#because the live version goes so fucking hard

[twilightkitkat]

Thinking of a poolverine time travel au where Wade and Logan go back in time all the way to Origins but only Wade remembers.

Cue Wade annoying the fuck out of a younger version of Logan and slowly managing to worm his way into his heart. Wade insists on accompanying Logan everywhere and is an irritating but oddly useful thorn in Logan's side. It's like he knows Logan with how in sync he is with his thoughts and actions, moving like he has practice working alongside him. His talking fills up the silence and gives Logan a companionship he didn't know he could have, not when his only real point of human contact for centuries was Victor.

It's... nice to be around someone who isn't a psychopath. Wade is insane, sure, but he doesn't belittle Logan for having emotions or "weakness." Logan appears tough on the outside, but killing civilians eats him up on the inside. And so when he's drunk he breaks down. Wade holds him in his arms as he sobs and comforts him, and it's more than Logan ever had before. They grow closer after that.

Then one day, Logan decides to finally leave. He throws down his dog tags and turns away, pissed off and vindictive but also scared because he's leaving behind everything he knew. War, violence, and his brother. Until someone taps on his shoulder and he whips around ready to tear them apart only to see Wade, grinning awkwardly, who says he'll go with him and hands him his own dog tags.

Logan nearly breaks down. He hugs Wade so tightly that he damn near crushes him, holding onto the only person he has left. The relief is so overwhelming that it's hard to stop himself from collapsing.

They manage to escape together, with the help of Wade's negotiation and language skills. (Logan doesn't want to think about how hard it would have been to do this entirely by himself, stranded on an island where he couldn't even communicate.)

They flee to Canada together. Wade is prepared for Kayla Silverfox to marry Logan except... that doesn't happen. When she comes over and acts friendly with Wade, touching his arm and giggling, Logan looks at her with such disdain it's like she's a pest intruding on his territory. When she turns to Logan, flirty but shy, he brushes her off easily and marches away with Wade in tow. They don't end up marrying.

Logan and Wade live together in domestic bliss for a few years. They both work in construction, Logan as a lumberjack and Wade as a builder. The night after their encounter with Kayla, they'd gotten together. Logan, fueled by pent-up jealousy and possessiveness, finally reached out to grab Wade and yank him into a searing kiss. He'd looked wild and uncertain, confused by his own feelings, until Wade cradled his face and kissed him back. And Logan melted against him.

It's like all was right with the world. Except... Wade knows how the story goes. He knows that this story doesn't have a happy ending. He knows that Victor will return and that the odds are stacked against him. He doesn't even have his mutation right now, let alone a way to defeat Stryker on his own.

And so he starts planning. He needs a plan that keeps the major plot points the same while creating a better ending. Logan needs to get his mutation, as painful as it was, and Stryker's island needs to be destroyed. But Wade couldn't let Logan live through the same heartbreak as last time. And he sure as hell wouldn't let himself die or become a fucked up trial experiment for the Weapon X program.

Wade will make sure that he and Logan make it out in one piece, even if he has to bend the fucking timeline until it nearly breaks. He has to. He won't accept any other outcomes.

Even if he has to fight the universe itself, Wade will make sure Logan gets a good ending.

(If you like this idea I expand on it a lot more in this post.)

[autistickaitovocaloid]

Top song playlist is here what are my vibes?

[forcedhesitation]

why should it just be steve who has all the torturous purgatory realm fun?

[arolesbianism]

Impulsively spent an hour making a big splat tune playlist and lemme tell you I forgot how much I just do not care for off the hook songs. Damp sock however? Absolute fucking perfection they take the best part of off the hook (Pearl and Marina's voices) and both let them properly shine and also fixed what I didn't like abt off the hook music (the boring ass instrumentals) by doing what sploon does best and going ham with the piano and guitar

[sonofatoasterwaffle]

I know there's a lot of people in the fandom now who didn't watch from the beginning/don't watch s1, but I just can't express to you how important it is to me. For every character.

Hen cheating on Karen is a stupid, stupid thing but it tells us so much about who she is and who she wants to be and it makes HenRen so much better because you know they FOUGHT to get there. Hen saying she's scared she isn't the woman she wants to be, and then still choosing to chase after that??? To confront Eva and to tell her that it was never Hen who tore them apart. That woman is made of iron and soft edges and love.

And Chimney? Man, Chimney is such an incredible character for so many reasons, and Madney is one of my favorite TV pairings ever, but watching that man live through being single. Trying to teach himself that being himself isn't a bad thing. That he really will find someone who loves HIM and not whatever version of himself he's created for the Girl of the Week.

Bobby is so fucking suicidal in s1 it's not even funny. That man is nothing but a ball of regret and shame and yet he STILL BUILDS A FAMILY AND HE ASKS FOR HELP AND HE MEETS ATHENA AND LOVES HER SO GODDAMN MUCH EVEN THOUGH NEITHER OF THEM IS EVEN REMOTELY HEALED. Goofy Bobby who wants to shoot the Roomba with Athena's gun and goes on shenanigans with Michael doesn't EXIST without s1 relapsing raging Bobby. Without Bobby asking Hen and Buck for help and them immediately pulling him into their arms and promising that they will.

And Buck?!?!?! That boy is such A Mess. He's an absolute Mess who doesn't really stop to think a single thought for most of the season. But when he does?? He works hard to become a person who can be relied upon. He builds empathy not only for the people around him but for himself. You start to love him when he's trying so hard to become a better person, but 1x10?? Finding the man who's been using Buck's face to catfish women-- in such a spectacular way that it very nearly blows up Buck's life--dead, and having so much compassion and empathy for him that he stabs a bloated corpse to make sure that man has dignity in his own death??????? Are you serious????

S1 is worth it man. If you haven't seen it, you should.

[loganhowlettshousewife]

i want everyone to know that i woke up at 2am and grabbed my phone and typed out the draft version of this, and then promptly fell back asleep. i literally could not remember a word of what i’d written when i woke up. anyway here’s the drabble that came to me in my dreams apparently.

-

logan falls for you, hard. and for once, he’s not afraid of it. he’s dangerous and always hurts those around him, directly or indirectly it doesn’t matter. he hates getting close to people just to watch them get hurt again and again, watch them start to resent him for the bloodshed that seems to follow wherever he goes.

but with you it’s different. you can heal, just like him. you get injured on a mission and the stab wound knits itself back together, the bullet hole closes. you don’t have a single scar on your body; someone who didn’t know any better would think you’d never been through any hardships.

he wakes from a nightmare, claws in your chest, and panics for a moment as he pulls them out, watching your shocked face. but your expression melts into a loving one in a moment, pain receding as quickly as it came, your hand reaching out to cup his face. 

“‘i’m okay,” you tell him, and it’s true. your pretty silk pajama top is ruined, but through the holes in the fabric he can see the smooth skin of your chest, unmarred. the blood remains, a reminder that he’s hurt you, but you just hold him tight until you fall back asleep. 

he watches you and wonders how he got so lucky, how there could be someone so perfectly suited for him. not just in your personality and appearance, because he’s fallen for many people in his two centuries of living, but someone he can’t ever hurt.

his biggest fear, suddenly made irrelevant.

the first time you have sex, you tell him to let go, not to worry, he can’t hurt you. the animal part of him yearns to claim you, violent and intense the way his nature wants him to be. and for once, he can.

he’s close, pounding into you harder, goaded on by your cries of his name. he leans down as if to kiss you but goes for your neck instead, canines sinking into the skin, breaking the surface and drawing blood. he pulls back, licking the blood off his lips, your blood, and that’s the final push you need. your orgasm hits you like a wave, and you clench around logan, who groans and thrusts into you one, two, three more times before coming.

it’s as he’s cleaning you up that he notices something strange. at first he’s confused, and then his stomach drops. you’re not healing. he wipes the remaining blood from your neck, as if when he moves the washcloth away it’ll be gone. it’s not.

you must see it on his face, because you giggle and say, “i wanna keep it. want everyone to know i’m yours.”

and fuck, that does something to him. he’s possessive of those he cares about, but it’s usually treated as an inconvenience, an annoyance. but you love it, you revel in his possessiveness.

“how are you- it’s not healing?” he’s still confused, but secretly pleased. 

“logan,” you whisper, “you know my healing is different from yours, right? i have the power to heal myself and others. it’s not automatic like yours, i can control it.”

he didn’t know that, actually, but he’s glad. because it’s just one more thing about you that makes you perfect in his eyes, more than perfect in fact. you’re choosing not to heal the mark he left on you, claiming you as his. you’re accepting it, accepting logan even with all his flaws and detriments.

you never heal any of the marks that logan gives you. no, those you wear with pride.

[bittersweet-folder]

“types of kinks svt has” maknae line ver??

~□☆seventeen imagines

~♡Types of kinks I think seventeen has [maknae line version]

• Here's the hyung line version • masterlist • if you wanna be in the taglist for fics then comment under my master list •

Song rec: funny valentine by misamo🚶🏻‍♀️

[MINORS DO NOT FUCKING INTERACT] [ reader is female with vagina and breasts ]

☆Mingyu: (a switch a pure switch through and through)

Creampie: this man loves lovessss it messy and the way he's so fucking vocal, he can't keep his in moans under control. He will moan loudly because of the way you feel so warm and wet around him. 

Mommy kink: I personally can imagine Mingyu whining and moaning "mommy" or "noona" even into the reader's ears more than him taking control. He likes it rough but you gotta give him kisses like anywhere. He's a huge softie. 

Edging: just like he loves you taking control it also goes the way around too. He loves seeing you struggling to cum.

Sensory deprivation: blindfold him and it's enough for him to go feral 

Begging: told y'all he's a softie also down bad for you. 

Praise kink: he knows he's big so yeah. And he literally worships your beauty. 

Extras: he loves you're boobs and will rest his chin on them afterwards while pulling you closer on the bed

☆Minghao: (a mean yet soft switch with a dom lean)

Edging: so mean I swear and literally loves seeing you all frustrated and become a moaning mess under him.

Waxplay: hmmm Minghao is artist so expect this. and of course he'll use wax which is skin safe.

Bondage:really depends on his mood if he wants to tie you up or not. (* clears throat * that live y'all. remember?🚶🏻‍♀️) and he would let you tie him up as well. Gets so flushed up when you do so.

Spanking: only if you're into it.

Begging: oh he wants you to beg for what you want him to do in the bedroom.

Creampie: I am hoping it's very self explanatory by the first point itself

Slight dacryphilia: sometimes it's so good to him to see you in tears on how he's making you feel.

Extras: is a whore for you in his shirt, riding him until he can't take it anymore.

☆Dokyeom: (a huge softieee switch)

Oral fixation: he's in love. He's love making with you so expect him to be pussy drunk.

Creampie: once is never enough for him. He needs more.

Riding: you riding him in a cowgirl position is enough to drive him crazy. He's so loud and a literal moaning mess under you.

Praise kink: you both literally worship each other's body. He's literally so down bad for you.

Foreplay: it's a must sweetheart we shouldn't forget how much of a softie this man is. He's literally melting into those kisses.

Teasing: idk if I should count this as a kink but yeahh he'll tease the hell outta you once he gets the confidence to.

Extras: he has a thing for you in lingerie. Man's awestruck and so turn on just by the sight of you on lingerie.

☆Seungkwan: (oh he's a fucking power bottom you CANNOT convince me otherwise)

Teasing: he lives to rile you up the best way possible.

Mommy/noona kink: if you're older than him then expect him to moan "noona" while you're fucking him into oblivion. Or even if you aren't he will he will moan mommy.

Marking: he loves claiming what's his and what he can't share.

Pegging: if he's in the mood he'll let you know.

Dacryphilia: he will cry a bit outta pleasure because you're making him feel too good.

Oral fixation: oh he loves eating you out.

Edging: he might seem sweet and sassy but this man loves to see you struggling to reach your high. That goes around the other way as well by the way.

Degradation kink : it's like a once in a blue moon thing when he's "misbehaving".

Extras: he's a softie too. Take care of him. Oh and also he loves it when you ride him in a cowgirl position. He gets very very touchy and moans quite loudly.

☆Vernon ( a soft dom who can go hard later on if you want him too)

Praise kink: yeah Vernon's quiet so what? He's literally so drunk in love he loves praising you and your body.

Foreplay: he lives for those intimate touches and soft kisses before proceeding more.

Marking: oh he can get jealous so he loves claiming what's only his and no one can have it.

Spit kink: if you're into it. Expect him to get nastier after being soft with you.

Teasing: oh he'll tease the hell outta you.

Creampie: he needs more and he knows you do too. He loves it messy and sweaty.

Dacryphilia: oh if he's jealous he will make you cry on his cock.

Extras: he plays all those sensual songs you love when he fucking you into oblivion.

☆Dino ( a soft yet mean dom who loves it rough eventually)

Daddy kink: does this need an explanation? I hope not.

Edging: hmmmm the grin he has on his face while looking are your tired, sweaty flushed up face after not being able to reach an orgasm.

Praise kink: "such a good girl" "You're doing so well, give me one more? Yeah" Man worships your body literally.

Foreplay: we all know how romantic he is. And there will be a session of intimate touches and kisses because he knows you love it just as much as he does.

Spanking: this is like a one in a blue moon thing when he's jealous.

Creampie: he just can't get enough of you. He needs and craves more.

Squirting: man lives for pushing your limits. He fucking devours the view of your exhausted flushed up body after he's made you squirt.

Extras: he loves it when you ride him he loves it when you wanna take control.

©bittersweet-folder all rights reserved.

don't try to pull any weird stunt of stupidity by pirating my works 🤨✋🏻

A/n: have been mentally exhausted these days and college is tiring. So sorry for the late response anon! Love y'all. Thanks for any kinda support. Also the taglist is only kept for fics I'll write.

Updates about other fics will be posted later.

Thanks for the support.

[musicallisto]

· · · · ♡ IF (SAINZ WIN == TRUE) (cs55)

… starring carlos sainz x f!engineer!reader ... 4.4k words ... in which carlos is an effusive, self-assured lad to every member of his team... except ferrari's head software engineer, making her wonder if he secretly hates her guts. ... based on this request ... warnings for language (minor) ... my first ever (posted) fic for carlos aaaaa (i have written A Lot More about this man because he occupies my every waking hour, but i shan't share it yet). in honor of me missing my communication networks final last week i made the reader a software engineer, but you would Never catch me willingly coding anything in c++ outside of my mandated assignments. no not even for carlos sainz jr. i have morals. this is open for part 2 if you guys enjoy it <3

He speaks the language of princes.

It's not in anything he says, no, he's much too industrious to waste time boasting, but rather in all that he doesn't. Carlos walks into the Ferrari motorhome, with that good-natured smile and that slightly disheveled hair from the morning's cycling session, and heads bow. Not out of plight, or even obligation, but mostly because it's hard not to. His warm greetings to everyone—Ciao's and even Come stai?'s to his team members strolling down the hallways before the weekend—, his keen interest in remembering little things about engineers' and photographers' lives, his nonchalant stride around the parc fermé all force camaraderie at least; reverence to most.

Wherever the red car goes, Maranello or any other corner of the world, religion follows, and though Carlos Sainz has never quite fit into the nooks they keep for their idols—their walls are carved for Monégasque shoulders—, he's at least always carried the air of a rebel leader on unforgving land.

But if Carlos is Ferrari's bastard prince, then clearly you are a subject he would not go to war for.

Or so he makes you think, once again, on that hot Singaporean afternoon.

You hadn't meant to interrupt, really, but with only one hour to go before FP1, you needed to talk to Riccardo Adami; something about the software updates, optimization of the data acquisition systems to account for Marina Bay's sweltering heat—run for half a second too long, overheat half a degree too much, and everyone's calculations would be going to hell. So of course you'd corrected it, supervised a brand new version of your code for the weekend, for that tenth of a Celsius; competition drove you. Almost just as much as those solar eyes boring into you when you walk into the room.

"Riccardo, about the softw—oh. Carlos. Hi," you timidly trail off when Carlos' eyes meet yours.

The room gets quiet, and it is only then that you notice how much space his laugh takes. Usually, you would've recognized the accent from outside the door, the boisterous voice regaling the Fifty-fives with another funny story—how could you not, when it sends shockwaves down your stomach? He seems to have been in an animated conversation with his race engineer, but as you get closer to the two men you notice the crinkles lengthening Carlos' eyes are fading with his smile. You aren't sure he's even said hi back.

"We've changed the code for acquisition, but some loops could still cause problems with overheating, particularly the engine oil temperature sensors…" you explain, though half your attention is directed to your peripheral vision, in which Carlos sways on his two feet, averting your gaze at all costs.

But you're not a college girl with a crush, you're Scuderia Ferrari's head software engineer and so you go on with your precisions to Riccardo. What to expect during free practice, how to overshoot any nonessential sensors that might fuck up the data analysis... until, mid-sentence, Carlos excuses himself awkwardly, pats Ricky on the shoulder, and walks out of the room.

You will your face into not betraying the sudden ache in your throat. How he simply acted like you weren't there... didn't even inquire about the updates. About the race. About your flight, about how much you loved Singapore's twinkling lights, about... you.

"Xavi and Charles know this already, but we really gotta test it all now before it gets cooler for FP2," you conclude with a too-hard swallow. Back firmly turned to the door Carlos just disappeared out of.

Riccardo thanks you, offers his own insight, some banalities about the risks of rain—no, you shouldn't consider them banalities. Nothing, on a Friday, is a banality anymore; yet everything is when you remember how Carlos' entire face shuts close when you're around, how his tone quietens down, how he repeatedly and stubbornly conceals all his rays of brazenness from you.

Does he hate you? Despise you? Are you not worth his effrontery?

This is ridiculous. You're not a college girl with a crush, you're a damn senior member of the team with responsibilities and he doesn't owe you anything more or less than you him—

"Riccardo," you neither ask nor plead. "Has Carlos... said anything about me?"

"About you? Like what?"

"I don't know... but you did see he just... left while I was in the middle of talking, right? And he looked annoyed as soon as I came in." And for all that's holy, try to pass this off as mere politeness and not a heartache that is eating you alive.

"Maybe he was just bored."

"So I'm boring?"

"No," Riccardo wheezes, in uncharacteristically high spirits for the conversation. "But I've worked with a ton of drivers, and you know, they're all the same. Less time discussing boring analytics is more time they spend in the sim. Or on track. What, you think he's angry at you or something?"

"I just... don't get why he's always so guarded and distant with me but so outgoing and confident with you guys. Charles isn't like that either. It makes no sense. We're a team, all of us."

The Italian looks at you for long seconds, amusement noticeable on his features, and you would shake him up and tell him to stop giving you those pity eyes if you lacked the tiniest bit of respect for the man; instead, you frown and cross your arms.

"He'll be in a good mood tonight when we top free practice," Riccardo assures you before you can ask him if he needs anything else. "and even better tomorrow after getting pole. You can talk to him then if you want."

A smile creeps its way on your lips without you conjuring it. There it is, that loyal veneration that only men and women of the Scuderia possess. Something in those southern eyes Carlos shares with legend has made you religious, too.

"I'll hold you to that... we could all use a Singapore miracle."

Singapore is a miracle.

Surely any other team would scoff at the word, bragging that a pole position has nothing to do with miracles, that it's all meticulous teamwork and endless iterations on calculators, but Ferrari is deeply supersitious at its core. You—the centenarian team, its red-hot beating heart—don't shy away from thanking divine intervention. Maybe that's the reason why it still works.

After Carlos' last pole in Monza, the whole Scuderia had dared to dream of something different, a glimmer of scarlet in the season's overwhelming orange. Of course, an uncatchable Max had put a dampen on the fervent Tifosi's mood, but the formidable hope machine had revved back to life...

and now it's roaring in Marina Bay.

Leclerc's side of the garage claps for a hard-earned P3, but it's the Spaniard's team that erupts into cheers and rushes out into the pitlane to congratulate their hero. You stare at his lap time on your monitor with a grin—1:30.984, not even a tenth faster than his teammate—as cheerful screams, in Italian and Spanish, fill the garage; they get louder when Carlos walks back inside, grinning ear to ear and not even bothering to dodge the strong-arm pats on his head and back.

"Twice in a row, cazzo!"

"And this time you won't have Verstappen underfoot!"

"Perfect lap, Carlos, that was a perfect lap..."

"Grazie a tutti," Carlos beams, fire suit down to his waist, running clammy hands through his hair—he parts the red sea as he walks deeper into the garage, close to where you are. "I think we all did a very good job today, and now we gotta finish the job tomorrow..."

He laughs with the mechanics, a sun of fire and victory casting its rays onto the tarmac, and maybe it's the euphoria of the moment, but a sudden wind of courage rushes through your blood, and you walk up to him.

"Bravo, Carlos."

Your voice hits him like the purr of an engine in the ruckus, overshadowing any other sound; he whips his head in your direction, shiny eyes colliding with yours, and for the first time you don't back off but hold them in awe, and his smile doesn't fade, but rather shifts. To surprise, or... coyness?

"You were incredible out there, we're all so so proud of you," you praise, and the more you look at him the wider your smile grows, and the quieter the rest of the world gets.

"Thank you, Y/N," he rubs the back of his neck, his free hand fiddling with the hanging sleeves of his fire suit. "We... I couldn't have done this without you. Because, you know, the overheating, or what you were saying to Ricky before? I didn't understand everything, but at least I didn't cook to death."

Coyness? In Carlos Sainz? When he's still sweaty and panting from qualifying first? What a bizarre sight, one that makes you giggle.

The way your nose scrunches up beneath sparkling eyes is so endearing, Carlos almost feels his breath hitch in his throat, almost reaches out to lightly brush your arm, hold the steady coolness of it.

"Great, that was what we were going for, pretty much," you reply, and for a second you could've sworn he wanted to touch your arm and changed his mind, but...

you bury the idea before a craving for his warmth can nestle in your chest.

"Great," he repeats. "So, I'll... see you later," and with that he leaves you there, stranded in the middle of the garage, to be lauded by the press and fans.

You'd be lying if you said his shadow disappearing out the backdoor as quickly as it had come doesn't slice a gash in your heart—always whisked away to some important obligation, and you, like everyone else, duty-bound to pick up the pieces behind him. But this time around the cut doesn't run as deep, doesn't bleed as red; because for the first time in months Carlos talked to you, joked with you, and looked the tiniest bit glad to be doing so.

If that's how good of a mood a pole puts him in... then clearly you'd better make damn sure he wins this race.

Ferrari is deeply superstitious at its core. Maybe that much is true in any sport—when victory eludes you, athletes find obscure laws to trick themselves into believing they still retain control—, but a team so old, on which glory has rained so often, does not withstand the passage of time without a few pillars of faith. And so it makes sense that Ferrari drivers, of all people, would have their pre-race traditions.

Leclerc plays the piano on Saturday nights; you hear him every time you pass by the team hotel's lounge, his melancholy tracks grounding you in a precise time and place. Now the car is out of bounds, the comfort of your object-oriented programming and optimized lines of code off-limits; now's the time for withdrawal and rest.

Typically, you like to hang out in the lounge while Charles plays, trying to distract yourself with a book or simply basking in the music. The predictable, calculated flow of Charles' arpeggios soothes you, like lines of code running one after the other. So does the Monégasque driver's easy conversation. Although it doesn't shoot butterflies in your belly like Carlos' does... but you're not supposed to play favorites.

This Grand Prix eve is just like any other, save for the unordinary trepidation that carpets the hotel. With one of their own sitting on pole, it's obvious strategists struggle more than usual to drop the words "tire management" and "pit stops". Eager to escape the nervousness, you excuse yourself from the dinner table, and make your way to the lounge.

Charles is already there, if the usual pieces echoing in the distance at dessert are any indication, and you barely even get lost in the elegant halls before you find the lounge... though there is no piano to be heard. Maybe this hotel has two music rooms—maybe Charles went to bed early—or maybe...

maybe he's sitting on the piano stool and chatting with Carlos, wet and sleepy from his evening shower.

Neither driver notices you at first, and you stop dead in your tracks, wondering if you should just leave. You wouldn't want to intrude—intrude on what, the rational part of your brain says, but with Carlos I always feel like I'm intruding on something bigger than myself, the rest of your body answers—, but you really enjoy this unspoken tradition with Charles... and, well, this is everybody's lounge, and...

"Y/N," Charles sees you eventually and beckons you over. "Sorry, I don't think there'll be a lot of music tonight, Carlos is distracting me."

"You could kick me out anytime," Carlos remarks good-naturedly, but you don't miss how he angles his body away from you ever so slightly. The sight sends a dagger through your heart. So he actually hates you then. So you didn't breach any barrier earlier at the circuit, didn't melt any ice. So he didn't look pleased and a little excited to be talking to you.

"That's okay, I'll just head to bed then—"

"Oh no no no," Charles interrupts, "come sit with us. I was trying to convince Carlos to give the piano a go, maybe you'll be more successful than me."

"Absolutely not, mate."

"Come on Carlos, it will relax you!"

"No, you're the musician, not me. One of us has to be the sportsman, no?"

Unsure, you flick between the two men, Charles' inviting face and Carlos, who's still doing everything he can to avoid looking at you in the eye. And then you decide—fuck it. You're just as much a member of the team as he is. He cannot drive you away with his... stupid cold shoulder tactics any longer.

You take a seat on the sofa opposite Carlos, and watch in half delight, half annoyance as he turns his shoulders away from you. Though his body language appears relaxed, one leg strewn across his knee and elbows hugging the backrest, he is, as usual, going to hell and beyond to not acknowledge your presence.

Charles has the merit of lightening the mood with his jokes and fan encounters of the day: some bizarre, some endearing, because he seemingly never has a boring day in the paddock. His easy laughter mixes with the distant voices down the halls when your attention drops—too fast, too soon, as always, it's irremediable—to Carlos, the soothing scent of his shampoo and the little droplets that run down his temple whenever he shakes his head in amusement... before you know it, you're staring again, eyes shining with undisclosed heartache. Something Charles sees, and recognizes very well, with a jot of curiosity.

Charles may not be the most perceptive when it comes to these things, but he is in love too, and he'd know the signs anywhere. That's why after a little while he lets silence blow his last words away like wind does the mist, and stands up from the piano stool.

"Well, I'm going to bed," he announces with an air of conniving finality, and he smiles his crooked smile at Carlos. "Gonna need all my energy to take the lead in turn 1."

This snaps you out of your reverie. Half-gone, you bid him goodnight at the same time as the Spaniard does, and you brace yourself for his own excuse... but it doesn't come. Carlos lazily watches as Charles leaves the lounge. You don't dare to move, as if your slightest sound could remind him you're there and trigger his fight.

You would've thought a tête-à-tête with you to be Carlos' worst nightmare... but he makes no sign of leaving. And sends solar flares up your chest and throat. "Whatever problem he's got with me, he'll have it sort it out with me like an adult" sounds much more intimidating when it's so plausible.

"You think he has the slightest chance of overtaking me in turn 1?" Carlos chuckles.

You look him straight in the eye and read no resentment, not even that sheepishness from before—just relaxed delight, and the slightest hint of reddened cheeks against tan, damp skin. It takes you a second, maybe even two, to realize there's no one else in the room. He's talking to you. Joking with you.

Why is the script running without error all of a sudden, even though you changed no variables?

"Maybe," you give a noncommittal shrug and a smile. "Why not? It all depends on you."

"He can lead the first lap if he wants. That will just make it more fun to cross the finish line ahead of him after."

"You better win this one, Sainz, because I..." you start, and midway through your sentence are hit by how absolutely ridiculous you're about to sound, but he's leaned in already, intrigued by your words, and his burning gaze and strong hands fiddling in his lap have you losing all notions of propriety. "I've... coded a little something for you. If you win. A surprise. It's not much, but... yeah."

Your whole face burns deep scarlet as you trail off... and the light in Carlos' eyes darkens, then goes out completely. His smile fades back to the usual professional grimace he reserves for you. Distant. Cold. He rises to his feet.

"I should get some sleep."

Terror strikes you. Incomprehension too.

"No, Carlos, wait."

He turns his head to your outstretched hand... your pleading eyes almost rip through his heart.

"Why do you dislike me so much?"

And then his shoulders slump, like crushed by an immense weariness, and he sighs, long and hard, before his gaze falls back to yours. Those big brown eyes, gentle, compassionate, and those fingers tapping against his thigh like they're waiting for an invisible cue to reach out for yours.

"... Can we talk about this after the race?" he says, shooting daggers through your stomach.

So he didn't deny it. Didn't reassure you, tell you it's all a misunderstanding, that he bears no ill will towards you, that you're imagining things as usual and that you two could be on the best of terms if you just got out of your head a little bit.

One more time, he's running away. Sweeping everything under the rug, for just one more session, one more race, hiding behind the excuse of concentration and professionalism.

But who are you to revoke him that? It's a damn good excuse. You need to win. He needs to win. Not be bothered about... interpersonal relationships while clipping walls.

"... Alright," you concede, voice and bones all broken, glistening under your frozen skin. "But if it's something I've done, then I'm sorry. I really do... enjoy your company. And you."

"It's not something you've done," he speaks quietly. Gosh, your frailty in this moment—you, so proud and unshakable on the pit wall, so dedicated and thorough on TV, so immeasurably devoted to Ferrari, to Charles, to him... "Or, well, I guess not directly..."

If he looks into your confused, imploring eyes one more second, almost brushes your arm with his one more time, then he's done for. But he thinks he knows this already.

"I don't dislike you," he starts speaking and as soon as he opens his mouth he knows there's no stopping himself now, so he blurts it all out as quickly as he can to get it over with and hopefully bury some meaning in the pits of his accent. "Not at all. In fact I really like you. I think you're gorgeous, and smart, and clever, and fun, and every day I wish I could spend more time with you outside of races and get to know you better but then I remember that can never happen and it's so frustrating and I have the hardest time concentrating. So I just avoid you. It's easier."

Silence thick as a thundercloud tethers you to one another. He runs a hand over his face, sighing deep, and you blink. Once, twice.

You've always prided yourself on your brains—not everyone gets to be in charge of all the computing for a Formula 1 car—but right now, you are all utterly lost.

"Carlos, I... I don't get it." Or maybe you do, heart thumping in your ears, but you're too scared you might be wrong.

"In any other life I would've asked you out on a date." This time he speaks more slowly, more purposefully, too. Like he's imbuing every syllable with the depth of his confession. "But it kills me that it can't be this one."

"... Why not?" you tentatively ask after an instant, feigning not to notice how his hand is now resting on the back of your sofa, right next to your ear and neck.

"Because you're a senior engineer! That would be like... like dating Ricky. Even if you're much prettier than Ricky. But you don't need to tell him that," he adds with a nervous laugh, which you mirror; though you fall silent as soon as his hand comes to rest on your shoulder, right where your collar ends, millimeters away from your skin. His body's warring with his own words... one wants to resist, the other to give in. "What if I leave Ferrari? That's a crazy conflict of interest."

"That's a silly idea, you're not leaving Ferrari anytime soon. Are you?"

"I don't know, it's... hypothetically... you know what I mean," he exhales in defeat. His hand clasps a little tighter on your shoulder, his scent dizzying, closer than ever before. Can he feel your frantic heart thumping underneath your skin? If he keeps licking his lips like this, will he sense your breathing getting more erratic?

"I do. But... the problem is I like you too, Carlos."

If embers could burn back to life, light a hearth out of nothingness... they wouldn't shine as bright as Carlos' eyes just then.

"Don't mess with me."

"I'm not messing with you. Why wouldn't I like you?"

"Because you're not supposed to have a favorite."

"I won't tell Fred if you don't."

He laughs, a brittle but adorable little thing, like a small bird taking its first flight. If you could hear the sound more often, see that bashful smile on his handsome face more every day... you wouldn't need any other prince to die in war for.

His hand runs down your arm, his thumb lightly caressing your skin through the fabric of your shirt before he grabs your shaky hand in his.

"Now's not the best time, but... I think we've got to have an important conversation after the race tomorrow," his deep, soft tone pacifying you just as much as the abstract shapes he traces on the back of your hand.

"After you win, you mean."

"Right. After I get my surprise, no?"

"After you win," you repeat with a grin, and he squeezes your hand, smiling too. Something, deep down, tells him he'll win regardless of the race result.

"Cosa diavolo sta facendo?"

Even in spite of the roaring crowd and the bellowing V8s speeding down the straight, the dumbfounded voices around the pit wall come to you clear as day.

"Russell 1.4 behind Lando," Ricky, sitting on the other side of Vasseur, speaks into his headset.

The team principal keeps quiet, eyes fixed on the cascade of numbers and brackets on your screen. He understands before the rest of the wall what his driver is doing; and as you relay all the information you get to the race engineers, you understand it too.

"Lando .8 behind, .8 behind with DRS—Russell no DRS... Copy that."

He's doing it on purpose. Keeping Norris just close enough to shield him from the Mercs while making sure he can't catch up. You'd laugh in triumph and disbelief if you weren't gritting your teeth so damn hard, heart on the verge of exploding as the last laps tick out in a blur.

Just a few more minutes. Just a few more seconds, and the night sky over Marina Bay will explode in crimson lights...

Mechanics spring to their feet and climb the wall to the track, bumping their fists in the air. Cheers, claps, exclamations, a bouquet of red roses swaying in the wind to greet its champion at the finish line. And then, the unmistakable roar of a racecar speeding past the chequered flag at three hundred kilometers an hour. Liberation.

You spring to your feet right as the fireworks go off, yelling to the sky. Carlos won. Carlos won! Your Carlos—in the middle of Red Bull's flawless season...

"¡Vamos Fred! ¡Vamos Ricky!" Flashes of red and gold pass his high spirits by, diligently braking into the first corner.

He laughs, he screams it all out, unclenching all his muscles, woozy from the G's, from the adrenaline, from the win... from you, watching him from the pit wall. From the memory of your skin against his, your adoring eyes and the formidable lightness inside his chest that has him feeling like he's the king of the world.

In a few minutes, he'll be posing with his trophy and the team in front of his P1 plaque for the group photo, and he'll drench you in champagne—your lively laughter will fill his heart with the gold of medals. And later in the evening, before the afterparty, he'll pull you aside and tell you maybe this victory has made him reckless, and he'll kiss you senselessly like a prize he fought for.

For now, though, he's nodding his head at Lando who gave him a congratulatory wave from his car when his on-board screen lights up with an unexpected message. Glowing red letters read, "Great job, smooth operator! 🌶️" Laughter escapes him as small virtual fireworks go off on his screen... and he presses the radio button on his steering wheel.

"Did she have one of these ready for Charles too?"

A few seconds of white noise, and then, your mischievous voice, dripping with joy.

"You know me, Carlos. Never play favorites."

… f1 taglist; @retvenkos @giuseppe-yuki (want to be added? send me an ask!)

[zegrasdrysdale]

[ 5 more minutes ] l. hughes

paring : Luke Hughes x fem!reader

summary : Luke’s girlfriend surprises him in Newark after his last college hockey game

warning(s) : none really. just very fluffy and emotional. also very short bc it was 1 am when i came up w this idea

author’s note : in honor of today being my last day as an ncaa student athlete, i quickly wrote this up. i was feeling very emotional and i needed a way to express how i felt. hence why we now have a very fluffy / emotional fic. some of the comments luke makes are some of my thoughts about how my own season ended yesterday. it’s kinda sad but it had to be done. you’re welcome (i think ?)

༺═──────────────═༻

Jack texts her when he has picked up his younger brother from the airport. She begins to pace around the living room of Jack’s apartment that he’s now going to be sharing with Luke.

She has no clue what state Luke is going to be in when he walks through the door. He’s probably going to be so pissed that he spent the last two minutes or so of his college career in the penalty box instead of on the ice or on the bench with his teammates. He’s been so busy traveling that he hasn’t had time to sit and reflect on the season.

That’s the reason that she hopped on a flight to Newark as soon as the clock hit zero against Quinnipac. She just wanted to make sure that he’s okay before he goes and signs his NHL contract in two days and joins Jack on the Devils.

Either he’s going to be really upset and pissed or he’s going to be excited to start the next chapter in his career. She has no idea which version of Luke she’s going to get.

Keys jingle in the door about a half hour after Jack texts her to let her know he has Luke. She stops pacing and stands in the middle of the living room. Her eyes are on the door as Jack pushes it open.

“… not really in the mood for any surprises,” Luke says as he walks through the door. “I’m so tired.”

“I think you’ll like this one,” Jack tells his brother as he shuts the door behind them. Luke drops the big duffel bag that contains his hockey gear on the floor by the door in the foyer area. Then he finally makes his way to the living room with his suitcase.

He freezes mid-step when he sees his girlfriend.

With a small wave and a smile, she says, “Hi, Lukey.”

Luke crosses the room in five strides because of his stupidly long legs. He envelops her in a hug and buries his face in her neck. She wraps her arms around his torso and they stand like that for what feels like an eternity.

She doesn’t mind. If it means that Luke’s okay then she’ll stand like this forever.

She presses soft kisses into his shoulder and whispers to him, “I’m so proud of you, Luke. So incredibly proud of you. I know that’s not how you wanted the season to end but you did everything you could, and for that I am so, so proud of you.”

A quiet sob wracks Luke’s body as he pulls back from the hug. She sees tears in his eyes and frowns. A couple roll down his cheek and she reaches up to wipe them away. Jack silently sneaks out of the apartment. He thinks he’s slick but she saw him leave behind Luke.

“I hated that I wasnt out there those last two minutes,” he tells her, voice shaky. “Maybe I could’ve done something that pushed the game into overtime or won it for us. Instead I was in the penalty box while my team had to fight even harder to get goals because they were down a man.”

“I know, baby,” she softly replies. “I wish I could’ve given you guys five more minutes. You all fought so hard. So fucking hard. I’m so sorry that’s how your season ended.”

More tears roll down Luke’s cheeks and she continues to wipe them away.

“I feel like I let them down,” he whispers. “I could’ve fought harder for them. For this season. I let them down when they needed me most and now I’m abandoning them.” His words break her heart.

She shakes her head and cups his jaw. “You didn’t let anyone down,” she tells him. “You did what you could in the sixty minutes you had. They know that and they will always remember how hard you fought for them. You’re so important to everyone on that team and you played such an important role in getting as far as you did as a team. They’re just as proud of you as I am because you are about to start an amazing new chapter in your hockey career. You aren’t abandoning them, Luke. They want you to move forward in your career. They understand that you’re ready and that this is what you want.”

Luke nods and wraps his hands around her wrists. She continues to look up at her boyfriend.

She’ll never understand how he feels because she isn’t an athlete. All she can do now is try to help him realize that he isn’t the worst teammate that he thinks he is at the moment. She doesn’t want him to have that mindset as he transitions from college to the NHL.

Losing is tough in any sport. She knows that much and she is going to make sure that Luke understands that it is okay to feel this way but that he also has to get ready to move forward.

“Thank you for being here,” he says after a moment of comfortable silence. “Sorry I’m such a mess. I didn’t think it would affect me this much.”

“It just shows how much you love every team that you’re on,” she replies. “You dedicate so much time to hockey because you love it. You’re allowed to feel this way and feel it for a little bit. You do have a contract to sign in a few days so I’m giving you tonight to get out everything you feel about the Michigan season ended. Tomorrow, it’s time to get excited. I’m here to help you get excited.”

A smile finally cracks through the frown that’s been plastered on Luke’s face since he saw her. She dries his cheeks one more time before she pulls him back into a hug.

Luke presses a soft kiss to the top of her head. “I love you,” he says into her hair. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Shut up. Yes you do,” she retorts. “I love you too. Let’s go get you unpacked then we can take a nap because I heard you tell Jack how tired you are.”

When she pulls away from the hug and starts to walk to his suitcase, Luke grabs her hand and pulls her back to him. She looks up at him for a quick second before his lips are on hers. The kiss surprises her because of how emotional he is, but sometimes a kiss is all it takes to feel better.

She happily smiles into the kiss and runs her fingers through his curls as she returns it. It’s one of his favorite things she does so many he’ll start to feel better a little faster. Luke loves feelings her fingers in his curls. It’s the reason he doesn’t try to tame them.

The front door opens again and a voice says, “Okay, we are establishing some rules. Rule one, the door stays open three inches when your girlfriend is over. I don’t need any babies crying in my apartment at three in the morning right now.”

They both pull back and she looks behind Luke at Jack, who has a disgusted look on his face. She smiles but Luke’s cheeks turn a tomato red. She laughs and shakes her head.

“Rule two,” Jack continues. “No making out anywhere I can see you. That means the-”

“Jack!” Luke snaps. “I get it. We get it. Also, I’m not going to be leaving my door open three inches. If I want to have sex with my girlfriend then I’m going to. It’s my room and we split the rent now so I’ll do what I want.”

“None of that premarital kissing stuff where I can see or hear it,” Jack tells his brother. “I don’t need that in my life.”

She laughs and takes the opportunity to grab Luke’s bag and suitcase. “Don’t worry,” she says. “We won’t traumatize you. Again.”

Both Luke and his girlfriend laugh as they make their way to Luke’s new room, leaving a disgusted and definitely traumatized Jack Hughes in the living room.

༺═──────────────═༻

MASTERLIST

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taglist : @dasiysthings @axaslee @ithinkimokeei @dancerbailey3 @mangoluver @prettyinsatiable @ivy-34 @love4lando

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Christopher Brown’s ‘A Natural History of Empty Lots’

On SEPTEMBER 24th, I'll be speaking IN PERSON at the BOSTON PUBLIC LIBRARY!

Christopher Brown is an accomplished post-cyberpunk sf writer, a tech lawyer with a sideline in public interest environmental law, the proud owner of one of the most striking homes I have ever seen, and an urban pastoralist who writes about wildlife in ways I've never seen and can't get enough of:

https://fieldnotes.christopherbrown.com/

All of these facets of Brown's identity come together today with the launch of A Natural History of Empty Lots: Field Notes from Urban Edgelands, Back Alleys and other Wild Places:

https://christopherbrown.com/a-natural-history-of-empty-lots/

This is a frustratingly hard to summarize book, because it requires a lot of backstory and explanation, and one of the things that makes this book so! fucking! great! is how skillfully Brown weaves all that stuff into his telling. Which makes me feel self-conscious as I try to summarize things, because there's no way I'll do this as well as he did, but whatever, here goes.

Brown is a transplant from rural Iowa to Austin, where he set out to start a family, practice tech law during the dotcom boom, and write science fiction, as part of a circle of writers loosely associated with cyberpunk icon @brucesterling. After both the economy and his marriage collapsed, Brown started his restless perambulations around Austin's abandoned places, sacrifice zones, the bones of failed housing starts and abandoned dot-crash office parks.

When he did, something changed in him. Slowly, his eyes learned to see things that they had just skipped over. Plants, animals, and spoor and carapaces and dens of all description, all around him, a secret world. These were not pockets of "wilderness" in the city, but they were pockets of wildness. Birds' nests woven with plastic fibers scavenged from nearby industrial dumpsters; trees taking root in half-submerged tires rolled into a creekbed, foxes and rodents playing out a real-life version of the classic ecosystem simulation exercise on the edge of an elevated highway that fills the same function as the edge of a woodland where predator and prey meet.

As Brown fell in love again – with the artist and architect Agustina Rodriguez – he conceived of a genuinely weird and amazing plan to build a house. A very weird house, in a very weird place. He bought a plot of wasteland that had once housed the head-end of an oil pipeline (connected to a nearby oil-storage facility that poisoned the people who lived near it, in an act of wanton environmental racism) and had been used as a construction-waste dump for years.

After securing an extremely unlikely loan, Brown remediated the plot, excavating the oil pipeline, then building the most striking home you have ever seen in the resulting trench. Brown is a pal of mine, and this is where I stay when I'm in Austin, and I can promise you, the pictures don't do it justice:

https://www.texasmonthly.com/style/christopher-brown-edgeland-house-austin/

Formally, A Natural History of Empty Lots is a memoir that explains all of this. But not really. Like I say, this is just the back story. What Natural History really is, is a series of loosely connected essays that explains how everything fits together: colonial conquest, Brown's failed marriage, his experience as a lawyer learning property law, what he learned by mobilizing that learning to help his neighbors defend the pockets of wildness that refuse to budge.

It's an erudite book, skipping back through millennia of history, sidewise through the ecology of Texas, all while somehow serving as a kind of spotter's guide to the wild things you can see in Austin – and maybe, in your town – if you know how to look. It's a book about how people change the land, and how the land changes people. It is filled with pastoral writing that summons Kim Stanley Robinson by way of Thoreau, and it sometimes frames its philosophical points the way a cyberpunk writer would – like Neal Stephenson writing a cyberpunk trilogy that is also the story of Leibniz and Newton fighting over credit for inventing calculus:

https://memex.craphound.com/2004/11/20/neal-stephensons-system-of-the-world-concludes-the-baroque-trilogy/

Brown is a stupendous post-cyberpunk writer, and also a post-cyberpunk person, which I've known for sure since I happened upon him one morning, thoughtfully mowing his roof with a scythe:

https://www.flickr.com/photos/doctorow/46433979075/

You can get a sense of what that means in this lockdown-era joint presentation that Chris, Bruce Sterling and I did on "cyberpunk and post-cyberpunk":

https://archive.org/details/asl-cyberpunk

Brown is a spectacular novelist. His ecofascist civil war trilogy that opens with Tropic of Kansas got so much right about the politics of American demagoguery and was perfectly timed with the Trump presidency:

https://memex.craphound.com/2017/07/11/tropic-of-kansas-making-america-great-again-considered-harmful/

The sequel, Rule of Capture, uses the device of courtroom drama in a way that comes uncomfortably close to the Orwell/Kafka mashup that the authorities have created to deal with environmental protesters:

https://memex.craphound.com/2019/08/12/rule-of-capture-inside-the-martial-law-tribunals-that-will-come-when-climate-deniers-become-climate-looters-and-start-rendering-environmentalists-for-offshore-torture/

And the final volume, Failed State, is one of the most complicated complicated utopias you could ask for. This is what people mean by "thrilling conclusion":

https://pluralistic.net/2020/08/12/failed-state/#chris-brown

As brilliant as Brown is in fiction mode, his nonfiction is unclassifiably, unforgettably brilliant. A Natural History of Empty Lots is the kind of book that challenges how you feel about the crossroads we're at, the place you live, and the place you want to be.

The paperback edition of The Lost Cause, my nationally bestselling, hopeful solarpunk novel is out this month!

If you'd like an essay-formatted version of this post to read or share, here's a link to it on pluralistic.net, my surveillance-free, ad-free, tracker-free blog:

https://pluralistic.net/2024/09/17/cyberpunk-pastoralism/#time-to-mow-the-roof

[innerfare]

Going Down On You - Part 4

Summary: how they go down on you

Characters: Katakuri, Marco, Kaidou, Killer, Heat

Genre: pure smut

CW: NSFW // oral sex, shameless dirty talk, Kaidou is drunk (as usual)

——— 

Katakuri: 

There are two versions of this man: the brutal, serious, and fearsome general who never shows his face, and your husband. Though it took a long while for his walls to come down, they didn’t come down slowly. Rather, they crashed and burned, and the first time you saw his face, you also learned he had a voracious appetite, his desire to taste your cunt stronger even than his craving for his favorite donuts. 

“The tastiest treat in all of Totto Land, and it’s all mine.”  

You quickly become his merienda. He’ll create a mochi shrine to hide the two of you away and pull your bare cunt onto his face, lapping happily at your folds, humming as he does. He fully expects you to be available to him, particularly in trying times, as he needs the taste of you to fully recharge. He becomes extremely annoyed if anyone interrupts the two of you during his afternoon, resorting to brute force if anyone disturbs him. 

He prefers to lay on his back, thus the need for such privacy, as he would rather die than allow anyone to know how vulnerable he is at this time. Worse still, he’s sweet, kissing your cunt between licks, only tongue fucking you for a few seconds at a time before he’s licking up your juices and kissing your clit, every pet name and sweet nothing in the book spilling from his lips as he indulges in you. 

“Better than donuts, my sweet little wife’s pussy.” 

Marco: 

He’s normally so relaxed and calm, always in control without having to assert dominance as it rolls off him so naturally. He doesn’t want to be a Warlord, doesn’t want to be an Emperor, just wants to go with the flow and have some adventures with his family. But when he gets your panties off, he goes a little feral. Sure, he’s methodical in the way he starts with your lips, spends time on your nipples, and kisses his way down your body until he’s lapping at your cunt, but he’s also an animal about it. 

His nails dig into your thighs as he pries them apart. He grips you so hard you’ll have bruises in a few hours. And he’s merciless in tonguing you, working as many orgasms out of you until you’re begging him to stop, and when he does stop, it’s only to fuck you because tasting you makes him rock hard, the sort of hard that won’t simply go away unless you’re there to do something about it. 

He’s been known to tie you up so he can work in peace without having to hold your legs and arms down, freeing up his fingers to twist your nipples or massage your precious g-spot, but the thing is, he almost never ties you up in bed. If he ties you up, it’s going to be in his office or another location that’s private but where you run the risk of being discovered. The guys all know what that bundle of rope in his office is for, but none of them are brave enough to say anything. 

Kaidou: 

Kaidou often gets drunk and demands your presence, ordering you to strip down for him while he watches in begrudging approval. When you’re naked, he’ll tell you to do things like turn around and bend over so he can enjoy the view, sometimes making you stay that way for several minutes. When he’s especially drunk, though, he doesn’t bother going through all of that, just ripping the kimono straight from your body. 

“Do you wear clothes just to inconvenience me?” 

And when he’s decided he can’t hold back his appetite any longer, he’ll grab you in both of his massive hands and hold you where he wants you, burying his face in your cunt while he grunts like the beast he is. He enjoys the size difference, gets off to the sight of his massive tongue running through your folds. 

“This is worth living for, my favorite girl’s pussy.” 

Sometimes, he gets so drunk he forgets to dismiss his men and attendants. Sure, they all scurry off once you either remove or he rips your kimono off, scampering out of the room for fear of retribution should their emperor realize they’ve seen his favorite girl naked, but everyone knows what he does to you on those drunken nights. If they haven’t seen him strip you without warning, they’ve at least heard your whimpers and whines echoing from his chambers while he growls at you to stay still. 

Killer: 

It’s not often that the mask comes off, but when it does, it’s always in the dark of night, usually in his cabin when it’s just the two of you, and he always goes down on you. He doesn’t ever give you any warning, saying aloud that he’s going to take the mask off putting pressure on his shoulders to perform a certain way, so it always comes as a surprise when you feel his bare cheek pressed against your abdomen as he kisses his way down your body. 

“Our secret,” he mutters, turned on by just how much the two of you know about each other that nobody else does. 

He goes slow, savoring every last second of the intimate moment. He spends so much time sucking on your nipples you almost cum from that alone, whimpering as he refuses to finger you while he works. He moves slowly down your abdomen and nuzzles your thighs for a long few moments, so taken by the feel of your soft skin against his cheek he considers leaving his mask off permanently. 

“That’s my girl, so fucking soft.” 

When he finally starts prodding your hole with his tongue, working it inside you, he’s moaning as loud as you are. He always starts by tongue fucking you, eager to taste you while stretching you, and when he thinks you’re ready for his big fingers, he moves his tongue to your clit, going back to your hole every thirty seconds or so to lick up your juices. He’ll work several orgasms out of you that way. 

Heat: 

Actually so gentle when you finally reach a point where you trust him enough to let him between your legs. He takes this privilege very seriously and is worried he might do something to mess it up. After all, everyone has always told him what a monster he is, and sometimes, he really is a monster, so gaining access to your most sensitive area truly does make him a little fearful he’ll upset and even hurt you. 

“You won’t regret it,” he says in your ear, voice almost a whisper. “I’m gonna make you feel so fucking good.” 

He lays you down and gingerly pushes your legs apart, slowly but surely, and it takes him a minute to lean in because he’s so overwhelmed that you trusted him enough to let him do this to you. And that’s all while your panties are still on. He can see the wet spot, can see the outline of your cunt- he just knows your pussy is so perfect- and his mouth waters as he realizes he’s the one who gets to taste it. 

Something about pulling your panties off feels a little overwhelming, so he gently pushes them to the side, breathless at the sight of your glistening pussy. His tongue slithers from between his lips and pokes nervously at your folds. You end up reaching down and holding your panties to the side and your outer lips apart for him as he gently tongues your cunt. He slowly increases the pressure until he’s devouring you, the most lewd sounds surely drifting under the door and into the hallway. After you’re finished, he’ll nuzzle your inner thigh a bit. You two wind up staying in that position for a while as he basks in your presence. 

———

Hope you enjoyed it! If you want more, you can check out my masterlist here!

[moonlight-prose]

old man logan thoughts & musings pt.2

a/n: the fluffier version of old man logan thoughts that plague my head. he's a man who wants to be needed. change my mind. this is totally not based on my own struggles with being a person. totally not self indulgent.

warnings: depression, eating issues, angst.

Old man!Logan with a depressed reader who forgets to eat. Who forgets to drink water. Who has to set alarms in order to even remember that all you've had this morning is coffee. Who wants to be human, but sometimes it's so fucking hard to breathe. It's not as simple as a quick self care night, but a battle that you fight day in and day out.

Old man!Logan who has spent his whole life looking for someone to bind himself to. He pretends he's a lone wolf, yet finds his pack wherever he goes. Who sees himself in your dark spots. Even if you try to keep him at bay - stop him from looking behind the door that's locked shut.

Old man!Logan who is so content to finally be needed. He's a hero. His whole life he's gone from person to person, silently begging for them to need him. To put him to use. After all, who is he if he's not useful to someone? Who is he if he can't show his love in acts so small they make up a whole.

Old man!Logan who becomes your alarm system. Who sits with you to make sure you eat breakfast. Who curbs your coffee intake with cold glasses of water and soft kisses. Who holds your hand when taking care of yourself becomes too hard. He knows what it's like to be buried under the weight. He knows it's hard to dig yourself out of the hole.

Old man!Logan who takes care of you with the gentleness of a lover that's seen countless generations. He's old fashioned. He won't kiss before the first date. He won't take you to bed until the fifth. He'll dance (badly) with you under the moonlight, gift you flowers he did his best to pick out.

Old man!Logan who cherishes you so much it scares him. Who worships you with soft touches, whispered words, and promises of a future you never thought possible. Who grounds you because you ground him. He's not a perfect man. Blood stains his knuckles and at times he's afraid it will taint your soul. But who is he if he's not with you?

Old man!Logan who loves every day of his life. Who doesn't feel himself unless he's got your hand in his. Who lives to see you smile even on the hardest days.

[crushmeeren]

› › › we’ll find a way.

⋆ ⌒ inspired by Red Swan from AOT season 3.

̽ ⋆ main warnings › › angst/comfort, pregnant reader in Katsuki’s part, dealing with the grief of losing a sibling in Shouto’s part. ̽ ⋆

⋆ ft. katsuki & shoto ⋆

master list link

Katsuki works himself down to the bone. Then he whittles away at said bone until he’s nothing more than a pile of dust waiting to be swept off by the wind. Not surprising, seeing as how he’s had this iron clad determination since way before you met him.

And yet…. the past few weeks you’ve watched helplessly as your husband slips through your fingers like sand. Honestly, you knew what you signed up for. So you shouldn’t be so hurt when Katsuki starts missing more dinners than usual. You shouldn’t be so hurt when his patrols run even longer through the night. You shouldn’t be so hurt when he starts working on the weekends.

But you are. You’re so so hurt, and it aches in the hollow of your chest in a way no medication could ever hope to relieve. Recreational or otherwise.

Even so, you’re a goddamn sucker for Katsuki. No matter how much the bitterness swells inside you, no matter how hard you have to bite the inside of your lip so it doesn’t spill out as distasteful vitriol.

That’s why you give him the benefit of the doubt when he tells you for, what seems like the hundredth time, that he’ll be home for the day on Saturday. After all, you promised long ago you’d keep at least one day the of the week for each other, even if he hasn’t been keeping up his side of the deal.

That afternoon comes and you find yourself on the couch waiting for the blonde, clutching eagerly at the gift you’re going to give him. It’s something you’d both wanted for some time and finally, finally it seems luck is on your side. It’ll be worth all the pain you’ve dealt with recently.

An hour passes and you try to call him, fidgeting in your seat. He assures you he’ll be home in thirty minutes. Another hour and a half goes by and this time he doesn’t answer your call.

The evening is rapidly approaching and cicadas sing outside your window when a fury so powerful you can fucking taste it wells up on the back of your tongue and rushes through your veins. Blood flushes your face so hotly it burns your eyes and your heart pulses in your ears.

Looking down at the fabric in your shaky hands, tears bite your waterline and suddenly the rage flips on its head and melts into sorrow. Shoulders drooping, you sigh in defeat and carefully lay out the piece of clothing on your coffee table in plain view. You smooth out any wrinkles carefully.

You move like a tornado throughout the living room, gathering your phone, your purse, slipping on your shoes. Glancing back at the orange and black onesie on the table that reads “daddy’s number one hero,” turns your stomach to knots and you make haste to Kirishima’s house.

You were going to tell Katsuki that you were pregnant tonight, but now you’re sobbing into Kirishima’s shoulder at his house and ignoring your husband’s frantic calls and messages.

Not even a few hours later Katsuki’s calling his agency and telling them shove their extra work up their goddamn asses because you’re his entire fucking world and it makes him sick to see what he’s been doing to you.

He’ll be damned if he didn’t find a way to make it all work. It takes time to return normal, but now you’ll get to spend the weekends waking up to the sound of tiny feet belonging to the miniature spitfire version of Katsuki.

Maybe you will find a way.

Shouto doesn’t think. At least, not very often. To give him some credit, as he’s aged, he’s gotten better at determining the consequences of his actions before he makes important decisions, but that went out the window this time.

It’s why you choke on your sip of water, head jerking in surprise when Shouto chimes in next to you that he’ll take the underground mission his agency is offering to him without consulting you at all. You had a nasty gut feeling when they mentioned something about the remnants of the league of villains but you trusted Shouto to be smart about it.

It’s been years since the war, Touya is gone, but Shouto still is unable to shake off hunting down even a hint of evidence related to the league. It haunts him, and you’re certain it’s because he can’t bear to lose the last piece of something tangible related to his brother, and your agency knows that. Manipulative motherfuckers.

You decidedly keep your mouth shut until you’re alone before turning to your husband with one singular arched eyebrow.

Shouto sighs, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “I know what you’re going to say.”

You exhale sharply through your nose. “Just promise me you’ll be back in time.” You cross your arms over your chest, staring at him with a pinched expression. He tilts his head to study your apprehensive features, the corners of his mouth tilting slightly downwards.

“Of course. I wouldn’t leave you alone, you know that.”

You stare at him for a beat longer before averting your gaze. You very much want to believe him, but these kinds of missions are chaotic on their best days.

Turns out you were right to be on edge about it. Shouto does in fact, not, make it home in time to be there with you on the anniversary of your brother’s death. You’re aware it’s not, technically, it’s not his fault. But he is partially to blame. It was cutting it close with the timeline of the anniversary and the mission. Shouto knew that, and still went.

If anyone would understand the grief and sorrow of losing a brother, it’s Shouto. It’s one of the things that brought you together in the first place.

When you wake up alone the morning of the anniversary there’s a tidal wave of heartache so violent sitting on your chest that you can’t stomach leaving your bed. Watching a movie doesn’t help, reading doesn’t help, taking a shower doesn’t. fucking. help. Your mind wonders a one track pathway to memories of your beloved brother. You can’t get him out of your head. Always, always, always his ghost haunts you.

Usually it’s not so hard to shoulder the grief when Shouto is there. He helps you reminisce and shed a warm light onto the otherwise cloudy day. Now you’re alone. It gets to a point that you have to lay any photo involving your brother face down because you may go crazy if you keep staring at them.

When you check your phone it’s empty. No messages, not even a phone call from your husband. Shouto really did abandon you, and you try desperately not to be upset but your heart cracks in half anyways.

You spend the remainder of the day curled up under your blanket, knees tucked to your chest. Tears leak from the corners of your eyes and soak your pillow until you’re sure you’ve cried out the entirety of the water in your body.

You must have fallen asleep at some point, because the next time you peel open your swollen eyes it’s to a significantly warm arm snaking around your waist and pulling you in so tightly to a solid chest that you struggle to breathe.

“Forgive me, I’m so fucking sorry. I love you.” Shouto’s voice is soft and cracks slightly when he speaks, the sensation of his warm breath tickles the back of your neck. You’re too drained to care about being angry with him right now, flipping over to bury your face in his chest and squeeze him back as the lump in your throat becomes too large to swallow around.

The throbbing ache in your chest dulls considerably now that Shouto is home. You stay like that for what seems like hours, and when something like Shouto’s silent tears trickle onto your head, you say nothing and hug him once more.

He may have missed part of the day, but he’ll be there for you in the end. He’ll always find a way.

[directdogman]

Super stoked for the Roger DLC and WILL be playing it on release, but something that’s been bugging me ever since the first few teasers was Peter, his personality feels quite different to me and my Peter obsessed friend, is there a reason for his personality change or was it completely unintentional?

He feels a lot more hot headed now, not completely the same as but similar to Steven, which feels like a complete 180 for Peter, I always remember enjoying him more in DSaF 2 because he was the more relaxed Phoney who when he had geniunely serious moments, it was incredibly impactful and gut wrenching when Peter would yell at me. 😔

Also, will Steven ever be real in dialtown please sir I miss my wif-

The comparison just always bothered me slightly.

Different universes. I should note that while Peter IS chiller in DSaF 2, if the restaurant goes under, the main consequence is that the company will get mortally wounded and he might die. The other employees will (for the most part) be fine. Peter cares. He cares if you hurt employees, he cares if you fuck up but is also willing to look the other way a few times if the fuckup isn't bad enough (without letting it slide, because he still cares what you do at work too.) I'd say his attitude at work namely stems from that, rather than the other way around. Steven does NOT care. He is literally willing to throw you under the bus to save himself and his sole goal is keeping the place open specifically so he can save his own hide, and his hot-headedness comes from that.

In DT, Peter is at the end of his rope and has had to deal with a LOT up until this point, arguably even more than his DSaF counterpart in terms of his day to day job, as shocking as that may sound. There's also WAY more on the line this time. He isn't the one that's going to face the worst of what'll happen if things continue at their current trajectory (unlike Peter or Steven in their original games.) He explains this pretty early into the DLC, which may explain why he's testier than you remember him, namely what's on the line. He's trying his damndest to fix it but is failing. He's stuck between a rock and a hard place with Roger, recognizing his bad leadership is sinking the plant but caring too much about the guy to effectively deal with it until this point.

His guard is up because it has to be, but he does have a few nice moments where it's clear how much he cares and if you listen to Roger's dialogue carefully, you'll see just how much Peter has put up with that would've made any sane person walk away. He's also noticeably nicer to Gingi if you don't waste his time and seem to actually care about Roger, and he acts closer to how he does in the DSaF 2 screenshot you showed off, though perhaps with slightly less energy (since he is, like I said, at the end of his rope.) There's even a scene in the evil route where you can identify this and use it against him in a pretty sinister way.

To mention another thing that even Gingi sees as far back as his original scene in DT: He's a natural manager who's playing second-fiddle to someone who clearly doesn't know what he's doing.

I didn't just wanna do more of the same, so I played with the dynamics a lil. Peter is in a very different role here, one that he's not exactly suited to. He's out of his element. He's inundated with work and in this scene, is thinking about the lives of the employees who are going to be laid-off in a week or so time if things don't change FAST, and while this is happening, his boss is bantering with a weird cryptid on the street and talking about random garbage.

There are times in DSaF 2, like you said, where you do see him get like this. It's not as much that his character is different in my eyes, but that the context is. This is a version of Peter who is one bad day away from having to make a difficult decision. Literally. I'll gladly talk more about it when the DLC's out (namely I could compare + contrast certain decisions he makes!) For now, I don't wanna spoil anything that isn't explicitly stated in the first major scene he has.

[nadvs]

rafe x reader meeting eachother’s family ?? love the series !!🙏🏻🙏🏻🙏🏻

thank you!! i got a few requests for this one, i hope y’all like it 🥰

based on this fic

» au masterlist

they decided it’s best to meet each other’s families before he moves away to start training and playing basketball professionally. the timing works out well, considering they’ve been together for five months now.

when rafe met her family, she could not believe he was even capable of being so polite. he shook hands. he asked questions. he even fake-laughed at jokes. he was charming as hell. and she teased him mercilessly for it.

“didn’t expect you to call my dad sir,” she mumbled with a small smile as he drove them out onto the street.

“i can’t afford to fuck up,” he replied with a shrug. the fact that he cared so much made her heart flutter.

now, a week later, they’re driving to rafe’s family house and she can’t believe how big the homes in his neighborhood are.

he had told her about how his dad owned a successful business. she knew he was well off based on how carelessly he throws money around, the opposite of most of their friends, who fit the cliche of poor students scraping by. but this? this is ridiculous.

“could’ve told me that you live in a mansion,” she says as the gate at the end of his driveway opens.

“okay. i live in a mansion.”

she nudges his shoulder and huffs a laugh.

when they step through the front door, she can tell rafe didn’t mince his words when he told her about his familial relationships. the way everyone greets him makes it clear he was telling the truth about everything.

his youngest sister, who he said he always had a soft spot for, throws her arms around him. his other sister only offers a nod of her head. apparently all they do is bicker.

his step-mom’s side hug is impersonal but polite. and rafe visibly stiffens when his dad approaches him, pulling him into a hug, patting his son’s back hard.

he told her all about how much he’s always tried to get his dad’s approval. that his sister usually got it without having to try, while rafe always struggled for it. she can tell her boyfriend is tense.

“congratulations are in order,” ward says, diving into conversation about draft night. then, because he just seems to love making his son feel less than, he mentions how the team he was drafted to hasn’t won a championship in a few years.

“but hey, maybe things will change this year,” his father adds.

she can’t hold herself back from interjecting.

“they will. they have a new team of coaches now. they’re making all kinds of improvements, including the rookies they signed,” she says. she forces a smile and offers a handshake, introducing herself.

rafe watches her with a smirk he can’t stifle. he was just about to introduce her, but she couldn’t help herself from butting in to bat for him. they have a lot in common, including how protective she is.

sure enough, after dinner, wheezie quietly mentions to rafe that she’s basically a girl version of him.

“you think so?” he mumbles.

“no kidding,” sarah says, overhearing. “except i actually like her.”

rafe watches his girlfriend drift towards a wall of photos, cocking her head as she looks at the images of him in different stages of his life.

“wow,” she mumbles when he comes up next to her.

“what?”

“you’re playing basketball in like, all of these,” she says with a soft chuckle. “it was meant to be.”

he looks down at her. he know he’s grinning like an idiot because he notices rose close by, smiling at him like a proud parent.

afterwards, she goes to the restroom before they head out, and his step-mom turns to look at rafe the second she’s out of earshot.

“we like her,” rose says, her arm at the crook of ward’s elbow. “you seem happy.”

“i am,” rafe admits. he didn’t need their approval, but it feels really good to have it. it’s not a surprise to him, though. she was talkative and fun. she was likeable. she was herself.

“make good choices when you’re out there, son,” his dad says. “let us know if you need anything for the move.”

rafe nods. it’s bizarre how he’s taking such a big step, moving states away for an nba contract, yet he still feels like a kid when he’s here.

but then she comes back into the room and he feels like the self-assured man he knows he is.

they say their goodbyes and she breathes a breath of relief when she shuts the passenger door of his car.

“you good?” he laughs.

“that was so nerve-racking,” she admits.

“what?” she seemed totally cool and collected the whole time.

“the first thing i did was snap at your dad,” she says nervously. “i thought i blew it.”

“nah, everyone liked you,” rafe says. he turns the car on. “my sisters said that we’re the same person.”

the sentiment warms her heart.

“you’re really sweet with wheezie, by the way,” she says. “the guys would never believe it.”

“and they don’t have to,” he mumbles, feigning irritation. she laughs. he puts up a tough, intimidating front with his teammates. she sees right past it.

she leans over to kiss his cheek. she’s glad it went well. she sees a future with him. he sees one with her, too.

[therabbitthatpostthings]

Plushies!

JJK Actor AU. Kinda headcannon to what their “out of character” persona would be like. Basically you have plushies of them and they have opinions about it.

Inspired by another fic, can’t remember the name and I scrolled for an HOUR for it. All the character had texts prompts in them.

Maybe spoiler???

Nanami Kento

Continuation of this post

- Between you simping so hard for his onscreen self and the plushies, he is so tierd.

- He’s been acting since his late teens but had one big breakout role. Since you two started dating you have made it a mission to collect any fan content that involves a role he is in.

- Even in the roles where he’s evil you have a mountain of merch!

- He loves that you are so supportive but the Nanami obsession is next level. He’d be more upset if it wasn’t just his face.

- He loves you so he puts up with the Nanami plushies.

Gojo Satoru

- Date an actor they say! It’ll be fine they said! Literally wtf.

- He’s a lot like his character in terms of playfulness. You have gone on record to say they are pretty 1:1 with each other.

- So naturally, when you bring home a Gojo plushie he is distraught.

“I can’t believe you would cheat on me!”

“IT’S A TOY!”

- He kicks Gojo off the bed all the time. Now Gojo Plushie sleeps on the living room couch.

- He still gets up every morning and complains that there’s another man in your apartment when he isn’t there (completely disregarding that you are at work half the time)

- He is secretly looking for artist to commission to make a matching plushie of you.

Geto Suguru

- He HATES it.

- Not just because it’s a plushie of Geto in his Kenjaku era but also because you got it from a con. It’s not licensed merchandise. Meaning stuff he would have gotten for basically free.

- In fact “Sugu-Mini” was just the beginning of a small empire of Suguru plushies you acquired over his duration on the show.

“Why are they all so fucking ugly? Why don’t you ever buy the cute ones?”

- Would rather die than admit that he’s jealous you hold one in you lap while working or lean on them when on the couch.

- Finally stops complaining when you move them to your home office and cuddle with him again.

Kamo Choso

- Sweet angle baby. He actually loves that you love plushies so when he got casted as Choso he would made it a mission to get you one of the first plushies they made.

- It makes you happy so he is ready to get you as many as you wants. He posts on insta a lot so when he mentions looking for more Choso plushies it practically goes viral.

- The next con he went two it took like three attendants to help him lug all the plushies he got. He later posted on insta that night a picture of his bed covered in Choso plushies.

- Eagle eyed fans noticed something though. The layout of the bedroom look eerily similar to another person who made a post about their brand new Choso plush. What are the odds?

- You both turn it into a game, posting photos with an increasing amount of Choso’s everytime.

- This actually starts a trend, #chosoplushietakeover. There’s not a single cast member or crew mate that doesn’t have a Choso plushie. It’s wild.

Ieiri Shoko

- She’s always been a natural beauty, so graceful and ethereal like. Playing someone collected and laid-back like Shoko was a welcomed surprise.

- Even though her role is smaller compared to everyone else, she loved it anyway. Any video from production has her somewhere in the background.

- As another devoted con-goer she also gets a bunch of plushies and brings them all to you. You two have at least 1 plushies in every room in your home. You both even carry a keychain version on your bags.

Iori Utahime

- like her character she has a deep seated hatred for Gojo’s actor but in more of a rivalry way. They are both child stars that got casted a lot together. For a short amount of time they were a ship.

- she originally posted a cute (cropped) picture of her plushie with you sitting off to the side.

- then Gojo did the same.

- So she posted another handmade plushie on her story.

- So did he.

- At this point she wanted him DEAD cause she knows how he feels about those plushies so he’s doing this just to piss her off. It would be that bad if he wasn’t actively bragging about ratioing her.

- Soon enough it becomes the battle of the plushies between these two. Factors are formed in the fandom. No mercy, all glory, blood for the blood god.

Ijichi Kiyotaka

- Doesn’t have any official plushies.

- it isn’t until you buy one online that he kinda cares.

- He treats that plushie like it’s your son. He has a pillow on the living room couch that is HIS pillow. No one can use it, not even guests.

Fushiguro Toji

- He hates it.

- He thinks they’re creepy. He’s never liked stuffed animals ever since he was a kid. None of your kids even have stuffed animals outside of like, 1 teddy bear each.

- Everytime you enter the room he is practicing wrestling moves on the poor thing with your son. You’re just happy you got a good quality one cause it had lasted through some rounds of combat.

Ryomen Sukuna

- I imagine him also being a child star but his career took off when him and his younger brother (Yuuji’s actor) starred in a drama together.

- They did not fight the twin allegations. Sukuna is older though by 5 years. As they’ve gotten older, they’ve gotten easier to differentiate.

- He straight up stole his brother’s Yuuji plush and drew Sukuna’s tattoos on it.

-Combined you two have five plushies:

A pillow one that he uses as a back rest. Two keychain versions. The drawn on Yuuji plush. And an ugly one that got messed up in manufacturing that is your personal favorite.

- He is essentially a plushie thief, if you lend it to him you will never see it again. He is currently has the second most Choso plushie count cause he keeps stealing others. Yours included!