in the leather chair, opened your notebook, nodded silently at every sentence he spoke, scribbled down notes you knew you would never read, and asked no questions.

More than once, Mark raised an eyebrow at your uncharacteristic silence, but you deliberately ignored his questioning glances.

Gone was the eager assistant, determined to prove herself, always anticipating her client’s needs. In her place sat a woman with furrowed brows and brisk, sharp movements—hardened by a fresh wave of anger.

One of the first management courses you had taken at Harvard had introduced the idea of professional archetypes. Who was motivated by emotion? Rewards? Everyone prided themselves for their individuality, their uniqueness, but, at the end, we all fell a category. And you knew you thrived for acknowledgment—something Oscar had never given you. Not once.

And that hurt.

So no, you didn’t feel guilty for not listening during the meeting. Mark continued with his verbose explanations, but you knew the spiel…

Oscar’s debut at McLaren was fast approaching. It would be a critical moment—for him, for Mark, for you.

And yet, despite knowing all that, you couldn’t bring herself to care.

She doesn’t belong here.

At the memory of those words, you tightened your grip on your pen.

“Y/N,” Mark said eventually, his tone tentative. “About Oscar… I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”

You stifled a bitter laugh and nodded. He eventually dismissed you, realizing you had nothing further to say, and you didn’t hesitate to walk out—slamming the door behind you, decorum be damned.

Once home, you glanced at your makeshift desk on the dining table, then at your work phone—silent, as always.

That was the final straw—the dark screen.

On impulse, you reached out to your cousin, a doctor.

One of your professors had once spoken at length about the value of networking and connections. You finally understood the importance of those when, thirty minutes later, a five-day medical leave form landed in your inbox.

You forwarded it to Mark, turned off your phone, and threw it into a drawer.

If Oscar didn’t need you, then he could handle his McLaren debut on his own.

During the first two days, you didn’t leave your bed. You stayed under the covers and ignored the world outside—though the latter seemed determined not to ignore you. Your parents kept sending you links to job offers, and Mark had started calling your personal number.

On the third day, someone knocked.

Oscar.

The moment you saw him standing there, you didn’t think—you tried to slam the door in his face. But the driver was faster—damn reflexes—and caught it with one hand.

“We need to talk.”

“I have nothing to say to you.”

“Please.”

That one word made you falter.

“I know you took medical leave,” he continued. “Mark told me. I also know you’re not really sick and it’s because of me.”

That caught your attention. Oscar took advantage of the hesitation and slipped through the gap. You protested, pushed against his chest to get him out, but you were no match to his strength.

Soon, Oscar Piastri was standing in your apartment.

The sight was so surreal you blinked, convinced you were hallucinating. But no, he was real and had just turned your worst nightmare into reality.

“I’m sorry, okay?” he said. “I was an asshole.”

You scoffed and crossed your arms.

“Understatement of the fucking year.”

Oscar took your hand and held it in his.

Your eyes widened.

“I thought I didn’t need an assistant, but I was wrong.”

You rolled your eyes before pulling away.

“Oh, right. So what? You had some epiphany while I was gone?”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“I missed three meetings with McLaren and was late to two others because I didn’t get your reminder emails.”

You raised an eyebrow.

“Mark didn’t send anything?”

It was surprising, given how insistent he’d been about professionalism before Oscar’s debut.

“He said it was to ‘help me realize how much I fucked up.’”

You stifled a smile as a warm wave washed over you—part pride, part relief. Mark had stood up for you. Your heart felt just a little lighter.

You looked up at Oscar.

But then a memory—sharp and cold—soured the moment.

“You said I didn’t belong there,” you whispered.

You hated yourself for voicing it, for letting the insecurity slip through. The same one your parents had spent years nurturing.

A heavy silence followed.

“You heard us,” he simply said. “Mark and me. The other day.”

It wasn’t a question, so you didn’t answer. Oscar ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

“You don’t belong here. That’s true.”

You opened your mouth in disbelief.

“Did you read your résumé?” he went on, undeterred.

“What kind of stupid question is–”

“Because I did,” he cut you off. “And you’re overqualified. You graduated from Harvard, for fuck’s sake! You deserve so much more than being my personal assistant.”

For the first time, you were speechless.

“But I guess I’m selfish,” he sighed. “I still think you deserve better, but now that I know how much I need you, I don’t want you to leave.”

He stepped closer.

“So please, forgive me. I’ll give you a raise—just name your price. But don’t quit.”

You hesitated, frozen in the middle of your living room, facing a visibly nervous Oscar. Were you making a mistake? Giving in too easily? What if this was just a momentary change of heart? What if, in three weeks’ time, everything went back to how it was?

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar took another step and rushed to reassure you.

“I’ll try harder. I’ll communicate better. I’ll learn to trust you.”

“And reply to my emails?”

He smiled, and the sight of those bunny teeth softened something in your chest.

“That too.”

You had come to love this job in the past weeks. It quenched your thirst of order and precision. And, Oscar aside, it was relatively simple.

The salary didn’t hurt either.

“You have no self-respect, woman,” you muttered under your breath before taking a deep breath and speaking aloud. “Fine.”

You said it quickly, as if speaking too slowly would give regret the time to catch up.

Maybe forgiving him wasn’t the best decision. Maybe your first impression hadn’t been good either.

Maybe you had both made mistakes.

“What?”

“I said, fine.”

Oscar looked as though he wanted to hug you—you saw it in the way his muscles tensed—but he thought better of it and rested a hand on your shoulder instead.

“Thank you.”

Yoy offered him a small smile and straightened up. Oscar’s hand fell back to his side.

“Well… Let’s start over, shall we?”

You held out a hand.

“Hello, I’m Y/N. I’ll be your personal assistant. If you need anything, I’m here.”

Oscar took it and gave it a gentle shake.

“Hi, I’m Oscar and I won’t screw up this time.”

Woking was a rather dreary town, you concluded as you watched its brick buildings pass by through the window of Oscar’s car. A typical English town, with uniform neighbourhoods and a colour palette of browns and whites.

“Feeling nervous?” you asked, glancing at Oscar’s hands, clenched so tightly around the steering wheel they were turning white.

“Yes."

“Good. It would’ve been strange if you weren’t. It means you care.“"”

He sighed and turned down the radio.

“Mark warned me they’d drown me with information. I’m worried I won’t remember anything and that I’ll come across as a rookie.”

“That’s what I’m here for. Just try to remember the essentials, and I’ll take care of the rest,” you replied, giving your black notebook a shake.

The movement caught Oscar’s attention, and he glanced away from the road for a second. He hummed in acknowledgment, and silence settled once again over the car.

There remained in your interactions traces of your chaotic beginnings. The team-building week Mark had forced you into, squeezed into the slim window of time leading up to today, had helped, but one didn’t simply erase a month of mutual silence with the wave of a wand.

Both of you had promised Oscar’s manager to try. You had sealed the pact without hesitation—anything was preferable to playing yet another damned escape room.

Oscar eventually gestured toward the notebook with a nod.

“You’ll need an orange one.”

You clutched it to your chest with a grimace. Loose pages and stray Post-its crinkled against your wool winter coat. It was an organized chaos of contracts and printed emails—a reflection of the turbulent start to Oscar’s F1 career, and their own beginnings.

“It’s not even full yet! And I don’t like orange.”

“A sticker, then.”

You pursed your lips.

“I suppose. But only if I get to pick the design.”

‘It has to be related to the team or me, though.”

“It is related to you. It contains your entire life for the next eight months.”

Oscar cut the conversation short when he took a sharp turn.

“Look—we’re here.”

You blinked at the building.

What kind of Avengers shit is this?

The building looked like it had been plucked straight from the future and placed with uncanny precision beside the lake. Everything about it exuded innovation and ambition—the kind of place you had imagined yourself working for after graduating.

Today, you were entering it as a mere personal assistant.

A part of you felt bitter at the thought, but you quickly buried the feeling when Oscar opened his door and offered you a hand.

Mark was already waiting at the entrance, flanked by a man you recognized as Zak Brown, and another with tanned skin and graying hair.

“Andrea Stella, the team principal,” Oscar murmured in your ear, seeing your confused expression.

Zak and Andrea greeted you politely—nothing more—before turning their full attention to Oscar. Mark, on the other hand, walked over to you with a sly smile on his thin lips.

“You managed the drive without killing each other? I’m impressed.”

As if he hadn’t just forced the two of you into a three-hour tug-of-war last Wednesday…

You all entered the building together. You were left speechless by the modern architecture and followed the group of men on autopilot. Very quickly, Oscar began meeting the team—one person after another. The receptionists. The mechanics. The engineers. The technicians. The designers. You jotted down as much as you could in your little notebook, but even you soon felt overwhelmed, your wrist aching.

“Of course you know Cecilia, your PR assistant,” announced Zak Brown as they entered the office area.

That was enough to catch your attention. You snapped your head up so fast your neck cracked. You couldn’t help narrowing your eyes, givng a once-over to the woman who’d had such a good job back in November. Beside you, Mark stifled a laugh.

“Careful—you almost look jealous.”

“I don’t care.”

But you couldn’t hide your satisfied smile as you observed the interaction between the two—cordial and awkward.

Take that, Cecilia.

“Ah!” Zak exclaimed. “Just the man we were looking for! Lando, come meet your new teammate.”

You rose onto your toes to catch sight of the newcomer.

Of course, you knew who Lando Norris was. A McLaren driver since 2019 and now Oscar’s teammate. Nothing more—just the essentials. That was enough. Memorizing the information Mark and Oscar fed you already took up a quarter of your time; you didn’t have room for another driver.

He shook hands with everyone with the ease of someone familiar in his environment. There was no hesitation in his movements, just a quiet confidence.

“Nice to meet you, Oscar.”

“Likewise.”

The Australian stepped aside, revealing you behind him. Your eyes met. Lando’s widened.

“And this is—”

But before Oscar could introduce you, Lando stumbled and fell at your feet.

You blinked. Then rushed to help him. Your knees hit the smooth floor, but you had no time to feel the pain; your hand quickly found the Brit’s shoulder.

“My God! Are you alright?”

Lando sprang back up and recoiled from your touch as though burned, his face flushed crimson.

“Y-yes,” he stammered, eyes fixed on the floor.

He mumbled words you didn’t catch—something about an engineer and a meeting—then spun around and disappeared down the corridor.

You blinked once, twice, then shook your head and hurried to rejoin the group for the rest of the tour, which lasted another two long hours.

“Lando…” you began once you and Oscar were back in the car.

“What about him?”

“He’s a bit… odd, don’t you think?”

Oscar shot you a quick glance before focusing back on the road. Already, the McLaren Technology Centre was nothing more than a vague grey blur in the rearview mirror. The engine roared, churning your stomach—or perhaps that was the regret creeping onto your tongue.

You and Oscar weren’t yet close enough for you to speak so freely. What would he think of you, openly criticizing his future teammate?

“I suppose,” he admitted, to your utmost relief. “I haven’t really had the chance to talk with him yet. We’re planning to meet up before the first tests. He mentioned something about padel.”

You pulled your notebook from your bag and uncapped your fountain pen, glad for the change in topic.

“Do you already have a date in mind?”

Oscar rolled his eyes.

[honeyslibrary]

Rookie Card | Jack Hughes

Pairing; Jack Hughes x Fem!Reader

Warning(s); Fluff, established relationship, little to no knowledge of Costco (I've never been lol), edited once, that's it I think!

Summary; Jack finds out that reader keeps a certain card in her wallet

Word Count; 3.1k

Authors Note: I feel like if this happened IRL he'd be such a little shit about it and would not stop teasing 😭 Also I don't have a Costco membership idk what they sell there and I did not look it up to be accurate 🥴 -Honey

You knew this Costco trip was a mistake the moment Jack grabbed the cart.

"I'm driving," he'd announced with that lopsided grin that still made your stomach flutter after eight months together. That grin had gotten you into this relationship in the first place. The same one he'd flashed at you across the bar the night you met, when your friend had elbowed you and whispered, "Holy shit, that's Jack Hughes," and you'd pretended not to know exactly who he was.

Now that same grin was steering an overloaded shopping cart through the warehouse chaos of Costco on a Sunday afternoon, which felt considerably less charming.

"Slow down," you call out as he narrowly avoids clipping an elderly woman examining a stack of discounted bestsellers. "This isn't the ice, Hughes."

Jack shoots you a look over his shoulder. "I'm being careful! Besides, we need to beat the sample rush. Those little pizza bagel things go fast."

You roll your eyes but can't help cracking a smile. For a professional hockey player who regularly gets body-checked into boards, Jack has an almost childlike enthusiasm for the free samples at Costco. It's endearing, even if his cart navigation skills leave much to be desired.

Two hours later, the cart is piled dangerously high with everything from the mundane essentials you actually came for (paper towels, coffee beans, that specific brand of Greek yogurt Jack insists is the only acceptable post-workout snack) to the impulse purchases that somehow found their way in when you weren't looking (a 2.5lb bag of dried mango slices, a folding camp chair, and what appears to be an industrial-sized container of protein powder).

"Do we really need all this?" you ask, eyeing the mountain of products as you approach the checkout area.

Jack looks genuinely confused. "Which part don't we need?"

"I don't know, maybe the trashcan sized candle?"

"You said your apartment always smells like hockey gear!"

"I meant you should do laundry more often, not turn the place into a Yankee Candle outlet."

He shrugs, unrepentant. "Trust me, I'm doing us both a favor."

As you approach the front of the store, Jack steers the cart toward the self-checkout area.

"The regular lines aren't that long." you comment, glancing at the regular checkout lanes where actual employees could help with the small mountain of purchases you've accumulated.

Jack scoffs. "Self-checkout is way faster. Plus, I'm basically a professional at scanning."

"Since when?"

"I did a grocery store commercial last season, remember? Spent like three hours scanning the same box of cereal from different angles."

You bite back a smile. "I'm pretty sure that doesn't translate to actual scanning skills."

"I forgot you were the expert," he rolls his eyes, smiling as he maneuvers the cart into the self-checkout lane.

The Costco self-checkout is already chaos. The cart is overloaded, the scanner next to yours keeps yelling "place item in the bagging area," and Jack is too busy pretending the jumbo box of Goldfish is a dumbbell to be remotely helpful.

"Four pounds of pure cracker power," he announces, curling the box in perfect form. "Could be a new workout trend. Snackercise."

An exasperated mother with twin toddlers shoots him a look that's half annoyance, half recognition. You've gotten used to the double takes, the whispers, the occasional autograph requests. Jack handles them with ease, always friendly, always gracious, never making it weird. It's one of the things you admire about him, even if you're still adjusting to dating someone whose face is plastered around the city.

Today, thankfully, the mother is too focused on keeping her children from dismantling the candy display to approach. Jack sets down the Goldfish box with a mock grunt of exertion and turns his attention back to you.

"Want me to scan stuff?" he offers, reaching for the box of protein bars you're holding.

"I've got it," you say quickly, having witnessed his "scanning skills" on previous shopping trips. The last time you let him take over at Target, you'd ended up with three accidental duplicates and one item that never made it into the system at all.

You're juggling a case of sparkling water and trying to scan your membership barcode from the app when you groan.

"It's not loading," you mutter, tapping frantically at your phone screen where the Costco app has frozen on a loading icon. "Can you just get my wallet? It's in the pink one, middle pocket of my bag."

Jack perks up like you just asked him to defuse a bomb. "On it," he says, already elbow deep in your tote. "Why do you carry so much stuff in here? Are you secretly a suburban mom?"

"Just grab the wallet," you sigh, shifting the sparkling water to your other arm. The self-checkout machine beeps impatiently, its screen flashing a demand for your membership ID.

"I'm exploring uncharted territory here," Jack narrates, rummaging dramatically. "I may need supplies. Possibly a headlamp."

The employee monitoring the area, a tall guy appearing about your age, wearing a faded Yankees cap, glances over with amusement. You feel a flash of self-consciousness, aware of how you and Jack must look: bickering over a shopping cart like you've been married for decades rather than dating for months. It's comfortable, though. That's what surprised you most about being with Jack, how quickly the comfort came, how easily you fell into each other's rhythms.

Jack pulls out a crushed receipt, a Tide pen, and a tampon like he's on Let's Make a Deal. "Is this a snack bar? Why do you have a Canadian penny in here? What year even is this?"

"Jack." Your patience is wearing thin. The case of water is getting heavier by the second, and the lady behind you is starting to make pointed throat-clearing noises.

"Okay, okay," he says, finally fishing out your wallet and flipping it open. "Looking for the ol' Costco membership—" He hands you the card, "wait a sec."

You pause mid-scan, turning slowly at the change in his tone. "What?"

He's gone still. Smirking.

"No way." His voice cracks slightly as he pulls out a small, glossy rectangle. "Is this? Babe, is this my rookie card?"

Your stomach drops. "Oh my God, Jack. Give me that."

The blood rushes to your face so quickly you feel light-headed. Of all the things he could have found: the ancient gum wrapper you keep forgetting to throw away, the fortune cookie paper with the embarrassingly accurate prediction about meeting a handsome stranger, even the crumpled CVS receipt from when you panic bought three different pregnancy tests after a condom mishap last month (all negative, thankfully), he had to find THAT.

"You carry this around?" he laughs, holding it up like he's found hidden treasure. "In your wallet. Next to your license. And your credit card. I’m literally next to your driver’s license.”

You lunge for it, nearly dropping the sparkling water. "I forgot it was even in there!"

It's a lie and you both know it. The card is in pristine condition, carefully tucked into one of the clear plastic sleeves in your wallet where most people would keep photos of loved ones or emergency contact information. You'd bought it four years ago, back when Jack was just starting to make headlines, back when you would never have dreamed you'd one day be sharing takeout on his couch while he complained about his coach's defensive strategy.

He dodges you like a child on a sugar high, rookie card still in hand. "You've been walking around with literal 18-year-old me in your purse this whole time?" He holds it toward you, pointing at his face. "Look at this haircut! I look like I was just let out of a Boy Scout meeting."

"Stop talking," you hiss, your face fully on fire as the self-checkout voice robotically reminds you to please place item in the bagging area.

The employee at the front is now openly watching your exchange, a slow smile of recognition spreading across his face as he realizes exactly who Jack is, and exactly which card Jack is holding. Great. Just what you need: a witness to your humiliation.

"Oh, this is rich," Jack says, shaking his head. "You, giving me crap about being cocky, but meanwhile? You've got a personal Jack Hughes shrine in your wallet."

You glare at him, wishing desperately for a sinkhole to open beneath your feet. "Do you want me to put that card in the trash right now?"

He snorts, finally slipping it back into its slot with fake reverence. "Absolutely not. That thing's probably worth, like, eight bucks."

"Try a couple hundred," the employee chimes in helpfully, then immediately holds up his hands in surrender when you shoot him a death glare. "Sorry. Just saying."

"See?" Jack grins. "You're carrying around, what, Nathaniel's monthly rent in your wallet? That's dedication." He gestures to the Rangers fan, who apparently is named Nathaniel and who apparently needs to mind his own business.

You snatch the wallet out of Jack's hands, cheeks still burning, and you return to scanning items with aggressive efficiency.

"So," Jack says, leaning against the bagging area with his arms crossed, watching you work with infuriating amusement. "When exactly were you planning to tell me you were a fan?"

"I wasn't hiding it," you mutter, scanning a jar of almond butter with unnecessary force. "I told you I watched hockey."

"Yeah, but you never mentioned having a collection of hockey cards. Of me, specifically."

"It's not a collection. It's one card."

Jack raises an eyebrow. "Mm-hmm. And are there others at home? Like, do you have a special album or something? Holy shit, do you have posters?"

"No," you say, a beat too quickly.

The truth, which you would rather die than admit right now, is that you do own exactly one poster. It's from a sports magazine spread three years ago, and it's been carefully rolled up and stashed in the back of your closet since your third date with Jack, when things started to feel serious enough that you realized having his face on your wall would be deeply weird.

"You hesitated," Jack says triumphantly. "There are posters."

"There are no posters," you insist, though your traitorous complexion is probably giving you away. You've always been a terrible liar, a fact Jack discovered during your first attempt at playing poker together, when he cleaned you out of chocolate-covered almonds (your chosen betting currency) within twenty minutes.

"You know," he says, taking pity on you and beginning to bag some of the scanned items, "it's kind of cute."

"It's embarrassing," you correct him, focusing intently on scanning a pack of chicken breasts.

"Why? You're a hockey fan who happened to start dating a hockey player. That's not weird."

"It's weird if I was specifically a fan of you before we met."

"Were you?" he asks, and there's a note of genuine curiosity beneath the teasing now.

You sigh, pausing your scanning marathon. "I watched your games sometimes. I thought you were good." You look up at him, considering how much to reveal. "I liked how you played, like you were actually having fun, not just doing a job. It was... I don't know. It made the game more exciting."

Jack's expression softens, the teasing glint fading into something warmer. "That's... actually really nice."

"Don't let it go to your head," you warn, but you're smiling despite yourself.

"Too late," he says, tapping his temple. "Already filed under 'Evidence My Girlfriend Thinks I'm Amazing.'"

The self-checkout machine beeps demandingly, reminding you that you've paused too long between scans. You return to the task at hand, but the tension has dissipated, replaced by a comfortable rhythm as Jack bags while you scan.

"You know," he says after a moment, carefully arranging a tub of laundry detergent next to the candles, "I have some of your work saved on my phone."

You look up, surprised. "What?"

"Those illustrations you did for that children's book about the penguin? I downloaded them. They're in a special album." He shrugs like it's no big deal, but there's a hint of vulnerability in the admission. "I show them to the guys sometimes. Demko's kid loves the one with the penguin on the skateboard."

"You... show my work to your teammates?" The thought of Jack's hockey buddies, men whose names appear on jerseys and in ESPN headlines, looking at your penguin drawings is surreal.

"Yeah. I'm a fan." He says it simply, without the teasing edge from before.

You don't know what to say to that, so you just keep scanning, but something warm unfurls in your chest. It's been like this since the beginning, moments of revelation that catch you off guard. Reminders that beneath the public persona and the franchise player status, Jack is just... Jack. A guy who gets excited about Costco samples and saves your artwork on his phone.

Jack leans in, way too pleased with himself, as you scan the last few items. "I'm starting to think you were a fan before you were my girlfriend."

"I hate you," you say, but there's no heat in it.

"No you don't."

You glance at him. He's grinning like an idiot, casually bagging your industrial-size trail mix like this isn't the most embarrassing moment of your life.

"Okay, maybe I don't," you mutter, swiping your credit card.

He bumps your shoulder. "It's okay, babe. I'd carry your rookie card around too. If you had one."

"What would a children's book illustrator's rookie card even look like?" you wonder, punching in your PIN.

"First professional doodle," Jack says thoughtfully. "Maybe that red panda you showed me, the one you drew for your niece's birthday card."

"That was awful. I gave him six toes."

"It had character," Jack insists. "Very avant-garde."

You roll your eyes so hard it's a miracle they stay in your head. "Let's go before you start reciting your career stats to the family behind us."

"Oh, I would never—" He pauses, then turns to the man waiting in line. "Did you know she keeps my rookie card in her wallet?"

"JACK."

He laughs, loud and unrestrained, as you grab his arm and drag him away from the checkout area, your face flaming all over again.

"You're the worst," you inform him as you navigate toward the exit, receipt clutched in your hand.

"And yet, you keep my rookie card with you at all times," he counters, skillfully steering the cart around a display of seasonal patio furniture. "Makes a guy wonder what else you might be hiding."

"My deep regret about agreeing to date you?"

"Nah, that's written all over your face." He grins. "I'm thinking more like, do you have a scrapbook? Did you write my name with hearts around it in your diary? Ooh, did you have one of those fathead wall decals?"

You stop walking, fixing him with your most serious expression. "Jack. If you ever want me to sleep over at your place again, you will drop this immediately."

He considers this for a moment, then mimes zipping his lips. "Dropped."

"Thank you."

You resume walking, pushing through the exit doors into the parking lot. The late afternoon sun hits your face, warm against the crisp autumn air. Jack moves ahead to guide the cart, his shoulders relaxed under his faded blue henley, hair slightly mussed from where he ran his hands through it while deliberating between two different coffee brands for twenty minutes.

"I forgot to ask," he says as you reach the car, "are you coming to the game on Thursday?"

"I have that deadline for the fox book illustrations," you remind him, helping to load bags into the trunk of his SUV. "But I could come to Saturday's game maybe?"

Jack nods, lifting the case of water with ease. "Saturday works. Oh, don't forget, there's that charity thing on Sunday."

"Gala thingy?"

"Yeah." He slams the trunk closed. "Bring your wallet though."

You narrow your eyes, pausing with the shopping cart halfway to the return corral. "Why?"

"In case anyone asks for your autograph," he says with exaggerated seriousness. "After, you can show them my rookie card, tell them you knew me when."

You groan, abandoning the cart to march back to him. "I swear to God, Hughes—"

But before you can finish your threat, he catches you around the waist, pulling you against him. "You're cute when you're mortified," he murmurs, and then he's kissing you, right there in the Costco parking lot, with the orange glow of sunset painting everything gold.

When he pulls back, you keep your hands on his chest, feeling the steady thump of his heart beneath your palm. "I'm never taking you shopping again," you inform him.

"Yes you are," he says confidently. "You need someone to reach the top shelves."

"I can bring a stepladder."

"A stepladder won't tell you interesting facts about protein powder or help you pick out deli meat."

"Those are selling points?"

He kisses you again, quickly this time. "Admit it. Shopping with me is an adventure."

"A nightmare," you correct him, but you're smiling. "A recurring nightmare where I'm trapped in Costco forever with a hockey player who thinks jumbo sized everything is a personality trait."

Jack laughs, releasing you to retrieve the abandoned shopping cart. "Come on, nightmare's over for today. Let's go home and figure out where we're going to put that giant candle in your apartment."

"Your apartment," you counter. "You bought it, you store it."

"Fine, but you have to remind me to burn it. And not burn the apartment down."

You watch him return the cart, the easy grace in his movements, the way he nods politely to an older couple walking past. When he returns, he slides into the driver's seat beside you, immediately reaching for your hand across the console.

"So," he says as he starts the engine, "should I be concerned about any other professional athletes you might have rookie cards of? Am I competing with, like, the entire NHL draft class of 2019?"

You squeeze his hand, letting out an exaggerated sigh. "And here I thought you'd dropped it."

"I'm just saying, I should know if I'm in an open relationship with you and a wallet full of hockey cards."

"Just drive, Hughes."

My Patreon, where you can find exclusive fics not posted anywhere else: HERE

[gay-dorito-dust]

* re-corporates*

Hello again, sorry

Could I get some headcanons for a male [or gender nutral] reader who's a diva. Think the Emma frost kind. Bad bitch who's so cut throat when defending the team from the public view or like if Valentina is giving them shit.

"The only publicity cover up we need is that ratty wig you have on Valentina.😮‍💨>:["

However would literally lay down his life for anyone on the team and actively goes out of his way to make them more comfortable. Like demands them be treated well.

I love your work goodbye 👋

the second you all were called the new avengers, you wanted to wrangle Valentina's neck for the shit storm she was subjecting you all to.

You knew people wouldn't take too kindly to your group of assasins and super soldiers with blood on their hands being called a name that was once synonomous with indivisuals who might as well have been gods and worshiped as such.

you knew that things from here on out would be a constant uphill battle, where you'd be faced with countless obsticles for you and the team to overcome on your own.

after Yelena told Valentina that they 'own her now' you put your hand on the assassins shoulder, gave her a smile, before moving to lean towards Valentina where your smile became a malicious sneer. 'hopefully with all that money you'll get for these gullible lot, you'll be able to actually get your hair done professionally, and not have to rely on the bathroom mirror and the pair of siscors that i know you use to sort out those god awful dead ends of yours.'

you weren't done as you then later added. 'also if you try and use any one of my team as scapegoats in the media the second you can't control the narrative, i will come for your throat. do i make myself clear.' you threatned.

'crystal, you have my word.' Valentina replied with a tight lipped smile. you weren't convinced and she could tell, you would do anything in your power to keep your team safe, people you didn't give two shit about twenty mintues ago are now the people you would raise hell for in order to keep them out of the public eye should you see it was getting to them.

this mainly being john walker, whom seemingly only ever cared about how the general public and press saw him as; a failure replacement of steve rogers who went rouge and killed a man in broad daylight.

'i'll believe it when i see it De Fontaine. so actually try and make it believable.' you mockingly spat before taking your spot between Yelena and Alexei, flashing the public a fake smile that would've fooled anyone and everyone becuase it was just enough to keep people from looking at your teammates and keep the public focus on you and you alone.

you did not fuck about when it came to your teammates, you wanted them to be okay and to have a much more comfortable living within the tower, all the while trying not to wince and scowl at the...decorative choices Valentina made to the place and actively made the choice to throw them out. Ava and Yelena had once caught you hauling an ugly statue over your shoulder and asked what you were doing.

'i'm not allowing myself nor any or you to live with such an eyesore, the woman doesn't know fashion from trashion if it hit her in the face.' you told them before adding, 'oh also remind me to buy Bob a book shelf for his book nook along with another beanbag or at least a more comfotable loveseat to support his back, weighted throw blankets, weighted plushies and snug hoodie blankets. okay thanks!'

you do similar things for Yelena, Alexei, John and Ava by making their floors within the tower more tolerable, places where they can find respit in. For Yelena you got her food for Fanny and Houdini the guinea pig, even buying them better dog beds and cages for houdini to move and get exercise within, along with some new jewlery and fake plants to decorate the blandness of her window sill.

For Ava you got her some books, diaries for her to write her innermost thoughts in, movies that she missed out on and that you'd think she would like, art supplies so that she could get her feelings out on the canvas and most of them came out really beautiful and amazing that you began to make a room on her floor decked out as an art room for her to fully use at her complete disposal.

for Alexei you got him memorobilia of his golden days as Red Guardian, knowing how much he looked back on those days with pride, wanting nothing more to recapture it. You got a massive poster of the wheaties box with all of you on it to hang on his wall, since he wouldn’t stop talking about it. You even managed to find newspaper clips of the football team that he and Yelena talked about and had them framed and sat on his bedside table for easy accept for him to look at whenever he wanted to, much to Yelena’s dismay.

For John you made one of the rooms on his floor into a sort of relaxation room that you made sure had no wifi, no signal, nothing and force him to sit in his thoughts and just breath. You even got him some journals to go write in as he didn’t open up vocally about what he’s going through, so why not write instead. You pay homage to Lemar ‘Battlestar’ Hoskins too upon learning how close he and John were, knowing how his death had disturbed John to the core even to this day while not overstepping your boundaries upon this subject.

You were essentially their reminder to take it easier on themselves, to treat themselves better as you would force the team into activities that would prove beneficial for not only them, but to you all as a team. Movie and game nights, family dinners in the Kitchenette, team outings to a park or elsewhere when there wasn’t any missions to go on nor stupid press junkets that Valentina demands you all to attend.

‘Stop it.’ You took the vodka shot glasses from Alexei and Yelena.

‘Put it down.’ You confiscated John’s phone, pocketing it in your jeans.

‘Knock it off.’ You grab Ava by the elbow before she could phase through the wall, something she always did whenever you decided to rally the group.

‘Come one sweetheart, get in here.’ You gestured for Bob to step away from the stove where he was making breakfast for you all, wanting to make himself useful while he was learning to better understand his powers and their full extent, seeing the tired look upon his face.

You’d make them all stay in the living room won’t let anyone be left out, not stopping until all of you were laughing and having a good time, you just wanted them all to be okay and will fully intended to be harsh if you must to get the results you want from your group.

But you have days yourself when you couldn’t always protect your teammates, days where you were tired from the weight you’ve put on yourself in taking care for others over yourself that your team decided to step in themselves to help you for a change.

‘Come on, enough of that.’ John said as he took away your phone, pocketing it in his jeans as he guided you to the room he and the others had decked out just for you. It took them a week but it was worth it. fairy lights hung from the ceiling, bookshelves lined the walls, a projector was lying in wait to be used, loveseats were placed wherever possible along with little gifts each of the thunderbolts best suited you and your room.

Yelena- a collage of pictures of yourself and her along with the other team members falling asleep on one another during movie nights, having self care days or even having a makeshift fashion show in order to make you laugh with tears. A plushy that looked like Fanny and Houdini the guinea pig. It was the least she could do when you reminded her to put down the bottle, put down the phone and allow herself to be in the company of people who love her and were just as fucked up as her, grabbing her by the hand and dragging her out of the room and forcing her to talk Fanny for a walk.

Ava- a painting she made of you that was hung on the wall, trinkets to put in the alcove units John had installed, and even found a plush window sill seat should you ever want to look out the window without having to worry about a sore and numb ass afterwards. It was the least she could do when she needed to escape, phasing into your room and lying on your bed while you kept her company, making sure to keep some distance between each other as you knew touch was something she was iffy on especially when over exerting herself.

Bob- books that were well loved and well read by him that he’d thought and hoped would help you, the sweater you kept stealing from him, and a weighted plushy he had help picking out for you. He even picked out some vine wall decorations to hang over the bookshelves to give them a more fantasy feeling. It was the least he could do for the times you’ve stayed up with him when he couldn’t sleep, for opening your door for him whenever he needed to talk to someone, for giving him the tools to help better himself mentally.

Alexei- a massive poster of him as red guardian, a fishing rod for he drags you and the others to go fishing and vodka shot glasses, and flower table lights. Helped Ava set up the cushioned window sill seat. It was the least he could do for when you helped him take the opportunity to do something new with this second chance in the limelight, to do things he’s always wanted to do while also helping repair his and Yelena’s relationship in the process.

John- some throw blankets, cushions, put together alcove units for you to use however you saw fit. Also helped Ava and Alexei with the window sill seat as he claimed they were doing it wrong. It was the least he could do for the times where you’d pull him away from public view and practically shield him from view, from another bad new outlet about him for him to drown in later. Telling him that he owed them nothing.

You almost felt like crying upon seeing the room and the personal touches each of your team had left behind, you knew most of them fucking sucked as speaking their feelings but the fact that they had all come together just for you. It showed that they cared for you and acted as the biggest thank you you’ve ever received in your life, reminding you why you were so hellbent on keeping their heads above water, for moments like this where you could see them healing and accepting of themselves.

You were proud of your dysfunctional team, you would keep defending them until you couldn’t anymore, they still very much needed you but you needed them just as much and standing in the room they’ve took great care in crafting just for you only proved such.

‘Thank you.’ You said to them.

‘No,’ Alexei said, clapping you on the shoulder, ‘thank you.’

[asahehskafah]

every time I saw this post, I felt strange. It didn't feel like it applied to me, but I couldn't help pausing to stare out of the window for a moment.

It wasn't until last month that I realised it did.

A local transmasc had noticed me simply nodding along and saying 'same' when he was briefly summarising some of his trauma, instead of looking mildly to moderately shocked like everyone else at the meet-up. He pretty much cornered me in my DMs a while later when I was having a bad day and said 'hey do you wanna like. get into any of this?'

By that point I had already kinda figured out the deity identity stuff, but wasn't really that confident in owning it properly, nor had I figured out some of the more specific reasons why I felt it fit. He systematically deconstructed over 26 years worth of parental and societal trauma over a few days and it has made me realise how completely my internal structure is made up of nothing but a lattice barely-working beams that were never meant to be load-bearing, carefully constructed around a space of nothingness.

Lacking a sense of self is horrifying to me. My core is a void around which barely anything exists, except for a handful of preferences (I like specific times of stories, i dislike specific types of food, etc). I hadn't realised that I'd gone through so much of what I did until he literally ripped down the curtain shielding my introspection from going near that part of the room.

So seeing this post again, with the magnitude of mine own folly at last laid bare? It hurts. I am repressed. I've denied myself for nearly three decades. I've avoided doing anything to try to be myself because I've learnt from my past experiences that all it does is gets people hurt, and they hurt me back in the process. I feel like anything I'd do that would result in me taking up space endangers those around me, and thus endangers myself in response.

Making this account was a way for me to figure out what lays beneath the shell. I hesitate to even call it a mask, I don't think it's even vaguely reminiscent of humanity. I know it'll take time for me to find myself, but now that I'm aware of this wound at the centre of the world, it hurts so much to have to live with it.

I want to get through this. I need to live and survive and figure out what's on the other side of this barrier. I need to get out of my landlord(mother)'s house and cut her out of my life, have a space where I can actually figure out who I am and who I'm meant to be. But there's so much waiting involved while the 'affordable' housing company im on the waiting list for (and have been for over 6 months) does their thing, and I don't know how much longer I can hold out.

As I'm writing this, I'm AFK in FF14, listening to one of my favourite melancholy songs and sitting in a field of Elpis flowers, blooms meant to represent hope. The song is about the journey we've already walked, and how we've survived it. 'Unbroken promises we made so long ago. You're still here.' It makes me sob wretchedly to think about how I've survived this far, through the lens of this song. 'Always, night follows day. The sun will shine again. Walk on, never look back.'

I hope I can keep going.

i keep meeting transfems whose personalities are like, gaping wounds. girls who've been stomped on over and over until they start thinking they're uniquely evil and they deserve it. people shouldn't be allowed to treat us like this.

[redrosydiaz]

so oliver said it would be cool to check in on sperm donor baby and see if theres anything to explore there and i have NOT stopped rotating this inside my mind like a rotisserie chicken

just — i think it really could be SUCH a fun thing to revisit, later down the line, after buddie have gotten together and have settled a bit more. like it could be a really great catalyst for a "do we want more kids" kind of conversation.

like, they run into connor and kameron and sperm donor baby, who's really more like sperm donor toddler now, and it's maybe a little bit of an awkward encounter, bc none of the adults ever thought this would happen. like, after the baby was born they kind of went their separate ways, and idk maybe buck and connor still talk every so often, but its not regular and its never really anything deeper than a surface level catch up. theyre not exchanging christmas cards or anything. so, this is, really, the first time buck has seen the kid since he was born.

and it DOES kick up feelings in buck, but— not the expected ones that would come from seeing the kid that is half you but not yours. instead, it just stirs up that yearning that's always existed within buck, the yearning for a family, for a baby of his own. and — he's already got the first part. a family. he has that with eddie and christopher and he loves it, he loves their little family so so much. its absolutely perfect to him. but.... the idea of a baby.... he's always wanted one. he's always wanted to be a dad. to do the whole thing, from start to, well, forever. and he has christopher and he loves christopher but he also missed out on christopher's baby years, for obvious reasons. but he WANTS to experience that!! so bad!! and the idea of getting to do that with eddie.... it's a good one. its a good idea.

but its also a scary idea. because, buck knows eddie, he knows him better than he knows himself sometimes, but this? this isn't something he knows about eddie. he doesn't actually know if having more kids is something eddie wants. and he's maybe a little scared of what that kind of conversation could do to their relationship. because.... if theyre NOT on the same page about it.... well.

so he just. sits on it. doesn't bring it up. but of course eddie can tell that something is up, that buck has something on his mind. something he wants to talk about but isn't talking about yet. and so he does what he always does — he doesn't press right away. he gives buck the time and the space to decide when and how he wants to bring it up to eddie, whatever it is. except buck's fairly predictable in the sense that eddie can usually guess when buck will finally crack and start that long awaited conversation with him. but buck doesnt do that this time. he holds onto it still.

so eddie does press, and eventually buck does spill, and The Question comes up: would you ever want more kids?

and i think it would make for a deeeelicious storyline to have them NOT exactly on the same page, but also not not on the same page, yknow? just like — its not really something eddie has ever considered (aside from the baby scare with shannon all those years ago). it's just not something thats come up, like his other relationships never got to the baby conversation level and, frankly, he's had a whole lot of other Way More Pressing things to deal with to be sitting around contemplating a potential future second baby lol.

but then buck obviously HAS put some thought into it and it IS something he wants — has been for a long time, really — and so when The Question comes up and eddie's first response isn't an overwhelming yes, but is this hesitant, guarded well i don't know — buck's brain immediately starts to catastrophize. because an "i dont know" isn't a yes, and not a yes is a now a nonzero chance of no, which is a scary thought!! because this is buck's forever relationship!! and he doesnt want it to crumble apart over this!! and so he panics and hes trying to give eddie space to think about his answer, but that means that now instead of it being an open conversation, theyre both kind of stewing in their own thoughts and feelings and panics and fears about it and about what the other is thinking.

and for eddie — i think when he does think about it it's not something he is oppposed to, but he would initially approach it with a lot of hesitance and in a very guarded way bc his first instinct would be to think of all the ways hes fucked up with christopher and how terrified he would be to repeat that. of course, once he got past that intial reaction and like actually really thought about it (and went to bobby for advice about it!!) he would realize that these arent the same situations. he's older now, and he's more settled, and he's got a good partner in this — someone he feels supported by and someone he makes feel supported too! this isn't the same as it was fifteen, sixteen, seventeen years ago. the circumstances are completely different. and i think once he got over that mental block, of thinking it would be exactly like the first time, he would be — well, he'd still be a little terrified bc who ISNT a little terrified of having a baby, but he'd also be breathlessly exhilarated about it because. he loves being a dad!! he LOVES being a dad!!! and the idea of doing it again, WITH BUCK? theres nothing he wants more, actually!!!

meanwhile buck is trying to reconcile with what his answer would be to the question what do i want more? a baby or eddie? which one can i live without, which one can i not? and he would have to grapple with and ultimately make a decision to potentially give up one of those dreams. (he would, after deep thought and consideration, and ALSO a conversation with bobby, decide that he cannot live without eddie. he would choose eddie.)

and then when the two of them FINALLY come back together to have a conversation about this, buck would hit eddie with the i'm willing to give up this dream for you. because i love you, so much, and i love our family, and i want to grow it, i want more with you, i always want more with you, but if you dont then i'll be okay with that too, because our family is also perfect the way it is. and eddie is like buck and then he grabs both of buck's hands and he's like buck you dont have to make that choice and buck is like eddie yes i do, yes i do and buck is still obviously in distress bc like he made the decision and he isn't changing his mind he wouldn't but that doesn't mean letting go of the other dream wasnt hard. wasn't devastating too. so buck's like doing his best to not let that show but it's still bleeding through but eddie just takes his hands and his face is splitting into a smile bc he just cant help it he feels so joyous and so buoyant like hes walking on air and he tells buck you don't have to make that choice bc there isn't a choice. you can have both buck. and bucks like what... wait.... eddie are you saying.... and eddie nods and now BUCK is breaking out into a smile and hes got tears in his eyes and hes like eddie, oh my god we— we're going— and eddie finishes it for him, we're going to have a baby.

BUT JUST — the two of them having this conflict that isn't ACTUALLY a conflict at the core of it, because they ARE ultimately on the same page, but it takes some Work for them to get there and it makes them look at themselves and each other and their relationship in this whole new light, and it just proves how strong their partnership already is, how much love and also RESPECT there is between them, bc they dont just try to like convince the other to change their mind but they look INWARD and try to see if and how they can reframe their own points of view. and the whole thing just makes them even stronger together for it.

AND THEN THATS HOW WE GET GIRLDADS BUDDIE AND BIG BROTHER CHRISTOPHER <33

[cinnamorollcrybaby]

Can’t live without your love inside me now

Tags: sextherapist!Nanami x fem!reader, nocurse!au, taboo romance, heavy topics such as sexual assault, dead dove due to the power imbalance and heavy conversation.

Synopsis: In which Kento Nanami is a sex therapist, and his client is a young neglected wife with an emotionally absent husband. He teaches you what love is really all about.

An: Was really on the fence about posting the first part to this series. i’m glad most people seem to be enjoying it though :) so sit down and let sextherapist!nanami be your comfort for today

Part one. | Part two. |

‘I guess it makes me feel like I’m not good enough for him. Every time we have sex I try to cater to him, but it just feels like it’s never enough. If he had it his way, we’d probably have sex everyday, but I just don’t have that kind of time, energy, or desire.’

Those words burned Nanami’s ears. He knows it’s only your first session, but he can see that there’s already progress being made just by having these discussions of sex out in the open..

It reminded him just why he was so passionate about safe sex measures.

“I was only going to take the tea to placate you…”

Even if he knew that was the truth behind your answer, it still left a heavy somber feeling on his heart. He nodded, keeping his face trained on an empathetic expression.

“Do you do that often..? Put your needs behind the wants of others..?”

God, why was he reading you to filth right now? You took a deep shaky breath, reaching for more tissues because you’re definitely going to need them.

“It’s just easier..” Your throat feels like it’s trying to close as you’re attempting to force back your tears.

“Shh, let it all out..” Nanami knows that he shouldn’t be taking this tone of voice with you. He shouldn’t be shushing you and cooing to you that it’s okay, but he can’t override his innate biological need to protect and nurture.

The tears begin falling down your cheeks once again, and your shoulders shake with each small sob that wracks your body.

Nanami can’t resist himself. He leans over, and his big thick palm rests on your shoulder, feeling like a secure anchor out in the middle of the ocean.

“Such a kind, caring soul..” he whispers to you, using his hand to rub on your shoulder soothingly.

You feel the urge to press your face into his chest and vent out all of your innermost feelings and thoughts to this man while he strokes your hair lovingly, but you hold yourself still in your chair, knowing it’d be highly inappropriate.

Soon, your tears dry and you take a sobering breath. That was a lot, and the session isn’t even over yet.

“So, what do I do about.. him hounding me..?” For some reason, you still can’t come to terms with using the word coercion. It feels like a betrayal to your marriage, even if you do implicitly know that he’s been coercing you to get what he wants.

“Well, what can you do?” Nanami asked softly. He eased back into his chair, preparing himself mentally to get back in his counselor mindset.

“I guess I could…” you search your mind for answers. The only obviously wrong answer is to continue giving into him. “I could tell him how it stresses me out when he does that.”

Nanami nods his head. Inwardly, he doesn’t think that’s going to be enough. If your husband was anywhere near a halfway decent person, he would be able to understand how asking multiple times is inappropriate.

“What do you think will get in your way from telling him about how it makes you feel?”

You imagine telling your husband and how he’d react. “I guess I can be scared of him going in the complete opposite…”

Nanami’s eyebrows furrow, and he pushes his glasses up on his nose. “What do you mean by that?”

“Like… I imagine telling him, and he’ll probably respond by saying that he’ll never ask again and that I’ll need to initiate sex anytime I want it.”

Nanami can feel his eye twitch. Is there any manipulation tactic that your husband isn’t using? “I can see how that’d be discouraging. You unfortunately can’t control how your husband responds, but you can control how you phrase the question. Let’s roleplay this conversation if that’s okay. Pretend I’m your husband.”

Your face heats a bit. A tiny voice in your head tells you that if Nanami was your husband, you wouldn’t be having this issue. After taking a deep breath, you try and pretend that you’re speaking to your husband.

“When you ask me to have sex with you multiple times in a day, it really stresses me out and puts a lot of pressure on me.”

“So? What do you want me to do, Y/n? Am I suppose to read your mind and know when you want it?” Kento’s voice is uncharacteristically sharp and irritated. He watches your eyes widen in response, hurt coils on your face. “Is that how he’d respond?” he adds in a much softer tone, trying to remind you that this is just a roleplay exercise.

After a long pause, “Yeah, you got it spot on somehow…”

Because I know how narcissistic assholes act, he thinks to himself.

“Let’s try that question again, but this time, I want you to phrase your statement so you put blame on the questions and not your husband, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathe out, trying to find the words to say. “Those types of questions make me feel really pressured and make it hard for me to feel ready for sex.”

“Perfect. You did so well,” Nanami praises you with a warm smile.

Butterflies swarm your stomach. It’s not often you hear those words instead of hearing more things you need to work on. A small, timid smile curls on your lips.

“Do you think he’ll react poorly to that too?” you ask, wanting to know Nanami’s opinion.

“There’s no way for me to know how he’ll respond, but there’s only one way to find out, right? If we get no where with this plan, we’ll do something else,” he assures you, sitting back in his chair.

His eyes flick down to his watch. The session needs to come to an end soon, but the thought of you walking out of his home makes his stomach feel tight. He’s not ready to let you leave yet.

“Let’s briefly touch on the second thing—“

Your phone’s ringtone interrupts Nanami’s words, and you quickly apologize before fishing your phone out of your purse.

“It’s my husband. He’s probably wondering how much longer I’ll be.” You click the reject button and lock your phone, but Nanami can see how the simple act of rejecting his call makes you feel nervous. Your fingers shook lightly, and you gave him a tight-lipped smile.

“That’s okay. We can wrap it up here for today… During our next session…”

The sound of vibration fills the room this time.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Nanami. He gets worried..”

More like controlling. It’s just barely been one hour.

“Send him a small text and let him know we’re almost done.” Nanami gives a kind smile, even while he’s having violent thoughts about your husband.

He watches as your fingers fly across your keyboard, quickly typing out a small message. You then lock your phone again, stow it away in your purse, and you return your gaze back to Nanami.

If you keep your husband waiting too much longer, you’ll hear about it later today.

“During our next session, I want you to tell me how it went with your husband. I also would like to touch base on the next thing you said while we talked about your lack of sex drive. You mentioned that you try to cater to him, but it’s never enough. We’ll get into what that means next time, okay?” Nanami says, finally getting his words out without an interruption.

You swallow thickly, immediately feeling nervous for the next session. You’re not sure if you’re ready to talk about the act of having sex, but you knew it’d come up eventually.

“Okay… I’ll see you then, Mr. Nanami. Take care,” you wish him farewell before rising from the small couch. Nanami rises with you and guides you toward his front door.

His eyes can’t help but glance down towards your figure, and he feels his hatred for your husband grow. He must not truly understand how lucky he is to have a wife like you.

“Take care, Y/n. You have my number if you need to come in earlier than scheduled.”

As soon as the front door closes, you dial your husband’s number, ready to explain that the session went over in timing.

Meanwhile, Nanami also picks up his phone, and he dials a peer’s number, Atsuya Kusakabe. Nanami’s known Kusakabe since they were in graduate school together. They often shared phone calls with each other and their other friend, Hiromi Higuruma. While Higuruma wasn’t a therapist, he did work in legal, which helped Kusakabe and Nanami out a lot with legal questions.

After a few rings, Kusakabe answered the phone. “Hello?”

“Hey, you’re not in a session, are you?” Nanami asks, holding his phone between his ear and his shoulder. He pours water into his kettle to start on some tea.

“I wouldn’t have answered if I was in one. I only do intakes today, and I finished those up hours ago. Why? You needing to talk?” Kusakabe’s voice sounds even more gravely over the phone than it does in person. Nanami imagines he’s probably enjoying a cigarette right now.

“Yeah, I just got out of a first session with a female patient. It’s weighing on me.”

“I don’t know how you do what you do, Nanami. You know, you’d probably have a better quality of life if you focused on something else.”

“Not an option. I didn’t spend years of my life researching to do something else. This also isn’t weighing on me like my other cases do.” Nanami leans against one of his kitchen counters, looking up towards the ceiling. He debates on not telling Kusakabe at all about how your case. If he tells him how he feels, that means he has to acknowledge that it’s teetering on breaking ethical code.

“Well? Go on.”

“My client has a piss poor excuse for a husband, and I’m pretty sure the story runs a lot deeper than what is being said.”

“Jeez Ken, you said this was her first session, right? Of course there’s more to the story. That’s a given. You think there’s abuse going on?” Kusakabe flicks his cigarette, looking out into his property. He always enjoyed the quiet life way more, which is why he did career counseling. It was way less stressful.

“I know there’s at least emotional abuse going on. I can tell she’s not even aware of the levels of manipulation her husband is using. I had to bite my tongue several times throughout our session.”

A chuckle sounds from the other side of the phone.

“Don’t tell me you’re already partial to this woman, Ken.”

Nanami doesn’t respond immediately. His jaw tenses slightly. Luckily, the tea kettle whistling breaks the slight tension. “I just care. That’s all.”

“You wouldn’t be doing this job if you didn’t care, but do you care too much to do your job effectively?”

Taglist: @theuniversesnepobaby @aldebrana @pandabiene5115 @petrichorvzlia @stargirl-mayaa @simssssssss5 @des-todoroki @nevvynev @dysphxriaii @rjreins @sukunawhores @nanamin-chan @mullermilkshake @thelostkira @anuncalledbridge @elliehenry24 @williamafton26 @ambiguouslady42 @airandyeah

[humpster35]

Such a needy boy

Sub!Matt x Dom!reader

|Contains: slight piss kink, edging, ball stimulation, hair pulling, teasing, creampie, slight hitting, biting ,kissing, riding and reverse cowgirl.

“Chris, did you bring your card or do I have to get mine?”

Y/n asked as she looked through her purse. She didn’t feel like going all the way back to the bus—just because Chris was forgetful again.

Nick sighed in annoyance and went to sandwich isle.

“Nick’s got his card. We’ll be fine—just don’t buy too many condoms this time.” Chris rolled his eyes.

Y/n snickered and looked at a blushing Matt. Little did Chris know, those condoms were used when she would jerk Matt off and he didn’t get to cum in her as a punishment.

Y/n noticed Matt’s expression, he was wearing his grey jacket and pajama pants, it was clear that he needed to go—pee that is.

“What’s wrong sweet boy?”

Matt looked down at Y/n’s eyes with embarrassment and in a hushed voice he whispered

“Gotta go pee. I can’t—I can’t hold it in.”

Y/n nodded and took his hand. They walked into the men’s restroom—with Y/n making sure no one else was around. Matt took his cock out, it was so thick and long—Y/n licked her lips as he got ready to release.

“Wanna feel your hands.”

Y/n chuckled. She nodded and stood behind Matt, with one hand wrapping around the end of his cock—the other caressing his face.

“Okay. Go on sweet boy—you can pee.”

Matt blushed as Y/n kissed his lips. The feeling of Matt’s cock spilling out pee made Y/n squeeze it. She wanted to see how much Matt would struggle—he jerked his hips to try and get himself off but only found that Y/n was pressing a finger over his hole.

“Now you gotta be good—okay? Mommy won’t let you pee if you keep being naughty.”

Y/n kissed the side of Matt’s face, trying to soothe him and get him to calm down. She knew he would get worked up and start whimpering. Matt felt her touch and his body relaxed.

“Good boy.” Y/n praised and removed her finger.

Matt finished peeing with encouragement from y/n—he put his dick away and then stood behind Y/n as she washed her hands, because he wanted to wash his at the same time as hers.

Y/n didn’t stop though, she continued to rub the tip of his dick—the smooth feeling of his cock only made her subconsciously kiss Matt’s lips.

“N-No—can’t handle it.” Matt whimpered out. His face was beyond tomato red as Y/n laughed and wiped his tears.

“Okay i’ll stop. But remember—you asked for this.”

Y/n removed her hand and stoked his hair. Matt was beautiful and precious to her—but when he said things like this, it only backfired for him—not her.

“Cmon Matty, we have to go finish shopping now.”

Matt shook his head and pulled Y/n in—he started making out with her while his hand grabbed at her ass. Y/n could feel how needy Matt was being, she didn’t wanna give in just yet.

“Wanna feel you, c-can I feel you again?” Matt took Y/n’s hand and started making her rub his hardened dick.

Y/n quickly gripped his balls—the whimpering sound of Matt’s voice echoed angelically in the restroom. She kissed his lips gently then pulled away.

“Now come on. You have to wait Matt—if I say it again you’re not gonna get anything.”

Matt nodded while biting his lip—they both headed out of the restroom, passing a middle aged man who stared at the two in shock.

“Where the hell have you guys been?” Nick questioned—he was holding two sandwiches in his hand while Chris talked to the camera.

Matt forgot they were filming a video, he darted towards the sweets area—Y/n following closely behind.

“Matt which one should we get? Should we share one?” Y/n asked while looking at the different ice cream options.

It was clear that she had forgotten or not really been affected by what happened in the bathroom. Matt however—was losing his mind trying to appear normal on camera.

“Chris! Nick! Come over here and film.” Y/n kissed Matt a goodbye kiss while she headed off camera.

Nick and Chris approached Matt with their camera man Memo following suit, they began cracking jokes and thinking on what food items they wanted for the night.

Matt looked over two isles at his girlfriend. She was wearing extremely short shorts and a big t-shirt. He wanted her to ride him right then and there—the way her ass would basically swallow the shorts and her hips swayed, Matt was hooked.

On camera, Matt can be seen dryhumping the air to try to make up for the lack of contact. Chris and Nick didn’t catch onto this but Y/n did. She watched curiously as Matt, while staring at her—bucked his hips in the air. He soon grew tired of this and excused himself from his brothers.

Y/n watched as Matt started walking towards her—his hands inside of his pockets that clearly told her that he just wanted to touch his dick in some way. She shook her head as he got close enough to her.

“Nu uh. Go on back now—Matt I told you that you have to wait okay?”

“Can’t wait—feel like cumming.” Matt’s voice was whiny and desperate. He began kissing Y/n’s neck right there in the isle—not even bothering to pay any mind to Chris and Nick making jokes on camera about the situation.

Y/n finished looking for food items in the different isles—Matt standing behind her. He would grind more against her ass, when she bent down. Y/n would purposely bend down longer so she could feel his dick against her clothed pussy.

Matt’s kissing was beginning to be too much for Y/n. His hand would reach under her shirt and grope at her bare breast. His breathing was erotic in her ear—even the warmth of his breath was enough to get her going. But she had to stop him.

“Matt, baby—my sweet boy.” Y/n stopped him from kissing her and looked into his eyes.

She felt so guilty for denying him time and time again—especially when he did those eyes. Those damn puppy dog eyes. Y/n took his hand and walked with him back to Chris and Nick.

“Okay you idiots buy this for me and i’ll have to pay you back okay?”

Chris looked at Y/n then at Matt—he saw how his brother avoided eye contact with him. He just smirked at them while nodding.

Nick didn’t even care about what Matt was going through, he was going to get his perfect late night snack.

So with one final look and the handing of bus keys—Y/n led Matt back to the tour bus. The cool air hit them both at once, it felt so chilly—this only made Matt’s dick tingle.

He needed something. He wanted to cum so badly. Matt brought his and Y/n’s intertwined hands, and kissed them. He loved her so so much and wanted to show her that he could handle her denying him.

“Nice try, but you’re still off the hook.”

Y/n laughed at Matt’s fake pout. They got inside of the tour bus again—with Y/n instantly sitting down on the couch and Matt sitting in front of her. She knew he was kind of mad at her, but how could she not be awing at him—he looked so adorable.

“Matt come here.”

“No.”

“Matthew, I won’t say it again. Come here—come to mommy.”

Matt’s ears perched up at the sound of Y/n’s soft, tender and caring tone. He knew that she was trying to get him not upset but he was pissed that she wouldn’t let him touch her.

Y/n watched in amusement as Matt looked the other way instead of sitting by her. She started to open her legs more—exposing herself to him.

Matt glanced over at the sight of her cunt. He noticed how Y/n’s pussy would be so fat that it wouldn’t be able to fully fit in the thong she was wearing. He fully turned to her.

“What is it?”

Y/n smiled. She got up and straddled his lap, as her hands stroked the back of his head—with Matt staring up at her with curious eyes, Y/n would grind her hips.

“You wanna fuck Mommy’s fat—tight pussy?”

Matt’s hips slowly followed the rhythm of Y/n’s steady breathing. He wanted to take his time—so that she wouldn’t edge him on. Y/n pulled Matt’s hair with force, not too much to hurt him, and as his eyes flickered in ecstasy—Y/n bounced up and down on his bulge.

“Ouhh fuck—this what you wanted? hm?”

Matt nodded. He pulled Y/n’s hands away from his hair and pinned them behind her back. He knew she was in control most of the time—but he wanted to show that he could also make her react.

“M’gonna fuck you mommy —gonna fuck you nice and rough.” Matt’s voice was husky as he moved quickly to take out his cock.

Y/n slid her thong to the side to make it much easier for him—giving up on holding off. They both needed this and only had a short amount of time before Chris and Nick came back.

With a low moan and squeezing of Y/n’s ass cheeks—Matt thrusted his cock into her pussy. Her walls instantly clenched him as if they had been waiting all day—she was made for him.

“A perfect fit huh?—What do you think of that my sweet boy? Mommy’s pussy is alll nice and tight for you.”

Y/n moaned loudly—her body desperately bouncing up and down a whimpering Matt. His hands were shaking on the sides of her. Y/n didn’t allow him to touch her body because he wanted to ignore her earlier.

“No touching.”

Matt whined and started kissing her chin. His plump pink lips sucked in her skin a bit—each time he would do it. Y/n let out a breathy moan, she looked at his expression then stopped moving.

Once Y/n got off of Matt’s cock—the wet queef of her pussy making him more needy, she turned so her ass was facing him.

“Mommy look at me.” Matt pleaded, he knew he had made her upset but he still wanted to see his girlfriends face.

“Shut the fuck up.”

Y/n’s hands were on her knees, her ass began twerking up and down onto his cock. She would move so fast that whenever Matt would try to grab her—only to steady himself, she would instantly stand up again.

“Don’t fucking touch me. You wanted to be a bad boy so this is what fucking happens.”

Her ass jiggled so much. Matt’s bottom lip started to bleed from how much he was biting at it—he didn’t wanna make any sound in case his brothers and camera man were right outside.

“Awww is baby scared?” Y/n taunted while bouncing her ass more. The sound of skin slapping was loud in the bus—the pillows on the sofa started to slip and slide.

Matt’s lower body was beginning to be pushed off of the sofa, to the ground. Y/n was still moving though—with a hand on top of Matt’s hand to hold her waist and the other on her knee, she kept clapping her ass on him.

Y/n felt her stomach start to tighten. Earlier—Chris had given her a pepsi to drink on the road and Y/n ended up having three. Right now she could feel herself wanting to pee. Matt noticed this and lifted Y/n’s legs up—so now her pussy was fully exposed as his cock went inside of it and her ass continued to clap against his skin.

“Matty—Matt wait—Mommy’s gotta-.”

Matt whined, his dick was feeling so good—she felt so tight around it. He didn’t wanna stop moving and he was starting to be a brat.

“I-I can’t stop.”

Y/n’s eyes widened in fear, she was about to pee on the tour bus—and the others would be back in a minute. But she couldn’t deny how good her body was feeling—as Matt’s cock hit her cervix even more in this angle. She felt slutty for even enjoying how exposed she was.

She looked at the door to the bus and looked down at Matt’s pink cock. Her body betrayed her in two thrusts—she started squirting.

“Fuuuck.” Matt moaned, his pace speeding up even more if possible.

He placed her ankles behind his head and jammed his cock repeatedly into her cunt. Y/n angrily scratched at Matt’s forearms, she couldn’t handle this speed and she had lost control over Matt. Her legs shake violently until Matt’s cock slips out. Matt whimpered and hugged Y/n’s body until she pushed him.

“You wanna fuck me huh?” Y/n pulled Matt’s hair. She then lightly slapped his face.

“Don’t fucking disobey me—you got it?”

Matt nodded, Y/n pulled him in for a sensual kiss and with the ignoring of Matt’s phone ringing—Y/n lay on the floor.

“Cmon sweet boy—mommy wants you to fuck her like this now.”

He moved slow, his dick was still throbbing—full of cum as he slid back into her cunt. Their sex was much more intimate now, as Matt’s hips smoothly moved against Y/n’e skin. He could feel how wet her pussy was—he wasn’t gonna last much longer. Y/n pulled her shirt up to show Matt her tits. She knew how much he loved them—he eagerly leant down to suck at the buds.

“Ohhh Matty—I love you so much.”

Y/n moaned in ecstasy, the boy on top of her nodded. Matt started to kiss her again—taking his time to lick her lips, then slip his tongue inside of her mouth. He immediately locked his tongue with hers as his hips began to pick up speed.

Y/n laughed a bit. She knew how much Matt has wanted this all day—now he was deep in her and she was taking him in.

“Such a needy boy.”

Matt accidentally bit Y/n’s nipple from the pleasure.

“Ow!” Y/n started to tear up but she hid this as Matt came. He heard this, of course and pulled out. Y/n lay there a few inches away from her wetness from earlier—as Matt’s kids oozed out of her.

“Y/n are you okay? M’sorry I didn’t mean to-.” Matt started to tear up, he hated seeing Y/n’s lip quiver—he knew he had to make this right.

Y/n pulled him back on her body, they lay there in silence while Matt hiccups trying to calm himself.

“Shh shh shh.” Y/n pats Matt’s back—kissing his head.

“But I hurt you—i’m sorry I was so caught up.”

Y/n nodded. She wasn’t mad at him, it did hurt but she knew he didn’t mean to do this. Looking down at the tiny red mark on her chest—she got an idea.

“This would make a kickass tattoo.”

Matt stared at her in surprise and confusion. Wasn’t she mad at him? Was she gonna leave him?

“I know you didn’t mean it baby. Cmere my sweet boy.”

Y/n caressed Matt’s hair and face. She felt him move to grab a dirty shirt he owned.

“Thanks.” She blushed as Matt cleaned between her legs—and the mess on the floor.

“Looks like we have to go clothes shopping.” Matt laughed and Y/n smiled nodding.

“Don’t worry bub, i’ll buy you an even better shirt.” Y/n kissed his lips—she couldn’t get enough of kissing him.

Once they fixed their clothes, Matt looked at the several messages from Nick and Chris asking to be let back inside of the bus.

“Oh shit.”

Y/n leaned over and busted out laughing. Matt’s face was flushed and his eyes showed a worried expression.

“That means they heard us.”

“Mhm.”

Y/n giggled and pulled Matt close to her. Matt got up and grabbed some spray to make sure the bus didn’t smell bad—then he grabbed the keys off the floor to open the door.

Nick, Chris and Memo looked up at him in disgust and disbelief. With Nick being the most agitated one—he spoke up first.

“What the fuck you guys?”

Matt didn’t say anything as Y/n laughed in the background, holding her stomach.

“Oops.”

requested by @seraluvsu

sorry if the piss thing is kind of an ick or cringe

tag list💌

@sturniolofruitloop @sturnispider @mattsweethart @mattspillowprincess @hannahsturniolo @thenickgirl @nickssidewitch @natesfavoritehoe @chrissonnyangel @chrissleftshoe @chrisbratt333 @chrissfavgirlie @strnilolover @stvni0l0

[rustbeltjessie]

Literally just a week or two ago, my husband and I were ranting about ChatGPT et. al. and sharing our own college experiences of learning to bullshit. The story I told him was the one I’m going to share here:

It was spring 2001. I was 19, and one of my classes that semester was a Gay & Lesbian Literature course. One of the books we read was Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin. That was the book we were assigned to read over spring break, and then we were going to have a test on it our first day back in that class. Well, here’s the rub. I read really fast back then (can still read just as fast, just usually don’t have the time now to spend an entire day reading a book), so I read the whole book on the first day of spring break. By the time I had that class again and had to take the test, it had been nearly two weeks since I’d read the book, and I’d spent much of the interim partying.

The test had a lot of questions like “who said this on what page?” I couldn’t answer most of them, and basically wrote “I don’t remember” as my response for those questions. But the test ended with an essay question. I wrote the most beautiful, insightful essay, which clearly showed that I got the book (and I did get it, and I loved it and love it still—I’ve read it again since) even if I didn’t remember every detail—and that essay question was enough to get me a B+ on the test.

If I’d been using something like ChatGPT, that never would have happened. Because here’s what I’m trying to say with all this: even if you can’t remember every detail, your brain can still do the work. And it’s important—for many reasons—that you make it do so.

"what did students do before chatgpt?" well one time i forgot i had a history essay due at my 10am class the morning of so over the course of my 30 minute bus ride to school i awkwardly used by backpack as a desk, sped wrote the essay, and got an A on it.

six months later i re-read the essay prior to the final exam, went 'ohhhh yeah i remember this', got a question on that topic, and aced it.

point being that actually doing the work is how you learn the material and internalize it. ChatGPT can give you a short cut but you won't build you the the muscles.

[wonderjanga]

Nightmares

Billy’s been having terrible dreams? Nightmares? Memories for a while. It started ever since he got his powers. Sometimes they’re good, sometimes they’re bad. Sometimes he prays that his night will be dreamless, and sometimes those prayers aren’t answered. Point is, he’s been having very terrible and or questionable dreams(?).

Like he said, there are sometimes good ones…

Billy: *pops into a memory, sitting around a fire with a bunch of other people*

???: “____? “You’ve been staying at your drink for a while! If you don’t want it, you know, I’ll take it!” *pats Billy(?) roughly on the back*

Billy(?):“I do want it. I’m just…”

Billy felt as though he should be happy. Why did he feel like that?

Ah right. There had been a demon resurgence down south. They’d terrorized his(?) people, killing so so so many of them. Thankfully, he(?) and his comrades eliminated the source.

They were celebrating.

Billy(?): “I guess I’m just upset that so many people had to die before we could get rid of the bastards.”

???: *sighs* “I know. It is truly sad. But, at least more people won’t die. Isn’t that good?”

Billy(?): “Yes. I suppose it is?”

Maybe Billy overestimated how happy that memory actually was, but in his opinion, it was one of the most tame.

Then there are the bad ones… the ones that made Billy resolve to never see to killing another person unless they absolutely-posituvly deserved it. The ones that kept them up at night. The ones that made him too scared to fall asleep. The ones that, in one particular instance, drove him to go to the Watchtower and drink the dreaded and disgusting substance known as coffee.

Marvel: *thousand-yard stare, drinking coffee and grimacing every five seconds at the taste*

Batman: *walks past, and then takes five steps back, cause is Marvel actually drinking coffee?* “Captain? You’re here surprisingly late.”

Marvel: “You mean early? It’s 4 AM.”

Batman: “No, I meant late. Why are you here?”

Marvel: “Uh…” *debating whether to lie or tell the truth* “I don’t want to sleep.”

Batman: “…I thought you didn’t have to sleep.”

Marvel: “I don’t, but I also do. Sometimes.”

Batman: “Sometimes…? What’s the longest you can go without sleep?” *walks over slowly to sit down with him*

Marvel: *thinking about how long he could be Marvel without combusting or something* “About two weeks.”

Batman: “Is this the two week mark?”

Marvel: “Sure.”

Batman: *doesn’t really know what to say that but does want to dig more info* “…why don’t you want to sleep?”

Marvel: “Nightmares.”

Batman: “Nightmares?”

Marvel: *nods head* “Nightmares.”

*silence*

Marvel: *sips coffee and grimaces again*

Batman: “…Nightmares about what?”

Marvel: “Oh, y’know, the past, war, etcetera.”

Batman: “Oh.”

Bruce knows that Captain Marvel was a hero during World War II and did fight alongside US soldiers a good number of times.

Now, he’s wondering if Cap has PTSD.

Billy found out later that the reason for these memories resurfacing was that the gods were basically playing them like home movies whenever they got bored. They mostly got bored when Billy wasn’t doing anything so… yeah.

[ms-demeanor]

It seemed like your job was getting better there for a minute under new management. Is it new management that's fucking up now, not "fixable", or is it holdovers from the old guy?

So my company, formerly owned by Gary, was "Strangled Bats LLC". The company that bought us is "BunnyCorp Inc." Late last year, BunnyCorp Inc hired "Bruno" as our new CEO. The middle management are Bunnies from BunnyCorp.

Gary was a shithead who abused his employees but he was a stickler for documentation, standards, and naming conventions. Even though we lost a lot of documentation when BunnyCorp let Strangled Bats' CRM subscription lapse, I was able to save a bunch of PDFs and we actually still have printed copies of a BUNCH of our documents. Strangled Bats LLC was a terrible place to work and was very old-fashioned on some things, but we save our papers.

BunnyCorp Inc has a lot of very friendly bunnies in management who are cuddly and cute and easy to get along with and wouldn't know a configuration manager if it bit them in the ass. BunnyCorp was interested in acquiring and absorbing many companies to become one big company and cared more about purchasing companies (and therefore their client bases) than it cared about integrating those companies into itself OR than it cared about making notes on its customers.

Bruno has a long history of working in MegaBigCo and making things very efficient. When Bruno was hired as CEO, BunnyCorp officers did a great job of putting a good face forward and making it look like they had their shit together. By the time Bruno started, I had been working at BunnyCorp for three months and had mostly been focused on trying to get Strangled Bats' systems to mesh with BunnyCorp.

In January, Bruno had been with the company long enough that he started making changes to make things more efficient, because he'd been there long enough to see that there were some problems. At that point, I had started to notice that it seemed like we were duplicating an awful lot of work that was no longer related to issues with un-meshed systems, because I had meshed a lot of our systems. I got promoted and started training someone to take over the simpler parts of my job and was given the responsibility of looking into a lot of our contracts and agreements.

In March, the shit hit the fan and Bruno and I simultaneously realized that BunnyCorp Inc had been papering over a vast chasm of problems, most of which had to do with:

people with institutional knowledge leaving because they were underpaid

previous owners being shit at documentation

nobody except LITERALLY FUCKING ME knowing what modern server hardware standards and pricing should be

solutions for clients that were built with an eye toward reducing cost in the moment rather than planning for growth or longevity

Bruno has good thoughts about improving stuff, thoughts that I support and think are a great idea and think we should try to implement, but he's also a MegaBigCo kind of guy and likes to let employees grind to prove that they're dedicated and worthy of a promotion/raise - this is a shitty attitude that I think is counterproductive and I think is on the verge of leading our entire senior staff into burnout, but he's not at all wrong about the changes that need to be made. Bruno found out that a bunch of our clients don't have spare server drives onsite and shit a brick because of how badly he wants us to get spare server drive to the client sites; he is willing to eat the cost if it means we can get spares to the clients. That's great, it's not wrong, and there aren't enough hours in the day for me to get that done and also do procurement.

Bruno is only just now seeing the tip of the iceberg in terms of how utterly fucked our documentation is; if Bruno is the captain of the ship telling us where to steer, I'm the lookout on deck who sees the icebergs before anybody else.

I have been shouting to the Bunny management about icebergs since December and the ship hasn't changed course; Bruno has directed us to put more coal in the boilers and speed up and to patch up some holes and scrape some barnacles off the hull, but I can't shout loud enough to get the Bunnies to pass on the message about the iceberg, so all I can do is make notes about where the iceberg is an when we hit it provide the notes that I took that the Bunnies ignored so that maybe we can start patching up the breaks before water floods in and kills us all.

Things were great for a while because I was no longer working with an actively abusive shithead. Working with Gary was like sighting icebergs on the deck of a ship that leaked a bit and avoided icebergs deftly, but I was left to freeze on the deck all the time because freezing on the deck was all I was good for. Getting acquired by BunnyCorp was like someone handing me a warm coat and telling me to go inside and have a cup of tea and sit by the fire. But then I realized that the niceness and the okayness with taking time off and the slight raise were very comforting but someone still had to go out on deck and watch for icebergs but now nobody is passing on the message that we need to steer away from the fucking icebergs because if you say there's an iceberg that might make someone feel bad and making people feel bad is counter to the BunnyCorp company culture.

I have a constant drumbeat in my head that says "I can fix this, I can fix this, I can fix this." If I work late and go get the info for all the firewalls that I can access, and share info with the team about the ones I can't access, I can update the documentation and fix this. If I get notes on all the servers, and get spares for every machine, and get the techs scheduled to go out and install, I can fix this. If I can go in to the configurations for all five thousand computers and manually check and archive all the old devices, and manually update a field for every one of the two thousand windows 10 machines, maybe our team of sixteen can replace twelve hundred and upgrade eight hundred computers at our two hundred client sites in the next five months. If only I can go through all of those two thousand configurations and update that field before I get dragged away to another phone call from a client or another meeting about how the next acquisition is going to go, so I better do it now, at eight pm at ten pm at midnight at two am when there's nobody to call and no meetings scheduled. If I could just *lock in* I can save us, I can make sure the clients are getting a good turnaround time on their requests and I can make sure the licenses are all getting renewed because I updated all the configurations and I will update all the configurations going forward and I will document this company at knifepoint and I will hold it together with duct tape and spite and I will make it work i will make it work nobody else is doing anything I have to make it work because that's an iceberg, I know some of them see the iceberg, and they're Bunnies and I'm a Bat, some of them have seen this iceberg long before I could see it but they're not turning but if I yell about it and make notes about it and lock in and document it and skip lunch and skip lunch and skip lunch and skip lunch and skip lunch and take half a break so that I can get another device off the list maybe THEN they'll act like there's an iceberg ahead and they'll turn and I won't have to fly off the deck and go find another ship and I can stay on the boat with my friends and the nice bunnies and it will be okay, it will feel like it did after Gary was gone and I could BREATHE and people said that I was smart and good at my job and I deserved more money and I had been treated badly and there were no icebergs because it was so bright and sunny and nice that the whole sea looked like dazzling snow and seemed soft and safe and like I wouldn't have to keep freezing on the deck to stay alive.

So.

You know.

There have been ups and downs. I'm having some trouble staying motivated and even with some decent management it's difficult to orient the team toward the metrics we need to meet in q3 to stay solvent and keep our forward momentum up.

I'm considering sniping our customers and starting my own business, nobody makes the office admin sign a non-compete.